The Forgotten Room (17 page)

“There's more?” Lucy braced herself for some new revelation.

Philip's face was bleak. “Didi is just like her. I didn't realize it before—I don't think I wanted to realize it—but when I heard her on the phone today . . .
Christ
. They might have been twins.” He looked up, fiercely. “Do you know what Didi wanted?”

Lucy mutely shook her head.

“She wanted me to drop everything tomorrow and go down to Philadelphia to take her to buy a hat.”

“A hat?” Lucy nodded her thanks as the waiter set a fresh round of drinks in front of them. She had barely touched her first, but Philip seized on his third martini gratefully.

“A hat,” he repeated grimly. “She saw one that was just too darling and wanted me to cancel my meetings to come to the milliner with her. In Philadelphia.”

“Perhaps she was joking?” suggested Lucy, with more optimism than hope.

“Ha,” said Philip. “It's a test, you know. Show of devotion. She liked to do that sort of thing to her beaux—wait till they were in the middle of a conversation, then send one to get her a drink, another to find her gloves. . . . She liked to keep 'em hopping. But I'd thought, well, it was just a game. I thought, she's young, she'll grow out of it. But she won't, will she?” He looked owlishly at Lucy over the rim of his martini glass.

Lucy wished she could tell him otherwise, could give him some comfort. But basic honesty prevented her. “No,” she said. “I think people are who they are. It's a mistake to marry someone and believe you can change them.”

Her father—the man she had believed to be her father—had tried, so very hard, to win her mother's love, to make her smile.

She missed her father. She missed her father so. He might not have been a Pratt, he might not have lived in a grand house or worn a starched cravat and a diamond stickpin, but he had been warm and loving and as reliable as a fresh loaf of bread.

“You're right. People don't change, do they?” Philip sank back against the banquette, his long legs brushing Lucy's under the table. “'S no use. 'S no use pretending that anyone thinks I'm a real lawyer.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Lucy discreetly moved Philip's glass out of reach. She didn't think she had it in her to carry him downstairs. “You went to Harvard Law. Surely that makes you a real lawyer.”

He had the diploma on the wall to prove it, magna cum laude and all.

“Thass jus' a degree.” Philip shoved himself back up to a sitting position, squinting for his martini. “Prunella's right—'s not like I do real work. Old Cromwell just gave me the job as a favor to m'father. Needed someone to handle the Pratt estate.”

“But you do so much more than handle the Pratt estate!” Wasn't the last month proof of that? They'd spent long hours in the office, longer than anyone else. Mr. Schuyler—Philip—might pretend to be a dilettante, but he'd been working like a dog. With a smile and a starched collar, yes, but still working, and working hard. Lucy wished that Prunella Pratt were in range to hear a piece of her mind. “Mr. Cromwell always speaks highly of you. I've heard him.”

“He was friends with my father.” Philip gestured for another martini. “They don't take me seriously, any of them.”

Lucy absently took a sip of Philip's old martini. The gin made her cough. “That's nonsense,” she said crisply. At least, she tried to say it crisply. If it came out just a bit slurred, Philip was in no state to notice. “You're a wonderful lawyer.”

“Oh, I know,” said Philip moodily. “No one deals with the clients like I do. By which they mean that I can keep the drinks coming, tell jokes in four languages, and play a good game of tennis.”

“No.” The gin was remarkably freeing. Without conscious volition, Lucy's hand was on Mr. Schuyler's arm, her fingers making creases in his perfectly pressed jacket. “That's not it at all. You're not just a good host; you're a good lawyer. You know what Mr. Cochran's drafts look like.”

“Well . . . Cochran,” said Philip with a shrug.

“I won't have you selling yourself short. You're good at it. And I know you care, even if you pretend you don't.”

Philip's eyes focused on her face. There was a curious, wistful expression on his face. “I do, do I?”

“Yes.”

“You're a good woman, Lucy Young.” Philip toasted her with his new martini, baptizing the table with gin. “Where were you when I was proposing to Didi?”

Commuting from Brooklyn.

“On my yacht in the South of France,” Lucy quipped. She hadn't minded telling John Ravenel that she'd grown up above a bakery, but she still, even with her tongue loosened by gin, found that she didn't want Philip Schuyler to know. She liked when he spoke to her like this, like an equal, with that admiring light in his eyes, a light that would go away if he knew the truth about her.

New money, Philip had said dismissively.

She wasn't money at all, new or old, just a working girl with sensible shoes and an attic room that cost too much of her weekly salary.

As for being a Pratt . . . Maybe she had thought, once, that that would provide some social cachet, but she was reluctant to blurt that out, not just because she didn't want Philip to know she'd been using him, but also because they sounded like horrible people. She didn't want him to look at her and see Prunella Pratt. She didn't want him to talk about her the way he did Didi.

Philip Schuyler reached across the table, took her hand, and, before Lucy realized what he was doing, raised her knuckles to his lips. “I don't know when I've ever been so grateful to anyone for breaking her leg. Here's to Meg and her multiple fracture!”

“You can't mean that,” protested Lucy, flattered and appalled—but she left her hand in his.

“Oh, I'm sorry about her leg—don't get me wrong—but I can't be sorry about you.” Philip's hand tightened on hers, his thumb moving in an intimate caress against her wrist. “There you were, in the secretarial pool, all that time, and I never saw you.”

“You said hello to me once,” said Lucy, and then wished she hadn't. It made her sound like a besotted teenager.

“Did I? If I'd known better, I wouldn't have just said hello. I would have asked you for a drink.”

There was something mesmeric about the way he was looking at her, his face so close to her, his hand on hers, the culmination of a thousand guilty daydreams. This wasn't happening, not really. Philip Schuyler flirted, yes, all the time, but this was more than flirting, this was . . .

Not right.

Reluctantly, Lucy drew her hand away. “And I would have said no.”

“Don't say no, Lucy.” Philip touched a finger to her lower lip, and Lucy felt the tingle of it, stronger than the gin, so exciting and so wrong all at the same time. “These lips weren't made for saying no.”

And before Lucy could say no, before Lucy could say anything at all, Philip Schuyler leaned in and kissed her.

J
ULY 1944

Kate

The whine of sirens pierced the still night, jerking my eyes open. I was on call and still wore my clothes, making it easier to exit the sleeping quarters with only a quick hand-swipe of my eyes and a brief toe-search for my shoes before sliding them on. The air-raid drills were a weekly occurrence, and I moved through the mansion still half-asleep, my motions automatic. I no longer had to look at the drill instructions taped on most doors inside the hospital at the instruction of Mayor La Guardia; the familiar words and graphics of various siren sounds seemed to be imprinted on the inside of my eyelids.

I joined an orderly and a nurse as we each picked up a flashlight from the bucket on the landing, and I began systematically turning off all lights I passed as the steady scream of the siren continued outside. I peered through one of the drawn shades in a blackened room and spotted an air-raid patrol car racing down the street, pausing so its air-raid warden could jump out and douse a phantom fire.

One of the men from the ballroom turned hospital dormitory
screamed from a nightmare, an unholy side effect of the drills. So many of the patients returned to their recent battles when they closed their eyes, the innocuous sounds of sirens more menacing to them, transforming into the sounds of falling bombs and spiraling planes.

I was headed in his direction when I spotted Nurse Hathaway and an orderly in the doorway. “We've got this,” she said.

I nodded, listening to the sound of scrambling feet throughout the hospital. I looked up the stairs, knowing I should make sure that Captain Ravenel was prepared to move if the siren sound began to waver, signaling us that it was no longer just a drill. Still, I paused. Since meeting his fiancée, I'd done everything in my power to avoid the attic room except to retrieve personal items when I knew he was sleeping and his fiancée wasn't there. But nobody was running up to the attic. The captain hadn't been coherent during the last drill and I pictured him up in the attic room, in the dark and alone, wondering what all the commotion was about. I had my foot on the first step when I heard my name.

“Dr. Schuyler?”

I groaned inwardly as I turned. “Yes, Dr. Greeley?”

“Where are you going?” he asked, although it was clear he knew exactly where I'd been heading.

“To see to Captain Ravenel. The attic room wasn't included in the original drill plans because it wasn't a . . .”

Dr. Greeley took my elbow. “The patient is fine. I saw to him myself. It looks like all that's still needed is for you and me to find a safe place.”

“I'm quite . . .”

Before I could finish my sentence, he'd opened a door—to what had once been a cloak closet outside the ballroom but had been converted to store medical supplies—and pushed me inside, making me drop my flashlight in the process. He closed the door behind us and I had two
sudden thoughts: He'd had onions for dinner, and the space was too small for him to do much of anything.

I tried to turn to the side but managed only to elbow him slightly in his soft abdomen. “I'm sorry,” I said. “But this is quite unnecessary . . .”

“You've been avoiding me, Kate.” I'd always liked the sound of my name. Until now.

“I haven't been avoiding you. I've just been incredibly busy, as you are aware.”

“You haven't accepted my invitations to dinner.” He sounded genuinely hurt. As if he really believed that the two of us had a future together.

“We are overloaded with patients right now, and I need my sleep so I can be the best doctor they need me to be. I really don't have time for leisurely dinners, as lovely as they sound.”

He was my height, so that when he smiled his sparse mustache tickled my ear. I found myself almost hoping that a bomb would actually fall nearby just so I'd have a reason to get out of this closet.

I felt his fingers playing with my hair. “I hope you understand that it's in your best interests to make me happy. I don't think dinner with me would be so hard for you to manage.”

Damn
. It wasn't fair. Nothing about being a woman was fair, especially not a woman whose only dream was to be a good doctor. But none of that would matter if I didn't give Dr. Greeley what he wanted. “I'll check my schedule. I'm sure I can find an hour.”

“Or two,” he said.

I kept my head turned to the side so when he tried to kiss me, he got only my cheek.

Reaching behind him, I grabbed the doorknob and twisted it, but his hand on mine stopped me. “Before you go, I just wanted to let you
know that I've received word that we are scheduled to be getting more patients. You're going to have to make room for two more beds up in the attic. No more private quarters for Captain Ravenel, and you'll have to make other permanent arrangements for yourself.”

The siren stopped, lending an uneasy stillness to the air. I turned the knob hard and pushed the doctor, making him stumble backward. I grabbed hold of his upper arms to make it look like it had been an accident. “Sorry, Doctor. I'll get started on that first thing in the morning.” I picked up my flashlight and began jogging up the flight of circular stairs, not really sure where I was going, just that I needed to get
awa
y
.

He recovered quickly and called me back again. I paused, looking past the banister at him, and hoped he knew I could see his bald spot from my elevated position on the stairwell. “We're short staffed tonight. Another nurse has defected to the WAVES. I'm afraid I'm going to need you to empty all the bedpans in the main ward.”

I knew that to argue, to remind him that I was a medical doctor, same as he was, would do no good and would only set me up for even more “selective” duties. I took a slow step down.

“And when Caroline Middleton arrives in the morning, I want you to make yourself available to her. She has all sorts of questions about New York—where to shop and where to eat; women things—and I told her you'd be happy to answer any of her questions.”

I smiled, even though I had the flashing visual of him tumbling over the banister. “Yes, Doctor.” I flipped on lights as I made my way to the main ward. Nurse Hathaway was still there, holding the hand of a patient and humming softly. I nodded in her direction, then began checking bedpans.

“We already took care of it, Dr. Schuyler.” The orderly I'd seen with Nurse Hathaway was at the far wall turning on the overhead lights. As
if noticing them for the first time, I saw how ugly the fixtures were, how out of place against the rich wood paneling and elaborately molded ceilings. They were an abomination, I thought, glad the architect of this masterpiece wasn't around to see the desecration.

“Thank you,” I said, nodding to him and then the nurse. I looked down at my watch, pinned to the front of my lab coat, and realized that it was almost six o'clock. Since I was due for rounds at seven, it made no sense to toss and turn for such a short time before reporting back to work. At least I had time to wash and change clothes.

After hesitating only a moment, I ran up the servants' stairs to the top floor, pausing only briefly to make sure there was no sound or movement before entering the attic room. It was pitch-black inside, with only the slow, steady sound of Captain Ravenel's breathing to let me know I was in the right place. I aimed my flashlight at the floor and quietly crept to the corner of the room. I'd found an old, empty trunk and was using it as a place to store my clothes as well as a dressing table. I'd managed to find a cracked gilt-framed mirror and hung it on the wall behind the trunk, which made me feel a lot more elegant than circumstances allowed. It must have once hung in the main house, and whenever I peered at my reflection, I couldn't stop myself from wondering who else had sought to see themselves reflected in the old glass.

I fiddled one-handed with the trunk's latches and popped them open, then shone the flashlight inside to pull out clean clothing. I had just grabbed my last clean slip when I heard the switch of a lamp and found myself and the room clearly illuminated in pale yellow light.

“Glad to see you're not a German.” Captain Ravenel was sitting up in bed, grinning as if he were privy to a very funny joke.

“Sorry. It's only me. And that was just an air-raid drill. I hope you didn't really think the Germans were coming.”

“Would you protect me from the Germans if they came?”

“Yes,” I said without thinking. “I mean, it's my job. To protect my patients.”

As if it were even possible, his grin widened. “I'm flattered, I'm sure.”

I rolled my slip inside the dress I'd pulled from the trunk, then placed the bundle on top of a tall casement clock with no face before approaching the bed. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Now that you're here, like I could run a mile. If you'd smile at me, then I could probably run three.”

“Captain, please. You shouldn't say things like that.”

His grin faded, and I found myself missing it, found myself wishing I'd said nothing so that I could continue my fantasy. That was impossible, of course. His fiancée had come to him. Had come to take him home.

“No,” he said. “I shouldn't.” His eyes searched mine, as if he'd heard my thoughts.

Since I was already there, I decided to help out Nurse Hathaway and take the patient's vitals. I avoided looking at him but felt his eyes on me like I imagined a flower felt the sun. “I'll need to examine your wound. I know you must be eager to return home, but I'm afraid I can't discharge you until there is no sign of infection.” I raised my eyes to meet his, to let him know how serious I was. “If we do not kill all of the bacteria, the infection will return. And there will be nothing left to do except amputate.”

“Yes, Doctor,” he said slowly, and there was no sign of sarcasm.

I pulled back the covers just enough so I could examine the leg, then carefully removed the bandages, doing my best to concentrate on the wound and not the beautifully muscled leg. Focusing on my work, I cleaned the wound as I examined it, pleased with his progress.

As I washed my hands in the bedside basin, I said, “It's looking very good. I'm thinking you should be able to leave in about a week—two
weeks, tops.” I smiled, wondering why the good news didn't make me feel as happy as it should. Turning away from him, I wrote my short report on his chart, my handwriting shakier than usual.
Lack of sleep.

I replaced the chart on the bedside table, feeling the weight of the ruby necklace under my dress, the stone burning my skin. Until I could return it to Margie, I wore it to keep it safe, having convinced myself that I didn't need to show it to Cooper.
It's just a necklace.
There must be dozens, hundreds, just like it. Stop thinking of reasons to tie him to you.

With the pretend smile I normally reserved for seriously ill patients, I said, “You'll have company soon. We're getting more patients, and the only room for two new beds will be up here. I've been instructed to clear out some of this mess.”

He raised a dark eyebrow. “I thought you were a doctor. Surely clearing out an attic shouldn't be part of your responsibilities.”

“It probably shouldn't.” I bit my lip, the words I wanted to call Dr. Greeley ready to pour out of my mouth. “We're horribly short staffed, so everyone must do his—or her—part.”

“Including Dr. Greeley, I'm sure. He doesn't seem the type of man who thinks of women with the same credentials as equals.”

“No. He's not,” I said bluntly, still too angry to sugarcoat the truth.

“I find a woman with brains enormously attractive and not threatening in the least. A pretty face is nice, too, but having somebody to converse with and share thoughts for thirty or forty years is very appealing to me.” His voice sounded wistful, as if he were still searching for that woman.

“Your fiancée is a lucky woman, Captain, to have found a man with such progressive thinking.”

He was silent for a moment, studying me. Quickly changing the conversation, he said, “I'll help.” He sat up and placed his feet on the floor.

“Absolutely not. You're a patient here, not an orderly. I promise to be as unobtrusive as possible . . .”

As if I hadn't spoken, he stood, wearing only his hospital gown, and I turned my back to him. “Captain Ravenel, please . . .”

“It's Cooper. And if you will give me just a moment, I'll put on my shirt and pants—I do believe they will fit over my bandages—and then you won't have to act like you've never seen a naked man before.”

“Captain . . .”

“Cooper. You said yourself that my leg is mending. And if you don't let me get out of that bed and do something useful, I'm afraid that I can't be responsible for my actions.”

I slowly let the breath out of my nose, tired of dealing with too many obstinate men in one morning. “Fine. But you are not moving heavy furniture or anything that might impede the healing of your leg.” I headed to the corner of the room, where many of the mansion's remnants had been piled. “I'll get an orderly to clear out most of the larger items that I can't move myself, but first I wanted to go through the trunks and armoires and pull any clothing out. I'm sure it's all mostly moth-eaten, but I know the ragman will welcome any donations. It's amazing what they're collecting these days for the war effort—even gum wrappers and silk stockings. I'm sure if I donated my mother's old fur, they'd be able to turn it into a parachute or bomb or something useful.” He'd moved to stand near me, making me babble like a young girl on her first date.