FIRST, THERE WERE TEARS. The first minutes that Francis spent in the suite with Michael were devoted entirely to weepy hugs and fierce backslapping and arms thrown roughly, possessively, apologetically, around his brother’s shoulders. There was a woman with Michael—Francis imagined she was a minder dispatched by the hotel—but before he could ask her a single question, Martin and Rosemary arrived and the waterworks began flowing anew. Martin had last seen Michael five days ago, on Sunday night, as the two laid hands on the wireless, and he had wondered during these past couple of days if that would be his final memory of his brother. But now they were together again and Martin’s embrace was not just thanksgiving but a promise to Michael, who deserved so much better from his older brothers than he’d gotten. Rosemary wasn’t the type to mist up—honestly, Martin was more likely to cry than she was—but so much had gone wrong this week and now here was Michael, and his life and theirs hadn’t become a tragedy. Maybe it was possible to live under the threat of a disaster, bracing yourself for it, preparing for those first peals of thunder, only to have it blow away, like a morning that had started off gray only to have the sun burst through the clouds.
It wasn’t until the end of this round-robin of hugs and tears, of rough backslaps between Martin and Francis, of loud joy and unspoken apology, that Martin realized there were two more people in the suite. The man from Thursday evening stood by the window, looking out over the park. His arms were folded into a tight knot and his face had a squashed, sickened look. He wasn’t staring at anything so much as just staring—pouring all of his energy into some faraway point, as if some magic could whisk him out of here and off to there. And then on the sofa there was a woman, rather elegantly taking in the scene before her. Though she sat at a languid angle and let a cigarette burn lazily in her hand, she did not seem unmoved by the joyful reunion.
In fact, Lilly beamed when she saw the transformation come over her guest. He had been elated to discover the hotel and from the moment they set foot in the lobby they seemed to move through a dream. The barn-then-castle he’d sketched had sprung to life and in it he was greeted as a returning hero. The doorman startled at the sight of him and escorted them personally to the front desk, where another man led them to the elevator and to this suite overlooking the park. The man in the lobby had called him “Sir Malcolm” and spoke of another sir or two who must be notified of his return. Apparently Sir Malcolm’s disappearance had set off a citywide manhunt: every minor noble in New York had been deputized to find him, it seemed, though none had thought to look in the Bowery—it was, after all, not a respectable neighborhood—where he had been nursed to health on a diet of strong tea and fresh knishes.
Throughout all of this commotion, no one questioned Lilly’s presence. But as cushions were fluffed in the suite and Michael stretched himself out on the sofa with a home-sweet-home look about him, the majordomo finally turned to Lilly and asked how in the world she had ever located the young and desperately missed Sir Malcolm MacFarquhar.
She answered that he had been her guest these past two days—had no one been notified? When the majordomo inquired as to her name, Lilly thought it best not to invite scandal for the young nobleman. She could not allow him to disappear into the care of a commoner, an artist, a woman of—ahem—questionable moral character. “Eudoxia Rothschild,” she said, affecting a posture that would have impressed Madame Bloch herself. “Countess Eudoxia Rothschild.”
Collier kept an updated copy of Burke’s Peerage in his office to validate the bona fides of the hotel’s guests. While he had not found mention of the MacFarquhars—at least not these MacFarquhars—Collier had no interest in unmasking pretenders for the sport of it. His only concern was in knowing when to extend credit and when to withhold it. More than one brash bounder had tried to assign an unpaid bill to his titled family’s ancestral seat, but Collier had never been gulled. Whoever these MacFarquhars really were, they paid their tabs and tipped generously. Sir Angus was a prince in the eyes of the hotel staff, if not in the pages of Burke’s. And if this woman, who had done such a noble service for his guests, was going to call herself a countess, who was he to object? He issued a coo of pleasure that the hotel would play host to such a red-letter blue blood, and prepared to leave the suite. As he offered a curt bow—nothing fawning; he was never obsequious—he inquired whether there was anything he could provide to make Her Ladyship more comfortable while she awaited the arrival of Sir Malcolm’s brothers.
Lilly weighed the question with a playful pucker of her lips; how nice it was to have someone asking which of your wishes he could grant for you! “Champagne,” she said. “We have so much to celebrate, don’t we?”
She could have left Michael in the care of the hotel staff and returned guiltlessly to the studio, but she needed this story to have a happy ending—a Hollywood ending, where all the right people get married and the music swells as the screen fades and the words THE END float on the screen. And she had to admit that she was curious to meet this family, who had managed to lose one of their own but who would now have the good fortune to see him returned. She couldn’t help but wonder if some of that luck, that magic, could rub off on her.