But there, a muffled feminine protest from below slapped Chloe like an open palm. She stiffened. Against her will she glanced down, already guessing what she’d see. Just below her, their maid, Minnie, stood looking up at her, a plea clear in her eyes. Chloe’s father had his arms around Minnie. His hands curved along her bottom as he nuzzled her light-brown neck just above her white collar. Chloe recoiled, sickened.
Unbidden, an image flashed through Chloe’s mind—the two of them, little girls, best of friends, running barefoot through wet grass while Minnie’s brother chased them with a garter snake.
Another whimper. Staring up, Minnie mouthed, “Help. Please.”
Chloe spun around, racing on tiptoe to her room. There she opened and shut her door—sharply this time. She waited, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Then she clicked her heels on the maple floor of the landing, returning to the top step. Below her, the hall had emptied.
Nauseated, she descended the stairs and entered the elegant white-and-robin’s-egg-blue dining room with its chandelier glittering overhead. Her father had taken his place at the head of the long white-clothed table; her mother’s place at his right was vacant. Along with Mr. Kimball, Mason Jackson, his campaign manager, rose at her entrance. A nondescript man in his late thirties, Jackson stood to her left. With his help she took her seat, and then the men settled back into their chairs.
The butler, Haines, Minnie’s white-haired uncle, hovered with dignity behind Mr. Kimball, ready to serve dinner. Chloe swallowed as the fragrance of roast beef snatched away the last whisper of her appetite.
“Haines,” her father said in an approximation of politeness, “will you send someone up to see if Miz Kimball is going to grace us with her presence at dinner?”
“I’m here, Mr. Kimball.” Chloe’s frail-looking mother, dressed in a stylish gown of deep maroon, sauntered into the room. The men rose perfunctorily.
Chloe observed her silver-and-brown-haired mother from under lowered lashes. Only a trained eye like her own would detect her mother’s slight inebriation. What was it? Just a matter of how Mrs. Kimball held her head so steady, cocked to one side? Or the way she hesitated slightly before setting one foot down and raising the other? Whatever it was, Chloe had seen it enough times before to know.
Mrs. Kimball let Haines seat her across from Chloe. “I hear—” Without preamble, she launched the opening salvo. “—the three of you’ve had a busy day.”
Mr. Kimball ignored her and bowed his head. “Thank you, Lord, for this food. Amen.”
Chloe’s mother sniffed and opened her white damask napkin, dragging it onto her lap. “I hear you forced our daughter onto a farm truck, of all places. Jackson’s idea, no doubt.”
“No, my dear Lily, it was mine,” Mr. Kimball responded acidly with a twisted grin.
Once, Chloe had seen a dog and cat fighting in the farmyard behind the house. The cat had hissed and scratched and the dog had barked and charged. The farm manager had broken up the fight by swinging a broom. Chloe wished she had a broom now. With white gloves gleaming, Haines served a chilled fruit cup to her mother and then made the rounds of the table with the silver tray.
“Chloe’s a natural,” Jackson said, ignoring Mrs. Kimball’s jibe and eating the fruit cup methodically, piece by piece. “I knew she would be. Pretty, charming. The perfect Maryland belle—shy and hesitant, but able to speak like the people. That down-home accent you put on, Miss Chloe, was very convincing.”
“Why an accent?” her mother snapped. Her face, already pink, flushed brighter.
“Your daughter had the wit to talk like one of the people she was addressin’,” her father barked and then took a bite of fruit and nodded approvingly at Chloe. “Spoke about my mother—a woman of the people.”
Chloe spooned up a mandarin orange section. She had to appear to eat or draw fire to herself. She held the sweet wedge on her tongue, afraid to swallow and upset her stomach more.
Mrs. Kimball sniffed again. “Your mother never had the least use for politics and you know it. What I don’t like is Chloe being dragged to these . . . events. I tolerated it when she was a child, but she’s made her debut now. She—”
“She’ll do—” Chloe’s father overrode. “—what needs to be done to help her daddy get elected senator.”
“Chloe should be attracting young suitors, not traveling around the county, making a spectacle of herself.”
“Your daughter didn’t make a spectacle of herself,” Jackson interposed. “She spoke to a few citizens and made a very good impression. After all, women’s suffrage is just around the corner and Chloe provides your husband with a golden opportunity to show his respect for women by letting his daughter speak for him.”
“Respect for women?” Mrs. Kimball was too genteel to snort, but her tone and expression together were the equivalent. “I can’t vote, Mr. Jackson. So don’t try to electioneer me. Chloe is a lady and ladies have nothing to do with politics.”
Chloe wished she could second this idea. But she wasn’t a participant here, just the captive witness.
“Chloe’s a lady,” Mr. Kimball blustered. “No one can doubt that. She’s your daughter after all, a Carlyle. And make no mistake, Lily Leigh, I’m going to win this election, so don’t bother tryin’ to persuade me not to take advantage of every ace I got.”
He turned to Chloe. “You did a good job today, sugar.” With a smile, he drew out a small jeweler’s box from his waistcoat pocket. “This is for you.”
Chloe accepted the small box and opened it. Inside the deep-blue velvet was a ring of dainty pearls and diamonds, set in platinum. The sight didn’t thrill her, but she knew better than to violate her father’s expectations. She looked up with a delighted smile in place. “Why, Daddy, you didn’t have to.”
“I know I didn’t.” He beamed his Santy Claus smile. “But you came through like a trooper today. At first, I thought Jackson had made a mistake. But he said you only learn to swim by being tossed into the river.” He chuckled deep in his throat, the sound like pebbles rolling in a wood box. “Today my little girl swam back to shore all by herself.”
Chloe pictured herself tossing Jackson into the nearby Patuxent River, swollen with spring rain and runoff. But she gave another false smile and slipped the ring onto her finger. “Thank you, Daddy.” She rose and kissed his jowly cheek, another part of the ritual.
Her mother rolled her eyes. “I don’t want Chloe put on display any more—”
“She’ll do what I say and that’s that.” Mr. Kimball glared at his wife, bringing the discussion to an end.
“You never did understand how to treat a lady.”
Jackson stiffened next to Chloe. Her father scowled. Chloe concentrated on swallowing her second orange section.
How much did Mother have to drink before dinner? Is that why she’s stepping over the line?
Her parents’ bickering tonight had followed the usual pattern. Jackson was such a frequent visitor during Mr. Kimball’s election campaigns that they no longer treated him like a guest. But why had her mother persisted tonight? According to custom, she should have subsided after Chloe received the ring from her father. Why hadn’t she?
“I want Chloe to make a good match, Mr. Kimball,” her mother declared, her voice beginning to slur slightly. “What gentleman wants his future wife making political speeches? That’s as distasteful as Kitty McCaslin marching with the suffragettes in New York City last year.”
“Kitty was there today,” Chloe said, making an attempt to sidetrack her mother.
“That doesn’t make it any better.” Mrs. Kimball shuddered with refinement. “That McCaslin girl is never going to make a credible match—”
Mr. Kimball snorted. “Only if her daddy loses his bank.” Jackson chortled behind the back of his hand.
“Oh,
someone
will marry her.” Mrs. Kimball waved her hand in the air. “But no man of distinction, of breeding.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want a man of . . . of breeding.” As if from a distance, Chloe heard the words come out of her mouth. Shocked, she fell silent.
Why did I say that? Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?
“Chloe,” her mother began in a scandalized tone.
“Miss Chloe’s got a point,” Jackson interrupted. “This is the twentieth century.”
“Jackson’s right,” her father cut in. “I wouldn’t want my daughter going to college, but McCaslin’s no fool. If he thinks Kitty needs college, college is what she’ll get.”
“He knows,” Jackson continued, “that men
and
women are going to be judged by their education in the future.”
“You’re both mistaken,” Mrs. Kimball said haughtily. “Men don’t like brainy girls and never will. A man of breeding gets an education but does not want his future wife getting her head turned by all these modern ideas. Voting, indeed. Soon you’ll tell me that you want Chloe to learn how to drive a car.”
Chloe kept her eyes lowered. Would they go back to the usual routine? Had mother finished at last?
Her father laughed. “Now that’s a flight of fancy. Why stop with an automobile? Why not fly an airplane?”
Jackson laughed, too.
“Why not?” a new voice interjected, startling the occupants of the dining room into silence. Grinning, Kitty McCaslin walked into the dining room. She winked at Chloe. “I think being a pilot would be fun.”
Chloe fumbled with her water glass and rescued it just before it spilled onto the tablecloth. “Kitty, I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
“My apologies for comin’ in unannounced. We’re all such old friends and I was sure Haines would be busy servin’ dinner. I’m home just for a long weekend and wanted to see y’all.” Kitty advanced on Mr. Kimball. “Mr. Kimball, how’s the election going?”
“I’m going to be the first elected senator in this state,” he said as he rose and accepted Kitty’s polite kiss on his cheek.
“Good evening, Miss Lily.” Kitty nodded to the other woman. “Mr. Jackson.”
Chloe wondered if Kitty had overheard anything her mother had said about her. She hoped Kitty had just arrived.
Jackson had risen and now waited for Kitty to be seated. Kitty eyed Chloe. “Mr. Kimball, Miss Lily, I’ve come to steal your lovely, speechifying daughter away with me. Roarke’s out in the car. We’re on our way to the Palace. We’ve got to hurry or we’ll miss the first evening showing.”
“But Chloe hasn’t had her dinner yet,” Mrs. Kimball objected.
Rejoicing at this chance of escape, Chloe popped up. “Daddy,” she began, knowing she needed his support.
“You go right ahead, sugar,” he said without glancing at his wife. “Take a wrap. It’s still chilly at night.”
“Wait—” Mrs. Kimball held up a hand.
“You best hurry, sugar.”
With a smile, Chloe’s father waved her and Kitty out of the room. Behind them, an undercurrent of angry, slurred words poured from her mother.
In the hallway, Chloe tugged on her hat and gloves in front of the mirrored hall tree as Haines appeared with a light coat. And then she was running after Kitty down the front steps, between the white, ivied columns into the deepening twilight. Roarke’s new Model-T was parked in front. Roarke, also a good friend, was leaning against its driver’s side door, waiting with a smile. Beside him lounged the dark stranger.
R
oarke stepped forward, removing his hat. “Evening, Miss Chloe.” He towered above her, broad-shouldered and large, unassuming and familiar. And, at the moment, totally overshadowed by the stranger. But with a conscious effort, she looked up at her friend and smiled. “Evening, Roarke.” Then, of their own accord, her eyes drifted back to the stranger.
“Chloe.” Kitty took her arm, tugging her forward. “This is Theran Black. Theran, this is Miss Chloe.”
“Are you kidding me?” For the moment, the young man ignored Chloe and gave Kitty an amused glance. “We’re barely south of the Mason and Dixon line. Do you really call young ladies ‘Miss So and So’?”
Chloe was surprised that he’d ignored their introduction. Why? From under her low brim, she studied Kitty and Theran, trying to divine how they felt about each other.
“You should be addressing my sister as
Miss
Kitty,” Roarke spoke up in his deep, lazy voice. “And you haven’t yet acknowledged Miss Chloe.”
“Well, I do declare,” Theran mocked. “Evenin’, Miss Chloe. And I apologize,
Miss
Kitty, for my gross misconduct.”
Kitty shoved his shoulder. “Don’t talk nonsense. You call me Miss Kitty on campus and I’ll black your eye. Let’s get going. I don’t want to be late for Mary Pickford.”
“Oh, yes, we mustn’t be late for America’s Sweetheart.” With a snort of laughter, Theran opened the car door and allowed Kitty to slide into the backseat before joining her. Roarke escorted Chloe around to the passenger side and ushered her into the front seat, then returned to the driver’s seat and started the car. They were off.
In the short walk around the car, Chloe had gone numb inside. Theran and Kitty evidently must be an item. Kitty taking a seat beside him and Roarke claiming Chloe to sit up front with him made that a certainty. And Roarke had had to force the northerner to even say hello to her.
Then a slim hope flickered and flared. Maybe Kitty just didn’t want to sit beside her brother? Perhaps that was it. But . . . perhaps it wasn’t. She stared out at the maples and poplars spinning by, biting her lower lip and trying to rationalize things.
Why did I think a college man from New York City would even look twice at me with Kitty around? At least there’s one good thing: being invisible is better than an evening at home with Mother and Daddy.
In no time at all, Roarke was parking the car on the main street of Croftown. The First National Bank—Kitty’s father’s bank—stood imposingly on the street corner. Nearby, a glittering marquee blazoned “THE POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL.”
Chloe let Roarke help her out of the car. With a solicitous arm under her elbow, he walked her up to the ticket window. She smiled at him fondly. Roarke never made her feel uncomfortable or uncertain. He was a rock in her life, the closest thing to a brother she had. She glanced from him to Theran, who was chuckling over some joke with Kitty behind them. Chloe was surprised at how much she wanted him to notice her. But what could she do about it? Was she the kind of girl who’d steal a friend’s beau? Unfortunately, no.