“Exactly. Now put them on and we’ll walk down together. I’ve arranged to meet with my friend Mrs. Schulyer and sit at a small table in the bar to give you moral support. But with that dress and boots, I don’t think you’re going to need it.”
She actually winked at me, and I knew to protest that I wasn’t having a rendezvous would simply be wasted breath. She handed me a delicate beaded purse, and then, when it was clear I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, she placed the silver linked-chain strap on my shoulder.
“No—wait. I need to bring my large bag. It has something in it that I might need for my meeting. It won’t fit in this little purse.”
She sighed heavily as she waited for me to make the switch then frowned down at my oversized cloth bag that I’d made from scraps during the war. “Good heavens, Babs. Whatever you do, keep it behind you so no one sees it.”
I did as she asked and stood in front of her as if requiring an inspection.
“Perfect,” she said as if she were a farmer and I a perfectly tilled field. “You look good enough to eat.”
At the odd gleam in her eyes, I picked up my champagne glass and drained it. I wobbled a bit as I headed for the door, but Precious quickly steadied me with a firm grasp of my elbow. She didn’t let go until we were stepping out of the lift and we could hear the chatter and laughter coming from the bar.
An elderly woman, the same one I recognized from the day before in the lobby, approached us, stabbing her cane into the floor as if she held a personal vendetta against it. I knew that I was horribly out of date when it came to fashion, but I was quite sure that the dark brown ankle-length dress she wore was something my grandmother might have worn around the turn of the century. In fact, there was a photograph of Kit’s grandmother in her art studio around 1919 wearing a nearly identical outfit.
“I’m Mrs. Schulyer,” the woman announced imperiously. “I’m sure Miss Dubose has told you all about me. Did she mention that I survived the sinking of the Lusitania?” She was shouting, and I wondered if she might be hard of hearing.
“Not now, Prunella,” Precious admonished. “We are only here to offer support. Let’s find a table so that Mrs. Langford can make her assignation.”
“An assignation?” the old woman shouted.
“No, that’s not . . .” I gave up as Precious propelled the woman and her cane toward the bar.
“Langford, did you say? Do I know a Langford? I seem to recall that I know a Langford . . .”
Mrs. Schulyer’s voice disappeared into the crowded bar, leaving me alone staring into the entrance. I was suddenly conscious of the boots on my feet, as if I were a gladiator preparing to enter the Colosseum. It might have been my imagination, but it seemed as if there was less talking and heads turning in my direction. I looked behind me, wondering what they might be looking at, then turned back around and blinked with realization. I looked for Precious, not just to thank her for the champagne and the extra layer of clothing it seemed to have lent me, but also to find out if she might have more.
I took a step forward, wanting to get this ordeal over with. I had no idea what Andrew Bowdoin must look like, but the picture I had in my head was a grizzled barrister type with graying beard, bald head, and thick glasses. And definitely a tweed jacket.
In my champagne-induced fog, it seemed the crowd parted for me as I walked deeper into the dimly lit room with lots of varnished dark wood on most of the walls, vaguely aware of people staring as I looked for a paunchy, older man wearing tweed. My foot collided with the leg of an empty chair and as I apologized to it, I heard a familiar American voice next to me.
“Pardonne-moi, mademoiselle,” he said with a terrible French accent that made everyone hate Americans. “Would you like to s’asseoir here? Ici?”
He was indicating the chair at the small table where he’d evidently been sitting, an empty wineglass at his elbow as if he’d been there for a while, a yet untouched martini glass full of a viridescent cocktail at the empty seat opposite. He grinned his American smile and it was excruciatingly evident that he didn’t recognize me from the bookshop the day before. I suppose I should have been grateful.
“Would you like to boire?” He indicated the full glass on the table. “For vous?”
When I didn’t respond because in all honesty I couldn’t think of an appropriate response in any language, he continued with, “You are très bon. Very . . .”
His next word sounded very much like the French word for tree, which I didn’t think was his intention. In an attempt to save him from embarrassing himself further, I said in English, “No thank you. I’m meeting someone. Another American, actually. They seem to be everywhere, don’t they?”