The Forgotten Room

by Karen White

  Lucy could feel the color rising in her cheeks. The way she had laughed and shouted on the horse—it hadn’t been public spirited at all. Or terribly ladylike.

  But Mr. Ravenel hadn’t seemed to mind.

  “Would you,” said Mr. Ravenel solemnly, leaning one palm against the wall, “consider being an angel of mercy, and, out of the goodness of your heart, devoting another day to entertaining a stranded traveler?”

  Lucy tried to squelch the flare of pleasure his question evoked. “Aren’t you going back to Charleston?”

  “Not quite yet,” said Mr. Ravenel, and while his face didn’t change, she saw his eyes flick briefly back to the hallway that led back to Mr. Schuyler’s office. “There are matters still to be resolved.”

  “Well, in that case . . . If it’s for the good of the firm . . .”

  “I’ll meet you on Saturday at noon. By the carousel.” His gaze dipped to the prim collar of her blouse. “You’re not wearing your necklace.”

  She was, actually, beneath her shirt, as she had since her mother had given it to her. It made her feel closer to her mother, as though carrying around this key might somehow unlock her past.

  Lucy ducked her head. “It’s not the sort of thing one wears to work.”

  Mr. Ravenel grinned at her. “Ah, yes. Work.” There was a ping as the elevator arrived. The elevator man cranked open the grill. In formal tones, Mr. Ravenel said, “Thank you very much for your assistance, Miss Young. You are a credit to Cromwell, Polk and Moore.”

  Lucy tipped her head. “Mr. Ravenel.”

  And he was gone. But only until Saturday.

  Noon. At the carousel. Lucy suppressed a silly smile. Had there ever been so innocent an assignation?

  Not that it was an assignation, she reminded herself hastily, and picked up her pace as she walked briskly back to her desk. She had a forty-three-page contract to type, in triplicate, before she could call it a night.

  And Mr. Ravenel was a client, just a client.

  Lucy took the cover back off her typewriting machine, but before she could spool a piece of paper into the machine, Philip Schuyler poked his head out of his office, his usually genial face grim. “Where did you take him? Timbuktu?”

  It was so unlike his usual manner—even on their longest evenings, Mr. Schuyler was nothing but polite—that Lucy couldn’t think what to say.

  “I—,” she began. “The elevator—”

  “Never mind.” Philip Schuyler gave his head an irritable shake. “Get Mrs. Schuyler on the line.”

  Usually, he requested. This was a command. Lucy stood a little straighter. “Yes, Mr. Schuyler. Right away, Mr. Schuyler.”

  Philip Schuyler pressed his fingers to his temples. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.” He gave a forced laugh. “Any more of this, and you’ll be begging Miss Meechum to reassign you.”

  Lucy felt something tight in her chest unclench. “I’ve worked for the others. I wouldn’t trade.”

  Philip Schuyler gave a crooked smile. “I suppose that’s something, isn’t it? Just put the call through, will you, Lucy?”

  It was back to work, then. “Right away, Mr. Schuyler. Would you like some coffee with that?”

  “No,” said Philip Schuyler grimly. “Gin. And make it a double.”

  The door of the office clicked sharply shut behind him.

  Lucy was fairly sure he was joking about the gin. At least, she hoped he was. She decided, in lieu of strong spirits, to make him that cup of coffee. And it had nothing to do with the fact that she couldn’t hear his conversation through the thick oak of his office door. A good secretary anticipated her employer’s needs, and if that need involved walking quietly into his office while he was in the middle of a phone call . . . well, that was just the sort of thing good secretaries did.

  She could hear his voice through the door, not the words themselves, but the rhythm of it, a crisp staccato entirely unlike his usual bantering tones.

  Coffee cup balanced in one hand, Lucy gently turned the knob with the other, just as Mr. Schuyler said, “What the devil were you thinking?”

  Mercifully, the words were directed to his stepmother and not to Lucy. Lucy didn’t think she wanted to be on the receiving end of that tone. He sounded like a man at the end of his rope, a good-natured man pushed to cracking.

  Seeing Lucy with the coffee, he gave her a curt nod and gestured to her to set it down on the desk, mouthing, Thank you, before saying sharply, “Not this time, Prunella.”

  Lucy wondered what Mrs. Schuyler had landed on her stepson’s lap this time. Another Cartier bill past due? A demand that he squire her to a charity ball? Over the past few weeks, Lucy had seen Mr. Schuyler deal with both of those scenarios and more, fielding his stepmother’s demands with patience and humor—if, occasionally, with a roll of the eyes.

  But not this time. Whatever it was, Prunella Pratt Schuyler appeared to have gotten on her stepson’s last nerve.

  Mr. Schuyler’s other telephone buzzed. Lucy picked it up. “Mr. Schuyler’s office.”

  “Miss Young?” It was the breathy girl in the telephone exchange. Lucy didn’t know them by sight, but she knew them by voice. This voice sounded like a cross between a pinup and a consumptive. “I have Miss Shippen for Mr. Schuyler.”

  She said Miss Shippen the way one might say Mary Pickford, with that same tone of breathy reverence. Or maybe it was just that she made everything sound breathy.

  Didi Shippen’s beautiful face smirked at Lucy from the silver frame on Mr. Schuyler’s desk.

  “Just a moment,” said Lucy. “Miss Shippen for you.”

  Philip Schuyler broke into whatever his stepmother was saying with a terse, “I have to go.” To Lucy, he said, “Have them put her through.”

  Lucy could hear Prunella Schuyler’s voice down the line, squawking in well-bred indignation.

  “Here,” she said, and held out the earpiece to him. Usually, Philip Schuyler took the base of the phone in his hand, turning away slightly in his chair, his voice dropping indulgently as he said, “Hello, sweetheart.”

  This time, he picked up the receiver with a terse, “Yes, Didi?”

  He sounded less than thrilled. Or maybe that was just the aftermath of his conversation with his stepmother.

  Without bothering to put a hand over the mouthpiece, he said, “Miss Young, do you have the Kiplinger contract?”

  Lucy took the hint. “Right away, sir.”

  Loudly, Philip Schuyler said, “They want it tomorrow morning, remember.”

  “Tomorrow morning—but I thought—”

  “Yes, I’ll be right with you, Miss Young.” Philip Schuyler held a finger to his lips. Ostensibly to Lucy, he said, “I know you need those documents initialed. Sorry, Didi; we’re very busy here just now.”

  Quietly, Lucy moved toward the office door, ignoring Philip Schuyler’s flapping hand. She didn’t like the idea of helping Mr. Schuyler lie to his fiancée. Bad enough that she had lied to Mr. Ravenel for him.

  Not that they were big lies, either of them. They were just little lies, lies of convenience. But maybe that was what made her so squirmy, knowing that a little lie could grow and grow until everything became a lie.

  She was living proof of that.

  Philip Schuyler was arguing with his fiancée, in a voice from which the smooth patina was beginning to rub off. “Tomorrow? But I— Yes, I know you told Mrs. Reinhardt, but . . . I can’t just— Bother it, Didi, they call it work for a reason. That’s what I do here; I work.”

  An ominous pause. “I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to imply— Of course you come first, but . . . I can’t just drop everything.”

  Lucy slipped out the door and back to her desk. Through the open doorway, she could hear Philip Schuyler desperately trying to get a word in, reduced to disjointed monosyllables. “But—I— Really, Didi! Yo
u can’t— Right. Fine.”

  Down went the receiver, hard enough to send a jolt straight through to the girls at the switchboard.

  Lucy rapidly began typing, as loud and as fast as she could.

  The door of the office crashed open. “I can’t take another minute in this damn—this blasted office.”

  “Sir?” Lucy said, looking up from her typewriter, the efficient secretary ready to leap into action.

  Philip Schuyler gestured imperiously at her. “Come on. Get your hat. We’re going out.”

  “But . . . sir.” Lucy’s typing faded from a rapid staccato to a muted peck. “I thought you wanted the Kiplinger contract.”

  “It will wait until tomorrow.”

  Lucy raised her brows. “I thought you said they wanted it tomorrow.”

  “They want it next Thursday.” Philip Schuyler grabbed the typewriter cover and dropped it over the machine, half-written page and all, as Lucy made a noise of protest. “I lied. Come on. I promised you the biggest martini in Manhattan, didn’t I?”

  “I’m not sure if it was a promise or a threat,” said Lucy with some asperity. She was going to have to type that page all over now; the heavy cover had crumpled it beyond repair.

  “Is that your hat? Get your gloves on and we’ll go.” With some of his old charm, Mr. Schuyler held out a hand to her. “Didn’t Miss Meechum tell you that it’s your obligation to keep your employer happy?”

  “She didn’t advise the application of gin,” said Lucy tartly, but she put on her hat and gloves all the same, glad that she had worn her new hat, a straw hat, trimmed with green ribbons the color of her mother’s eyes.

  “Gin, coffee, it’s all the same.” Philip Schuyler was walking so quickly that Lucy could scarcely keep up, hurrying behind him to the elevator. “Lord, what a day. It’s enough to drive a man to the bottle. Let’s get you that martini, shall we?”

  “Don’t you mean let’s get you that martini?” Lucy protested breathlessly.

  Mr. Schuyler flashed her his most winning smile. “I don’t like to drink alone.”

  Before Lucy could argue, he bustled her into the dark depths of a taxicab, giving the driver an address in the West Fifties, an area Lucy knew not at all. As the crow flew, it might not be that far from her lodgings on East Sixty-ninth, but Manhattan was fiercely territorial. East was east and west was west and never the twain would meet.

  Mr. Ravenel had teased her about that, about her ignorance of the city she called home. He had taken her down paths in the park she hadn’t known existed, pointed out buildings she had never noticed before.

  Lucy hadn’t wanted the afternoon to end. She could have roamed the paths of the park forever with Mr. Ravenel for an escort and a melting ice cream for sustenance, forever in the sunshine, forever summer.

  Except that summer ended, sunshine gave way to rain, and Mr. Ravenel would, eventually, go back to his home in Charleston, his visit to New York nothing but a pleasant memory.

  Perhaps, Lucy told herself, perhaps that was why she had enjoyed herself so much, not because of anything inherent in Mr. Ravenel, but because he was only passing through, because she didn’t have to worry with him.

  That was all. That had to be all.

  As if he had read her thoughts, Philip Schuyler asked, abruptly, “What did you think of that Ravenel fellow?”

  “Mr. Ravenel?” Lucy played for time, thankful for the murky interior, the sunlight barely filtering through the soot-grimed windows. “He seems nice enough.”

  Nice. Such an incredibly inadequate word. He was an intriguing mix of old-fashioned courtliness and schoolboy mischief. He gave the impression of openness, but Lucy suspected that it was as much of an act as his Huck Finn impression that night at Delmonico’s. There were depths there, and secrets, and the more she saw of him, the more she wanted to unravel them.

  Which was silly, given that he was just a chance acquaintance.

  Mr. Schuyler didn’t seem to notice her abstraction. “Nice.” He turned the word around on his tongue. “You might just be right about that. Let’s hope you’re right about that.”

  The cab screeched to a halt outside a nondescript redbrick building with a faded awning. There was a storefront advertising sewing machines for sale. It was closed, the door locked and the store dark.

  “If you want me to sew on your buttons,” said Lucy, turning to Mr. Schuyler, “there are easier ways to ask.”

  “Watch and learn, Miss Young; watch and learn.” The jauntiness was back in his step as her employer went to a small door on the side, a service door, and knocked three times, one slow, two fast.

  The door opened, but only by inches, revealing a man who could have doubled as the troll in one of her father’s stories, thick of neck and arm. Instead of holding a large club, though, he held a notebook.

  “Yeah?” he said, looking forbiddingly at them.

  Behind him, a steep flight of stairs rose into darkness. The hall was dingy, with a smell to it that Lucy didn’t like. “Mr. Schuyler, are you sure—”

  “Philip,” he said. “It’s Philip.” To the man at the door, he said, “The cat’s pajamas are the bee’s knees.”

  The magic phrase had been spoken. The troll stepped back, letting them through. The door clanged shut behind them, although not before Lucy saw Philip press a folded bill into his hand.

  Behind them, Lucy heard the ominous sound of locks turning. Bad things happen to fast girls, Lucy’s grandmother liked to say. Despite her attempt to maintain a veneer of sophistication, Lucy felt a little trickle of unease.

  Stop it, she told herself. The idea of Philip Schuyler—Philip Schuyler!—selling girls into white slavery was so ludicrous that it almost made her smile.

  Almost.

  “We’re in,” said Philip Schuyler, with satisfaction.

  “Lovely,” said Lucy weakly, and her employer laughed.

  “It’s better upstairs, you’ll see. This is just for atmosphere. Well, and to keep the cops away.”

  “Cops?” Lucy looked at him with alarm. She’d seen the stories in the news, clubs raided by police, men and women gasping their last breath after drinking tainted gin.

  Mr. Schuyler squeezed her arm. “Don’t worry. No one is going to bother a couple of virtuous citizens.” When Lucy didn’t look reassured, he said cheerfully, “They wouldn’t come on a Wednesday. They only raid when it’s worth their while.”

  Lucy looked at him sideways. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

  Mr. Schuyler shrugged modestly. “I get around.”

  He pushed open a door at the top of the stairs, and Lucy found herself in an entirely different world. A long bar ran down one side of the room, the wood gleaming in the muted light. The walls were wood paneled, with the subdued opulence of a gentleman’s club. It was relatively empty at six o’clock on a Wednesday. Two businessmen had their heads together at one of the round tables, and a bored-looking society girl powdered her nose at another, while the man with her sipped morosely at his drink.

  A small stage in the corner was unoccupied, a music stand devoid of music.

  “It doesn’t really get going until later,” said Mr. Schuyler. He led her to a small table in the corner, standing courteously as she settled herself on the black leather banquette. “Well, Miss Young? How does it feel to enter a den of iniquity?”

  “My grandmother would never approve,” said Lucy, looking at the man and woman together, her dress dipping in a daring vee in the back.

  “Mine would,” said Philip Schuyler. “She was a ripping old soul. And she did like her drink. What’s your poison?”

  “Er—a gin fizz.” Lucy wasn’t quite sure what it was, but she’d heard the name somewhere.

  “That’s my girl,” said Mr. Schuyler approvingly.

  No, Didi Shippen was his girl. Lucy wondered if he would take Didi to
someplace like this, up a secret stair, whispering together in the shadows, or if Didi was for sunlight and tennis courts and brightly lit ballrooms.

  Lucy glanced covertly around as Mr. Schuyler ordered their drinks, both nervous and exhilarated. There was a curious unreality about it all, about the dark, tobacco-scented room, the low lights, the small table, Mr. Schuyler so close to her she could feel his knee—unintentionally, of course—brushing hers.

  Not Mr. Schuyler, Philip, Lucy reminded herself, and forced herself to relax her hands. She looked, she knew, like a nervous spinster paying a call on a crotchety maiden aunt, not a woman of the world about to have a clandestine drink with a handsome man.

  Deliberately, she set her bag on the table and drew the pins from her hat. Little enough in the way of debauchery, but at least it made her feel less like an Irish schoolteacher.

  A waiter set their drinks in front of them, the contents icy cold, the glasses already sweating gently in the warm room.

  “Bottoms up,” said Mr. Schuyler—Philip—and drained half his glass in one swig. He set it down with a satisfied sigh. “That’s better.”

  Lucy sniffed cautiously at her own drink before taking a very small sip. “I don’t want to pry . . . but is something wrong?”

  “You’re the least prying person I know,” said Philip, and Lucy felt a small flush of shame.

  If he knew why she had taken the job . . . If he knew that she had gone through his files when he wasn’t there . . .

  He raised his glass in a salute. “What’s wrong is that my father married the Hag from Hell. And then the old so-and-so had the nerve to die and bequeath her to me. Cheers.”

  “The Hag from Hell?” Lucy took another small sip from her drink.

  “Demanding Witch will also do.” Philip Schuyler drained the last of his martini. “God, I needed that.”

  It was the perfect opening Lucy needed to ask about the Pratts. “Is she really that bad?”

  Mr. Schuyler waved for the waiter. “It depends on how you define bad. She never locked me in the attic or sent me to my room without my supper. Of course, she would have had to be aware that I was having supper to send me to my room without it.”