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 any more?”
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 sisters 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.
Jo was already scanning the crowd, looking for Tom, dreading it.
He was a consummate host, at least—two breaths after she’d started looking, he was already out of the shadows and moving through the crowd to meet them, wearing a slightly awed expression at the pileup on his stairs.
“Ladies,” he said, including them all with the word. “Welcome to the Marquee. I didn’t know you were coming”—he glanced at Jo—“so there’s nothing reserved for you tonight, but I’ll get you settled in with something that I hope will be all right, and then we’ll see about drinks. You must be thirsty. Henry at the bar will be happy to help you.”
Hattie and Mattie moved to keep pace with him, and the others followed. Jo hung back and let them go. Rebecca called it “sheep counting,” and it wasn’t far off, but it wasn’t hard to lose one in the shuffle; best to make sure everyone was safe inside before they scattered.
(Once the sisters hit the dance floor, all bets were off.)
Lou was last, and she stopped next to Jo long enough to pluck her cigarette holder out of her mouth.
“You meet the nicest people in the clink, Jo. I should have figured something was up. Were you planning to hit the road with him in your fancy frock after the party?”
“Oh, I don’t think he’d look very good in my fancy frock,” said Jo, and moved to catch up with the rest.
There were two empty tables on a mezzanine just off the dance floor, and with the materialization of a few extra chairs, there was enough space for them all.
Within seconds, the younger girls had strapped on their shoes; before the older girls even had a chance to fasten their buckles, the first tray of champagne was being delivered. Henry, the young man behind the bar whom Tom had pointed out, had bleached out his hair stone-white, and when he looked over, Jo watched his pale head pause, counting them.
The Marquee was a sharper establishment than the Kingfisher. Besides the waiters moving back and forth behind the bar, the wood floor was polished and the red curtains newly made. It was half as large as any other place they’d been, except maybe Salon Renaud.
Jo guessed that Tom’s deal with the police meant he could afford to spread out a little.
The space allowed for tables and chairs tucked off the dance floor, in front of the mezzanine, where a stray kick could knock a glass off the table and into someone’s waiting arms. That was another good sign; you had to trust your clientele to arrange things this way. There would be some decent dancing here.
There were already two hundred people milling around, maybe more. Jo wondered how they ever heard of a place like this when there wasn’t even a street number to mark it, when you had to count stoops and knock on a plain red door and say “Curtain up” to the man who answered before you could go through the second door and down the stairs into the dance hall. It felt like a place she would have liked to know about a long time ago.
From beside her, Tom said, “Penny for your thoughts.”
She thought Tom had a bad habit of standing too close to her; she had a bad habit of letting him.
“It’s lovely,” she said instead. “How long have you had it, did you say?”
It was strange, thinking that he’d been so close to her for so long.
He shrugged. “I’ve had it almost two years, but it hasn’t been open long. I had the deed, but I had to shake a lot of hands before I had the safety to open up shop, and then I had to get up the nerve to open it and declare myself a businessman.”
Jo remembered one or two nights when Tom had shown up with his hands shaking and his face drawn, and had pulled her onto the dance floor without a word, as if he was afraid that if he opened his mouth he’d tell her what had happened and frighten them both.
Whatever it was he’d been hiding, Jo suspected he had been paying for it for the last eight years.
A waltz was playing, and most of the girls were out on the flo
or with blissful-looking men who held them as if they were porcelain.
Sophie and Lily were dancing together, and Doris was waiting it out at the bar, laughing with the bartender and casually spinning a highball glass that had appeared in front of her.
When Jo looked at Tom, he was watching the flow of the room, quietly satisfied, a smile flickering over his face.
She knew that expression. It worried her.
• • • • • •
The night she met him, he’d been unloading barrels into the Kingfisher’s cellar under Jake’s orders.
He wasn’t much older than Jo, and he wasn’t carrying a gun or making a nuisance of himself to Jake, but still, Jo kept an eye on him all night. (There was something about him she didn’t understand; she couldn’t help looking over.)
When there were no more barrels, he’d come back inside, looked around for a girl to dance with, and immediately seen Ella at the bar.
Jo moved closer—Ella could handle herself, but you never knew when there could be trouble.
He came up to Ella smiling, gestured at the dance floor as he spoke. Ella ran her finger around the rim of her glass, which meant she wasn’t interested.
Jo decided to cut in before this went farther. Some men had a bad habit of staying interested in Ella long after Ella was tired of them.
“I promise not to step on you—I only look like a clodhopper,” he was saying when Jo reached them. He winked at Ella, who glanced away and blinked, as if surprised that he’d come so close to guessing what she thought.
Jo slid up to the bar behind her sister, planted a stiff arm on the ledge, and raised an eyebrow at him.
He glanced up and saw her.
She expected him to blanch, or bristle, or pretend he’d just forgotten someplace else he had to be. A lot of men did that, when they realized that the girl they thought was alone had brought friends to look out for her.
But instead he only said, “Oh,” softly, his smile so wide and earnest that crows’-feet appeared at the edges of his eyes; he smiled as though she was an old friend, as though he had been waiting for Jo a long time and was delighted to see her at last.
The Girls at the Kingfisher Club: A Novel Page 8
