The Forgotten Room (23 page)

“No,” said Mr. Ravenel lightly, stepping back, away from her. “I think you argue like an attorney. There's no judge in the world could stand up against you.”

He had begun moving, strolling toward the door, as though they were two sightseers at a museum. Lucy fell into step beside him, groping after her lost poise. “I'd like to see that,” she said. “A woman attorney.”

“Why not? I met a woman doctor when I was serving overseas.”
Mr. Ravenel glanced down at her. “She was doing twice the work of the men and just as well.”

Lucy had never hankered after bloodstained bandages or bottles of pills, but the idea of being the one sitting behind the desk, dictating memos, making the decisions, had a powerful appeal.

Regretfully, Lucy banished the image. “Maybe my daughter will be the attorney. Or the doctor.”

“Not you?”

She might as well have sighed for the moon as for a college education. That was for other women. Women whose fathers had money to burn. “I had to fight to finish at the high school. My grandmother didn't believe in education for women. She thought it would give me the wrong sort of ideas.”

A woman didn't need education, her grandmother had said. She would only marry anyway. It was a waste of time when she might be helping at the bakery.

A good gugelhupf. Now, there was a way to a man's heart.

John Ravenel looked at her thoughtfully. “But here you are, a model of the new woman.”

The new woman. Scarlet women, according to her grandmother. Lucy squirmed at the memory of the scent of gin, Philip Schuyler's lips on hers, the high-pitched laugh of the woman in the backless dress.

“Not entirely. I like being useful. I like working. But I'm
not
fast,” she said fiercely. “I'm not.”

John Ravenel looked at her, puzzled. “I never thought you were.” His lips lifted in a half smile. “You can tell just from looking at you that you're a lady.”

“Even now that you—know my background?”

“What your parents did isn't who you are.” They were back in the front hall. Lucy could hear the sound of a gramophone from
somewhere up the stairs, and a spirited argument coming from the room with the sculpture. “Aren't I proof of that?”

Lucy looked at John Ravenel, wanting to say yes, wanting to agree with him, but she couldn't help thinking, traitorously, that he was what his parents did. “Would you have found art if your father hadn't been a painter?”

“I don't know. But I do know that I love art for its own sake, not my father's. He gave me my start, but—” John Ravenel shook his head. “I guess we can't get away from them entirely, but we can pick and choose what we want our legacies to be. What do you want your legacy to be, Miss Young?”

The words came out in a rush, out of nowhere. “If I have children, I want them to feel like they belong to something.” She had never felt as though she belonged. Not in Brooklyn. Not in Manhattan. Not with the Jungmanns. Not with the Pratts. She was betwixt and between and adrift. She took a deep breath. “I want them to know where they come from. No mysteries, no secrets. I want something solid, stable. It sounds pretty petty, doesn't it? Here you are, planning to change the world one painting at a time—and all I want is a safe home.”

John Ravenel didn't mock her. “My mother was an artist's model.” A rueful smile creased his lips. “Well, my father's model. She made pictures that made history. And, in the end, she claims her greatest success was making a home for us. She made order out of chaos. She kept us all safe and fed. She kept my father—and me—alive. She's the strongest woman I know. She wouldn't find your ambition petty at all. She would admire you for it.” His eyes met hers. “I admire you for it.”

It was like staring at the sun. Lucy looked away, down at her shoes. Such sensible, workaday shoes. “You're a kind man, Mr. Ravenel.”

His brown eyes crinkled at the corners. “My mama tried to raise me right. Whether she succeeded . . . not everyone would agree.” There was
something grim about the way he said it. But before Lucy could inquire further, he said, “Shall we see if we can find something to eat? All this soul baring is making me hungry.”

Astonishingly, so was she. They said confession was good for the soul, but she'd never realized it also stimulated the stomach. “I wouldn't mind an ice-cream sandwich,” Lucy admitted, adding shyly, “Thank you for taking me here. I never knew this was here.”

John Ravenel stepped out into the sunshine, holding the door open for her. “It hasn't been here long. Mrs. Whitney only opened the studio club two years ago.” Letting the door swing shut, he offered Lucy his arm. “One of these days, I'd love to do something similar in Charleston.”

Charleston. The name hit Lucy like a slap. It felt like Mr. Ravenel had always been here, would always be here.

Trying to sound casual, she said, “Are you going back to Charleston soon?”

There was a pause before he answered. “I've booked my berth on the train for Tuesday.”

“Tuesday!” Lucy tripped over a bit of loose paving. “That soon?”

Mr. Ravenel steadied her effortlessly, his hand on her elbow. “I've been here longer than I intended. There are . . . responsibilities at home that I've left too long.” He snaked a sideways glance at her. “What do you say, Miss Young? Do you fancy a trip to Charleston?”

“Oh, certainly,” mocked Lucy, even as her heart screamed with loss. Which was mad, wasn't it? She hardly knew him. “Are you looking for a secretary? A manager for your gallery perhaps? I might be needing a new job.”

And that, she realized grimly, was nothing more than the truth. The bright day seemed to darken; the sunlight was hard and flat, the
heat itchy and oppressive. Her job, the job for which she had schemed—she couldn't face the thought of facing her employer.

She had no home in New York, only an overpriced attic room in a building that meant nothing to her. Her mother's voice didn't whisper from the walls. Her lost father wasn't leaping out of the woodwork to enfold her in his arms and sweep her into society with a capital
S
.

And John Ravenel was leaving New York.

There would be no more walks in Central Park, no rides on the carousel. He would go to Charleston, and she . . . she would look for another job, another room. And on and on and on.

They had wandered their way to Washington Square. Lucy could see courting couples, arm in arm, taking advantage of the nice day.

John Ravenel came to an abrupt stop just inside the entrance to the park, swinging her around to face him.

“Lucy—” It was the first time he'd called her by her name. “I know it's mad, but—what if you did come to Charleston?”

Lucy stared at him. The sun was behind him, casting his face into shadow, dazzling her eyes. “I—I've never been south of Brooklyn.”

“We're not so savage, really. There's indoor plumbing and all.” Together, they moved aside to let others pass. “I never meant to be in New York for more than a week. And then I saw you and— It's a damnable complication. It's not anything I intended. But it's there. Isn't it?”

He didn't have to explain what it was. It was there between them, that invisible bond, that strange sense of ease, as though she had known him always. As if her life would be immeasurably the worse for not having him in it.

“Oh, yes,” whispered Lucy. “Yes.”

It was inexplicable, and illogical, but it was there.

His hands grasped hers, pressing tightly through her gloves, holding on to her like a lifeline. “It takes a nerve, I know, to ask you to leave
everything you know. But I can't face the thought of never seeing you again.”

It was the sun in her eyes, the sun dazzling her, making her lightheaded. Only it wasn't. It was Mr. Ravenel, his nearness, these mad, wonderful words. “Mr. Ravenel—”

“John.”

“John.” Such a prosaic name, but it sounded like music on her lips. They had only just met. She scarcely knew him. But that wasn't true, was it? She did know him, somehow, deep down in her bones. “John, I—”

“Wait.” His hands were on her shoulders, holding her and holding her away all at the same time. “Before you say anything, there are two things you should know, two things I have to tell you.”

“Do you have eight wives in the attic like Bluebeard?” Lucy couldn't imagine anything that would blunt the incredible pull she felt toward him.

Was this what the novelists wrote about? This crazy euphoria? Was this what made kings abandon their thrones and tycoons throw everything away for a chorus girl?

Lucy wanted to take her hat and fling it into the summer breeze, to lift her skirt and twirl in circles, to fling her arms around John Ravenel's neck and kiss him, kiss him right there in the sunlight, in the middle of Washington Square.

John touched a finger to her lips, his touch feather soft. “I haven't been entirely honest with you.” He took a step back, the brim of his hat casting his face into the shade. “This business about my father's paintings—it's all true. But I didn't tell you the whole of it. The person who's been selling those paintings—it's Mr. Schuyler's stepmother.”

Whatever Lucy had been expecting, it wasn't that. It took her a
moment to make sense out of his words. “Prunella Pratt had your father's paintings?”

John was watching her, watching her closely. “That's why I needed to speak to Mr. Schuyler. Not for his legal expertise. And that's why—” He broke off, taking a deep breath. With difficulty, he said, “That miniature I told you about, it's of a woman wearing a ruby necklace. The same necklace you were wearing that night at Delmonico's. When I saw it on you—well, it seemed that you must be involved in it somehow. And I had to find out—”

“Involved?” whispered Lucy.

John Ravenel had the grace to look abashed. “I'd thought Schuyler might have given it to you—that they'd found the necklace when they found the paintings.”

“You mean that you thought I—that you thought he—” She could feel the sweat prickling beneath her arms, spots dancing in front of her eyes. She forced herself to say the words. “You thought I was his mistress.”

Their Saturday. Their beautiful Saturday in the sunshine. The carousel. The ice cream. All of those questions about her work, her life. She'd thought it was because he was genuinely interested.

“Well, no,” John said, and Lucy could tell that he was lying. “Not his mistress, not exactly. But as his secretary . . .”

A sick feeling threatened to overwhelm her. Lucy felt as she had as a child when she'd broken into the bakery at night and gorged on the candied cherries. She'd had the same feeling then, the wild energy, followed by that horrible plunge into sickness. Except then it had been a sickness of the stomach, not the soul.

This was worse. Infinitely worse.

“That's why.” Lucy stared up at John Ravenel, feeling as though she'd never seen him before. “That's why you were wasting your time with me. You wanted to see what I knew. You were using me.”

A
UGUST 1944

Kate

I ducked into the elevator just as Dr. Greeley's office door opened. We'd had another disastrous dinner date the previous evening where he'd spent much of the time talking about what a great catch he was while I'd been busy pushing his hand off my knee and keeping my face out of reach of his roving kisses. He'd totally missed my point, as he'd conceded that he respected me for my reticence. Apparently, he believed this was caused by a good upbringing instead of any repulsion or complete disinterest on my part.

The elevator chugged its laborious way down to the first floor, opening just in time for me to see Captain Ravenel and his fiancée walk in from the street. I hadn't seen him alone since the night a week ago when I'd promised that I'd allow him to finish his sketch of me. It wasn't that I was planning on reneging on my promise; it was just that every time I thought about him going back to Charleston my lungs seemed to collapse and I found myself gasping for air. I knew that was
the reason I couldn't sign his release papers, knowing there was unfinished business between us.

But if I saw him while other people were in the room, I could almost pretend that he was just another patient, just another soldier wounded in the war whom I had helped piece back together. Almost.

Happily, the new patients hadn't yet materialized so I hadn't had any reason to go up to the attic room. I'd prescribed exercise for Captain Ravenel to restore his strength, and Nurse Hathaway brought his chart to me so I could follow his progress. Except for a daily visit with the other doctors on our morning rounds, I hadn't seen or spoken to him. But that didn't mean I didn't miss him like the winter earth missed the sun.

“Captain Ravenel. Miss Middleton,” I said formally, as if we were only passing acquaintances. I tried not to notice how handsome he looked in his olive drab Army dress uniform, his silver captain's bars on his shoulders, his dark brown hair nearly hidden by his cap. Ribbons decorated the left breast of his jacket; a Bronze Star, a Silver Star, a European Theater ribbon. Caroline looked like an unnecessary and utterly frivolous decoration in a pale pink suit and matching hat. He gripped a cane in his right hand.

After tucking his cane under his arm, Cooper took off his hat. “Dr. Schuyler.” His eyes probed mine in open question and I looked away.

“We made it all the way to the park and back,” Caroline said, unable to hide the triumph in her voice. “He still needs the cane but Dr. Greeley said that's normal and that in a couple of months with regular exercise, he won't need it at all.” She squeezed Cooper's arm, her face like a child's on Christmas morning. “I think he's ready to go home now.”

My chest hurt, the way it did whenever I felt like crying. I took a deep breath. “That's very good news. I'll consult with Dr. Greeley and
determine how much longer. It will be soon, I'm sure, and his physical strength is a good sign. But the wound has to have healed completely.”

Caroline's lips compressed, but I imagined I saw relief flit across Cooper's face. She was about to say something when the front door flew open and Margie barged into the foyer, her face red and glowing with perspiration as if she'd run all the way from the library.

“Margie? What are you doing here? I thought we were meeting tomorrow for lunch.”

She put her hand over her heart, trying to catch her breath, and I noticed she carried a leather-bound journal.

“Come on, Cooper. Let's take the stairs. It will be good for you.” Caroline began leading him toward the circular steps. I wanted to go after him, to tell him to be careful, to take the elevator once they reached the next floor so he wouldn't tire out. But I didn't. Caroline was there to take care of him, to see that he didn't overexert himself. He was hers, after all.

Margie's eyes widened as she looked at Cooper, immediately registering who he was. I shot her a warning look to be quiet. She continued to pant, so I started to lead her over to the foyer bench that served as a waiting area but stopped when I met the disapproving glance of the nurse on desk duty.

“Come with me,” I said, leading her into the elevator.

We exited on the second floor, where two orderlies were arguing with one of the doctors about the heavy bookcase against the wall that made it difficult to move stretchers past it. I'd asked Dr. Greeley about having it moved several times, but it was an old antique and he was afraid it might get damaged if it were moved. I assumed his real reason for saying no was because I'd been the one to bring it up instead of him.

I led Margie to a deserted office with beautiful stained glass doors.
Hopefully if Dr. Greeley saw me, he'd think I was having a discussion with the next of kin of a patient.

“So that's your captain.” She smacked her lips together as if she'd just eaten something delicious.

“He's not mine. And that was his fiancée.”

Margie snorted. “That ice queen?” Smiling smugly, she said, “In the few short minutes I saw them, I could tell that he looks at you a whole lot differently than he looks at her.”

Ignoring her, I said, “Why are you here—is something wrong? Is it your mother?”

She shook her head and slapped the journal onto my lap. “I just couldn't wait to show you this. I've been working on it since I saw you, but this morning I found something that will blow the dots off your dominoes.”

I started to open the journal, but she slapped her hand down on top of it. “Not so fast. These are my notes that I jotted down while doing my research, and you can take it with you to read later. But I just couldn't
wait
and had to tell you it all myself.”

We both looked up as two nurses scurried by outside the door.

“Well?” I said, not having seen Margie this excited since she'd found a pair of shoes on sale at Bergdorf's that she could actually afford.

“I found your Harry Pratt in the library's archives,” she blurted out. “Let's just say that one last name was like poking a hole in a dam.”

“What do you mean?” Little tingles of anticipation marched up my spine, yet I wasn't sure why. Maybe because this was a little mystery that Cooper and I had discovered, something that only he and I shared.

“Well, it wasn't because he was a renowned artist, if that's what you're wondering. Or if he was, I can't find anything connecting his name with the art world. His family was exceedingly wealthy—well, at least for a time—so it was most likely just a hobby for him.”

“Oh,” I said, leaning back in my chair, feeling oddly deflated. Harry
had been so talented that I found it sad that he'd never realized his potential.

She patted my hand. “Don't worry—it gets better.” She looked up at the ceiling above us. “This hospital used to be called the Pratt mansion, built in 1891 and home to Mr. and Mrs. Henry August Pratt and their three children—Harry, Gus, and . . .” She held her breath, her cheeks puffed out with air.

“And?” I prompted.

“Prunella.” She wagged her eyebrows. “She was in all of the society pages during her debutante year. Quite the beauty of her day, although I'm sure her fortune would have been enough to attract potential swains.”

“The owner of the dress,” I said.

She nodded. “We'll get to her and the house in a minute—but first there's poor Harry. He apparently fell off the face of the earth in 1893. His father hired the Pinkerton Detective Agency to find him, but no trace of him was ever found, living or dead. It was quite the tragedy. It was right after his brother, Gus, was killed in some kind of brawl—it was definitely whitewashed in the newspapers, no doubt due to his family's prominence, but I could read between the lines enough to figure out it was something wonderfully unsavory.”

“That's so sad,” I said, preparing to stand so I could get back to work. It was all interesting, but somehow removed from what I'd thought it would be. Poor Harry. I couldn't help but wonder what had happened to him, and if he ever thought about the room at the top of the stairs of the Pratt mansion where he'd once created such beauty with only charcoal and paper.

Margie yanked my arm and pulled me back down in my chair. “Not yet, Kate. I haven't even scratched the surface. I'll be quick—but you need to be sitting down.”

My right leg began bobbing up and down as it did when I was
impatient, and I pressed my hand on my knee to get it to stop. “All right. Shoot.”

She took a deep breath. “As I said, when I looked up the last name Pratt there were tons of articles about the family. But there was one subject that dominated most of the articles, and that was the mansion itself—this hospital that we're sitting in now. About its architect.” She stared at me as if she were waiting for me to finish her thoughts.

I shook my head. “And . . . ?”

Margie looked vaguely disappointed. “He apparently felt cheated by Mr. Pratt and was never paid for his services. The details in the paper are murky, but the scandal resulted in the architect's suicide.”

“That's awful,” I said, “but . . .”

She cut me off. “The architect was Peter Van Alan.” Her eyes widened as if to emphasize her point.

“Peter Van Alan? That's my great-grandfather's name.” Our eyes met in mutual understanding. We both knew the name only from my mother's repetition of it in her quest to make sure that I comprehended the importance and pride of family lineage despite a lack of money or assets. I'd always thought that it was her way of letting me know that I came from something grander than an immigrant German baker and a grandmother who'd reminded me as a child of brightly colored wallpaper faded by the sun. I remembered standing on Sixty-ninth Street with my mother and staring up at the mansion, and suddenly it all began to make sense.

An icy breath trickled down my spine, making me shiver. “She never told me about how her grandfather died, or that he'd designed
this building. Maybe she was ashamed about his suicide and wanted to spare me.”

Margie leaned closer, her eyes so wide I could see the whites around her irises. “That's not all.”

She reached over and opened the journal, flipped through several pages before replacing it on my lap. “I copied this one verbatim from the society pages of the
New York Times
from their January third, 1893, edition.”

I peered down at Margie's neatly formed Catholic school penmanship and began to read.

Mr. and Mrs. Henry August Pratt of New York City announce the engagement of their daughter, Prunella Jane, to Mr. Harrison Charles Schuyler, widower of the late Cassandra Willoughby Schuyler and father of Philip C. J. Schuyler. An elegant engagement ball was held at the Pratt residence on Sixty-ninth Street on New Year's Eve. The date for the nuptials has been set for October 10th at Saint James's Church.

I looked up, meeting her eyes. “But Philip Schuyler . . .”

“Is your father,” Margie completed for me. “Which makes Prunella Pratt your father's stepmother, which I suppose means that Harry Pratt was your stepgrandfather? Or something like that.”

“Actually, that would make him my stepgranduncle.” I shook my head. “Why didn't my mother ever tell me any of this?”

Margie shrugged. “Well, there's the architect's suicide, and then Harry Pratt's disappearance and his brother's tragic death—it's all rather sad if you think about it. Maybe she was trying to protect you.”

“Maybe,” I said. But I knew that wasn't it. The ruby necklace alone told me that my mother had kept secrets from me. Her reasons were
now silenced by the grave but whispered in my memories of a mother who'd always seemed to be waiting for something; something
more
. I pressed my fingers against the ruby beneath the collar of my dress as if it held all the answers. But it lay heavy and still against my throat, a mute talisman of my mother's past.

Margie reached over again and flipped a page in the journal. “Prunella Pratt Schuyler was listed in the last census in 1940, widowed and living alone. I couldn't find a death certificate so I'm assuming that means she's still alive. Here's her address.”

I stared down at the page, the words barely registering. I met Margie's eyes. “You're amazing, you know. I don't know how to thank you.”

She brushed her hand through the air as if to erase the words. “It was fun. And you can take me to dinner. Or find out if your captain has a brother and introduce me.”

I hugged her. “You're better than a sister—have I ever told you that?”

She shoved me away but her face had pinkened. “Yeah, yeah. Just don't forget that introduction to the captain's brother.”

“You got it,” I said, pulling her to her feet and escorting her out of the hospital. I needed to return to work, but first I had to write a note requesting a visit with Mrs. Prunella Pratt Schuyler. I wasn't sure if she'd remember who I was, or even want to see me, but I would try. She was quite possibly the only remaining person in the world who could shed light on the mother I thought I'd known, and into the dark corners of our past.