Chapter Seventeen, part one

Charlie dressed for dinner with unusual care.

Jacob appeared to help him shave, and Charlie asked about the state of his shoes, whether his tie matched his jacket, and for help straightening the part in his hair. He yanked at his tie. The thought of her dancing with Earl made his skin itch.

Violet and her sister were seated at the far end of the table, so he couldn’t speak with her then. And once dinner ended, the group flooded out of the dining room. Seconds later, the Victrola started up.

She’ll be swinging into his arms even now, Charlie thought as he made his way, more recklessly than usual, toward the Grand Salon. Her hand will be on his shoulder. His hand on her hip.

His jaw was set on edge when he reached the doorway. The song was in full swing and, by the sound of laughter and shoes on the floor, couples were dancing. He ground his heel into the carpet as he absorbed his profound disadvantage. How could he ask Violet to dance if he couldn’t find her in the room? How he longed to walk confidently toward her, a smile on his face, and see her eyes brighten with expectation. Even if he knew where she was, he couldn’t make his way there without risking bumping into people or furniture.

He curled and uncurled his fingers. He’d been to many dances in his life, but he’d never once seen a woman approach a man. It was too much to hope that Violet would break with convention to seek him out.

The night was slipping out of his grasp. Charlie gritted his teeth together. He should go back to drinking in the library. It was the only place he belonged.

–

Violet could just see over Earl’s shoulder well enough to watch Charlie. He was lolling against the piano as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but something about his face made her bite her lip. He was upset. Well, she was also upset. All that talk about his school for the blind and not once had he mentioned her—not a role she could play, not a wish that she’d join him. Not even a cautious exploration of whether she approved of it as a focus of his life. It didn’t matter how many times she’d told herself not to care, that they were just here having fun and then would part—what a lark, tra-la-la. She did care. And because she cared, it stung to see him unhappy.

“My mother’s talked about coming here to the Breakers to visit,” Earl was saying. Had he been talking long? “Maybe in a few days. Would you join us for tea? I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”

His mother? Cripes, she didn’t want to meet his mother, but it would be rude to say so. “Of course, if I’m here. We do have some important suffrage meetings coming up. But if I’m here, I’d be happy to join you.”

He fell silent, and Violet went back to watching Charlie. She was startled, then, when Earl spoke again. “Don’t you ever wonder if you’re going about these voting rights the wrong way?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know. There’s the saying that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. When the ladies are so forceful in their demands…well, it makes the men get their backs up.”

Violet leaned away to she could look at his face. “We believe it’s important that women ask for what they want. Not just sit quietly in a corner and wait for men to give us a gift.”

“But has it been working, that’s all I’m saying. How long have you been at this? How long will you be at it?”

The song came to an end, and couples stopped dancing. Near the piano, Flora hunted up a new record for the Victrola. “For as long as it takes.” Violet pulled her hand off his shoulder. “I don’t believe in giving up.”

Earl gave her a placating smile. “I’m only saying that a little more sweetness might get you what you’re after. Faster. No one has to chain themselves to a gate.”

Perhaps we do, Violet thought. There were too many people in the way for her to see Charlie now. She straightened her lace sleeves.

“Care to dance a third?” Earl held out his hands.

“Sorry, no. I promised this dance to someone else.”

She slipped away, her skirt in her hand, and wove through the standing dancers to the piano. The first notes of “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” flowed out of the Victrola. Charlie, for all that his face was clouded by some inner storm, made a striking vision—dark hair, dark jacket, crisp white shirt, all against the black piano.

She came before him and stopped.

He turned his face from one side to the other. “Violet?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

One of his rare smiles lit his face. “Lilac soap.”

She put one hand on the piano, unsteady from the thought that he’d smelled her out like a wild fox. For a minute, she wondered if everyone was looking at her, noticing that she had approached a man at a dance. But Inez had urged her to ask for what she wanted.

“I’m here to collect my dance,” she said.

“Thank God.” He straightened, separating himself from the piano. “I didn’t know how to find you in the crush, and I was afraid you’d give up on…me.” He held out his hand. “Will you take us to an open spot?”

She guided him to a dim space near the window bays, farther from the Victrola. When she turned toward him, their right hands pivoted until their palms pressed together. She slid her hand up onto his shoulder, swallowing down a dry throat. And then, just as she’d imagined, his hand ran around her waist, across her back, until it settled there as if belonged.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. Their feet worked together automatically, falling into the old habits of a slow foxtrot. The rest of the room blurred with light while she and Charlie swayed in the shadows, his hand so warm on her back, his palm awake and alive against hers. She turned her head toward his shirt collar, closed her eyes, and breathed in. Ivory soap. A touch of wool. And a warm, spicy scent that must be him. She swallowed again. Good night.

The song came to an end. They stopped moving, but her hand was still in Charlie’s when Earl appeared at her elbow. “May I have the next?” he asked politely. It would be poor manners to say no. But she gave Charlie’s hand a squeeze before she let it go, hoping that would convey even a tenth of what she was feeling.

As Earl spun her away, she peered over his shoulder to see Charlie shuffle backward, feeling gingerly for furniture or walls. Tsk! She should have seen him to a safe harbor before she left. It was thoughtless of her not to do it.

Earl drew her back into the glow of the lamps, to the heart of the dancers. Flora and Jack Hollister were on one side, George Wainwright and Cora Worth on the other. They took a turn past Montgomery Worth and Pearl Wainwright who were cutting a wide swath near the room’s entrance. And then, sailing by, there was Sadie in Floyd’s arms, resplendent in the pink dress. Her hair was done in a fashion they’d both practiced together, one called “dreams” that they’d found in a ladies’ magazine. With a guilty start, Violet realized that she hadn’t helped Sadie pin up her hair at night in several days, not since their argument at the tennis club. She narrowed her eyes, wondering how serious Floyd’s intentions might be.

Well. At least Sadie wasn’t in the gambling den. She was laughing and trotting with Floyd as if she’d never had such a grand time.

“Where are your thoughts?” Earl asked.

“On Sadie. Isn’t she pretty tonight?”

He glanced her way. “Very. Both Van Waters sisters are looking lovely this evening.”

Violet’s cheeks grew warm, and she darted a look at him. His hair was parted crisply down the middle, every lock in place above his tanned face. As usual, his face was relaxed. Didn’t he ever worry about anything? About his mother, or the war in Europe? About ships being struck by torpedoes? No, he probably didn’t. In the gulf that divided Earl from the panhandler outside the yacht club lay layers upon layers of insulation—money, class, education, health. Good old-fashioned luck.

Her palm began to itch, and she shifted her hand in his. He re-clasped her fingers and carried on guiding them across the floor. As the song wound down, she wondered how she would slip away to Charlie again and was surprised to spot him on the far side of the room, his hand around Flora’s back.

A new heat lit her cheeks, and when Earl extended his hand for the next dance, she took it without a word. Tension ran up and down her spine. She’d noticed Charlie’s interest in Flora before—they’d seemed awfully chummy at supper after their ride home together. Maybe he was tired of spending so much time with her. Maybe he’d only enjoyed her company when no one else was available. And now that he had Flora….

Could it be? Could it be that he didn’t feel the same things she felt when they danced together, or held hands under the sand? She couldn’t believe a sensation as electric as that could possibly be felt by only one party. But then, she had been wrong before.

She stumbled a little, and Earl held her tighter.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

Violet lifted her chin and tried to focus on the matter at hand, dancing with Earl. When the song ended, Reggie clapped his hands at the library door. “One more song, then it’s to the card table!” Someone went to change the music, and suddenly there was Charlie, on Flora’s arm.

“Violet,” Flora said.

“Yes?”

Charlie, now sure of where she was, turned to her, unwrapping his arm from Flora’s. “Care to share the next dance?”

She fairly leaped forward, faintly aware that Flora and Earl began foxtrotting behind them. Her palm slipped back into Charlie’s with a magnetic click. His other hand was on her back, lower—closer—than he’d held Flora.

She set her fingers on his shoulder, but her mind was on the shirt underneath his wool jacket, and the man underneath that. What had that poem said? …the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face, It is in his limbs and joints also. Good heavens.

“It’s great to have you back,” Charlie murmured, sliding his fingers ever so slightly on her spine.

She thought of her panic a moment before, of her doubts and misgivings. Those thoughts never troubled her when their hands were touching. “It’s nice to be back.”

The music flowed between them. Charlie turned his head slightly and his breath moved tendrils of hair across the side of her face.

I hope I never forget a single detail, she thought.

But then Sadie went swishing by. From that angle, from the side—Violet sucked in her breath. She looked just like Mother.

“What is it?” Charlie asked.

“Nothing. Just a flash of—Sadie, looking like our mother.”

He was quiet as they stepped in their small line, forward and backward. “What about you? Do you look like your mother?”

“Oh, no. Mother and I are nothing alike.” Images of dramatic hats and peacock-blue silk peignoirs ran across Violet’s mind. “Well, our coloring is alike. Sadie has auburn hair like our father. Mother and I are dark. Were dark. But she was very fashionable, very outré. She liked to be the center of things. Even now, I find it a bit hard to believe that someone with that much personality is just…gone. One day here, the next day—” She shook her head.

“I know what you mean. I had a friend like that, in France. He lived very large. Utterly unique. I knew him so well, a part of me feels like he must still be alive somewhere. Even though I saw his body.”

“I guess I wonder whether I did know my mother well. I didn’t have much sympathy for her when she was alive. And now….”

“Now it’s too late?”

Violet thought of the letters tied in string, the ones in her travelling case. Maybe not. There could be clues there.

The song ended, and people drifted toward the library for cards. Violet was pleased to see Sadie leading Floyd toward the billiard room instead. Thank goodness she’d learned her lesson about card playing.

“Can I walk you to your room?” Violet asked Charlie. He proffered his elbow, and they made their way up the back staircase. They turned down the hall—there were servants there, gathering bedding out of an armoire in the hall. She took Charlie to his door, placing his hand on the knob.

He put his back to the door, looking as if he wanted to say something, but the noise of the servants held him back. Instead, he kissed the back of her hand.
“I would give anything to see your face,” he said. Then disappeared into his room.

Violet stood still, servants and all, for a long time after he’d gone. Dear Charlie. She wished she could comfort him, but he probably wouldn’t want her coddling.

Memories of the stables filtered through her mind. He didn’t really want her help, did he? Not with his school, not with his plans, not with his life. He’d invited her to dance, that was all. She needed to remember that.