Evergreen

by Marissa Doyle

  “Serve you right if you did. Where did you get it? Surely your stepmother didn’t—”

  “Are you joking? Mother would faint if she saw me in this. The other Grace—Mrs. Vanderbilt, I mean—helped me pick it out when I went shopping with her last week. Don’t you wish you’d come with us after all that day?”

  “Not really.” Grace had refused because shopping with Mrs. Vanderbilt had seemed like a singularly unappealing prospect. If she’d known, though—

  “It’s all right. I would have bought it anyway, even if you’d hated it.” Alice hesitated for a second. “Well, do you hate it?”

  Grace sighed. “You know it’s beautiful. It’s just that it makes you look like a thirty-year-old with an interesting past.”

  “Does it? Excellent!” She nodded toward the door. “Oh, there’s Kit. Is it all right if I go and talk to him, Grandma?”

  “Is that what this is about? Enticing—er, impressing Kit?”

  Alice’s glee slipped a little. “Maybe.”

  “Alice, we’re seventeen! What do you want? Are you trying to get him to propose or something?”

  Alice opened her mouth, then closed it. A succession of fleeting expressions crossed her face—uncertainty, anger, and finally, stubbornness. “If he does, you’ll be the first to know,” she said and strolled sinuously toward Kit.

  Grace watched her despairingly. For all her intelligence, sometimes Alice did remarkably idiotic things. She craned her neck to see what Kit’s reaction would be to so much Alice so provocatively displayed. For a brief second his eyebrows went up. Then he grinned, said something that made Alice chortle, and offered her his arm.

  The dinner went without a hitch, to Grace’s relief. Mrs. Rennell was handsome and surprisingly dignified in a gold Chinese brocade gown, and Mr. Rennell was an unexpectedly genial host and actually conversed with his neighbors at dinner. Grace kept an eye on Alice and Kit, seated together across the table from her, but they, too, behaved themselves, only whispering together a little more than was seemly. Perhaps tonight would be a success after all.

  * * *

  For the first part of the evening, it seemed like it would be. Though Mrs. Fish and Mrs. Oelrichs were unable to attend, Mrs. Belmont and her husband were there, as was Alice’s new friend, Mrs. Vanderbilt, along with a party of houseguests whom she’d somehow forgotten to mention she’d be bringing. Mrs. Rennell was gracious about the extra guests, and when she discovered that one of them was a good-looking young vicomte visiting from France, she positively fluttered in excitement. Though the night was cloudy and a mist was slowly creeping in from the ocean—Grace had forgotten to talk to the weather in her anxiety over Alice—it only lent the Chinese lanterns scattered around the garden and illuminating the pagoda-tent a more lovely and mysterious glow.

  Tom Livingston more or less fastened himself to her. “I don’t care,” he said when she gently hinted that perhaps claiming three dances before supper was a little much. “You’re leaving in two days, and summer will be over as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Oh, Tom,” she said, smiling. But underneath the smile she couldn’t help feeling sad. He was such a nice boy, and she hoped some lucky girl would capture his fancy soon—a girl who could return his regard as she could not. She danced with several other young men and had Mrs. Vanderbilt’s vicomte claim two of the post-supper dances on her dance card before she went into supper with Tom.

  Alice had been dancing a great deal as well; the vicomte had already danced with her. Grace had seen him gazing soulfully down the front of her dress as they danced. But she’d also danced several times with Kit…and though Grace felt she ought to warn Alice to be more circumspect, how could she, after having let Tom dance with her so many times?

  What she hadn’t been doing, unlike Alice, was indulging in champagne. Mrs. Rennell had not committed the error of having insufficient champagne, and the costumed footmen were in constant motion through the ballroom (the two adjoining salons, thrown open into one room) with trays full of brimming glasses. Whenever she wasn’t dancing Alice seemed to have a glass in her hand, and Grace often heard her laughter, higher and shriller than usual, from across the room.

  But Alice was nowhere to be seen—or heard—at two a.m., when the orchestra took their break and the dancers wandered out to the pagoda for supper. Grace toyed with her food and let Tom’s conversation wash over her while she scanned the guests in the gilded bamboo chairs, tucking into oysters and chicken crepes.

  Alice wasn’t among them. And neither was Kit. Very well, then; she would have to go find them and perhaps wring someone’s neck…whose, she wasn’t yet sure. She nibbled at a crepe until the guests began to drift back to the house, then pushed her chair back.

  Tom leapt from his chair and held his hand out to her. “May I escort you back to the ballroom?”

  She shook her head. “I need to run up to my room for a moment. Will you excuse me, please? I’ll find you when I’m done.”

  He looked as though he would happily trail after her, given the least encouragement, but nodded reluctantly and led her back to the house.

  Grace skimmed through the ballroom and ducked down the hall and to Mr. Rennell’s library. She stood for several heartbeats on the threshold, listening, but it was uninhabited. Mrs. Rennell’s crowded little morning room was likewise empty, so she turned back and ascended the stairs. The sewing room, guest bedrooms, and little parlor were all empty…as was Alice’s room. Grace breathed a sigh of relief; it was unlikely that she would have gone to the third floor, which held more bedrooms and the nursery—hardly the place for a romantic rendezvous. If Alice wasn’t in the house, then she must be somewhere in the garden. She descended to the first floor by the back stairs. Near their bottom was a door to the back garden, which she hoped she could slip out through unobserved.

  No such luck; the door was propped open, and a pair of footmen were loitering outside it, passing a bottle back and forth between them. It was hard to say who was more embarrassed, she or they; she passed them with a brief nod and felt them watching her as she crunched down the gravel path.

  The mist had thickened, and once out of sight of the footmen she paused for a moment, wishing she’d stopped in her room for a wrap. But she didn’t want to brave the footmen at the back door again, and going in through the ballroom would put her in danger of being found by Tom or whichever young man she’d promised dances to after supper. If she were lucky, it wouldn’t take her too long to find Alice—if she could find her, in her black dress—and when she did, a good scolding would warm her up. She smiled grimly at the thought.

  First, there was the avenue of tall arborvitae planted in two staggered rows, which provided dozens of little alcoves to search, lit with gilded Chinese lanterns. She could ask their help—they’d gotten to know each other a little during her “cold.” But most trees were bad at recognizing individual humans, or even telling the difference between men and women. She’d have to do the looking herself.

  She was partway up the avenue on this side of the garden when a voice stopped her. “Madame—ah, mademoiselle! You are lost? May I assist you?”

  Grace turned. Mrs. Vanderbilt’s handsome young vicomte—what was his name?—was standing there. As the dim light from a nearby lantern illuminated her face, he smiled in recognition and held out his hand. “Ah! But I know you!”

  Grace tried to conceal her impatience. “How do you do, monsieur le vicomte?”

  “But you are supposed to be dancing with me, dear mademoiselle,” he said, pretending to sound cross. He couldn’t be any older than Tom Livingston, but there was a practiced quality to his speech that told her he was much more experienced.

  “Well, as we’re neither of us in the ballroom, perhaps we can forgive each other for missing our dance and make it up later?” If only he’d take the hint about later.

  He didn’t. “You are perhaps looking for something, out here all alone?”

  “I’m looking for my friend Alice. Maybe
you’ve seen her?” she added hopefully. “She’s a little shorter than me, in a black dress?”

  “In a black dress…” He brightened. “Why yes, I believe I have.”

  Grace sighed in relief. “Where? Can you tell me?”

  “I shall do better than that.” He held out his arm. “I shall take you to her.”

  “Thank you.” She took it and let him lead her swiftly toward the end of the arborvitae avenue. In front of the last alcove, he paused under the lantern.

  “But I thought it was here…” he said, sounding puzzled.

  Grace stepped forward to examine its shadows more closely. “No, she’s not here. Could she have—”

  But a pair of hands suddenly circled her waist from behind, then slid up to cup her breasts. “It may be that I was mistaken,” the vicomte breathed into her ear, then nuzzled it. “But while we are here, sweet mademoiselle, you are—ow!”

  Grace whirled as he stumbled back from her, hopping on one foot and swearing to himself in French. Her heels were not that high, but they made an effective enough weapon when stomped firmly into a lightly shod instep. She took advantage of his momentary preoccupation to slip around the shrub and run lightly away.

  “Mademoiselle—wait!” she heard him call. “Come back!”

  “Not likely.” She ducked behind the young horse chestnut at the end of the avenue. Holding her breath, she pressed herself against its trunk and held still, wrapping herself in the tree’s shadow. He’d never be able to find her now, despite the lantern hanging a few feet away. She could do this in broad daylight and make herself all but invisible to human eyes.

  Drat him! It was a good thing they were leaving Newport—she’d never be able to see the ghastly vicomte at the Casino or anywhere without wanting to slap him. She stood silently, listening to him wander around and call out to her in coaxing tones. She still hadn’t found Alice, and now she’d have to dodge him while searching.

  When it sounded as if he might have given up, she stepped carefully away from her hiding place and began to inch her way across the lawn toward the other row of arborvitae, glancing behind her in case the vicomte was lurking. Oh, when she found Alice, she’d—

  “I beg your pardon!”

  Grace nearly shrieked as someone walked into her and stumbled heavily. But the voice had not been the vicomte’s.

  “Are you all right, Henry?” said another voice.

  “I bumped into something, but there’s nothing there,” the first voice said, sounding puzzled.

  A man and a woman stood there, blinking in confusion in the lantern light, and Grace realized that she still held the tree’s shadow wrapped around her. She retreated a few paces, shrugged it off, and stepped toward them. “I’m so sorry! I hope I didn’t startle you.”

  The man shook his head slightly as if to clear it. He looked to be of hale middle age, with a comfortably plump figure and a receding hairline above his mild-expressioned face. A gold pince-nez perched on his nose.

  “Not at all, my dear,” he said gallantly. “These eyes of mine aren’t quite as sharp as they once were, I fear…not that they were ever all that sharp. The question is, are you all right?”

  “Poor child,” the woman said softly. She looked to be of similar age to her companion, but had obviously once been a beauty and remained remarkably handsome, if a little vague-looking. Something about her face and fair hair seemed familiar.

  “Not at all. I wasn’t looking where I going,” Grace said, a little desperately. At this rate she’d never find Alice—at least, not before someone else did.

  Something of her worry must have shown on her face, for the man said, “My eyes aren’t so dull that they can’t see you’re troubled. Is there something Mrs. Rookwood and I can do for you?”

  “No, but thank—” Grace stopped. “Did you say your name is Rookwood?”

  The man bowed. “Henry Rookwood, at your service, and Mrs. Rookwood,” he said, a faint question in his voice.

  “You couldn’t—that is, you must be Kit’s father and mother!” Grace knew she was staring, but couldn’t help it. These pleasant people were Kit Rookwood’s parents? They had to be; that was why Mrs. Rookwood had looked familiar. Kit obviously inherited his looks from her.

  “Is Kit here?” Mrs. Rookwood sounded pleased. “We had another party to go to earlier this evening and just arrived and hoped we would see him—but he doesn’t seem to be in the ballroom or that charming tent.”

  “Er, no. That is…well, I’m looking for my friend Alice, and…and I think Kit might be with her.”

  A rustling sound to the left made them all turn, and Kit himself emerged from behind a bank of enormous hydrangeas, looking rumpled but as elegant as ever in his evening clothes. “Grace!” he said urgently. “I thought I heard you— Oh!” He checked in surprised. “Father! You’re here!”

  “Where’s Alice?” Grace demanded.

  With the lantern to his back, it was hard to read his expression. “Wait a moment,” he said and turned back to the hydrangeas. When he emerged again, he was carrying a limp Alice who lolled against his chest, eyes closed. Even from feet away Grace could smell the sickly sweet-vinegary scent of wine mixed with vomit that wafted from her.

  “Alice!” she gasped. “What did you do to her?”

  Kit’s voice was flat. “She mostly did it to herself, thank you. Too much champagne, to start with. Then she fell off the bench she was dancing on, and things went downhill from there. I think she’s asleep now.”

  “Oh, Alice…” Grace leaned forward to look at her face. She was pale and sweating, and her hair hung in damp straggles around her face.

  “Christopher, I am not pleased.” Mr. Rookwood frowned at his son.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Kit looked uncomfortable. “Believe me, I didn’t—”

  Not far away, a woman’s giggle, followed by a man’s mumbled words, made them all fall silent. When it sounded as though the couple had wandered in another direction, Grace drew a deep breath. “We have to get her back to the house before someone sees her.”

  “I concur,” Mr. Rookwood said. “But how will you get her home?”

  “This is home—that is, we’re guests here.” Grace bit her lip, thinking. Alice looked beyond rousing, so she would have to be carried. If only she were strong enough to do it, she could maybe wrap a tree’s shadow around them both and make it unseen back to the house that way…but she couldn’t carry Alice, and the presence of the three Rookwoods made that impossible anyway.

  “My son will carry her. It’s the least he can do,” Mr. Rookwood said, breaking into her thoughts. “Let us keep to the edge of the lawn. Mrs. Rookwood and I will walk ahead, Kit will follow us, and you, Miss—er, Grace, was it?—will follow behind. If any of us should see someone coming, we’ll clear our throats loudly, and that will be your signal to hide,” he said to Kit, who nodded tightly.

  “Oh, thank you!” Grace said. It was wonderful of them to not have made a fuss about Alice’s condition. “Follow that line of bushes, and then we’ll decide how to get her inside.”

  To her relief, they met no one as they made their way through the garden, though Grace was sure they would after Alice moaned loudly on two occasions. It would serve Kit right if she threw up all over his chest, but she didn’t. At the end of the arborvitae avenue nearest the house, they paused so that Grace could decide the next step. The only way to get Alice inside without being seen would be through the back door. But if there were still servants loitering there…well, it would be a chance they’d have to take.

  “I see,” Mr. Rookwood said, when she explained how they would get into the house. “But may I suggested that just my son and Mrs. Rookwood bring her? Fewer people are less obtrusive, and as long as his mother accompanies them, no one could object to Kit’s bringing Alice upstairs.”

  Grace hesitated. But Mr. Rookwood was right. Once they got her upstairs, she herself could go back inside without subterfuge and take care of Alice. “Very well,” she said
. “Inside that door, go up the stairs—they’re a little narrow, so be careful—to the next floor. Alice’s room is on the main passage, opposite a tall Chinese vase with pampas grass in it.”

  “Don’t worry, dear. We’ll get her there safely,” Mrs. Rookwood said comfortably.

  “Be careful,” Mr. Rookwood said sternly to Kit. He nodded and shifted Alice’s weight more securely against him. She stirred and gave a faint snore but didn’t wake.

  Grace led them to the door. To her relief, no footmen were there and the door was still propped open. After Kit and his mother vanished inside, she went back to Mr. Rookwood. “So far, so good,” she said.

  “Well, our role in this little adventure is mostly over. May I escort you back to the party?” He held out his arm to her.

  “I don’t want to go back.” Not if it meant risking meeting the loathsome vicomte. Or even Tom Livingston.

  “I can understand that,” he said kindly. “But you do owe it to your hostess to inform her of Alice’s condition—not in detail, if you don’t wish!—and that you’re both present and accounted for.”

  “I suppose you’re right, sir,” Grace said reluctantly and took his arm.

  “Are you and your friend making a long stay in Newport?” he asked as they began to stroll back to the tent.

  “We’re leaving Thursday on the night boat to New York, but we’ve been here nearly a month.” Thursday couldn’t get here quickly enough.

  “I see. Is New York home, then?”

  “Oh, no! I’m from Boston, and Alice…” She swallowed. Was it really necessary to divulge who Alice was? Perhaps she could gloss over it. “I guess I didn’t introduce myself, did I? My name is Grace Boisvert.”

  Mr. Rookwood’s pace slowed for a moment. “Miss Boisvert, from Boston,” he repeated softly. “How interesting.”

  When she looked at him inquiringly he patted her arm. “I am slightly acquainted with a Mr. Boisvert from Boston through the course of business. Could it be that you are related?”