by Marlowe Benn
Vivian Winterjay stirred, and the circle around her receded. Before another could form, she laid a manicured hand on her husband’s knee and greeted Julia. She wore a gown of midnight blue under black lace. Whether it was the dress or the intervening days, Vivian’s pregnancy seemed more pronounced. One hand rested on the mound like a priest bestowing peace.
“I understand you’re active in women’s politics, Mrs. Winterjay,” Julia said.
“It’s a vital issue,” Vivian said, “for all of society, not just women. And please, do call me Vivian.”
“I take it you and Naomi were opponents?” Perhaps it was rude to force the issue, but Julia accepted the risk. This was important to understand.
Vivian smiled. “We agreed on several fundamentals. Our differences, however, were more lively. They were certainly better known. Naomi loved making scenes, the more public the better, a preference I found impossibly vulgar.”
“I’d like to hear about those differences,” Julia said. “If you wouldn’t mind explaining.”
Winterjay pushed away from the table to rest an arm across the back of his wife’s chair. Had he heard the subject discussed a hundred times before? A thousand? Was the answer always unwavering, or did he listen for minor embellishments and variations?
“Not at all. Nothing would please me more,” Vivian said. “It’s simple, really. You see, Naomi believed equality was best achieved by eliminating legal distinctions between men and women. She thought women should be treated no worse and no better than men in all respects. At first blush this may sound fair and liberating, but in fact it would subject women to all sorts of new burdens and obligations. Would you have girls serving as soldiers and priests? Cutting timber? Digging mines?”
No reply was expected. She offered to send Julia a clipping of an article she’d recently published in the Woman Patriot. “I believe the natural distinctions between the sexes cannot be overturned. Rather than force women to compete with men on their turf, I want better recognition for the work we do best—making good homes for our families, raising informed and dutiful children, nursing the ill, and comforting the poor. Instead of hiring more girls into factory jobs, for example, we need to protect them from that crippling work altogether.”
Julia nodded vaguely, trying to imagine what Alice or Fern or Beatha at the Union would say in response. Vivian’s ideal posited every woman at the center of a home and family, presuming for her a husband (or father or brother) with an income sufficient to shelter her from need. What of women without such a patron, either by choice or by fate? Or those whose menfolk offered not shelter but neglect or abuse? Naomi must have posed those very questions, challenging her sister at every turn. No wonder theirs was a fractious family. Naomi’s own personal rejection of such “shelter” must have galled Vivian badly.
Vivian smiled again. “That’s why I opposed the vote. I feel it’s better to leave sordid civic and legal matters to the men, who are made of sterner stuff, and concentrate on those domestic arenas where we women excel. It’s a more sensible equality, a social partnership really, with men and women contributing different talents.”
She smoothed her frock over her abdomen, a large emerald wedding ring flashing against the dark fabric. “Naomi simply refused to see. She scorned the things I call blessings. I have everything she forfeited in life, you see. I have a husband who’s widely regarded and eminent in his field and who’s given me two precious children—soon three. She could win all the political battles in the world and still not have half so much to cherish. It made her bitterly jealous, though she’d deny it to the skies.”
“Maybe not jealous, darling,” Winterjay said. “Frustrated, yes, but I think she really did prefer her life to ours. She put a great store in her lady comrades.”
“But how could she? I have to believe a true woman’s heart beat under all that fierce talk. It pained me that she spoke so harshly of marriage, when living without it doomed her to such a barren life.”
Barren? Alice and Fern and Beatha deemed Naomi’s life purposeful beyond measure. Did Vivian consider Julia’s life barren as well? What would she make of her beautiful, promising infant Capriole?
“Then we should admire her strength all the more,” Winterjay said, “for what she sacrificed. She was in many ways a remarkable woman.”
Vivian gave her husband’s thigh a soft slap. “You keep saying that. I swear you’re incapable of speaking ill of anyone, even someone who gave us as much trouble as Naomi did. But you’re right. It’s time to forgive our little skirmishes. She’s my sister. How could I not love her in the end?”
“Even when I’m sloshed?” Glennis loomed behind her sister. She slumped forward, forearms denting Vivian’s shoulders. Winterjay took the martini glass dangling from Glennis’s hand and set it on the table, a full arm’s length away.
“I want to meet that brother of yours, Julia. For a drink. Can’t dance.” Glennis scowled, boss eyed, at Chester.
“I think Glennis needs another parade around the room,” Winterjay said, pushing back his chair. As he led Glennis away, she blew Julia a kiss and winked grotesquely at Coates, wondering loudly where her martini had gotten to.
Coates rubbed his arm where Glennis had gripped it. “She’s a good kid, but I thought my arm was about to fall off. Winterjay’s a sport to lead her round this time.”
“We’ll take her home soon, Russell,” Vivian said. “These evenings are so exhausting.”
Julia tried to smile but felt wretchedly unweary herself. After a dismal week of solitary evenings (Philip apologizing lamely each time he hurried out to meet Jack or Kessler, likely at one of their clubs), another night that ended before midnight was too disappointing to consider, especially dressed as she was. She was relieved, and a little alarmed that her thoughts might have been obvious, when Coates asked her to dance. Vivian shooed them off with a matronly blessing.
Coates had no difficulties with her dress. He was respectable on his feet, a pleasant surprise. Book men, in her experience, were seldom good dance partners. His conversation was blameless, polite, and respectful—restricted to territory they had both traveled countless times with countless partners on countless such occasions. Effortless and inoffensive, he spoke with the same deceptive detachment she’d observed as he surveyed the Rankins’ bookshelves. It allowed him to move through the world while his mind remained masked, preoccupied with private thoughts. Julia didn’t mind this retreat—she often indulged in its freedoms herself—but she did wonder at its cause. She detected something ponderous, heavy.
“I gather you’re fond of books, Mr. Coates,” Julia said. “I watched you after Naomi’s service last Sunday. One bibliophile can usually spot another.”
The mask disappeared. “Russell, please.” He smiled. “I do collect. Modern firsts mostly, poetry, essays, some fiction. Conrad, Hardy, Stevenson. Americans too. Hergesheimer. Aiken. Elinor Wylie and Stephen Benét. I’ve kept up pretty well on Christopher Morley. He has scads of ephemera out there, but as he’s an acquaintance, I get good leads. Do you know his work?”
Julia admitted she knew little of Morley (a darling of American collectors, for reasons that eluded her) and said her own passions ran more to modern fine printing. Not every collector cared for new books made to meticulous standards of handcraftsmanship, but enough did to embolden her to mention her own typographic venture. He’d never heard of her Capriole Press, of course, but his reaction—stopping midglide with a robust how interesting—sent her gabbling on about Baskerville types and Hester Sainsbury’s engravings and the droll new kid-nymph pressmark she was eager to debut on her next chapbook, contents as yet undecided.
The pace of their dancing fluctuated wildly. His astonishment that a woman would launch a fine imprint was immensely gratifying. She wasn’t alone in that endeavor but very near. Serious women bibliophiles were rare enough. He gaped, smiled, and mentioned that a younger subset of the city’s Colophon Club was meeting next Thursday evening. Would she care to join hi
m for an informal supper and incorrigible book talk? He could show her a bit of the city afterward too, if she liked.
The prospect pleased Julia absurdly, and she agreed with unseemly speed. They lapsed into a companionable silence. As the music slowed, Julia thought quickly to bridge the interval to another dance. “Glennis tells me you’ve known the Rankins for years.”
He nodded. “My father was old Alford Rankin’s attorney and a close friend. I grew up with Chester and Naomi. There are gaps, you know. Vivian is some years younger than Naomi, and Glennis came along well after that. At any rate, we oldest three were once thick as thieves.”
“I thought Naomi and Chester detested each other.”
“Not until after college. That’s when Chester went into the bank and Naomi marched off to Washington to change the Constitution. I joined my father’s law firm and inherited the Rankins to keep me busy.”
“And I’m sure they do.” Julia phrased her next comment delicately. “They seem an interesting family.”
He reared back to gauge this comment, then firmly resettled his hand as the orchestra resumed.
“The more I hear about Naomi Rankin,” Julia added, “the more I wish I knew her.”
Some moments elapsed. Perhaps she had penetrated to the source of Russell’s disquiet. If he’d grown up as a second brother to Naomi, he must have known her far better than Glennis did. “She was extraordinary,” he finally said. “Nothing ordinary about her.”
“Was she outspoken even as a child?”
“She was always doing whatever was forbidden, especially if Chester and I were allowed and she wasn’t. We tried our first cigars together. It nearly killed her, but she was not about to cough until one of us did. As soon as I gagged, she practically exploded, but then she declared it a kick and started keeping a stash in her bedroom, mainly because her father swore he’d thrash her if he ever caught her with a cigarette. She thought it was fine fun that he hadn’t mentioned cigars and took to the things like a Tweed boss. That was Naomi all over.” He laughed softly.
“You liked her?”
“Very much. But with time it got harder. She was always sparring with her father, and I had to please him, of course. Then she and Chester couldn’t draw breath in the same room without one of them going into a rage. It was pretty grim for the rest of us.”
“I did notice his temper.”
“You mean the scene with Glennis? She chafes under his heavy hand, that’s all.”
“She told me about her father’s will,” Julia said to ease his burden of discretion.
“Wills often speak loudly from beyond the grave. But Glennis is a strong girl. She’ll figure something out. In fact, I gather she already has.”
Julia answered with care. “She is in rather a hurry to get down the aisle.” Did Russell have any idea how prominently he figured in Glennis’s efforts? At least occasionally. Her list of possible alternatives to Archie varied from day to day, with candidates rising and falling in favor on whims so comical, so utterly detached from actual romantic stirrings, that even Glennis laughed at every update. Russell Coates was currently in distant third or fourth place, trailing not only Wall Street Warren but a discarded former fiancé named Lyle, who was apparently rethinking his decision to pursue mission work in Madagascar.
“Have you met this Archie she’s all loopy for?” he asked.
“Oh yes.” Julia wanted to say more, to produce the usual bland compliment for Glennis’s erstwhile intended, but she could not muster a single positive word. There were a hundred Archies these days, clogging the clubs and racetracks and weekend shooting parties all across England: minor aristocracy of the most depleted kind, with only crumbling estates and cobwebbed pedigrees to call their own. Not three wits among the lot. Dull as lemmings, and the most stupid were the most opinionated. At least Archie was too slack to have opinions. As one who smiled “righty-ho” at virtually anything one said, he wouldn’t be bothered by what Glennis got up to. She was right: she’d quickly reduce him to signing over checks, probably from some distance away, and no doubt commence another list of favored admirers, fantastical and harmless as ever, to regale her new British friends.
A tremor at Julia’s silence began deep in Russell’s shoulders. “I see,” he said. “A modern bride.”
Julia leaned her ear against his jaw, blending her tremor with his, and her gown and salon extravagance began to do their work. She lost track of the Rankins and imagined—hoped—Philip and Jack had made their exit long ago. If Russell Coates had any other business to conduct that evening, it was abandoned. The dance floor grew less crowded, the music more pensive, the room more shadowed. Here was a promising fellow, she thought as they drifted in aimless arcs. A book man, that was the first delight. A fine dancer. Easy to talk with. Some sense of humor. And there was no denying the ageless conversation that had started up between her bones and his. She felt each rise and fall of his chest and the easy stretch of his fingertips as they slid beneath the rim of her dress. Just a fraction. Just enough.
Until, with a flare of trumpets and stage lights, the orchestra announced its evening over. To Julia’s surprise, Glennis and Winterjay remained, alone, at the Rankin table. When Glennis began to wave madly, Winterjay caught her arm midair and guided it to the table. She was more sozzled than ever.
“You have a devoted friend,” Russell said under his breath as they returned to the table. His palm lingered across Julia’s back before he promised to telephone early in the week.
“Julia! I need to tell you something!” Glennis stood and pitched sidelong into Winterjay. “Isn’t Russell dishy?” She swerved away for a wet belch. “So’s your dishy brother. The dishy ginger one too.”
It all returned to Julia in a whoosh. Naomi’s mysterious death. Philip’s claims to her money.
“Uh-oh.” Glennis slapped a hand over her mouth and stumbled to untangle the hem of her frock from the chair’s leg.
Pulled along toward the ladies’, Julia had time for only a quick nod to the men. These were Volstead days. Everyone understood.
CHAPTER 13
A brisk tattoo sounded on Julia’s bedroom door. One eye told her the light was still murky, the hour ungodly. Christophine? She jerked her head out of the pillow and collapsed back into the warm linen. New York. Philip. Monday morning.
“Pardon for the early hour, miss,” came Mrs. Cheadle’s voice from the hall. “Mr. Kydd said to rouse you. You’ve been summoned to the lawyer’s offices this morning. Ten sharp.”
This woke Julia. Cold legal reality dispelled the weekend’s pleasure. So soon? Just one week? She’d expected they would need at least twice that to arrive at a judgment. Her feet churned to find her mules. She pulled the clock to her face. Eight thirty. She took the coffee Mrs. Cheadle handed through the door and clutched it as she thought of how to ready herself in a scant hour. This was hardly an auspicious start to the most momentous day of her visit, if not of her future life.
She had the satisfaction of reaching the vestibule first—bathed, dressed, and composed. She wore her favorite frock of apricot silk piqué with a panel of fine pleats along her left hip and, in perverse, vindicating (she trusted) logic, another felt cloche from Mme Hamar’s shop. Philip appeared a moment later, no less confidently arrayed. He adjusted his necktie in the hall mirror, quirked a smile, and turned to her with an extended elbow. She took it coolly, and they descended together to their fate.
Jack was waiting in the reception lounge when they arrived. “They’re ready,” he said. “It took less time than anyone expected.”
A valve stuttered in Julia’s heart. Was this good news or bad? Jack’s face was guarded as he showed them into a windowless conference room. Its only furniture was a large round table. The firm’s three active partners—Feeney, Churchman, and Rousch—rose. The table was bare except for two plain envelopes.
Churchman spoke as soon as they were seated. “We understand you’ve made the trip from London solely for this purpose, Miss Kydd
, and we naturally wish to inconvenience you as briefly as possible. But we want also to assure you both that, despite the speedy decision, we gave this matter of disputed inheritance our utmost deliberation. We reached a unanimous decision, which you can read in detail for yourselves.” He gestured for Jack to hand Philip and Julia each one of the envelopes. She hated to see her hand tremble as she took it.
Philip balanced his envelope on edge across his knee. “Our hearts are aflutter,” he said. “Can’t someone just blurt it out?”
“Yes, of course,” Churchman said. “You can read the full deliberations, but in a nutshell we found yours the position with better merit, Mr. Kydd.”
Julia liked to think she made neither sound nor gesture, but later she could not be certain. Her face was as shadowed as her hat brim could make it, but even so she fought to govern every muscle that might betray her. She had understood there was always a slim chance this might happen, of course, and she considered herself prepared for even such a monstrous outcome. In that moment, however, she realized how utterly she had done no such thing. Her only consolation was in preventing others from realizing it too.
Churchman’s voice resonated as if from a deep cave. “My younger partners have only a vague recollection of your father, but I knew him well. He came to Kessler Senior and me in the early days of our practice, back in the eighties, before you were born, Philip, and for a time his business was a mainstay for us. I remember the day he and your mother first brought you into the office and the care he took over that first will.”
“First will? There was a later one?” Julia’s voice was a masterpiece of dignity.
Churchman removed his spectacles and polished them with a handkerchief. “That question has haunted me for years, Miss Kydd. I worked with your father in early ’06 during those last few months of his life. He wanted to make a few key revisions, which I’m not free to disclose. But when I brought him the final version to sign, he said he had some things to discuss privately—I assumed with his estranged wife, your mother—and he promised to get it signed, witnessed, and filed within the week. That was nearly a month before he died, so I naturally assumed he did so while I was away traveling in Virginia. I was as surprised as anyone when the only will we found in his papers after his death was the one from 1890.”
