Still.
It’s the best theater around, and these people aren’t even acting.
“Darling, I do wish you wouldn’t, just this once,” a woman gliding by me in a rose-colored dress is saying to the man next to her.
“But I love it so. At a party of this sort—” He breaks off and taps a waiter on the shoulder. “I’m in need of a hard-boiled egg and a cold glass of milk.”
The waiter’s mouth falls open, but I guess he’s well-trained, because he snaps it shut and smiles. “Certainly, sir. I’ll see to it straightaway.”
The woman drops her mask for a second, and I know exactly who she is! She’s Elizabeth Drexel Lehr. In my time a life-size portrait of her hangs in the ballroom, and postcards of it are sold in all the mansions. Which means the guy with her is her husband, Harry. They lived—live—across the street from The Elms, but their house wasn’t as lucky as ours when it came to avoiding the wrecking ball. Now the weirdo request makes sense; he was meant to be a total jokester. I’ll bet he thinks it’s hilarious to make the staff scramble to fill his order. Me: not so much. Maybe because I know at least one person in the kitchen, working his butt off to make tonight a success, and now he—or somebody else down there—is going to have to interrupt the carefully choreographed meal prep to make a stupid hard-boiled egg. All so this guy can get his laugh.
That’s just mean, if you ask me.
I don’t wait around to see how long it takes Harry Lehr to get his milk and egg. Instead I slip into the conservatory and try to blend in next to a giant urn, so that I can observe and eavesdrop. Everything I’ve read about this time is so right on. These people are crazy-rich and crazy-obsessed with the weirdest stuff. Two women stand with their backs to me and give solid burns about the headpieces of at least four other women walking by. I know these families donate whole chunks of their fortunes to build orphanages and libraries and schools, so they can’t be totally horrible, but they’d be shoo-ins for a Real Housewives of Newport reality show. Yikes.
The ones I’m really hoping to catch a glimpse of are Henry Jacobs and his wife. They have my favorite story of all. Mr. Jacobs had a brain tumor that left him convinced he was the Prince of Wales, and instead of checking him into a hospital, his wife just . . . went along with it. Like, she spent half his fortune hiring actors to play gentlemen-in-waiting in his court and ambassadors from other countries, and she brought in experts from London to make sure Mr. Jacobs got exact matches to everything worn by the real Prince of Wales so he could live out his days happily in his delusion. That’s love, people.
Sadly, I don’t see any guy dressed like a prince. Or no, really, it’s more like all the guys are dressed like princes, but none are calling themselves actual royalty.
It’s so strange to me that this is their everyday life. And this is not even that special an occasion, since they probably all have another ball to go to next week and about a billion musicales and sailing parties in between. I can’t even imagine doing stuff like this all the time. It’s amazing for tonight, but every night? I live for my flannel pj’s and Netflix binges too much to give them up for nonstop red-carpet living.
Of course, that thought jerks me right back to reality. Because what if this is my future? But no. No, no, nope. I promised myself I wasn’t going to stress tonight. The key is in the chair, the painting is in the tunnel, and we’re going to set everything right first thing in the morning.
I exhale a deep breath. Or at least as deep a breath as I can manage. Corsets are torture devices. Maybe it’s a good thing I won’t be dancing tonight.
“There you are, my sweet. Why, you’re practically one with the drapery. No wonder I’ve had to look everywhere for you.” Maggie’s aunt looks so beautiful with tiny diamonds tucked here and there all over her fancy hairdo. The mask she’s holding in her left hand has even more jewels catching the light from the chandelier above us. I can’t believe I’m hanging out with the Herminie Berwind, whom I’ve spent my whole life hearing about.
“Are you ready for the big unveiling, darling?” she asks. When I nod, she smiles. “Now, don’t be nervous. I know you don’t love being in the spotlight, but everyone will be too busy looking at the portrait to stare at you.”
I definitely don’t say, “Or not.”
But it’s true. No one will be busy looking at the portrait, because you can’t look at a painting that isn’t there. This night is not going to go at all the way Mrs. Berwind thinks it is, and I feel bad for her. Maggie clearly adores her, and she’s been nothing but nice to me, even if I’m still a little annoyed with the way she called Jonah “boy” without bothering to ask his name. It’s too bad her name is about to be forever linked in the history books to the mysteriously missing Mary Cassatt portrait.
Mrs. Berwind takes me by the arm and pulls me gently into the drawing room and over to the sideboard, where that very Mary Cassatt is waiting, with a smile on her face.
When we reach her, she says, “Bonsoir, ma cherie. Are you ready to reveal the efforts of all these past months to everyone else?”
I feel terrible all over again, knowing how upset she’s about to be, and the role I played in that. I wish so hard that I could just lean over and say, “No sweat, Mare. Your portrait is safe and sound in the kitchen boy’s napping spot.”
But I can’t, obviously.
Because she’ll want to rescue it, and that can’t happen.
Not until Maggie does it in the future.
Instead I smile and nod. “I cannot wait.” Not technically a lie.
The orchestra set up in the ballroom stops playing, and I get my first glimpse of Mr. Berwind when he steps next to us and clinks a spoon on a wineglass. He’s larger than life, just like I always imagined him. Masked guests begin drifting in from the adjoining rooms, and in a matter of a minute there’s a huge crowd. Colette is right in front, and she shoots daggers at me—probably because I’m on display with the Berwinds and she’s blended into the crowd. But whatever. I don’t have time for her right now. I keep my own mask fixed to my eyes and hope it hides the panic I’m suddenly feeling. How is this going to go down? How will everyone react when that curtain on the wall drops and there’s only a landscape of Newport Harbor hanging there?
I don’t have to wait long. Mr. Berwind clears his throat and then talks in a deep, booming voice that reaches the high ceilings.
“Thank you, honored guests, for joining us tonight and sharing this special evening with us. As you may be aware, we have our beloved niece Margaret Dunlap spending time with us this summer, as she does each year, and we’re particularly happy to have her present now as we invite you to witness the unveiling of a quite impressive portrait of Margaret completed by our esteemed guest, Mademoiselle Mary Cassatt. We are humbled that she accepted our commission of this painting. And now, without further ado . . .”
He lifts his arm, and I gasp along with everyone else as two men roll down from velvet ribbons attached to the ceiling directly above us. When did someone hang those ribbons? Is that what all the hammering was earlier when I was getting dressed? But how did those men get up there? It’s like Cirque du Soleil time! They flip and twirl above us and then begin swinging in a giant back-and-forth motion that brings them closer and closer to the painting with each swing.
Each time the men’s outstretched hands nearly reach the curtain covering the portrait, the audience holds their breath, wondering what they’ll finally see. And each time the men’s fingertips brush the fabric, I hold my breath too, knowing what they won’t.
Finally it happens. The men swing close enough to grab the fabric, and with their next arc back the curtain whooshes from the wall.
Basically everyone exhales at once, and then it’s totally quiet for about three heartbeats, and then the entire room fills up with confused talking. Everyone is yammering over everyone else. I hear a whole lot of “I thought it was supposed to be a portrait of the girl?” and “But that’s a painting of the harbor!”
Mr. Berwin
d is bug-eyed, and Mary Cassatt is clutching the sideboard like she needs it to hold her up.
Mrs. Berwind faints straight to the floor, her glass of red wine tumbling out of her hand and splashing everywhere.
Yep. Just exactly as shocking as I thought it might be.
Someone calls out, “We should send for the authorities!” followed by “And the doctor!” and “Yes, I can offer my carriage.”
Mr. Berwind bends over his wife, fanning her face with his handkerchief, and after a few seconds he gets her awake and into a seated position. Phew. I was pretty sure the shock didn’t kill her or anything, because that would have definitely been all over the history books, but still. It’s a relief to see her upright.
I’m not exactly sure what I should be doing, so I just hang back out of the way as much as I can, and pretend to be too shocked for words. Once the carriages have taken off to grab the police and the doctor, things start to calm down a little and guests begin to shuffle around, like they aren’t quite sure if they should go back to partying or leave or what. Definitely no one wants to go, because this is the best gossip in town, and I’m positive everyone is thrilled that they’ll be able to say they were here to witness it. But they all have perfect manners, too, so I can tell it’s a real dilemma for them. The whole crowd seems psyched when, at some signal from Mr. Berwind, the butler dude tells everyone they should adjourn to the ballroom and promises that fresh trays of champagne are on their way up from the kitchen.
In a matter of minutes the drawing room empties out, and the butler pulls all the doors into the room closed, sealing us off completely.
“Well done, Birch. We mustn’t disturb the crime scene any more than it already has been,” says Mr. Berwind, looking up from where’s he’s still bent over, fanning his wife.
Something about the words “crime scene” sends a bitter taste straight into my mouth.
Oh. My. Gosh.
I’m such an idiot.
How could I have let myself ignore the totally obvious?
If we play out the heist the way the history books have it recorded, that means the sweet, helpful, funny, smart kid working his butt off in the kitchen right now is about to have his entire life ruined. Because JONAH IS GOING TO BE CHARGED WITH STEALING THE PAINTING.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Maggie
I ROLL OVER AND THEN curl around Hannah’s stuffed bear, trying to squeeze out a few more minutes of sleep. But with the light streaming in through the high windows, I know it’s time to rise for the day. Her device chirps, and Tara’s face lights up the screen. I take a chance and press the square that says “talk.”
“Hello? Hannah? It’s Tara.”
Father installed a telephone at our New York City apartment, but it is three feet tall and affixed to a wall. You have to speak into a cone to be heard on the other end of the line. I love that I can hear my aunt’s voice when she is at home in Philadelphia and we’re not at the summer cottage together. This century has somehow condensed that technology into this handheld device.
“Hello, Tara,” I yell at the device. “How. Are. You?”
“Do you have a bad connection? Why are you yelling?” Now Tara is yelling. “You weren’t answering my texts, so I thought I’d call instead.” The stilted timbre of her voice makes me wonder if she’s still angry from yesterday. What she says next comes as a surprise.
“I’m sorry for what I said about Ethan. You’re not mad, are you? Sorry it’s so early. I’ve been up all night worried that you’re mad.”
Sweet Tara thinks I’m angry with her! “Tara!” I yell at the device, hoping she can hear me. “Of course I’m not mad. Friends are more important than boys.”
I hear her sigh on the other end of the line. “Are you feeling better today? Do you want to come over later and watch a movie?”
“I have to be honest. I am not feeling well. I don’t think I can spend time with you today, but perhaps tomorrow when I’m myself again. I’m not mad.” I make a mental note to tell Hannah how sweet Tara has been. “I’m sorry, but I have to go now.”
This technology isn’t so hard to manage. Between my talk with Hannah’s dad last night and the way I handled that telephone call, I’m beginning to feel slightly more confident in my ability to survive in the future, but thankfully we are going to fix this today. I might even be home by lunchtime.
I start to run downstairs—but then, with a pause to make sure no one is watching, I sling my leg over the railing and slide down a stretch of banister. It is as exhilarating as I’ve always imagined! At the bottom I dust off my trousers and then jog the rest of the way through the ballroom, into the drawing room, and scamper onto the sideboard. The clock reads just after seven o’clock—I’m a minute late. Hannah is already in the mirror, waiting. I’m sure my face is flushed, but perhaps she won’t notice, given what I have to tell her.
“Good morning,” I say, breathless. “There’s a slight problem. You must move the key. The chair here . . .” I gesture to the room behind me. “It is a replica. The original was sold in the 1960s. Perhaps in Uncle E. J.’s wardrobe or Aunt’s desk. They are both original furnishings, as confirmed by Mrs. Ensminger-Burn.”
But before I finish my thought, my eyes drift over Hannah’s shoulder.
My heart plummets. “Where’s the chair?”
Hannah turns around, and I see Jonah behind her. When she faces me again, she’s gone pale. “I . . . I’m not sure. They took a bunch of the furniture out to make room for everyone at the unveiling. But no . . . It was here when the ball started. The police—they were taking things for evidence, and what if—”
Jonah dashes out of the room. I turn my attention back to Hannah. The color still hasn’t returned to her face, so I try to console her. “I’m sure it has just been moved to another room. It often takes some time to return everything to its proper place after a ball.” I do not tell her that it’s far more likely the staff would have restored everything to where it belonged after the party, even though it would have been the crack of dawn after a full work day and night when they did.
Jonah returns two minutes later. He takes a deep breath. “The chair has been sent out for cleaning! Someone spilled red wine on it last night.”
“Mrs. Berwind!” Hannah exclaims. “Her drink tumbled to the floor when she fainted. This is a disaster!” She closes her eyes and leans against the glass. I wish I could say something comforting, but I can only put my hand on the mirrored reflection. Her words are hard to make out. “Omigod, omigod, omigod.”
Jonah’s expression morphs several times. “Miss . . . I mean, Mag—I mean, Hannah?” He’s clearly struggling with how to help—and it occurs to me that he shouldn’t even be out of the kitchen, let alone in the middle of the drawing room. “I’m sorry. I was hoping to steal away long enough to say good-bye in person, and I really wish I could stay and help now, but Chef is going to notice I’m gone if I don’t get straight back. I can’t afford to get caught.”
Hannah’s face pales, as though a ghost skidded through the room.
I’m not sure what that’s about, but I don’t stop to puzzle it out. We don’t have time to delay. “Jonah, you should go!” I channel my father’s most take-charge voice. “Listen to me, Hannah. You’ve got to find out where that chair is going. Find it and get the key back if you can—move it to my uncle’s armoire. In the meantime I’ll do my best to break into the tunnel room.”
Hannah finally looks up at me with hope in her eyes. “Yeah. Maybe you can get into the room without the key. Go try that now. And then meet back here this afternoon at my five o’clock, after the last tour goes through on your end.”
“By the way, we don’t have much time. Your father is planning a two-week trip to California. We—that is to say you—depart in two days.” I jump down before she can react. I’m afraid my own fear will show if I look at her too long. If I’m to retrieve that painting before Hannah’s father tries to make me leave on vacation with him, I have to find a way
to open that door.
The house is quiet, and most of the evidence from the wedding is gone. The front doors will open for visitors soon. I creep down the back servant stairs to the kitchen. It’s the first time I’ve been down here in the future, and it’s as silent as a crypt. I’m used to the main floor being quiet, but here on the lower level it should be bustling with servants preparing the morning meal at this time of day. A red light mounted in the corner of the hall blinks. I know now that it’s a device designed to alert Hannah’s dad to intruders, so I’m not worried.
I creep through the butler’s pantry and past the kitchen, briefly pausing at the framed posters under glass on the wall. I still have a hard time believing my very existence is now condensed into historical anecdotes about how things were done in the early days of the house. I resist the urge to stop and read.
Hannah and Jonah gave me very specific directions on how to find the location where the painting is hidden, and I know exactly where the coal enters the house. Uncle E. J. brought me down here once to show me the train track coming into the basement. The deeper I get in the house, the more my teeth chatter. It’s damp and cool, but I’m also afraid I won’t be able to find the painting. I pull open the door that leads into the boiler room, and then I descend a set of metal stairs. As I walk between the brick wall of the tunnel and the tracks, I peer into the cart resting on the rails; bits of artificial coal line the inside, obviously to show guests what the lifeblood of this house used to be. The only light comes from a series of bulbs hanging from the ceiling.
Aunt would faint dead away if she could see me down here! But this is important.
I feel along the wall. Hannah said there was a door, but I can’t see very far down the tunnel, so I have no idea how long I need to walk. When I reach the end, there’s just a brick wall. No door. I think I must have missed it, so I retrace my steps. It must be here! But it takes four trips up and back in the tunnel before I’m able to feel an indent. Even with my forefinger on the keyhole, I can barely make out the door about two feet off the dirt floor, flush with the brick wall. There is so little light down here, it’s almost impossible to see. There’s no handle. I can’t find any hinges. There’s nothing to grip, but I try inserting a fingernail into the tiny crack. Hannah’s nails are disgusting nubs, but even with my longer ones, I wouldn’t be able to make the door budge. At all.
The Art of the Swap Page 16
