Passing Fancies (A Julia Kydd Novel)

by Marlowe Benn

  Julia nodded. Wright leered, as he did each time they met. He imagined himself irresistible to women of fortune and consequence. “As ravishing as ever, Miss Kydd,” he rasped. He meant she passed his muster, an approval she profoundly did not seek. She said nothing.

  “Hello, Julia. Nice dress,” agreed another voice from near the fire. Philip’s good friend Jack Van Dyne rose. He was the most junior member of the Manhattan law firm representing three generations of Kydds, and Julia cautiously considered him her friend as well.

  “Looks drafty to me,” Philip said, eyeing her beautiful frock. “I’d have thought you could afford something with a bit more cloth. I mean, why else insist on raiding my coffers?”

  That was rich. Pure contrarian poppycock, intended to provoke her. She was also learning to read the frivolous undertone in much of what he said and did. Philip could make the most outrageous utterances, and he often did. It amused him to shock and alarm, and nothing delighted him more than a flustered rebuff. His favorite sport was to jab and jab in hopes of rousing a joust. Now that she understood the game, she might soon muster strength to oblige (if not best) him, but not tonight. She swept her shawl from her shoulders, baring her spine, and draped it across the arm of the sofa.

  “My sister so enjoyed her last visit that she decided to move back to New York,” Philip said before Wright could ask the obvious question. “I humbly bask in her radiance until she finds a home of her own.”

  More applesauce. He was in a devilish mood. Philip was as likely to grumble at her invasion of hatboxes and shoe trunks as to warble about her company.

  “Not that sister nonsense again,” Wright snorted. “Spare me the pretense, Kydd.”

  However tasteless, Wright’s skepticism was understandable: Appearances gave no clue that Julia and Philip were even remotely related. He shared his mother’s dark coloring, while Julia’s blue eyes and fair hair proclaimed her own Swedish blood. Both were lean and light boned, nimble when necessary and naturally graceful. But while Philip tended to slouch, Julia stood straight, her posture the last remnant of a misery of ballet lessons. Jack claimed to detect a resemblance, but more objective observers rarely saw it.

  “They really are siblings,” protested Jack. “Half siblings, anyway.”

  “Different mothers,” Philip added blandly. Neither man saw his droll glance at Julia.

  It was true. Julia—the daughter of Lena Jordahl, Milo Kydd’s second wife—had been born a scandalously brief eighteen months after the death of his first wife, Charlotte Vancill Kydd. Philip was the only surviving child of that marriage. There was a deeper truth, however, known only to them: they were in fact unrelated. He’d learned this staggering secret only last fall.

  Thus, ironically, Wright’s barb scratched a secret truth. To the world Julia and Philip remained half siblings, cautiously circling détente after a lifelong estrangement. To each other they were strangers bound in a delicious irony: a private camaraderie at once more intimate than friendship and less burdensome than blood.

  Jack settled back into his chair. “Wright stopped by to inquire whether Philip’s working on a good puzzler these days.”

  This explained Philip’s mood and Jack’s subdued smile. Wright constantly pestered them with questions about the occasional help Philip gave his uncle Kessler, an assistant commissioner with the police, on particularly baffling crimes. A critic chronically short of funds, Wright hoped to write popular detective novels featuring a clever but insufferable sleuth modeled (inaccurately!) on Philip. Naturally Philip forbade it, yet Wright persisted. For plots he’d even tried to weasel from Julia her knowledge of the truth behind the suffragist Naomi Rankin’s mysterious death last fall, an impertinence she had firmly quashed.

  “You might at least consider his scheme, Philip,” Jack said. “Detective stories are all the rage in England these days. What harm can it do? He wouldn’t use your real name, of course.”

  “So you say. Who am I to be, then?” Philip wondered.

  “I could call you Attila the Whozit for all the masses care,” Wright said. “As long as I give them a cracking good murder and a walking whirligig of civilization to solve it. A Cézanne collector, no less!” He waved at Philip’s lovely little watercolor above the drinks trolley. “You’d be the perfect sleuthing macaroni, Kydd.”

  The muscles along Philip’s thin nose tightened. “Celebrity is the least of my objections. What terrifies me is that this dandified do-gooder might exist at all. So no, never. We tell him nothing, Jack.” He slouched deeper into his chair and raised his cigarette to his mouth.

  Wright gave a sour shrug and reached for more of Philip’s whiskey.

  “Out hunting beaus?” Philip asked Julia. “A brace of them bundled in the hall?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was at a party. Apparently Paul Duveen’s soirees are all the rage. Poets to the rafters and a—”

  “Duveen?” Philip said. “That bleached meringue?”

  Wright barked out a phlegmy laugh. “More like sycophantic ass. Duveen fancies himself a novelist, but his books are decadent drivel. Now he drapes himself in all manner of outré nonsense and rhapsodizes about the great and glorious Negro. God help us.” Wright went into raptures at Wagner and the stomp of Teutonic boots, presumably in literature as well as music. Julia could only guess at the acid he might spew at Eva Pruitt’s new novel, with its “jazzy tootles.”

  She couldn’t fault Pablo Duveen for relishing the avant-garde. She too resisted so-called respectability, though for different reasons. She preferred to throw her small weight of influence, when she had any, onto the side of the improper, the mismatched, and the not done, in defense of those who defied conventional strictures. Duveen seemed a champion mostly for himself. Every rule he broke, every shocking thing he did and said, became another sequin stitched to his name, one more twinkle in the display that kept him forever in the public eye.

  “Meet anyone interesting?” Philip asked Julia mildly. “Outré and otherwise?”

  “Oh yes.” She refilled her glass and headed for the door. “A great and glorious partyful.”

  It was after ten the next morning when Julia wandered from her bedroom in search of breakfast. Christophine had opened the drapes in Philip’s library and left tea and oranges on the table beside the sofa. The carpet was warm beneath her feet. She wore her favorite scarlet satin man’s dressing gown, its black-tasseled belt hanging loose at her sides. It had belonged to the man she’d once considered the perfect beau—attentive but not hovering, amusing, generous, discreet—until he queered everything by deciding they should marry. Unfortunately, the prospect advanced his interests while trampling hers.

  In a marvelous twist of mutual expedience, he’d secured instead the charms of Julia’s friend Glennis, who’d arrived in Southampton on the ticket he’d purchased for Julia. It was all neatly Shakespearean, Julia thought: David acquired the missus he wanted, Glennis got her posh English husband and life on a long leash, and Julia gained a lovely new robe. She considered it a memento of their understanding—a truly open relationship without demands or debts of any kind. At least that had been perfect, while it lasted.

  She strolled across the room and into the hall. “Good morning, Christophine,” she called toward the kitchen. A muffled reply told her that she’d caught her busy in some task. She would join Julia when she could.

  Christophine’s presence in the kitchen was another ad hoc arrangement, cobbled together in the tumult of Julia’s collapsed housing arrangements. It had been a terrible shock to shepherd her household across the Atlantic and then arrive at the apartment she’d leased, only to be barred by a bellicose agent claiming a misunderstanding. Apparently her Albion printing press and related equipment constituted a commercial venture, which was strictly forbidden in the city’s districting codes. When she explained that Capriole was unlikely to generate meaningful revenue—private presses were terribly exciting but invariably led to more expense than income—the fellow only deepened his
protest. Profitable or not, her enterprise involved heavy equipment, and that bore the unforgivable whiff of trade or, worse, industry. She would have to find another place to live.

  Julia had no choice but to redirect her crates to a warehouse, hastily found in Brooklyn, and to book a suite for herself and Christophine in the St. Regis. The next day Philip insisted they stay with him until she could find another home. Of course she was wary, but she could see that he spoke from more than courtesy. He wished for a chance to redeem himself after their battle last fall. He was sincere, as close to serious as he seemed to get, and she relented.

  By sheer good fortune, Philip’s housekeeper, Mrs. Cheadle, had been longing to visit her sister in Florida. She packed a bag, explained the particulars to Christophine, and left promptly for Grand Central Station. By the time Julia and Philip had returned home from dinner that night, Christophine had had a plate of fresh madeleines and an array of liqueurs waiting in the library.

  Christophine’s quick step sounded in the hall, and she appeared, wiping her hands on a white apron. Although nearing forty, Christophine looked and moved like the adolescent girl of Julia’s earliest memory. She wore her hair, springy as moss, cut close to her skull. Her head seemed all face, a mobile joy of wide mouth, bright teeth, delicate nose and ears, shining eyes, and smooth dark skin over fine bones. Daughter of a wayward Trinidadian cook, she had attached herself to Julia’s parents when they’d honeymooned on Saint Barthélemy. When the couple had prepared to leave for New York, the girl had begged to be taken along as nursery maid to the coming child. Now only she and Julia remained from that long-ago household.

  She retrieved a tabloid slipped beneath the Times and opened it to a page near the back. “You see you in the paper, miss?” She spoke with the bumpy, present-tense music of her Caribbean childhood, a way of speaking that Julia loved as much as the woman herself. She poked at the Tidbits and Tattles column, handed it to Julia, and settled into the facing chair to listen. She was joined by Pestilence, one of Philip’s two aging gray tabbies, both battle scarred yet friendly as kittens. The other, Pudd’nhead, already nestled against Julia’s thigh.

  Few things were more redolent of home and happiness to Julia than reading aloud to Christophine. The habit had begun when Julia was seven or eight, on orders of her tutor. But soon they’d sat most evenings twined together, all limbs and held breath, as the stories unfurled. Even still at times they settled into their more adult—in private—arrangement: Julia reading at one end of a sofa while Christophine sat at the other, Julia’s feet in her lap beneath a whirl of thread and pins and stitches. Today they stayed in separate chairs.

  “Oho!” There it was: Miss Julia Kydd circled in bright-blue ink, midway down the column. It looked to be a rambling report of the goings-on at Duveen’s party last night. Julia pulled the spectacles from her pocket (she could bear only Christophine to see her wearing the hated wire-and-glass contraption) and began to read aloud.

  “‘The West Side apartment of Mr. Paul Duveen, noted author and critic, was again the scene of wit and artistic display last evening. Guests from the theater included the always-striking Misses Pola Negri and Erma Magill’—yes, yes.” Julia skipped over descriptions of dull gowns and jewelry. “‘The actresses were accompanied by Broadway orchestra conductor Mr. Irving West.’”

  She scanned the next few paragraphs, surprised at the names of guests she must have seen but had not met.

  “Here we are,” she murmured, arriving further down the column. “‘New to us was’—listen, Fee—‘Miss Julia Kydd, who wore a daring French frock of yellow silk and seed pearls. We understand Miss Kydd is a patroness of Parisian couture, and we hope to see more of her wardrobe from that fair city. We will certainly see, in such fashions, more of Miss Kydd.’”

  She lowered the paper. Stuff! What cheek.

  Christophine tried to frown, but both women’s shoulders quivered. “Miss Lila love that.”

  Lila Cartwell, Julia’s London dressmaker, would indeed delight to have her work mistaken for French couture, even though it was Christophine’s alterations that had captured the writer’s eye. For years she’d doodled, as she called it, with their old clothes, experimenting with overlays and cutaways, appliqué, ornament, and whatever else suited her fancy. Her skills with hats were even more astonishing. She was wildly original—sometimes making dreadful hashes but more often creating arresting new looks. Christophine was an artist, an inventive modiste, though until last night, she refused to let any of her “mending” leave the house. With luck, Julia hoped, this success would loosen her restrictions.

  “To Mademoiselle Fee!” Julia raised a phantom glass. “In New York less than a month and already turning heads!”

  Fee scoffed happily and knuckled the page for Julia to read on.

  She did. “‘Never flagging in his enthusiasm for Negroes, Mr. Duveen treated his guests to a show of colored talent. Mr. Jerome Crockett recited his poem “While We Slept,” recently published to acclaim in Chicago. Mr. Paul Robeson was persuaded to sing again the selection of Negro spirituals which so delighted guests at the apartment a week ago. The sultry tones of Miss Evangeline Pruitt, noted performer at Harlem cabaret Carlotta’s, followed with a moving rendition of “Slave to Love,” her signature tune.’”

  Julia dropped the paper. “What rot to miss the entertainment.”

  Christophine pulled her chair closer and peeled an orange. She ate a section and handed another to Julia. It was another childhood routine: as Julia read, Christophine supplied their snacks. She had always slipped fruit to her this way, neatly peeled, sliced, seeded, or cored. Julia could do these things for herself, but with sticky and mangled results. Long ago she’d been barred from the household produce and from the kitchen generally. Though the childishness of the arrangement embarrassed her, she acquiesced as usual. The orange was juicy and sweet.

  “‘The dramatic high point of the evening,’” Julia resumed, “‘concerned Miss Pruitt. Mr. Duveen announced that the publishing firm of Arthur Goldsmith has secured the rights to publish Miss Pruitt’s debut novel. Friends tell us the novel will be eagerly awaited for its vivid scenes drawn from Miss Pruitt’s stage career.’

  “I met her,” Julia said. “She’s lovely. I liked her, very much.” She stretched her arms over her head. “My first mixed party, Fee. It was smashing good fun.”

  To Julia’s surprise, Christophine wrinkled her nose as if the milk had turned and declared herself glad to be nowhere near such an awkward assembly. What Julia had found exhilarating, she regarded with suspicion. But when Julia asked why, Christophine only shrugged and gave her usual end-of-discussion answer: “Just is.”

  Puzzled, Julia refolded the paper. Her eyes fell on Eva Pruitt’s name, and her first impressions, so strong and so appealing, grew elusive. Was the woman a writer or a singer? Was she white or colored? The idea of a life so slippery—its edges shifting, like tide lines on a shore—fascinated Julia. She too longed to live facing forward, each moment erasing the previous. She itched to meet again the mysterious writer with the hidden manuscript. Tonight, she hoped, at Horace Liveright’s party.

  She was struck again by the idea of debuting her Capriole Press in America with work by the rising new novelist. Julia would watch for the right moment to ask if Eva had a short story or set of poems she might showcase in a fine edition. No need for the explosive stuff Logan Lanier had hinted at—although a bright flash was always better than a pensive flicker. In fact, a nice modern pop might be just the thing.

  Yes, indeed. A shot across the Grolier Club’s bow!

  CHAPTER 4

  Something red splatted against the doorframe as Julia entered the crowded reception room that evening. A wave of laughter followed the juicy missile, and she balked on the threshold. Austen Hurd stepped in front of her. “Hey, cut it out!”

  They seemed to have interrupted a game that involved partiers tossing what looked to be strawberries at each other. Two shrieking women rushed past. Fro
m the commotion, Julia gathered the aim was to tuck the berries into women’s bodices and down men’s trousers. So this was the famous publishing house of Boni & Liveright, from which were launched eminent works of philosophy, literature, science, and history. And strawberries.

  Another couple arrived, pushing them forward into the melee. Austen juked to dodge a woman’s attempt to squeeze a berry under his collar, while Julia swatted another’s stained fingers from her dress. What a ridiculous business! Before Austen could apologize or explain, someone seized her from behind. Two long arms in a gray pin-striped suit gripped her for several airless moments. “Pardon the hooligans, my dear,” rumbled a well-liquored voice into her ear.

  The man retreated half an arm’s length and spun her to face him. Although clearly drunk, he had a patrician air about him, with fair hair sleeked back from his forehead and a lean, noble nose. No one had dared to so much as smudge his person with wayward fruit. He rolled Julia’s fingers between bony palms. “Horace Liveright, darling. Have we met?”

  The great publisher himself. Austen scrambled to introduce Julia, but before he could, his boss nodded to someone across the room and relinquished Julia’s hand. Excusing himself with a lush compliment, Liveright departed as abruptly as he had appeared, plumping Julia’s derriere as he passed.

  Impertinent sod. Welcome to America.

  Austen made a wide-eyed mug of contrition. “Sorry for the rummy reception. Actually, the old goat can be a lot worse than that. You got the duchess treatment.” He spoke over his shoulder as he led the way through the crowd toward the bar. Most of the strawberry hurlers seemed to be shifting out onto a terrace, where their cries disappeared into the din of snarled traffic on West Forty-Eighth Street below.

  The bar turned out to be a wide table covered with bottles, glasses, scattered peanut shells, crumpled napkins, and damp bar towels. It was marginally quieter at that end of the room. Julia had little experience of workplace offices, but she wondered again how serious work was ever done in such a place. Austen handed her a gin fizz. “It’s not usually this bad. A lot of new people turned up tonight when they heard Pablo’s coming to show off his new protégé.”