The Girls at the Kingfisher Club

by Genevieve Valentine

  Please bring two downstairs for interviews this afternoon. Love, Father.

  ten

  You Wouldn't Fool Me,

  Would You?

  After breakfast, Jo got herself in decent shape with rouge and powder, put on day clothes, and knocked at Doris and Ella’s door.

  As she read them the note, Ella frowned, as if finally realizing their father’s plan wasn’t a bad dream and that he intended to go about it with exactly this amount of empathy.

  Then Jo folded the note and regarded them levelly.

  “If you don’t want to go with me, I’ll ask a couple of the younger girls,” she said, “but you two are the oldest besides Lou, and I’m not sending Lou.”

  They didn’t ask why not; they knew.

  Jo looked from one to the other. “Doris, you know how to keep your head in the middle of something this stupid. Ella, he likes you most, and you know how to handle him. What we do today will affect the younger ones. I hope you’ll both come with me.”

  “Sure, General,” said Doris.

  Ella sighed. “Of course, if you need me. But this is horrible, Jo, what he’s doing.”

  “I know,” said Jo. “I won’t let him marry you off to anyone if I can help it, but I need to come up with something that will get us out of this, and I’m asking you two to buy me some time. Can you?”

  They nodded, Ella a moment sooner than Doris.

  “Wear something plain,” Jo said. “If you’re going to sell something, you need a product people are willing to pay for. We’ll give him the dullest girls on the island.”

  “What if it doesn’t work?” asked Doris.

  Jo shrugged. “Then we pile on the ruffles and send in some twins.”

  • • •

  Jo met them on the landing at one minute to two o’clock.

  Luckily, catalog shopping had given them plenty of chances to collect ugly, ill-fitting dresses that looked fine on paper and like monsters when you opened the mail. Some things not even Araminta could save.

  Jo was wearing a gray dress with a limp ruffle at the neck that made her look like a secretary. Doris had a dull-blue sack a size too large and had combed her hair so it clung harshly to her skull. Ella still looked lovely—she couldn’t help it—but she’d tried her hardest; the pale yellow suit almost washed her out, and it was an unfortunate length that made her look short.

  “Josephine,” Ella ventured, “what do I say to him to make him stop?”

  As if Jo knew what you said to a man like their father to get him to change his mind. If logic didn’t work, Jo was at a loss.

  Ella was better with their father than any of the others; if Ella didn’t know what to do, they were really in trouble.

  “Whatever Mother would have said,” she answered.

  No one looked comforted.

  • • •

  Jo went first. It seemed only fair.

  Walters was waiting, and to Jo’s surprise he led them to the sitting room, where their father was seated in front of a modest tea spread for four.

  She had never been in the room, but Jo realized at once that it must have been their mother’s. The room, as pale and scalloped as a frosted cake, bore a woman’s stamp, and their father was perched on the very edge of his armchair, as if their mother had told him he must never ruin the furniture and he’d taken it to heart.

  That would have been one of the few wishes of their mother’s he had ever listened to.

  That thought bolstered her resolve, and as she stepped through the doorway she remembered there was no mother any more, no one at all to speak for them; Jo was their only line of defense, and this was an interrogation room, nicely furnished.

  There were footsteps behind her. Ella came in slipper-soft, Doris in four-four time like a marching band.

  “Father,” she said without turning, “this is Doris, and you remember Ella.”

  He half-stood, his hand out to shake like this was a business meeting before he thought better of it. When they came forward, he kissed them on the cheek instead.

  Doris and Jo sat on the couch that faced the windows (the curtains thoughtfully drawn against prying eyes), and Father took hold of Ella’s hand and guided her to the small settee, the seat closest to him. Ella sat, and let their father keep her hand, and smiled and smiled.

  Maybe Ella could manage something after all, Jo thought. A charmed man would agree to anything.

  Ella could plead the case for the ones who weren’t yet eighteen; they might go to school. He’d long been deaf to Jo, but maybe he’d listen, if there were concessions, and if there was Ella.

  “So,” said Father to Ella, “Jo’s told you why you’re here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what do you think?”

  Ella blushed and cast her big blue eyes down. “I’m not sure, sir. I haven’t thought much about—young men. I’m a little—a little afraid of it all . . .” She let her voice trail off, twisted her hands in her lap.

  Father frowned and leaned forward.

  “My dear girl,” he said softly, “I would never make you do something of which you’re afraid. I’m not a monster.”

  Doris and Jo exchanged glances without moving.

  “I only think, Ella,” he went on, “that you don’t wish to stay in this house forever, cooped up with your sisters and never really growing up.” He was stroking her hand now, gently, like she was a frightened animal. “I thought I could find you a nice young man, a man I can be sure is well suited to you, that’s all. I thought you might like him, and if you like him, well, then marry him.”

  Jo watched Ella and worried. Ella was a great pretender, but their father was just as great—he’d gotten their mother, after all, and tricked her into twelve of them. Ella couldn’t afford to believe, even for a moment, that their father was thinking of her happiness.

  Who had trapped them in this house to begin with?

  Jo made fists in her lap. Ella could not forget.

  Ella looked up through wet lashes, a frown on her perfect forehead. “But what if I don’t like any of them?”

  Father chuckled. “Surely you’ll like one?”

  “I don’t know. He’ll have to be awfully nice. I mostly know the storybook princes; they’re always nice.”

  Doris pulled a face. Jo pinched her leg.

  “I’ll make sure, my darling. Come, let’s have tea, and we can talk about what you like to read—”

  “Could I meet them?”

  Father frowned.

  Jo froze and glanced at Ella. Don’t push, she thought desperately, you’ve got him, don’t be direct, don’t lose.

  (She had as much will as their father, if they would just listen.)

  Ella caught the glance; then she smiled and said, with the air of one who knows she’s being silly, “It’s just that I worry about the others, too. I want to know all our husbands can be friends, and we can still be together sometimes.”

  Father seemed to be thinking it over. After a moment, he looked at Jo.

  “It’s not a bad idea,” said Jo, as if she was only now considering the merit of letting someone meet more than one candidate for husband. “Perhaps there could be some dinner parties for the older girls. We’ll get used to chatting with men, and look out for the younger girls while we’re at it.”

  As she spoke, he slowly closed his mouth over a negative answer.

  “We could, I suppose, have a few small parties at home. How many of you would be participating?”

  “The three of us,” Jo suggested, “and Lou. Hattie or Mattie, too, if you like, later on.”

  He nodded. “There are some suitable men in our social circle. I’m in correspondence with them now. Jo, perhaps you’d be willing to oversee a small dinner party?”

  “Of course,” said Jo, as if she’d ever planned a menu.
She’d never seen her mother’s china. She’d never seen the dining room. “I’ll speak to the cook on any day that suits you.”

  He spared Jo a smile. “You’re a good girl, Jo—odd, but a good girl.” Absently, he glanced past Jo to Doris, looking stodgy against the white couch.

  “I like boats,” said Doris blandly, and crossed her legs at the ankles.

  • • •

  At the third floor, Ella slapped Doris on the shoulder.

  “I can’t believe you! I worked so hard! ‘I like boats,’ ” Ella mimicked in basso profundo, dissolving into giggles, and they made the last few steps smothering their laughter with their hands.

  Lou was in the hallway, leaning against the wall, looking out over the balcony to watch them coming.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked. Her face was a set of hard lines.

  “Ella was the cat’s meow,” said Doris through her snickering. “You should have seen it. She played Father like a violin.”

  Doris assumed the bland face and gave Lou the same monotone she’d presented downstairs. “I like boats.”

  Lou cracked half a smile. “That’ll land you a prince, won’t it?”

  “Or a pirate,” Doris said. “They say you’ll never get bored with an adventuring man.”

  “Well, all four of us are in for dinner parties now,” said Jo. “We’ll have to see what we can do. Doris can put off any number of men—”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “—so this could drag on for months.”

  “We should celebrate, then,” put in Hattie from the doorway to her room, where the top of her bob was visible through the crack between door and jamb.

  “Sure,” said Lou. “That’s a perfect setup if you’re trying to snag a cop husband. Get your shoes on.”

  Ella took in a breath as the notion hit her. “General, does last night—does last night really mean we’re not going out anymore?”

  Jo raised an eyebrow. “Well, I hadn’t thought much about it, since I’m still recovering from all the fun of spending a night in jail, thanks for asking.”

  “But that’s only ever happened once,” Doris argued. “Remember what Jake said: the boss just got somebody angry, is all. We could go to one of the other places—”

  “I said no.”

  “Now you sound like Father,” accused Ella.

  Lou tensed. Jo wondered if that was what they all said, behind her back.

  She managed, “We’ll think about it in a few days.”

  Ella pulled a face. “With all this going on, sitting in our rooms and stewing? I’ll go crazy in a few days!”

  Doris said, “We’ll go without you—”

  “No,” said Lou, sharply, before Jo could say it.

  The defense was so unexpected that even Jo went quiet. Hattie disappeared for a moment, and there was a quick flurry of whispers behind the almost-closed door.

  Lou was watching Jo.

  “Jo will take us,” she said. “I know she will.”

  Jo walked past the little crowd into her room without saying anything. She couldn’t come up with anything to say; there was a knot in her stomach, suddenly.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and pressed her open palms into her gray skirt. She remembered sitting on the edge of this same bed before her feet touched the ground, quietly waiting: for the governess to begin lessons, for their mother to visit, for the cook to bring dinner, for news that they had a little brother at last.

  She’d spent a lifetime waiting, powerless to do anything—­except at night. At night, she had managed to build them a world.

  They couldn’t go dancing without her. Whatever was in store for the sisters, it would be better if they weren’t alone. There would be something Jo could do to help them, no matter what happened.

  She was their general. It was her job to help them best fight what they were up against.

  Soon they would all have to go their own ways, if they were going to make it out—but not like this, not on the heels of some fracture, with their father downstairs waiting to snap them up.

  “Some of them might not mind, I think,” said Lou.

  She closed the door, and as the lock turned, Lou’s face softened. (She was always more earnest when they were alone and she had less to prove.)

  She went on. “Not all of us are terrified of it. Some of them wouldn’t want anything more than to be married.”

  “Married to some stranger that Father’s chosen by post?” Then, with emphasis, “One of the men he counts among his friends?”

  “I know.” Lou sat on her bed. “Too awful.”

  “Sophie might not mind,” said Jo. “Araminta. Rebecca, if he’s a college man. Doris, if he’s a dancer.”

  “They’d all have to be dancers,” said Lou. “We’d die otherwise.”

  Jo didn’t argue; they’d gone out almost every other night for years. If that ended, they’d be anchorless. They’d have to find men who could dance—

  Jo went cold. “Oh God, what if these men are men we’ve danced with? What if they tell Father?”

  Lou took a breath. There was a small, horrified silence as they thought it over.

  “At least it won’t be a dull evening,” Lou said at last.

  Jo smiled despite herself.

  Lou leaned forward. “Nothing’s going to keep me in here at night,” she said. “Neither cops nor Father. I want you to take us—it’s best—but if you don’t want to go, I’ll do it myself. I’m not going to stay here and rot because Father wants it.”

  Lou had been a blur of red in Jo’s memories of this room, the bright spot of color in the endless waiting white.

  Jo knew better than anyone how much Lou needed to be out; Lou, too, thought jail was better than sitting in the white room all night. But Lou had never been separated from the others. Jo knew better now; she knew enough to be afraid.

  Still, there was something you could learn every night, and Jo knew some things she hadn’t yesterday.

  (She knew that, for all her hard work, her sisters needed only the word from Lou, and they would rise up and disobey her. That stung; it stung her palms, where her nails had curled in.)

  There were options. It would be embarrassing for her, but it would be enough to keep them safe, for now, and that was worth a little pride.

  Jo could let them dance one more night, at least.

  “No one leaves their rooms until I give the word,” she said. “Cabs leave at midnight.”

  • • •

  She remembered that spring, the night they’d been detoured away from Fifth, and as they turned she’d looked out the window and seen the remains of the new Sherry-Netherland tower burned out, bare and smoking, and felt as sick as if they’d all been trapped inside, though no one had been, though it had worked out all right.

  She expected disaster. It was a habit. You got used to planning.

  • • •

  When the cabs pulled up in front of the Kingfisher, Jo leapt out and gave the two other cars the sign to hold tight.

  She snuck through the dim club, marveling at how quickly some things returned to normal, and trying not to let any of the men catch sight of her; if they did, there would be a rush outside to greet the others, and then she’d really be stuck.

  Jake was holding court, sliding highball glasses to either end of the bar, and when he saw her he grinned and pulled a bottle of champagne. A corkscrew appeared in his other hand, and he called over the crowd to her.

  “Hey, jailbird!”

  She edged her way through until she could brace both hands on the bar. Jake was smiling at her—a coconspirator.

  “Drinks are on me tonight, Princess. What can I get you?”

  “The name of Tom’s place,” she said.

  eleven

  Forgetting You

  The Hamilton si
sters entered the Marquee together.

  It was bigger and better appointed than the Kingfisher; the staircase could accommodate all twelve of them, in stocking feet, their shoes dangling from their hands.

  Without knowing they’d be going someplace new, all the sisters must still have sensed that the beautiful times could end any night. They must have known they had to enjoy themselves while they could.

  They had dressed like it was New Year’s Eve in a movie, the last night they’d ever have.

  The effect of all twelve of them standing on the stairs was striking enough that the room paused as the crowd caught sight of them, and even the musicians dropped the volume for a beat, as if the wind had been knocked out of them from twelve girls with glittering, dance-hungry eyes appearing all at once.

  Jo was the most subdued, in a fawn dress bordered with purple beads. It was the nicest she had; she hadn’t worn it in years, and it was too long for the fashion, but she felt more comfortable with knees covered. She held her shoes in one hand, her grip white-knuckled around the heels.

  Behind her came Hattie and Mattie with headbands of tight-pressed feathers over their caps of dark hair, each in a gray dress spangled in silver, and carrying matching pairs of silver shoes.

  Sophie, Araminta, and Rebecca came next, their chins up like the Three Graces: Rebecca in her gold, Sophie in green, her blond hair curled. Araminta’s long neck was wrapped in the pale green beads, and her white dress fell nearly as long as Jo’s.

  Rose was in red, Lily in black with a necklace of paste pearls. Doris’s dress had a black hip sash that hid the ragged edges where it had been cobbled together.

  Violet was in a simple dress the color of an orchid. Ella wore pale blue and looked like spring.

  Last was Lou, in a copper dress, her shoes hanging around her neck, fastened by their ribbon ties like a pair of rabbits from a hunting expedition, and she had her cigarette holder already clamped in her teeth.

  The Charleston picked up seamlessly (good musicians were hard to rattle), and the bouncer closed the door behind them, dropping the room back into false twilight. Still, the crowd seemed to hang back from the stairs, waiting for them to burst into song or pull out revolvers or throw their shoes at the unsuspecting.