The only silver lining was that Alice would now be preoccupied with planning her first ball. Maybe it would take her mind off Kit at least a little bit. But that was troubling, too—the way Alice had manipulated Mrs. Rennell into agreeing to hold one. It had been done contemptuously, almost—without regard to Mrs. Rennell’s scruples about her promise to their mothers. The poor woman had been forced to tie her conscience into knots at Alice’s hints that not to hold a ball—sorry, an evening reception—would make her look mean and ungrateful. There wasn’t much Grace could do or say now, but she did not like this new side of Alice.
* * *
Grace stayed home the next two days while Mrs. Rennell told everyone she had indeed come down with a summer cold. The news that she was ill meant no one called—who wanted to risk catching a cold at the height of the season? But she hadn’t been totally forgotten. Tom Livingston sent an enormous bouquet of roses, three of the latest novels, and his photograph, with a shy request that she might send him one of her when she was feeling better. Mr. Livingston also sent flowers and his own secretary to inquire after her health. Mrs. Fish slyly sent her a box of chocolates in the shape of a ship, and several other floral tributes arrived from young men she’d met over the last few weeks.
She also, much to her surprise, got back her adorable yachting hat that she’d assumed was lost forever, floating off into the depths of the Atlantic. It arrived remarkably un-salt-stained and unharmed in a plain box with no note, which also surprised her—Tom had taken the opportunity to send her long missives with the flowers and all his other offerings. Perhaps it hadn’t been sent by him, but by the kind crewmen who’d taken care of her on the motor launch. She would have to ask Tom to thank them for her.
* * *
The second day of Grace’s enforced rest, Alice went with a group of friends to watch a polo match at Izzard’s Field. On her return, Grace could hear her stomping up the stairs. She passed her own door and came straight into Grace’s room without knocking.
“Well? How was the polo?” Grace closed the book she’d been reading and looked up at Alice. She probably needn’t have asked. Alice looked as though her large hat was about to take flight, and her eyes were bright with anger or unshed tears. Or possibly both.
“Splendid.” She took off her gloves with jerky motions, yanking on each finger as if she were trying to pull them off as well. Instead of throwing herself onto Grace’s bed as usual, she began to pace.
Grace watched her for a moment. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
Alice laughed shortly. “No, not really.”
Grace waited. Whatever it was, it had definitely rattled her. Could it have something to do with Kit? She couldn’t think of anything else that would have put Alice into such a state.
She was still pacing. “I overheard something. I don’t know if I was supposed to—probably not, because the harpies were all talking behind their fans. I happened to be in the right place to hear their poison. I heard one of them mention your accident, so I stopped to listen, of course.”
Grace groaned. Would she ever live down falling off the Livingstons’ yacht? “What were they saying?”
“Don’t worry, everything I heard about you was sympathetic. And then—” She paused to steady her voice. “Then one of them said, ‘If it had been the Roosevelt girl who’d fallen, we’d know why she’d fainted, wouldn’t we?’”
Grace frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t interrupt. Then another one said, ‘Do you think Kit Rookwood would have gone to rescue her, or would he have been glad to get rid of the evidence?’ And then they all laughed.” Her face had turned a dull red.
“I still don’t—oh!” Grace felt herself turn red as well. What an awful thing to imply! “Who were they? Do we know them?”
“I was behind them, remember? But I didn’t recognize the voices.” Alice had stopped pacing at last and sat on the edge of Grace’s bed, staring down at her hands. “They made me want to go somewhere and wash their filthiness out of my ears. It was horrible.”
Grace got up and went to sit next to her. “It was a perfectly rotten thing to say!”
“But not unexpected, right?” Alice smiled bitterly. “I suppose I should apologize for being such a beast to you when you tried to warn me about being seen with Kit too much.”
“It’s not necessary.” At least now she wouldn’t have to think about talking to Kit again.
“A real friend never says I told you so, right?” Alice gave herself a shake and stood up. “Well, I have to say that I’ve learned my lesson.” She moved to the door. “From now on, I don’t get caught!”
Grace laughed, but uneasily. “That’s one way to look at it.”
Alice paused, hand on the doorknob. “You think I’m joking, don’t you? Well, I’m not. I’m not going to let petty, dirty-minded people control what I do, for fear that they might talk about me. Oh, stop looking so shocked. You and I spent plenty of time figuring out how not to get caught on some of our escapades in Chestnut Hill. Why is this any different?” She left, slamming the door behind her.
* * *
A blanket of stifling mugginess settled over Newport, too large and heavy for Grace to shift, and what little breeze there was blew warm and damp. Little Parker and Sarah were cranky and miserable with prickly heat rashes, and Mr. Rennell muttered at breakfast that he might as well have stayed in the city if it was going to be this damned hot here. Only the trees didn’t complain about the weather.
So it was with alacrity that Alice accepted the invitation of a new friend, Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt Jr., for her and Grace be her guests at Bailey’s Beach, where the fashionable went sea-bathing.
“Now, you mustn’t let your Mrs. Rennell skimp on the champagne at her ball, Alice. That would be quite fatal, to serve an inferior one or, worse, to run out.” Mrs. Vanderbilt fanned herself languidly as she gazed out over the water, where tiny wavelets washed in and out of the cove that formed Bailey’s Beach. “You must go to Kessler’s—not some cheap local merchant.”
“Definitely Kessler’s.” Alice, cross-legged in the sand next to her, nodded wisely.
Grace, sitting next to her, wanted to laugh—what did Alice know about ordering champagne?—but kept her attention focused on the water as well. She didn’t care for Mrs. Vanderbilt, who had all of Mrs. Oelrichs’ and Mrs. Fish’s snobbish grandeur and little of their fierce intelligence, and was obscurely annoyed that her given name was also Grace.
But Alice seemed entranced by her; for one thing, she was much younger than those ladies, being scarcely thirty, while having all their self-assurance. Grace could understand why Alice would be drawn to this stylish young matron. But she still didn’t like her. There been a great deal of fuss around her near-elopement of a marriage, which even made it to the Boston papers. Perhaps Alice liked that whiff of disreputability too.
Mrs. Vanderbilt sighed. “And please don’t let her do anything like bring her children down to introduce to everyone. It would be too grim, you know.”
“Never!” Alice’s scorn was palpable. “Though I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“Alice, you don’t really think she would do that, do you?” Grace objected. “And she is throwing this ball for you, remember.”
Alice pouted, but Mrs. Vanderbilt smiled serenely. “Which is why you want to make sure it’s all as it should be. How awful to be remembered for an event everyone laughs at.”
Grace, fuming inwardly, waited for a few minutes to pass and the conversation to move on, then stood up. “Anyone else care to join me for a dip?”
“No, you go,” Alice said when Mrs. Vanderbilt shook her head. “I’ll stay here.”
Grace had been counting on that. Three was definitely a crowd right now. She crossed the smooth strip of sand, raked daily by the beach’s caretakers, and waded into the water. The sun was hot on her shoulders, and her high-necked bathing dress stuck to her back. Couldn’t bathing dresses be made of som
ething other than wool flannel and not have both knee-length bloomers and a skirt? Not to mention the black woolen stockings that ballooned around her calves, full of trapped air—ugh! It wasn’t fair that women had to bundle into layers of clothing in order to swim, while men could get away with short knit trousers above the knee (and no stockings!) and sleeveless knit tops.
She glanced enviously at a nearby group of young men, standing in knee-deep water while talking and laughing together, looking cool and unencumbered. One of them returned her look, and to her dismay she realized that it was Kit Rookwood.
He was standing with his arms crossed loosely on his chest, smiling at something that had been said, but his eyes were on her. She looked quickly away without acknowledging him. Why, of all people, did he have to be there? And why did he have to be so attractive standing there in his bathing suit, his smoothly muscled shoulders bare and his tousled hair kissed by the sun?
Now that he’d seen her, he’d know Alice was here as well, and she’d have to put up with him as well as Mrs. Vanderbilt. Which one would succeed in keeping Alice’s attention? Her money would be on Kit, with his bare shoulders and throat. She’d be much better off staying in the water for as long as she could and avoiding the upcoming drama on the beach.
Except that as she paddled about, she couldn’t help noticing that instead of looking for Alice he’d stayed with his friends, chatting…and watching her. Did he think she would require rescuing again? Well, she wouldn’t.
She stayed in the water a full half hour till her teeth were chattering, but as she trudged back up the beach in her dripping woolen dress she somehow didn’t feel at all cooled. Kit had stayed where he was, for which she supposed she ought to be grateful—there would be no flirting with Alice to have to watch. Could it be that he actually had listened to her, back on the Livingstons’ yacht, and had decided to behave more circumspectly toward Alice?
“You look like a drowned cat,” Alice said cheerfully as Grace rejoined her and Mrs. Vanderbilt on the beach.
“Thank you. Aren’t you going to swim?”
“No, there isn’t time now.” Mrs. Vanderbilt drew her skirt aside so that Grace wouldn’t drip on it.
Grace took the hint and dripped her way toward the changing rooms, pausing briefly on the sand to wring some of the water from her skirt.
“You’re not dead, then!” a voice called. Grace looked up. Mrs. Fish stood on the board walkway above her, parasol raised.
“Not to my knowledge, ma’am,” she replied. “Are you here to bathe? It’s lovely.” Well, the water had been, anyway.
Mrs. Fish shuddered. “I don’t immerse myself in water that hasn’t been heated and put into a tub first. Come up here and talk to me for a minute, pet.”
Grace complied. Mrs. Fish examined her closely. “You manage to look beautiful even wrapped in wet flannel,” she said. Then her eyes sharpened. “Clever girl, to stay home and play sick after that business on the boat. Unless you really were ill?”
“Thank you, I’m fine, really—and I was grateful for the rest. But I’m glad to see you.” She lowered her voice. “I wanted to tell you that I think the conversation I had before I fell off that dratted boat did its work.”
“Did it?” Mrs. Fish raised her eyebrows. “How do you know? Has young Rookwood run away to a monastery?”
Grace grinned. “No such luck. But he’s here today. I know he saw me—he stared enough, the entire time I was in the water—”
“Ah, did he?”
Grace couldn’t help making a face. “Yes. But what’s important is that he made no move to go find Alice. I’m hoping that he’s decided not to give the world any more reason to talk about the two of them.”
Mrs. Fish squinted out over the beach. There was a funny little smile playing about her mouth. “Maybe,” she said. “Or…”
“Or what?”
She shrugged. “Oh, nothing. Go get changed, lamb. You’re making me feel wet, looking at you.”
Chapter Eight
The following week was taken up with planning for the ball…or at least, all of the time when they weren’t at luncheons or teas or playing tennis at the Casino. Alice seemed determined to cram an entire summer’s worth of society into the remaining days of their stay and accepted every invitation. At least it kept her busy—so busy that she didn’t seem to be thinking as much about Kit.
Though he certainly hadn’t vanished from the scene. He played tennis with Alice twice that week and took her driving in a motor car, which she didn’t stop talking about for hours. Grace began to worry that her self-congratulations had been premature and waited for another summons from Mrs. Fish, but none came.
And she herself was still feeling…not precisely ill, but not well either. “You look like you swallowed a quart or two of seawater when you fell off the Livingstons’ boat and still haven’t brought it up yet,” Alice said to her a few mornings later. “You know, sort of gray and peaky. Are you all right?”
“I’ve felt better,” Grace admitted. In fact, the only thing that made her feel close to normal was to spend as much time outside as possible, in the company of the trees of the Rennells’ garden. They were mostly small ornamentals and did not have much to say, but their presence eased her discomfort a little…which made Grace think. She’d been so eager to immerse herself in the human world, and now here she was, grateful for the company of some Japanese cherries, a young horse chestnut, and a row of over-clipped arborvitae. You could take the dryad away from the trees, but you couldn’t take the trees from the dryad. It was a sobering thought; was she like a fish removed from the sea, gasping for breath outside of her necessary element?
Every evening when Grace went to bed, it was with relief that another day had passed until their departure. She had even begun to think about begging off going to the Adirondacks with Alice in favor of going home. How lovely it would be to be among the trees of home, old friends that hadn’t been planted in isolation or tortured into strange shapes…and what a relief to be home with her family, where she didn’t have to be so careful.
Tom Livingston was still her shadow, along with a train of other young men who seemed to want to follow her around, even though she’d been careful never to be more than polite to them for fear that they’d end up as fascinated as Tom. He hadn’t asked her out on the Princess Eleanor again, thank goodness, but he never seemed to be far away and had already asked permission to call on her in Chestnut Hill that fall, when he went to visit friends at Harvard. Grace could imagine what Grand-mère’s reaction would be if he did.
So they helped Mrs. Rennell with plans for the ball, ordering the oriental lilies and spider chrysanthemums and pots of jasmine and palms to go with the Chinese lanterns that would be strung all over the house and garden, and a pagoda-shaped tent on the back lawn, where supper would be served. Even the footmen and waiters would be part of the décor, arrayed in red and black mandarin costumes. Grace worried a little that Mrs. Rennell was trying to be too “original” in her party theme, but Alice seemed to think it would be all right; Grace suspected she’d cleared it with Mrs. Vanderbilt, which was somehow vaguely irritating. Why hadn’t Alice talked to her about it?
* * *
“Alice? Are you in there?” Grace stood outside Alice’s bedroom door, knocking. Beside her was Mrs. Rennell’s maid, Jeffries, looking affronted.
Mrs. Rennell had kindly sent Jeffries to help them get ready for the ball. Fortunately she’d mentioned it beforehand so that Grace was prepared and already had her hair done when the maid arrived. The last thing she wanted was to have a stranger fussing with it, lest she have missed any green when she’d last dyed it. But she’d let Jeffries help her with her dress—a pale celadon-green chiffon with beaded bodice that she and Mum had been careful not to let Grand-mère see—and sent her on to help Alice.
Except that Alice didn’t want any help, or even to let Jeffries into her room. So Jeffries had summoned Grace for reinforcement.
“Of course I am,
” Alice called impatiently. “Where’d you think I’d be?”
“Jeffries is here to help you get ready—Mrs. Rennell sent her.”
“I’m fine. Let her help you.”
“I’m already done.”
“Well, then she isn’t needed, is she? Tell her to go away.”
Grace looked apologetically at Jeffries. “I’m sorry. I do appreciate your help, though. Please thank Mrs. Rennell for us.”
Jeffries sniffed and retreated down the hall to her mistress’s room. Once she was out of sight, Grace rapped again. “She’s gone. May I come in?”
A pause. “I’m in the middle of doing my hair, and I really can’t open the door right now.”
“That’s all right. You don’t need to open it for me.” Grace turned the knob—or tried to. Alice had locked it.
“Alice,” she said quietly.
“Oh, for heaven’s—I’ll be out in a few minutes. Go…go do something, will you?”
But she wasn’t out in a few minutes, and it wasn’t until most of the guests for the pre-ball dinner had arrived that Alice finally made her appearance. When she did, Grace understood why she hadn’t wanted anyone in her room.
Where had she gotten that dress? Mrs. Roosevelt certainly hadn’t bought it for her. Mrs. Roosevelt would never have allowed Alice anything like it. It was gorgeous, of course—satin with a tulle overskirt and draperies, embroidered with a sprinkling of beaded moons and stars…and all in deepest midnight black. Above the very low décolletage Alice’s face was pale, but there was a feverish glint of excitement in her eyes.
Grace managed to excuse herself from Tom Livingston, whom Mrs. Rennell had kindly invited to dine with them, and sidled around the room toward Alice. Several guests were already glancing toward her and whispering.
“So that’s why your door was locked,” Grace murmured to her.
“Well, what do you think? I didn’t want anyone telling me my dress was completely inappropriate for a girl my age, so it seemed easier to lock myself in until it was too late. It worked too. I’d pat myself on the back if I weren’t afraid of falling out of my dress.”
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