Pale late afternoon sun plunged through the oversized windows of the main dining room in the Palm, striking Brittany Von Husenderry's water glass and creating a neat little rainbow on the crisp white tablecloth, but she did not gasp in amazement at this wonderment of nature. She sighed.
"Cease that unappealing noise you are making," admonished her table companion, Lady Anne Dialmore. "It does not become you."
"But aren't you most terribly bored, Auntie?" Brittany turned her wide brown eyes up in supplication. "I can't see why we must spend one more minute here."
"A lady is never bored," Lady Anne insisted. "Count the number of forks on the table if you must."
"There are six."
"Then find some other occupation that does not require huffing and puffing and learn patience."
Lady Anne was not without sympathy for her young charge. The third party in their luncheon, the recently-indisposed Duchess of Salem was proving the local rumormongers had not lost their touch – her company truly was enough to wither leaves from the trees. An hour of conversation in her presence had been enough to cause Lady Anne to wilt, and her niece Brittany to fidget, neither of which was a common occurrence.
The Duchess's tedium had not always been so: Years before, Lady Anne had felt among special company to be included in the Duchess' social web, when she was known almost as well for her uncanny summer soirees as for her uncanny ability to appear at least ten years younger than her actual age. Rumors said she frequented Switzerland not for the fine skiing in the winter but for particular scientific rest cures that smoothed out the cheeks and drained the bags beneath the eyes. However, since she relocated to the West Coast and confined her circle to those unfortunates who were required to be there full-time, the Duchess was no longer feted for her Long Island iced teas and had therefore fallen into some disfavor amongst those who were put out to discover they must seek out new avenues for gratis thirst quenching. As Lady Anne had noticed some time ago, the amount of free alcohol and food at a summer soiree was always in direct proportion to the number of old school chums who suddenly recalled their classmates and took that exact moment to "pop in." In days of yore, the Duchess's parties were strewn with total strangers, indeed, but amongst the unknowns were diplomats, politicians, heiresses and even the occasional entertainer, when modesty allowed for it. Her parties were always the signal to start the social season, and were invariably written up in every style column of the important newspapers.
When the Duchess made the baffling decision to move kit and caboodle some three thousand miles west a few years ago for reasons she only later made clear, Lady Anne made a firm commitment in her mind to keep their relationship unchanged and as close as ever, which the proper thing for true friends to do. But her determination had begun to supersede her joy over their reunions of late. These days, Lady Anne found no joy in the Duchess' brief sojourns to her proper Manhattan home, particularly since the Duchess herself had all but thrown her title away to become a member of "show business." To Lady Anne, entertainers were to be tolerated, then hidden back stage, where they rightfully belonged. There was nothing at all dignified about playacting before a camera for the edification of an audience one never even saw applaud ... or hiss. Theater was one matter. Broadcasting was vulgar. Even still, Lady Anne would have suffered through an endless litany of faintly-amusing show business tales on behalf of her friendship were it not for the one further imposition the Duchess had recently made clear was a requirement of every visit – the subject of her children. There had to be a line drawn somewhere. And that line had been crossed five minutes after their tea had been poured this afternoon.
"And just how are the boys, Eugene and Myron?" Brittany pitched her voice in imitation of her aunt and leaned forward over the lunch table, clasping her gloved hands beneath her chin, fluttering her eyelashes. "Do you mean you brought pictures? How utterly charming."
Lady Anne's lips twitched, but she refused to give her niece any other ground. That was the line, of course. Marriage had taken a razor-sharp, socially-adept woman of the Duchess' stature and dulled her into a butter knife. Her children had taken her vibrancy and youth, leaving a shell of a woman, until the only thing for the Duchess to do was go into show business. She was ruined anywhere else. Gone was her old joie de vivre about artworks, the latest health tonics and opinions on the best veal chop in the city. In their places sat just Myron and Eugene – and occasionally her newfound "business" friends, many of whom she merely knew by first name. Lady Anne had been further dismayed by the direction in which the conversation had gone when, approximately thirty minutes ago, just after the cucumber sandwiches and endive swirl the Duchess had been unable to contain herself a moment longer and withdrew packet after packet of photos from her large brocade handbag. Unwrapping the clever leather-strapped holders she exclaimed, "Silly me! I thought I had left these at home. Well, while they're here...." and she had subjected Lady Anne and young Brittany to a mind-numbingly repetitive litany of frozen-in-time activities (in the garden), facial expressions (toothy or chocolate-smeared) and adorable outfits (direct from Paris). Lady Anne thought that if the elder boy Eugene did not grow up to hate his mother for bestowing upon him that insufferable set of syllables she called a name, he officially had further justification for matricide for inflicting upon him the indignity of a sailor's outfit (complete with red-pom tam). Viewing the photos had been an exhausting exercise, and Lady Anne was looking forward to a nap before supper. But Lady Anne had never been bored during the entire recital. A Lady is never bored.
Brittany, however, had perused the pictures with all of the interest of an infant given a plate of vegetables, and by the fourth packet had taken to making sounds with her throat and nose. "Drink some water for that," Lady Anne had whispered to her, and for a while, the sounds halted. When the Duchess departed to make use of the ladies' lounge a moment or two ago, however, the noises resumed, and Lady Anne was forced to speak up again. She had been entrusted with the manners and general behavior of the 17-year-old girl while her parents were abroad in Afghanistan for a year, and she had no intention of letting down the cause. Lady Anne had made a promise to her sister, and that promise would be kept. Even if the situation become somewhat dull, Lady Anne would broach no indication given to the Duchess. Another rule Brittany would learn soon enough: A Lady knows when to keep her mouth shut. Lady Anne glanced at the pendulum clock near the lunch court's exit. Nearly five. Tea would be over at five, and they would pay the bill, make their excuses, and depart. Sixty minutes in the company of the Duchess and her absent boys was approximately fifty-four minutes too long.
All at once at the front of the lunch court there was a great rustling. Waiters scattered like cranes beset by crocodiles. Brittany sat upright in her seat at once and squinted – poor girl, her vision left much to be desired, but so would glasses – and gasped, "Auntie, what on Earth is that?"
For a hairsbreadth of a second, Lady Anne wished her husband instantly dead, so that she would have been forced to wear a veil today and would therefore not be spotted by the approaching dervish of a woman, but even before she could retract the ungenerous desire she had, indeed, been targeted. "That," she told her niece with as little desultory emphasis as she could manage, "is Kathryn Arthbunot."
"I've never seen her like before," Brittany shook her head in wonder.
"Close your mouth, girl," chided Lady Anne. "The flies will wander in."
Brittany did as she was told, but failed to avert her eyes. Lady Anne could not blame her. Miss Arthbunot had the constitution of a head matron and the shape of an overgenerous Bartlett pear. Her shoulder-length straw-colored hair never did manage to maintain to withstand the rigors of a properly-executed bun, and since she eschewed all hats, she often gave the appearance of having ridden a horse at top speed to arrive at where she currently stood. Her florid face was unmarked, yet had a firm, manly jaw and always appeared in a state of overexcitement. Over six foot and heavier than most men, Miss Arthbunot appeared utterly unaware of the effect her shambling bulk had on the rest of the world; unlike others in her size range she neither stepped timidly nor slowly. There was something admirable in such an aggressive approach to ones' own place in the world; nevertheless, Lady Anne would not allow Miss Arthbunot in the same room as her fine china. It was not entirely certain what Miss Arthbunot did for her income, but Lady Anne had spotted her at the writing salon from time to time, and once shared a cigarette on the porch with the woman. It had been a choice between Miss Arthbunot outside or a tedious lecture on the poetic genius of Wallace Stevens inside and Lady Anne thought she had chosen the lesser of two evils. Now, as Miss Arthbunot held aloft a large, ungloved hand, opening and closing the fist in greeting, Lady Anne mused that perhaps Mr. Stevens had many fine points she had recklessly avoided. One thing was clear: Miss Arthbunot was no Lady.
Again Miss Arthbunot made the grasping notion with her hand as she lumbered towards their table, as if signaling.
"Is she gesturing at us, or preparing for a boxing lesson?" Brittany wondered aloud, but just quietly enough so that only Lady Anne might hear.
"Well!" Miss Arthbunot halted at their table. "You can't possibly believe what just happened to me!"
Lady Anne eyed the exit. No sign of the Duchess. "Miss Arthbunot. Such a pleasure."
Without waiting for an invitation, the woman heaved her bulk into the Duchess' vacated seat. Brittany gasped, scandalized.
"May I introduce my somewhat highly-strung niece, Miss Brittany Von Husenderry," Lady Anne gestured with her chin. Brittany set a gloved hand over her mouth, and nodded genteelly.
Miss Arthbunot grinned once, quickly, then returned to the important matter at hand. "I was nearly robbed!"
This was good gossip, and Lady Anne felt overreachingly relieved that it was worth hearing. "Here at the Palm?"
Miss Arthbunot nodded extravagantly and reached for a half-full glass of water. "Pardon me just a moment." She swished it away in one throaty swallow and set the glass back in place. "That's better. Can you imagine? Right in this very place. I tell you, if you can't be comfortable in the Palm Court, it's time to pack up and move to Australia. Live with the rest of the wild rude beasts. And I thought I knew everyone in New York."
It was not a mindless boast: Having spent copious time speaking with Miss Arthbunot at the Wallace Stevens lecture (which largely required simply listening to the woman), Lady Anne realized that there wasn't a family worth knowing in Manhattan who Miss Arthbunot did not associate with or was somehow related to. In the five years during which Miss Arthbunot had gone from newcomer (from some place in Delaware) to lady-of-the-scene in New York, she had found a way to become at least superficially close with anyone who appeared in the local Social Register, and she at least knew the names of everyone in Who's Who. Whatever charms Miss Arthbunot kept hidden for company, Lady Anne knew they must be plentiful; she suspected some day she might even be witness to them herself. "It does sound like a harrowing experience," Lady Anne led.
"Do tell us about it!" Brittany exclaimed breathily.
Lady Anne frowned deeply at the outburst.
"Of course," said Miss Arthbunot, as if she'd never had the intention not to speak of it. "I was simply giving a quick going-over of my hair and makeup in the powder room when I felt the need." Naturally, Lady Anne and Brittany knew exactly what she meant, without any further explanation. More would be rude in public – even for Miss Arthbunot. "And I so I abandoned my handbag under the sink and disappeared into the nearest water closet. Suddenly, I realized I still had my brush in hand, and departed to drop it in the bag. And what should I discover? Some total stranger – a woman, believe it or not – pawing through my bag like a common thief. I raced over to her, shouting, 'What are you doing in my bag?' and she turned, actually looked slightly frightened, and insisted she was merely searching for a cup. A cup! In my bag! The very idea. I might have even believed her, except she had my wallet right there in her hand, completely prepared to dance off with it."
"Wallet, Auntie?" Brittany frowned.
"I loathe money purses, Miss Von Husenderry," Miss Arthbunot seemed to notice the young woman for the first time. "They are too small and unwieldy. I use a leather-strapped man's wallet, which is perfectly suitable for my needs."
"Indeed," said Brittany, nodding. "Pardon my interruption."
"To resume," began Miss Arthbunot again, "I was incensed. I do not know what came over me. I shouted for assistance – the washing room monitor had conveniently taken this opportunity to take her own powder – and we were utterly alone. I did not even think that this thief could be dangerous. I simply did what had to be done, and pressed her up against the wall with my arm. And –" she began to smile here, "I started lecturing her on the evils of thievery. 'Don't you know you shouldn't steal from people?' I asked her. For all I knew, she might have had a knife hiding in that voluminous sleeve of hers, but I felt so invaded I simply could not let her go."
"And then what happened?" Lady Anne, engrossed, craned her neck forward a bit. From the corner of her eye she detected movement at the front of the lunch court; the waiter was coming to clear their table. Five o'clock. Time to depart.
"The police arrived! I explained the entire situation, pointed to my own purse, and they took her away. She tried to protest and insisted that she had spent her entire life in this area, that she was very well known. She even said that she was famous. But I had never seen her before, and I am most well versed with the populace of New York City. The police matrons had never heard of her. Even the powder room attendant did not rush to her defense. And in any case, what kind of defense would fame have been? The famous are even more suspicious than thieves, though that's only my opinion. And so they hauled her away. I was insistent. I plan on pressing charges."
"A lady robber!" Brittany asked breathlessly, using the corner of her handkerchief to dab at her throat. "Was she truly guilty?"
"Of course!" Miss Arthbunot gleamed, proud of herself. "I caught her, as they say in those dime store novels, red-handed." She hauled her rescued purse – an oversized brocade version -- into her ample lap and snapped it open. Inside, Lady Anne recognized the bulk of the contents: Four or five leather-bound packets of photos.
"My goodness," exclaimed Miss Arthbunot. "Those aren't mine."
The waiter materialized at their table. "Madame," he nodded at Miss Arthbunot, clasping his hands together. "A handbag with your monogram on the handle was discovered in one of the powder room stalls. It is being kept at the front desk for you." Without blinking, he nodded towards Lady Anne and Brittany. "May I clear the table? Or will your third party be returning?"
Brittany glanced at her aunt once, then sat back in her seat, hands clasped in her lap. Lady Anne was pleased that she had begun to learn at least one of the lessons of womanhood: Knowing when to speak, and when to be silent. She might become a Lady yet.
Lady Anne offered the waiter a slight, faint smile, and began adjusting her gloves for departure. "Please proceed. I believe our guest has already taken her leave."