Evergreen

by Marissa Doyle

  “Grace?”

  “Hmm?” Grace looked up from her sandwich.

  Alice handed her a bottle of lemonade. “I—I’m glad you’re here. It’ll be just like always, won’t it? We may be seventeen and all, but—”

  “But we’re still the Trouble Twins.” Grace grinned at her.

  “‘Both for one, and all for fun!’” Alice chanted, and clinked her lemonade bottle against Grace’s.

  * * *

  The train inched to a stop in Newport two hours later. As they stood on the platform, Alice scanned the crowd. “Oh, there she is. Put on your best sweet-young-thing face and follow my lead. Oh, Mrs. Rennell!” she called, waving vigorously. “We’re over here!”

  A small, fair-haired woman, dressed in a smart gray walking suit trimmed with dark blue braid and a large hat, was hurrying toward them, trailed by a pair of sturdy young men and a couple of railway porters.

  “My dear Miss Roosevelt! There you are!” she said. Grace remembered her mother’s comment about Pekinese and tried not to smile; Mrs. Rennell indeed had the same nervous air, turned-up nose, and bright, darting eyes. She didn’t quite yip, but her voice was high and quick. “Was your journey all right? I was so worried something might happen. And Miss Boisvert—I would have known you anywhere, you’re so like your lovely mother. How is she? And your family, Miss Roosevelt—did you leave them all well?”

  “They’re fi—” Alice began, but Mrs. Rennell didn’t seem to notice. “Now, I brought a couple of my servants who’ll take care of your things, and I thought we could drive by the Casino and take a peek in—we could even have luncheon there if you’d like. Unless you feel the need to freshen up?” It was clear she hoped they didn’t.

  “Not at all,” Alice said. “We’d love to see the Casino, wouldn’t we, Grace?”

  “Oh, yes—quite!” Grace agreed.

  Mrs. Rennell kept up a stream of chatter all the way to her carriage. “You know, of course, that it isn’t a gambling casino,” she said, raising her parasol once they were settled in it. “That’s just its name. I think it means something in Italian. It’s simply a lovely social club. There’s tennis, of course, and croquet, and horse shows, and the Sunday evening concerts and Thursday evening dances, and cards, and billiards for the men, and lots more. Why, there’s even a theater. Oh, dear, it isn’t going to rain, is it?” Mrs. Rennell peered above Grace’s head at the sky.

  Grace looked up behind her at a bank of gathering clouds and frowned. It was hard influencing their movement so close to the ocean, but she was able to nudge them farther north, past the town. “I shouldn’t think so,” she said.

  “I do hope you’re right— Oh, here we are,” Mrs. Rennell said brightly as the carriage stopped in front of a long, two-storied building with multiple gables. It looked like a row of shops—striped canvas awnings over windows filled with goods were all that Grace could see as she climbed down to the street—but Mrs. Rennell led them past these to a broad arch which led to a covered passage, like a tunnel through the building. A second later, they emerged in a different world.

  A large oval courtyard of perfectly manicured lawn spread out like a green velvet carpet before them; at its center, a fountain splashed. A clock tower rose to their left, and on either side, wings enclosed the oval of grass. Opposite them stretched a covered, crescent-shaped arcade, and beyond the arcade Grace could see more manicured grass.

  “There! What do you think of our little club?” Mrs. Rennell asked, shepherding them along a paved walk to steps leading up to the arcade. A breeze blew through the trellises that formed its walls, fluttering the ivy that grew up it. Large oval openings looked out across the lawns, which Grace could see were traversed by curving paths that passed tennis courts chalked into the grass.

  Grace let Alice make the appropriate responses and gazed out across the space, where here and there young trees shaded the path. The sight of them scattered about, separate from each other, reminded her that she was alone here, far from anyone of her kind…but wasn’t that why she was here? To see new places and meet people other than her family? She hadn’t expected, though, that meeting new people would somehow make her feel more alone. The trees looked sad to her, as trees planted for landscaping purposes rather than growing naturally always did. Maybe they would talk to her if she spoke to them.

  “It’s, er, so lovely—can’t we go for a little walk?” she asked, interrupting Alice. “We’ve been cooped up in the train so long, some fresh air would be nice.”

  Mrs. Rennell blinked. “Well…yes, certainly you may. I’ll run inside and see if they can’t give us a table for lunch in the cafe. Miss Roosevelt?” She took firm hold of Alice’s arm. Alice rolled her eyes but let her lead her away.

  Grace descended the stairs from the arcade. The sun was hot on her shoulders and she wished she’d brought a parasol; instead of making her tanned, too much sun made her dryad skin more greenish. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to shoo those clouds away. She paused, then started down the path unwinding like a ribbon across the grass. A group of white-flannel-clad men with tennis racquets on their shoulders stumped cheerfully down the path ahead of her on their way to a court, while others were making their way slowly back toward the Casino, laughing and obviously rehashing their game.

  “Ahh!”

  An agonized, high-pitched cry made Grace turn. A boy in a navy blue jersey and gray knickers sprawled in a heap at the bottom of the stairs she had just come down. Tennis balls scattered in every direction, and a wire bucket rolled crazily to a stop past him—a ball boy, evidently, who’d tripped down the stairs.

  Grace started toward him—he looked to be no older than nine—but at that moment a tall young man, hatless and dressed in white flannels and a white knitted vest and shirt with the sleeves rolled up his tanned forearms, leapt gracefully down the stairs. He landed like a panther in the grass next to the boy.

  “Here, Master Peewit,” Grace heard him say, as he lifted the boy to his feet and held him by the shoulders to steady him. “You’re not broken, are you?”

  “N-no, sir,” the child quavered, digging his knuckles into his eyes to try to stop his tears.

  “Brave lad! But just because we call you after a bird doesn’t mean you can fly down steps, you know.” He softened his scold with a wink.

  This elicited a faint smile. “You just did, sir.”

  “Ah, but I know how to fly, you see.” The young man surveyed him. “You’re looking a little worse for wear.” He whisked an immaculate handkerchief from his pocket and gave the boy’s face a quick scrub. “There. That will do until we can pick up all the balls. Then you can run back inside and have Mrs. Soares in the kitchen check those scraped knees—”

  “But the gentlemen there’ll be wantin’ ’em, sir!” the boy protested, pointing at the foursome, now nearly out of sight on one of the meandering paths.

  “I’ll bring them to them. You go along to the kitchen. I’ll bet there might be a sausage roll or two on hand. They’re capital for staving off the lingering effects of falls, I hear.” He gave the boy a flashing white smile, startling in his tanned face, that made Grace’s heart begin to beat a little faster, then fetched the bucket and started to pick up balls.

  A couple of them had rolled toward Grace. She tucked her purse under her arm, bent to scoop them up, and ventured back up the path. “I think these are yours,” she said, a little shyly.

  The young man with the beautiful grin glanced up. Some of his slightly-too-long, sun-lightened hair flopped down over his forehead, and he brushed it back as he straightened. Their gazes met, and under his straight brows his blue eyes widened. He took a step toward her, and another.

  “Thank you,” he said, holding out his hands. His voice no longer held the cheerfully authoritative tone he’d used with the boy; it was quieter and almost uncertain.

  Grace dropped the balls into his waiting hands. One of her gloved fingers brushed his, and she saw him swallow hard.

  “I—
I’ve not seen you here before,” he said.

  “We only just arrived,” she replied. “Right off the Boston train, in fact.” Yes, let them talk commonplaces; she was too busy wondering why she felt like she already knew him—that she’d always known him—though she was sure they’d never met. If they had, she would have remembered that smile.

  “The Boston train,” he repeated. His hair had fallen over his forehead again, and she felt an irrational desire to reach up and brush it back.

  “Hallo! Here she is, Mrs. Rennell!”

  Grace glanced up. Beyond the young man was Mrs. Rennell, in her large hat and veil, descending the stairs from the arcade. Alice was close behind her.

  “Thank you, Alice dear,” Mrs. Rennell said. “We’ve got a lovely table for lun— Oh, good afternoon, Kit. I see you’ve met one of my houseguests already.”

  The young man’s—Kit’s—face seemed to change subtly. It was like he’d donned a mask—one that possessed his features but nevertheless seemed to conceal him. “Hello, Mrs. Rennell. I didn’t know your guests were arriving today.” He looked at Grace, and again she felt that shiver run through her as his eyes—still as intense and uncertain as they had been a moment ago—looked at her from behind the smooth mask. “We hadn’t quite gotten to introductions yet.”

  “Well, I shall take care of that. Girls, this is Kit Rookwood—Christopher, I suppose I ought to say, though no one calls him that—”

  “Only my father, when I’ve disappointed him,” he said, smiling. The quirk of mischief in his smile didn’t quite reach the rest of his face, Grace noticed.

  “I doubt that happens often,” Mrs. Rennell said archly. “Kit is a popular young man around here. Kit, this is Miss Roosevelt, and this is her friend Miss Boisvert, from Boston.”

  Grace saw his eyes move from Alice to her, and back again. They had suddenly gone blank, as if the mask had shifted to cover them too.

  “Miss Roosevelt, I’m a great admirer of your father’s books.” He stepped forward to shake Alice’s hand, and suddenly, somehow, they were all walking back toward the arcade, Kit Rookwood with Alice and her with Mrs. Rennell.

  “Oh, good,” Mrs. Rennell murmured to her. “I was hoping Kit would take a liking to dear Alice. He’s most charming. Excellent company for a young lady.”

  Grace knew—or thought she did. She’d liked how he’d come to the rescue of the lad who’d tripped down the stairs. It would have been easy to pretend not to have seen him and continue on his way, but he hadn’t. Still, it seemed…well, odd that he’d more or less ignored her after Mrs. Rennell introduced them. After the look they’d shared... She hadn’t imagined it, had she?

  Ahead of them Alice broke into a hearty laugh as they climbed the stairs. What were they talking about?

  “Just fancy! Mr. Rookwood here is a Yale man,” Alice called as she and Mrs. Rennell joined them on the arcade. “Do you think we should we even be speaking to him, Grace? What would my father say? And your brother?”

  Before Grace could reply, Kit dropped to one knee at Alice’s feet. “Oh, say it isn’t so!” he declaimed. “To be banished from your presence over such a little thing as that?”

  Alice laughed again, but this time she sounded coy. “Having gone to Yale shows a distinct lack of discernment, Mr. Rookwood. Any Harvard man will tell you that.”

  He sighed. “Will there be no winning my way back into your good graces?”

  Alice actually blushed. “Well…”

  He scrambled to his feet. “I solemnly swear I’ll spend the rest of your visit atoning for my family’s short-sighted decision not to send me to Harvard, and prove that even a Yale man can be civilized company.”

  “Civilized company?” She wrinkled her nose, trying not to laugh. “How dull.”

  “Very well. I’ll be uncivilized company if you prefer.” His eyes laughed back at hers. “I’m good at that too.”

  Mrs. Rennell tittered. “Kit, you’re such a rogue. Now really, we must go claim our table for lunch.”

  “Of course, ma’am.” He looked again at Alice. “If you play tennis, Miss Roosevelt, I hope you’ll give me the pleasure of a game or three soon.” He nodded to them, flashed a last grin at Alice, and vanished down the stairs to the courts.

  Mrs. Rennell barely waited until he was out of earshot. Taking Alice’s arm, she said, “My word, Alice—you don’t mind if I call you by your Christian name, do you, my dear?—but you do seem to have charmed Kit Rookwood.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Alice said demurely. “And he’s only a Yale man, after all.” She winked at Grace, who managed a smile in return.

  Sitting down at the prominent table Mrs. Rennell had found for them in the restaurant and perusing the menu permitted Grace a few quiet minutes to try to put in order her confused thoughts. What had happened? She’d thought Kit Rookwood had seemed…well, it had been as if something had somehow fallen into place when their eyes had met over the scatter of tennis balls on the grass. Or had she imagined it? Considering how he had behaved toward Alice, she must have.

  Or…her heart sank a little. This must be what flirtation was all about. Alice was right: she obviously had a lot to learn…but it was too bad. She’d liked Kit Rookwood’s kindness to the ball boy. And she liked his golden good looks, like summer personified, and the way the corners of his mouth quirked just so—

  “Girls, look,” Mrs. Rennell said in a stage whisper, tilting her head toward the entrance, where two middle-aged women stood surveying the diners. “That’s Mrs. Fish and Mrs. Oelrichs. They’re—”

  But whatever it was they were remained unsaid for the moment, for the pair had swept into the room and were headed directly for them. Mrs. Rennell looked both delighted and terrified as they drew up to their table like a pair of ocean liners coming in to dock. “Good afternoon, Mrs….er, ladies,” she said, and Grace realized she was unsure whom to give precedence by greeting first.

  One of them, short and with a well-corseted-in figure, gave a malicious smile, recognizing her dilemma. The other, equally short but less plump, with heavy-lidded eyes and a humorous quirk to her mouth, didn’t even seem to hear her. “Hallo, then,” she said without preamble to Mrs. Rennell. “Are these your guests you’ve been making sure everyone in town knows about? Which of you is the vice-president’s daughter?”

  “I’m Miss Roosevelt, ma’am,” Alice said, looking wide-eyed.

  “And who’s this?”

  “My friend Miss Grace Boisvert, of Boston.”

  “Oh,” said the first woman. “Boston.” She pronounced it with a slight sneer.

  “Don’t be a snob, Tessie,” the second woman said. “I like Boston. At least, I think I do.”

  “Have you even been there?”

  “Quite possibly,” the second woman replied. “If I haven’t, I should go, if all the girls there are as pretty as you, lamb,” she said to Grace. “I like pretty people. They’re much easier to bear than ugly ones… Oh, wait! Yes, I have been to Boston. I bought some of my best pieces there. Give me good American furniture any day. Too much frou-frou French stuff in this town.”

  The woman she’d called Tessie sniffed. “We don’t all share your tastes, Mamie.”

  “Which is good, or I’d have to pay more for my American things. I don’t have the cash you and Alva do. Here, why don’t you give a lunch for these two sometime this week, and that way I can talk to ’em and find out if they’re worth inviting to my house. Wednesday would be convenient.”

  Tessie sputtered. “You might have asked if I already had plans!”

  “You’re right, I might have.” She squinted at Mrs. Rennell. “You’ll have to come too, won’t you? All right, luncheon at Rosecliff on Wednesday if you don’t mind wet plaster—the house still isn’t finished. I guess we’ll have to invite Alva too. Or we could forget to, and make her mad.” She laughed loudly, took Tessie’s arm, and propelled her from the table. “That Roosevelt girl’s all right, I suppose, but her friend’s quite stunning, don’t
you think?” she said to her friend as they swept back out of the room, not troubling to lower her voice.

  They all sat in silence for a moment, as did most of the other diners in the room. Grace wondered if they were all as shocked as she was at the behavior of the woman addressed as Mamie. She’d been astonishingly rude, yet there had been no malice in either her words or manner—she merely seemed to say and do whatever was on her mind. “May I ask—” she started to say.

  Mrs. Rennell took a deep breath. “Tessie Oelrichs and Mamie Fish are two of the leaders of society here, now that Mrs. Astor has retired from entertaining. Mrs. Belmont—Mrs. Alva Vanderbilt Belmont—is the third. Mrs. Fish is somewhat—somewhat unusual.”

  “That’s one way to describe her,” Alice murmured.

  Now that the air seemed to have cleared a little, Mrs. Rennell lost her dazed look and began to light up. “Lunch at Rosecliff, with Mrs. Fish and Mrs. Belmont! I couldn’t have asked for a better—” she began, then composed herself. “It’s a nice compliment to you, Alice, and will guarantee that you’ll receive lots of invitations while you’re here.”

  “It sounded more like a compliment to Grace,” Alice said. Grace looked at her quickly. She hadn’t been hurt by Mrs. Fish’s remark, had she? How could she, after entrancing Kit Rookwood so thoroughly?

  As if her thought had summoned him, Grace caught sight of Mr. Rookwood, leading the ball boy who had fallen on the stairs toward a swinging door that must lead to the kitchens. He paused at the door, spoke to someone within, then gave the boy a gentle push and turned. Again their eyes met, but this time Grace quickly looked down at the napkin in her lap.

  Mrs. Rennell, however, had spotted him. “Back again, Kit?” she called.

  He came to their table. “It’s hard to keep away, ma’am. Did Mrs. Oelrichs and Mrs. Fish find you? They were looking for you, so I directed them here.”