Mr. Schuyler fiddled with his silver pen. “Mr. Cromwell is taking him to lunch—but he’s on his own for supper Friday night.” Glancing up, he said, “I’ll be honest with you. I was meant to take him out. But my stepmother’s making a nuisance of herself. And when she makes a nuisance of herself . . . Well, are you sure you don’t want to reconsider your professional stance on smothering?”
Lucy wasn’t quite sure she liked where this was going. Quickly, she said, “Perhaps Mr. Ravenel might enjoy the opera?”
Mr. Schuyler pulled a comical face. “From what I’ve heard of the man . . . I doubt it. I’ve spoken to him on the phone. He sounds a bit like Huck Finn. Mark Twain,” he added.
“I’ve read it.” She didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with Mr. Schuyler on the first day, but . . . “I seem to remember something about whitewashing fences.”
“You’ve found me out.” Mr. Schuyler cast her a look of mock repentance. “What do you say, Miss Young? Are you willing to cancel your plans on Friday night?”
Her plans for Friday night included such fascinating activities as washing her stockings and mending her second-best blouse, where a seam had split beneath the arm.
Mr. Schuyler’s gold cuff links glittered in the light of the window. They were very new, with his monogram engraved with suitable flourishes and curlicues. “It shouldn’t be too onerous,” he said encouragingly. “Just a few cocktails . . . dinner . . . Keep him happy.”
Lucy could hear her grandmother’s voice. No better than she should be . . . going out to work like a man.
She’d had employers like that before. But she hadn’t expected it of Philip Schuyler.
“Would you have asked the same of Meg?”
“Meg,” said Mr. Schuyler firmly, “is a great girl, but she has an accent that could curdle cream. And that unfortunate fringe. We’re trying to entertain Ravenel, not torture him—even if he is being a damned nuisance.”
Just what kind of entertainment did he have in mind?
Taking her silence for assent, Mr. Schuyler leaned back in his chair. “It’s only for Friday night. We just need someone to hold his hand, make sure he has a good time.”
Lucy fought a wave of disappointment. She’d so wanted to make a good impression. But not at the expense of her self-respect.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Schuyler,” she said, and there was a hint of steel in her voice. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to find someone else. I’m not a good-time girl. And I don’t hold hands.”
“Not even for the greater good of Cromwell, Polk and Moore?” The charm was turned on full bore.
Politely but firmly, Lucy said, “I am happy to be of service to the firm—during business hours.”
She felt sick to her stomach—she couldn’t lose this job, not now—but made herself meet his eyes, coolly, levelly.
“Well, then.” Sitting back in his chair, Mr. Schuyler regarded her with speculation, and just a hint of admiration. In a very different voice, he said, “Miss Young, I’m not asking you to do anything I wouldn’t myself. I’d trade with you, if I could. What would you rather? Steak at Delmonico’s or opera with my stepmother?”
Daringly, Lucy said, “I’ve never seen Tosca.”
“Don’t tempt me.” More seriously, he said, “Are you sure you won’t reconsider? I give you my word that if Ravenel doesn’t behave like a gentleman, I will personally see that he never does business with this firm again.”
Something about the way he said it made Lucy think of the knight her mother had painted for her, the knight in the mural in the Pratt house, raising his sword against all comers.
“Well . . .”
Mr. Schuyler saw his advantage. “If you do this,” he said fervently, “I will owe you the biggest martini Manhattan has to offer.”
Lucy looked at him from under her lashes. “Martinis are illegal.”
“Not if you know the right people.” Bees from the trees, Lucy thought dizzily. This was the world her mother had known, a world where people knew people and the ordinary rules didn’t apply, a world away from the mundanities of making sure the rolls were shaped and bread was baked. “What do you say, Miss Young? A dinner in exchange for a drink?”
It was about winning his confidence, Lucy reminded herself. About winning his confidence and winning her way into those files.
“All right,” she said slowly, and saw the expression of triumph on Philip Schuyler’s well-bred face. “But only this once.”
What was one dinner, after all?
Seven
JUNE 1944
Kate