by Radha Vatsal
Dinner went on and on and on. Kitty wished she hadn’t ordered so much and so well. Hugo and Sylvia Lane and Julian Weeks looked happy and at ease in one another’s company, while Kitty felt like the odd one out. She could tell her father wasn’t pleased with her. He didn’t do much to include her in the conversation or even glance her way, and she couldn’t say she blamed him.
The Lanes left after eleven, without a word mentioned about the Brevoort.
“You still don’t approve of Sylvia,” Mr. Weeks said when the door closed behind their guests.
Kitty was too tired to argue.
“I asked you a question, Capability. Do you not like Miss Lane?”
“I don’t know her,” she said finally.
“Why don’t you get to know her?”
“I don’t want to. Not right now.”
“And that’s just the problem,” he burst out. “You’re predisposed against Miss Lane, because you don’t want me to share my affections with anyone. But Sylvia is well-educated and well-traveled. She’s not as old as I am but not as young as you are. She should be a perfect match for both of us. You don’t see that, because you don’t want to see it.”
“That’s not true.” Kitty felt like a child.
“Why aren’t you giving her a chance then? You can’t let your hopes color your vision, Capability. There’s a world out there, and it doesn’t take too kindly to motherless young women, particularly ones who hold down jobs. You need someone to show you the way, and I’m no use in that regard.”
“And she is?”
“She’s worked. She’s a teacher.”
Kitty opened her mouth to speak and closed it again.
“Would you prefer that I picked some society lady—”
“To be honest,” Kitty said, “I’d prefer it if you picked no one.”
“I have a life to lead, Capability.” He looked undone by her behavior. But he had no idea how he had torn her world apart.
• • •
“What is it like living at the women’s boardinghouse?” Kitty asked Jeannie as soon as she arrived at the Sentinel the next morning. “Do you have your own bedroom?”
“Just about. It fits a bed, a bureau, and me. Anything else and one of the three would have to be booted out.” Jeannie’s pencil hovered over proofs. “Why do you want to know? Are you thinking of writing a story about it?”
“Perhaps. That’s an idea.”
“We sit together in the parlor every evening, and the food is terrible. We have to keep to rules. Our landlady doesn’t like us walking out with young men. And she charges five dollars a month.”
“But you’re free. You’re independent.”
Jeannie looked doubtful. “I’d take my own apartment, a car, and a maid over independence any day.”
“Yes,” Kitty said. The point was that with Miss Lane living there, it wouldn’t be her apartment anymore. “Who would want to give up all that?”
Five dollars a month, she thought as she went to speak to Miss Busby. Mr. Weeks hadn’t wanted her to take a salary for her position at the Ladies’ Page; he thought no self-respecting girl from a good family needed one, and that taking cash in exchange for her services would make her beholden to the paper. Kitty had argued that by not taking a salary, girls who could manage without one did a grave disservice to those who needed to be paid. (She had read that in Vocations for Girls, her career guide.) But she also felt, although she hadn’t said it, that not taking a salary would do her a disservice. It would turn her into a dilettante, an amateur, and devalue her efforts. In the end, Kitty won. She was paid a salary—not much, since she only worked half days—and used it as pocket money. The amount felt trivial in comparison to the sums she had at her disposal through her father, but she was glad she had taken a stand. Now, it might enable her to buy her freedom.
“Mrs. Belmont’s secretary telephoned,” Miss Busby said. “She’d like to review your article before it comes out.”
“Miss Baehr wants to review my piece?”
“No, Mrs. Belmont does.”
“Doesn’t that go against the rules of journalistic freedom, Miss Busby?” Kitty asked.
Helena Busby shrugged. “What Mrs. Belmont wants, Mrs. Belmont gets. And besides, we’re not really journalists, are we? Miss Baehr said that Mrs. Belmont would like to make sure you didn’t give away too much of the plot. She sounds very hands-on.”
The remark stung. Kitty considered herself a newswoman even if the editor didn’t. Miss Busby’s words reminded her that she must quit the Ladies’ Page as soon as something better came along.
“On to the next order of business.” Helena Busby changed the subject. “As I mentioned, the president will be in the city next week. Whether he will be traveling with”—she caught herself just in time—“Mrs. Galt is immaterial.”
Miss Busby’s antagonism toward the new Mrs. Wilson seemed to match Kitty’s aversion to Miss Lane.
“I’m beginning to feel,” she continued, “that we can work it up into a story by focusing on him. Where he stays, what he eats, who he meets, and such.”
“A day with the president?” Kitty said.
“Exactly.” Miss Busby sniffed. “It’s something to think about. In the meantime, I’ve marked a few items for correction on your Belmont piece.” She handed Kitty her pages. “Please have them typed and then send a copy across.”
Kitty ran her eyes over the corrections, which were minor—Miss Busby had removed the mattress comment—and headed for the hen coop, where she took a seat at one of the empty typewriting machines and slowly pecked out a fresh copy. The keys were so stiff and heavy, it was difficult to understand how the typists were able to work for hours.
She put the article in an envelope and went to look for one of the Sentinel’s messenger boys.
The little fellow tucked her envelope in his satchel and pulled out a letter. “This just came for you, miss.”
Kitty checked the return address: Westfield Hall.
She brought the letter to the women’s restroom. The facilities were a much-appreciated innovation by the paper’s founder’s son, Mr. Eichendorff. Miss Busby had told Kitty that when she first began working here, there weren’t enough women on staff to warrant a separate females-only toilet. Now, fortunately, there was one right on the third floor.
My dear Miss Weeks,
I understand that you recently wrote to our head girl, Miss Georgina Howell, requesting a conversation. I must say I am most displeased by your conduct.
As you are aware, we do not as a rule permit our pupils to meet outsiders during the school term. Now, events have taken a disturbing turn: Miss Howell has been missing for the past twenty-four hours. I am sure that you can imagine how serious this is and that you would not wish to be held responsible should any misfortune befall her.
I trust that you will inform me at once, should you hear from her. Any detail, no matter how trivial, could prove useful in determining her whereabouts. The other students believe that she is out sick. I believe I can count on your complete discretion in this matter.
In the future, please refrain from communicating with any of Westfield Hall students—whether in person or in writing. My girls are still young, and do not fully appreciate the consequences of their actions.
Sincerely, Miss Howe-Jones. Principal
Kitty rushed from the restroom. Georgina Howell was missing. She hadn’t meant to encourage her to come to Manhattan. She had thought about including all her questions about Elspeth’s death in the letter but had finally decided to leave it open-ended, fearing that specific inquiries might set off alarm bells—and now the schoolgirl was gone.
She checked the time on her watch: a few minutes past twelve o’clock. She told Miss Busby she wasn’t feeling well—still suffering from the aftereffects of her accident—and asked if she might leave early.
“Rao,” she said to the chauffeur when she climbed into the car. “Does Mr. Weeks need you this afternoon?”
“He wants me at the club.”
Kitty didn’t want to wait until the following day. She grabbed a biscuit from the tin at home and bundled up into her warmest coat, gloves, and hat.
A group of chauffeurs interrupted their card game as she entered the New Century’s two-story garage. Usually, owners told the doorman, who would call for the drivers, and they, in turn, would bring the cars out front.
“Do you need some help, Miss Weeks?” one of the chauffeurs said.
“Can you help me take the cover off?” Kitty pointed to her car.
With its open top and sides, Kitty’s Stutz Bearcat gave her no protection in winter and was currently covered in canvas.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, miss, you’ll freeze. Where is it you’d like to go? If it’s not far, I can take you in the Williamses’ auto.”
“I’m going to be a while,” Kitty replied.
“Are you sure, miss?” The man looked worried.
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him.
He removed the protective cover and watched while she tested the engine. Kitty tightened her scarf, strapped on her goggles, and held on to the wheel as the machine roared.
She pulled out of the garage, her foot on the gas. There wasn’t much that matched her sense of exhilaration at being in control of so much speed and power. Luckily, the snow had melted, and there wasn’t too much on the streets. If she got stuck out of town… She didn’t want to think of that. She had no contingency plan.
The road became quieter as she left Manhattan. Trees edged the way, their skeletal branches silhouetted against a forbidding sky. Any minute now, she might come across a headless horseman charging toward her. Kitty giggled nervously. Forget Elspeth—it would be her body that would be found frozen in an open car.
Another vehicle followed her. At first, Kitty didn’t mind—she enjoyed the company—but then, when the automobile didn’t pull away on any of the side roads and maintained a steady distance behind the Bearcat, she began to feel anxious. Anyone could see she was on her own, just a girl driving her roadster in a deserted part of the country. Kitty sped up. The car behind her matched her pace.
Her eyes started to water behind her motoring goggles, her cheeks and hands turned numb from the cold, and the silent trees flashed by.
She caught sight of a gasoline station in the distance. She maintained her speed, then pulled in suddenly. The car behind her kept going.
“Can I help you, miss?” A fellow in overalls emerged from the small shack behind a single pump.
Relief flooded over her. “I’d like to fill up, please.”
He inserted the hose into her gas tank and pumped a crank.
“Pretty old system you have here.” Kitty’s breath came out in white puffs.
“My pa invented it.” He grinned wolfishly, a wad of chewing tobacco stuck in his jaw.
“How far is Westfield Hall from here?”
“Fifteen minutes, thataway. You a student?”
“I’m on my way to meet the headmistress.” Kitty put on a haughty manner.
“How now, Howe-Jones?” He laughed.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what my pa used to say: How now, Miss Howe-Jones? I call her How-Now-Howe-Jones. You get it?”
He waved as Kitty drove away, her heart thumping. “Give her my regards!”
Why hadn’t she noticed that Westfield was in the middle of nowhere, Kitty asked herself as she embarked on the final leg of her journey. Perhaps because the previous two times she had made the trip, she’d been safe in the Packard with Rao. It occurred to her that, like the founders of her own boarding school, Miss Howe-Jones had selected this out-of-the-way location to keep her charges out of trouble. But the Misses Dancey seemed to have been luckier on that score.
Kitty arrived at the school without incident and parked beside the low stone walls.
She warmed herself by the fire in the reception room, sinking into the floral-print sofa. On the coffee table in front of her, a vase had been set with an assortment of red and white buds. Having offered Kitty a cup of tea, Miss Howe-Jones’s bespectacled secretary informed her that the headmistress would see her shortly and resumed typing.
“Did you telephone this morning, Miss Weeks?” she asked a moment later.
“No,” Kitty replied, face flushed from the warmth of the nearby flames. “No, I did not.”
The door to the principal’s office opened, and little Virginia appeared.
“Hello,” Kitty said. She’d seen her so many times, she felt she knew the girl.
“Hello.” Virginia adjusted her belt.
“I’m Capability Weeks, the reporter from the Sentinel.”
“I remember.”
“Are you still reading Automobile Girls?”
“Yes, I am. I love the series.”
“Enough chattering, Virginia.” The typing stopped again. “Run along. I’m sure they’re waiting for you in class.”
In her office, the normally stone-faced principal looked shattered. “Did you receive my letter, Miss Weeks? Is that what brings you here? Do you have news for me about Georgina?”
“I’m afraid I don’t, Miss Howe-Jones. I came because I’m concerned. You see, Miss Howell wrote to me and said she would come visit me at the Sentinel on Monday or Tuesday, but she never arrived.”
The headmistress brought a handkerchief to her lips.
“You must be mad with worry.”
“I try to do my best for all my girls. They’re everything I have. And Georgina was special.” The headmistress took a deep breath. “She was my all-around girl. Bright, athletic, a good speaker. Everyone loved her. It wasn’t difficult to gather contributions so that she could attend Bryn Mawr in the fall.”
Kitty noticed with dismay the headmistress’s use of the past tense. “You don’t think—”
“I don’t know what to think. Sunday evening was the last time anyone saw her.” It was Wednesday. “She didn’t attend class on Monday, but the teacher didn’t think much of it. Georgina had other responsibilities as head girl and editor of our yearbook.”
“When did you realize she was missing?”
“One of the girls reported that she wasn’t at Vespers on Monday evening—that’s when I went to look.”
“Have you spoken to the police?”
“No!” Miss Howe-Jones shook her head. “A girl missing from the school? That would cause a scandal. I wrote to you because I found your letter and thought that perhaps you knew where Georgina had gone.”
The headmistress rose and went to stand by the window, hands clasped behind her back.
Kitty followed her gaze through the panes to the wintry grounds, powdered with snow. There were no girls outside today. “I’m concerned, Miss Howe-Jones,” she said finally. “I’m concerned Georgina’s disappearance might have something to do with what happened to Miss Bright.”
“That’s impossible.” The headmistress swung around.
“Please hear me out, madam. Miss Howell was at the Brights’ home—”
“That’s just a coincidence.” The headmistress snapped out each word. “Mrs. Bright took pity on her. That’s why she was there, although I’ve said plenty of times that Georgina and I enjoyed our Christmases together.”
Miss Howe-Jones took a step toward Kitty. “Please listen to me carefully, Miss Weeks. This school and decades of service, all for the benefit of others, will come crashing to the ground if even a hint of Georgina’s disappearance gets out. I must find her, and I hope you will let me know if she surfaces. And in the meantime, you will promise not to contact my students ever again, and you will not repeat our conversation to anyone.
“I’m waiting, Miss We
eks,” the principal said when Kitty didn’t reply. “Georgina will come back to school. But I cannot risk jeopardizing Westfield Hall’s reputation.”
“I understand, Miss Howe-Jones.”
“Do I have your word?” Miss Howe-Jones’s tone carried the ring of someone who didn’t expect to be disobeyed.
“I won’t say anything until the end of this week.” Kitty couldn’t manage to put up better resistance, and in any case, she had no intention of tarnishing the school’s good name. “If Miss Howell doesn’t return by then—”
“Your interference in my school must end, Miss Weeks. You can see how much damage it has already caused.”
Chastened, Kitty gathered her things and left the principal’s office as a bell rang and joking and chattering girls poured out of classrooms, unaware that one of their own was unaccounted for.
“Miss Weeks.” A voice called her name. It was Virginia. “Here you go, Miss Weeks.” The schoolgirl handed her a brown paper bag. “You must read it. I think you will enjoy it.” Then she ran off to join her classmates.
Kitty reached in and pulled out a book. Virginia had given her a copy of The Automobile Girls Along the Hudson.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Resting in bed after a hot bath and something to eat, glad that nothing untoward had happened on the ride back to Manhattan, Kitty picked up Virginia’s gift. She’d seen the novel before, but they were for younger readers, and she wondered whether Virginia thought she might like it because she drove her own car. But then, Virginia didn’t know she drove her own car, did she? Hoping she wasn’t the recipient of stolen goods, Kitty opened the volume to a random page:
The travelers lunched at Allaire, as usual, in the little open-air French restaurant… But they did not linger after lunch. Ruth was hoping to make Tarrytown in time for dinner that evening, instead of stopping for the night in New York, which, she said, appeared to be suffering from the heat like a human being. “The poor, tired city is all fagged out and fairly panting from the humidity. If all goes well, I think we should get to New York by four o’clock, have tea at the Waldorf, and start for Tarrytown at five.”