The Forgotten Room (27 page)

“The year I was born,” said Lucy quietly. “I was born in November of 1893.”

“I see.” Philip cocked his head. “That would make you my—what? Stepcousin? I think we can get a dispensation.”

He was joking again, always joking. “You don't understand. I lied to you. I came to work for you under false pretenses.” She blurted out the worst of it. “When you weren't in the office, I went through your files.”

“You're my secretary. It's your job to go through my files.” When Lucy didn't crack a smile, Philip leaned forward, taking her hands in his. “I think it's very gallant of you to come clean. But none of this makes a difference. Not to me. It wasn't as though you were trying to embezzle money from the firm. You just wanted to know about your heritage. And who wouldn't?”

Lucy bit her lip, torn by his kindness. “I'm beginning to think I shouldn't. Nothing I hear about the Pratts makes them sound terribly likable.”

Philip was still holding her hands, his grip loose, undemanding. “If it helps,” he said, “Harry was the best of the lot of them. I was a snotty boy of eight. I can't have been much of a joy to have around. But Harry—he saw me sitting there by myself at the back of the room. I'd been told to sit still and mind my manners. No speaking until spoken to and all that. But he came over to me. He drew a picture for me.”

“A picture?” A little shiver ran down Lucy's spine.
A goose walked over my grave,
her mother would say.

A faint, reminiscent smile curved Philip's lips. “I'd nearly forgotten that day. I can't remember quite what he said—something about guessing that I wished I were outside, doing anything but sitting in that room. Because he wished he was anywhere but in that room. And right there, just like that, he whipped out a sketch pad and drew me flying a kite in Central Park. It was a very good likeness, too.”

Lucy thought of her mother, of the mural on Lucy's bedroom wall.
Mine is only a secondhand talent
. “He was an artist?”

Philip shrugged. “Artistic, at any rate. His family wasn't the type to encourage that sort of talent. They were . . . grubby. Moneygrubbing,” he clarified, with the easy arrogance of generations of inherited wealth. “Old Henry August Pratt didn't approve of anything that didn't translate into dollars and cents. But Harry—he was different.” Glancing
up at Lucy, he added, “I might still have that sketch somewhere, if you'd like it.”

Lucy's throat was tight. She'd lied to Philip Schuyler, she'd deceived him, and here he was, offering her a piece of his past. Of her past. “Thank you. You don't—you don't know anything about what happened to Harry Pratt?”

“No one does.” He leaned forward, his eyes intent on hers. “If this matters to you, we can get someone on it. Even after this many years, a good private detective should be able to follow his trail. That is—if you want to know.”

He spoke with such easy authority. And Lucy knew, without questioning, that if she were to say yes, within hours the wheels would be put in motion, all of Philip Schuyler's considerable resources placed at her disposal. It was a heady taste of what it would be to be Mrs. Philip Schuyler.

And also terrifying.

“I don't know,” Lucy said honestly. “I thought all I wanted in the world was to find my real father. But now . . . I don't know.”

“You don't have to make any decisions now,” Philip said, and Lucy knew he wasn't just talking about Harry Pratt. “Sleep on it. It's kept for this many years; what's a few days more?”

If I refused you, would you still find my father for me?
Lucy wanted to ask. But she already knew the answer. Philip Schuyler might be many things, but he wasn't petty.

Lucy looked at him, at his pale blue eyes and the nose that was just a shade too long and too thin. “Didi Shippen doesn't know what she's losing, does she?”

“From her point of view,” said Philip wryly, “an apartment on Park, an Italianate villa on the Hudson, and an allowance of five thousand a year. And a suitably dressed man on her arm for social occasions.”

Lucy pushed back her chair, rising to her feet. “Then she didn't deserve you.”

Philip tossed some money on the table; the tip, Lucy noticed, was probably twice what their server earned in a week. “And what about you, Lucy?”

It would be so convenient if she were in love with Philip Schuyler, as she had fancied herself two weeks ago. She knew him better now; she liked him better now. But she didn't love him. If liking could make love . . . But, then, that was what her father had hoped, wasn't it? And look how that had turned out.

Lucy fumbled with her gloves. “I have—a great deal of thinking to do.”

“All right. I won't push you.” Philip grinned a crooked grin. “Or attempt to ply you with gin. But I can't promise I won't ask again.”

“You'll think better of it in a week,” said Lucy, as they stepped back out into the July sunshine.

“I'm not so fickle as that.” With a tip of his hat, he dropped her back at her door. “I'll see you on Monday.”

“Who was that?” It was Maud, one of the other women who roomed at Stornaway, on her way out in a new hat and shoes with a strap. “He looked rich.”

“Just my boss,” said Lucy quickly.

“If my boss looked like that . . . ,” said Maud.

Lucy waved to her and quickly let herself in through the front door, into the house where her mother had fallen in love with a man named Harry Pratt.

What should I do, Mama?
What happened to you? Why did you choose as you did?

But the marble stones of the old house were silent. There was only the staircase spiraling up, up, up to eternity, around and around, like time, circling and circling, always coming back to the same point.

Lucy's thoughts went around and around in a similar spiral: John and Philip and Philip and John. John had lied to her. Philip had proposed to her.

But it was John whom her heart yearned for, John with whom she felt as though she had found a missing piece of herself. And could she really condemn him for lying to her? She had done the same, and for the same reason. If Philip Schuyler could forgive her, why couldn't she forgive John Ravenel?

When I saw it on you—
He had seen her necklace and assumed she was part of Prunella Pratt's scheme, whatever that scheme might be.

But was the necklace on the lady in his father's picture really the same as the one around her neck? And, if so, how had it come to be there?

There was a telephone booth just next to the concierge desk. Fishing in her purse, Lucy put a coin in the slot. “Can you connect me to the Waldorf, please?”

“Just a moment,” said the disembodied voice of the operator.

There was a fly buzzing lazily next to the receiver; the sound seemed to blur into the whirr of the wires.

She could put the phone back now. Put the phone back and walk away. John Ravenel would go back to Charleston. And she could marry Philip Schuyler and have beautiful gowns and appear in the society pages.

And wonder, always, if she had made the mistake of her life.

There was a click.

“Your party is on the line,” said the operator, as someone else said, rather curtly, “Yes?”

“Hello,” Lucy said quickly, before she could think better of it. “Is this the Waldorf? I'd like to leave a message for Mr. John Ravenel. Yes, Ravenel. R-A-V-E-N-E-L. Would you tell him that Miss Young would like to speak to him?”

A
UGUST 1944

Kate

A misty rain slicked the streets as I walked the short blocks from the subway stop. I was vaguely familiar with Brooklyn, having visited my paternal great-grandmother there infrequently as a child. She'd spoken with a heavy German accent and had seemed to barely tolerate my mother. I remembered her mostly by the scent of baking bread that clung to her like a perfume. She must have died before I was ten years old, because I didn't remember the obligatory visits much past then.

The neighborhood I found myself in now wasn't too dissimilar from the one of my memory, with the familiar stench of garbage and the sight of laundry floating like ghosts from lines stretched between buildings. I remembered with a certain fondness the predominant odors of sauerkraut and schnitzel that had always made me feel a part of my mother's life, the part before she met my father and the brackets of
disappointment that marked each side of her mouth had become permanent.

I stood across from a three-story brownstone with baby carriages parked out front on the sidewalk, a tired-looking mother jostling a screaming baby on her shoulder, taking turns patting the child's back and flicking ash from a cigarette dangling from her lips, seemingly impervious to the drizzle that dusted everything with a fine mist.

I looked down at the crumpled piece of paper clutched in my gloved hands, double-checking that I was in the right place. Prunella Pratt Schuyler had responded to my request for a meeting with a short note scrawled out in bold script. It had been more of a summons than a response, telling me to be at this address at four o'clock Tuesday next. The expensive stationery was at jarring odds with the street on which I stood, the linen paper more appropriate to an Upper East Side debutante than to this Brooklyn neighborhood of immigrant families and the pungent scents of foreign foods. Remembering what Margie had discovered about Prunella in the society pages, I wondered if that false impression might have been intentional.

I was quite certain this wasn't the same place I'd visited with my parents all those years ago. I had to assume that Prunella's fortunes since my father's death had deteriorated drastically, at least to the point where she'd been forced to move to Brooklyn from the Upper East Side. Which, some might argue, would be a fate worse than death.

I waited for a sputtering milk truck to pass and then crossed the street. The haggard mother barely noticed me as I passed her on the steps and entered through tall double doors into what might have once been an attractive foyer in a single residence. But now the black-and-white marble tiles of the floor were cracked and stained, the plaster ceiling moldings mostly missing or water spotted, the fireplace surround absent, presumably salvaged to grace a more deserving residence.

I almost left the building again to check the address one more time,
but stopped myself. I recalled the rest of the information Margie had discovered in the newspaper archives about the demise of the Pratt family fortunes related to bad railroad investments, and then the blow the Schuyler family fortune had sustained during the crash of '29. For a woman like Prunella, who since birth had been brought up and schooled to be nothing more than a society hostess, to end up in a place like this, far away from the familiar world of her youth—it must have been humbling indeed.

The sound of a couple arguing tumbled down the narrow stairs in front of me, the dark green runner of which was threadbare and filthy. A baby cried somewhere in the building, while an out-of-tune piano plunked out a scale behind the door to my right. I looked again at the note in my hand. Apartment 1B. The door opposite the piano, with peeling white paint and only a shadow of where a number one must have once been attached.

I hesitated only a moment before raising my hand and knocking, the sound slightly muted by my glove. I heard a movement inside, like the barest brush of satin against wood, and then nothing. I took off my glove and knocked again with all four knuckles.

This time I heard light but quick footsteps, followed by the sound of several locks being unlatched before the door slowly opened. Two large green eyes beneath a mop of white curly hair peered out at me through the space between the door and frame.

“Mrs. Schuyler? Aunt Prunella? It's Kate. Kate Schuyler. Philip's daughter.”

The door widened and the woman stepped back, revealing an old-fashioned and ill-fitting black maid's uniform complete with starched white apron and cap. Her wide smile alone would have been enough to tell me it wasn't my aunt Prunella, but when she opened her mouth and words that danced with an Irish brogue fell from her tongue, I knew for certain.

“Och, no. I'm Mona, the maid.” She leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “Herself is still abed, too delicate to leave her room in such weather. Between you and me, she's the constitution of a bear and will outlive us all.”

She closed the door behind me. “She told me not to offer refreshments, but ye look like ye could use a nice cup of tea. I'll bring some in just a moment.” She jerked her head to the left. “Herself is right through that door. Give a knock first, or we'll both be hearing about it.”

I watched Mona waddle away toward another door I assumed led to a kitchen, the tight black fabric stretched and shiny across her back. I wondered if she'd once worked for the Pratts and had stayed with Prunella not necessarily out of loyalty, but because she had no other options.

I took a quick assessment of the room around me, familiar only because of the furniture. It seemed bigger here, out of place in the tiny apartment, with china figurines and objects d'art cluttering the heavy dark wood of the oversized pieces. Small paths had been carved between three large sofas and various accent tables and bookcases to allow passage from one room to the next, giving the room the appearance of the ocean's surface after the sinking of a large ship, the debris scattered haphazardly without thought of placement or usefulness.

It struck me as incredibly sad how this was all that remained of a once glamorous and privileged life, the beauty of all these things diminished by the peeling wallpaper and faded draperies of the drab apartment. My father had managed Prunella's finances until his death, which must have precipitated her move across the river. A move she must have loathed, and probably still did. I almost turned away then, to let myself out of the door and into the rain-cleansed air.

“Mona? Who was that? I hope you're not keeping the door open too long—I don't want to catch a draft and be chilled.”

The voice hadn't changed in all those years, the same imperious
intonations, the perfect finishing-school accent. It reminded me of my father's grimace as he told me that we had to visit Aunt Prunella again.

I'm a grown woman. A
doctor
no less,
I reminded myself. I lifted my hand and knocked and, without waiting for a response, pushed the door open.

I didn't see her at first. The small bedroom was the repository of an enormous mahogany four-poster bed and the largest armoire I'd ever seen. An oversized Victorian dresser and settee were crammed into the tiny room, making it easy to miss the diminutive woman propped up against overstuffed pillows in the bed. She was even smaller than I remembered, as if the passing years had pushed out pieces of stuffing.

“Aunt Prunella?”

She squinted at me. “Move closer so I can see you.”

I moved two steps closer to the bed.

“Closer. I don't know why you insist on standing across the room.”

I bit back a smile, suspecting that vanity was the reason for her lack of eyeglasses. I moved so that my legs pressed against the side of the mattress.

She didn't say anything for a while, her sharp blue eyes examining me closely, as a jeweler might examine various stones to determine their worthiness. Lifting her eyes to mine, she said, “
Kate
did you say? I remember you as a little girl, of course. You have the look of your mother. The same heart-shaped face with that pronounced widow's peak.”

It was clear she hadn't meant it as a compliment. “My father used to say that, too, although I wasn't sure I agreed. My mother was a beautiful woman.”

“Was?”

I nodded. “She died a few years ago.”

If I thought she'd offer condolences, I would have been disappointed. I looked around for a chair, but the settee was across the room,
so I remained standing where I was. “I'm afraid you and I lost contact after my father died. I was only recently made aware that you were still alive. As I explained in my letter, I'm a doctor at Stornaway Hospital, in the building I believe was the Pratt mansion where you once lived.”

Her lips pressed together so tightly that the blood leached from them, leaving them so pale that her mouth seemed to disappear altogether. “Yes. I lived there for a short time before my marriage.” Her words were cold and clipped, as if to say,
And this is where I live now.

I forced myself to smile. “I believe I found a gown that once belonged to you. It was in the attic in an armoire. It's exquisite, with tiny pink roses on it, and the tiniest waist. It has your name embroidered inside of it.”

Her face softened, allowing me to glimpse the beautiful young girl she must have once been, before the disappointments of her life had overshadowed the good parts. “I wore that gown to my engagement party. My photograph was in all the society pages for weeks afterward.” Her lips curved upward in a smile, her thoughts turned inward, making me wonder what it was like to live one's life looking backward.

“I could return it to you, if you'd like to have it back. Although it has a terrible stain on the front. I think it might be wine.”

Her eyes snapped, her eyes hard as they regarded me. “Yes. It's wine. A stupid and clumsy maid spilled it on me. Ruined it completely.”

Eager to change the subject, I said, “I found some sketches of Harry's, too. Your brother was quite talented.”

She gave a quick shake of her head, as if she'd just tasted something bitter. “He was a hobbyist, nothing more. But he somehow got it into
his head that he wanted to be an artist. Father set him straight, of course. Pratts did
not
become artists. It just wasn't done.”

I shifted on my feet, uncomfortable to be standing next to her bed and having this conversation. She made no offer to find a chair for me, and I was not going to sit on the side of the bed. It seemed as if we were waiting the other out.

I cleared my throat. “I understand that Harry disappeared around the same time as your marriage. Did you ever find out what happened to him?”

She turned toward the window, the dim light reflected in her eyes. “No. He simply . . . left. Never even said good-bye.” She paused. “I would have liked to see him again, I think.” It might have been a trick of the light, but her eyes appeared to mist, becoming twin pools of shallow blue water. “I did something awful, and I would have liked to tell him how sorry I was. As if that could have changed anything.” She paused for a moment before turning her pale eyes on me again, blinking as if suddenly realizing that she had spoken aloud, that she had finally acknowledged her wrongdoing. “You will find, Kate, as I have, that sooner or later everyone leaves you until you are left quite alone with only disappointment and regrets for company.”

Mona entered the room, bustling about quickly, as if to deflect her mistress's icy stare. She placed a tray across Prunella's lap and began pouring tea from a silver pot into two mismatched Spode china cups.

“I thought ye might be parched, Miss Prunella,” Mona said as she dropped two large teaspoons of sugar and a healthy dribble of cream into a cup and handed it to Prunella. The older woman took it grudgingly and began sipping.

The windows of the room were shut, no doubt to block nuisance noises such as children and traffic as well as the inevitable dirt and dust. But it also made the air stale and stifling, and I found I was indeed in need of refreshment. Mona poured a cup for me and I took it, holding
up my hand when she offered cream and sugar. Prunella seemed almost relieved, as if she budgeted her cream and sugar. But not, apparently, her stationery.

I blew on my tea, wondering why I'd come. I'd already known she was related to Harry Pratt, but what else had I hoped to learn? Knowing what had happened to Harry wouldn't have solved the mystery of the miniature or the ruby necklace. They were simply unrelated elements, connected only by my own curiosity. And Cooper's. So why was I there? Maybe I'd come with the hope that once Prunella knew I was alive, we would make a connection based on our mutual loneliness. The war had taught me to treasure life and all the things that connected us as human beings. Prunella and I had no family except for each other.

My gaze panned over the cluttered room as I sipped, taking in the cosmetics on the dressing table and a crumbling bouquet of dried roses that listed languidly in a dome-shaped glass cover on a tall plant stand.
Disappointment and regrets.
I shivered despite the mugginess, and continued my perusal of the room. A low bookcase sat beneath one of the windows, where a large leather-bound volume was squeezed in between much smaller books. I paused with my cup held to my lips, remembering the book from my childhood visits. “Aunt Prunella, is that your scrapbook?”