It was Katie who finally noticed my wound. She clucked over it and cleaned it and sprinkled it with sugar, but by then, it had already turned an angry red. I’d spent the morning of the funeral in front of the mirror, combing and recombing my bangs over my forehead with salt water to make sure they would stay in place. Though the length and style of the rest of my hair had changed over the years, I’d been wearing bangs ever since.
“Are you sure?” Fleurette coaxed, lifting my hair back up again and shaping it with her hands. “It would bring out your beautiful cheekbones.”
“I’m sure.”
She released my hair with a sigh. “Very well,” she said, reaching for the curling iron. “We’ll do Marcel waves again, like last time.”
• • •
At precisely half past seven, after being coiffed, manicured, perfumed, and levered into my dress, I descended to the sitting room. I stopped on the threshold to stare at my mother, who was sipping a glass of sherry in front of the fireplace. She was dressed in a new gown of dark-green Liberty satin, wearing a sparkling emerald necklace and tiara that hadn’t been out of the safe in years. Her hair was arranged in an elegant French twist, and her cheeks, if I was not mistaken, had been brightened with a touch of rouge.
“Mama! You look beautiful!” I said, crossing to kiss her cheek.
“I thought it was time for something new,” she replied with a self-conscious smile. “I didn’t want to put you two to shame.”
My father was standing beside her, crisp and handsome in his white tie and black tailcoat. “You’re looking lovely yourself, Genevieve,” he said. “I must say that tonight, Monsieur Henri has earned his fee.”
Katie brought our coats and slipper bags, and we walked out to the curb, where Maurice was waiting with the motorcar. He helped me and Mama into the back and arranged our lap robes, while Father took his usual seat in the front, from which he could comment on Maurice’s fledgling driving skills at will. Fortunately, the engine had been left running, and we were able to depart immediately without the usual fussing over the crank. This was, of course, important, as Lucille Fiske was famous for turning away any guest who arrived more than fifteen minutes late.
Maurice drove around the block on the one-way streets and turned left down Fifth Avenue, grinding the gears as he accelerated cautiously from a snail’s pace to a turtle’s crawl, drawing catcalls from passing vehicles as he continued in fits and starts down the roadway. Pulling the lap robe up to my neck, I wriggled lower in my seat and watched ornate rooftops alternate with empty sky along the relatively undeveloped northern stretch of the avenue, while I tried to come up with a strategy for the evening. As my education had failed to include training in espionage, however, I was unable to think of any brilliant ideas, and by the time the rooftops had merged into an unbroken line, I’d settled on simply keeping my eyes and ears open.
I sat up as the motorcar ground to a stop. The Fiske mansion rose up ahead on our left, a massive French Renaissance re-creation that took up half the block. A long line of carriages was waiting to unload in front of it, backing up traffic in both directions. The jam was made worse by cordons of mounted police stretching along both sides of the avenue, there to hold back the crowds who’d come to watch the cream of society alight.
As we drew closer, I could see footmen in brilliant scarlet livery standing at both ends of a red carpet on the sidewalk, holding flaming torches aloft. Guests in lush furs and gleaming top hats streamed two-by-two across the carpet toward the open double doors, their jewels and gold-tipped walking sticks flashing in the flickering torchlight. As we waited our turn, I glanced toward the police line and glimpsed three young boys standing just beyond the quivering horseflesh, hopping from foot to foot and blowing into their bare hands. One, I saw, was wearing boots with no toes, while another’s pants were held up by a string. The contrast between the shivering boys in their tattered coats and the opulently attired guests passing through the Fiskes’ marble pilasters struck me hard in my solar plexus.
Maurice started inching the motorcar forward again, then slammed on the brakes as the four-in-hand in front of us came to a sudden stop. Sticking my head out over the car door, I saw that the tallest boy, the one with the string for a belt, had run out in front of the four-in-hand and seized the lead horses by the reins. The coachman shouted, apparently calling to the footman in the rear for help, but before the latter could descend from his platform, one of the other boys ran up to the carriage window and raised a battered tin cup toward its occupants.
The cup hadn’t cleared the ornate crest on the door before a police whistle shrieked and two of the mounted officers broke out of line. One headed for the boy at the reins, while the other swooped toward the one with the cup, his nightstick raised over his head.
I jumped up in my seat, banging my head on the motorcar’s canopy. “No!” I cried.
Father swiveled toward me. “Genevieve, sit down.”
“He’s going to hit that little boy!”
“Those boys shouldn’t be out in the middle of the street. They’ll get far worse than the butt of a stick if they don’t move out of the way.”
From the way the first officer was backing and filling between the carriage horses, I deduced that the boy in front had taken cover under the harness. The boy with the cup, however, had nowhere to hide. I watched in horror as the second officer leaned in his saddle and delivered a vicious crack to the back of the boy’s knees, dropping him in a heap into the slush.
I pushed open the car door and jumped out, getting twisted up in my skirts and nearly falling to the ground before I managed to yank them free. I had just started toward the fallen boy when the other lad, who’d apparently been flushed from the tackle, came careening around the side of the carriage and dashed past me with the mounted officer in hot pursuit. Without stopping to think, I stepped into the officer’s path, holding up my arms. His horse snorted and reared as he pulled back on the reins, skidding toward me in the slush.
A hand grabbed the back of my jacket. I twisted around to see my father behind me, one of his hands on my jacket and the other on the escaping boy’s collar. He pulled us both back from the flailing hooves as the officer cursed and struggled with the reins.
The horse dropped to all fours and danced nervously over the ground, snorting steam clouds into my face. “You want to be more careful, miss,” growled the officer, patting the animal’s neck. “You could have been hurt, rushing in like that.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Officer,” said my father, still gripping my jacket. “Maurice, please help Miss Summerford into the car.” He waited until the chauffeur had me firmly in hand before releasing me. Dragging the boy by his collar, he stalked to the curb and propelled him unceremoniously onto the sidewalk. Then he returned to the injured boy and, hoisting him by the back of his coat, deposited him likewise onto the curb. To my great relief, the boy rose immediately to his feet and limped after his friend into the crowd.
Maurice handed me into the back seat.
“Are you all right?” my mother asked, her face pale.
“I’m fine,” I said, although my legs were shaking.
“Oh, Genna, look at your dress.”
Looking down, I saw that the bottom of my gown was soaked through. “It’s not so bad,” I muttered, swatting at a ridge of slush. “The fabric’s so dark no one will notice.”
My father climbed into the motorcar and pulled the door shut. No one spoke as the footman’s horn blared up ahead and the four-in-hand rolled forward. My father’s shoulders were so rigid that I could have balanced tea cups on them. I dabbed at my hem with my handkerchief and waited for him to say something. As Maurice ground the motorcar into gear, he finally turned to face me. “What on earth do you think you were doing?”
“Trying to protect that little boy.”
“It was none of your affair. You should have left it to the aut
horities.”
I gave up on the hem, crumpling the soaked handkerchief in my hand. “Did you see how hard he hit him? He could have crippled that boy for life.”
“Nonsense. The boy was fine, just a little bruised. The police know how to use their clubs to make a point. All you accomplish by interfering is to undermine their authority, not to mention make a spectacle of yourself.”
“They weren’t hurting anyone,” I said, cupping my knees in my hands to try to stop them from shaking. “There was no need to hit them.”
“If you start bending the rules, you produce nothing but chaos,” he insisted. “All of us, those boys included, benefit from living in an orderly society. Surely, you can see that.”
We had arrived at the Fiskes’ door. I remained silent as I pulled off my street shoes and slid on my satin slippers. A week earlier, I might have conceded the point. But my faith in “authority” had been slipping over the past few days. I was no longer sure just who the rules were made for. For the life of me, I couldn’t see what benefits our orderly society had conferred on those three, gaunt-faced little boys.
Maurice helped my mother and me out of the car, and Father escorted us up the steps into the house. More footmen stood inside the enormous entrance hall, their scarlet livery dazzling against the screens of white carnations that rose from floor to ceiling along every wall. In the center of the floor, a marble urn held an enormous arrangement of white orchids.
“Winter-blooming cattleyas,” my mother exclaimed, bending to smell the blooms. Before she could straighten, a cloud of servants was upon us, whisking away our coats and hats and holding up a mirror for Mama to check the cant of her tiara.
Music was drifting down from the floor above. We started up the circular staircase toward it, climbing past more footmen standing like tin soldiers in the recesses of the stairwell: all blond, all well-built, and since footmen were paid by the inch and the Fiskes could afford the best, all very, very tall. We reached the top and took our place at the end of the receiving line, Mother and I panting slightly in our heavily boned gowns.
Charles, Lucille, and Olivia Fiske stood beneath an imposing Goya portrait near the ballroom entrance. My attention went first to Olivia. She was wearing an empire dress of apricot silk voile, with a pearl dog collar around her long neck and a spray of white flowers in her dark hair. Shifting from side to side in the line to keep her in view, I watched her greet her guests. Olivia and I were not strangers, by any means; I could remember passing her in her pram on Fifth Avenue when she was an infant with a nurse and bodyguard in tow, and in the years since, our paths had crossed regularly at social events. But while her face was not new to me, tonight I saw it with fresh eyes. Tonight, I noticed the oval shape of her face, and the particular shade of her eyes, and the dainty scallops of her earlobes. Tonight, when I looked at Olivia, I saw Eliza.
Chapter Eighteen
The receiving line moved slowly forward until only old Mrs. Fenton and her son stood between us and Charles Fiske. Charles was looking very modern in one of the tailless dinner jackets—the “tuxedo,” they were calling it—that King Edward and his Marlborough set had made fashionable. Though he stood only a few inches taller than his wife, his broad chest and clean-shaven, square-cut features exuded strength and solidity. He struck me as very much at ease, attentive and yet somehow detached at the same time, seeming to draw out his guests while keeping his own thoughts close to the vest.
The footman announced us, and we stepped forward. Charles greeted my parents, shaking their hands in turn, then turned to look at me.
“You remember our daughter, Genevieve?” Father said.
“Of course I do,” he said to me, taking my hand in his firm one. “Although it seems to me we haven’t seen as much of you these last few years.”
“She’s been away at medical school,” Father explained.
Charles assessed me with new interest. “So you’re a doctor,” he said.
“Yes, I’m a medical psychologist.”
His eyes were intelligent and unblinking. “Intriguing field, psychology. I take an interest in it myself.”
“Do you really?” I asked in surprise.
“I’ve always believed that there’s more to a man than what’s on the surface. I like to try to find out what’s underneath, especially when his interests are at odds with mine.”
As his direct gaze bore into me, I had the absurd but nonetheless uncomfortable sensation that he was reading my mind and knew I had come to spy on him. “Do you really?” I asked again, realizing too late I was repeating myself.
“Take that man over there, for instance,” he said, nodding at a man by the spittoon near the top of the stairs. “He’s been trying to interest me in a business opportunity for more than a year. It’s in a growing industry, and the figures look good, but I’m not going to bite. You know why?”
I shook my head.
“Because every time he talks about the risks, he does this.” He tugged on his upper lip with his thumb and forefinger.
I stared at him, uncomprehending.
“Do you play poker, Dr. Summerford?”
“Not very well.”
“Nine times out of ten, when a player touches his lip, it means he’s hiding something.”
“How very interesting,” I said, keeping my own hands locked against my sides.
“Keep it in mind.” He winked. “I guarantee it will improve your game.” He turned back to my father. “Hugh, I’ve had a chance to look over those drawings you gave me. I’ve got some questions for your engineer, but if he can answer them to my satisfaction, you can count me in.”
“Why, that’s wonderful!” Father said, looking stunned. “I’m glad to hear it. Very glad indeed!”
“Why don’t you have your engineer call my secretary, Mr. Combs, to set up a meeting? I’d appreciate it if you came too.”
“Of course I’ll come. I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Father pumped Charles’s hand, and we moved on down the line.
“You never mentioned that Mr. Fiske was going to finance the lung,” I whispered to my father as we were awaiting our turn with Lucille.
“I didn’t know if he’d go for it,” he murmured back. “I knew he’d invested in other medical projects, but I had no idea if he’d be interested in our work.”
“How much did you ask him for?”
His mustache twitched. “A hundred thousand dollars.” He must have seen my surprise, for he added, “I thought if I was going to ask, I might as well aim high.”
“Do you think he’ll give you the whole amount?”
“I don’t know. It’s not a good time, what with all the uncertainty in the stock market. But it is possible. And if he agrees…” His mustache twitched again.
If Charles agreed, the artificial lung that Father had been working so long and hard on might finally become a reality. “Well, he certainly sounded interested to me,” I said encouragingly. Inwardly, however, I was thinking that if I were to discover something tonight that supported Simon’s theory, and Mr. Fiske was accused of murder because of me, funding was the last thing he would want to give my father.
“Evelyn, you look stunning!” Lucille exclaimed, turning to greet my mother. “You should wear green more often.” She herself wore a drop-shouldered, ivory-colored velvet dress that set off her heart-shaped face and porcelain skin to perfection. She leaned forward to embrace my mother, holding her head carefully erect under the weight of her famous diamond tiara, which had been designed to resemble an English crown. “And here’s Genevieve,” she said, pressing her gloved hands over mine. “I’m so glad you could come. I want the house to be full of young people tonight!” She glanced at Olivia, who was bending down to listen to old Mrs. Fenton. “After all, we have to show the Earl that our American beauties can vie with anything Europe has to offer.”
“I can’t imagi
ne he needs much convincing,” I said, “having already made Olivia’s acquaintance.”
Lucille eyed me approvingly. “You’ll forgive a proud mother for agreeing with you.”
As my father took his turn with Lucille, I moved on to Olivia, taking her offered hand and saying, “Olivia, you’re a vision.”
She smiled. “You’re very kind.”
“Just truthful,” I assured her.
Father drew up alongside me. “Well, Olivia,” he said jovially, “where’s this Earl I’ve heard so much about?”
She glanced toward the grand staircase, her cheeks coloring. “I don’t believe he’s arrived yet, but I expect he’ll be here soon.”
I thought she looked more agitated than pleased by the prospect. “I understand your family’s been showing him around New York,” I said. “You must find his maturity and worldview refreshing after our homegrown boys.”
Her eyes flicked again toward the staircase. “I am sure the Earl is most agreeable,” she said, slowly and carefully, like a child reciting a lesson.
I thought it an odd response. I would have liked to pursue the subject further, but the line was pressing us from behind, and we were forced to continue into the ballroom.
This was a vast space, perhaps some sixty feet deep and two stories high, made larger still by countless gilded mirrors hanging on the wood-paneled walls. I paused inside the doorway, dazzled by what appeared to be an endless sea of jewel-colored gowns and glossy black lapels shimmering under an infinite number of crystal chandeliers. A low stage illuminated by torches at its four corners occupied the far end of the room, under a mysterious array of ropes and wires that hung from the high, coffered ceiling. Four empty, throne-size chairs faced the center of the stage, with more seats set up behind them, many already occupied by elderly guests. To the right of the stage, a large orchestra was churning out a popular ragtime tune.
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