Dreamland

by Nancy Bilyeau

  Ah, so Mr. Lancet had remembered me from the dining room, knew exactly who I was. I took a step back, realizing it might be best to hide behind another gawker on the scene. But there was no one within a few feet of me right now. If I darted behind someone else, the rush of movement might draw the attention of that policeman.

  For the moment, thank God, the officer of the law was focused exclusively on the hotel owner, shaking his head, one of his hands hooked in his belt. “Mr. Lancet, what’s happened here is a little more important than some heiress.”

  “You think so, Lieutenant Pellegrino? Well, that’s where you’re wrong. If I were you, I’d check with the precinct captain before setting foot in my hotel.”

  With that, Mr. Lancet turned and stalked back to the boardwalk. Fortunately, he didn’t glance in my direction to observe the heiress in question half-crouched on the other side of the pilings. And the police officer, who I now knew was named Lieutenant Pellegrino, marched back toward his colleague, kicking the sand as he went. It seemed to be a standoff.

  From my position, I could see something just past a man kneeling in the sand. The man wore what appeared to be a white doctor’s coat. I saw a woman’s leg, ending in a brown heeled shoe pointed to the side.

  Standing there, bathed in the hot sun, an ice-cold prickling of fear ran up my arms.

  All the way back up the hill to the croquet field, I thought of what Lieutenant Pellegrino said about wanting to find anyone who might have seen a suspicious man down at the beach last night. Wasn’t that exactly what Stefan said – that someone was watching us, and that the same man might have followed us earlier? Did that man remain on the beach, hidden somewhere after we left, to kill this poor woman?

  The police would want to know about this person, I was certain of it. But how could I inform the intimidating lieutenant that last night I was kissing a man by the water, whom I met a few hours earlier – a man whose last name I don’t even know – while someone else watched? Even in my most defiant state, I recoiled from the prospect of my family being privy to this, and wouldn’t the police feel duty bound to inform them?

  The real sticking point was that I hadn’t seen anyone suspicious with my own eyes. Only Stefan had. My knowledge was second-hand.

  No, there wasn’t anything helpful I could tell the police.

  At the top of the hill, I pushed past the line of shrubbery to rejoin my family’s croquet game. Not a single Batternberg remained, nor was there any sign of Henry Taul. Had I been gone that long? It didn’t seem so. I waved down the only person still around, the hotel boy, the one who found my green ball, as he tidied the course.

  “Where is everyone?” I was a bit out of breath.

  “I don’t know where they went, Miss. But something happened, and they stopped playing. They gathered in a group. Then they all left together.”

  “Was it something bad?”

  Looking miserable, he said, “I’m sorry – I just don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

  “Very well,” I said, turning to go, but he stretched out his hand.

  “Please, Miss, don’t tell anyone I wasn’t helpful to you,” he pleaded.

  “Oh, why would I do that?” I snapped, and then, seeing the terror leap into his eyes, I reassured him that he wouldn’t be mentioned. I always hated seeing such fear spring up in the people who served the Batternbergs, it was a grim reminder of how little they had and how much we had. With a word, we could destroy anyone’s livelihood. I so relished working at the bookstore, where no one feared displeasing me. I never wanted to feel like Marie Antoinette.

  Just a few steps up the path I spotted another variety of servant standing just off the path. It was Henry Taul’s driver, the young man I’d seen for the first time in my family’s Manhattan home. He was studying his fingernails and didn’t seem to see me. Well, wherever Henry’s entourage was, he’d be close by.

  I retraced my walk to the main hotel, continuing to puzzle over their sudden departure. It didn’t seem possible that my family’s vanishing had something to do with the dead woman on the beach – or my being on that same bit of beach last night. However, if I’d learned one thing at Coney Island and Manhattan Beach, it was to be prepared for surprises, and not at all nice ones.

  Passing through the lobby, I heard, “Peggy! Over here!”

  In a corner of the lobby of the Oriental Hotel yawned a doorway that led to a dark bar. I approached it warily. Although the sun shone outside, and the lobby was bright, this bar only had a few lamps lit. Lounging inside it, standing at the gleaming wooden counter, were four males, acting jovial, whom I knew all too well: my cousin Benjamin, who’d called to me, and his brother Paul, my brother Lawrence, and Henry Taul.

  “Isn’t it a bit early?” I asked, pointing at the mug of foaming brown beer in Benjamin’s hand. Lawrence, I took note of with a frown, was drinking too.

  “Not when there’s a celebration,” Ben answered. “Just where did you disappear to?”

  “I felt like a walk,” I said.

  “Spot anything of interest?” he asked.

  Did Ben know about the woman in the sand? I studied his expression but there was only the usual sardonic amusement.

  “I just felt like taking a break,” I said. “I’m a terrible croquet player, haven’t you heard?” I glanced over at Henry Taul, who was focused on drinking his beer. “What are we celebrating?”

  “Oh, I think Henry should be the one to do the honors,” said Ben.

  Henry drained his beer to the last drop, set it down on the wooden counter with a thud – a good two inches from the elegant printed coaster – and wiped his mouth of suds with the back of his hand. I suppressed a shudder at this boorish display, so different from Stefan’s old world manners last night.

  “Lydia and I have set the date for our wedding,” he said. “It will be 23 October, just after her eighteenth birthday.”

  “When did this happen?” I asked, very much confused.

  “Henry and Lydia agreed to it right next to the third wicket on the croquet field,” said Paul, who was trying, and failing, to conceal his smirk. He didn’t possess his brother Ben’s control.

  “I’m happy to hear it,” I said, forcing a smile. “Congratulations.” Should I shake hands with Henry? How ghastly. I couldn’t bring myself to stick out my hand, nor did he extend his.

  “Thank you,” he said shortly.

  I was at a loss on what to say next. A silence settled over the group, which had been chatting happily up to the time I joined them. The only sound was made by the bartender, placing a row of little shot glasses on the empty shelf below the counter. He kept his head down while hurrying to set up his glasses with a series of soft thuds. One of the glasses collided with another, making a louder clink. His hand shot out to right the glass and still it before continuing to set up all the different glasses, the shakers, the miniature buckets of sliced lemons and limes. I suspected the hotel bar had not been open when the Batternbergs sauntered in, asking for beer, but of course this man had rushed in to serve. He was probably as afraid of displeasing the four careless young men as the croquet-field worker had been at earning my displeasure.

  A thought stirred. I looked at the four of them, all well-educated presumably, and asked, “Does anyone know where Dalmatia is?”

  Ben, who’d been drinking beer when I spoke, began coughing, and had to put down his drink. “What on earth?” he croaked, laughing. “You want to know the location of Dalmatia? Are you planning to tour the Balkans before lunch?”

  “I was just wondering,” I murmured. This was of limited help. The Balkans – now where was that? I realized Henry Taul stared at me with as much bafflement as Ben. I’d had enough of this bar. Turning to my brother, I said, “Lawrence, may I borrow you?”

  “Now?” he groaned, looking at Benjamin as if for a rescue.

  “Yes, go ahead,” Ben said, slapping him on the back.

  Now he needed Ben’s permission. I could barely suppress my irritation
as the two of us walked across the crowded lobby for the elevators. But I sensed that to criticize Lawrence for his slavish devotion to Ben would not bring about a desired result. I’d have to employ some strategy. Once we found an elevator and stepped inside, though, it was Lawrence who had words of criticism for me.

  “We were worried about what happened to you last night, Peggy – why did you storm off like that?”

  “‘We’?” I responded.

  In the disapproving tone of a man far older than his years, Lawrence said, “Ben thought you’d come back after you cooled down, so we waited and waited by the Dreamland entrance. Then we split up, me and Paul searching in a team and Ben on his own. When Uncle David showed up, he helped us for a while, but it’s so big there! We never found you, and when Uncle David used a phone box to call Aunt Helen, she said you’d gone back to the hotel on your own.”

  This dressing down, coming from my spotty younger brother, was just too much.

  “What a fuss!” I scoffed. “I am a grown woman, Lawrence, and perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “It wasn’t very considerate of you, Peggy,” he scolded. “Ben told me the truth, that you’ve always been like that with him. When Father died, he dropped everything and spent all his time with you. Once you recovered from your grieving, you dropped him. You’ve hardly given him the time of day since.”

  At that I could do nothing but burst out laughing, which made the several other people sharing our elevator car, even the elevator operator, turn and stare at me, while my brother shook his head.

  When we’d reached our floor, out in the hallway, I grabbed Lawrence by the arm. “That’s not the way it was,” I insisted. “Ben twists things, Lawrence. You have to listen to me. Don’t spend a lot of time with him while we’re here. You can’t trust him – you just can’t.”

  “Yes, that’s just what Ben predicted you’d say, that he is the one who can’t be trusted,” Lawrence said, disgusted.

  Speechless, I watched Lawrence make his way to his room, key in, and slam the door behind him. What a bungle.

  I decided that I might as well find out what the rest of my family felt about me. I went to my mother’s room, where I encountered a far different mood. Activity was at a fever pitch. Lydia and my aunt and uncle were trying to come up with a list of preliminary wedding guests. My mother had the telephone receiver in one hand and a pad of paper in the other. From what I could make out, she was trying to ascertain what places would be available for the wedding reception on the appointed day. The Waldorf Astoria led the pack, naturally.

  Mother hung up, exasperated. “Why shouldn’t anyone have answers for me?”

  Uncle David said wryly, “Well, Sarah, it is a national holiday.”

  She didn’t smile, much less laugh. “They’ll be sorry when they’ve missed the wedding of the season.” Turning to my sister, she said, “Go on with your list, Lydia. I need that number in order to narrow our choices to the leading five.” She glanced at her timepiece. “We have twenty minutes before we should stop and switch to dressing for the picnic.”

  “Is that still on?” I asked.

  No one answered me. It was as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “Are we holding the picnic?” I said, louder.

  “Well, the menu has been altered,” answered Uncle David with a grin. “Lobster, caviar, salads, cake, and champagne. I have to say, I hope the Oriental has a great many ice carts.”

  I announced I’d be going to my room to get changed. No one responded; I was entirely superfluous, after playing the most important part of anyone in this sorry drama. I was the one who provoked the groom to set the date, though no one but Henry and me knew it.

  It was difficult for me to bathe and change for the picnic. I’d found my family more tolerable since Uncle David virtually kidnapped me from Moonrise, but that was finished. I should have felt disgust, the same sort that Lawrence exhibited toward me in the hallway. But what washed over me was weariness, as if I were seventy years old rather than twenty. Alice drew a bath for me. It helped cool me, but afterward, all I could do was dry myself, put on my slip, and sit before the dressing table mirror, slowly pulling a comb through my damp black hair. To arrange my hair, to select a dress, it all seemed like too much effort.

  Last night Aunt Helen said I looked different. Had it by now retreated, that change in me due to several hours spent with Stefan? The more pleasurable sensations had receded a little in my memory – the oysters sliding down my throat as he watched, the feel of his fingers on the small of my back as we danced – and I was left with the look on his face as he said, “There is name for this, I will remember, yes. There is name. You are slumming with me, yes?” My God, that hurt.

  On some level, though, wasn’t Stefan right?

  I threw down the brush and announced to the reflection in the mirror, “You are a terrible human being.”

  A knock sounded on my door, and I jumped in the chair. Had someone heard what I said? But a second later I realized there was no chance of anyone outside the thick door hearing my words, and I called out, “Come in.” I half expected Aunt Helen, back for some more cryptic comments about Ben.

  But it was my sister, exquisitely dressed, bejeweled, creamed, and powdered.

  “You had more time than anyone to get ready and here you are,” Lydia said, eyebrows raised.

  “Here I am,” I said and then, realizing she was waiting for some sort of explanation, I said, “It’s been quite a day.” An unwelcome image flashed before me, of the dead woman on the beach, and that brown shoe turned into the sand.

  “It certainly has.”

  I realized how tactless I’d been, to make a point of the day thus far that didn’t acknowledge her news, her triumph, what she’d been obsessed with accomplishing: a date to walk down the aisle. She didn’t know about the woman in the sand, about my meeting Stefan last night, about anything. But she seemed to know… something. Lydia looked me over in the mirror, her face set in a cold mask. She was taking in my face, my hair, even my body showing in the slip. I couldn’t think of another time she’d looked at me like this, so assessing.

  “I think we should have a little talk,” my sister said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “What did you and Henry say to each other?” Lydia asked.

  “When?”

  “Out in the middle of the croquet field. The two of you exchange words, then you disappear and he heads right for me, looking absolutely furious, only to tell me that he and his mother decided last night on a wedding date and” – her voice dripped sarcasm – “he was going to tell me tonight, but now he just couldn’t wait another moment to ask me if I agreed to the date.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I said.

  “He may have spent last night with his mother, but he didn’t decide on our date then, Peggy, come now – I’m not a fool. He was acting in response to you. I don’t know why, but you have some sort of… hold over Henry.”

  “Lydia, I don’t. Really. We don’t even like each other.”

  She bit her nail and said, “I am well aware you don’t like him. But as for what he feels for you…” Her voice trailed away.

  I was determined not to tell her what I’d said to Henry that morning about setting the date. It was sure to distress her, to spoil things. I said, “What happened was, while he was searching for my ball, which he’d slammed into the next state practically, he told me I was a lousy croquet player. He got miffed when I made it clear I didn’t care what he thought.”

  Lydia’s eyes bored into mine. “Everyone seems to think they have to protect me, but I don’t need that. I can take the truth, Peggy. No matter what he said, I can take it.”

  “That’s what people always say,” I said. “In my experience, they don’t – not at all.”

  “Then there is something else.”

  I said nothing.

  “I promise you that this is the last favor I will ever ask you,” Lydia said. “Tell me.”

&nb
sp; The last favor? Something about that sparked a response in me, made me decide to stop my evasions. I liked the word last. If my services were no longer required by my family, perhaps I could leave the Oriental early, return to Manhattan. It wouldn’t be necessary to wait until the autumn. That business about Henry’s mother insisting I be part of the family this summer was utter nonsense. The woman hadn’t deigned to set eyes on me. The wedding date was set; my work was finished.

  I could be free.

  Looking at her in the mirror, I told Lydia what transpired between Henry and myself, word for word. She took it calmly, but her eyes widened when I told her how Henry said she was superior to me in every way.

  “You got what you wanted,” I pointed out.

  “Did I?”

  I couldn’t believe what I had just heard – was Lydia now having second thoughts about marrying Henry Taul? In response to what must have been my open-mouthed disbelief, she laughed. It was not a happy sound, more of a mocking; not of me, it seemed, but of others, perhaps even herself. And she wrung her hands as she stood there, laughing, her eyes darkening.

  “Lydia,” I cried, jumping to my feet and gripping her by the shoulders.

  She shook me off and managed to stifle her laughter. “It’s nothing – nothing.” At the door to my room, she said, calm as could be, “I think we’ll have to go on without you, but I’m sure you’ll be able to find the picnic place. The concierge can tell you if necessary. It’s reserved under our name.”

  It took me some time to gather myself. As I dressed and pinned my hair, not waiting for Alice to do it, I thought about nothing but Lydia. This was what I most feared, I realized, the real reason I came with the family this summer. I didn’t like to talk about it – or even think about it – but there was an unpleasant reality in the family, and it had nothing to do with the Batternbergs.

  My mother’s family, the Donifers, had a history of mental disorder. We called the women “temperamental,” “difficult,” or even “hysterical,” but it was more serious than that. One of my great-aunts had taken her life.