The Girls at the Kingfisher Club (14 page)

“I can't say I did,” said Jo. “I don't know if I trust a man who”—she stopped herself from saying
can't hold his drink
just in time—“drinks so much in front of ladies.”

Their father nodded. “A fair point,” he said. “Foster has always been a little blind to excess. Well, if you don't like him, that's all settled, then. Have you spoken to Ella and Doris?”

It had been settled quickly—too quickly—and Jo suspected something terrible looming even as she answered. “Ella seemed very quiet at dinner,” Jo said, “and she hasn't said anything to me this morning about Prescott one way or the other. He seems to be very refined?”

“He is,” their father said. “He comes from a very influential family. Ella would be a lucky woman if she could become Mrs. Prescott—probably a chairman's wife someday. I trust she'll keep that in mind.”

Because nothing seduced a girl like the idea of becoming the chairman's wife in a family even more ambitious than her father's.

“Yes, sir. When will he visit again, do you know?”

“Soon, I suspect. He seemed to like her. What about Doris? She and that Lewisohn boy seemed to get along. I wasn't expecting that.”

“She likes him enormously, I think,” Jo said, and managed a genuine smile. “She already told me she'd like to see him again.”

“Excellent,” said their father. “I'll start thinking about another small party next week, then. I'll tell Mrs. Reardon so she has time to get something decent. I didn't like the pheasant this time—nasty bird, pheasant, unless you know how to cook it. And Pavlova for dessert. Lewisohn will be for Doris,” he said, like it was still a discussion of the menu, “and tell Doris she'd better lock him in before he gets wind of her strange thinking and changes his mind—and we'll get some of the other girls downstairs in the meantime. What are their names? The twins, I mean, next ones in line. Matilda?”

“Hattie and Mattie,” Jo said, her skin crawling. “The twins.” The older twins. She couldn't even imagine him succeeding so far down the list of them that he got to Rose and Lily.

“Right.” He smiled. “That should be a joke, shouldn't it? You can just change them around until everyone gets along, and no one's the wiser.”

Jo blinked at him and didn't answer.

“Well, that's all,” their father said, taking up the paper. “I'll call you or Louise if you're needed.”

She stood, feeling numb, and turned for the door.

“And tell Ella to make up her mind soon,” he said. “If it's not Prescott it had better be the next one. We can't let word get out about a houseful of choosy girls.”

Though she should not by then have been shocked at anything their father said, still the words stopped her in her tracks.

She had also rejected the first choice; would she now be bound to the second?

Carefully, she asked, “And what about me, sir?”

He waved a hand. “I have other plans for you,” he said, “don't you worry. Now go along.”

Jo could have hit him; she could have picked up one of the paperweights off his blotter and thrown it at him hard enough to knock him right out of his chair.

For a moment her hand felt heavy, as if she really could take aim and bring him down.

But if he got up again, God help all of them. That was the trouble. Even after all of this, there was still something to lose.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

• • •

Jo had to give Lou credit for efficiency.

While Jo was gone, Lou had dragged a small trunk down from the attic. It had been mostly wiped clean of dust, except near the hinges, where she hadn't bothered. Now she was folding her dresses as fast as she could, as if nothing could backfire once her trunk was packed.

When Jo came into their room, Lou looked up, hugging a green dress to her chest as if she'd been caught out.

Jo had never seen her this way; Lou had never been hopeful before. She was a different creature.

It helped; not as much as it hurt, but it helped.

“Jo,” she said, “I want to thank you. I—I can't believe I'm getting out of this house. I should be afraid, shouldn't I?”

Jo thought about Lou and Tom in the front seat of his car, driving through open country, and wondered what there was to fear.

“I should be terrified,” Lou answered herself, “but all I can think about is what it looks like outside the city—what it really looks like, not just in pictures.”

The green dress went into the trunk; a nightgown appeared in her hands.

“Your Tom is the cleverest cat I ever saw,” she said, her eyes feverish. “He handled Father like it was a parlor trick! I could hardly stop myself from laughing and ruining everything.”

Jo's black dress was still hanging on the outside of her wardrobe door. The late-afternoon sun filtered through the net, and the dress looked as if it had been covered with dust, forgotten for a hundred years.

Lou was inspecting pots of rouge, holding one up to her face in the mirror. “How was Father with you? You arranged everything, I'm sure, you're as smart as he is, that old bastard. Is everything settled for Doris?”

“Soon,” Jo said, feeling like her throat was turning to mud.

“Good.” Lou knelt to look through her pile of ruined shoes. After a moment the sound stopped, and Lou said to the inside of the closet, “I shouldn't have doubted you, Jo. I'm really sorry. Of course you know what you're doing. You've always looked out for us.”

Lou sat back on her heels and looked over her shoulder. Jo saw she was holding a pair of gold shoes in her lap—one of her first catalog pairs, Jo remembered—so worn down that the strap had vanished and every last flake of glitter was gone.

Lou had bought them that first year at the Kingfisher, when it was still just the four of them dancing and Jo was in love with Tom.

“Once you're out, don't ever come back here,” Jo said, quietly, and left.

She sat in the library a long time without bothering to turn on a light; there wasn't much, just now, that she wanted to see.

seventeen

Some Sunny Day

Lou was almost done packing by the time Jo came back to the room. The bronze dress Lou wore out dancing was draped over her bedspread, the only thing of Lou's left.

“I want to go out,” said Lou.

Jo felt too empty to argue anything except, “It's dangerous.”

“I know. But the girls have been trapped like mice up here for two days, and this is the last time we'll all be together for God knows how long. I want to leave off like we started—dancing.”

The difference between now and when they had started was that they were no longer invisible. Their father's suspicious eye was on them now, and he was determined to keep them unsullied goods in a busy market.

But Jo was too tired to be frightened, just now, and Lou was right. Who knew when any of them might ever see her again?

No. That didn't bear thinking about.

And under all that was something deeper and meaner and true; Jo wanted to see him, just once, before he was someone else's husband, and gone for good.

“Call them in,” Jo said.

Jo had washed her face with cold water on her way back from the library—she had been flushed—and when she was alone she rested her fingertips on her temples for a moment, just to bring a little feeling back.

The room filled with them, primly, as if they'd been prepared for a scolding.

“All in, General,” said Doris, closing the door. She moved behind the younger girls, rested one hand on Sophie's shoulder and the other on Violet's.

Then eleven pairs of eyes were fixed on Jo, and for the space of a breath she felt the impossible weight of protecting any of them, let alone all of them, and hated their mother for dying.

“This is how things stand,” she said when she trusted her voice. “Lou is leaving us. She leaves tomorrow for Chicago, with a man named Tom Marlowe. You might remember him from the Marquee—he was the host there.”

The silence was absolute. Jo could hear pigeons walking on the ledge, it was so quiet.

At last, Ella ventured, a hint of poison in the tone, “Tom from last night?”

“Yes,” said Jo, and pressed on quickly, “he was very taken with Lou at the Marquee, and didn't like the look of the gentleman she was with last night, and so everything is already settled with Father.”

A moment too late to be casual, Doris whistled and said, “Lord, you dodged a bullet, Lou. That other one's a mummy.”

“But you—but Father called us down in front of him,” Violet said, her voice shaking. Fear or anger, it was hard to say. “It was so awful.”

You. Jo's throat went dry.

“He suspects us, from the papers,” Lou said. “Tom put him off the trail.”

“Then he has a terrible way of going about it,” said Rebecca.

Hattie and Mattie exchanged unconvinced looks.

Sophie whispered, “Tomorrow? She's going tomorrow?”

Jo ignored it. Sophie wasn't deaf; if she didn't like it, that wasn't Jo's problem.

“Doris will be seeing Sam Lewisohn again, since she was so keen on him the first time.”

Hattie and Mattie, who were recovering from the first round of bad news, snickered and kissed their own fists with relish.

Araminta blushed and whispered something to her, but Doris was grinning too hard to mind either the twins or Araminta's advice about dealing with teasing.

When the kissing noises died down, Doris said, “I liked Sam back when he danced, and I like him now.”

“Yeah,” said Lily, “but he's just some man.”

“Hey.” Doris lifted a finger. “He's just some man
I like
. There's a big difference. You be nice.”

“You said he hardly dances now!” moaned Rebecca.

Doris flushed. “Well, at least he dances, and well enough for me. Who knows if this Tom fellow is any good at dancing, either? You're a bunch of nosey parkers.”

“You'll have a chance to see for yourself,” said Jo. “We're going out to his place.”

A ripple of relief ran through the room.

It was too loud, too happy; it was a gloss over an unspoken thrum of mutiny so sharp that Jo felt like someone had snapped a rubber band against her wrist.

Lou hadn't been lying about the girls being ready to bolt, if Jo tried to hold them. If she had said no tonight, they might well have sneaked out from under her, even after everything.

Jo resented the undercurrent—as if she had chosen to give them a terrible father, and to be his envoy.

“Enjoy it,” she said. “It might be the last time we go dancing for a while. It
will
be the last time we go out dancing all together. Tomorrow Lou leaves us. Doris won't be far behind her, and then it will be Hattie and Mattie's turn to be thrown to the wolves.”

The murmurs rose, though Hattie and Mattie fell suddenly silent.

“Cabs at midnight,” Jo said, to shut them up.

The girls were gone like leaves.

When they were alone, Lou said, “Don't you want the girls to know you set me up with Tom?”

“No,” said Jo. “I don't want them to think I can pull more decent men out of a hat. He's the only man I know.”

“Nonsense. We know nothing but men.” But Lou frowned. “Jo, I want to be free of this house, but—what will happen to you?”

“Get your dress on,” said Jo. “You should look good tonight.”

• • •

Hattie and Mattie slid into the taxi opposite Jo and Lou. Their matching shoes were clutched to their chests, and two identical pairs of wide eyes gleamed in the dark.

“Who has Father chosen?” Hattie asked.

“Has he told you yet?” Mattie said.

Jo shrugged. “As soon as I know, you'll know.”

“But he won't make us marry anyone we don't like, will he?”

Hattie said, “We're not like Doris and Lou. We've never met a man we'd want to have around.”

“We want to go on just as we are—”

“—and you can't just let him—”

“Quit it,” said Lou. “Like she doesn't have enough to handle without you two squawking at her about things she can't help. Pipe down.”

(Lou had never contradicted her in front of the little ones; a general needed a united front.)

Jo wondered what Lou was thinking now, besides that she would soon be out from under their roof forever.

Maybe Lou really thought there was something Jo could do, as if she was just waiting for the full moon to turn them all into swans and throw open the windows.

The twins settled into a tense silence.

Jo looked out the window and counted the streets as the numbers on the buildings dropped, falling closer and closer to zero on the way to the Marquee.

Autumn was coming, and the sidewalk was just cold enough that they all danced on their stocking feet over the pavement and up the stairs, where the burly doorman couldn't help but smile back at the chorus line of grinning faces pressing into the doorway.

When they went in and down the first hallway, she didn't look up the stairs.

Just before the man at the second door opened it, Jo wished Tom wouldn't be there, that he and Lou had already left, so she could stop half-looking for him.

It was better just to know he was gone.

It was dangerous to care for him; there were some rules that never broke.

• • •

Never tell a man your name. Never mention where you live, or any place we go. Never let a man take you anywhere; if you take one into the alley to neck, tell one of your sisters, and come back as soon as you can.

Never fall for a man so hard you can't pull your heart back in time.

We'll leave without you if we have to.

• • •

Their effect was almost as impressive the second time; though they didn't have much, the Hamilton sisters knew how to wear what they had.

When Tom made his way through the crowd, he smiled at Lou first, but his gaze stuck on Jo, even as he leaned in to accept Lou's kiss on his cheek.

Jo frowned at him.

He blinked, remembered himself, and smiled around at the rest of them as he returned Lou's kiss lightly.

Jo looked at the bandstand. The singer was just finishing a waltz. Araminta would be sorry.

“Let's get you all to the table,” he said, and even as they walked the edge of the dance floor the little ones were pressing him with questions and loaded statements about what Lou was like.

(Mattie said, “She's awfully clever,” and Hattie said, “Even if she can't waltz worth a penny.”

“Better you than me,” said Rebecca, with a doleful look over her glasses.)

Rose and Lily were shaking his hands, assessing him in stereo, and Araminta was peering at him as if looking for flaws in a gem.

Jo hung back a little behind the others.

She didn't want to be close to Tom, and there were eleven girls who had to be counted.

• • •

He danced with Lou first, a Baltimore, as the others gathered in little knots to discuss him.

“He seems like a real gentleman,” said Araminta.

Rebecca frowned. “He seems like a crook.”

“We only know crooks,” said Lily, and Rose laughed.

Sophie said absently, “As long as Lou likes him,” and smiled out at the floor.

Doris, oddly, didn't have a thing to say.

No one asked Jo what she thought of him. No one had talked to Jo since they reached the door of the Marquee.

Seeing them gathered at their table with their backs all turned to her made her want to crack open the emptiness she carried with her and leave it for them to clean up.

On the other hand, she didn't have much to say about Tom, so tonight it was for the best.

He danced next with Violet, who was visibly youngest, and Jo wondered if he was trying to work his way up the chain by age.

She wished him luck; in their glad rags and painted faces, it was hard for most men to tell them apart, even if he was a ringer. If he thought he could pinpoint them all based on guesswork, he'd have a night of it.

But that wasn't his game, Jo realized a moment later—he was cleverer than that.

The song he'd asked Violet for was fast enough that it didn't look suspicious for a man of thirty-five to be dancing it with a girl of fourteen.

Jo gave him credit for his strategy.

After Violet he asked Sophie, who had been whispering with Rose until Tom held out his hand to ask. But Sophie accepted at once, apparently thinking him neither too young nor too handsome to dance with.

Poor Tom, Jo thought, and bit back a smile.

By then the girls were scattering. Jo watched as men claimed them all for the waltz—except Lily, who claimed Violet, and Doris, who couldn't be pulled into a waltz with a meat hook.

As soon as the other girls had cleared out, Doris slid into the booth beside Jo.

“Thanks, General,” she said, glancing out at the dance floor. “For what you did with Sam, I mean, so I didn't have to talk to Father.”

“The fewer of us who have to talk to Father, the better,” said Jo.

“Ain't that the truth.” Doris pulled a face. “You wonder what he must have been like when Mother met him. I've always hoped he was better back then, but everything I remember of how he froze the life out of Mother just makes me think he was always going to be rotten. When we were kids he scared me, and now . . .” She sighed.

“Now you like boats?”

Doris laughed. “I told Sam about that. He said for the honeymoon we can boat it over to the Continent, so the joke's on Father. I can't wait. Can you believe none of us has ever seen a boat?”

Jo frowned. “Doris, I'm glad you like Sam Lewisohn. I really hope he's as nice as you think. But what if he's not? Father must have picked him for a reason. And he was willing to think of a wife who'd never seen anything of the world. What's to keep him from turning into Father?”

Doris thought it over. “Nothing, I suppose. Though it was his mother who arranged to have Sam at the party, it wasn't his idea, so at least he's not guilty of that. It'll be her I'm up against once we're married, that old dowager.”

It sounded like a brush-off, but after a moment Doris sighed, sitting back in the booth, and Jo realized she was still considering the question.

“Don't get me wrong,” said Jo, “it's hard to get a worse situation than our house. Run while you can. I just—I don't know how you'll protect yourself if anything happens, once you're on your own.”

“I'll manage. I'm not as dumb as I look, Jo.”

“That's not what I mean,” Jo said. “I only mean some people turn cruel on you when you least expect, and it trips you up, that's all.”

Doris shrugged. “From all I remember of Sam, he was a sweet boy. I hope he stays sweet. But I guess you can never tell how a man's going to end up.”

“No,” Jo said, watching Tom's dark head and Sophie's blond making tight turns in the tide of dancers. “I guess not.”

• • •

By two in the morning Tom had danced with almost everyone.

Still left to go were Araminta, who had no room on her schedule since the waltzes had filled; Hattie, who hadn't been back to the table since they arrived; and Jo, whom he hadn't asked.

They were all making the most of their last night of freedom. The twins were dancing hardest, their Charlestons looking more like a call to war than a dance. Judging by the glare Jo got whenever Mattie came back to the table to touch up her bloodred lipstick, the twins were none too happy that Jo hadn't extricated them all from the house before it was their turn on the block.

When the band took their break, the girls made their way back to their tables, glittering amid the smoke.

“Oh Lord,” Rebecca moaned, “my feet are dead. One more dance and my legs will fall off.”

“It's because you don't lift them up,” Sophie said. “You have to stay light or your ankles will give before the night's over!”