by Amber Brock
The dog watched from under dancing eyebrows as Kitty put on makeup. She patted Loco’s head. “Don’t miss me too much today. I’ll come back to take you out again before the party.”
Hen’s mother’s party wasn’t starting until seven o’clock, so Kitty had plenty of time to visit one of her favorite places. With her father’s twenty tucked in her purse, she walked back out onto the street, heading to Macy’s with a new dress for Mrs. Bancroft’s party on her mind. The air outside had already warmed up considerably only an hour after her walk with Loco, especially for late November. The frost had melted from the railing outside the hotel.
Kitty walked up a block and cut through Herald Square. The sidewalks had filled up, and she preferred dodging pigeons to bumping along with other pedestrians. She waited at the curb for a few bright yellow taxis to pass, then crossed 35th Street to dash under the awning to Macy’s glass front doors. She could have found her way to the ladies’ department blindfolded. The wooden escalator took her upstairs, where shoppers already crowded around the racks and glass tables filled with merchandise.
She paused at a display of three mannequins, each wearing a different full-skirted dress. One had a velvet halter top, embellished with a sparkling silver brooch, and a tiered cream skirt. Before Kitty could look around for a clerk to help find her size, a voice rose above the chatter of the other patrons.
“Miss Tessler!” A slender brunette practically skipped over. Kitty could almost hear the ding of the cash register in the girl’s head.
“Hello, Barbara,” Kitty said. “How are things?”
“Busy.” Barbara swept a hand toward the other patrons. “But never too busy for you. What can I find for you today?”
Kitty pointed at the dress in the display. “Do you have that one in my size?”
“Of course.” Barbara clucked her tongue. “That dress is going to look gorgeous on you. You have the best eye for things like that.” She rushed off and returned a moment later with the dress, then escorted Kitty to the fitting room.
The dress fit her like a dream, and the wine-red top was a perfect contrast to her fair skin and platinum blond hair. The skirt especially set off her curves. Kitty admired herself in the three-way mirror at the end of the fitting room hallway, twirling a bit to get a look at the skirt’s flare. Barbara squealed her approval. Satisfied, Kitty changed and went to pay. At the counter, she threw in a pair of gloves and some stockings. If her father asked her, she wanted to be able to say she’d put the twenty he gave her to its promised use, even though the dress meant there would be no change after all. But he was right; there never was anyway.
She went back out to the street, stopping at the corner. The weather had grown so warm that even her cardigan was too much. She took off her sweater and placed the bag by her feet. She had just knotted the cardigan around her shoulders when she heard a familiar voice behind her.
“If it isn’t Kitty Tessler,” the girl said.
Kitty whipped around to face her. “You know good and well it is, Marjorie.”
Another girl joined Marjorie. Both had the same salon-pressed golden curls, though Marjorie was taller and far slimmer than her friend, Patricia. “We only wanted to say hello,” Patricia said, her voice dripping with false sweetness.
“There, you’ve said it. This truly is the city where dreams come true.” Kitty placed her hands on her hips.
Marjorie smirked. “Doing a little shopping this morning? How nice. And at Macy’s. I’m sure that’s a swell store if you’re willing to settle for ready-to-wear. But that would be good enough for you, I suppose.”
Kitty sighed. Marjorie and Patricia hadn’t changed since the first day she’d met them at school. Their families were part of Hen’s crowd, but Hen had never counted them as friends. Kitty certainly didn’t either. They had never missed an opportunity to remind Kitty that her father’s fortune did not make Kitty their social equal.
“Sorry, Marjorie. I know it must be hard to wait for weeks for your tailor to deliver up yet another fashion disappointment.”
The smirk slid from Marjorie’s face. “My fiancé seems to like what I wear just fine.”
“Harold Daughtry wouldn’t know high fashion from a burlap sack, so I don’t know if I’d go around bragging about that,” Kitty shot back.
Even Patricia had to fight hard to keep her defensive frown from turning into a smile at that remark. Harold was a blobby, freckled lawyer whose primary virtues were his bloodline and the fact that he had given Marjorie the golf ball–sized diamond she sported on her left hand.
“You’ve got no class, Kitty Tessler. You never have, and you never will.” Color rose in Marjorie’s cheeks.
“Oh, shut your trap. You just stopped to say hello? What a load of bunk. Have a nice day. I’m all out of rude things to say.” Kitty breezed past them, heading back toward the Macy’s entrance. When Marjorie and Patricia had cleared about half a block, Kitty signaled the security officer standing at the glass doors.
“Excuse me, sir? Do you see those two girls? The blondes?” she asked.
The officer peered down the street. “The one in the blue dress?”
“Yes, and the other in the green. I stopped to say hello—I know them from school, you see—and they told me they’d filled their purses with things from the store. They didn’t pay or anything.” Kitty pressed her hand to her chest and blinked rapidly. “I couldn’t believe it, but I knew it would be wrong not to say something.”
The officer nodded, his mouth a tight line. His eyes never left the girls. “Thank you, miss. You’ve done a good thing.”
“Oh, no, thank you,” Kitty said. He sprinted off toward Marjorie and Patricia, and Kitty smoothed her hair and started back toward the hotel, humming a bit to herself. She always enjoyed when she had the opportunity to give someone a little bit of just deserts.
Kitty arrived at Hen’s apartment right at seven o’clock, mindful of how much Mrs. Bancroft prized punctuality. Though there was always a hint of coldness in their encounters, Kitty hoped that with enough interaction she could secure Mrs. Bancroft’s full approval. It would only help in Kitty’s quest to someday join the ranks for which Mrs. Bancroft served as gatekeeper.
A white-gloved attendant took Kitty’s fur wrap and showed her to the parlor, where the rest of the guests sipped cocktails and chatted. Huge, full-story windows looked out over the city lights, and the gloss on the wood floors gave the whole room a warm glow. Kitty strolled in with the sense that she always had at these parties—that she belonged here, in this type of gathering, with these people. Not being born to it simply meant she had to work to place herself here, but she deserved this charmed life. She knew it.
Mrs. Bancroft, a tall and willowy woman, met Kitty near the arched doorway. “Kitty, how are you this evening?”
“Just fine, and you?” Kitty took Mrs. Bancroft’s outstretched hands and wondered for the millionth time how genetics had given Hen her mother’s delicate limbs and none of Mrs. Bancroft’s natural grace. Hen’s mother’s blessings were all physical, while Hen’s were in her heart.
“Very well, thank you.” Mrs. Bancroft gestured to the other side of the room. “Hen’s over there by the settee. I’m sure she’s been looking for you.”
Kitty doubted Hen could have been looking for her long, given that the party had only officially been going on for three minutes. She kept that observation to herself and thanked Mrs. Bancroft. “I’ll go say hello.”
“Do. Oh, and try some of the punch,” Mrs. Bancroft said, her eyes already on the next guest.
Hen stood near the windows with her back to Kitty. Kitty shook her head. Where Hen’s mother was wearing a pearl-trimmed navy gown with a sweeping hem, Hen had chosen a dowdy pale blue number with long sleeves. She looked like she’d gotten lost on her way to church.
As Kitty crossed the room, she scanned the guests to
see who she knew. Naturally, Hen’s little sister Bebe was present, surrounded by a rapt audience of college-aged boys. All of their mother’s traits that had skipped Hen had settled firmly on the younger Bancroft girl.
Before Kitty could make her way to Hen, she spotted Charles. He was heading over to greet Bebe, but Kitty threw herself in his path. “Hi, Charles. Have you already lost Hen? She’s over there.”
“Ah.” Charles tore his gaze from Bebe. “Yes, thank you. I was just going to ask Bebe if she’d seen her.”
Kitty linked her arm with his and pulled him toward the window. “Glad I could save you the trouble.”
Hen spotted them and waved. Kitty’s heart sank. Hen stood with a couple of men, most of whom she had set Kitty up with at one point or another. One of them let out a low whistle. As she let go of Charles’s arm, Kitty struggled to remember the man’s name—Barry? Larry? Harry? All she could remember from their date was that he was a banker. Kitty had known from one look at his oily black hair and outdated suit that the match was doomed.
“Look here, gents. It’s the lovely Kitty Tessler,” he said, sidling up next to her. The other men in the group drew closer, a circling school of sharks.
“It sure is,” she said dryly.
“Did you get all dressed up like that for me?” he asked, letting his gaze linger on her bare shoulders.
“No,” she said, one flat syllable. The boys howled, and Barry-Larry-Harry’s face flamed up to his scalp.
Hen gave Kitty a warning look. “Do you want something to drink? Charles, will you get her something?”
“I was just going to, lovey,” he said.
“Thank you,” Kitty said.
“Be nice,” Hen said, leaning in to Kitty’s ear. “You could still have a chance with any of these guys. One bad date doesn’t matter that much.”
Kitty cringed. The last thing she wanted was another chance with a single one of them. She smiled at the group, and the man closest to her took it as an invitation to shoot her a slimy grin. As he started to advance, she blurted out, “Will you excuse me? I’m going to the powder room. Be right back.”
She nearly sprinted away from the cloak of cologne. The bathroom was occupied, so Kitty ducked into an alcove. Why hadn’t she been able to stick it out with any of those boys from the living room? Boring conversation, bad suits, no taste—she had to admit to herself that those were not truly disqualifying factors, not if tolerating them meant she got the prize she was after. Even an existing girlfriend was an obstacle she was willing to work around if necessary. The problem was that none of those men had the social leverage to pull the daughter of a self-made man and granddaughter of immigrants out of her nouveau riche no-man’s-land. She’d need a Rockefeller or a Vanderbilt if she wanted to someday host these parties instead of attending them.
Kitty sighed, the weight of her father’s ultimatum sitting heavier on her shoulders. She shook her head and started back down the hallway toward the party but heard Hen’s voice coming from an open door down the hall. Kitty doubled back. Standing in a small, dark study were Hen, Bebe, and Mrs. Bancroft.
“…happening again. And now I want you to do something about it, Mother. Please,” Hen cried.
“Can I please be excused? He came up to me. I didn’t do anything,” Bebe broke in, throwing her hands up in frustration.
Kitty’s hand flew to her mouth. Oh no. Not again. The sight of the three of them dragged her back to that horrible weekend in August, when Hen had come back from her beach house devastated. When the depths of Charles’s sleaziness had been revealed. Still, Kitty felt Hen’s mother had come out looking worse than Hen’s fiancé.
The Bancroft family beach house was mere steps away from the Remingtons’ summer retreat, and all summer the two families were particularly in each other’s pockets. Charles and Hen had been together for years, so everyone expected them to finally formalize the arrangement between them. Sure enough, Charles had finally proposed, and Hen had eagerly accepted. Mrs. Bancroft invited every blueblood in Newport to celebrate the engagement. But at the party, Charles slipped off for so long that Hen had gotten worried. When she went in search of him, she found him in a compromising position with her own teenaged sister.
Hen had run to her mother, hysterical, expecting Mrs. Bancroft to throw Charles out and pack Bebe off to boarding school. Instead, she sent Hen to her room with a glass of water, an aspirin, and an admonishment to “not make a scene.” Early the next morning, Hen found herself sequestered in the library. The only members of that second, less festive party were Hen, Mrs. Bancroft, Charles, and Bebe. Hen was assured in no uncertain terms that she didn’t see what she thought she had, and she would forget what she’d seen as soon as possible. The engagement would not be broken off for such a silly “misunderstanding,” as Mrs. Bancroft had termed it. She guaranteed Hen that she’d keep close watch on Bebe to be certain no other similar misunderstandings occurred. No whiff of scandal would ever leave that room. Bebe had apparently had the good sense to stay silent, her teary eyes on the Savonnerie carpet beneath her feet.
Kitty was no friend of Bebe’s after hearing Hen’s story, but she reserved her full wrath for Mrs. Bancroft and Charles. Even she could see that Bebe was just a spoiled kid captivated by the naughtiness of seducing her sister’s fiancé; she’d never been the kind of girl who thought through the potential consequences of her actions. And she did seem to truly regret causing Hen such distress. But Mrs. Bancroft and Charles had both known exactly what they were doing, and now it seemed Charles wasn’t even willing to keep his end of the bargain to steer clear of Bebe. That had to be the meaning of the impromptu conference she was witnessing.
“Shouldn’t Bebe leave the party?” Hen asked.
“I don’t want to have to leave the party just because of him,” Bebe said.
“Keep your voices down,” Mrs. Bancroft said, her voice hard and dangerous. Kitty watched her round on Hen, her eyes weary. “You know they can’t avoid each other forever. We’re all going to be family soon. We’re going to have to be together. That includes Bebe.”
“I promise, I didn’t do anything to encourage him,” Bebe piped up.
Hen rubbed her forehead. “I believe you. But, Mother—”
“That’s enough,” Mrs. Bancroft said. “Bebe is not leaving the party, and we’re not canceling Christmas and every other family event because you can’t get over something that happened one time. Stop being so dramatic.”
Hen swallowed hard. “It’s not just one time.”
“It was, I swear—” Bebe began.
“I don’t mean with you.” Hen turned to her mother, eyes pleading. “There…there are other girls.”
Her mother waved a hand. “He’s a man. None of those other girls have his grandmother’s ring on their finger, do they?”
“I just don’t think I can bear it. Not for my whole life.” Hen’s chin wobbled.
Mrs. Bancroft grabbed Hen’s arm. “He’ll probably stop once you’re married. But you will marry him. I will not have a daughter who is disgraced by a broken engagement, not when the Remingtons are involved, do you hear me?”
Hen stood silent. Kitty realized her fists were clenched so tightly that her nails were digging into her palm. She shook out her hands and prayed this would be the moment Hen would stand up to her mother. After a shaky breath, Hen spoke.
“Yes, Mother. I’m sorry.”
Kitty didn’t hear Mrs. Bancroft’s response. Her heart raced as she strode away from the study. This was why she had no choice but to intervene. Nothing would ever improve between Hen and Charles. He couldn’t even leave her sister alone with Hen standing a few feet away. Kitty found an empty room and leaned against the wall inside. Even though the breakup would be satisfying, what she really wanted was a way to make him feel some of the pain Hen had.
The thought leapt like a spark from the
flame of her anger. Once Charles was single again, where would he turn his interest? Sure, he had a list of beauties on call. Bebe probably wasn’t safe either, though Kitty doubted his parents would be interested in setting him up with another Bancroft after the older one dumped him. But if she managed everything just right, Kitty herself had a good chance of snagging him.
She didn’t need love to marry, not like Hen. Kitty had always sought a marriage with other advantages. Charles was certainly no sappy romantic, and he’d have to be intrigued by such a mutually beneficial partnership. His flirting made it clear he found her attractive, and she’d been preparing since childhood for the role of society wife. Once he was attached to her, she could have a lifetime of making Charles suffer every indignity he’d earned by mistreating her best friend. No one was as good as Kitty at devising appropriate punishment. He deserved anything and everything Kitty and Hen could dream up. There would be no more crying in side rooms for Hen. Kitty had a clear vision of sitting with Hen at some grand restaurant, toasting with champagne bought with Charles’s money while scheming about the next torture he would have to endure. And then Hen could go home to a man who was worthy of her.
But would Hen really go for a plan like that? Seeing her ex-fiancé with her best friend? Kitty had a lot to consider before the idea could become reality. In the meantime, she had to get out to the party to make sure Hen knew that at least one person supported her.
Kitty spent most of the week after the party avoiding her father’s questions about whether she was spending time with Andre. She also wrestled with her idea about securing an engagement to Charles when he and Hen parted. In the heat of anger, the thought had seemed brilliant. As she cooled off, the genius of it seemed to fizzle, too. For one thing, winning the affections of someone she hated would require deception on a whole other level than what she was used to. For another, Hen might be hurt by the suggestion, and Kitty wanted to avoid that more than anything. Still, the notion had its appeal, so she had a hard time dismissing it entirely.