Grady—she had forgotten about Grady. Suddenly all Letty wanted was to be in Grady‧s car, going to some special little place he knew, where perhaps they served cocoa. She stood up and began walking fast down the street. He‧d told her where he lived as they were driving past it, and though she hadn‧t been paying much attention, she distinctly remembered him referring to it as his “garret on Bedford.”
By the time she rounded the corner to Bedford, she was almost skipping, Good Egg dashing along at her side. Why hadn‧t she better appreciated that gentlemanly manner with which he treated her before, when it was right in front of her? Surely he would still be willing to help her in any way he could.
As she walked down the street, she craned her neck to look up toward the little hooded windows on the top floors, through the leafy trees, and so she heard Grady‧s voice before she saw him.
“There you are m‧lady!” he called. “How I‧ve missed you.”
Letty paused in her tracks, glancing around for him, a smile already blossoming on her lips. At first she couldn‧t locate him, but then she caught a glimpse, halfway down the block, as he hurried down a stoop and bowed to open the door of a handsome cream-colored car. That was the gesture she most associated him with—that courtly swoop. Suspenders held up his striped slacks, and his collared shirt was rolled to the elbows. She took a few more eager steps in his direction, raising her arm and opening her mouth to call out his name.
But before the sound rose up through her throat, she saw that it was not her he had been addressing. The car door was not being held open in anticipation of her approach. It was being held open, rather, for a woman in a swaying, peacock-colored silk dress coming to stand on the curb in her pretty leather heels. Her lips were painted a very bright pink, and her shoulders were covered with a royal blue shawl as though she were going to the opera. Her red hair had been heated into shiny waves, the way Paulette did hers, except there was something even more fine about the way Grady‧s lady friend‧s hair caught the light.
Letty‧s shoulders went slack, and her heart dropped. She watched Grady gently rest a hand on the woman‧s forearm and lean in to plant a kiss on the skin of her cheek, just to the right of a cluster of pearls and diamonds that dangled from her earlobe. There was something so smooth and comfortable about him, and she marveled that he had seemed so nervous and boyish whenever they had spoken at the club. But it didn‧t matter. She had been foolish to think he would want to help her, when she had held herself so preposterously high. She was only glad that he hadn‧t seen her standing there, pathetic under the weight of that old duffel bag.
But before she managed to slip away, Good Egg recognized him, and let out a friendly bark.
Letty would never know if Grady saw her before she turned round. The surprise and mortification that followed that sound were all she could think about for several blocks, as she fled that pretty redbrick street where her last little embers of hope had burned down to ash and blown away.
26
THE LIGHT ON THE SIXTEENTH FLOOR OF THE ST. REGIS was very good, and Astrid took advantage of it to contemplate the lovely robin‧s-egg blue wallpaper in their suite. Her thoughts were all over the place, and she began to wonder at the relative simplicity of her name, with its four up-down syllables, especially when compared to her mother‧s. But perhaps by the time she was her mother‧s age, she might have a string of surnames, too—that was an unromantic notion, but one she regarded as more or less inevitable, especially that morning, when her head hurt and the whole world seemed rather blah.
Her mother sat only a few feet away from her, on the twin bed next to Astrid‧s, her dark hair wrapped up in a towel and her shoulders resting against the gold brocade upholstered headboard. In between them stood the room-service cart, laden with breakfast things. Astrid was trying to eat a soft-boiled egg out of an eggcup, but it no longer held any interest for her.
“What a drab breakfast,” she said, looking down accusatorily at the half-consumed yolk.
“Eat it,” her mother replied, without glancing up from the society column, which she was currently reading. It was Virginia Donal de Gruyter Marsh‧s standing order, at all the hotels in which she was likely to take occupancy, that the papers arrive for her open to the society pages, folded so that she would not have to read any actual news before her delicate retinas were good and ready. “Who knows when we will be able to buy another,” she added darkly.
“I think we should go to the Egyptian section of the Metropolitan,” Astrid said, throwing off the covers and standing up barefoot on the soft carpet. She was wearing what looked like red pajamas with the St. Regis name sewn into the breast pocket, but upon closer inspection it proved to be a bellhop‧s uniform. Although she did try for at least five seconds or so, she could not remember how she had come to wear such a thing. “And then afterward go for watercress sandwiches at the Plaza.”
Her mother gave her an unamused look, and Astrid pulled her sleeping mask, which had been high on her forehead, keeping her hair away from her face, down over her eyes, blindfolding herself so that she wouldn‧t have to see the older woman. Fixing her hands at her waist, Astrid thrust one foot forward and bowed, just like the Little Tramp might have done. When her mother made no response—no spoken one, anyway—Astrid sighed and turned toward the window, ripping her sleeping mask off and dropping it on the floor.
“Pick that up,” her mother said.
“No,” Astrid replied. They both knew someone else would.
Astrid pursed her lips, and peered over the windowsill at Fifty-fifth Street below. For a moment, she entertained herself by imagining that if she dropped down, the red awning over the front entryway would save her from her fatal fall, and she would be bounced back upward toward her suite, where her mother meanwhile would have been scared into behaving like the lady she had been brought up to be.
“Don‧t be a headache, darling,” her mother said before taking a noisy sip of coffee. “I already have a mean, throbbing one, and it‧s all I can handle, really.”
“Who was that British man?” Astrid diverted the conversation, a touch cruelly, since she knew perfectly well it had smarted when his attention switched from mother to daughter.
“Spencer Gridley,” her mother replied blithely. “Though apparently he is no one at all, since the society column has not marked his arrival on these shores, much less in this hotel.”
“Have they mentioned our arrival?” Astrid asked in her softest, most innocent voice. “In this hotel, I mean.”
This time her mother did not respond, except by ruffling the papers, and Astrid, who wasn‧t sure why she was playing such an absurd game, decided she would go to the Metropolitan by herself. There could be no objection to that, since after all, it was free. She crossed the room and was on the threshold to the adjoining sitting room, when her mother exclaimed, in quite a changed tone, “Oh, my.”
“Whatever could it be?” Astrid replied ironically as she turned to face her mother. “Spencer Gridley‧s a lord, as it turns out, and now he‧s seen us on our wuhst behavior.”
But her mother didn‧t answer her. She only draped the broadsheet across the coverlet so that Astrid could read the headline on the front page: GREY THE BOOTLEGGER ASSASSINATED IN L.I. HOME, it said, and then just below, in slightly smaller type, WHITE COVE NEIGHBOR MRS. DULUTH HALE SAYS SHE WILL PROCEED WITH TONIGHT‧S GARDEN SOIREE.
Astrid craned her head back and turned her face at an indifferent angle.
“Well?” her mother went on breathlessly. “Aren‧t you going to say something? How horrid!”
“He drank too much,” Astrid said flippantly.
“I might say the same of you …,” her mother replied, bringing the paper closer to her face, her eyes darting over the details. “Well—they say he‧ll be buried tomorrow. You must go immediately, darling.”
“I certainly will not.” Astrid lowered her chin and tried not to be interested in the article her mother was now devouring.
&nb
sp; “You‧re right,” her mother said, extending an index finger but not glancing up from the paper. “You must have a new black dress. We‧ll go to Bendel‧s and charge it to old Harrison. He won‧t have thought to cancel my account yet. Now that I think of it,” she went on, brightening considerably, “we ought to get you a complete little wardrobe, so you won‧t have to go back to Marsh Hall at all. Nothing extravagant—two day dresses, two for night, a smart little jacket, a cardigan, two sets of heels, two flats, hose, under things, a hat—three at most. Then you can take the train back to White Cove to attend to Charlie, and—”
“No!”
“Astrid, don‧t be ridiculous!” She slapped her hands against the coverlet in emphasis. “You may think this sort of opportunity will come every month of your young life, but as your mother I am here to tell you, that will sadly not be the case. He‧s about to inherit quite a fortune—and a man never forgets the girl who stands beside him in troubled times.”
“Well, I‧m afraid I don‧t like him anymore” was Astrid‧s haughty reply.
Her mother cleared her throat and took a long time folding up the newspaper. Once she had put it aside, she gave her daughter what was probably intended as a compassionate look. “Who was she?”
“What?”
“Who was the girl?” The third Mrs. Marsh sighed patiently and pushed back the covers, turning so that she was sitting on the edge of the bed with her feet on the floor. “And did you catch him with her, or is it only an intuition?”
Astrid hung her head. A sheaf of blond hair covered her face. “Gracie Northrup.”
Her mother groaned. “Gracie Northrup? Her grandfather was a peanut farmer.”
“I know,” Astrid wailed into her hands. “I mean, I didn‧t know, but what does that matter? It‧s only—there he was, on top of her!”
“Oh, dear. Oh, there, there,” her mother cooed, taking Astrid by the hand and pulling her daughter so that they were sitting side by side on the bed. “He‧s a lousy cad, dear, but they‧re all like that. Don‧t worry—you‧ll get used to it, and you‧ll get yours. There. Do cry a little, it will make you feel better, but don‧t rub your eyes too much; they‧ll get red and leave wrinkles.” Astrid‧s mother sighed and brushed her daughter‧s hair with her fingers. “Cry a little, and then we‧ll go to Bendel‧s, all right? We‧ll get you the things you need for your wardrobe while we remain in the city, and if you want—only if you want—we‧ll get you a very smart black dress to wear tomorrow, if you decide to go …”
“I don‧t want to,” Astrid blubbered into her mother‧s satiny shoulder.
“And no one is saying you have to! But come, darling, really, you will feel so much better once you are wearing something feminine and new …”
There were a few sobs left in her, and she let them out, punctuating the final one with a hiccup. “All right,” Astrid said eventually, wiping the moisture from her wishbone cheeks. “All right, let‧s go to Bendel‧s.”
“Good girl,” her mother replied, clapping her hands.
They dressed and crossed Fifth Avenue, where they were taken to a private room, and over several hours they selected precisely the items that Virginia Donal de Gruyter Marsh had suggested earlier: two dresses for daytime, two for night, a cropped jacket, a long cardigan, two pairs of heels, two pairs of flats, various undergarments, a cloche, a sunhat, and a beret. Plus a black crepe dress with pleated skirt and wide boatneck, and a broad-brimmed black hat with a velvet band and several gleaming black feathers. Astrid‧s mother had been right; the Marsh account had not been suspended. Afterward, they had lunch at the Colony and charged a bottle of white wine and two orders of lamb chops to Harrison, as well.
When they stepped back onto the street, Astrid felt a little dizzy but also distinctly refreshed. The afternoon sky had begun to pale, and she caught sight of an afternoon edition hanging from a newsstand. There was a large picture of Darius that was at least a few years old—he was standing on the terrace at Dogwood in a summer-weight white suit, with his hands in his trouser pockets, his eyes squinting in the sun, and a half smile on his face. Below that, there was a smaller picture of Charlie in his green roadster, and beside that was one of Cordelia, unsmiling, stepping out of a limousine in front of the Plaza and looking straight at the photographer. Some irreverence went out of the afternoon for Astrid when she saw that picture of the girl she had begun to think of as her best friend.
“Oh, let‧s take a cab, don‧t you think?” her mother said, already moving to hail one.
“Yes,” Astrid agreed, though they were only a few blocks from the hotel and she suspected the walking might do her good.
She could scarcely remember her own father—he had still been at West Point when he and her mother had married, and then he had perished somewhere in France during the Great War, although she‧d never been told much about it. “He died in a ditch,” her mother had said unceremoniously some years after the fact, when a young Astrid had woken up during a cocktail party, having had a dream about him. From photographs, she knew that he was handsome, and blond like her, but that was all. She suspected it was different for Cordelia—Cordelia had dreamed of meeting her father her whole life, but as soon as she had, he‧d gone away.
The poor girl must feel like she had no family, which was just how it had always been for Astrid, and suddenly she disliked herself for being such a brat.
“Astrid!” her mother shouted, a little too loudly, as she stepped into a cab.
“I‧m going to the funeral, after all,” Astrid told her as she climbed in after her mother.
“Oh, that‧s wonderful, darling.” Her mother crinkled her eyes in Astrid‧s direction, the same way she used to when Astrid was young and had performed well doing jumps with her pony at the White Cove Country Club while Narcissa and Cora Phipps were watching. “Remind me to call the florist‧s when we get back to the hotel and have a big arrangement sent over!”
27
THE NEWS BEING SHOUTED BY THE NEWSSTAND BARKERS at Pennsylvania Station was all Darius Grey, but after spending the night wandering the streets, Letty was feeling so entirely delirious that the meaning that name might once have held floated over her head and away.
Since she‧d seen Grady on the street, she had walked up and down Manhattan, and had arrived here at dawn, as though it were a sign. She was no longer able to think clearly, and though she knew she ought to save what money she had until she had a few things figured out, all she wanted was to sit in a well-lighted place and eat something. Glancing behind her, she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirrored column. The old black sweater she used to wear on winter mornings in Union made her appear even smaller than she was, and the skirt of her old dress peeping out from under it gave her a schoolgirlish aura, albeit one with a puffed and purple eye and a frightened little circle for a mouth.
The cup of English Breakfast she‧d ordered was cold now, and there were already innumerable reasons for her to feel sorry for herself without adding the taste of cold tea. Good Egg was demoralized, too. Even her tail was still as she sat under the table, her head on Letty‧s lap.
“Last call for Montreal!” said the announcer over the loudspeaker, and for a moment she wondered if perhaps that might be a nice place for them to go.
Men and women rushed by, on their way home to the suburbs maybe, or returning from holidays to glamorous locales. Their feet beat out proud rat-tat-tats as they passed, and for all Letty could tell, every one of them had someplace very important to be. After a while it made her too sad to look at those people, so she put her head down on the table. The air in the station was hot and stifling, but the marble tabletop was cool against her cheek.
“Train to Chicago arriving at platform seven!” said the voice on the loudspeaker. Letty‧s eyes had drifted closed. “Stopping at points west: Pennsylvania, Ohio, Illinois …”
Ohio. She wondered if her siblings missed her, and if she was a good enough actress to make her time in New York sound like a brilliant adve
nture when she saw them next.
“Now boarding on track seven, all passengers for Pennsylvania, Ohio, Illinois …”
The man at the table next to her stood up, rattling his table against the stone floor before hurrying out of the café. For a few moments, she let her head rest like that, with a sheet of dark hair falling across her face onto the table, and smiled. It wasn‧t so bad, after all. She had had an adventure. However tired and worn down she was at that particular moment, no one could ever tell her she hadn‧t seen the city.
Outside the café, a sharply dressed blonde in a new black hat swished by, her eyes searching the departure board for the words WHITE COVE. When she saw the track number tick into place, she hurried to board.
“I heard it was a tale of love gone wrong,” Astrid heard a middle-aged woman say as she took her seat. The commuter train rumbled alive and headed east out of the city.
“No!” the woman‧s friend replied. “Really? He did have that one special lady friend—that what‧s-her-name? That—ooo—oooo—”
“Oh, that chorus girl Mona Alexander?” replied the first. “No, no, no—this story goes way back, this story has to do with—”
“That‧s absurd,” interjected the man on the other side of their seats, facing the opposite direction. He was young and wore a dove gray fedora and no wedding ring. “It was business, pure and simple. Duluth Hale arranged it—believe me. Men like Darius Grey don‧t care enough about love to die for it; that‧s just some sentimental wash you ladies pick up in your magazines.”
“Heavens, what manners!” the first lady said, and then went on noisily expanding on her personal theory of Darius Grey‧s demise.
“This business about Grey‧s daughter showing up, not even two weeks before his assassination—well, it doesn‧t seem coincidental to me,” the man grumbled to no one in particular.
Astrid smiled faintly. She could remember the early days when there were agents of the Bureau of Prohibition whose theatrical techniques and bravery made them heroes of the public. But by now, most hearts belonged to their richer and better-dressed antagonists. Average citizens, she supposed, knew a great deal about the various loyalties and grudges of their local gangsters; they followed their alliances and power grabs and killings the way some followed the stars of vaudeville or baseball. All over the city there was talk of what had felled the infamous Grey—who was to blame, who would rise to take his place, whether his gang and various political contacts and purveyors of booze would remain in the hands of his people or be dispersed among rivals. And those gossips probably knew more about it than Astrid, even though she had spent so much time at Dogwood. But none of them knew Cordelia the way she did.