I shook my head. “And . . . ?”
Margie looked vaguely disappointed. “He apparently felt cheated by Mr. Pratt and was never paid for his services. The details in the paper are murky, but the scandal resulted in the architect’s suicide.”
“That’s awful,” I said, “but . . .”
She cut me off. “The architect was Peter Van Alan.” Her eyes widened as if to emphasize her point.
“Peter Van Alan? That’s my great-grandfather’s name.” Our eyes met in mutual understanding. We both knew the name only from my mother’s repetition of it in her quest to make sure that I comprehended the importance and pride of family lineage despite a lack of money or assets. I’d always thought that it was her way of letting me know that I came from something grander than an immigrant German baker and a grandmother who’d reminded me as a child of brightly colored wallpaper faded by the sun. I remembered standing on Sixty-ninth Street with my mother and staring up at the mansion, and suddenly it all began to make sense.
An icy breath trickled down my spine, making me shiver. “She never told me about how her grandfather died, or that he’d designed this building. Maybe she was ashamed about his suicide and wanted to spare me.”
Margie leaned closer, her eyes so wide I could see the whites around her irises. “That’s not all.”
She reached over and opened the journal, flipped through several pages before replacing it on my lap. “I copied this one verbatim from the society pages of the New York Times from their January third, 1893, edition.”
I peered down at Margie’s neatly formed Catholic school penmanship and began to read.
Mr. and Mrs. Henry August Pratt of New York City announce the engagement of their daughter, Prunella Jane, to Mr. Harrison Charles Schuyler, widower of the late Cassandra Willoughby Schuyler and father of Philip C. J. Schuyler. An elegant engagement ball was held at the Pratt residence on Sixty-ninth Street on New Year’s Eve. The date for the nuptials has been set for October 10th at Saint James’s Church.
I looked up, meeting her eyes. “But Philip Schuyler . . .”
“Is your father,” Margie completed for me. “Which makes Prunella Pratt your father’s stepmother, which I suppose means that Harry Pratt was your stepgrandfather? Or something like that.”
“Actually, that would make him my stepgranduncle.” I shook my head. “Why didn’t my mother ever tell me any of this?”
Margie shrugged. “Well, there’s the architect’s suicide, and then Harry Pratt’s disappearance and his brother’s tragic death—it’s all rather sad if you think about it. Maybe she was trying to protect you.”
“Maybe,” I said. But I knew that wasn’t it. The ruby necklace alone told me that my mother had kept secrets from me. Her reasons were now silenced by the grave but whispered in my memories of a mother who’d always seemed to be waiting for something; something more. I pressed my fingers against the ruby beneath the collar of my dress as if it held all the answers. But it lay heavy and still against my throat, a mute talisman of my mother’s past.
Margie reached over again and flipped a page in the journal. “Prunella Pratt Schuyler was listed in the last census in 1940, widowed and living alone. I couldn’t find a death certificate so I’m assuming that means she’s still alive. Here’s her address.”
I stared down at the page, the words barely registering. I met Margie’s eyes. “You’re amazing, you know. I don’t know how to thank you.”
She brushed her hand through the air as if to erase the words. “It was fun. And you can take me to dinner. Or find out if your captain has a brother and introduce me.”
I hugged her. “You’re better than a sister—have I ever told you that?”
She shoved me away but her face had pinkened. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t forget that introduction to the captain’s brother.”
“You got it,” I said, pulling her to her feet and escorting her out of the hospital. I needed to return to work, but first I had to write a note requesting a visit with Mrs. Prunella Pratt Schuyler. I wasn’t sure if she’d remember who I was, or even want to see me, but I would try. She was quite possibly the only remaining person in the world who could shed light on the mother I thought I’d known, and into the dark corners of our past.
I waited until I was certain the nurses in the cots around me were sound asleep. I wasn’t on call and had allowed myself the luxury of sleeping in a proper nightgown. Not that I’d done much sleeping since lying down—but I’d have plenty of time for that as soon as I finished my errand.