Vicky Banning (10 page)

Sarah had been sitting quietly during the conversation, her head pivoting from one to the other as they spoke, and now focused on Vicky with unabashed admiration. “Absolutely astounded,” she said, affecting a horrified look.

She learns fast
, Vicky thought. A scene is ever so much more effective when all the players are talented.

“You see?” Vicky said, turning back to
Burton
. “Everyone will believe Sarah, don’t you think? With the reputation you’ve arranged for her as the source of all good gossip? Especially with me to corroborate her story. How do you think the other residents will react when they learn you’re a gold digger? And at your age, too. You should be ashamed of yourself, taking advantage of a ‘charming little lady’ like me. You called me that yourself, remember?”

She paused for a moment, and then added, “Your plan didn’t work out very well, did it, dear? Slipping the copy of the petition under my door was a mistake. I
did
blame Sarah for it, at first, as you intended. But, since
we’re
intelligent, mature adults, we were able to settle our differences.”

Burton
seemed to be struggling with himself to breathe, much less to control his anger; his goatee trembled and his bifocals slid slowly down his nose, riding on the perspiration that now created sheen on his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again and sat glaring at Vicky.

“Now eat your dinner,
Burton
dear, like a good little boy. And then you may be excused.”

* * * *

Vicky wrote her letter that night with ambivalent feelings. Things had worked out well enough, but she wasn’t a bit happy, having to admit to being wrong,
twice.
Burton
had turned out the
yenta
and Sarah the innocent, as far as the petition was concerned. At least she had admitted to being nosy, but then any woman worth her salt had a touch of the curious.

But, since Vicky had never lied in her letters, she set to her pleasurable, self-assigned task with a smile on her lips. After all, it wasn’t the first time she’d misjudged someone. She had thought that Gerald was a stuffy English bore before she’d met him—oh, how wrong she’d been about him…

* * * *

In September of nineteen-twenty-six, shortly after Vicky’s sixteenth birthday, her parents had sent her to
Boston
, to Miss Priscilla’s Finishing School For Young Ladies. Her father felt that she needed to have her “rough edges” smoothed out, and didn’t agree with her that her “accomplishment”—being voted the only girl in Newport worthy to be on a boys’ baseball team—was evidence enough that she would make a successful wife and mother.

Vicky pretended to pout over his decision—knowing that it would please her father’s ego to “know” that he was the master of the household, and that his word was law—but she was secretly elated at the prospect of leaving the sedate comfort of her all-too-familiar home for the excitement of new surroundings. She loved
Newport
, the sea, the elaborate old mansions and manners, but
Boston
offered the activities of a metropolis. When she’d visited the city to shop with her mother, they’d had wonderful times: the noise, crowds, swarms of automobiles, and the glamorous, glittering shops. And people, all sorts of people, rushing here and there, doing interesting things, going fascinating places. The prospect was so thrilling that she found it difficult to contain her eagerness to leave.

But Miss Pricilla’s was not
Boston
, she discovered, or if it was then it was a segment of it that Vicky hadn’t known existed, or wanted to.

“
Newport
?” a fatuous young student with pinched cheeks exclaimed, when she’d been introduced to Vicky. “One doesn’t
live
in
Newport
, one
holidays
in
Newport
, and only during the season.”

“Oh, one does, does one?” Vicky responded, in a high fluttery voice. “Well, during what you call ‘the season’ is when we permanent residents simply must
flee
. The influx of outsiders creates such a
gauche
atmosphere, don’t you know.” Her lips pursed distastefully. “With all those hordes of”—she shuddered delicately—“
tourists
. Simply dreadful. One just cannot abide them.” She sniffed the air and pranced away, chin raised and pointed straight ahead, her curls and the large pink bow at the waist of her dress jouncing behind her as she went.

After two months of forced association with similar-type girls, Vicky felt as if she was being squeezed through a cookie press, and she determined that she was not going to be molded into the same image as the others. The Christmas holidays were to commence in a few weeks, and many of the girls would be leaving school to join their families—probation, Vicky considered it, or “leave of abstinence”—but a few weeks seemed like forever in her present situation. If she left school on her own, her father would be angry and send her back, which would never do. Once she left the “prissy palace,” she never wanted to see it again. She must think of a way for her parents to believe that leaving Miss Pricilla’s was their idea.

A quick perusal of the week’s menu, posted beside the kitchen—into which “young ladies of proper breeding should
never
venture”—gave her an idea. She’d had to wait two days to carry out her plan, which gave her ample time to do some necessary shopping. When the morning arrived, she sidled through the kitchen door without being seen. It was early, before Priscilla “Prune” rose to awaken the sleeping beauties.

That evening, for the first time, she declined dessert.

On the train out of
Boston
the following day, she thought about the telephone conversation she’d had that morning. “Father, dear,” she had said. “Everyone here seems to be…ill. Everyone but me, that is…so far. I just wanted to let you know that I’m perfectly all right…in case you happen to read about it in the newspapers. I doubt we’ll be quarantined, unless the doctors declare it to be an epidemic.”

“What do you
mean
an epidemic?” her father’s alarmed voice blared through the phone. “What’s wrong with them? Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Oh, yes, Daddy dear. I’m sure.” She was so glad she’d convinced him to have the telephone installed at home. It was so much faster than writing, and she’d never be able to sound so convincing face-to-face with her father. “I’m fit as rain, Father dearest, believe me. As for the others…well, it’s a little embarrassing…I heard someone say something about…well, have you ever heard of dysentery?”

The silence at the other end was unsettling. Vicky pictured her father gripping the phone, chewing at the hair-tips of his mustache, as he always did when he was thinking or at a loss for words, which wasn’t often. “I’ll put your mother on.”

After a moment, her mother’s voice asked, “What’s wrong with them?”

“It seems rather personal, Mother dear. I just don’t quite know just how to put…”

“Don’t you play that game with me, young lady,” her mother said with a chuckle. “I know you much too well to believe that a couple of months away at any school would turn you into a blushing flower.”

“Well!” Vicky laughed, despite herself. “I can’t be sure, since I’m fine, but the girls and teachers have been fighting to get into the bathrooms all morning…and in a very un-ladylike manner, if you ask me.”

“They must have the grippe,” her mother said after a moment. “And it can be very catching. I want you to go to your room right away and pack your bags. Don’t speak to anyone or you might catch something. But, first, call a taxi to take you to the train station. Oh, dear, I have no idea what the
sched
…”

“Twelve-thirteen, Mother,” Vicky said.

“Good,” her mother said. “Then you have time…how did you know the schedule so quickly?” Her tone had turned incredulous.

Vicky hesitated; that had been a slip-up on her part. “There just happens to be a timetable beside the phone,” she answered, placing one there. She’d been carrying it with her since shortly after her arrival at the school.

* * * *

Vicky leaned back against the velvety seat, gazing through the train window at the cold, wintry landscape, the sun glinting off the ice-glazed branches of the passing trees. The schoolgirls would be fine, she knew. She’d been careful. Perhaps it would make them a little more human—she giggled to herself—it certainly had loosened them up. And all it took was a very little amount of shaved Ex-Lax in their chocolate mousse.

* * * *

The
Bradwell’s
traditional pre-Christmas party was scheduled for only a few days away, the main reason for Vicky’s eagerness to return home before the school’s hiatus. The
Bradwells
were the elders of
Newport
, among the wealthiest of the permanent residents, the kindest and, as far as Vicky was concerned, the most fun. Some of the
nouveaux
, however, considered them to be only slightly above riff-raff—although they never refused an invitation from them, and would have been considered outcasts if they failed to receive one—to which the
Bradwells
replied: “At our age, and with our wealth, whatever we do is dignified. We set the rules, we don’t follow them.”

The highlight of the year at
Newport
, for Vicky and almost everyone else, was the
Bradwell’s
holiday party. Their home would be decorated from gazebo to soaring parapets with endless garlands and red-yellow lights from around the world.

Cold air descended upon
Newport
the night before the festive day; the air crackled, the sun gleamed off immaculate snowdrifts. It shone like gold sheets off the water of Long Island Sound far below the precipice on which the
Bradwell’s
estate perched, resembling a spray of golden sequins scattered on a festive blue cloth.

The stately home was open to visitors all day, but Vicky and her family arrived late in the afternoon, as did the other “special” guests, dressed in their finest formal clothes.

Meg and George
Bradwell
greeted them at the door with open arms and kisses as they stepped across the threshold into the warmth. Their eyes were as shiny as Meg’s jewels. Facing the entrance stood a huge, undulating Christmas tree—made entirely of ostrich plumes and peacock feathers. The “branches” swayed with iridescence as the breeze from the open door lifted and played with them. They seemed alive, dancing with pleasure, bobbing the tiny, white doves that were perched like snowflakes on the fronds.

Vicky and her parents clapped with delight. “It’s absolutely stunning,” her mother said to Meg, who giggled with pleasure in reply. “You are so creative!”

“We thought it would be a
lark
,” Meg punned and tittered naughtily. “Although George thought it might be a bit too
flighty
.”

Meg and George were round and jolly, with ready laughter and quick, expressive faces. They reminded Vicky of
Tweedle-dum
and
Tweedle-dee
, with elegance, taste, and ebullient charm.

“You’re just in time for the surprise entertainment,
Randolph
,” George said to Vicky’s father. “Leave your wraps with the butler and find seats for Marcia and Vicky. Someone will be around shortly with cups of eggnog.” He addressed the ladies: “You look absolutely stunning, my dears. I hope you don’t overshadow the performance I’ve planned for the evening.”

“Flatterer,” Marcia said, beaming as she extended her hand to him. She was at her loveliest: auburn hair swept high to accentuate her oval face, tiny ringlets curled on her forehead above her wide, green eyes. Her gown, cut fashionably low, was of deep green velvet that matched the single emerald nestled in the hollow of her throat.

All eyes followed her as she glided, rather than walked, a confident beauty. Vicky loved to watch her mother, emulated her poise, her grace. Her parents complemented each other;
Randolph
was tall and solid, with easy warmth; Marcia, a fragile-looking, yet stately beauty.

Randolph
escorted his ladies into the huge drawing room where they were greeted by calls from well-wishing friends, as if they hadn’t seen each other in ages, instead of almost daily.

An accordionist strolled among the guests playing the familiar Christmas carols, but with the certain extra vigor that a rousing, festive party can incite. The room smelled of pine, mingled with delicate whiffs of the myriad ladies’ perfumes and the smoky-sweet odor of the cedar log burning in the fireplace.

A maid proffered cups of eggnog when the ladies had placed themselves on a settee.
Randolph
, standing proprietarily behind them, leaned over and whispered, “Only one, Vicky. Remember what happened last year.” Vicky frowned with embarrassment. It was something she would rather forget.