Chapter 1 #3
Aunt Cecelia’s fork clattered onto the rim of her dessert plate. “I find this topic of conversation terribly distasteful.” Her flaring nostrils and puckered lips made that clear. Patrice and Shirley stared at their slices of cake, and Fern suspected they were embarrassed by their mother’s outburst.
Mr. Halbert straightened, his eyes blinking, as if he’d just been unexpectedly smacked on the back of his head. “Apologies, ma’am.”
Buchanan remained unapologetic, lazily twirling his wine glass by the stem.
Jane Farrington took an unnecessarily loud breath and turned toward Fern’s mother. “Mrs. Adair, this cake is divine. I insist your cook send along the recipe to my own.”
The comment helped pivot the conversation.
For the most part, Fern went ignored, though a few times throughout the courses, she caught Mr. Clifton glancing at her.
He would immediately look away, but it was still unsettling.
She knew her place in this world, and men as handsome as Matthew Clifton weren’t interested in girls with only one-half of a pretty face.
Men who were that handsome and successful always cared about appearances.
They cared for girls like Shirley and Patrice, whom they could drape on their arms when out in public.
But it was easy to dream of handsome men. Like giving in and scratching an itch you know you should leave alone.
At last, the dessert course ended, and they all pushed back their chairs to move into the White Room for after-dinner cocktails. Again, Mr. Clifton’s eyes grazed Fern’s as the men stood aside, waiting for the women to depart first.
In the hall, Fern sped up to take a detour.
A moment alone was all she needed to clear her head of the capricious thoughts about Mr. Clifton.
A pair of French doors led onto the back patio, where the July air was heavy with freesia and tea roses, the leafy climbing vines twisting around the columns of the patio.
The entire dinner party would depart within the hour, and she would forget Mr. Clifton within a week.
By next Saturday’s dinner party, at the very least.
Knowing she couldn’t remain missing much longer, she slipped back inside.
Ahead, the hall turned at a ninety-degree angle, and beyond that were the doors to the White Room.
Her father’s study was also located down this stretch of hallway, though she didn’t enter that room often.
That is his sanctuary, Mother had always told her and Buchanan while they’d been growing up, and for the longest time Fern had thought the room held some religious importance to their father.
She’d picture him inside, kneeling upon the carpet and praying.
When she’d finally worked up the nerve to peek inside one day while their father was out, she’d seen a large mahogany desk, a pair of leather club chairs, a wet bar, and rows upon rows of bookshelves.
She’d realized their father had been inside his sanctuary drinking and relaxing, not praying.
When Fern told Buchanan, he’d laughed and called her stupid.
A pair of voices sounded from around the corner in the hallway. Fern went still.
“Nice spread, though, wouldn’t you say? Haven’t had a better meal since the Ritz last month in New York.” It was Mr. Halbert, his voice just as phlegmy and uncultured as it had been during dinner.
“I’d have rather been there.”
Fern backed up a step at Mr. Clifton’s reply.
“Come on, she isn’t half as bad as I thought she’d be.” Mr. Halbert had lowered his voice in an attempt at a whisper.
“That half, maybe.” Mr. Clifton sounded bored enough to yawn.
Fern touched the wall for balance. Her ears buzzed. She should have known better. Had known better.
“Nah, you’re right, Clifton. You couldn’t step out with a broad like that. Imagine what the boys would say. They’d know you were in it for the mazuma.”
Something that felt like hot lead dripped into her stomach. Mazuma. Money? What money?
“No amount of dough could bring me back here. Did you see the way her pops looked at me?” Mr. Clifton mumbled.
“What did you expect? You practically called him dirty.” Mr. Halbert tried to suppress a laugh, but it came out a choking gargle. “I doubt you’ll be getting your thank-you gift. I, on the other hand…” He laughed again.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Mr. Clifton said tersely.
Their feet shuffled away along the parquet floor, and Fern sagged against the wall, her legs weak and rubbery. Tears stabbed at her eyes. Money? Thank-you gift? Her parents were bribing these men?
She flexed her fingers into fists. Were they paying all the men who came to dinner?
Mr. Clifton and Mr. Halbert had spoken of a thank-you gift like it was common knowledge.
Or maybe her parents were only promising a bounty to the one who finally came up to scratch.
The whole idea of these dinners had been vulgar to begin with, but now…
now Fern’s stomach revolted. The cake and everything she’d forced herself to eat at dinner churned.
She raced past the turn to the White Room, toward the stairwell steps, which spiraled and whirled under her feet, her eyes hot with unshed tears.
She couldn’t face the guests in that room.
Any of them. Jane and her husband…her cousins, aunt and uncle…
every single guest over the last few months. My God. Did everyone know?
Laughter floated up the shaft of the stairwell in bubbles, popping all around, nipping at her heels. She imagined them all in the White Room, faces twisted in mirth and merriment, all of them relieved Fern was gone at last. All of them, all of them, laughing.