Eve could only stare at her hostess.
“Now, Eve, why don’t you rest and freshen up? I’ll have my lady’s maid, Mary, come by with two of my dresses. You may choose one for dinner. I’ll drop by at 7 pm and escort you to the dining room.”
Irene fluttered over and planted a soft kiss on Eve’s right cheek. “You rest now, my new dear friend, and everything will soon be much better.”
And then Irene was gone, with just a whiff of her vanilla and rose perfume left hanging in the air.
For a time, Eve didn’t move from the center of the room. She had nearly forgotten that suspended feeling of being out of time and place—that numbing, nauseating sense of not feeling quite anchored in your skin, as if her atoms had been tossed and scattered like confetti into the wind.
Eve wandered to the bed, sat, and then dropped back, overcome by a crashing exhaustion. As she dropped into sleep, she was tormented by dreams of Patrick—of him wandering lost on damp, dark, winding cobbled streets, passing under smudges of yellow lamplight, glancing back over his shoulder fearfully, as if he were being followed.
Lady’s maid, Mary Foster, awakened Eve with a light tap on the door. Eve wriggled out of sleep, shooting up, lost for moments until her eyes focused and she gradually reoriented herself. She pushed up, went to the door and opened it.
Mary held two dresses and bobbed a bow. Eve invited her in.
“Hello, Mrs. Gantly. I’m Miss Casterbury’s lady’s maid, Mary. She has sent me with these two dinner gowns for you to look at and choose one for this evening’s dinner.”
Mary wore a black uniform with a crisp, white apron pinned to her bodice and a little white cap on her head. She was a thin girl, with a pretty face, curly brown hair and gray/green eyes. She was attentive and carefully talkative, and she spoke with a charming Irish lilt.
Holding the gowns high, she crossed the room to the spacious closet and hung them. Eve observed that Mary had kept her eyes low, her shoulders forward, as if in apology. But Eve felt Mary’s restrained curiosity. No doubt, Irene had filled her in on how she’d found Eve in the park, and about her strange hair and clothes. Mary surely longed to stare at Eve’s old dress and strange hairstyle. Eve’s antique coat lay across the burgundy settee and she observed Mary’s eyes steal a look at it.
Eve decided she had to know once and for all what time she was living in, no matter what Mary thought of her. From her time in 1885, Eve was aware that the lady’s maid was often mistrusted and perhaps even disliked by the lower servants. They felt she was conceited or that she might even gossip to her mistress about them. Lady’s maids had privileges that others did not have. This, in turn often made the lady’s maid feel isolated, as if she didn’t quite fit into either world.
So, Eve decided to ask Mary about the date and the year.
“Mary, I have not been feeling well, as of late. What I mean to say is that I am feeling slightly disoriented.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Gantly. Can I order you some chamomile tea?”
“No… No, thanks. It’s just that… well, don’t think me a bit mad, Mary, but what is the exact date today?”
Mary stared, then blinked, then stared down at the thick burgundy and gold carpet, her hands clasped before her.
“Mrs. Gantly, it is Saturday, November the 28th, 1914.”
Eve stared hard, with half-hooded eyes, then she turned from Mary, as one thought chased another. It’s not that Eve was completely surprised, but finally learning the truth still had an impact.
Eve’s mind spun into action. Maggie Lott Gantly would not be a baby, of course, but a full-grown woman, about twenty-nine years old. Unless someone or something stopped the course of fate, she would be murdered on December 24th, only a few weeks away. Eve’s and Patrick’s burning reason for returning to the past was to rescue a baby, not a grown woman, weeks before she was about to be killed. Eve wanted to drop to the floor and cry. Everything had gone wrong.
Okay, so what was plan B? Patrick’s plan to return to 1885 to pluck Maggie away from her aunt was shattered. And where was Patrick? Was he still in 2018, somewhere in 1914, or was he somewhere else entirely, perhaps in 1885? Had he even survived the time travel?
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some tea, Mrs. Gantly?” Mary asked. “You look quite pale.”
Eve shut her eyes and massaged her forehead. “No, thank you, Mary. I’m just not quite myself today, that’s all. I’ll be fine… It’s just that…”
And then Eve’s voice trailed off and Mary stood in silence, waiting.
But Eve wasn’t fine. She felt the burn of panic fill her chest. She had no idea what she was going to do.
CHAPTER 9
Eve went into survival mode. The practical machinery of her mind began to take over. The nurse in her shoved away the fears, the judgments, and the wild extravagant emotions. She reawakened her practiced and developed skills and fell into the meditation of a problem solver.
Eve opened her eyes. Mary Foster was still standing by, waiting, her eyes shifting.
“I’m sorry Mary. Will you excuse me for a moment, while I freshen up in the bathroom?”
Minutes later, Eve returned to the patient Mary, whom Eve noticed was not standing in the same place as she was when Eve excused herself. She had probably searched the room for clues.
The water Eve had splashed on her face had helped. The time alone, staring at herself in the mirror, helped her regain her center.
Eve smiled pleasantly. “Well, I guess I’d better get dressed for dinner, Mary.”
Mary nodded, moving toward her to help her undress. Eve suddenly remembered her security belt. She spotted a screen on the far side of the room and quickly moved toward it. “You must tell me where you come from,” Eve said, hoping to distract Mary with conversation. She slipped behind the screen. “You have a beautiful Irish accent.”
“Yes, Ma’am. I’m from Kenmare, south of County Kerry. Perhaps you have heard of Kenmare lace, Mrs. Gantly?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t,” Eve said.
“In the 1860s, a lace-working industry was established at a convent there, and Kenmare lace is now known worldwide. My grandmother worked there for a time.”
As Mary spoke, Eve quickly removed her old dress, slipped out of her security belt and hid it under the skirt of an upholstered chair. Eve had not yet examined the contents to see if anything survived the time travel. She’d have to do that after dinner.
With just her corset and underwear on, Eve slipped in front of the screen. Mary examined her and then suggested a newer corset that would provide the long, smooth hipline needed for the extravagant dresses Irene had offered. How Eve hated wearing a corset! It cut off her air and blood supply and—there was no denying it—it made her feel bound and trapped.
After Mary removed the old corset, she placed the new one on Eve but kept it loose. Then she led Eve to the ornate dresser, where she held the chair for Eve to sit behind a tall, gilded mirror, complete with carved cupids and maidens.
Eve breathed in. It was time for a 1914 hairstyle.
“Miss Gantly, normally I would curl your hair using curling tongs, but I’m afraid we have no time for that. Miss Casterbury suggested I do a more simple but graceful hairstyle for this evening.”
Eve grinned to herself. Irene was definitely in charge, vigilantly aware that Eve’s modern hairstyle was not appropriate for this time. No doubt Irene’s mother would be scrutinizing every detail and eccentric aspect of Irene’s new-found friend.
“Yes, Mary, whatever style you choose, I’m sure will be the right one.”
Mary went to work, backcombing, going for a pompadour style using back hair Tournure Frames, false curls, switches, and frizzle. All the back hair was pulled together into a flat coil and then drawn onto the crown of the head. Eve was impressed by Mary’s nimble fingers, speed, and skill. When Mary was finished, Eve stared back at a woman she hardly knew.
“You have lovely thick hair, Mrs. Gantly.”
“Thank you, Mary. You are an artist.”
Mary blushed with pleasure. “Thank you, Mum.”
With no time to spare, Mary applied makeup, or what there was of it. It was a light powder only, no lip rouge or lipstick or blush.
Eve pursed her lips in thought. “I suppose you don’t use rouge or blush?” Eve asked.
Mary held Eve’s stare. “Oh, no, Mrs. Gantly. Mrs. Katherine Casterbury would never allow rouge or blush in her presence. She still doesn’t even use the telephone to speak with friends outside the house. She sends invitations. Mrs. Casterbury likes the old ways.”
Eve nodded with a tight smile. “Of course, Mary.”
Eve stood up, so Mary could tighten the dreaded corset. Eve’s natural waist was 24 inches. She knew from her past time travel experience that the wished-for waist size was probably 18 inches. Eve told Mary that she would be happy with 20 inches, which Mary achieved by tugging and tightening the waist cords, cutting the four inches off Eve’s natural waist size.
As Mary worked, Eve placed her hands on her hips and sucked in her stomach.
Eve chose a lavish emerald green gown that must have cost thousands. Eve had seen gowns like it in old movies or on T.V. shows such as Downton Abbey. It was made of ribbed silk and blue chiffon, trimmed with dark blue/green beading and silver lace that caught the light and glittered. It came complete with a peacock fan.
After Mary finished buttoning it, she helped Eve into the deep plush leather shoes with beaded, single button straps across the insteps, and 3-inch, Louis XV-style French spool heels.
Staring at herself in the mirror, Eve had to admit that she looked regally statuesque, and she only wished Patrick could see her. What fun they would have had “playing man and wife,” as he would say, with Eve dressed in this elaborate ensemble. She sighed away her longing for him when she heard the ticking gold clock bong seven times.
“It is time, Mrs. Gantly. Miss Casterbury should be coming by shortly.”
Eve turned to Mary with a warm smile. “Thank you, Mary. You are nothing short of a miracle worker.”
Mary bobbed another bow and then, staring down, she chanced a question. “May I ask if your husband is from Ireland, Mrs. Gantly?”
A smile lit up Eve’s face. “My husband’s father was from Limerick and his mother from Parteen, a village in County Clare.”
Mary’s eyes danced with recognition. “I’ve been to Parteen. When I was a girl, my sister married a man from there. So, was your husband born in Ireland, Mrs. Gantly?”
“No, Mary. Patrick Gantly was born here, in New York.”
“Perhaps I will have the chance to meet him.”
Eve’s smile faded. “Perhaps, Mary. I hope so.”
Eve swiftly changed the subject. “Mary, what kind of people are the Casterburys? I’m not suggesting you gossip, it’s just that I have never met Mrs. Casterbury or Addison Casterbury.”
Mary lowered her chin, folding her hands humbly before her. “They are fine people, Mrs. Gantly. Fine and respectable people. I am very fortunate to be employed in this house.”
Eve read between the lines. Mary was not going to be candid in any way. She couldn’t afford to be.
The knock on the door stopped their conversation. Mary scurried over to open it and Irene swept into the room as if propelled by an ethereal summer breeze. She glowed in her long, silk burgundy gown, bedecked with glittering jewels. Her glossy black hair was piled high on top of her head in a loose bun, with soft wispy ringlets surrounding her face, trailing down the nape of her neck. Irene’s was a naturally pretty face, showing light makeup, no rouge or lipstick.
Her pleased round eyes immediately fell on Eve’s hair, dress and figure. “Well, you are changed, Mrs. Gantly. You are remarkably and wonderfully changed.”
Eve nodded toward Mary. “Mary is a wonder worker.”
Mary stood demurely, her eyes cast down.
Irene looked at Mary with approval. “Yes, Mary is a fine lady’s maid and has been for the last three years. Now, shall we make our way to dinner, Mrs. Gantly?”
The ladies left the room and started down the seemingly infinite hallway, passing massive decorative vases blooming with fragrant, fresh flowers. Irene’s expression turned serious.
“Eve, my Mummy is very English. For practical reasons, I have created the story of how we met. I think it will be best if we both are united in this. It will simply not do for me to tell her I found you on a park bench in Central Park, looking rather like a lost waif.”
Eve felt the stirring of nerves. Lying was not one of her better talents. She was more of a tell-it-like-it-is girl.
Irene continued. “I will tell Mummy that you and I were introduced at The Society for the Relief of Half-Orphan and Destitute Children. That will placate and satisfy her.”
“But what if she asks me direct questions about the type of work I do there?”
“Oh, just say that you are very much interested in their mental welfare. That will be the end of it. She is not comfortable with any sentence or question that has the words mental or mind in it. It reminds her of poor grandmother and that dreadful man, Pontius Pilate.”
“What about your brother?”
“As I said, Addison will say little, so do not feel insulted, Eve. Most likely he will not even look your way except to be stiffly polite. You see, Addison is always stiffly polite. It seems that his mind is always set on some business issue or problem, following in our father’s shadow.”
Irene led the way left across polished parquet floors through a breathtaking, museum-like room. Eve began to think they would never arrive at the dining room. How could anyone live in a house like this? They passed elaborate wooden tables holding baroque style golden clocks and jewelry boxes, porcelains, ornate vases, and bronze and marble statues. Masterwork oil paintings hung on fabric-covered burgundy walls. In the center of one wall was a massive, white marble fireplace.
Irene gave the room a once-over, distractedly, having seen it all since childhood.
She turned to Eve. “Normally, Eve, we would proceed into the drawing room for pre-dinner drinks, but because Mummy has a social engagement later on, we are going directly to the dining room.”
They advanced down yet another lavish hallway, decorated with exotic flowers and pedestals holding carved busts of poets and statesmen.
“Is he married?” Eve asked. “I mean your brother, Addison.”
“He is engaged to Miss Katherine Griswold, and although the wedding is to take place in June of next year, Addison seldom speaks about it and I dare say he seldom speaks about, or spends much time in the company of, Miss Griswold. I don’t know how she feels about that. Of course, her family is not as wealthy as ours, so I have surmised that Mr. and Mrs. Griswold are quietly anxious for the wedding day. I fear that Miss Griswold has no interest in suffrage matters and, therefore, we prefer to keep a distance from each other.”
Irene stopped short, snagged Eve’s arm, and drew her off to the side under a winding staircase. The dining room was ahead, visible as a shaft of amber light spilling out of an open door.
“Do not think of me as a gossip, Eve, but I do believe that my brother often visits the Lobster Palace restaurants, knows people in the Bohemian enclaves of Greenwich Village, and frequents the theaters dotting Broadway, where there are a variety of entertainments–and…” Irene lowered her voice, “women.”
Eve stared, not finding the proper words, not finding any words. What should she say? Anything? Nothing? Eve found it all frightening and fascinating, but also baffling. Was Irene a more modern woman than most in her time? She had no idea.
Eve’s palms were sweaty, her heart raced, and she was perspiring under that damned corset and heavy gown.
Irene didn’t seem to notice Eve’s silence. Again, Irene was lost in her own ideas and co
nvictions, her eyes glazed over by personal thought that came spilling from her mouth.
“It’s a man’s world now, Eve, but we women are going to change all that. Yes, we are. When we get the right to vote, we will show those men what moxie we are made of. I dare say, after we get the right to vote, it won’t be long before we vote in a woman president.”
Eve swung her hesitant gaze toward Irene. There were so many things she wanted to say about the future. But of course, she couldn’t.
Irene’s eyes burned with a beguiling conviction. Eve was touched by her ripe vitality and boldness.
And then Eve had a thought. A wild speculative thought. Could Irene help her locate Maggie Lott Gantly? It they found Maggie, would Irene accompany Eve to meet Maggie? There was strength in numbers.
Irene returned to the present. “Listen to me go on, Eve. You must think me a regular Susan B. Anthony. Let us go into dinner. I am sure they are waiting for us.”
How Eve dreaded going into that dining room and facing those people—those refined, highly educated, highly formal and highly wealthy people living in the world of 1914, a world she knew so little about. She already felt like a little sparrow amidst exotic songbirds.
Where was Patrick? What had happened to him? Would she ever know? With every passing minute, her heart ached for him.
Eve took in a sharp breath, straightened her shoulders, and plastered on a pleasant smile.
She followed Irene inside.
CHAPTER 10
The dining room was a resplendent and majestic space, with Tiffany lamps on side tables, two three-tiered chandeliers overhead, rich mahogany woodwork and a great fireplace and mantel of white marble, where two butlers stood at attention, wearing black tuxedos, white ties, tailcoats, and white gloves.
Eve swallowed away nerves.
The richly adorned dining room table dominated the room, with chairs enough for twenty guests. A fringed white tablecloth held a centerpiece of flourishing exotic flowers and golden candelabras, the white tapered candles adding a serene glow. There were cut crystal glasses, silver cutlery, white napkins, and Chinese rose medallion porcelain plates.
The Christmas Eve Daughter - A Time Travel Novel: The Sequel to The Christmas Eve Letter Page 7
