Chloe

by Lyn Cote

  She mounted the flight of steps of the immense stone house on Sixteenth Street called “Henderson’s Castle” and then rang its bell. She smiled at the liveried Negro butler who opened wide the door.

  “I’m here for the dancing,” she murmured and handed him her ivory calling card.

  He glanced at it. “Thank you, Mrs. Black. Mrs. Henderson hoped you would attend today.”

  A uniformed footman came forward and bowed for her to precede him. The house looked as if it had been decorated to imitate a nobleman’s home, with oak-paneled walls, plush maroon carpet, and a crystal chandelier sparkling overhead. Chloe walked the long, carpeted hall, going over in her mind what she’d heard about these informal dances held every Monday afternoon by the widow of a famous Missouri senator. Mrs. Henderson was a powerful, influential force in D.C. society and politics. A lot of deals were struck in this house during parties and dinners.

  Her father had arranged for Chloe to be invited today. She hoped she would make a good impression. He needed this contact and it was up to her to make good on it. It was a new feeling, a good feeling, to know her father needed her. And she was doing something for her country.

  She stepped into the large, second-floor ballroom. A knot of men and women in afternoon dress milled around one end. In front of them a dainty white-haired woman sat on an imposing chair with her little feet on a step stool. She wore powder-blue bedroom slippers with pom-poms instead of shoes. The blue slippers went with the room’s floor-to-ceiling royal blue draperies, which were partially opened, revealing a wall of French doors and a balcony beyond them.

  Chloe walked across the expanse of polished maple to the lady. “Mrs. Henderson, ma’am.” Chloe suppressed the sudden urge to curtsey to the queenlike woman.

  “You’re that young war widow from Maryland, aren’t you?” the lady said, holding out her hand.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Chloe shook the small, wrinkled hand and stared into the petite woman’s sparkling blue eyes. She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Her nerves hopped and skipped.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come.” The lady smiled, unabashedly assessing Chloe.

  This didn’t upset Chloe. After all, she was used to being on display and she’d survived her own debut under the eyes of dragons just like Mrs. Henderson, hadn’t she? She lifted her chin a bit. Maybe I can do this.

  “I know you’re still in mourning, Mrs. Black, but I think these informal dances make the formal occasions so much more enjoyable.” The older woman gave an impish grin. “A lady learns from which partners she should accept an invitation to dance and which ones she should refuse—to save her toes.”

  Chloe still found she couldn’t speak, but she smiled.

  “And which category do I fall in, Mrs. Henderson?” A tall blond man stood opposite Chloe. He inclined his well-shaped head toward the older lady.

  Mrs. Henderson patted the man’s arm in a playful gesture. “Drake, you are most definitely a desirable partner.”

  He bowed in mock gratitude to the grande dame in bedroom slippers. “Would you introduce me to this lovely lady then?” He turned his eyes on Chloe. They were intense in spite of his lazy voice. She hoped her veil hid the faint blush he caused her.

  “Of course. Mrs. Chloe Black, may I make you known to Mr. Drake Lovelady?”

  Chloe looked startled at the man’s name.

  He grinned and took the gloved hand she’d offered him. “I know. My interesting name got me into a lot of trouble at school. But now I just enjoy the look ladies give me when we’re introduced.”

  Chloe felt a deeper crimson blush stealing up her throat. Once more, she hoped her veil would hide it, but doubted it.

  “That’s enough, you scamp,” Mrs. Henderson taunted. “Please,” she called to the musicians at the end of the ballroom. They began to play a popular melody, “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.” With a nod of request, Drake led Chloe to the dance floor and without a word began dancing with her. After a few minutes, Chloe’s blush faded away and she began to relax.

  “That’s better,” Drake murmured. “You are too lovely a lady to doubt her ability to attract a man’s attention.”

  “I’m not trying to attract any man’s attention,” Chloe said, suddenly bristling.

  “You lost your husband in France?”

  Chloe nodded, unappeased.

  “You have my sincere sympathy.” Then he fell silent, merely leading her expertly around the floor.

  His tone had been perfectly sincere and respectful. In admission of this, Chloe relaxed again and began enjoying the dance. She glanced up at Drake’s face. He was handsome, with slicked-back golden hair and sky-blue eyes. His attraction, however, emanated from his personality. He seemed to be a confident man who would be at ease in any situation.

  “I’ve been refused for military service,” he murmured.

  She looked up, surprised. Did he think she would disdain him for this? “I’m glad.”

  He lifted an eyebrow.

  “I mean,” she stammered, “I hate this war.” There—she’d placed her foot in it now. But she was tired of putting on a show. Everyone she met seemed to think she should glow with patriotic pride when she explained the reason for her widow’s weeds. She couldn’t have felt more differently.

  “You must have loved your husband very much.”

  “I did.” She looked away, unable to think why he’d said this. She took a misstep in the dance and Drake expertly drew her back into stride.

  “Your father is new here.”

  “Yes, he lost the Senate election and has come to help our troops by lobbying for them.”

  Drake gave her an unreadable look. The music ended. He bowed. “You are a delightful partner, Mrs. Black. I hope you will grant me another dance today.”

  She smiled, a bit uncertain now that the dance had ended. She had no idea what she should do next. Why did her father think she could help him in this way? “Of course,” she managed to say.

  Then another man came forward and introduced himself. The next melody started and Chloe began to dance with her new partner. But her gaze flickered often to Drake’s golden hair as he danced nearby, always within an arm’s length of her. Was he staying close to her on purpose? The sensation of having a man admire her again stirred her blushes. And her guilt. She’d come to help her father help the troops, not to attract men. The connection between dancing with handsome men and helping the US troops seemed incongruent, silly. But then what did she know?

  A week later, Chloe woke in her old bedroom at Ivy Manor just after dawn. In the dimness and silence, a child was crying. Chloe blinked. It’s my child. But she didn’t immediately rise. Her limbs seemed heavy and insensate, like logs.

  For some reason, in that moment between dreaming and waking, Roarke’s face floated before her sleepy eyes. She must have been dreaming of him, she realized. At that, her heart twisted painfully. I can’t think of that now. She’d come home to make another last-ditch attempt at forging an attachment with her daughter. She turned on her side and made herself leave the warm nest. Her daughter needed her. Didn’t she?

  Tying her blue-satin wrapper around herself, Chloe lurched toward the nursery at the end of the hall. Her mother was already bending over the crib, crooning to Bette, “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Is your tummy hurting you again?”

  Chloe watched in helpless chagrin as her mother picked up Bette. Her daughter was almost nine months old now. Chloe tried not to think of how few of those months she’d spent caring for her. She hung back in the shadows by the door, dreading the coming struggle. In the room lit with one shaded lamp, her mother carried the fretting child to the black-walnut Windsor rocking chair by the fireplace. She sat and began rocking her.

  Chloe forced herself to approach her mother with a careful politeness. Her arms crinkled with gooseflesh at the early morning chill. Or was it fear? It’s now or never. I have to make this work. I have to claim my daughter once and for all. “You should be getting your sleep.
I’ll do that, Mother.”

  Her mother grimaced. “Chloe, you’ll just upset her more.”

  This response was all too familiar. Chloe kept her temper under tight control. “Bette has to get used to me sometime. I’m her mother.” Still, Chloe felt more like a petulant child than a maternal figure. Something had to go right soon or what would be the point of trying?

  Her mother huffed and shoved Bette into Chloe’s arms. Bette instantly screamed her displeasure.

  Chloe ignored the other woman’s rudeness, though her nerves tightened like violin strings. She began crooning softly to her baby and pacing, her blue-satin slippers flapping on the maple floor. Her daughter twisted, almost forcing herself out of Chloe’s arms, and shrieked louder. Chloe patted Bette’s diaper-cushioned bottom and sang to her some half-remembered tune her Granny Raney had always hummed. Her daughter stiffened like an ironing board in her arms.

  All the while in the background, her mother rocked the chair in a rapid tempo; with each downward dip, she tapped one angry toe on the floor, and each toe-tap and creak of the chair scolded Chloe. Was Bette responding to it, too? Chloe felt her heart beating like a fast train over uneven railroad tracks. What am I doing wrong? Why can’t I do this?

  Minutes passed. Bette finally calmed slightly, though she still mewled and her breath caught in sobs. Chloe tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t. Her lungs were tight with tension and hurt.

  Jerusha slipped inside the nursery with a baby bottle in her hand. The black woman paused at seeing both Chloe and her mother there. “Here’s her mornin’ bottle.”

  Chloe held out her hand for it.

  Jerusha, looking confused, halted on her way to Chloe’s mother, looking back and forth between the two women.

  “I’ll give it to her,” Chloe said, sounding stiff to her own ears. Jerusha handed her the warmed bottle and slipped away while Chloe lifted the rubber nipple to Bette’s tiny mouth and nudged it against the closed lips. Rather than accept it, Bette stiffened and batted both hands at the bottle. Chloe hadn’t been holding it tightly enough and the little hands knocked the bottle sideways. Chloe lost her grip on its slippery, wet sides and it flew against the wall, knocking the nipple off and sending milk flying.

  “Chloe!” Her mother leaped up. “Jerusha!”

  Bette squalled louder than ever and Chloe struggled to calm her. As Jerusha rushed in, saw the milk splattered on the wall and flowing over the floor, and ran out again, Chloe began to cry herself. I can’t do this! she screamed to herself.

  Suddenly Bette stiffened and then began to jerk. “What’s wrong?” Chloe gasped.

  “Convulsions, again!” her mother exclaimed, “Call the doctor!”

  The next two hours were a bad dream. Bette’s face turned blue and then white. Chloe watched helplessly as the doctor arrived and hovered over her daughter and Jerusha applied cold compresses to the baby’s face. Finally Bette began breathing normally again.

  Chloe sat down then in stunned horror. Seeing her confusion, Doctor Benning came over and took her hand. “Bette has these spells off and on. I don’t know if it’s epilepsy or not. And she might very well outgrow these seizures.”

  “She’s had these before?” Chloe couldn’t believe it.

  “Didn’t your mother tell you?” he asked.

  “I didn’t want to worry Chloe,” her mother snapped. “She’s had enough to deal with losing her husband. Besides, they always happen after the child’s been upset, after Chloe’s tried to disrupt the child’s schedule.”

  In disbelief, Chloe looked at her mother, trying to divine the true meaning of these words. Was she saying it was Chloe’s fault her daughter had these spells? Her mother averted her eyes.

  “It’s important that the child live in a calm household.” The doctor’s voice became stern. “This battle between you two over this child must end. Or the consequences for Bette could be severe.” He stalked from the room.

  Chloe stared at her mother and then over to Bette, who lay still shivering in Jerusha’s arms. Chloe went over the facts: My daughter needs quiet. I can’t stand to watch my mother constantly remind me that my child prefers her. I have no money of my own. How can I take Bette away by myself?

  Her mother lifted Bette out of Chloe’s arms. “You’re always upsetting the child. And you’re not needed. I’m the grandmother. I’m the one who should be taking care of this child.”

  The words were like poisoned darts and each one hit the bull’s-eye. Dazed, Chloe walked from the room onto the landing. Distantly she heard the phone ringing downstairs, and Haines answering it. Blinded by impotent tears, she opened the door to her room, where she could hide from her child, from her mother, from everything.

  “Miss Chloe, it’s for you,” Haines called up to her.

  Wiping her eyes, she hurried down the steps. Who would be calling her at this early hour? For a moment, the hope that Roarke had come back to Maryland opened its petals. “Hello?”

  “Chloe, sugar, I’m sorry to wake you.”

  It was her father. Chloe quelled the instant disappointment. Of course it wouldn’t be Roarke. Where had that crazy idea come from?

  “But I need you to come to D.C. today,” her father went on. “Can you?”

  The invitation whispered a reprieve. “Yes,” she said without a second of thought. “Yes.”

  “Great.” Her father sounded pleased. “I need you to plan an open house for the end of this week. Something’s come up and I need my hostess. You’re becomin’ a real help to me, sugar.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can, Daddy.” Hanging up, she thought about the stylish apartment in D.C. she’d decorated, her father’s work, the interesting people she’d met. She closed her eyes and then opened them. She mounted the stairs. Pausing to look downward, she said, “Haines, I’ll be leaving for Washington after breakfast. Ask Jerusha to pack for me, please.”

  Haines nodded, staring at her with sad, serious eyes.

  I should have known that nothing would ever be right after Theran’s death. He was my one chance to be different and that chance died with him. What did a person do when everything that could go wrong did?

  Would her daughter ever understand that she’d left her here to protect her, not reject her?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  New York City, May 1921

  The prospects for both disaster and humiliation this evening held threatened to overwhelm Chloe. For the first time since they’d parted at the end of 1917, she would see Roarke. Would he still be her friend? More than a friend? Or would he merely take the opportunity to reject her in person?

  It was just after seven in the evening when she took a deep breath and entered the tiny foyer of Kitty’s apartment in the Village. Kitty had passed the New York Bar and had been practicing law for over a year. The young attorney had decorated her apartment in the latest style with sleek, ultra-modern furnishings—a lot of gray and white. Several original cubist oils hung on the walls.

  Kitty squealed in welcome. She wore a crimson silk dress in the popular Oriental style with a mandarin collar and cap sleeves. The long, slim skirt was audaciously slit up both sides to her knees. The scarlet dress was the perfect counterpoint to the gray-and-white background.

  In contrast, Chloe had chosen to wear a severe sleeveless evening dress of ebony satin with a matching cape. Around her short blonde hair, she wore a black bandeau spangled with jet beads. Long black gloves and daring high heels completed her ensemble. Dressing in the forefront of fashion had become Chloe’s signature, her hobby. Now she let Kitty embrace her and hoped her nervousness didn’t betray itself.

  “It’s about time you came back to the big city.” Kitty shook a finger at Chloe. “I’ve called. I wrote you scads of letters. Why wouldn’t you come?”

  Chloe had expected this question and had practiced many plausible replies. But all of them deserted her now. “I don’t know.”

  “Why did you move to D.C.?” With a quick movement, Kitty looked into
the hall mirror, finger-combing the waves of her bobbed hair into place. With her little finger, she applied her lip rouge, the same red as her dress. “If you weren’t going to stay at Ivy Manor, why not come back to New York?”

  Chloe had no appetite for explaining her motives for leaving her home and her child in the care of her mother. “Kitty, you don’t understand.”

  “Enlighten me.” Kitty put down the rouge pot and turned to Chloe with hands propped at her slender waist.

  Impossible. Chloe shook her head and changed the subject. “Tell me about Minnie.”

  “The divine Mimi’s the most beautiful woman in the chorus line.” Momentarily diverted, Kitty babbled on about the musical Chloe’s former maid was currently involved with. As Kitty talked, something in her friend began to disturb Chloe. Kitty’s trademark cheerfulness harbored a trace of . . . what? Frenzy? Volatility? For what reason? Kitty, you have it all. What could make you unhappy? But maybe it was just Chloe’s imagination.

  “I can’t wait for you to see Minnie tonight. It’s so exciting.” Kitty danced a jazzy step and through the slits revealed pale silk stockings.

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Chloe trembled with an exquisite premonition of disaster.

  Kitty pouted as she donned long, transparent red gloves. “You just don’t want to be alone with me, so I can make you tell me the truth about why you didn’t move back here.”

  “I don’t like to be late to the theater.” Chloe shrugged and faced the hall mirror. She had known this trip to New York City would be a precarious venture. But she hadn’t been able to refuse Minnie’s invitation. Or resist a chance to see Roarke again—whatever the cost. She opened her purse and took out a round, eighteen-karat-gold compact and matching lipstick tube, a gift from her father for her trip to New York City and a characteristic but unnecessary reminder from him of why she should return to him. Her father never understood that she didn’t care about money and what it could procure. He hadn’t bought her, no matter what he thought. She powdered her nose and in an effort to overcome her own nervousness, focused again on her friend’s agitated behavior. What are you holding back from me, Kitty?