The Forgotten Room (34 page)

Wordlessly, Lucy shook her head, morality warring with desire. She wanted to believe him, wanted him, more than she had wanted anything. “And what if your Annabelle doesn't want a divorce?”

There was a horrible silence.
But Annabelle does; she told me
; that was all he needed to say.

Her grandmother would disown her; her family would never see her; nice people wouldn't know them, but Lucy didn't care. She would have John and that was all that mattered. And she would do her very best to be the best stepmother to Cooper that anyone could possibly be. She could picture him, a little boy with John's eyes, as smart as a whip.

But John didn't say that. And what she saw in his face frightened her.

“She doesn't, does she?” Lucy whispered. “Your Annabelle—she doesn't want a divorce.”

“We'll work something out,” said John curtly.

“Work out what?” With jerky fingers, Lucy scooped up her blouse from the floor. “A miserable court battle? Your little boy torn to bits? I won't, John. I won't be party to that. You made your choice.” Lucy choked on something between a laugh and a sob. “Till death do you part.”

“But that was before I knew you.” John reached for her, desperation in every line of his body.

Lucy dodged his hands, her eyes so blurred with tears she could hardly see. “You don't get a do-over.” She yanked her blouse up over her shoulders, buttoning it with shaking fingers. “Go back to Charleston, John. Go back to your wife.”

“Lucy.” She heard his voice from behind her, through a fog. “Lucy, I can't live without you.”

Lucy pressed a hand to her lips. Oh, God, what a time to discover each other.

“You're just going to have to, won't you?” she said, and yanked at the door, struggling with the warped boards, the stiff knob.

Ever the gentleman, John reached around her, opening the door for her. It was a good thing he was behind her. The gesture sent a fresh burst of pain through Lucy. Without turning her head, she said, unevenly, “Why didn't you tell me?”

She could see John's arm tremble slightly beneath the weight of the heavy door. Softly, he said, “Because I was afraid I might lose you.”

She couldn't look at him. If she did, she would lose all control.

In a strangled voice, Lucy said, “I'm sure Matron will see you out.” And then, before she could weaken, “Because I don't want to see you. Ever again.”

She bolted down the stairs, her footsteps echoing on the same treads her mother had taken those many years ago, leaving John behind her, a dark shadow in the doorway of the forgotten room.

She made it down to her own room, her back against the flimsy panes of the door before she broke down entirely, sobbing with great, gulping, silent sobs, her entire body wracked with pain. John must have left, she supposed; she didn't know, she didn't want to know. It was easier to hate him, to blame him, when she was away from him. One look, one soft word, and she would be in his arms—and then what?

Maybe what John said was true—maybe there was no love lost between him and his Annabelle— but there was his son, Cooper. How could she do that to the boy? John might think it would all work out in the end, but Lucy knew better. And John—in the fatigue of despair, she knew the truth of it—John would come to hate her in the end, his love weakened by the constant stresses of their situation, being pulled between his lover and his son.

No. Unsteadily, Lucy pushed herself to her feet. Her skirt was crumpled; her hair disarranged. Mechanically, she dragged herself to the rickety chest that passed as a dressing table.

Day had turned to dusk without her being aware; she had to squint to see herself as she pulled a comb through her hair, shoving the ruby pendant away, deep down in the bottom of a drawer. A fresh blouse, a clean skirt. Lucy moved as stiffly as a carousel horse, bobbing up and down on its appointed track.

She knew where she needed to go, what she needed to do.

Her legs felt detached, rubbery, as they covered the few blocks from Stornaway House to the apartment building on Park Avenue. She waited as the doorman buzzed upstairs; time didn't seem to matter. She was wrapped in the cool calm of despair, impervious to the speculative glance of the elevator man as the wood-paneled box lifted her up to a private landing, a marble floor, a large Chinese vase serving as an umbrella stand.

Lucy barely noticed any of this. Her eyes were on the man standing in the doorway. He had shaved since the morning, although his eyes still bore the signs of sleeplessness. After John, he seemed somehow insubstantial, his fair hair too light, his eyes too pale, his body too thin.

But the smile that lit his eyes on seeing her was completely genuine. “Lucy! Dare I hope—that is, would you like to come in?”

Lucy felt a little of the hard knot in her chest begin to dissolve. Just a little.

“Philip,” she said, and was surprised at how steady her voice sounded. “Philip, I will marry you.”

“Well, then,” said Philip Schuyler, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he beamed at her. “You'd better come in, then, hadn't you?”

“Aren't you fancy?” Dottie leaned against the open doorway of the washroom, a pair of damp stockings draped over her arm.

“Thank you.” Calmly, Lucy unpinned the veil that sat so smoothly over her dark hair. Valenciennes lace, masses of it. With only one day left before the wedding, it seemed sensible to practice pinning the veil, the mirror in the washroom much larger than the sliver of mirror in Lucy's attic room. “It belonged to my fiancé's stepmother.”

Prunella Pratt Schuyler, with much sniffing and disapproval, had eventually lent her countenance—and veil—to the mésalliance between
her stepson and his secretary. Not, Lucy was sure, out of any goodness of her heart, but because she had several large bills that needed settling. After a moment of hesitation, Philip had admitted that Prunella's goodwill had been bought with a large check.

“You don't mind wearing her veil, do you?” he'd asked. “She's a viper, but it's good lace.”

That, Lucy reminded herself firmly, was part of what she respected about Philip. For all his veneer of flippant charm, when it came down to it, he was as honest as they came. He didn't lie to her.

“I s'pose I'll read about the wedding in the society pages, then?” said Dottie stridently.

Lucy folded the yards of lace neatly over her arm. “I suppose you will,” she said equably, and stood, politely expectant, until the other woman reluctantly moved out of her way.

There were, Lucy thought wryly, benefits to being a Schuyler, or almost a Schuyler. Dottie might sneer, but she already treated Lucy differently; they all did.

Lucy's attic room felt empty, her belongings already in boxes, only her wedding dress left to hang in state behind the curtain on the wall, her nightdress lying across the foot of the bed. One more night in Stornaway House, and then she would be gone forever. There would be no more Lucy Young, only Mrs. Philip Schuyler.

Lucy shut the door of her room firmly behind her, shutting out the inquisitive stares of the other residents. She was their Cinderella story, and they were half-envious, half-excited. If Lucy could catch a Schuyler, then surely there was hope for them?

Lucy's lips twisted in a bitter smile. Did Cinderella wake up the next morning to find that the slipper pinched? She was trying hard to fit into Philip's world, to be a credit to him, but it wasn't always easy. She knew people talked and whispered, that everyone knew that she had been his secretary, that she had
stolen him away from Didi, my dear,
yes, right under her nose, just like that!
They spied and whispered, and Lucy had to work twice as hard to maintain her serene smile, to pretend that she didn't care.

Panic gripped her. Could she really go through with this? If she loved Philip—

That was the rub, wasn't it? She did love him, just not in the right way. She loved Philip enough to know she didn't love him enough.

But she was too selfish and cowardly to let him go. Without him—

There was a knock on the door. Dottie again, her small eyes avidly scanning the room, feasting on the pile of boxes, hatboxes, dress boxes, the rich tissue paper and glossy boxes so incongruous in the attic room with its peeling paint and grimy windows. Lucy's new wardrobe, for her new life as Mrs. Philip Schuyler.

“This came for you.” Dottie thrust the envelope into Lucy's hands. Her eyes rested on a pile of boxes. “Are those from—”

“Thank you.” Lucy shut the door in her face, not caring how rude it must seem.

Lucy bolted the door behind her, the paper burning like a brand in her hands. The blurred postmark read
CHARLESTON, S.C.
The envelope tore as she opened it, her hands too quick, too eager. The letter was thick, pages of it, written in a large, loose hand. A sprawling, easygoing writing, just like his walk, his voice, his movements.

Dearest Lucy,
the letter began. Lucy could practically feel John there, in the room with her, standing behind her, his voice warm in her ear.

I know I have no right to write you, but when I saw the announcement of your engagement I knew that I couldn't remain silent any longer . . .

She ought to tear it up, but she hadn't the strength for it; she gulped down the words, greedy for them, dizzy with them.

. . . not too late. We can still be together. . . . Love like this doesn't come along more than once in a lifetime.

I love you, Lucy. Always.

Do you want to make the same mistake our parents made and live the rest of your life living a lie, knowing that love was there, in our grasp, and we threw it away?

Nights at the opera with Philip, smiling, pretending. Endless dinner parties. Always a little on her guard, even with her own fiancé. Trying, so hard, to pretend to be in love.

Nights with John, curled up together, easy together, never having to try, speaking with touch as well as words, that effortless sense of homecoming, of never having to pretend, of being just what she was, because what she was would always be enough for him.

Philip—Philip would recover, thought Lucy wildly, clinging to the sheets of John's letter, Prunella's veil crumpled, forgotten, on the floor. There would be other women. He was so urbane, so charming. He thought he wanted Lucy; he called her his talisman, his touchstone, but it was nonsense, really. He could find someone from his own world, someone who would adore him as he deserved to be adored.

Train tickets . . . How far to Charleston? When she got there, a hotel, she supposed. John hadn't said anything about where she would stay.

He hadn't said anything about anything.

Lucy fell back to earth with a thump. Slowly, she sat down on the bed and scanned the letter again, looking for the practicalities, the bread and butter of where and how they were to live. There was nothing
about a divorce. Nothing about Annabelle. Words of love, beautiful, yes, but utterly insubstantial, like dining on meringues and champagne and rising from the table with a headache and an aching stomach from eating sugar and air.

Come to me, be with me, live with me, love me. Yes, yes, all that, but how?

Lucy pressed her palms to her aching eyes, loving John and hating him all at the same time. Didn't he know that the knight was supposed to ride up and sweep the princess away, not leave her to make her own way out of the castle? The dragons were still there, unslain. Annabelle, Cooper, John's mother, his sister—who was Annabelle's friend.

And then there was Philip. He'd defied his own people for her—whether she had wanted him to or not, thought Lucy shrewishly, and then chided herself for it. She'd run to Philip, had used him as a shield. She was as guilty as he. And, having used him as a shield, she could hardly abandon him now, leave him at the altar to be whispered at by all those carping society matrons, those twittering friends of Didi who would be only too delighted to see him get his comeuppance for daring to choose a secretary over one of their own.

Slowly, Lucy shuffled the pages of the letter back together. Just the touch of the paper felt like a forbidden indulgence, this paper that had touched John's hands and now touched her own, a thin thread tying her to him.

For a moment, Lucy's hands tightened on the pages. She wanted him still, loved him still.

But the cost was too high.

Do you want to make the same mistake our parents made . . . ?

Lucy waited until the sounds of activity had faded from the hallway, everyone tucked away for the night. In the darkness, she felt her way down the hall to the abandoned staircase. It felt different at night,
narrower, steeper. The stairs seemed to stretch on forever, the door, without John's strong hand, stuck before releasing with an audible creak.

Moonlight poured through the skylight, turning the studio ebony and silver. There. There John had kissed her. There. There John had told her about his wife.