The Forgotten Room (20 page)

She had lost him twice. Once when he died, and again that afternoon after his funeral when her grandmother had unleashed her terrible secret.

A cuckoo in the nest,
her grandmother had called her.
Your mother—no better than she should be.

And Lucy had remembered the pendant so hastily shoved in her pocket only a few months before, and her mother's dying words. A legacy from her father, yes, but not the father she had believed to be hers.

“Let's make it a good weekend, at least.” Ravenel's rolling Southern accent felt like a balm after Philip Schuyler's clipped, boarding school cadence. It conjured up memories of the weekend before, of sunshine and ice cream and innocent pleasures. “I have a surprise for you on Saturday.”

“I don't know . . .” Lucy ran her finger along the blunt edge of the embossed blotter. She'd thought those drinks with Philip Schuyler were innocent, until they weren't. “I shouldn't.”

She could hear the amusement in his voice, all the way through the wires. “Be surprised?”

“See you.” She was amazed by the effort it cost her. “It isn't really appropriate.”

“Isn't there an old adage about horses and barn doors?” When Lucy didn't say anything, John Ravenel added, “I promise, there's nothing that your mother wouldn't approve of.”

That was what she was afraid of. “I don't . . .”

“One forty-seven West Fourth Street. Meet me there at noon. I promise you”—John Ravenel's voice was warm and persuasive—“you won't regret it.”

J
ULY 1944

Kate

Margie wiped her mouth with a napkin before folding it neatly and tucking it into her lunch pail. We sat on the same Central Park bench where our mothers had met all those years ago, a habit we'd fallen into after I'd begun working at Stornaway Hospital. It was a nod to a past we both remembered fondly while dealing with a present that seemed uncertain at best.

The day was saved from the murderously hot summer heat by a layer of thin, wispy clouds, as if even the sun agreed that the world below in all its turmoil didn't deserve all of its light. The city was merely a shadow of its former glory, with even Lady Liberty and Times Square darkened at night. On my walk to the park I was assaulted with advertisements to buy war bonds on the sides of trolleys and buildings. Metal signage and ornamentation had been vanishing from the city since the first call for scrap metal, and I'd begun to wonder if New York would ever be the same again.

Margie shook out her cigarette case and took one, then offered it to
me. I hesitated for a moment and then shook my head. “No, thank you. If I have one, I'll only want another.”

“What?” she asked over the sound of a crowded bus jerking its way down Fifth Avenue.

“Never mind,” I said, latching my pail.

“So,” Margie said, blowing out a puff of smoke. “How's your captain?”

“He's not
my
captain. His fiancée is here. From Charleston. I doubt I'll be seeing much of him until he leaves.”
Are you going to let me finish?
I kept hearing his words, asking me to let him finish his sketch of me. And each time I heard them I had to remind myself to say no.

“Um-hmm,” she said, a knowing smile tilting her lips.

I looked at her cigarette and she handed it to me. I took a long, calming drag, then handed it back to her. “He has a
fiancée
. Why would you think I'm interested in him?”

She looked at me fully. “Because when you talk about him there's something about your eyes.”

There's something about your eyes.
I startled. “He said the same thing. When he told me he wanted to finish the sketch of me.”

She raised a plucked eyebrow as she took another drag from her cigarette and didn't say anything. She didn't need to.

Eager to change the conversation, I checked my watch. “I need to get going. But first I need to ask a favor.”

She leaned back, narrowing her eyes. “This won't involve me going on a blind date in your place, will it? The last time that happened I got stranded on Coney Island with a short, bald man who only spoke Russian and called me Martzie.”

“I know. And I still owe you. This favor doesn't involve blind dates or Russians—promise. I need you to look up a name for me in the newspaper archives. Harry Pratt. He might be an artist. I found a few of his sketches in the attic, and I believe his family might have once
owned the hospital building. He might be related to Prunella J. Pratt—I found a ball gown in an armoire with her name embroidered on the inside.”

“Prunella?”

“I know. It's not the sort of name that rolls easily off the tongue, is it? I had an aunt named Prunella. Must have been popular way back when.”

Margie took one last puff of her cigarette, then crushed it under the toe of her shoe. “Thank goodness its popularity had waned by the time we came along.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “Why are you so interested in the Pratts?”

“I'm not really sure. Curiosity, maybe. The sketches are so good that I'm wondering if he might have become a renowned artist.”

“And?” she prompted. Margie was the one person in the world who knew me enough to know when I was holding something back.

“And I think I've heard the name Pratt before. I didn't think so at first, but then I had a memory of my mother and me standing in front of the building when I was small. I think she called it the Pratt mansion.”

“Interesting,” she said, raising both eyebrows. “I rather like searching through the archives. If I turn up something interesting, I might even forgive you for the Russian.”

“You're a peach. I owe you dinner.”

“I'll put it on your tab.”

We hugged good-bye and went our separate ways—she back to the library while I headed to the hospital, trying to lose myself in the sounds of the city instead of hearing Cooper's voice echoing in my head.
There's something about your eyes.

I was reaching for the outer door of the hospital when I heard my name called.

“Dr. Schuyler?”

I recognized the soft Southern voice before I turned around, and prepared myself. “Good afternoon, Miss Middleton. What can I do for you?” She wore an elegant light blue suit that matched the color of her eyes, the tightly fitted bodice hugging her tiny waist. A stylish hat with netting sat perched at an angle on top of her neat chignon, and impeccable white gloves and silk stockings completed the look. I tried not to think about my own bare legs and hands, or straggly hair that stuck to my forehead after my walk from the park. Sighing inwardly, I remembered Dr. Greeley saying that he wanted me to make myself available to Miss Middleton, to answer any of her questions about where to eat. And shop. Like I would know. I doubted we ate or shopped at the same kinds of establishments.

Her blue eyes remained icy despite her smile. “I was hoping we might have a chance to chat—woman to woman.”

“Of course,” I said, trying to remember the names of all the shops Margie was always telling me were the places she'd go once she married her rich husband. “Let's go inside and out of the sun . . .”

“No. I'd rather not. I'd prefer privacy. Why don't we walk down the block together?”

I looked at my watch, not bothering to hide my impatience. Some of us weren't women of leisure who didn't march to the hour hands of a clock all day. “All right. But I'm afraid I can't be long. I'm due back in five minutes.”

Her smile widened. “Not to worry. What I have to say won't take long.”

Attempting to hide my reluctance, I walked toward her, her arm claiming mine as soon as I was close enough. We began to walk in the same direction I'd just come from, our sides pressed against each other as if she were afraid I might try to escape.

“It's a lovely day, isn't it?” she asked as we strolled leisurely down the sidewalk.

“It's a bit warm,” I said, wondering why she was wasting my time talking about the weather.

“Not if you're from Charleston. The heat and humidity in the summer are like a wet blanket that's been resting on coals. It takes some getting used to if you're not a native like Cooper and me. We were born and raised in Charleston. As a matter of fact, my family has been in Charleston for over two hundred years—isn't that something? We've had a cotton plantation on the Waccamaw River in Georgetown County since the Revolution, which means we have a lot of family connections. Important connections that can make or break an art gallery or even an artist.”

She paused a moment to smooth the loose hair under her hat. “Has Cooper told you that we've known each other since we were in diapers? We have so much in common. Our families are even next-door neighbors at our summer retreats on Edisto.”

We continued to walk, but I was becoming less and less aware of my surroundings as she spoke, understanding seeping through me like water through sand.

“Cooper and I are two of a kind, Kate. May I call you Kate?”

I nodded numbly.

“You see, Kate, the best marriages are those that are made between two people from the same world. They understand the same things.” She turned her face toward me and her eyes seemed bleached by the sun. “That's how I know that Cooper and I are meant for each other.” She placed a slender gloved hand over her heart. “Of course, it helps that he's mad about me and I'm mad about him.”

I stopped suddenly, causing an old man in a worn brown suit that smelled of pipe smoke to stumble into me. He said something under his breath as he walked past, but I was too focused on Caroline's perfect face to care. “Then why didn't you come? The moment you knew Cooper was here, you could have come. But you waited.”

Her face seemed carved from marble, her skin bloodless. I knew her answer before she spoke, by the way she hesitated and didn't meet my eyes. “Because your letter said that . . .” She stopped. “Because there was a chance he might lose his leg, and I didn't think I could stand to see him that way. See him as . . . less than a man.”

I stared at her dumbly, unable to think of a single word to respond.

She tugged on my arm and we continued our walk back the way we'd come. “His mother doesn't travel, but she asked me to come. I had already packed my bags and was preparing for the journey when your second letter arrived, letting us know that his leg had been saved. So, you see, I was prepared to come regardless.”

Because his mother asked you to.
It was pointless to argue the obvious, so I kept my mouth shut. None of this was any of my business. Captain Ravenel was a patient of mine. A patient whose leg had been saved and who would be out of my life forever in a few short weeks.

We'd reached the front of the hospital again and stopped. I quickly slipped my arm from hers. “Why are you telling me all this?”

She smiled like a patient mother with a wayward child. “Because I don't want you to be hurt. I see the way you look at Cooper and I just want to make sure you understand that you're not his kind. He's grateful to you for helping to save his leg, and might even think he's a little in love with you because of it, but that won't last. As soon as he is back in Charleston, everything will return to normal and he'll forget all about you. I just wanted you to know that.”

I felt the blood rush to my face. “I think you've misunderstood, Miss Middleton.”

“Have I?” She smiled brightly, and I noticed that she had a small chip in her front teeth. I was relieved, somehow, as if this slight imperfection were like a chink in her armor. As if any of this really mattered at all.

“I'm late,” I said, moving past her.

She caught my sleeve. “We're getting married on November tenth, and I'll be wearing his mother's wedding veil. The engraved invitations have already been ordered.”

I pulled my arm away and hurriedly jerked the door open. I'd wanted to turn around and ask her why she hadn't said that she loved him and that he loved her, but I hadn't. I hadn't because I was afraid that the emotion coursing through me wasn't disbelief, but hope.

I sat at Dr. Greeley's desk with bleary eyes, my cravings for a cigarette reaching mythic proportions. My father had been a heavy smoker, and although nobody had ever said it was linked to his death from lung cancer, I wasn't completely convinced it hadn't been. But that didn't mean that I didn't crave them.

Dr. Greeley was, presumably, at home in his comfortable bed, finally giving me an entire evening where I didn't have to creep around corners or tiptoe down hallways. He'd left a stack of charts and reports for me, enough to ensure that I wouldn't get any sleep. I rubbed my face, eyeing the full ashtray on the corner of the desk, then picked it up and dumped it into the trashcan.

My head had been throbbing ever since my confrontation with Caroline Middleton. It had taken nearly an hour before my shock and
embarrassment had turned into righteous anger. How dare she? How
presumptuous
of her. I was a
doctor
. It was expected that a certain level of intimacy would form between a doctor and a patient. It was unavoidable. But I was always a professional first. A healer. Not a woman so desperate for a husband that I would steal another woman's fiancé. I certainly hadn't gone to medical school to find a husband. I ground the heels of my hands into my throbbing temples, wishing I'd thought to grab a couple of aspirin before holing myself up in the airless office.