Chapter Thirty-Eight
“Goodness, Evelyn, you need not fear they’ll come take your plate.
” Hal looks at me from across the table, amused, as I shovel a silver fork full of filet mignon into my mouth.
A beat later I bite into the softest mushrooms from the steak’s gravy and close my eyes in a moment of appreciative rapture.
“It’s just…sinfully good,” I say in breathy reply.
“My favorite steak in this city.” In truth, when I dine here at the Waldorf, I enjoy everything about the meal.
The sumptuous surroundings, the rich food.
The space in which we sit is sprawling, with stately marble columns that rise up like a forest to reach the elaborate ceiling of Greek friezes and colorfully painted birds.
Generous sunlight streams in through the spotless floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a sanctum of privilege and comfort—elegant diners gathered around the circular tables, Wall Street businessmen hashing out deals, society ladies meeting for a midday meal and morsels of gossip.
And Hal and I, happily reunited after his recent return from Paris.
“So you’ve been here before?” he asks, drinking from his cup of black coffee.
“Oh. Yes, loads of times. With…Well, Stan worked on the place. When it was being built.”
Hal’s face hardens, and he lowers his coffee cup into its saucer.
My body tenses. Have I ruined this lovely moment of our warm and happy reunion?
When he speaks, Hal’s expression remains clenched.
“Well, let’s hope our paths don’t cross today.
” Then he attempts a smile, though his face still looks taut.
Of course I’ve seen how, the few times that the name of Stanley Pierce has arisen, Hal’s entire demeanor has changed. I’ve known from the start that Hal loathes my former lover. But the words that come from his mouth next catch me unprepared. “You know, Evelyn, I’d do anything for you.”
I clear my throat, finding no easy words with which to respond. What, exactly, is he saying? But Hal carries on, his words sounding gruff but earnest: “To save you from him. From them. Not just him, but all of it. The life of toiling in the lights. Popping out of a pie.”
I hesitate, my appetite for the steak suddenly gone.
This is a lot to digest. “Thank you, Hal…” I begin.
But I can find nothing else to say. I think, not for the first time: It’s as though Hal Thorne is out of place here in Manhattan, a gallant gentleman born in the wrong century.
And I, who have never had a suitor treat me decently, find myself ill-equipped to even respond.
Are we sweethearts? Is he paying court to me with intentions for something more?
It certainly seems that way. And yet, in all the times that we have stepped out together, Hal has never even touched my hand in a lingering way.
He’s always maintained a bearing of perfectly respectful distance and courteous but detached admiration.
Hal interrupts my brooding. “At least come traveling with me.”
Once more, he has caught me unprepared. I look up at him, my confusion surely showing on my face.
He hastily adds, “We could travel as friends. You always say you’d like to see Paris.
I could bring you. Or would you prefer London?
We could do both. Or Rome? Everything quite aboveboard…
. You’d bring your mother along, of course.
And as many attendants as you require. Everything would be my treat. ”
“Hal!” I can’t help but laugh, a small exhale of shock. “You’re so kind.”
“I’m not being kind; I’m being serious.”
“But…Hal…you’ve only just returned from a trip.”
“Yes, but I intend to travel more this summer. Before I met you, my hope was to be gone until autumn, touring the Continent. The only thing giving me pause about leaving again is, well, I don’t wish to be apart from you.
But perhaps…” Now his manner is boyish, even timid, as he flashes me a searching look with his pale eyes.
“Perhaps you might consider joining me. Wouldn’t you like to get away? ”
“I don’t even know how to respond,” I say honestly, my voice quiet.
“Don’t respond. At least, not yet. But promise me one thing: Will you consider my offer?” I promise him I will, and we tuck back into our meal together without revisiting the topic.
Sadly, I know that I must demur. Not that I wouldn’t like to jump at the chance to tour London, Paris, and Rome, and here Hal is offering to bring me anywhere I’d like to go. With a full fleet of attendants, no less. Why, it sounds like a dream.
But there’s something that stops me from being able to accept his generosity.
When luncheon is over, I decline his offer of a ride in his motorcar. I tell him I crave some fresh air and a bit of a walk. What I don’t share with Hal is the fact that I need time alone to think all this through.
As I walk alone along the busy streets of Manhattan, I can feel my frown deepen as I plunge into my fretful brooding.
Hal is kind in a way I’ve never known a man to be.
He is earnest and forthright. And generous.
And apparently he is eager to give me the world, quite literally, and he possesses the means to do so. What, then, is giving me pause?
Why do I feel as though I cannot fully give myself over to Hal’s generosity?
This invitation to travel together, though extended with all propriety, is a demonstration of his clear interest in pursuing a deeper connection.
Why do I feel this niggling sense inside of me that I should keep him at arm’s length?
I realize, on that gloomy walk home from the Waldorf Astoria, that it’s because I feel I must keep my secrets hidden from Hal Thorne.
He who calls me his angel. He who wishes to be the knight that guards and keeps my honor.
Hal doesn’t know: I’m no angel. I have no purity left to preserve.
He doesn’t know the truth about me, that I’ve been tainted, ruined, and that it was the man he loathes more than anything, Stanley Pierce, who ruined me.
The further along Hal and I go in our relationship, the more I feel as though I’ve been lying by neglecting to disclose this, as though I’ve betrayed Hal by allowing him to court me when he doesn’t know the full truth of me.
I can’t quite stifle the unpleasant feeling that I’m not worthy of his kindness, nor can I silence the voice telling me I should not accept his generosity when he doesn’t in fact know the true me.
Had I met Hal before Stan, had I been able to follow a straightforward courtship with him, I could have been a respectable girl and an unhesitating bride.
If not a smoldering passion, I do feel a fondness for him bordering on warm affection.
In time, my feelings of friendship for Hal could certainly deepen to devotion and attachment.
But Stan has ruined that chance for me. Because if I were to share the truth of who I actually am with Hal, he would likely not want me.
I’m still frowning, still in a lather over all of this when I barge into the suite. I don’t even notice them until I’ve swept inside and shut the front door: there, on the couch, seated with my mother, is Stanley Pierce.
But Mamma is not on the couch. Mamma is on Stan, on his lap. They both scramble at the disturbance of my entry, both turn toward the doorway, and me before it, at the same time. And then they freeze, a most unseemly tableau. I feel a noose tighten around my neck.
“Oh, Florence…” Mamma hops off Stan’s lap, rustling the folds of her skirt around her legs. “We weren’t expecting…You’re earlier than I thought.”
“I can see I’ve disturbed you,” I say, my voice toneless, body unmoving.
“Oh, don’t let’s have a scene…. Must you…?” And then Mamma does what she does best: she takes her skirts into her two fists, and she flees. She hurries into her bedchamber and slams the door, leaving me behind with only Stan and the torturous thoughts whirling inside of me.
My eyes bore into him. “You are carrying on with my mamma?”
Stan retrieves his pocket watch, as though bored. “No, Kitten.”
His disinterest only sharpens the blade of my fury. I walk farther into the room, slowly. “Funny, ain’t it, how I have a hard time believing you?”
Stan shrugs. “Too old.”
I narrow my eyes. “Begging pardon?”
He meets my stare now, his own gaze direct, even a bit defiant. “Believe me, I could have. She was interested long before you were. But she’s not the right age for me.”
I rasp out a laugh, a hollow, gravelly sound. “Well, she certainly isn’t the right age to be sitting on your lap for a bedtime story. So then I’m wondering what it is that I just saw.”
“I’m throwing her crumbs. She’s so lonely. And she’s no idiot—Mother knows you’re playing a terribly risky game, taunting me to throw it all away, everything the two of you have. So I suppose your stalwart mother simply wanted to make sure I was, well…satisfied.”
“Get out.” I walk back to the door and open it, looking away from Stan.
I can’t bear another moment of this. I doubt I shall ever be able to look at him again.
The clarity hardens within me: I need to be done with this man.
I need both of us to be done with him. Stan, Mamma, me—this unholy trinity that I’ve allowed to linger on for far too long, it’s rotten and it reeks more with each day.
Whatever we once had that worked, it’s ruined. I need to rescue Mamma—and myself.
And suddenly, the proposition that seemed so impossible merely an hour ago—and my certainty that I had to decline it—has shifted, and I’m willing, in spite of all my hesitations and fears, to take a leap. Even to cross an ocean.