A Splendid Ruin: A Novel

by Megan Chance

  “You don’t understand! She trusted me!” Her nails bit. She was stronger than she looked. “You should not have come. I want you to go home. Go home!”

  She threw the words at me. Her eyes were black with anger and desperation and horror. I felt she could suck me up by sheer force of will, and she meant to. I tried to step away, unable to stem a growing panic.

  “Please, Aunt Florence. Please!” Too loud. I heard my own fear and desperation.

  The door burst open. Shin hurried to my aunt, taking her shoulders, easing her, and I went weak with relief and shame. “Now, now, Mrs. Sullivan. I have your medicine. That’s right. This way.”

  Aunt Florence let the maid direct her. She collapsed again into the chair, and began to sob.

  “Now, now,” Shin soothed, taking the laudanum from her pocket. Then her gaze slipped to the bureau drawer, still opened, and I knew by the way she looked at me that she understood what I’d done.

  My shame turned hot. I left quickly, jittery, devastated. I’d never heard anyone cry that way, so brokenheartedly. I did not know what to do, how to make things better, or how I would explain myself to my uncle, or to Goldie, when Shin told them that I’d upset my aunt going through her things, and, as if in response to my thought, there was Goldie, coming up the stairs.

  She had been gone, I remembered. “There you are!” Guilt and fear and worry made me overly hearty. “Where have you been?”

  Her head jerked up; something flashed through her eyes—irritation?—but then she smiled, and it was gone. “Oh, hello.” There was an odd lilt to her voice.

  “Where have you been?” I asked again.

  “I went for ice cream. I had a craving for it, and I didn’t want to wake you up. You were sleeping so soundly.”

  Ice cream? It was nearly two in the afternoon now; and she’d been gone for hours and hours. And who went for ice cream in the middle of the night? What confectioners would even be open?

  But I saw no lie in her face, and there were plenty of reasons to doubt myself. All that champagne, my headache . . . Had I really heard anything last night, or had it all been the dream I’d thought it then?

  “What’s wrong with Mother?”

  Aunt Florence’s crying had quieted, but it was still audible. “I’m so sorry. I know I shouldn’t have, but she wished to speak to me, and I—”

  “You didn’t. May, I told you!” Goldie pushed past me.

  “Shin is with her—”

  I started to follow Goldie into her mother’s room, but she closed the door in my face. Well, of course. I deserved that, though it hurt. I heard her low and furious murmur, Shin’s reply. I imagined what the maid must be telling her, and that was enough to send me to my bedroom, where I picked up my sketchbook. But I could only stare blankly at the pages, and the pencil felt foreign in my hand. I could think of nothing to draw.

  Not long after, my aunt’s door opened and closed, and my cousin appeared at mine, which I’d left open in resigned expectation. “A word, May, if you don’t mind?”

  She did not sound angry, which was a relief. She did not seem angry, either, only tired. There was a part of me that was reassured that her looks could suffer even as I braced myself for her scolding. “I’m so sorry. I promise it isn’t what it looks like—”

  “What did she say to you?” Goldie stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

  “I hardly know. She made no sense at all.” Except for the “I want you to go . . .” That had made perfect sense.

  “You said she wished to speak with you.”

  “It was all nonsense, Goldie. You were right. I should have listened to you and Uncle Jonny. I should have refused her.”

  Goldie nodded thoughtfully. “What did you say to make her cry?”

  I winced. “I’m sorry.”

  “Never mind that. Why is she crying?”

  “I don’t know. I—” I tried to remember something beyond that horror in her stare, that hard grip, the pinch of her nails. “I asked her about the letter. I—I thought she must have it, which is why I—why her—”

  “What letter?” Goldie looked confused. Obviously she hadn’t seen the opened drawer, or Shin had said nothing of my intrusion.

  “The one you told me my mother sent. The one that told you where I was. I’d hoped to read it. I hoped it might hold some answers—”

  “About your father, you mean?”

  “About anything,” I corrected with a short laugh.

  “I don’t think the letter would help you, May. It was just ‘I’m ill and I’m worried about my daughter, and could you help her?’ There was nothing more, I don’t think. I never read it. She told us of it.”

  “But Mama did say she was ill?”

  Goldie nodded.

  “Even that she didn’t tell me.” I took a deep breath. “Anyway, I’m sorry. Uncle Jonny promised to ask about the letter for me, and I should have just waited for him. I am impatient sometimes.”

  “She’s resting now. The laudanum is really quite a miracle.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Silence fell between us. It felt awkward, as silence hadn’t in the time I’d known her.

  I said, “How was the ice cream?”

  “The ice cream?” She looked blank for a moment, and then laughed as if there were a joke in there somewhere I couldn’t see. “Oh yes, delicious, of course. Too bad you were sleeping.”

  “You could have awakened me. I wouldn’t have complained.”

  “Well, you were really quite drunk yesterday.”

  Which only reminded me of the gossip in the Bulletin.

  “Did you see the society news today?”

  Goldie shook her head. “Why?”

  “It mentions us at the Cliff House.”

  Goldie squealed. “It does? Where is it?”

  “It’s not very complimentary. It says we drank a lot of champagne and were a ‘jovial’ company.”

  “Which is true.”

  “And it also says that I’m the talk of the town ‘as usual.’”

  “It does?” She raised a brow. “Well, well.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Do? What do you mean, ‘do’?”

  “He said we were ‘conspicuously festive.’ Surely we can’t let him gossip about us in such a derogatory way.”

  Goldie laughed. “Oh my dear May, tell me you’re joking. We’ve been mentioned in the Bulletin society news. Do you know how many people would do anything for that? It’s a triumph! Please don’t be a Mabel.”

  She did seem truly happy about it. I told myself that I was, once again, too behind the times. Mama had always opined that real ladies were not gossiped about in the newspaper, but Mama had been from a different time and place, and so I allowed Goldie’s joy over the mention to erase my misgivings.

  “If you make a fuss, you’ll just be telling everyone that you don’t belong,” Goldie said. “Is that what you want?”

  It was most assuredly not. “Remember who you are.” “Well, I guess it’s something to celebrate then. Shall we?”

  My cousin put a hand to her eyes. “Perhaps later. I’ve a ravishing headache.”

  As she started to the door, I said, “Goldie, I am so very sorry about your mother. Not only because I upset her, but because she is . . . that way. I really am so sorry.”

  “Well.” She took a deep breath. “Don’t let it trouble you too much. She’s far away now in dreamland, where she likes best to be. Nothing can touch her there.”

  The next morning, as Goldie and I promenaded the paths circling the trimmed lawns of Union Square, the St. Francis Hotel looming just beyond, my cousin grabbed my arm and jerked me behind the pedestal of the statue of Winged Victory. Silently, she nodded toward a couple also walking—my uncle, and his mistress, Alma Dennehy.

  They were arm in arm, her hatted head nearly resting on his shoulder. A cloud of smoke—his cigar, hers—enveloped them. They were so very public. I wondered why they were not the topic of every c
onversation. It seemed such a scandal. “Why does he never write about them?”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Bandersnitch.”

  “He will soon enough,” Goldie’s voice dragged with resignation.

  “How long has it been going on?”

  “Her late husband introduced Papa to Abe Ruef. That was three or four years ago. But this”—a shrug—“who knows really? Perhaps a few months? All I know is that he’s been squiring her about in public lately and he doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks.”

  “He might care if it’s in the Bulletin.”

  “He hates the Bulletin. And anyway, she has Mr. Ruef’s ear. Papa’s been lavishing money on her too—is she wearing any new jewelry? Can you see?”

  “How would I know if it were new?”

  Goldie sighed.

  “Are you certain Aunt Florence doesn’t know?” I asked. “This isn’t—it couldn’t be the reason for her headaches?”

  Goldie studied me as if I’d just said something surprising. “Her headaches?”

  “Perhaps she discovered it, and the strain . . . you know.”

  “Ah.” Goldie considered. “Yes, perhaps. How clever of you to think of it, May. Perhaps that explains everything.”

  My cousin looked satisfied, and I was pleased that I’d provided an answer to at least one mystery, though I wondered that Goldie hadn’t thought of this herself—it seemed such an obvious conclusion. Nor did the idea seem to pain her as it did me. But then, I was troubled and disconsolate over my visit with my aunt yesterday, and that made it easy to look for someone else to blame.

  We waited until my uncle and his mistress walked from the park, and then another five minutes to be certain before Goldie let us emerge from behind Winged Victory. When we returned home some hours later, I went to the garden with my pencils and sketchbook in its worn leather case, hoping to forget my uncle and Mrs. Dennehy, as well as my own guilt, and find solace.

  But in drawing, I was out of practice, and the garden was no refuge; like the rest of the house, it was both overcrowded and strangely deserted. The white stone path meandered through rose-filled parterres guarded by platoons of statues. Against one of the many bas-relief-decorated walls, a fountain of nymphs poured water from large urns. There was no peace for the eye, but at least there was no confining roof, and the bright October sky stretched blue and far above.

  When I saw my uncle approaching, I tensed, thinking not only of how I’d seen him this morning, arm in arm with his mistress, but also knowing why he’d searched me out. I’d had all night to think of what excuse I could make for my encounter with Aunt Florence, and I had none. I’d been warned. I’d allowed my curiosity to get the best of me. I would be lucky if he didn’t ask me to leave.

  “There you are.” Intimidatingly perfect, as usual. He gestured to the bench. “Do you mind?”

  “Please.” I moved to give him room.

  He craned his neck to look at the open pages. “Goldie said you liked to draw. She was right. You’re quite good. May I?” He reached for the book, and, unable to find a graceful way to refuse, I handed it to him. He gave the sketches honest attention. “Perhaps I should let you design my building, given how much trouble I’ve had getting the architect I want.”

  I blinked in surprise. “You’re joking, of course.”

  He sighed. “You’ve a good eye. Though I would insist on more angels.”

  “You seem to have a special fondness for them.”

  “I’ve been blessed,” he said simply, giving me the book again. “I like to pay tribute to the Lord when I can.”

  There might be better ways than buying grosses of porcelain cupids. Wisely, I kept that to myself. While we went to church every Sunday, my uncle spent more time socializing than listening to the sermon. In fact, it was all I could do not to think of all the ways my uncle was not paying tribute to the Lord. “Who is the architect?”

  “Ellis Farge—ah, I see you’ve heard of him?”

  “He was at the Cliff House the other day. Goldie pointed him out.” I remembered, too, Thomas’s quiet comment about no one refusing Sullivan Building. It seemed someone had after all.

  “He was? How odd. He’s been a bit of a recluse lately, I understand. Commissioning him would be quite a coup, but he’s been tiresome—ah, but that’s nothing to do with you, my dear.” He sighed. There was a wealth of disappointment in the sound. “There was something else I wanted to speak to you about. I understand there was a situation with Flossie yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry,” I rushed in. “Truly. She asked me to visit with her, and I should have refused, but—”

  He put up his hand to stop me. “Dr. Browne is looking in on her now. I think you should have a talk with him.”

  He spoke to me as if I were a small child, and I felt myself flush. “I’ve learned my lesson, Uncle Jonny.”

  “Perhaps. But it would ease my mind. Perhaps he can better put things into perspective for you.” My uncle rose and offered his hand. I tucked my sketchbook beneath my arm and went with him into the parlor to wait for the doctor.

  My remorse was already overwhelming; in the crowded parlor, it paralyzed me. I sat nervously while Uncle Jonny smoked. Soon the room was as foggy as the harbor. When Dr. Browne finally arrived, I thought I might be ill.

  He peered down at me from a height. His deep-set brown eyes were faintly hostile. “Surely you must be familiar with your aunt’s condition, given your own experience.”

  “My experience?”

  “I understand there’s a history of madness in your family.”

  I stared, uncomprehending.

  “Your mother?” he prompted. “Was she not troubled by delusions and fantasies?”

  “Oh. No. No, I never—”

  “Perhaps you did not allow yourself to consider it. We often try very hard to excuse the behavior of those we love.” Dr. Browne looked sympathetic. “Madness often runs in families. It would not be surprising for sisters to be equally afflicted.”

  I was so stunned at his implication that I barely heard the rest, which was all about the best way to manage my aunt—laudanum and calm—everything I already knew. When he finally left, I was relieved. I didn’t like Dr. Browne or his assumptions, which were ridiculous.

  My uncle asked, “Are you quite all right, May? I hope you did not find that too distressing.”

  “No, of course not. I just wish there was something I could do to help.”

  “It’s nothing for you to fret about. You should be out with Goldie, playing about the city.” He made a fluttering gesture with his hand. “One is only young once, after all.”

  I tried to smile. “I think I’m not much for playing, Uncle Jonny. I feel rather useless.”

  “Useless?”

  “I’ve been here for three months now, and I feel I must find something to do with myself.”

  “Do?” My uncle spoke the word as if it were distasteful. “Do? Why, what is there to do except for what you’re doing?”

  “I should find a job. Perhaps I could become a governess, or . . . or something. I could take up charity work. I feel I’m taking advantage of your generosity.”

  Uncle Jonny laughed. “I think of you as another daughter, May. Please, no more of this talk of doing things, or taking advantage. What would people say if I let my niece work for a living? Good God, no, you will do nothing of the sort. I wish you to do just as your cousin does, be frivolous and gay. It does me good to see it.”

  My heart sank even as I tried to return his smile. “Still, Uncle. Aunt Florence did serve on some charitable committees.”

  “It was a terrible strain. I believe it led directly to her affliction now.”

  That? Or Alma Dennehy?

  “Truly, May, I don’t wish you to end up like your aunt. You heard what the doctor said—it runs in families.”

  “My mother was not—”

  “Young women should not strain their minds or their bodies with too much work,” he said aff
ectionately. “I’ll hear no more of it. In fact, I believe Goldie has a treat for you today. I hereby order you to stop thinking of these absurdities and enjoy yourself thoroughly. Am I understood?”

  I nodded reluctantly. “Yes, Uncle.”

  “Excellent!” He clasped my shoulder and squeezed lightly. “Your old life is in the past, May. You have had too many years of worry. Now it is time for pleasure.”

  He made my concerns sound so unreasonable—truly, who would wish for purpose when they had the choice of ease?—and yet a heaviness set upon me that I could not shake, and when Goldie came to me in my bedroom later, I was no better.

  “Papa thinks you need a distraction, and so do I.”

  “Goldie, I—”

  “I won’t take no for an answer. Come along. We’re going on an adventure.”

  “To where?”

  “It’s a surprise.” There was that mischievous gleam in my cousin’s eyes again, that sly smile. “But I promise you will love it.”

  Which is how I found myself with Goldie on a crowded streetcar on Clement. There were few businessmen on the trolley; it was mostly families, mothers and children, and young men who looked dressed for an outing. The clanging and screeching of the wheels and the steel cables and the excited talk coming from those clearly anticipating fun raised my spirits somewhat.

  Goldie would not say where we were going. Neither would she tell me what she carried in the large carpetbag on her lap.

  “You’ll see,” she said. “Now stop asking questions.”

  Then, with a screech of brakes and a throng of racing children and mothers calling out for them to wait and boys jostling each other to disembark, we came out of the streetcar depot to Sutro Baths.

  I had seen it from the Cliff House, but I’d not yet been inside. It was huge, a three-acre natatorium, a glass-topped, cupola-embellished, mammoth structure stretching just above the beach.

  “We’re going swimming?” I asked Goldie.

  “Have you ever been?”

  “Not ever.” There’d been no money for it. Even Coney Island had been out of reach. “Goldie, I can’t swim. I don’t even have a bathing costume.”

  “There are shallow ends just for splashing. And as for the rest”—she patted the bag—“I’ve planned for everything.”