by Mary Hogan
“I hear their London home has two grand staircases in the entry hall, curving upward to the central master suite,” Addie says, adding, “Three water closets. With a built-in bath. One on the second floor.”
My heart is pounding, though I adopt an air of indifference. We have all heard so much about the fetching Mr. James Tottinger from Great Britain. But, fawning over a man is unbecoming. I am nearly a woman. It’s time to act like one.
Still.
Before any of us arrived at South Fork for the summer, the whole of Pittsburgh society was abuzz with anticipation at the arrival of our British visitors. The elder Mr. Tottinger had sent Mr. Carnegie a telegram seeking advice on expanding his textile empire to the United States. True to form, Mr. Carnegie invited the entire Tottinger family to Lake Conemaugh. A generous offer, to say the least. But one that anyone who knew Andrew Carnegie would expect. He was renowned as an altruistic man who went out of his way to be helpful. Why, he postponed his own wedding to please his mother! Mr. Carnegie never forgot his modest roots in Scotland, unlike Mr. Vanderhoff, whose bluster was as loud as the machinery at Cambria Iron.
“Nothing fancy,” Mr. Carnegie surely said of the clubhouse rooms in our rustic retreat. “Though you’ll have all you need.”
As soon as word got out that the Tottinger family—the elder Mr. Tottinger and his wife; James, their son; and Ivy, their teenage daughter—accepted Mr. Carnegie’s invitation, club members scrambled to reschedule their allotted vacation times to coincide with those two weeks. Particularly families with marriageable daughters. The clubhouse was filled to capacity.
Rising up three stories like a gray whale in the green woods, the clubhouse of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club is the size of a fifty-room hotel. Behind its clapboard façade, the dining room is large enough to seat one hundred and fifty. The bedrooms are spare: slender bed, washbasin, bureau. The more prominent members of the club are assigned front rooms with lake views, of course.
Mornings in the dining room are when and where the club members meet to plan the events of the day. Sailing, canoeing, horseback riding, dressing up and posing for tableaux vivants. Evenings are for entertainments. Some of our own invention; others hired from down the hill. Piano recitals, theatricals, dance practice. Every night it’s something new and cheerful. I can only imagine the excited whisperings down the narrow clubhouse halls at bedtime, the boasts, the dares.
Most members of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club wouldn’t dream of owning a cottage like ours—one of only sixteen. They want a carefree rest in the country. “Roughing it” in the woodsy clubhouse with their peers, leaving their personal servants back home in Pittsburgh. As I would prefer, too. But Father built our cottage—with its medical office—when the club first opened.
“My patients expect instant access to me wherever they are,” he said.
I would have thought Father overly solicitous had I not seen it for myself the summer before.
It was the middle of the night. There was pounding on the cottage door. “Mind the children,” Father called to Mother as he ran down the stairs.
Mother, of course, ran to Little Henry’s room first. I dashed to the stair railing. “His pain started about midnight,” I overheard a man’s baritone tell Father. Then I heard a groan, and my friend Edmond’s distressed voice.
“It’s my stomach. Muscle cramps.”
Panic rose into my chest. Cholera hadn’t made its way to our retreat in South Fork, but we all feared it would. Everyone knew the symptoms: diarrhea, vomiting, dehydration, muscle cramps. Anyone rushing to the outhouse was suspect. I nearly crumbled to the floor. Edmond was my age. Would I lose my friend? Were we all in danger? Father quickly led Edmond and his father to the back parlor and shut them in his office.
That night, I barely slept. The next morning, I tiptoed downstairs filled with dread. I expected to see pots of water boiling on the cookstove and Edmond’s parents weeping in our parlor. Instead, I smelled bacon.
“Is Edmond going to be okay?” My breath was shallow, my lips dry.
“He’s fine.” Father sat at the head of the dining room table. He reached for a piece of toast.
“Is it—?” I stopped, as if merely mentioning the dreaded disease would bring it into the house.
“An overzealous badminton game is all,” Father said.
“What?”
“Pulled muscles in the abdomen.”
When I laughed, Father firmly admonished me. “My patients are not to be ridiculed, Elizabeth.”
“Yes, Father, but—”
“Never discuss this case, or any other, with your friends. Do you understand me?”
I nodded.
“Say it out loud.”
“I understand.”
“As far as you are concerned, Edmond and his father were never here. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Father. I hear you.”
“The privacy of my patients is what puts food on our table.”
I understood. There were rules. We all had to abide by them.
Edmond never mentioned that night, and neither did I. Ever.
“Goodness, when will they get here?” On the clubhouse porch, Addie has begun to perspire. She sips iced tea to cool herself.
“Here,” I say, “let me take your jacket.”
Addie looks at me, and I look at her. We both burst out laughing. Only after being introduced to James Tottinger would we dare change our outfits.
The loud nicker of a horse causes us to turn our heads toward the entrance road from the dam. But it is a false alarm, only the arrival of Mr. Vanderhoff and his family. Roderick and Albert Vanderhoff hop out of the carriage and head straight for the clubhouse. Oddly, Lily Vanderhoff sits on the open seat like a sack of flour. She stares straight ahead without seeming to see her husband or children at all. She very nearly crumbles to the ground when Mr. Vanderhoff encircles her waist to assist her.
“Oh my.” Next to me, Addie notices it, too.
We both register the impatient embarrassment on Mr. Vanderhoff’s face and overhear him mumble something about motion sickness. Quite curious since I have traveled in carriages with his wife before and endured only her nonstop chatter.
“Here we go, Georgie.” After the Vanderhoffs’ luggage is unloaded, the driver clucks his tongue at the club’s chestnut Haflinger, a faithful workhorse I have ridden many summers. Though broad in the back, she is nonetheless nimble. And quite beautiful. Named after the fair-haired actress Georgiana Drew—married to handsome stage star Maurice Barrymore—Georgie’s mane is long and light. She’s always been my favorite horse at the club. “Back down the hill, girl,” the driver says. Off they trot. And our anticipation resumes.
Though I wish it were not so, James Tottinger’s reputation has occupied my mind for weeks. It is rumored that he once kept company with the stunning Elizabeth Wharton Drexel, daughter of banker Joseph Drexel, of the New York Drexels. Back in London, Mr. Tottinger supposedly had his knickerbockers tailored to flatter the musculature of his legs. They say the very sight of him on horseback has inspired such intense gasps that proper ladies forget to resume their breathing and faint dead away.
The Tottingers of Great Britain are probably as close as any of us will come to meeting royalty. With the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Carnegie, perhaps. Our American prince of steel and his bride.
Quite honestly, however, the more I hear of Mr. Tottinger, the more he sounds insubstantial. What woman could be interested in a man who thought more of himself than her? Personally, I am most intrigued by a fact I recently learned about him: he was born in the same year as my favorite poet, Rudyard Kipling. Eighteen sixty-five. Add the numbers together—one, eight, six, and five—and you get twenty. The age I plan to be when I marry. Ever since I was a girl, the deeper meaning of numbers has fascinated me.
“Hello, dearests.”
Behind me, flitting out from the open clubhouse doors, I hear the avian voice of Francine Larkin. Without turning around, I
picture her fluttery entrance. Doubtful such a hummingbird of a woman could summon the lung capacity to yelp for assistance if she fell overboard during a regatta. It was a wonder she could even stand on those miniature feet. She was always lamenting the impossibility of finding button boots so petite.
“Have you tried a shoemaker for juveniles?” I once asked when I could no longer stand it.
“No sign of the royals yet?” Francine chirps.
“They’re not royals.” I glance only briefly behind me, wishing Francine Larkin would flap her winglike arms and fly back indoors. “Not genuine royals, anyway.” She’s dressed in silly pink. Taffeta, of course, from head to toe. Her hair is so blond it belongs on a child. Or a Haflinger horse.
On the wide waterside porch running the length of the clubhouse, my friends and I gaze at the stunning mountain scenery encircling our sparkling lake. This is the most idyllic spot in all of Pennsylvania. With the gently undulating water stretching to the emerald horizon on the far shore, it’s easy to imagine we are the only souls on earth. Our very own Garden of Eden. In the afternoon sunlight, the diamonds in my bracelet reflect the twinkle of the lake. Long ago, Mother insisted that I remove my bracelet for day wear. But, just as long ago, I refused. No matter what I am wearing, I never take this bracelet off. It was a gift from my late grandmother.
“Did you hear?” Francine says. Her voice is like a tic in my ear.
Always one for gossip, Addie wheels around. “Hear what?”
“Father took tea with Mr. Carnegie in the city last week and they spoke of the Tottingers.”
“That’s news?” Admittedly, my tone is as sharp as a shard of broken china. Like nearly everyone at the club, I’ve known Francine Larkin all my life. From the start, I’ve found her as shallow as the stream at Graesers Run. My hope at the moment is that she will drop her “news” like a sparrow drops a worm and flit back inside before the Tottingers arrive.
Instead, tiptoeing up to the porch railing, Francine rests her diminutive hand on the balustrade and turns, forcing us all to face her. “Well,” she begins, obviously settling in to entrap us for a lengthy period. “Father told me that Mr. Carnegie told the elder Mr. Tottinger that summer weeks at the lake were intended for pleasure and sport. However, since they’d come so far to discuss business, he proposed that the men enjoy weekends only at the lake, returning to Pittsburgh on the Monday-morning train.”
“So?” I say.
“So—” Her gaze meets mine with brows peaked, a sliver of superiority on her lips. “Supposedly, the elder Mr. Tottinger summoned his son into the grand parlor of their home in London. His son being the eminently eligible gentleman, James Tottinger, a relative of Countess Augusta Reus—”
“We know who he is, Francine.” Even mild-tempered Julia found Francine irksome at times.
“Yes. Of course. Back to my news.” She darts a glance at me. “The elder Mr. Tottinger told his son that he—James—would not be returning to Pittsburgh on the Monday-morning train with the other men. He was to remain here for the full two weeks. Which, I heard, distressed him greatly. According to Father, James Tottinger said, ‘Stay in the woods with a bunch of women and children?’ Then he asked his father if he’d gone mad.”
In spite of myself, I laugh.
“You see,” Francine continues, “Mr. Carnegie told the elder Mr. Tottinger that South Fork was more than a club for fishing bass. He told him that Pittsburgh’s most prominent young ladies summer here and there was no better place for his son to cast his line.”
“That’s absurd.” Swiveling away from Francine, I mentally will her off the veranda and into the lake. “Mr. Carnegie would never say something so crass.”
“He would and he did. I trust Father completely.”
Addie asks, “How did James Tottinger respond?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see her fuss with the silk flowers atop her hat. Then she presses a handkerchief against the beads of sweat on her upper lip.
“He was pleased.”
“Pleased?” Addie echoes.
“Pleased?” I feel my heart increase its beating.
Pausing for dramatic effect, Francine Larkin takes one tiny step closer, leans in on her baby feet, and whispers, “He grinned devilishly and said he’d always been an expert angler. Clearly, the thought of having unfettered access to us all excited him no end.”
My dark eyes grow black. “Is this true?”
“As I said, I trust Father completely.” Francine lifts her pointed chin in the air with absolute confidence.
I don’t need to hear more. Such impudence. Being compared to a fish? Paraded about for a foreigner’s selection? Not me. Not ever. Just thinking about it brings color to my face. How could a gentleman like Mr. Carnegie even hint at such a thing?
“Shall we?” I say to Addie and Julia. They stare at me, dumbfounded. Julia sputters, “No one has summoned us into the dining room yet.”
“Surely you don’t intend to stay here and subject yourself to such an insult?”
Again, Addie’s fingers fumble about her hat. Julia stares at her feet, mumbling, “I’m quite sure he meant it as a compliment.”
“Compliment? Likened to a smelly, scaled, bug-eyed, flapping creature without limbs?”
Immobile, they gape at me with lips parted like . . . like fish. Francine’s petite shoes suddenly seem permanently attached to the wood planks of the porch floor. Her brows still reach up to the treetops. I can endure no more.
“I will be dining at the cottage today,” I say, calmly. “I’m sure Ida will be happy to prepare extra for whoever wishes to join me.”
“You mustn’t!” Julia says. “The royals!”
“They are no more royal than you or I.”
With that, I spin on my heels and descend the side steps that lead to the boardwalk. My shoes percuss the wood slats. My head is held high, my back straight. The blue lake glistens like the tail feathers of an Indigo Bunting. On my way to the far end of the row of cottages, I turn back briefly to catch a glimpse of Francine’s beaky grin. She mocks me, but I don’t care. The other girls can pother like guppies around the arrogant Mr. Tottinger, lips parted, eager to snag his fishing line.
Not me.
Not ever.
CHAPTER 10
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
Day after Memorial Day
Present
4:23 P.M.
With seven minutes left before the state office closed, Lee’s tires screeched into the parking lot of a cement-and-smoked-glass rectangle that rose out of the asphalt like a gray block of Legos.
“Don’t bother locking the car.” Valerie swung open the passenger door before Lee had come to a complete stop. Her soft white work shoes hit the ground running. “We have nothing to steal.”
State workers were already flooding through the exit doors. Two salmon swimming upstream, Lee and her mother wiggled their way inside.
“Excuse me. Pardon me. Oops. Sorry. Coming through.”
Indoors, it was blessedly cool. With its washable wood paneling, vibrating white lighting, and smudged stainless-steel elevator doors, the lobby resembled any government building anywhere. Security waved them over to a metal detector. Valerie groaned. As the guard peered into Lee’s cross-body bag and pushed Valerie’s used Kleenexes aside with his rubber-gloved hand, she thought, The terrorists have already won.
“Who are you here to see?” the guard asked.
“Adoption Unit. Fifth floor,” Lee said. After scribbling their names on a sign-in sheet, the guard flagged them through the metal detector and they raced for the elevator bank. Furiously poking the up button, Lee stole a peek at her phone even as she knew it was less than a minute since she’d last looked. Four twenty-four. Six minutes to go before she’d be locked out of her future . . . and her past.
Eyes pressed shut, Val willed the elevator to arrive. “Come on. Come on.” Lee stared at the digital readout. Nine, eight, seven. Unbearable pauses at each floor.
“Follow me.”
>
Grabbing her mother’s hand, Lee pulled her to the stairwell door and swung it open. Together, they dashed up five flights of cement stairs, two steps at a time. By the time they reached the top, both were pink-cheeked and gasping for air. “Here. To see. Adoption counselor.” Lee plunged her sweaty hand into her bag and produced the wrinkled letter she’d kept in her underwear drawer for months. “I’m eighteen,” she heaved. “I have proof.”
A receptionist was just rising up from a scuffed white desk. “Ooh,” she said with a pout. “We’re closed. It’s four thirty.”
“Four twenty eight.” Valerie testily tapped the face of her watch.
“We’ve driven from—” Lee didn’t want to say North Beverly Park, which would convey the wrong message. Though they lived in one of the richest neighborhoods in Los Angeles, they didn’t really live there. They parked their bodies in the pool house, not even allowed to use the pool. “We’ve driven from the Valley.”
“Sorry.” The receptionist’s lower lip protruded in mock sorrow.
She seemed like a temp. Barely into her twenties, she appropriated an officious tone that betrayed her inexperience. As if sitting behind that childish desk was her first real job and she was drunk on the power of it. Pushing her rectangular wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose, she gave Valerie’s maid’s uniform the once-over. Adjusting her posture, she picked up a pen and pretended to write something important. Lee noticed that her purse was already out of its storage drawer and her desk was neatly organized. Ready for work the next day. Post-it notes were tucked into a corner in a perfect yellow stack.
“Look here, missy.” Valerie’s ruddy cheeks got even redder.
“Mom—”
“We will spend the night on top of your desk if we have to. I will snore all over your in-box, drool on your keyboa—”
“Is there a problem?”
From around a fabric-covered partition, a woman holding a stack of manila envelopes appeared. She was stunning. Her flawless purple-black skin glistened like a ripe eggplant. The close crop of her copper-colored hair highlighted exotic features: almond-shaped eyes, lips the color of peach flesh. She stood as tall as a windmill, owning her height as if no one had ever advised her to slouch near the short boys.