Chapter Nineteen

Charlie wasn’t hungry for supper, but he put a good dent into the Vouvray that was served with the medallions of kingfish. And into the Bordeaux that accompanied the lamb à la Colbert. After dinner, he retreated to the loggia for three gin fizzes. Only then did he feel ready to brave the hush of his room, safely insulated from his own thoughts.

–

Violet had completed every task she could think of. She’d soaked in the tub until her bones felt warm enough to be bendable, then she’d washed and set her hair, donned her nightgown and peignoir, examined her eyebrows in the mirror, filed her nails, and eaten her supper. She even read a few more of her mother’s letters as she sipped the glass of white wine that came up on her tray, but these letters hadn’t included any speculations about her future love life. Or Sadie’s.

She hadn’t seen Sadie, but it was likely that she’d come up to dress while Violet was in the bath. By now she and Floyd were probably foxtrotting across the grand salon. Did nothing ever send their courtship off the rails? They seemed as smooth and frothy as whipped cream.

But Charlie. Charlie was mixed in with every squeeze of her heart. Charlie, in these few days, had grown so oversized in her mind that he was the last thing she thought of when she went to sleep—always. He streamed in and out of her dreams, materializing every time she rolled over, dissipating as she fell back asleep, but never quite vanishing. It had been such a comfort to have him hovering there, and so exciting to wake up in the morning, knowing she would see him.

And now he’d ruined it all. On top of everything else, he was leaving the next day.

In his present mood, did he still intend to return? Violet tossed down her mother’s letter. She hadn’t read any of it anyway. She paced, barefoot, across the room, arguing with him in her mind. Why was he being so stubborn? Wasn’t it for her to decide whether she could marry a blind man? Shouldn’t she be the one to say whether she’d become resentful? Some women might be used to men who tyrannized their lives, but not Violet. Whatever faults Papa had, he was never high handed. He’d wanted his life to be easy. It was far too much work to dictate the dos and don’ts of the women in his life.

Violet stopped in front of mirror and peered at herself. It wasn’t a question of being pretty enough, was it? Maybe he didn’t like the way she smelled. Or the sound of her voice.

Or maybe he genuinely feared that she’d come to resent him.

Well, she thought, spinning on her heel. That point was one she could argue.
She left her room, painfully aware that she was clad in only her nightgown and peignoir. Her bare feet sank into the carpet. A light was still on in the hallway; from below came muffled sounds from the kitchen and the grant salon. The Victrola was playing. What time was it? Nine perhaps. Charlie might still be downstairs.

Violet stood before his door, her insides panicking like a trapped bird. Quickly, she raised her fist and knocked before she lost her nerve. There was a sound from inside. Then another. After a wait, the door opened. Charlie was still in his evening dress, but his tie was off, his collar unbuttoned. His hair was in his eyes, and he swiped it back, but it fell again. Behind him, the room was dark, and Violet realized that he never had a reason to turn on the light.

“It’s me,” she said, her nose wrinkling at the smell of gin.

“You,” he said, lolling against the door jamb.

“Are you drunk?”

He nodded. Well, that wouldn’t stop her from speaking her mind.

“I came here to tell you that your logic is all wrong,” she said, hands on her hips. He was staring intently at the top of her head, and it made her feel curiously warm from the top down, like being out in July without a hat. “You’re making a huge assumption.”

“Yes?” All the edges had been shorn off his words, but he seemed to be paying attention, so she barreled on.

“You feel so sure that I’d come to resent you, but only because that’s what you fear most. Not because it’s guaranteed to happen. People who talk to one another, even about the things they fear, can manage anything, I think. Have you heard that quote from Mark Twain?” He shook his head. “I’ve had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened. Won’t you be angry with yourself if you walk away without even trying to see if it could work?”

It took him a minute to formulate his words. During which time, the crown of her head grew even warmer.

“But it isn’t fair to you.”

“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”

A quiet sigh escaped him. “Maybe I have a better sense of my faults than you.”

“Fair enough,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But maybe I have a better sense of your virtues.”

Time stretched between them. Violet sensed him slipping away, sinking out of her life just as swiftly as her parents had. She was struggling to reach him with words, but her words weren’t catching hold. What else was there?

She hadn’t planned it, but once the thought flashed into her mind, she couldn’t resist. Violet stepped forward and caught his shirtfront between her fingers to pull him closer. On tiptoe, she moved near enough to feel his breath on her cheek. The warmth of his body passed through her nightgown, onto her arms. She pressed her lips against his.

His mouth was softer than she’d expected, even taken off guard as he was. A jolt ran down her spine. One of his hands slid around her elbow. With a start, she realized what she was doing and pulled away, face hot. He caught one of her hands before she was completely out of reach.

“Wait.” He said the word with such longing, it was as if she was the one who was cutting things off. “Please.” He pulled her hand toward him and kissed the backs of her fingers. When he straightened, his eyes were bright. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Violet drew her hand out of his.

“You don’t have to be sorry.” She straightened her shoulders. “You just have to realize that I’m right.”

–

Back in her room, Violet turned out the lights and climbed in bed. But sleep was many miles away. She sifted through every moment of the day until they shuffled together, mixing up into a mass of raw feeling. At least one question had been answered by her immodest visit to his doorway. He didn’t want to leave. If she’d let him, he’d have kept her hand and pulled her back to him. She let her mind drift in that direction for a while before she rolled over, jerking the blankets, angry with herself. He was leaving the next day. She needed to push him out of her mind, not invite him farther in.

She drifted off, but something kept her tossing and turning. At last, just as the songbirds hit their morning crescendo outside the Breakers’ windows, she sat up, realizing what it was. Sadie’s bed was empty.

Violet was out of bed in an instant. She turned on the lights, staring at Sadie’s still-made bed, her heart beating harder with each passing second. With a hand pressed to her mouth, she scurried to the armoire. Sadie’s clothes were still there. But if she hadn’t run away, then where could she be?

With shaky fingers, Violet yanked on stockings, corset, corset cover, petticoat, waist, her navy poplin skirt, and matching long navy jacket that belted in the middle. She jerked the pins from her hair, twisted it into a quick braid, and pinned it up, then topped it all with her tam-o’-shanter. There was no time for anything more elaborate.

Keeping to the carpeted center of the hallway, she rushed back to Charlie’s door. After the night before, she didn’t want to come knocking again. But there was no one in the house she trusted more, no one whose help she was more willing to seek. She tapped lightly, then again, harder.

There was no sound from the other side of the door. She knocked again. Still nothing. With a glance up and down the hall to make sure she was alone, Violet gripped the knob and opened the door by two inches.

“Charlie!” she called softly. “Charlie—are you awake?” A grunt came from inside the room. “Charlie, can you help me?”

“Coming,” he mumbled, sounding still half asleep. She pulled the door closed and waited, twisting her fingers together. A moment later, he opened the door, his hair mussed, in blue striped pajamas. He looked warm and soft, almost like a little boy, and her heart surged toward him.

“Is something the matter?” he asked, pushing his palm into his temple.

She should have brought him two aspirin. “It’s Sadie. She’s missing.”

The sleepiness drained from his face. “Missing?”

Violet looked up and down the hall again, making sure they were alone. “I don’t think she slept in her bed last night. Her clothes are still in our room.”

“And her money? Jewelry?”

“I didn’t look for that.”

He gave a brisk nod. “You go back and check while I dress. Give me two minutes.”

She scampered away, realizing she hadn’t thanked him for climbing out of his warm bed at this early hour. Back in her room, she found her aspirin bottle, then went to the drawer where Sadie kept her handbag. It was gone. Sadie’s money was gone, and Violet couldn’t find their mother’s jade earrings or Sadie’s ruby necklace.

Maybe she was wearing them? Violet tried to remember when she’d seen her sister last. It had been at luncheon the previous day before she and Charlie had gone sailing. But surely Sadie had gone down to dinner the night before? On an impulse, she dug up her own check book. Five checks had been torn out.

Seconds later, she was outside Charlie’s door. When he opened it, still straightening his tie, she put the question to him.

“Let me think,” he said, pushing on that same temple.

“Here, I’ve brought you some aspirin.” She fumbled with the bottle and put two into his palm. “Can I help you find water?”

“No, I have some here.” He retreated into the dark room, lightly touching the walls as he went. He returned with his comb. “I’m embarrassed to ask, but can you help me? I usually do it myself but, well, we’re in a rush.”

“Of course,” she murmured, honored that he would trust her this way. He knelt on the hall carpet, and she combed his hair back, then parted it on the side the way he always wore it. “Perfect.” She rested a hand on the back of his jacket. “Thank you—” suddenly her voice caught “—for helping me.”

He stood, eyes dark in mild light of the hallway. “I’ll always help. You don’t need to thank me.”

With tears stinging her eyes, she tucked her arm into his. They made their way to the stairs, walking faster than usual.

“What are your thoughts about where she is?” he asked.

“The simplest answer is that she fell asleep downstairs somewhere and is there still. But if she isn’t there—then I’m not sure. With Floyd somewhere? At Belcourt with Alva? Run away, home to Cold Lake? No, she wouldn’t go there. To the New York apartment, maybe? Or a hotel?”

“Would she do that alone?”

“I hope not.” Violet shivered. If their grandparents ever heard of seventeen-year-old Sadie going alone to a hotel, they might disown her. “She doesn’t have the keys to the New York apartment. How would she get in?”

“Maybe she took them, from your things.”

“Oh, she wouldn’t do that!” They’d reached the lower floor.

One of the white-capped maids passed by, her arms full of towels. “Good morning,” she said to them both.

Charlie paused. “Good morning, Mary. You haven’t seen the younger Miss Van Waters this morning, have you?”

“No, sir, not since last night.”

“What time last night?” Violet asked.

Mary thought for a moment. “I served drinks in the grand salon after supper. She and Mr. MacAlister were having champagne. I suppose that was at ten or so.”

They thanked her and hurried on to the library. No Sadies were sleeping there. The grand salon was similarly empty. So was the great hall, the loggia, the morning room, billiard room, dining room, and breakfast room.

“Not anywhere.” Violet tried to keep the despair out of her voice.

“Could she have bunked in with Flora or one of the other girls?”

“It’s possible, but I dread involving the whole house.”

She didn’t say what she feared most. What if Sadie, full of champagne and independent indignation, had spent the night in Floyd’s room? What would Violet do then? Could a fellow like Floyd be made to marry her? What would a scandal like that do to her reputation? She’d never be let back into Emma Willard if it got out. And she wouldn’t be welcome at the Breakers either.

“I’m getting ahead of myself,” she murmured, wishing she’d thought to take two aspirin herself.

“For Pete’s sake, don’t do that,” Charlies said. “We’re near the vestibule. Let’s go out and check with Henry.”

Violet’s shoes echoed on the vestibule floor. She heaved at the large front doors, and Charlie added a push. Outside, the day was dewy and sweet, full of bird song. Hardly a day for a missing sister.

Henry was buffing the windscreen of the Rolls-Royce, but he came forward as soon as he saw them. “Morning Mr. Tremblay.” He touched his cap. “Miss. Care to take a ride?”

“Thank you, Henry, but we’re on a quest this morning. Miss Van Waters is looking for her younger sister, Miss Sadie. Have you seen her?”

Henry nodded. “Yes, sir. She came out last night with Mr. MacAlister. They went off in his car. Chevrolet Classic Six.”

“About what time?”

“Oh, late. Could have been midnight.”

Violet’s stomach started to burn. Oh, Sadie, what have you done?

“And you didn’t hear them come back?” Charlie asked.

“No, sir. The Chevrolet isn’t back yet. I’ve been watching for it since I came out this morning.”

Violet realized she was clutching Charlie’s arm. She consciously released his sleeve, her throat tight. “What do you think it means?” she whispered to him. “Where would they go? Have they been in an accident? Wouldn’t someone have called?”

Charlie frowned at the gravel under their feet, then lifted his chin. “Henry, didn’t you say the MacAlisters have a home here in Newport?”

“Sure. The Rookery. It’s down west of Beechwood. I can take you if you like.”

“Please.” Violet found her voice at last. “Would you?”

“Wait. Henry, would you mind tapping on Mr. MacAlister’s door first to see if he’s in?”

Henry stowed the rag he’d been using and started for the door. “Why don’t you two get settled in the car. I’ll be back in a flash.”

They did as he suggested, easing into the broad back seat of the Rolls-Royce. Moments later, a breathless Henry hopped into the driver’s seat.

“There was no answer. I gave it a good knock. I can’t believe he’d have slept through it if he was in there.”

Violet gripped her hands together. She had no idea what she was going to say to Floyd’s parents. It was all very well for a young man to be out all night, but for a young lady to do so—with a young man—was beyond scandalous.

“I can’t believe she would do something so stupid,” Violet whispered.

“There is one other possibility.” Charlie rested his hands on his knees. “Massachusetts isn’t far. The fellows at school used to joke about Massachusetts having a low marriage age, lower than eighteen. Maybe that’s what they’re up to. Did Sadie drop any hints?”

Violet turned to look out the window. They were circling the drive of a colonnaded, three-story white house, yet another French chateau squatting in a foreign land. She felt sick to her stomach. “No, but we haven’t been on great terms recently. I know she’s wild about Floyd. If she would drive off in the night with him, I don’t see why she wouldn’t marry him, too.” Henry was slowing to a stop. She turned to Charlie. “I’ve done a horrible job with her, haven’t I? She’s lost all sense—and she doesn’t even trust me anymore.” Tears were brewing, and she swiped at them with the back of her hand.

“I don’t know Sadie very well, but if she’s anything like you, she knows her own mind. I can’t imagine your parents would have done any better at stopping her if she had her heart set on something.”

That was probably true. No one made Sadie do anything. They emerged from the car, and Violet took Charlie’s arm, grateful to have his strength to lean against. She led them to the front steps and pushed the doorbell until it chimed on the other side of the door.

When they told the maid that they were guests at the Breakers, she showed them into a dark green room with gleaming gold accents—gold-framed paintings, gold molding, gold trim on the panel molding. A cut crystal vase of yellow irises and creamy magnolia blossoms dominated the coffee table between two stiff-looking Davenport couches. The maid left, and Violet and Charlie perched on one Davenport, side by side.

“I didn’t see his car when we pulled up,” Violet said, bowing over her hands.

“Did you see any cars?”

“No—so maybe they have a garage?”

“It could be. Or he may have telephoned.”

“They’ll think the worst of Sadie.”

Charlie scoffed. “They should think the worst of their son. Driving off with an underage girl, from a house where she’s a guest—the Vanderbilts’ house, no less! There’s plenty enough shame to go around.”

His words lifted Violet back into an upright position. Thank goodness he was here. A sudden thought popped into her head. “You’re supposed to leave today. For your doctor’s appointment. Is this getting in your way?”

He shook his head. “My father’s sending a car this afternoon. Don’t worry. We have plenty of time.”

As he said this, the door swung open, and the maid announced that “Mr. and Mrs. MacAlister will see you now.”

Violet and Charlie both stood. A balding man with a clipped moustach entered, followed by a woman with pompadoured hair and lace at her collar. Mr. MacAlister bid them good morning, and Charlie responded.

“How do you do? I’m Charles Tremblay and this is Miss Van Waters. We’re guests at the Breakers. We came in search of your son, Floyd.”

“Floyd?” Mrs. MacAlister stepped forward. “He isn’t here. He’s at the Breakers, of course. We haven’t seen him all week.”

“It seems that he drove off in his car last night,” Violet said, “with my sister. Neither of them has yet returned.”

Both MacAlister faces went long with shock. “Mary, why don’t you sit,” Mr. MacAlister said, shepherding his wife to the opposite Davenport. They all took their seats. “Now, please, tell us all everything you know.”

Violet exhaled slowly before beginning. “Your son and my younger sister, Sadie, have been partial to each other since we arrived at the Breakers a little more than a week ago. But our activities have been as large groups, and Flora Vanderbilt’s chaperone, Mrs. Poosey, has nearly always been present. Last night, I had a headache and went to bed early.”

She let her gaze slide toward Charlie, wondering if the mention of the night before made him remember it the way she remembered. “When I woke this morning, Sadie’s bed hadn’t been slept in. The Breakers’ chauffeur reports that Floyd and Sadie drove off in the Chevrolet at about midnight and haven’t yet returned.”

Both MacAlisters leaned back against the sofa as if they’d been blasted by a strong wind. Mr. MacAlister found his voice first. “Is your sister in the habit of traipsing around in the middle of the night with strange young men?”

“Of course not!” Violet exclaimed. At the same time, Charlie popped up out of his seat.

“I say!” he said. “Miss Van Waters is a respectable girl.”

“And,” Violet put in, “your son is no stranger. By inviting him to this house party, both the Vanderbilts and Alva Belmont tacitly vouched for his character. As I said, my sister and your son have been friendly for more than a week. May I point out that while my sister apparently went along in the car, it was your son who was doing the driving?”

The room was silent for a long minute. Then Mr. MacAlister mumbled under his breath. “I knew I should never have bought him that car.”

His wife put a hand on his knee. “But the question is, where are they?”

“Yes, that is exactly the question. I assume Floyd hasn’t telephoned here this morning?”

“No, he hasn’t.”

“We could call the Breakers and ask them to let us know the minute they receive any word. Other than that, I don’t think there’s much we can do but wait.”