Phoebe’s blue eyes narrowed as she nodded in understanding.
“More tea you say, Miss Wal—Randolph?” she asked in an excessively loud voice. “Certainly. I’ll see it’s brought right away. And I’ll make sure it’s hot. Scalding, if you take my meaning?”
“Okay. If you’re sure?”
“Oh, I am.”
She was back in a moment, a servant pushing a rolling tea tray in her wake. With practiced movements, the server whisked away my cup and replaced it with another. When she went to pick up the steaming kettle, however, Phoebe plucked it from the affronted girl’s hand.
“No,” my friend said as she maneuvered herself into position. “I’ll serve Miss Randolph myself. She prefers it that—Oh!”
Phoebe stumbled, allowing the contents of the teakettle to slosh out and splash across the bottom of Alva Vanderbilt’s ugly, voluminous skirts. Though the multiple layers beneath Alva’s gown minimized the chance of second-degree burns, the results were spectacular.
“You bumbling fool!” She surged from her chair like a breaching manatee. “You’ve ruined my gown!”
Phoebe began babbling apologies. “Oh, madame! I’m that sorry, I am. Here, let me help you.”
I jerked my chin at the door and mouthed, Get rid of her.
Alva, her pudding face now an alarming shade of plum, screached at the line of ladies’ maids waiting behind the marble columns. “Margót!”
A pale brunette, who looked as though she made a habit of sucking on lemons, materialized at Alva’s side. “Mon Dieu, madame!” she tutted over her mistress. “We shall feex thees right away. You—” When she tried to shoo Phoebe away, I stood.
“No, no. Phoebe will help you. Especially since this will take at least ten or fifteen minutes . . .”
“Oh, aye.” Phoebe nodded. “At least.”
Margót began to bustle the furious aristocrat away, wet skirts trailing on the patterned carpet.
“Shall I come too, Mother?” Consuelo asked, though I noticed she didn’t rise from her seat.
Alva, too flustered to think straight, only waved her daughter off. “Stay. Stay. I shall return momentarily. But you—” She whirled on me, one trembling, beringed finger pointing in my face. “If that incompetent worked for me, she’d be out on her ear with no reference.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “I will definitely give your advice much consideration.”
Phoebe made a face at me behind Alva’s swishing skirts as they hustled off.
The efficient wait staff had already scrubbed the stains from the carpet and replaced Alva’s dampened chair with a dry one. With what I hoped was a proper degree of ennui, I balanced on the edge of the new chair and turned to Consuelo Vanderbilt.
“My apologies for my maid,” I said. “She’s new.”
The girl covered her mouth. It was a graceful move, but I’d already seen the grin. “Not to worry,” she said in a breathy voice. “At least Mother will have something new to complain about. Something other than me, that is.”
Her stifled giggle sounded rusty, like wind chimes hanging too long beneath the summer rain.
“Forgive me,” I said. “I couldn’t help overhearing. You said you were betrothed?”
All the merriment vanished from the girl’s light eyes. “Yes. I—I am to wed in the autumn.”
“And you are not happy about it,” I said, faking a theatrical sigh. “Well, I understand that all too well.”
I watched her face as she puzzled over my words. The wealthy socialite was probably used to girls squealing in delight over how she’d landed a duke. My empathy intrigued her. I could see it. Still, her upbringing came to the fore and made her cautious. She held out a slim white hand.
“I’m Consuelo,” she said, omitting the powerful surname. “Connie. And you are?”
“Hope Randolph,” I said, taking her fingertips in mine. “Of the Lafayette Parish Randolphs. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
I drew a handkerchief from my sleeve and dabbed my eyes, attempting an Oscar-worthy performance. “I’m to take ship for England soon.” I raised my eyes to Connie’s and let her witness my faux misery as I whispered, “To be married.”
Connie’s slender throat bobbed as she swallowed in sympathy. Quickly, I laid my ace on the table. “He’s a Scottish earl,” I choked. “I have only met him once. Daddy made all the arrangements, and though I am grateful . . .” I let my voice fade, so that she had to lean close as I dropped my head. “The truth is that I feel so desperately alone.”
A few seconds of silence passed while I stared into my lap, gritting my teeth and wondering if I’d overplayed it.
This has to work. Has to—
Connie reached for my hand and squeezed until I thought it would crumple into a bag of bone fragments. For a fragile-looking little thing, she was strong as an ox.
I looked up to find that her lovely blue eyes were wet. Her lips trembled as she leaned toward me and whispered, “You poor thing.”
I smiled, trying to emulate her little wobbly lip. She sniffed and reached for her own lace handkerchief. “And yet, has it not always been this way for girls of our station? We are sold off to the highest bidder for money or power or titles. We pay the price while our families reap the rewards. But are they sent far from home? Far from all they have ever known?” Her voice dropped into a fierce whisper. “Are they forced to bring someone they barely know and care nothing for into their bed? Are they ripped away from the one they truly . . .”
Connie bit back the rest of the statement, but in my head I filled in the blanks: the one they truly love.
When the sour tang of sympathy coated the back of my throat, I forced myself to swallow it down.
Keep on task, Walton. Sure, it’s sad and all, but you can’t help her. You can’t.
I met her miserable gaze with one of my own. “I understand completely. I only wish I did not have to spend my last few days alone. It is only that I am so new in town, and do not know anyone. I suppose I shall simply stay in my room and bear it all alone until my ship sets sail.”
Come on. Come on. Take the hint.
Connie snapped upright in her chair and turned to me. “Oh, but you must attend my parents’ soiree the night after tomorrow,” she said, eyes widening as the idea took hold. “Oh, say you will come. You are the only one who understands.”
From just outside the salon door came a commotion. Alva’s maid was weaving toward us. I didn’t see Phoebe, but I could tell from the way Connie stiffened that our time was up.
Perfect white teeth clamped down on her full lower lip as she leaned closer. “Please,” she said. “Say you will come.”
“I would love to,” I told her, taking a chance. “But I couldn’t possibly attend without my guardians. My father would be scandalized.”
“Name them,” she said, “and it is done.”
As I quickly whispered the names of all my friends, Consuelo pulled a tiny book from her drawstring bag and wrote each one down with a miniature gold-plated pencil.
“Miss Vanderbilt,” the maid pressed. “Your mother awaits you een the carriage. Eet is time. You know she will not like thees delay.”
Consuelo nodded again. Standing, she smoothed her skirts, all impeccable manners and propriety. As the maid turned to lead her out, the sad-faced girl looked at me once more.
“I shall have the invitations sent over right away,” she said in a hushed tone. “I hope to see you there. I—I should very much like to have someone to talk to.”
Chapter 22
SEATED ON THE EDGE OF A GLOSSY PADDED CHAIR IN THE Waldorf’s grand lobby, I had a good view of both the front entrance and the discreet service door Phoebe had disappeared through a half hour earlier, following a lead whispered by one of the chambermaids.
As I waited for everyone else to return from their assignments, the corset dug relentlessly into my rib cage. You did good, I told myself, partly to pull my thoughts away from the pain. You accomplis
hed your mission, and you didn’t get personally involved. Aunt Lucinda would be proud.
So why did I feel like I’d just kicked a kitten?
A shout bled through from the street outside the main entrance, snatching me from that line of thought. The brass doors swung open.
“You! Come back here! I say . . . Boy! You don’t—”
The rest of the doorman’s harangue faded when I saw Doug shamble inside. Clothes rumpled. Steel specs askew on his broad cheekbones. Collar loose and a pocket on his tweed coat ripped away. His panicked gaze scraped the room.
“H-Hope?”
Before I knew it, I was on my feet and hurtling across the shiny expanse toward him.
“Doug, what’s wrong?” My heart rate ratcheted up at his odd, unfocused look. “Do you need your meds? Tell me.”
“Attacked,” he managed. “Someone s-stuck me with a . . . with a . . .”
His hand went to his throat. A line of drool spilled from one side of his mouth. His eyes locked with mine. Then they rolled to white as he fell forward and collapsed against me.
My friend outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds. I tried to keep him upright, but his bulk took us both down hard. We crashed to the floor in a heap.
“Doug!” I screamed as I wrenched myself from beneath him and shoved him over onto his back. “Can you hear me?”
Think, Hope. Think. What do you do for a seizure? What?
Doug’s large hands clenched into fists. Every muscle in his body had gone as rigid as the floor beneath him. The tendons in his neck strained and stretched against the high collar. His chin wrenched up and the back of his head began slamming against the unforgiving marble again and again.
When I’d first learned of Doug’s condition, I’d done my research. Just in case. An article for family members of epileptic patients rushed through my head.
Ensure the patient is lying on a hard, flat surface. If no neck injury is suspected, turn patient to the side to reduce choking hazard. Do not put anything in patient’s mouth. Place soft object under patient’s head to avoid further injury.
Panting, I snatched the silken wrap from my shoulders and jammed the material beneath his shorn hair, cushioning his head before he could bash his brains out. I ripped his tie off and loosened his collar. Dimly, I realized that hotel guests had begun to gather around us, their faces shocked at the sight of me tearing at my friend’s clothes.
Remain calm. Seizures rarely last longer than sixty to ninety seconds.
I prayed that was true, though it seemed like hours, not minutes, as Doug wrenched and juddered. I tried to turn him to his side but he was too heavy, the muscle contractions too strong. His arm flailed up. When his fist glanced off my jaw, snapping my head back, someone in the crowd cried, “Notify the authorities at once! That colored boy just struck this girl!”
“No, he didn’t, you idiot.” I snarled as I swiped away the warmth that trickled from my split lip. “And he doesn’t need police! He needs a doctor! He’s having a seiz . . . a—a fit!”
Oh God. Collum. Mac. Phoebe. Where are you?
Time after time, Doug’s head banged against the wadded cloak. His breaths were torn, ragged things that made fear curl into a hard ball in the pit of my stomach.
As long as proper measures are taken, seizures rarely cause any permanent damage.
Doug’s neck stretched so far back I thought his head would pop off. As ropy ligaments strained, a small red dot caught my eye. I frowned and peered closer at the single bead of drying blood. When I swiped at it, another filled in and trickled down the side of his neck.
Is that . . . Is that a puncture wound?
I thought back to the wild look in Doug’s eyes as he had entered the lobby. The pinprick pupils. The vein thudding frantically in his neck. He’d been trying to tell me something.
Someone s-stuck me with a . . . with a . . .
Laying a hand on his chest, I could feel a heartbeat, but it was erratic. And way, way too fast.
Does this happen during a seizure? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t—
His breath stuttered. The hammering beneath my hand paused.
No.
Another shallow rasp. Thump-thump.
And then . . . it all just stopped.
I blinked, two, three, ten times. My palms felt numb as I pressed them harder to his deep chest, waiting to feel the next heartbeat. The next ragged inhalation.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
“But . . .” In the silence that choked the expansive marble and gilt lobby, my voice sounded so small.
Though difficult to watch, the article had promised, a seizure can often be more traumatic to those witnessing the event than to the actual patient themselves.
His head lolled to the side, eyes half-slits behind round, historically accurate spectacles.
For an instant, all I could picture was his utter delight when Moira had returned from the Edinburgh optician after picking up his new frames.
“Doug?” I shook him gently. The muscles had gone slack now and so, so still. A white-hot panic spiraled up my spine and shot out to every nerve ending. I grabbed his lapels and shook him so hard the glasses dropped to the floor. “Doug!”
My dad’s family were charter members of our tiny town’s only country club. Before my mom decided she’d had her fill of my grandmother’s prejudice against anyone not born with a certain skin color and bloodline, we’d often joined them in the eighties-era dining room for Saturday brunch. From my spot near the huge smoked-glass wall, I used to watch the other kids splash in the turquoise swimming pool.
I—of course—had never been allowed to touch toe to the cool water, though. Just the sight of those other kids roughhousing had caused my mom to decide it was imperative I become certified in CPR.
Why? I’d asked. Am I going to drown in a mud puddle?
Now, I sent up a prayer of gratitude as I ripped open Doug’s white shirt and—kneeling at his side—began performing chest compressions.
I ignored the crowd’s mutterings as I made the sharp downward thrusts.
One, two, three, four, five . . . fifteen.
When I pinched his nostrils closed, tilted his head back, and sealed my mouth over his, discust and objections rang out through the hotel lobby.
“What in God’s name . . . ?” “Dear Lord! She’s kissing him. She’s kissing that dead boy!” “She must be mad!”
I ignored them as I heaved two long breaths into Doug’s lungs. I watched his chest rise, then fall with each exhalation.
Come on. Come on.
Nothing.
I started again. Over and over.
Fifteen compressions. Two breaths. Fifteen and two. Fifteen and two. That’s it. You’ve got it, Walton. Keep going. Don’t stop.
By the sixth or seventh round, the muscles in my arms were trembling. I was out of breath. I could no longer press down hard enough. Tears blinded me until all I could hear was the susurration of the crowd around me. They sounded confused. Angry.
Wake. The. Hell. Up!
As I bent to pinch his nostrils one last time, I felt someone grab my shoulders and try to haul me back. “That’s enough, girl, you’re shaming yourself.”
“No!” Ragged and desperate, I jerked out of the anonymous grip and struck out blindly, connecting with something soft. I heard an “Oof” as I crawled forward and jammed my fingers under Doug’s now-pliant jawline.
Wait. Is . . . is that a pulse?
Before I could feel it again, two sets of hands dragged me back. This time, no matter how much I fought, I couldn’t get away. I scratched and twisted, snarling, “Let go of me. I need—”
“Make way!” a deep voice boomed. “Let me through. I’m a doctor.”
Still held back by strangers, I nearly sobbed with relief as a handsome older man came bustling through the ring of onlookers. Dressed in black and carrying a leather satchel, the man’s long salt-and-pepper hair pulled straight back and tied at the n
ape of his neck. I could hear his knees pop as he eased himself down beside Doug and peered through the spectacles that rested on the tip of his long nose. A uniformed assistant knelt at the doctor’s side.
“I am Dr. Carson. And if I may ask, how long has the young man been unconscious?” The doctor’s voice was calm and soothing as he picked up Doug’s limp arm and placed two fingers to his wrist.
“He stopped breathing.” I yanked loose from the men who had been holding me, and still on my knees, crawled closer. “His heart stopped too,” I said. “And so I—”
The doctor’s brows rose patiently as I stammered. “He . . . I—I was . . .”
How to explain CPR to a nineteenth-century physician?
But Carson only nodded, as if he understood completely. He rummaged in his bag, pulled out a rudimentary stethoscope, and placed the belled rubber end against my friend’s chest.
A small movement caught my eye. I looked down just as Doug’s chest rose slightly. I tensed as it fell. When it rose again, and again, pure joy erupted through me.
Though Doug’s eyes didn’t open, a labored snoring rattled from his throat. He twitched, lips turned down, as if suffering a nightmare.
“How long has the lad experienced these episodes?” the doctor asked quietly.
“Since he was seven. Head injury from a car acc—” I stopped, gulped. “A carriage accident.”
“I see,” Carson said as he laid the stethoscope aside and began to run long, gnarled fingers over the bones of Doug’s skull. “Well, I believe the boy will live. But I need to get him over to my hospital to further evaluate his condition.”
That was so not a good idea. Medical treatments during this age were still primitive. Besides, we weren’t going anywhere until Mac, Phoebe, and Collum returned.
I shook my head. “That’s not necessary. He’s had these fits before. I think he just needs to rest. Can someone help me get him up to my room?”
The doctor opened his mouth to answer but closed it as the assistant leaned over to whisper urgently in the doctor’s ear. As he did, his knee bumped the doctor’s black bag. It tipped over, and the contents spilled out across the floor.
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