Evergreen

by Marissa Doyle

  “Yes, they did, thank you.” Mrs. Rennell looked smug. “By the way, Kit, where are your parents? I should love for them to meet Miss Roosevelt.”

  “Mother had a fancy to see the Pan-American Exposition, so they’re off to Buffalo for a few days. I expect they’ll be back sometime soon—”

  “Oh, I was there!” Alice interrupted. “My father opened the Exposition for President McKinley, who couldn’t go because his wife was ill. I had a splendid time on the midway with the French ambassador—we went riding on camels and saw someone dancing the hoochie-koochie, even. Didn’t you want to go too?”

  He shrugged, then grinned at her. “Life’s much more interesting right here, I’m finding. Well, I’ll leave you to your lunch, ladies.” He sauntered from the room, paused in the doorway to glance back at Alice, one eyebrow raised, then disappeared.

  Chapter Four

  “I wonder what one wears to the Sunday night concerts at the Casino?” Alice asked absently as she looked through the dresses hanging in her wardrobe that Wednesday afternoon. “Evening dress seems a little out of place, but I’m not sure what else to wear.”

  “Ask Mrs. Rennell,” Grace said from the window seat, where she gazed out at the garden. The only trees out there were short, ornamental cultivars—no sturdy oaks or graceful elms. Their absence was unsettling. It had been hard to fall asleep at night without her chestnut at the window, murmuring a lullaby.

  “Oh, I will. Eventually.” She paused. “This yellow muslin will make me look about twelve if I don’t do something about it. And it looked so grown-up back at my grandmother’s. What are you staring at out there?”

  “Nothing. Just thinking.” This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? To live like a human, not a dryad. She sighed and squared her shoulders. Surely there would be some compensations, eventually—

  “That’s a terrible habit, you know. Young men don’t like girls who think.”

  “Pooh.” Grace made a face at her. “What did you think about today?”

  Alice shrugged and set the yellow muslin aside. “Not much. Why?”

  Lunch today at Rosecliff had been…well, unexpected. In several ways. For one thing, there was the house itself. Mrs. Rennell had made sure they drove by the grander “cottages” yesterday during their afternoon carriage ride—enormous, heavy, imposing places. But Mrs. Oelrichs’ Rosecliff was cut from a different cloth. Modeled after a French palace, it was gleaming white and columned like a Greek temple. Inside, the white marble entrance hall was dominated by a heart-shaped staircase. It was beautiful, and Grace could not help saying to Mrs. Oelrichs, who awaited them in the salon doorway, “This must be the most perfect house I’ve ever seen!”

  Behind her, Mrs. Fish laughed. “That’s the way to make up to Tessie, pet!”

  Mrs. Fish took it upon herself to introduce them to all the other ladies…and to Grace’s surprise, they were very kind. To her further surprise, she and Alice were showered with dozens of invitations for the next three weeks. Now, perched in the window seat, she frowned.

  “Alice, all these invitations… Doesn’t it bother you that we probably only got them because you’re your father’s daughter?”

  “Not particularly.” Alice held another dress against herself in the mirror and grimaced at her reflection “Did you think it was solely due to our charms?”

  “N-no.” It was lowering, really, but what did she expect? Papa had warned her, after all. “I don’t think they particularly cared for Mrs. Rennell.”

  Alice tossed the gown on her bed. “I do wish I could have one in black. It would be so deliciously inappropriate… Of course they don’t care for her. She’s a climber. She desperately wants to be a bigger fish than she is, and I’m part of her campaign to get accepted in better circles. If I’m invited everywhere, she’ll have to be too. The nice thing about that, though, is that you will as well.”

  “I suppose. But it seems so…”

  “Calculating? So what? After all, it was because of you that I was accepted in Chestnut Hill. Even though I was half a Lee, it didn’t mean people had to be more than polite to me for my grandmother’s sake. Now I’m returning the favor. Except that you don’t need to ride on my coattails since Mrs. Fish seems to like you.” She laid down the dress she was inspecting and came to sit next to Grace. “I’m used to it. This is the way it’s been since Father came back from Cuba. You should hear what my brother says about what it’s like at school, with boys wanting to be his friend so that they might get invited to meet Father. It doesn’t mean that we can’t use it to enjoy ourselves, though.” She punched Grace lightly in the arm and jumped up, heading back to her wardrobe. “Let’s get my things done, and then we’ll start planning your clothes,” she said over her shoulder.

  Grace sat for a moment longer, struck by a thought. Maybe that was why Kit Rookwood—whom she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about, for some reason—had seemed so taken with Alice: because he, too, was only interested in meeting the vice-president’s daughter. Why, he’d as much said he knew Mrs. Rennell was expecting guests—had he thought she was Alice when they first met? That had to be it…but she couldn’t help feeling disappointed. That look they’d shared—it still sent shivers through her. And he’d seemed different from most young men—at least, different from some of her brother’s arrogant college friends. But maybe she’d been wrong about that.

  * * *

  Mrs. Rennell was delighted with the results of the luncheon at Rosecliff. She sat at the breakfast table the next morning gloating over the stack of invitations that had arrived in the mail.

  “Look! Dear Mrs. Van Alen has invited us to a luncheon…oh, what fun, girls—an archery competition at Mrs. Rogers’…and dinner at the Goelets’ next Saturday…you shall certainly be here, my dear, won’t you?”

  This last remark was directed toward Mr. Rennell, whose physical presence was indicated by a pair of hands holding a newspaper; periodically one of them would grope for a coffee cup and vanish with it behind the paper. He’d arrived last night from New York, where he did “something very important at Mr. Morgan’s bank,” according to Mrs. Rennell.

  “I wanna do archery!” demanded young Master Parker Rennell, who’d joined them for breakfast along with his younger sister, Sarah, and their governess.

  “Yes, yes, my love. Miss Hamm will take you out later to play with your bow and arrows. Oh, Mrs. Belmont is having another motor-car race—”

  “I definitely want to go to that!” Alice said. “Don’t you, Grace?”

  “I wanna motor-car!” Parker shrieked.

  “Filthy things,” Mr. Rennell growled from behind his paper.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Mrs. Rennell said meditatively. “Lots of people who matter have them now. Let’s see…another musicale, at Mrs. Wilson’s…oh, a polo match, that’s always exciting…and…my heavens, a ball at Mrs. Vander—” Mrs. Rennell stopped mid-sentence. She looked uneasily at Alice, who was sitting up very straight indeed.

  “Did you say a ball?” she asked eagerly.

  Grace waited for Parker to want to go to a ball, but he was finding it more interesting to spoon jam into the pockets of his trousers while Miss Hamm tried to coax Sarah into finishing her milk.

  “Er…yes, but…” Mrs. Rennell turned red. “I fear we shall have to send our regrets to Mrs. Vanderbilt.” The words obviously cost her an effort to say.

  “Why, ma’am?” Grace asked, as Alice looked too thunderstruck to reply. Mrs. Rennell refusing a ball at one of the most exclusive houses in Newport?

  “I…er…made a solemn promise to both your mothers that we wouldn’t… Well, that we would keep to quieter evening entertainments. After all, you aren’t really out yet, are you, my dears?” She waved a finger at them in an attempt at playfulness. “But goodness, we certainly have enough other things to do, don’t we? I declare, we shan’t have a moment’s rest the next few weeks!”

  Alice was too well brought up to argue with Mrs. Rennell but was barely a
ble to contain herself as they went back upstairs to change into crisp white shirtwaists and canvas shoes before going to the Casino to play tennis.

  “Did you know that we weren’t allowed to go to balls?” she demanded, following Grace into her room and leaning against the closed door.

  “No.” Grace kicked off her slippers and started to unbutton her dress. “But I’m not surprised. It took enough convincing just to let me come here, much less go to balls.”

  “It’s so…humiliating!” Alice began to pace up and down the room. “It’s like they think we’re children or something.”

  “But we’re not really adults. We’re sort of in between childhood and adulthood,” Grace said, pausing. “It’s—it’s like we’re actors waiting to be called on stage.”

  “Well, actors get to rehearse. How are we supposed to learn to be adults if they don’t let us practice doing adult things?” Alice stopped pacing. “I know. I’m going to make me some magics to make sure we get to at least one ball while we’re here. I don’t think Mother wants me to have any fun at all.”

  Last spring and summer, when there had been talk of her father accepting the vice-presidential nomination or some other national public office, Alice had told her that she was determined to do something about the situation. Being vice-president—so second-best!— wasn’t good enough for her father. Being governor-general of the Philippines, though, would be much grander…so she’d commenced on a course of what she called “making magics” to help bring this about. She’d never showed any of her magics to Grace, which was just as well: Grace wasn’t sure she could maintain a straight face if she had. What would Alice say if she knew that Grace and her family were capable of real magic?

  “So playing tennis with me at the Casino isn’t fun?” Grace pretended to pout.

  “Oh, stop that. You know it is, even when you beat me all the time. But I want to go to a ball—or several balls—while we’re here. Don’t you?”

  “Well, yes,” Grace admitted. If she were to be honest, she did want to see what one was like. Not from the vantage point of peering down through the banisters, as she had as a child when Mum had held parties at home, but there in the thick of it. Alice was right about rehearsing for adulthood.

  “There, I knew you would! All right, I’m going to make it happen. See if I don’t!” She looked at Grace. “Aren’t you ready yet? Mrs. Rennell said she’d be ready to leave in twenty minutes—”

  She dodged, laughing, as Grace threw one of her canvas shoes at her, and ducked round the door.

  * * *

  An hour later Grace had managed to put Alice’s magics and most everything else out of her head on a beautifully groomed grass tennis court at the Casino. She and Alice were gently lobbing a ball back and forth over the net so that they could chat if they felt like it. Alice was still complaining about her stepmother’s stricture against balls, so Grace let her blow off steam, responding suitably whenever it was required but not really paying much attention.

  It felt good to move and stretch. Grace realized that, whenever Mrs. Rennell was around, she held herself stiffly, probably out of sympathy to their highly strung hostess. It was a beautiful morning—no need for her to alter the weather today. Out of sheer high spirits she returned Alice’s patted ball with a hard drive to the far side of the court that she knew Alice would never be able to return.

  She was right. “Very funny, you,” Alice called. “Just for that, you can go find where it went. Anyway, let’s stop for a moment. I need to retie my shoes.”

  “All right,” Grace said amiably and started round the net to the lawn beyond while Alice headed for a bench next to their court, strategically set in the shade of a small maple tree.

  She hadn’t gotten past the back line when a tall, white-flannelled figure came strolling toward her, racquet on shoulder, tossing a ball casually in one hand. “Lose something?” Kit Rookwood called. His smile brushed past her and came to rest on Alice, who hastily finished tying her shoe and leapt up to join Grace.

  “Mr. Rookwood!” she said. “Is that our ball? You angel!”

  “Well, not really,” he replied, his smile widening. “At least, angel’s not the role I usually aspire to. Are you done playing, Miss Roosevelt?”

  Alice seemed to melt under the force of that grin. “Not at all. I had to tie my shoe and sent Grace to fetch our ball since she hit it so abominably past me—”

  “I did not!” Grace was stung into retorting. “You missed the return!”

  “Well, anyway, we’re here.” She smiled at him, head tilted to one side. “Are you playing this morning?”

  “I’d like to,” he said meaningfully.

  “In that case, won’t you play with us? If you’re not busy, of course.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. After all, you promised me a game.”

  “Did I?” Alice pretended to look vague, not very successfully—she was never vague.

  “Need I remind you exactly when you promised that, Miss Roosevelt?”

  “I’ll go and have a seat, shall I?” Grace said to no one in particular, but they didn’t even notice. She almost stomped over to the tree-shaded bench—insofar as one could stomp while wearing tennis shoes—and slumped onto it, her good mood all but evaporated. Well, really. Alice was suddenly acting as though she weren’t even there, and Kit Rookwood wasn’t any better. She watched while Kit squinted up at the sun and gallantly offered to change sides with Alice so that the glare wouldn’t be in her eyes, then sent a gentle forehand over the net.

  “Think I’m a softie, do you?” Alice called, hitting it back to him.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, returning an incrementally harder shot.

  “He’s going to let her win. I know it,” Grace muttered. Was this really how flirting went? Imagine a boy at home letting her win at tennis! Whenever anyone beat her, he’d jolly well earned it. It was one thing to let Dorothy win now and then…that’s what you did with a little sister. But to let a person of one’s own age win, as one would a child…well, it didn’t imply much respect for the other person, did it? She’d expected better of him…but between this and his obvious making up to the vice-president’s daughter, maybe she’d been wrong—

  I have watched here for many years, and still I do not understand, said the tree behind her.

  “Oh!” Grace started. “Forgive me, cousin. I should have spoken,” she added more quietly. She’d been so occupied with watching Alice and Kit that she’d forgotten her manners. It was nice to talk to a tree for a change. They were calm and gentle and didn’t dissemble. “Greetings to you; it is a pleasure to rest in your shadow. What don’t you understand?”

  The tree was silent for a moment. A few of its upper leaves fluttered, then were still. This thing men do—the sending of an object back and forth between them.

  “Tennis, you mean,” Grace murmured. “It’s not the only thing they do. It’s a game—a pastime. It’s done for enjoyment.”

  A ‘pastime’. Does not all time pass, no matter what one does?

  “I suppose it does.” Alice was laughing at something Kit had said, and she wasn’t sure if she’d wished she heard it or not.

  Yes. The tree fell silent. Grace watched the play and wished Alice would try harder, but she kept missing balls that she would never have missed playing with her. She wasn’t trying to let him win, was she? How funny, the pair of them doing their best to let the other win. Except it wasn’t funny. It was nauseating.

  It is strange, this tennis, the tree said.

  “You’re telling me,” Grace muttered.

  I have seen men who profess the greatest amity toward each other do this tennising. Yet when they tennis, it is clear that their amity is all on the surface, and they are tennising as a way to best each other. Do men often do one thing and use it to mean another?

  “Happens all the time.” Like right now. She settled herself more comfortably in the tree’s shade and resigned herself to watching. It would be
interesting to see who won this battle of wills.

  To her surprise, Kit Rookwood did—that is, he managed to lose to Alice. It must have taken some doing on his part, for it was clear he was a strong player.

  “Well played, Miss Roosevelt,” he said as they shook hands over the net.

  “Piffle.” She tapped him with her racquet as they strolled toward Grace. “You let me win, you bad creature. I shall get a swelled head and be insufferable, and you’ll deserve it.” She pulled out her handkerchief and fanned herself with it.

  He was immediately all concern. “Is it too warm for you? May I bring you a cool drink? Or escort you back to the piazza?”

  “No, I want to sit in the shade for a few minutes.” Her eyes lit on Grace on the bench, and she smiled. “I say, why don’t you play Grace while I take her shady-looking seat?”

  Grace sat up. Play him, after that? “Alice, I don’t really—”

  “Oh, humor me. You’ll have to do a proper job of beating Mr. Rookwood, since he was so gallant as to let me do it badly.” She sent him a sly sideways look.

  Kit barely even glanced at Grace. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go back to the club?” he asked Alice again. “It’s really gotten quite warm—”

  “I’m sure.” Alice prodded Grace with her racket. “Go on. It’s your turn.”

  Grace tried not to scowl as she rose. It would look childish to continue to refuse…and anyway, why shouldn’t she play him, even if he was so…so pusillanimous as to intentionally lose? “Mr. Rookwood?” She looked at him.

  “I’m waiting,” Alice called. “Entertain me.”

  Kit bowed. “At once, ma’am.” He didn’t meet Grace’s eyes as he escorted her back to the court. “Do you have a preferred side?”

  Grace smiled sweetly. “I’ll take this one.” She indicated the side he’d played on. It would mean playing with the sun in her eyes, but she would rather be boiled in oil than accept any advantage from him.