Vixen

by Jillian Larkin

  Gloria’s engagement party had begun.

  From her perch at the top of the grand staircase, Clara could see it all. In the foyer, Mrs. Carmody’s man, Archibald, had roped off space to either side of the door, where he herded the reporters and photographers. With every new guest he announced, there was a stutter of light as a dozen explosions of flash powder went off, and then the shouts of the reporters trying to get a choice quote for their stories. In the house proper, waiters in white tuxedos glided masterfully among the guests, carrying silver trays of drinks and appetizers raised high on their gloved hands.

  And the guests themselves were resplendent. There were girls on the verge of flapperdom in sparkly dresses, bronze and gold and silver, with long white gloves on their arms and pearls looped around their necks, and older women swathed in floor-length gowns of georgette, crepe, and satin, their hair done up, diamonds and other jewels dripping from their ears and fingers. The boys and men looked all the same in white tie and tails.

  Claudine had transformed the front sitting room into a hat-check room. Even from here, Clara could hear the poor girl crying out “Oui, monsieur!” again and again. And on every surface, piles upon piles of hothouse flowers: plush white peonies, statuesque white calla lilies, soft petals of purest white everywhere.

  “Oh God,” Gloria said, coming up behind Clara and standing next to her. “Save me.”

  Clara gave her cousin a nudge. “Just remember to stay calm. This is your party, after all.”

  Gloria said nothing, just gazed at the mob below and looked sick.

  “Come on,” Clara coaxed her. “We can’t hide up here forever.”

  Together, the girls descended the staircase.

  Their descent caused a ripple in the crowd below, a low “Ohhhh” that seemed to fill the foyer and drive everyone to silence. “There they are!” someone shouted. And then there was clapping—such loud and sustained applause that it seemed to rock Gloria midstride. For a moment she looked nakedly terrified.

  “Just smile for the cameras,” Clara said.

  The clapping continued until they’d reached the bottom of the staircase. It was a long way down. Clara was about to say, “See? That wasn’t so bad,” when someone shouted out: “Smile, Gloria!”

  “Smile, Gloria,” Clara repeated in a silly voice. Gloria turned and looked at her, and they both started laughing. What a ridiculous scene this was. An engagement party for a girl who didn’t want to get married—because she was in love with a black musician, who, if he’d shown up tonight, would have been turned away the moment he stepped onto the property.

  Bastian had been waiting at the bottom of the steps, looking especially tall and broad-shouldered. His face was smooth shaven, his dark hair brushed back in a wave. He took Gloria’s hand, and the couple posed for yet more photographs. Then they were engulfed by the crowd.

  Suddenly, all the cameras were on Clara.

  Clara blinked away the afterimages of the photographers’ flashes and searched the crowd for Marcus, but all she saw were stuffy Chicagoans in fancy dress. The orchestra was playing something soft and mellow in the living room. Clara could hear it and wished she were there, with Marcus, having fun and away from these high-society wolves.

  “Miss Knowles! Miss Knowles!” cried a woman reporter in a fur-trimmed suit. “What a beautiful gown! Who made it?”

  “Oh, beats me, really,” Clara said, looking down at her dress, a sheer midnight-blue sheath that fell to her knees and was hemmed with a silk and beadwork band. It was slightly out of fashion but still beautiful. She could have told the reporter that it was Chanel who’d designed this gown, but Country Clara would have had no idea.

  “Clara, dear, there you are!” Aunt Beatrice swept through the crowd and kissed Clara on each cheek. For once in her life, Clara’s aunt was in something chic—a modest black dress, her neck wrapped in diamonds. She looked happier and younger than she had in ages. Aunt Bea looks elegant, Clara thought. She told her as much.

  Aunt Bea gave her a quick hug. She seemed genuinely happy to see Clara, so unlike when Clara had first set foot in this mansion. The threat of reform school was only a ghostly memory.

  “I was just about to tell this reporter about my gown.” Clara did a little twirl. “Of course, I can’t take credit for my ensemble tonight. If my aunt hadn’t been so generous, I would have come looking like a ragamuffin! We country girls don’t know a ton about fashion, but I’ve been learning so much.”

  Aunt Beatrice waved her hand in the air. “Oh, nonsense! You became the toast of this town all on your own.” She patted Clara’s arm and whispered, “That there will be a wedding is thanks, in no small part, to you. I’m glad you came to Chicago, dear. Your parents would be very proud.”

  Clara felt tears come to her eyes. She hadn’t thought of her parents in ages; in her mind, they would always be disappointed in her. But maybe her aunt was right, and now they could finally stop being ashamed of her.

  “Miss Knowles, will you stand for a photo?”

  “Of course,” Clara said. She smiled without showing her teeth, one hand propped on her dropped waist.

  A few more reporters threw out questions, but she called to them, “I’m sorry, but I need to get a bite to eat before I perish from hunger!”

  She was lying. She had eyes for only one thing, and it wasn’t caviar. It was Marcus.

  He was waiting for her, leaning against one of the cream-colored walls and looking more dashing than he had when she’d first laid eyes on him—if that was even possible.

  “Hello there, handsome,” Clara said, tugging at his silk tie.

  He kissed her cheek. “Don’t think I didn’t see your little pose over there, Miss Clara. Did they teach you in Pennsylvania how to make those sultry eyes for the camera?”

  “Marcus! Don’t you dare say that dirty word here,” she said, taking a sip of his seltzer.

  “I wasn’t aware that sultry was a dirty word.”

  “I meant Pennsylvania.”

  Marcus crinkled his adorable brow. “And yet I may need to say it one more time when I ask you what your parents will think of me, back on the farm in Pennsylvania.” He gulped down his drink, then took two crab-cake hors d’oeuvres from a passing waiter’s tray and popped them into his mouth.

  “You’re an animal,” Clara said, laughing. He wanted to meet her parents? He wasn’t even her boyfriend yet. Or was he? Baby steps, she reminded herself. “I thought we were taking this slowly.”

  “We are,” Marcus answered. “Slowly, slowly, slowly. That is the name of the game.” He ran his fingers through a loose tendril of her hair. Every time he touched her, she felt weak. “Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”

  Marcus took a second glass of seltzer from a waiter, then casually poured the water into a potted plant. He produced a flask, from which he poured a golden liquid into the glasses. He handed one to Clara. “An event like this calls for champagne. Unfortunately, all I have is whiskey.”

  “That will have to do.” Clara raised her glass. “Should we toast to something?”

  “We must!” he said, raising his own. “To …” He squinted at her. “Now, this may make me sound like a flat tire, but how about to leaving the past in the past, and living for the future?”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Clara wrapped her arm around his, and thus entwined, she and Marcus clinked their glasses together. “How is it you always know the right thing to say?”

  “Me? I’m a bumbling idiot around you!” Marcus said. “Speaking of, would you follow this bumbling idiot somewhere more private?”

  “Pos-i-lute-ly,” Clara said.

  No one would notice if they disappeared for a moment. The photographers and reporters were still locked on Gloria at the other end of the hall, who was sitting on a plush chair that looked like a poor man’s throne, gingerly holding Bastian’s arm in a chaste manner that probably looked proper but that Clara knew was because of her distaste for the man. Questions were coming fast
from the reporters. Bastian answered all of them while Gloria stared into space.

  At the edge of the crowd Clara spied Ginnie Bitman. She looked positively horrifying in a baby-blue dress, but she was talking to a boy—a real, live boy!—who seemed … not completely uninterested. Sure, he was funny in the face, but Clara felt a swell of pride for the girl.

  Marcus took Clara’s hand in his. He led her down the hallway past the kitchen, where the caterers had noisily set up camp; past one of the guest bathrooms and its overpowering stink of lilac-scented soap; and toward her uncle’s library. That room had been virtually closed since he’d abandoned the family for his Manhattan fling.

  And then it dawned on her: a secluded, dark room—

  No, she didn’t want to be that girl to him! She didn’t want him to think that just because she had been promiscuous in the past, she would fool around with him now. It was important to start this relationship off right.

  Relationship? She stopped dead in the hall and pulled her hand from his.

  “What is it?” Marcus asked, his face flushed.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Sorry. I just got … confused.”

  So that was how she was feeling. Relationship. She used to run away at the mention of that word, but now … She looked at Marcus and grinned until her cheeks smarted.

  She thought of the “plan” she’d overheard Lorraine and Gloria discussing the first time she’d met Marcus. Was this the final step? A dark room, humiliation before a crowd of hundreds?

  “Maybe we should go back,” she suggested.

  “Into that stuffed-shirt hell? God, why?”

  “I just thought that, well—” There was no easy way to voice her suspicions.

  But all Marcus did was say, “I guess this hallway will be private enough, then. Clara Knowles, you are the most exquisite girl in this gaudy old house. And don’t you dare protest that compliment, it’s not allowed.”

  “Compliments. Flattery.” Clara tilted her head. “Why are you so sweet to me?”

  “Me? Sweet? Don’t ruin my reputation.” He dug inside the pockets of his tailcoat and fished out a red box with a signature gold-scripted Cartier stamped across the top. “But if you already find me too sweet, maybe I should reconsider giving you this.”

  “Marcus!” she said, a little breathless, and then, not knowing what else to say, said his name again.

  “Perhaps you should open it first.” He laughed, holding the box before her, but underneath his confidence, Clara could see he was unsure of himself. He wanted her to like him just as much as she wanted him to like her. The way this felt—the two of them equal, neither with the upper hand—was something new and altogether scary, but also wonderful.

  Tentatively, Clara opened the box.

  Inside, a glittering diamond and platinum bangle bracelet, with rubies scattered between the pavé diamonds like a red constellation, stared back at her. It was the most gorgeous, most delicate thing she had ever seen. She was stunned into silence.

  “I can’t tell if that’s a good or a bad reaction,” Marcus said, shifting from foot to foot.

  “Good,” she managed to croak. “Definitely good.”

  He removed the bracelet from the box and gently took her wrist in his hands. The simple touch of his fingers made her weak. “If you’ll allow me the honor.”

  While Marcus clasped the bracelet around her wrist, Clara studied his face. What had she done to deserve this? To deserve him? The universe was giving her a second chance, and this time nothing would make her mess it up. She flung her arms around him. “Marcus, it’s too thoughtful, and beautiful, and really way too much.”

  “Clara, my Clara. It reminded me of you when I saw it,” he said, kissing her forehead. “A little delicate beneath all that beauty.”

  She kissed him then, raking her hands through his silky hair. He lifted her off the floor and swung her around. She laughed and planted kisses on his cheeks and ears and neck until, as the room spun dizzily around them, she noticed a dark figure in the entrance to the hallway.

  Clara cried out, and Marcus came to an abrupt halt.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She clumsily slid down to the floor, her heels hitting the parquet with an echoing clack. Her face must have said everything. Marcus followed her horrified gaze toward the one and only Harris Brown, standing there in a smart-looking tailcoat. Watching.

  Harris strolled down the center of the hallway toward them, seeming to fill the space, seeming somehow larger than himself.

  A sudden rage expanded in Clara like a balloon, inflating until she felt she would burst. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here? You weren’t invited!”

  “I’m in politics, remember?” Harris said, sporting the cocky grin she used to love and now was repulsed by. “I’m always invited.”

  Marcus stepped forward. “I suggest that you find your way to the nearest exit right this second, or else—”

  “Or else what?” Harris laughed.

  “I’m warning you, Harris,” Clara said, trying to steady her voice, “leave now before things get messy.” She would not let him back into her life. This was her city now, her home, her party, her boyfriend—

  “But you love messy, don’t you? Some things never change, baby doll.” Harris stepped closer, sizing Marcus up. “Oh, Clara, you poor thing. Don’t tell me your life here has driven you into the arms of this little pretty boy. He barely looks old enough to tie his—”

  Marcus lunged at Harris and slammed him up against the wall.

  But if Harris knew anything, it was how to fight dirty.

  He jabbed his knee into Marcus’s gut, flipped him around, and punched him square in the eye.

  “Stop it! Stop!” Clara screamed, trying to tear them apart. But it was no use.

  Harris, clutching Marcus by the neck, held him stiffly against the wall. “I broke my engagement because of you, Clara. You know I love you—I always have. I came here to take you back to New York, to start a life together—”

  She wouldn’t hear any more.

  She sprinted blindly back down the hall, needing to get away from it all, from both of them. How many nights had she lain awake wishing Harris would say that to her, those exact words?

  She stared down at the bracelet on her wrist. She didn’t deserve it.

  There was a loud crash.

  Clara stopped, and the world around her came sharply into focus: the main foyer, a large silver tray rattling at her feet, pâté-covered croquettes scattered everywhere, and a hundred pairs of gawking eyes. “I’m sorry,” she muttered to the waiter she’d plowed into, dropping to her knees to pick up the platter. “I’m so sorry—”

  “Just who I’m looking for!”

  The guests parted, and Lorraine staggered into sight. Clara barely recognized her: Raine’s cheeks were smudged with black mascara, her mouth a smear of red, her cream-colored dress wrinkled and dirty. Clara was thankful that someone worse off had wandered in at the right moment to take the attention away from her—until she realized Lorraine was addressing her. “If it isn’t Clara Knowles, the Queen of Hearts herself, gracing us with her menday—mendaysh—mendacious presence!”

  “Lorraine, are you all right?” Clara asked, but she could smell the booze from where she was standing.

  The guests and reporters circled around them as if they were about to watch a boxing match. Clara had to defuse the bomb that was Lorraine. “Raine, why don’t we find a nice quiet place to—”

  “No! I want everyone to hear what I am about to say.” Raine’s words were slurred and sloppy, and she wavered on her feet. “I want everyone to know what a fraud you are.”

  Before Clara could respond, Gloria ran up to her former best friend, a panicked look on her face. “You were not invited to this party!” she spat, glaring at Lorraine. “You need to leave this instant.”

  “It’s her!” Lorraine pointed her finger at Clara as if they were in the middle of the Salem witch trials. “She s
houldn’t have been invited to this party. She was the one who told Bastian everything. She was the one who ratted you out—who told him about the Green Mill. It wasn’t me, Gloria! I swear. Just ask him—”

  “She’s lying!” Clara insisted. She turned to Gloria. “I swear to you, Gloria, I never said anything to Bastian. You are a liar, Lorraine.”

  “Oh yeah?” Lorraine said, her face twisting. “Then what is Mr. High-and-Mighty Harris Brown doing here? Explain that to everyone! Then we’ll see who’s the filthy liar!”

  Lorraine pointed somewhere behind Clara. But Clara didn’t need to look to know who was there. A wave of whispers rippled through the crowd, and the reporters scribbled furious notes.

  Lorraine ambled around the circle, angrily pushing people out of her way. “When I saw you with Harris Brown at the Green Mill, Clara, I thought, How does a stupid rube of a country girl from Pennsylvania, a girl who stinks of manure and doesn’t know a garter from a garter snake, know a big politico in New York like that?”

  “You’re drunk, Lorraine,” Gloria said. “Please, will some of the able-bodied men here carry out this piece of trash?” She looked around for Bastian, but he was nowhere in sight.

  “Ah-ah-ah!” Lorraine said, dodging the one man who went to comply. “I called a few of my contacts at Barnard—did I tell you I’m going to Barnard? It’s in New York City. Near Harlem, which my father is not happy about.”

  “We know where Barnard is,” said Marcus.

  “My friend Shelly, who can spot a cad from a mile away, knew what a notorious playboy Harris Brown is.”

  Clara’s mouth felt as if it were stuffed with cotton. “Stop,” she said weakly. She wished somebody, anybody would stop this girl. She looked from Gloria’s face to Marcus’s, to Mrs. Carmody’s, to the faces of random guests she didn’t even know. No one was saying anything. Everyone was staring at Clara, eyes wide, waiting for her to respond. “Please, stop her—”