“There,” her guest declared when a full fire roared under the large, marble mantel. Diana was indeed warmed but the change in temperature did little to help her focus her thoughts away from their reinstated magnetic pole. “Obviously there are other things that are needed around the house, too—I will see to them. But just now, I must see your mother.”
Diana looked up from her folded hands mistily. “Oh?”
“It is of the utmost importance.”
“What is?”
“That I see your mother.”
“Oh!” Diana stood, a little startled by how far her thoughts had strayed in the presence of a near stranger and her aunt. “Well…” she went on, more to pave an exit for herself than for any other reason.
“I don’t think Mrs. Holland is well enough for that,” Edith said, rearranging her aubergine silk sleeves against the chair’s padded armrests.
“I’ll go see if she’s well enough to see you,” Diana put in before Snowden could say anything more. Here was an opportunity to leave the room, and she intended to take it.
“Thank you.” Snowden made a little bowing motion.
Diana found her mother in the same position as when she had last seen her. She was in her bed, the curtains drawn down, her head resting on a pile of white pillows. But she had somehow contrived to get her hair into some semblance of purposeful arrangement and back under her widow’s cap. Her eyes were open.
“What is it, Diana?” she said without pretense of surprise. “It’s Mr. Cairns, Father’s friend. He’s downstairs and he wants to see you—” Diana was here interrupted by the sound of the door opening again. She turned with some impatience to see the man she had just been talking of, in all his rustic-gentleman trappings, coming into the room. For a man to see into a woman’s bedroom was such an assault to decorum that even Diana herself felt a touch scandalized.
“Mrs. Holland,” he began, “I cannot tell you how abjectly sorry I am for not having been able to extend my condolences for the passing of both your husband and daughter in person.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cairns. I read your letters, however, and I know your feelings.”
“Good. I hope you will not consider me overly forward in telling you that I have been hearing of your financial woes and I have come here to tell you that I do not believe any of it. If I may, Mrs. Holland, it is really not possible. I’d like to offer my services in this matter.” He paused and withdrew an envelope from inside his waistcoat. “I have brought you a check.”
Diana, who had been standing dutifully by her mother’s bedside, felt her temper flare at this. It really wasn’t necessary, she would have liked to have said, since a solution to all of their problems had very recently presented itself. And that solution was far handsomer than Snowden Trapp Cairns. She would have liked to dismiss his offer fast and sharp, but she found herself silenced again by the fact of her own indiscretions.
She was happy, however, to hear that her mother’s thoughts were not entirely divergent from her own. “We can’t accept your charity, Mr. Cairns, though it is very kind of you to come to us.”
“But it isn’t charity,” Mr. Cairns said seriously. “It is in fact money that I have owed you for some time, and isn’t in truth so very great an amount. Your father’s percentage from a modestly successful claim we shared in the Klondike. So you see, if you don’t take it, you will be forcing me to be a thief.”
Diana found the smile that followed to be unbearably ingratiating.
“Mr. Cairns—” began Mrs. Holland, in a tone of unconvincing protest.
“I insist,” Snowden interrupted with finality.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Holland accepted the check with a touch of humility that, even in her diminished state, must have been difficult for her to affect. As she leaned over to place it on the night table a look of relief passed briefly across her face. “How long do you plan to be in town?”
“I am presently without duties elsewhere, and if you will allow me, Mrs. Holland, I would like to have a look at your papers. It is preposterous to me that you should be as bad off as they say….” Snowden paused, and his eyes flashed. “Or as you seem to believe you are.”
“That is very good of you, though I assure you I have been through the papers and the situation is quite dire. No matter—while you are in town you must stay with us.”
Snowden gave a quick bow, his boots closing in on each other at the heels.
“Thank you, Mrs. Holland. We will talk more tomorrow. But for now I have disturbed you long enough. I will go down and find the maid. She will find a place for me where I will be of the least trouble.” He paused to take Diana’s hand, though he did not again attempt to kiss it. He held her gaze instead. “Good night, Miss Diana.”
“Good night,” Diana replied faintly. His exit from the room was a relief to her. It meant that very soon she would again be alone with her thoughts, which was the nearest she could get to again being close to Henry.
The door closed, and she felt her mother’s cold hand on her wrist.
“Di?” she said.
“Yes, Mother?’” Diana leaned against the bed and watched her mother relax back into her pillows.
“You’re tired now, dear, but tomorrow be a little good to Mr. Cairns, would you?”
Diana hardly knew what expression she made. She understood of course what her mother meant by being good. She wanted her to be to Mr. Cairns as she had not been to Mr. Coddington or Mr. Newburg or Mr. Cutting. But at that moment Diana couldn’t imagine any man but Henry ever holding her interest again.
Twenty Two
Good girls hold their heads high by daylight,
Their grace and their virtue soaring with kites,
While bad girls slink along in their shame—
Everyone stares at them, everyone blames.
But those bad girls sleep soundly at night,
Ne’er do their consciences wake them in a fright,
While our good girls toss and they turn—
They lay awake for those who will burn.
—A SEAMSTRESS’S VERSES, 1898
THE ROCKING OF A TRAIN WAS EVIDENTLY SOMETHING that calmed Will, for Elizabeth, lying in the crook of his arm, woke up to see that he was perfectly, angelically asleep. The remainders of the lunch they’d eaten early that day had been removed from the little table in front of their red velvet upholstered seat, and the view through the brass-framed window showed that darkness had almost completely fallen. Or was it the first light of dawn? The hour was either very late or very early, but in any event the porter had not disturbed them to make up their berth. She had slept so little the night before that it was natural she would have fallen so completely into dreaming on the train. Elizabeth closed her eyes and then opened them again.
She sat up suddenly and stood. Will shifted but did not wake up. Her shoulders were tight and her mouth was dry. Had they slept through the Oakland stop? If that was true, her chances to save her family were behind her—she knew, from Denny, where the pawnshops were there, but how would she find such places in other cities? She didn’t know how long they would stay anywhere else. It seemed impossible that she would now be able to carry out her plan.
She moved down the train, looking for some friendly face, but all was quiet. As she reached the observation car, she saw through the glass that a well-dressed man was sitting there, smoking. She was so preoccupied that she went through the door and addressed the stranger with an abruptness that she would have termed rude in her previous life.
“Have we passed Oakland?” she said.
“Yes, some hours ago,” the man replied, turning. This answer distressed her so thoroughly that she did not recognize the man until he pronounced her name.
“Miss Elizabeth Holland,” Grayson Hayes repeated with emphasis.
She looked up into the man’s face and knew that she had not mistaken Penelope’s older brother. Though she hadn’t seen him in almost four years, his was a face she knew well. He had high, flat c
heeks like his sister and a nose like an arrow pointing downward and a thin pencil moustache. His eyes were blue like his sister’s and were positioned just slightly too close together—for some reason that Elizabeth had never fully understood, this gave him a wily rather than clownish appearance.
Then she remembered that she was supposed to be dead.
He was looking at her as though he knew the whole catalogue of her secrets, but that might have just been an old Hayes intimidation technique. He had been abroad, after all, and had always had the family trait of self-absorption. He might have known anything about her or nothing at all. The only thing Elizabeth was sure of was that she disliked the way his eyes were on her.
He had hardened since she last saw him, which was at a small dance at the Hayeses’ old town house on Washington Square, where he had flattered her by asking her to dance—she had been very young then, and he had been the pick of the bachelors—but then he’d abandoned her midwaltz to dance with Isabelle De Ford. He was larger now, no longer someone you could describe as a boy. He wore his hair in a way that reminded her of Henry. It was the way they all wore their hair, those boys who cast proprietary glances at the whole world.
“You must have me confused,” she said coldly.
Then she turned and ran back through the cars until she reached Will. Grayson Hayes did not follow her, although she kept looking back to be sure, and when she reached her own compartment she shook Will awake. He opened his eyes slowly, lazily, and when he made her out he smiled. A few seconds passed and then he asked her what was wrong.
“We have to get off this train.” Her voice trembled, and she knew that if she did not manage a deep breath soon, she might collapse. Will must have realized her state of agitation, because the happiness went out of his face. “We have to get off as soon as we can.”
Twenty Three
A young woman who is new in town and wants to make an entrance in society is in an unenviable position. Of course, if she comes with letters of introduction or her family has excellent connections, she will not want for company. But it is unacceptable for a young lady to call around where she has not yet been introduced.
—MRS. L. A. M. BRECKINRIDGE, THE LAWS OF BEING IN WELL-MANNERED CIRCLES
AFTER THE CRUSHING VISIT WITH PENELOPE Hayes, Lina had hardly left her small, perfect hotel room. It was more perfect to her with every passing hour. She sat at the little polished lady’s writing desk and looked at the matching polished bed with its blue spread that went so nicely with the fleur-de-lys wallpaper. She thought with growing sadness of how soon she would have to fall asleep without the shelter of its gilt-edged ceiling. She shot poignant little looks at the elegant ceiling lamp with the U-shaped white shades, which looked like a bouquet of tulips with stems of brass. She had only left the room to eat breakfast and read the paper, but found that her name had not again been mentioned. To punish herself, she went to bed hungry. She had been reaching for too much, by fistfuls. If she had simply acquired the dress and manners of a lady and then gone straightaway to Will, none of this would have happened—but she had wanted to be seen and admired too, and that vain desire had caused her to let her guard down.
It was Wednesday. On Friday she would be homeless.
Now every sound seemed, however irrationally, to prefigure her swift expulsion from the hotel. Even the most gentle knocking. She looked up and blinked in the direction of the sound. For a moment she wondered why the management hadn’t already charged in to remove her, and then she realized that she was going to have to let them in. She went to the door and opened it cautiously. There was no one from the hotel staff out in the hall—just Tristan, looking at her with those warm hazel eyes. He took his bowler off so that she could see his light hair, which was overgrown a little and pushed backward rakishly. His height filled the entry and he was smiling at her out of the corner of his mouth.
“They just let you in?” She was unable to mask her surprise. How he had gotten this far unannounced was beyond her, though the affection in his face made it so that she didn’t care particularly. She had not wondered until that moment whether or not Tristan was the thief—but the look he was giving her, and the memory of his previous attentions, made her dislike that theory intensely.
“I thought I’d bring your bills in person.”
“Oh.” The despair was as plain in her tone now as surprise had been a few seconds before.
“That’s no way to greet a man who comes bearing gifts,” Tristan answered as he produced a long brown box with the Lord & Taylor logo on its front. He had disguised it under his cloth coat, which he carried thrown across his arm.
This caught Lina’s attention and—feeling that desire for gorgeous objects rise in her again, despite all the degradations of the week—she reached for the box. Tristan smiled at her grab but let it pass into her hand easily. When she lifted the top she saw a pair of white suede opera gloves cushioned in deep red tissue. They were elbow length, with a row of small pearl buttons that extended from just below the wrist. “They’re beautiful!” she whispered.
“A gift from your greatest admirer; I thought you should have them now that you’re going to the opera.”
Lina looked up and met her guest’s eye. So he had seen the column, too.
“I assume you are the Miss Broad who was in the papers. Surely you’re not too fancy to let me in?” Tristan said, already closing the door behind him and tossing his coat onto the foot of her bed. “I hope you’re not in love with this old man,” he went on casually as he assessed her surroundings. “I got worried when I realized you had been away from the store for so long.”
Lina turned her body toward him but did not respond to his last comment. Her attention remained fixed on the gloves. They were such a wretched little reminder of everything she had muddied up, and a wave of self-pity came over her. All of a sudden she knew she was going to cry.
“What’s the matter?” Tristan’s voice had grown concerned, and he laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. The kindness of this touch made her situation feel even more pathetic, and she put her face into her cupped hands to hide the hot tears that were now streaming involuntarily down her face. “Don’t do that, Miss Broad,” Tristan went on. “You don’t think your reputation has been ruined, do you? It hasn’t in the least. I was only kidding when I said that. I know you’re not in love with him, and so does everybody else. If you were seen often with different men of the kind, then you might be in danger, but one little piece like that won’t do any harm. And besides, everyone will be so distracted by your newness that they won’t even think about the propriety of it.”
“Oh, it’s not that,” Lina answered miserably through her sobs. She longed for Will, to be able to confess all of her imperfections and missteps to him. But it was Tristan who was there with her now.
“What, then?”
Lina caught her breath and looked up at the salesman. Her face was red and her eyes were puffy and bright, but there was still so much kindness in his posture that she couldn’t help but want to tell him everything. “My purse has been stolen.”
Tristan’s smile fell a little. “Your purse?”
“Yes, from my room, the night of the opera. It had over two hundred dollars in it, and it was taken—all of it!”
“You must tell the management then.”
“No, no,” Lina said quickly. She was too ashamed to look at him. “Not that.”
Tristan reached forward and took both her hands. The rare gentleness of this human touch only made her want to cry more. She had not been touched in a long time. “Why? Is it because you suspect someone close to you…or someone who would be severely punished?”
Lina shook her head firmly.
“But even so, so many tears over so little money.” He laughed awkwardly, clasping her hands with his own. “Of course, it’s a great deal of money—to someone like me. But to you, dear Carolina, that can’t be such a loss, can it?”
“It’s all I have!” she blurted. It fel
t almost good to have said so, to let someone in the world know how destitute she was.
Tristan stepped back. Despite the narrowness of the little room in hues of blue, he seemed to have gone a great distance. “But your inheritance…?”
“I’m not an heiress,” Lina wailed. The truth was coming out now, and there was no way for her to stop it. She looked into Tristan’s eyes, which were still solicitous under an increasingly furrowed brow. “I’m a maid, or I was until the Holland family fired me. That money was all I had. I got it by—never mind. But now I have nothing.”
The moment that followed was long and full of tension, and it ended when Tristan removed his hands. Lina hiccupped a final tear as he moved farther away from her and threw himself down contemplatively onto the small velvet settee by the window. “That’s why you hated Elizabeth Holland.” He turned back to her with a face that was entirely transformed. “You’re a maid,” he said disgustedly.
She blinked and put one of her hands into the other.
“I thought you were a lady!” he continued, his voice rising to an almost angry pitch.
“I…I…” Lina stammered.
For a moment she thought she was going to see Tristan in a fit of temper, but he surprised her by putting his face into his hands and starting to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she could scarcely summon the breath for even that question.
“Oh, you really fooled me, Miss Broad—Broud—whatever your name is. You really pulled one over on me.” For a moment she thought his eyes were wet, too, from hilarity or sadness, she wasn’t sure. He was smiling, though, and that seemed a not entirely bad thing. “Congratulations. You got me good.”