The Forgotten Room (30 page)

She gathered up her petty belongings and put them into the small
valise with which she had arrived here, two months ago, on a November morning that now seemed like another lifetime. She settled her threadbare wool coat over her back and wrapped her muffler over the collar, and still she shivered a little. Maybe the cold wasn't on the outside, after all.

As she slipped down the staircase, she caught sight of the handsome Louis Quatorze commode that stood near the study door, and she paused. The empty wineglass had already been removed by some industrious housemaid.
Poor Prunella,
she thought, and the words surprised her. Poor Prunella? But it was true. The fury in Olive's heart last night had ebbed into pity. Poor Prunella, trapped in her pretty gilded body, behind her pretty gilded face, with no way to break free from herself. No possibility of finding happiness, even for a day, even for a single night. No possibility of redemption.

Olive had come to a stop, standing there in the landing, staring at the priceless piece of furniture before her. The rich golden detail was almost invisible in the smoky dawn that filtered from the dome at the top of the staircase. How perfectly silent the house lay! Each chair and beam and tendon, each square of marble and inch of plaster, seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting for some extraordinary turn of destiny.

Another thought came to her through the stillness: that it was in her power, just now, to perform an act of grace.

The study door was closed, but Olive opened it without hesitation. She was surprised to see that the room had not been attended to; each paper lay exactly where she had left it last night. She arranged everything back in its neat leather portfolio and put the portfolio back in its place, and when she was done, and the desk was tidy once more, she opened the topmost drawer with her key and took out a sheet of fine ecru stationery and a black fountain pen.

If a man is wise, he will sell his assets in the P&R at the earliest opportunity.

From a Well-Wisher

She left the paper on the desk, in the center of the leather blotter.

As Olive opened the small service door in the basement, then climbed up the iron staircase to the street, she heard sounds of life at last. A commotion was taking place on the street outside, a most untoward commotion, involving a delivery wagon and a number of men in a high state of furor. They were carrying something from the back of the wagon, long and thick and wrapped in blankets, and as Olive paused in astonishment next to the small iron gate, a head lolled to the side from one end of the bundle, blond-haired and bloodstained, and she realized that it belonged to Gus Pratt.

“Why, what's happened?” she exclaimed, and one of the men turned and spoke in an Irish lilt.

“Got himself in a wee bit of a brawl, didn't he, poor bugger. Knocked on the old head.”

“Is he alive?”

“Only just, miss.”

Two of the men began to pound on the great double door, while the others hoisted Gus on their shoulders, in the manner of pallbearers. Olive clutched her valise and stared at Gus's senseless head, and she thought,
So this is what the house was waiting for.

She stood there until the door opened at last, and a cry sounded from within. The men hustled Gus inside, and the door slammed
behind them, echoing down the empty street, into the dawn of the New Year.

J
ULY 1920

Lucy

“Young!”

It was Dottie, one of the other residents, shouting through Lucy's door. The door was closed, but the wood was thin, not like the thick oak of the doors downstairs.

Lucy cracked the door open. “Yes?”

She didn't much like Dottie, who had a rude laugh and a habit of leaving her stockings hanging in the bathroom.

“Gentleman caller to see you,” said Dottie. She jerked a thumb toward the stairs. “With Matron.”

Lucy started to close the door. “I'll be right down.”

“Well, la-di-da,” said Dottie, and flounced off in a wave of scent.

With trepidation, Lucy pinned on her collar, straightened her cuffs, anchored the pins that held up her hair in a low knot on the back of her neck. There was something about the way Dottie had said
gentleman
 . . . a leer and a hint of envy. Philip had promised to give her time, but Philip was Philip and accustomed to being granted his every whim.

Was that what she was? A whim? Lucy's fingers went automatically to the chain around her throat. Much, she suspected, as her mother had been to Harry Pratt.

Philip had offered her answers, but she wasn't sure, now, that she wanted those answers. Or the price she would have to pay for them.

Lucy shook her head at herself as she started down the narrow back stairs. What a fool she was! Most women wouldn't consider life with Philip Schuyler too high a price to pay; two weeks ago, the very prospect would have made her feel as Cinderella must, when her prince appeared, slipper in hand.

But that was before she had met John Ravenel.

The third floor of Stornaway House was bustling with activity. On a Saturday, the common room was packed with residents and their guests. Some sat waiting for callers, flipping through brightly illustrated papers; others were having a gossip behind the fronds of the large potted palms Matron had brought in, in an attempt to brighten the heavy woodwork of the dark-paneled room. The mural in the narrow hallway leading to the common room, with its knight rampant and cringing dragon, was all but obscured; only the top of the knight's spear and his surprised eyes were visible.

Dottie was there, lounging against the wall. She eyed Lucy assessingly as Lucy walked past, and Lucy heard her murmur, “La-di-da,” to her companion, another woman, not a resident, with a too-fussy hat and suspiciously pink cheeks.

Lucy looked for Philip Schuyler's golden head and didn't see it. But Matron was there, standing near one of the potted palms, speaking with a gentleman whose back was to Lucy. Lucy's step slowed as she recognized the curly dark hair, the broad back. Her stomach gave a lurch of excitement, but Dottie was watching, so she made an effort to keep her step steady and a pleasant smile on her face.

“Mr. Ravenel,” she said, proud of how even her voice sounded.

“Miss Young.” He swung around just a little too quickly, the eagerness of the movement belying the calculated politeness of his voice. His eyes caught hers and Lucy knew, with certainty, that nothing she ever felt for Philip Schuyler would be half the equal of this. It was like magic, the current that leapt between them, that made the rest of the room fall away as if it had never been.

Easily, he said, “I was just telling your good Mrs. Johnston that you were kind enough to invite me to see this architectural gem.” In a lower voice, for her ears only, he murmured, “They gave me your message.”

Her heart was pounding, her fingers were tingling, but she managed, somehow, to say in a normal voice, “I thought you might enjoy it.” To Matron: “Mr. Ravenel is a dealer in art and antiquities.”

“So I hear.” Did Matron actually dimple? No, that was too much. But she was looking at Mr. Ravenel with what passed for her as unqualified approval. “I have a reproduction of one of the elder Mr. Ravenel's paintings. I had the privilege of seeing the original in the Museum of Art in Philadelphia.”

Lucy looked quizzically up at John. She'd had no idea that his father was quite so famous. “We had to let some of the paintings go,” he said to her, as if in answer to a question. “I've tried, when possible, to sell to institutions rather than private individuals. My father felt strongly about art being available to everyone, not just the few.”

“But one must make a living?” said Matron.

Lucy wasn't sure what magic John had wrought, but they appeared to be on excellent terms. Or maybe, she thought giddily, that was just John. He had a way of setting people at ease, making them comfortable in their own skins.

And he had come here. For her. He placed one hand unobtrusively beneath Lucy's elbow, just a small gesture, not the sort of touch to which Matron could possibly object, but Lucy could feel warmth rushing through her, warmth and the certainty that all would be well, was well.

“This house,” Matron was saying, “is very much a testament to that. The carvings are in themselves works of art. It does seem rather . . . out of proportion that all this was intended, at one time, merely for the private use of one family.”

“I understand the Pratt family used to live here?” John said, so casually that Lucy wouldn't have known there was anything more to it but for the tightening of his fingers on her elbow.

In the midst of her haze of happiness, she felt a moment's doubt. But no. Just because he was pursuing his own interests didn't mean his feelings for her weren't just as real. She hadn't imagined the way he looked at her, the touch of his fingers on her elbow, the subtle possessiveness in the way he stood, his body shielding hers, claiming her.

“Their loss is our gain,” Matron said practically. “Such houses have become unwieldy as private homes, but they serve very well for communal living. We were forced to make some changes, of course, but we have done our best to retain the unique character of the house.”

“I was admiring the mural in the hall,” said John. “Saint George?”

“A red-cross knight forever kneeled / To a lady on his shield,” quoted Matron, unexpectedly and fancifully. Apologetically, she said, “Yes, I believe it is Saint George. But if you want to see the real treasure of Stornaway House . . .”

There was a hullaballoo by the billiards table.

Matron broke off with a tsk of annoyance. “If I have told Miss Brennan once, I have told her a dozen times. If her young man provokes one more altercation . . . Forgive me, Mr. Ravenel. I'm afraid I can't
offer you that tour just now. If you would care to return again during visiting hours next weekend . . .”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” John assured her. “But I'm afraid I leave for Charleston on Tuesday.”

“You have enjoyed your stay in New York?” Matron was frowning over John's shoulder, at the crowd by the billiards table.

“Far more than I ever imagined.” The words were for Matron, but John looked at Lucy as he said them. “This visit has been . . . a revelation.”

Lucy nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak. Who knew it was possible to feel this strongly, on such scant acquaintance? She felt as though nerves she had never known she possessed had been awakened; every look, every word, awakened a delightful agony of anticipation.

“Since you are leaving so soon . . .” Beneath the thick spectacles, Matron's blue eyes twinkled. “It is a slight breach of the rules, but for a gentleman involved in the arts . . . Miss Young, would you be so kind as to take Mr. Ravenel up to the seventh floor?”

“There's a seventh floor?” Lucy's voice came out rather more breathless than she would have liked. “That is, I always assumed the attic rooms were at the very top.”

Matron looked pleased. “They are usually, but not in Stornaway House. The seventh floor is a well-kept secret.”

“A secret?” Lucy felt John's attention being diverted from her. “That sounds intriguing.”

“It's nothing so exciting as that, just a rather unusual little room . . . Miss Brennan! If you'll pardon me, Mr. Ravenel, I really must have a word with Miss Brennan's young man.” Her voice brisk, Matron said, “The main staircase doesn't reach all the way up, but you'll find the service stairs at the end of the fifth-floor corridor. Be sure to shut the door again when you're done.”

Matron didn't mean . . . well. But Lucy felt the color rising in her cheeks all the same. Before, she and John had always been in public, in Delmonico's, in Central Park, in Mrs. Whitney's studio, snatching their moments of privacy in the midst of dozens of uninterested people. But on the seventh floor, they would be well and truly alone.

There were, thought Lucy, feeling a silly giggle rising in her throat, rules about gentlemen in one's room, but this wasn't her room, was it? It was the secret room on the seventh floor. So that was all right, then.

“Thank you,” said John Ravenel, snatching Lucy's arm and speaking, for him, quite rapidly. “I surely am grateful for this opportunity.”

“You must let me know what you think of our little treasure,” said Matron serenely, before turning, and saying in quite another voice altogether, “Miss Brennan!”

John whisked Lucy to the stairs at a gait just short of a run.

“Eager to see what's on the seventh floor?” said Lucy breathlessly, as they rounded the curve of the stair on the fourth floor.

“Eager to see you,” said John, pausing so abruptly that Lucy nearly ran into him. “Ever since I received your message, I've been hoping—” One of the bedroom doors opened, and John broke off. “Oh, for the love of— Let's get upstairs. We'll have some privacy there.”

“Do you think . . . ,” said Lucy, feeling suddenly shy. “Do you think that's what Matron had in mind?”

“An honorable woman like Mrs. Johnston?” said John, his drawl thickening. His voice turned serious as he looked at Lucy. “She just wants to make sure a hidden artistic treasure gets proper appreciation.”

“Or improper appreciation?” said Lucy daringly.

“That, too.” His dark eyes rested on her lips, moved lower. “Er—where do we go from here?”

The transition was so abrupt that Lucy laughed. “Like Matron said, the main stairs stop on the fifth floor. We'll have to take the servants' stairs. If you don't feel too cheapened by that.”

“Nothing to do with you could ever be cheap,” said John.

“Then you don't know the cost of this skirt,” retorted Lucy, but her hand trembled on the banister. The force of his regard made her feel weak, shaky, as if she were no longer entirely in possession of herself.

From the time she was very small, she had known she had to be strong. Her mother was so withdrawn, her father someone to be protected as much as a protector. With no siblings, her cousins largely estranged, Lucy had kept mostly to herself, a quiet, self-contained child, an anomaly in her father's large, boisterous German family.

For the first time, she contemplated what it would be to let herself go, to relax that stern control. It was both exhilarating and terrifying, the idea of relinquishing her own strength, allowing her to lean on someone else.

There was something so sturdy about John, so reliable.

It didn't take them much time to find the stair to the seventh floor, in an alcove Lucy had always assumed to be a broom closet. The stair itself was narrow and unassuming, the walls painted with the same graying whitewash as the servants' floor, the stairs uncarpeted.

At the top, John paused. “Before we go in— I just wanted you to know that I would be here even if no Pratt had ever set foot in this house. I came for you. Not for them. When they gave me your message—”

Lucy touched a finger to his lips. “Hush,” she said firmly.

John hushed.

“Yesterday—I knew as soon as I'd left you that I overreacted. It was just . . .” Lucy struggled for the right words. Her family had never been one for sharing their emotions; this was an uncharted vocabulary. She felt like a toddler, just learning to use language. “I was scared.”

“I scared you?” John's face was the picture of remorse. “Lucy, I swear on my father's soul, I never intended . . .”

“No, no,” Lucy said quickly. “You didn't scare me. I scared me. The
Pratts were just an excuse. I got scared and I ran away. It's just—” She took a deep breath and said, quietly, “I've never felt like this about anyone.”

John's arms wrapped around her, folding her close, his cheek resting against the top of her head. “Neither have I,” he murmured. “Neither have I.”

They stood in the cramped stair, neither of them feeling the heat or minding the musty smell of an enclosed space too long neglected. Lucy leaned the full weight of her body against his, her chest molding to his, her head fitting perfectly into the space between his ear and his neck, and knew that she had, at long last, come home. Wherever John Ravenel was, that was home.