The Jewel Box Part 3

"Until then, Devil."

Walking out into the foyer, Grace felt flimsy, sketchy-as though she was hardly there. Perhaps the real Grace-the substance-was still sitting there in the bar with him. Or perhaps she hadn't been here at all this evening. The carpet swallowed the sounds of her feet. The reflections in the gla.s.s and the bra.s.s were fragments only-glimpses of a thin person with an anxious face.

Reception was buzzing. Men in unseasonably heavy overcoats tipping porters to carry enormous cases. Large women with pearls and feathers. Shriveled old ladies with small dogs. Laughing children. And one man, standing with his back to her at the reception desk-very still-obviously waiting for someone. For the Devil. A man she instantly recognized-even just in pa.s.sing quickly by.

Three.

The Past The Rutherford sisters, at seventeen and almost sixteen, respectively, were famous and infamous in their Hampstead neighborhood. Having been brought up by a radical suffragette mother and Darwinist father to think freely and speak their thoughts openly, they rarely saw the necessity to hold anything back. They came and went when they liked, with whom they liked. Rutherford sisters, at seventeen and almost sixteen, respectively, were famous and infamous in their Hampstead neighborhood. Having been brought up by a radical suffragette mother and Darwinist father to think freely and speak their thoughts openly, they rarely saw the necessity to hold anything back. They came and went when they liked, with whom they liked.

"The girls are undeniably bright," said Miss Stennet, the headmistress of the North London Collegiate School, smiling tensely across her desk at Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford. "They are popular, vivacious and rather charming. So bright and charming, in fact, that this school has tolerated too much from them. It's time, now, for us to join forces in reining them in a little."

"And what, exactly, is the nature of their misdemeanors?" asked Harold Rutherford.

Miss Stennet sighed. "Therein lies the difficulty. It's more about an overall att.i.tude, but I will try to say something further about it. Take their hair, for instance. The school rule is that hair should at all times be tied back."

"Both girls wear their hair too short for tying back." Catherine Rutherford folded her arms.

"Quite so. But why did they cut their hair in the first place? They both had such beautiful hair. And once your girls had started snipping away at each other, the whole school was suddenly at it. Some of them look quite dreadful-and it's all happened while the girls are here in my care. You wouldn't believe the number of complaints I've had from parents."

"Are you telling me that it's my daughters' fault if some of your pupils can't cut hair straight?" asked Catherine. "Are we to take them to task for having strong personalities? For finding their own way rather than following like sheep?"

"The bobbed hair..." Miss Stennet was struggling now, "it's symbolic. There's a particular way of being...a state of mind that goes with it. Has either of you, by any chance, read The Vision, The Vision, by Dexter O'Connell?" by Dexter O'Connell?"

Confused faces from across the desk.

"Well, I can a.s.sure you that your daughters have."

"So are we to limit their reading now?" Harold Rutherford glanced at his watch. "That book's had rather good reviews, hasn't it? I believe O'Connell has won a big prize?"

"'That book' has caused no end of trouble in America for its portrait of a girl of a certain tender age. A girl with bobbed hair and short dresses who lies and drinks and breaks the hearts of vulnerable young men, as have many of the girls who have taken her as their inspiration. That book has been banned in three of America's Southern states. And there are campaigns afoot to ban it in five more."

"Well, Miss Stennet." Catherine got to her feet. "This family does not believe in censorship, and I'm rather shocked to discover that you do. I understood this school to be a modern-thinking establishment. I'm certain that my girls are not liars or drinkers. I'm not so sure about the heartbreaking, but it seems to me one isn't responsible for the intactness or otherwise of another person's internal organs. What right-thinking boy wouldn't fall for Grace or Nancy, after all?"

"I suggest you work out your argument more thoroughly before complaining about our girls again." Harold took his wife's arm. "Is it your contention that they're the headstrong sort who lead others astray? Or are you saying they're the weak, simple-minded sort who ape a lot of silly behavior that they've read in the latest novel? You need to get your story straight, it seems to me."

"I'm saying..." The headmistress felt suddenly tired. "I wanted to tell you that I'm a little worried about them. I thought perhaps you might be, too."

On the evening this interview was taking place, the Rutherford sisters were sitting at the dining table at home. Grace was shuffling a pack of playing cards: "Supposing I spread the cards facedown"-which she did, in the shape of a fan. "What say we both take a card, and then whoever's card is the highest chooses first?"

"All right." Nancy reached out and took a card. It was the jack of diamonds.

"Good card. Pretty boy, too." Now Grace took hers. "Jack of spades. Ha! Which suit is worth more? I can't remember how it works."

"Neither can I. Perhaps we should both take another card. Mind if I shuffle?"

"Be my guest."

Nancy scooped up the cards and began shuffling adeptly. Grace traced the knots in the wood of the table with a long fingernail. "My trouble is," she said, "I'm not sure which of them I prefer. I mean, if you'd asked me half an hour ago I'd have said Steven, without question. But now we come to it, I find I'm rather attached to George, too. So perhaps you'd better just choose and I'll have whichever you don't want."

"Actually"-Nancy set the cards down-"I find I'm in something of the same predicament. I'd definitely have said George if you'd asked me yesterday. But Steven...well, he's Steven, isn't he?"

"Dash it all!" Grace bit the fingernail. "There has to be a way to resolve this."

"We could let them them choose..." Nancy shrugged-and for a moment, both girls seemed deep in thought. Then- choose..." Nancy shrugged-and for a moment, both girls seemed deep in thought. Then- "No!" came their voices, in unison, before both collapsed in giggles.

"Seriously, though." Grace struggled to regain composure. "We have to settle this properly. If we let it carry on, they'll get themselves so tangled up they'll go off us altogether!"

"Surely not," said Nancy. "Although...I see what you mean."

"George is the cleverer," said Grace. "He's probably going to end up earning the most money. I'd say he's stronger too-physically, I mean. And probably morally. But Steven..."

"Steven's the unpredictable one," said Nancy. "The lovable rogue."

"That makes George the better husband," concluded Grace. "But Steven the most fun."

"Oh dear." Nancy shook her head. "We both want Steven for now and George for later."

"Just so," said Grace. "I'm tired of this now. Fancy a game of rummy?"

In the end it was the war that settled it. The war whipped up the emotions, exerting peculiar pressure on relationships. Even the most unromantic of men found themselves declaring their love with poignant eloquence on the eve of separation. The swooning majority fervently believed in the Glorious Return but also sensed tragedy just around the corner. They danced closer, kissed harder, made promises aplenty, and in some cases shed clothes that might not otherwise have been shed.

In the summer of 1915, almost a year after the night the Rutherford sisters spread out their cards, they were still deliberating between the Wilkins brothers-George and Steven. Usually the four went about together. Strolls on the Heath, trips to the pictures and the dance hall. They knew there was speculation, from acquaintances and onlookers, as to which brother was courting which sister, and they relished being talked about. Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford were fond of both boys, and perhaps realized that while all four stuck together, neither girl could easily do something she might later regret. But the foursome couldn't stick together forever.

Grace had been walking alone on the Heath one midmorning, and was sitting on a favored bench on top of Parliament Hill, thinking. She'd been offered a place to read English literature at University College, London, and until recently had been keen. But now it didn't seem right that she should be about to enter into such an essentially selfish pursuit during wartime, while most of the men and boys she knew headed off to Do Their Bit. She thought about the Wilkins brothers, who'd landed commissions in the Royal Welch Fusiliers, thanks to an uncle in Chester and a bit of time spent as cadets at school. Their impending departure made her feel differently about them, intensified her feelings for them both. She couldn't conceive of her life, and Nancy's, going on without George and Steven being here. They'd always always been here. It was as she sat, thinking of this, that she heard a "halloo" from down the path, and spotted George making his way up toward her, the sun catching the blond strands in that auburn hair of his, so that it seemed shot through with gold. been here. It was as she sat, thinking of this, that she heard a "halloo" from down the path, and spotted George making his way up toward her, the sun catching the blond strands in that auburn hair of his, so that it seemed shot through with gold.

"I knew I'd find you here." He sat down beside her.

"Clever boy."

"I have to talk to you, Gracie." There was a breathiness in his voice. Had he been running or something?

"Couldn't wait till tonight, eh?" They were going to a party, the four of them. It was to be their last evening out before the boys left for their regiment.

"No."

She was contemplating the view. Her favorite view in all the world. The city laid wide open, spread out before her as if displaying itself just for her personal amus.e.m.e.nt. The fresh morning air smelled vaguely metallic. The scent would be gone in an hour or so-it would sweeten and ripen. She looked at George. He was nervous, she realized. Nervous of her her.

"It's like this, Grace."

She tried to look into his face, but the sun was bright and she found she was squinting. He'd apparently run out of words. "We're leaving on Monday. Monday. Monday. I almost can't believe it." I almost can't believe it."

"Me neither." Grace's voice was small and quiet, belying the fact that inside her, everything was huge.

He looked so lost. She wanted to put her arm around him. Dare she put her arm around him?

"Grace..."

"Will you be together? In France, I mean. You and Steven?"

He frowned, as though she'd said something very odd. "We'll be together at Wrexham. As to later on...Well, I don't know."

"I like to think of you together," she said. "I can't imagine you without each other. Buoying each other up. You must think about Nancy and me in that way, too."

"Yes," he said. And then, "Well, no, actually."

"Really?" This was interesting. "You mean, you think of us apart apart from each other? Separated?" from each other? Separated?"

"I think of you you. Just you."

She focused on the dome of St. Paul's in the distance. Kept her gaze there, fixed on that dome, as her breath quickened.

"George? Are you saying..."

"You know know what I'm saying. It's how I've always felt about you. Always." what I'm saying. It's how I've always felt about you. Always."

She swallowed. Stiffened. "Say it then. Make it real."

"I'm going away, Grace. And I can't go away without knowing..." His voice trailed off.

"Say it. I can't believe in it until I hear you say it."

"h.e.l.lo, you two." A large person stood close by, partially blocking the sun.

"Mother." Grace felt it all ebb away-the tension, the heat in her. "Where did you spring from?"

"Spring?" Mrs. Rutherford gave a snort. "I'm not the 'springing' sort. Now, come and walk with me, both of you. George, dear, you can help me persuade my daughter that she should go to university, as planned. Did she tell you she's thinking of pa.s.sing up her place? No, I didn't think so. Can you credit it, after all the battles fought by women like me so that silly girls like her could get a decent education? She says she wants to do something 'useful,' and yet she didn't even come with me to the big march about the Right to Serve. Neither she nor her sister. Honestly, these girls of mine..." Mrs. Rutherford gave a snort. "I'm not the 'springing' sort. Now, come and walk with me, both of you. George, dear, you can help me persuade my daughter that she should go to university, as planned. Did she tell you she's thinking of pa.s.sing up her place? No, I didn't think so. Can you credit it, after all the battles fought by women like me so that silly girls like her could get a decent education? She says she wants to do something 'useful,' and yet she didn't even come with me to the big march about the Right to Serve. Neither she nor her sister. Honestly, these girls of mine..."

Grace watched George get to his feet. As he took her mother's arm he shot her a look-a look full of such such longing. A look that made her feel the bench might give way under her. longing. A look that made her feel the bench might give way under her.

The party was a farewell dance, held at the home of the supremely wealthy Perry-Johnsons, in honor of their son Frederick, who was also heading off to a commission. No expense had been spared. A full dance orchestra was playing in the lacquered ballroom, where many a black tie, starched shirt, flouncy dress and uniform were spinning about, watched hawkishly or enviously by elder types seated at card tables on the fringes of the room, sipping punch. Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford, who preferred to spend their evenings reading in quiet companionship at home, were not present. As ever, their unchaperoned daughters were trusted to conduct themselves sensibly in the company of George and Steven. And as ever, the girls-one dark, one fair-were in the midst of the dancing throng but detached from the generality of the crowd: the switching of partners, the constant cutting-in. No boy would dare to cut in on the Rutherford girls when they were dancing with those redheaded Wilkins boys. That foursome was private, somehow, and had become increasingly untouchable over time. These days they cut in only on each other.

Spirits were high among the four. The laughter verged on hysteria. Their arms, thrown about necks and around waists, were tight and needy. Grace, dancing with George, marveled at the solidity of his body, the deftness of his steps. His hazel eyes had their usual tranquil quality, but she thrilled at her newfound knowledge of what lay behind that tranquility. She wanted to be alone with him, and yet the postponing of that moment, the drawing-out of the day was in itself delicious. An instant later there was a deliberate collision. Nancy's pretty mess of giggles and girlish blond curls were for a moment brushing against Grace's face, before she found herself whirled away by the leaner, longer and more waspish Steven-who laughed and whispered something unintelligible in her ear, and then led her off, away from the dance floor, out through the French doors and into the humid green darkness of the gardens.

"I love this place," said Grace. They were walking, arm in arm, between elegant trees-weeping willow, cedar and oak, the leaves rustling just slightly. Here and there were little clearings with statues of Greek G.o.ds at their center-or fountains, stilled for the night. "It has a quality. I can't explain it."

"It's all silvery and magical," said Steven. "Anything could happen out here. Don't you think?"

"Yes."

And then his mouth was on hers, and she was pressing her body to his-really pressing. She'd been kissed before-by other boys, by George, and even by Steven himself-but not like this. She could feel him, through their clothes, pressing against her-that bit of him that she wasn't supposed to know about, but couldn't ignore. Her mouth was open to his, their tongues working against each other. She could smell him, fresh and metallic, like the gra.s.s on the Heath that morning. His hands had been on her back, but now he was touching her b.r.e.a.s.t.s through the dress-and she was letting him do it. And then she thought she glimpsed someone standing among the trees, watching-and finally she broke away.

"Well, well." Steven raked a hand through his hair, and stood smiling, gazing openly at her body. "Who'd have thought it, after all this time? Was that my going-away present?"

Grace was looking about her-looking off, into the trees. If someone had been there at all, they'd gone. "I don't understand," she said eventually.

"What is there to understand? I wanted to kiss you. You wanted to kiss me." His eyes were almost the same color as his brother's, but without that tranquil quality. There was something animal about Steven's eyes.

"But what about George? I thought..."

"You thought what?"

"I thought you'd decided between us, you and George. I thought..."

He frowned, but still appeared amused, beneath that frown. "Oh, Gracie. We've never been able to decide between you. Just as you've never been able to decide between us. That's been our predicament for a long time now, hasn't it?"

A breeze had whipped up out of nowhere. Grace shivered. "There's something you don't know."

"Oh, I doubt that." He made to put an arm around her again, but she drew away from him.

"I saw George today," she said. "On Parliament Hill. He was trying to say something to me. He was trying to..."

"Trying to what? Propose to you?"

She felt herself blush, through the darkness.

"Well, that sly old-" he began.

"He didn't actually propose," Grace said quickly. "But he'd decided between us. He made that clear. Tonight, watching you dancing with Nancy, I thought perhaps you'd agreed something together."

"Gracie, darling." He pushed a stray few strands of her hair behind her ears. "We hadn't agreed anything. If we had, do you think I'd have been kissing you that way? Eh? Come here."

They were kissing again. She couldn't help herself-it was just too delicious. But when their mouths finally came apart, she blurted out, "What about Nancy?"

"What about about her?" His arms were still tight around her. "Are you asking me whether I'd have kissed her like this?" her?" His arms were still tight around her. "Are you asking me whether I'd have kissed her like this?"

"No, that's not what I meant."

"I'll be honest with you, Grace. I'd have kissed her too if she was out here instead of you. You're beautiful girls, and you're so alike and so different-and each of you is more special, more valuable, for the existence of the other one. Like a pair of paintings or vases or something. Any man in his right mind would want you both."

"Let go of me!" She had started to struggle against his arms, and now she broke away. "You're utterly immoral, Steven Wilkins. And you're trying to say that George is the same way as you."

He put his head to one side. "But so are you you, Grace. Admit it to yourself. Where are you going?"

She'd started to stride off, twigs cracking beneath her feet-and he had to run to catch up with her.

"You'd never have kissed me if you weren't going away. What a liberty!"

"But I am am going away." He drew alongside her. "And if you want me to choose you over your sister-if you want to be my sweetheart and send me perfumed letters and little locks of hair, and miss me and long for me-well, I couldn't be more honored, Grace. And I'd miss you right back and long for you." going away." He drew alongside her. "And if you want me to choose you over your sister-if you want to be my sweetheart and send me perfumed letters and little locks of hair, and miss me and long for me-well, I couldn't be more honored, Grace. And I'd miss you right back and long for you."

"If you think I could ever ever long for long for you you!" They'd arrived back at the house. Some men were standing about on the terrace smoking cigars and drinking brandy. Among them was George.

"Hey, big brother," Steven called.