Francis had lost his chance. He felt, oddly, disappointed. More disappointed than anyone in the building. He’d been prepared. He knew he could have done it. He also knew that he must still do it. He must find another, more difficult way, but still it must be done. Already Gavigan could be dispatching his killers into the city. Francis hoped Miss Bloch had heeded him; he couldn’t have been more clear without giving it away. The wedding would offer some cover, but if Francis failed, it would end for all of them at Martin and Rosemary’s home.
As he calculated his next steps, the man with the lapel pin announced that refreshments were served. Trays of triangle-cut sandwiches—watercress, cucumber, sliced ham—were placed on the long tables. Piles of melon balls and bowls of Waldorf salad appeared. Champagne was poured. The mood of the room shifted from self-sorrow to resignation to an almost festive air: the crowd, elegantly attired, were guests at perhaps the most exclusive party of the summer. For the sake of Anglo-American relations, they vowed not to raise a fuss about the tardiness and the tactless departure of the royal couple and the inconvenience it had caused their American hosts. They chose instead to celebrate, to show—what was the English phrase?—a stiff upper lip. When one of the men raised his glass and loudly proclaimed, “God save the king!” the others raised their glasses and repeated the proclamation with all the lustiness of tavern-goers in an opera.
Francis sought out the man with the lapel pin and asked in his best Angus-ese if he knew where the king was going next: Had they reconfigured his entire agenda or was he still expected to luncheon at the Federal Building and then to receive guests at the British Pavilion? The man looked Francis up and down; something about the tartan and the brogue passed muster. “Now, let me see,” he said as he withdrew from his jacket a typed timetable of the day’s royal comings and goings, down to the minute.
“You’re a lifesaver,” Francis said, sliding the sheet from his hands while giving him a hearty clap on the shoulder. Ignoring the man’s squeak of protest, Francis darted back through the crowd and its What a wasted Saturday, its God save the king, its Blame it on FDR. He thought he might simply disappear—Anisette had been spared the sight of him gunning down the king, and that might be all he could offer by way of a farewell—but in the center of the bustle, he ran directly into the Bingham women awaiting their Scotsman.
IN SIR ANGUS’S absence, Anisette’s mother had told her of the conversation in the corridor, and Anisette felt like a balloon about to burst. He had confessed his feelings, her mother said, and some next step was imminent—not today, but soon. Anisette was excited, of course, and nervous for what was to come, but mostly she wondered how one person could contain all this happiness. She looked around the roomful of bald heads and powdered faces and she was certain that no one, not at this moment, felt a joy like hers. And just then, Angus emerged from the pack of tuxedos and chiffon with a slip of paper in his hand.
“I am so sorry about this turn of events,” he said. “I know how you all looked forward to this day.”
“On the contrary,” Mrs. Bingham said. “I think we will remember this day most joyfully for years and years to come.” Her face was pure triumph. The only topper would have been if Sir Angus, on one knee, had presented a ring to Anisette in front of the assembled throng.
“I’m so glad you feel that way,” he said, darting a look over his shoulder, “but I regret that I must take my leave, for now. There is an urgent matter that I must attend to.”
Mrs. Bingham looked baffled. Anisette registered a shock, but recovered quickly. “I saw you talking to that man,” she said, her voice bright and playful, as if she’d caught him in a fib. “The note he gave you—was it from her? Forgive me, from Her Majesty?”
All around the Binghams, heads began to turn. The sight of the kilt, the timbre of the empire in his voice, the mention of Her Majesty. He had seen it before on the Britannic, like a gravitational pull.
“You’ve found me out, clever Anisette.” He tried to keep his voice down, but still a circle had begun to form around them, taking in the spectacle. “I’ve been informed that it would be Her Majesty’s great pleasure to renew our acquaintance, but I am afraid it’s strictly tête-à-tête. Protocol and security and what have you. But Her Majesty did ask me to extend her personal gratitude to the Bingham family—and to you, ma’am, especially—for the warmth of your hospitality to two so closely linked, in blood and sympathy, to Her Majesty’s ancestral home.”
By the close of his brief oration, the Binghams had become a magnet for the curious, the softhearted, the envious, and the ambitious. Mrs. Bingham beamed magnanimously and Anisette, abashed, studied the lotus pattern of the carpet. Angus’s speech was worthy of, if not Darcy, then certainly Bingley, and hadn’t she always thought herself more Jane than Lizzie anyway?
Félicité, for her part, edged away from this sudden effusion of adoration. She wasn’t buying it, not for one minute. Tomorrow she would begin packing for a summer at the Connecticut farm, and if that became as terminally dreadful as she expected, she would tell Father to have the Wyoming ranch readied for her. This city, with its inane people, was suffocating her. If her own family couldn’t see when they were being deceived, then she could try only so hard to save them. Horses were never dishonest; a piano never lied. Each responded to your touch and each could punish you for your mistakes, but at least the touch and the mistakes were yours and yours alone.
Francis used this upsurge in interest in the Binghams to make his exit. He had meant his speech to be a parting gift for the family, but by day’s end they would no longer be the particular favorites of the queen’s cousin; they would be the dupes who had provided cover for an assassin. The Binghams would be tainted by a scandal that would make the slights against Anisette look like schoolyard taunts. But hadn’t it been like this since the moment he fled his father’s funeral? He left a trail of wreckage behind him, and always it was the ones closest to him who bore the brunt. His turn would come—the day of reckoning was at hand—but first he had to find the king, and add one more bit of wreckage to the pile.
He was already sweating, feeling the panic rise in him, but halfway through the door, he turned for one last glimpse of Anisette. She was still in the center of the crowd. The crush of the curious obviously unnerved her. As she caught sight of Francis, she started to raise one hand, as if to wave, but something about the gesture must have seemed too extravagant, too public. Instead, she rested her hand lightly against her cheek, and her face lit up into a smile that was just for him. Francis could almost imagine his own hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. He gazed at her a moment longer, wishing this was not the end, and then he was out the door, an ache chewing at his false heart and his traitor’s stomach.
GRAMERCY PARK
A FIERCE PAIN JOLTED Cronin, like a hot poker thrust against his skin.
“I thought that might get your attention.”