“Oh, I expect you know who. Well, I think I shall go admire the flower beds.” She rose and put up her parasol. “Think about what I said, lamb,” she added and ambled back toward the house.
Chapter Six
Grace thought about it all right. Her first thought (and her second and third) was never in a million years. Try to draw Kit’s attention away from Alice and onto herself? For one thing, Alice would kill her, or at least never speak to her again. Well, maybe she would, eventually; but in the short term, it would put a serious strain on their friendship—and they would be spending the next several weeks together, here in Newport and then in the Adirondacks. Kit was giving Alice something she hungered for: his attention. It would be cruel to take that from her—but it would be irresponsible to let him entice her into more bad behavior.
Still…could she even bring herself to do it? It wasn’t that Kit wasn’t attractive—in fact, it had bothered her a great deal that she thought him so good-looking, because of the way he’d been behaving toward her. But could she try to…to Captivate him when he’d been so unpleasant? Would it even be possible?
Of course it would be possible. Remember what you did to Tom Livingston without even really trying?
All right, that was true. Maybe being a dryad would come in handy after all. Mum would have a fit if she knew, not to mention Grand-mère—! But they would never have to find out.
Dealing with Alice if she were to entice Kit away from her, though…that would be the problem. Maybe she would try talking to him first. And if that didn’t work, then she’d be forced to launch plan B.
* * *
Her opportunity to corner Kit came a day later, at Tom Livingston’s yachting party.
As Grace checked her white captain’s hat, complete with gold braid, in the front hall’s mirror while they waited for the carriage to be brought round, Mrs. Rennell came down the stairs.
“You look lovely, my dear! And Alice is always perfectly dressed.” She came to stand next to Grace and scrutinized her own reflection. “I do hope this hat is quite right for a boating party. I’ve never been invited—er, that is, I’ve not yet been able to attend one. It’s not that I don’t adore my children, but being a mother does restrict one’s social life, you know.”
Mrs. Rennell remained all atwitter as they were driven down to the dock where the Livingstons’ motor launch would ferry them out to their yacht. It was a lovely day; the sky was a light, cloudless blue, and the harbor sparkled in the sunshine. Bunting and flags from the Harbor Fête a few days before still lent a dash of color to the weathered gray fishing shacks on the waterfront.
Tom Livingston was waiting at the dock, nautically handsome in a blue blazer and white flannel trousers. He greeted them all enthusiastically, but his face lit up as he took Grace’s hand. “You look a perfect mariner.”
“Then I must be a better actress than I thought. I’ve never set foot on anything bigger than the rowboat on Hammond Pond at home.” A gust of wind caught at her hat, and she reached up to make sure it was still secure. “Will it be rough today? I’d hate to disgrace myself at your party.”
He took firm hold of her arm as he helped her onto the launch. “Nothing worse than a fine, brisk breeze. Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ve got a few more guests to escort, and then I promise I’ll be your devoted servant.” He squeezed her arm tenderly, then stepped back and snapped her a smart salute before leaping back onto the dock.
“That wasn’t quite my concern,” she whispered to Alice after they’d settled on the green-cushioned bench that filled the back perimeter of the launch.
“What is? Getting seasick and whoopsing all over poor Tom? Don’t worry, I’ll bet you ten dollars he’d still adore you even if you did.” Alice surveyed the dock eagerly. “Where is that dratted boy?”
That dratted boy could only be one person. “Mr. Rookwood is coming?”
“I don’t know why you insist on calling him that. Didn’t he ask us to call him Kit?” Alice craned her neck to see past the crewmen who were casting them off from the dock.
“He asked you to,” Grace said a little more shortly than she’d intended, because Alice turned to look at her, a frown gathering between her brows.
“Now who’s being unpleasant?” she demanded. “Really, I don’t know what the problem is between you two, but it won’t get better if you continue to bear a grudge against the poor thing.”
“Poor thing?” Grace stared at her. “He’s the one who started it with his stupid Puritan maiden nonsense.”
“How can he resist when you never fail to rise to it? Really, Grace, you should try to look at it from his point of view.”
Grace struggled to count to ten before replying. She made it to four. “So you think it’s my fault he persecutes me?”
“Yes, I do. If you didn’t react, he wouldn’t do it. It’s perfectly obvious.”
“It isn’t any such thing!”
Alice’s manner changed abruptly. “You know what I think? I think you’re jealous.” She patted Grace’s hand. “It’s perfectly understandable, since we’ve always been so close. But you’ve got to accept it was bound to happen that a man might someday come between us. It doesn’t mean I like you any less because of Kit. We’ll always be friends—don’t you know that? Even if Kit and I…” She trailed into silence, blushing.
Grace forgot her irritation for a moment. Good heavens, was Alice that far gone over him that she was thinking about “always”?
She was saved from having to reply by a small cough from Mrs. Rennell, sitting across from them. “Excuse me, girls, but do one of you have any smelling salts? I seem to have forgotten mine,” she asked, brightly enough. But Grace saw that her usually delicate complexion was more pasty white than porcelain.
“No, ma’am,” Alice said. “Aren’t you well?” Her voice was sympathetic, but Grace caught the edge of glee in it.
“Oh, quite!” Mrs. Rennell tried to smile, but only half of her mouth cooperated.
“No, I don’t have any,” Alice declared. “I’ve got a cast iron stomach, Father says. I can handle the bounciest seas.”
At the word bounciest, poor Mrs. Rennell grew even paler. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Grace said. “I’m sure the Livingstons will have something on their boat if anyone should feel unwell.”
Mrs. Rennell looked a little relieved. “Thank you, dear.” She sat back and folded her lips tightly together, as if further speech would be unwise.
By the time they’d drawn alongside the Livingstons’ steam-yacht, which seemed enormously long and high, like a great white wall topped with masts and a slender smokestack and the name Princess Eleanor in gold and black letters, Grace wasn’t so sure she wouldn’t be needing smelling salts herself. As she climbed the gangplank up to the ship’s deck, a wave of dizziness passed over her, then was gone. But she sensed that it might still be lurking nearby. Please, let her not whoops all over poor Tom’s spotless blazer!
Her equilibrium was not helped by the sight of Kit Rookwood, as smartly dressed (and, to her disgruntlement, twice as handsome) as Tom, lounging by the rail; obviously he was waiting for Alice. And of course, the one time she actually wanted to speak to him, he ignored her.
“Excuse me,” she said, pausing in front of him. He didn’t seem to hear her, so she said, more loudly, “Mr. Rookwood!”
There was no ignoring the use of his name. He did his usual not-looking-directly-at-her thing. “Did you wish to speak to me?”
“Yes, I did—I mean, I do,” she said. “But—but not right now. In private.”
His brows drew down. “Is it really necessary?”
“Yes, it is!” she said crossly. “Believe me, I wish I didn’t have to.” She turned on her heel.
Alice greeted Kit with a scold that sounded more like a caress. “There you are, you bad thing. I thought you’d be at the dock.”
“Oh, eager beaver Tom hustled me aboard before I could tell him to take a powder,” Kit said�
��loudly enough so that she would be sure to hear, Grace guessed. She resisted the impulse to turn back and flip his jaunty boater off his head and took Mrs. Rennell’s arm to lead her off to look for a quiet place for her to sit.
“Up on deck’s the best place for her,” said the uniformed steward she found a few minutes later, when she asked him if Mrs. Rennell could retire belowdecks. He cast a knowledgeable eye over her pale face and nodded. “Out in the fresh air’s the ticket. Here, I’ll set her up in a nice sheltered spot and bring her some ginger water. That’ll settle her stomach.”
“You’re a dear,” Mrs. Rennell said as she collapsed into a wicker armchair set under one of the canopied sections of the deck. “I do hope dear Alice won’t feel indisposed too.” She peered at the low rail enclosing the deck. “That doesn’t look very high. I shouldn’t like for her to fall in if it should get stormy.”
It might do her some good if she did, Grace thought. “I don’t think she will, Mrs. Rennell,” she said aloud. “Alice doesn’t get sick, and she won’t fall in.” She took off her light canvas coat and tucked it over Mrs. Rennell’s lap.
“Such spirits,” Mrs. Rennell sighed. “She’s a remarkable girl, isn’t she?”
“There you are!” Tom Livingston appeared next to them. “Would you care for the grand tour before we start?” He tucked Grace’s arm in his. “Will you excuse us, ma’am?”
Grace let him lead her away, though she felt bad at leaving Mrs. Rennell alone. Tom, however, had no qualms. “I wasn’t going to let you spend the day stuck with the landlubbers,” he explained.
Just then the smokestack emitted a mighty gout of smoke, and another. Grace watched them roil into the sky before vanishing, and another wave of dizziness hit her. “Mrs. Rennell may not be the only landlubber here,” she said, hanging on to his arm with both hands.
“Are you all right?” Tom looked concerned—and a touch disappointed.
“I hope so—yes, I’m sure I’m fine.” She smiled at him reassuringly—perhaps a little too much so, for he covered one of her hands with his free one.
“You look delicious,” he murmured. “I wish all these people weren’t here, because by George, I swear I’d kiss y—”
“Oh, we’re moving!” Grace said. A deep rumble shook the boat and it began to move. A strange sensation, as if the floor was rising and falling under her feet, made her hold on to Tom’s arm again. She hoped he wouldn’t take it as invitation to act on his last unfinished sentence.
To her relief, he didn’t. “Isn’t it grand? Best feeling in the world! Come on, let me show you the rest of the Princess.”
By the time Tom had finished showing her all over the 126-foot length of the Princess, however, she wasn’t sure she agreed that being on a boat was the best feeling she’d ever experienced. A headache had begun to pound at the back of her head, accompanied by intermittent waves of dizziness. This wasn’t seasickness, was it? Her stomach was fine—she felt in no danger of doing anything unfortunate on Tom’s blazer after all. But something definitely wasn’t right.
By then they’d left the harbor, on their way toward the open ocean. Grace knew that the plan was for them to discreetly shadow the racing yachts for a few hours before returning to the harbor, where a fortifying tea would be served at anchor. Most of the ladies had gathered under the two canvas awnings to keep out of the sunshine; Grace looked at two of them in chaise longues with envy. “Tom, can’t we sit down for a moment?” she interrupted him.
“Still not feeling quite the thing? Here.” He guided her to a pair of chairs under the forward awning and settled himself in one, pulling it a little too close to hers.
Grace sat down gratefully. She let Tom talk away at her about the Princess Eleanor, inserting yeses and nos at the appropriate places while hoping that her head wouldn’t fall off. After a few moments she got the feeling that someone was watching her, and saw with a start that Mrs. Fish was seated a few chairs away, watching her with amusement.
“Well, look who’s here. Come here and talk to me, sweet lamb. You—go,” she added to Tom. “You can’t monopolize her all the time, you know.” She laughed her loud laugh.
Grace clutched her chair’s arms, but it was not possible to ask the Mrs. Fish to come over here instead, no matter how headachy one felt. “You can explain the races to me when we get there,” she said to a mutinous-looking Tom and rose from her seat. He nodded, mumbled something polite to Mrs. Fish, and left.
Grace sat down next to Mrs. Fish and waited until he was out of earshot before leaning toward her. “I’m going to try to talk to Kit Rookwood about Alice this afternoon.”
“Good idea. Do it before your chum climbs the rigging and shows us all her bloomers,” Mrs. Fish said with gleeful relish.
“Please, no.” Grace shuddered. “I’m afraid he’ll try to avoid me. He doesn’t like me for some reason. I expect he’ll stick to Alice like a burr.”
“Hmmph.” Mrs. Fish drummed her fingers on her knee. “Leave that to me. I’ll make sure I get Alice out of his clutches, or him out of hers—I’m not sure which it is—for a bit, once we’re out doing whatever it is we’re supposed to be doing on this overgrown canoe.” She squinted at Grace. “You don’t look right, sweet pet. Got the collywobbles, do you?”
“No, just this horrid headache.”
Mrs. Fish was still examining her. “You don’t have to talk to him today. You could always hit him over the head with a tennis racquet at the Casino tomorrow and drag him into a bush to talk to him.”
Grace smiled again but shook her head. “No. I want to get it done today. I’m sure I’ll feel better shortly.” The mental image that Mrs. Fish had summoned of Alice climbing the smokestack was all too plausible. Colonel Roosevelt had made sure all his children, including Alice, were champion tree climbers.
Mrs. Fish was as good as her word. A half hour later, when they’d joined the fleet of boats that had sailed out to watch the races, she jerked her head and stood up, taking Grace’s arm. “Now,” she commanded.
Grace let her waft her along as they left the shelter of the awning and headed toward the yacht’s rail, where many of the guests, including Alice and Kit, had gathered, field glasses raised, to watch the ponderously graceful sailboats as they glided past each other at the race’s starting line, jockeying for the best position when the starting cannon sounded.
Mrs. Fish surveyed the crowd. “Wouldn’t it be much more exciting if they crashed into each other?” she called in a loud voice. This earned her an equal mixture of titters and mutters; it also caught Tom Livingston’s attention. He made a beeline for them, his eyes fixed on Grace.
Mrs. Fish saw him too. She immediately steered Grace to where Alice and Kit stood by the rail so that he followed along in their wake. When she was behind Alice, she stopped, made sure Tom had joined them, then turned to him. “Oh, good. You’ve got a pair of those spyglasses things.” She held her hand out expectantly and, when Tom gave them to her, peered through them briefly, then nudged Alice on the shoulder and handed them to her. “Look at that, lamb,” she commanded, then turned to Tom. “Here, you. Which of them is which?”
Grace wanted to chuckle at the adroit way in which she’d managed to occupy both Alice’s and Tom’s attention, but didn’t waste any time. She took Kit’s arm, making him start, and tugged on it.
He frowned at her, and for a moment she was afraid he would refuse to come with her. Then he shrugged and let her detach him from the group.
Grace led him to the other side of the boat, as far away as possible from the gaggle of spectators. How should she begin? Find some polite way to lead up to the topic or jump right in? If only her head would stop hurting…
“Mr. Rookwood—” she began.
He made a harsh, impatient sound. “Will you stop calling me that?”
She looked at him in surprise. He was staring past her with a ferocious scowl on his face. “I—I didn’t think it mattered what I called you,” she said.
“It mat
ters.” He continued to look out toward the horizon for the space of a few breaths, then said, in his old, bored tone, “So? What’s all this about?”
Grace swallowed, though her mouth was dry. “Alice. I’m worried about her.”
He shifted his stance so that he was facing her, gazing over her shoulder as he always did. “Why? She seems fine to me.”
“I’m sure she does,” Grace couldn’t keep herself from saying tartly. “That’s the problem. You and she— People are starting to talk. Mrs. Fish told me about last week at the Harbor Fête, and the Casino, and—and the other night at Mrs. Wilson’s.” A fresh wave of dizziness washed over her.
“I see.” His voice had acquired a mocking edge. “Do you think I’m out to compromise her virtue?”
“I don’t know,” she retorted. “I haven’t decided yet if you actually care about Alice or are using her to while away a dull summer. But she’s my dearest friend, and I won’t stand by and let you break her heart. Or ruin her life.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “Don’t you thing you’re getting a little melodramatic?”
Grace wanted to stamp her foot, but it would make her head feel worse. “No, I’m not. Her father’s the vice-president of the United States, and if his daughter is running around like a—a hoyden before she’s even come out, it might make trouble for him. If you really cared about her, you’d want to protect her reputation.”
Kit smiled—cruelly, she thought. “Spoken like a true Puritan maiden.”
“Stop it! We’re not talking about me or your stupid teases. We’re talking about—we’re—” She trailed off as the pain in her head redoubled, so that it hurt to even hear or see. Kit’s face swam before her, his hair getting confused with the sunshine. She closed her eyes because the brightness was too much.
“Grace, are you all right?” she heard him say.
She opened her eyes and forced them to focus on him. Well, what do you know—he hadn’t called her a Puritan maiden. He’d even called her by name—though she was surprised it was Grace and not Miss Boisvert. Still, that could be counted as a victory of sorts.
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