“They want it next Thursday.” Philip Schuyler grabbed the typewriter cover and dropped it over the machine, half-written page and all, as Lucy made a noise of protest. “I lied. Come on. I promised you the biggest martini in Manhattan, didn’t I?”
“I’m not sure if it was a promise or a threat,” said Lucy with some asperity. She was going to have to type that page all over now; the heavy cover had crumpled it beyond repair.
“Is that your hat? Get your gloves on and we’ll go.” With some of his old charm, Mr. Schuyler held out a hand to her. “Didn’t Miss Meechum tell you that it’s your obligation to keep your employer happy?”
“She didn’t advise the application of gin,” said Lucy tartly, but she put on her hat and gloves all the same, glad that she had worn her new hat, a straw hat, trimmed with green ribbons the color of her mother’s eyes.
“Gin, coffee, it’s all the same.” Philip Schuyler was walking so quickly that Lucy could scarcely keep up, hurrying behind him to the elevator. “Lord, what a day. It’s enough to drive a man to the bottle. Let’s get you that martini, shall we?”
“Don’t you mean let’s get you that martini?” Lucy protested breathlessly.
Mr. Schuyler flashed her his most winning smile. “I don’t like to drink alone.”
Before Lucy could argue, he bustled her into the dark depths of a taxicab, giving the driver an address in the West Fifties, an area Lucy knew not at all. As the crow flew, it might not be that far from her lodgings on East Sixty-ninth, but Manhattan was fiercely territorial. East was east and west was west and never the twain would meet.
Mr. Ravenel had teased her about that, about her ignorance of the city she called home. He had taken her down paths in the park she hadn’t known existed, pointed out buildings she had never noticed before.
Lucy hadn’t wanted the afternoon to end. She could have roamed the paths of the park forever with Mr. Ravenel for an escort and a melting ice cream for sustenance, forever in the sunshine, forever summer.
Except that summer ended, sunshine gave way to rain, and Mr. Ravenel would, eventually, go back to his home in Charleston, his visit to New York nothing but a pleasant memory.
Perhaps, Lucy told herself, perhaps that was why she had enjoyed herself so much, not because of anything inherent in Mr. Ravenel, but because he was only passing through, because she didn’t have to worry with him.
That was all. That had to be all.
As if he had read her thoughts, Philip Schuyler asked, abruptly, “What did you think of that Ravenel fellow?”
“Mr. Ravenel?” Lucy played for time, thankful for the murky interior, the sunlight barely filtering through the soot-grimed windows. “He seems nice enough.”
Nice. Such an incredibly inadequate word. He was an intriguing mix of old-fashioned courtliness and schoolboy mischief. He gave the impression of openness, but Lucy suspected that it was as much of an act as his Huck Finn impression that night at Delmonico’s. There were depths there, and secrets, and the more she saw of him, the more she wanted to unravel them.
Which was silly, given that he was just a chance acquaintance.
Mr. Schuyler didn’t seem to notice her abstraction. “Nice.” He turned the word around on his tongue. “You might just be right about that. Let’s hope you’re right about that.”
The cab screeched to a halt outside a nondescript redbrick building with a faded awning. There was a storefront advertising sewing machines for sale. It was closed, the door locked and the store dark.
“If you want me to sew on your buttons,” said Lucy, turning to Mr. Schuyler, “there are easier ways to ask.”
“Watch and learn, Miss Young; watch and learn.” The jauntiness was back in his step as her employer went to a small door on the side, a service door, and knocked three times, one slow, two fast.
The door opened, but only by inches, revealing a man who could have doubled as the troll in one of her father’s stories, thick of neck and arm. Instead of holding a large club, though, he held a notebook.
“Yeah?” he said, looking forbiddingly at them.
Behind him, a steep flight of stairs rose into darkness. The hall was dingy, with a smell to it that Lucy didn’t like. “Mr. Schuyler, are you sure—”
“Philip,” he said. “It’s Philip.” To the man at the door, he said, “The cat’s pajamas are the bee’s knees.”
The magic phrase had been spoken. The troll stepped back, letting them through. The door clanged shut behind them, although not before Lucy saw Philip press a folded bill into his hand.
Behind them, Lucy heard the ominous sound of locks turning. Bad things happen to fast girls, Lucy’s grandmother liked to say. Despite her attempt to maintain a veneer of sophistication, Lucy felt a little trickle of unease.
Stop it, she told herself. The idea of Philip Schuyler—Philip Schuyler!—selling girls into white slavery was so ludicrous that it almost made her smile.
Almost.
“We’re in,” said Philip Schuyler, with satisfaction.
“Lovely,” said Lucy weakly, and her employer laughed.