They had stopped at a street cart for ice-cream sandwiches, Mr. Ravenel teasing Lucy for the dainty way she licked the ice cream from the sides first, so the melting treat wouldn’t drip on her gloves. He had taken great bites of his sandwich, the way it was meant to be eaten, he said provocatively, driving Lucy to a demonstration of her own highly superior technique. Mr. Ravenel nobly refrained from gloating when the ice cream dripped on her all the same.
With sticky fingers, they had taken to the carousel, queuing behind girls in hats with long ribbons and boys in knickerbockers for their chance at two of the brightly painted horses. Rosinante, Mr. Ravenel had called his, with a grin that told Lucy that there was a joke she was meant to understand. They had raced their steeds all around the circle as the calliope played and small children squealed with excitement around them.
Somewhere between the ice-cream sandwich and the carousel, Lucy had forgotten that Mr. Ravenel was a client, forgotten that she was meant to be entertaining him for Mr. Schuyler, and just tipped her head back to the bright summer sky and enjoyed the day as she hadn’t enjoyed anything since her father had died last fall, and, with him, the last sense of belonging she had.
But now, back in the office, Lucy felt as though a shadow had been cast over their bright outing, as though there were something clandestine about it.
Taking a deep breath, Lucy said primly, “All of us at the firm want to make sure that you enjoy your stay in New York.”
Mr. Ravenel paused with her before the elevator, his dark eyes meeting hers with quiet amusement. “Is that so? How very public spirited.”
Lucy could feel the color rising in her cheeks. The way she had laughed and shouted on the horse—it hadn’t been public spirited at all. Or terribly ladylike.
But Mr. Ravenel hadn’t seemed to mind.
“Would you,” said Mr. Ravenel solemnly, leaning one palm against the wall, “consider being an angel of mercy, and, out of the goodness of your heart, devoting another day to entertaining a stranded traveler?”
Lucy tried to squelch the flare of pleasure his question evoked. “Aren’t you going back to Charleston?”
“Not quite yet,” said Mr. Ravenel, and while his face didn’t change, she saw his eyes flick briefly back to the hallway that led back to Mr. Schuyler’s office. “There are matters still to be resolved.”
“Well, in that case . . . If it’s for the good of the firm . . .”
“I’ll meet you on Saturday at noon. By the carousel.” His gaze dipped to the prim collar of her blouse. “You’re not wearing your necklace.”
She was, actually, beneath her shirt, as she had since her mother had given it to her. It made her feel closer to her mother, as though carrying around this key might somehow unlock her past.
Lucy ducked her head. “It’s not the sort of thing one wears to work.”
Mr. Ravenel grinned at her. “Ah, yes. Work.” There was a ping as the elevator arrived. The elevator man cranked open the grill. In formal tones, Mr. Ravenel said, “Thank you very much for your assistance, Miss Young. You are a credit to Cromwell, Polk and Moore.”
Lucy tipped her head. “Mr. Ravenel.”
And he was gone. But only until Saturday.
Noon. At the carousel. Lucy suppressed a silly smile. Had there ever been so innocent an assignation?
Not that it was an assignation, she reminded herself hastily, and picked up her pace as she walked briskly back to her desk. She had a forty-three-page contract to type, in triplicate, before she could call it a night.
And Mr. Ravenel was a client, just a client.
Lucy took the cover back off her typewriting machine, but before she could spool a piece of paper into the machine, Philip Schuyler poked his head out of his office, his usually genial face grim. “Where did you take him? Timbuktu?”
It was so unlike his usual manner—even on their longest evenings, Mr. Schuyler was nothing but polite—that Lucy couldn’t think what to say.
“I—,” she began. “The elevator—”
“Never mind.” Philip Schuyler gave his head an irritable shake. “Get Mrs. Schuyler on the line.”
Usually, he requested. This was a command. Lucy stood a little straighter. “Yes, Mr. Schuyler. Right away, Mr. Schuyler.”
Philip Schuyler pressed his fingers to his temples. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.” He gave a forced laugh. “Any more of this, and you’ll be begging Miss Meechum to reassign you.”
Lucy felt something tight in her chest unclench. “I’ve worked for the others. I wouldn’t trade.”
Philip Schuyler gave a crooked smile. “I suppose that’s something, isn’t it? Just put the call through, will you, Lucy?”
It was back to work, then. “Right away, Mr. Schuyler. Would you like some coffee with that?”
“No,” said Philip Schuyler grimly. “Gin. And make it a double.”
The door of the office clicked sharply shut behind him.