A Kiss from Mr Fitzgerald

by Natasha Lester

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

PRAISE FOR NATASHA LESTER... 'A fantastically engrossing story. I love it' KELLY RIMMER 'Intrigue, heartbreak... I cannot tell you how much I loved this book' RACHEL BURTON 'A gorgeously rich and romantic novel' KATE FORSYTH A Kiss From Mr Fitzgerald is a deliciously evocative love story of a small-town girl with big ambitions in 1920s New York. Perfect for fans of The Paris Wife, Gill Paul, Kate Furnivall and Penny Vincenzi. *** It's the Roaring Twenties in the Manhattan of gin, jazz and prosperity. Women wear makeup and hitched hemlines and enjoy a new freedom to vote and work. Not so for Evelyn Lockhart, who is forbidden from pursuing her passion to become one of the first female doctors. Chasing her dream will mean turning her back on her family: her competitive sister, Viola; her conservative parents; and the childhood best friend she is expected to marry, Charlie. In a desperate attempt to support herself through Columbia University's medical school, Evie auditions for the infamous late-night Ziegfeld Follies on Broadway. But if she gets the part, what will it mean for her fledgling relationship with Upper East Side banker Thomas Whitman - a man Evie thinks she could fall in love with, if only she lived a life less scandalous . . . Captivating, heartwarming, and inspiring A Kiss From Mr Fitzgerald stars a young woman ahead of her time amid the fragile hearts and glamour of Jazz Age New York. MORE PRAISE FOR NATASHA LESTER... 'If you enjoy historical fiction (and even if you don't) you will love this book' Sally Hepworth 'Stunning . . . Will have you captivated' Liz Byrski 'This romance will have you enchanted' Woman's Day 'Natasha Lester is our generation's Louisa May Alcott' Tess Woods 'What a GEM!' Sara Foster 'Natasha Lester brings bold, brave women to life' Courier Mail 'I love this book' Rachael Johns 'Exquisite!' Vanessa Carnevale 'Engaging' Herald Sun 'An essential addition to Australian fiction' AusRomToday 'Utterly compelling' Good Reading ' Emotion that will touch your heart and soul deeply' Jodi Gibson 'Fascinating, evocative and meticulously researched' Annabel Abbs 'Entertaining and provocative' Perth Festival 'Lester has woven a fine, original story of everlasting quality.' BetterReading 'A captivating tale' Daily Examiner 'A delightful and multi-faceted romp through the jazz era' Natalie Salvo 'Excellent historical fiction' The Book Muse 'You will love this even if you're not a regular reader of historical fiction' Jess Just Reads 'Storytelling at its finest' Great Reads & Tea Leaves

Release date: April 26, 2016

Publisher: Hachette Australia

Print pages: 304

Sample

How did I get here? How did I get here? The words reverberated between each click of Evie’s heels as she stepped off the moon and executed a perfect Ziegfeld strut. Her arms were extended as if to lift the skirt of a dress she wasn’t wearing, and her head was pulled back by the halo of a hundred silver-dipped stars. She smiled at the audience, who thought that what she did was, at the least, entertaining and, at the most, foreplay. Her neck ached but she concentrated on the sound of the dollar bills that Ziegfeld would flick into her hand at the end of the night, like a baccarat dealer at a high-stakes table.

The music changed to the big, belting fanfare of the finale and Evie curtseyed, then took her place near the centre of the line of showgirls. She knew what she had to do: join arms, scissor-kick the legs, emphasise the breasts, and damn well make herself look so delicious that no one in the crowd remembered the New York that existed beyond the doors of the theatre. That was a place of discreet money and manners and hidden mistresses, where a woman called Evie Lockhart fought a battalion of men every day for permission to become a doctor. Inside the theatre, the men had no manners, the mistresses were out on show, the money was splashed around like whiskey, and Evie Lockhart was once again fighting, this time to remember that an exchange of dignity for college fees would be worth it.

Where did it all go? Evie thought as she spun around. All my joy, all my wonder. New York used to knock the breath right out of her. Now it was a daily struggle just to get enough air. But she slapped her smile back on, because Florenz Ziegfeld was glaring at her, and Evie needed to be a Ziegfeld Girl more than Ziegfeld needed her. She’d better give someone in the audience a sultry wink to show she was still playing the game. As she looked for a man to dazzle, she got a feeling like an itch at the corner of her eye; she blinked once, twice, but the irritation was still there, narrowing her focus to the man in the fourth row from the front – centre seat so he must be important.

When she saw who he was she got what she wanted – the breath knocked right out of her.

It was Thomas Whitman. Tommy. Back from London.

Would he recognise the girl from Concord, Massachusetts, who used to live next door – oh, such a long time ago? He’d never expect to see Evelyn Lockhart dancing a cancan with a line of beautiful girls whose long legs shimmered from toe to thigh in a way you’d never see in a drawing room on the Upper East Side.

Evie knew she should look away. But two and a half years in London had transformed Thomas into the cat’s whiskers. He’d been handsome before, but now he was heart-stopping, and he looked all the better for not slicking back his hair like the rest of the Valentino imitators in the crowd. His eyes were like black marble, and unlike those of most of the men around him, they were studying her face, not roaming her body.

Then he stood up and began to step past the people seated beside him. He strode towards the exit, even though the show wasn’t over. It could only mean that beneath the thick kohl lining Evie’s eyes, the red lips, the leotard and the stars, Thomas had seen someone he used to know.

Luckily it was the last number of the night. The curtain was about to come down and Ziegfeld’s Girls would be officially off duty, unless they wanted to don a sheer, lacy robe and go up to the bar and pout because the cigarette dangling so elegantly from their quellazaire was unlit. Evie never joined them and she certainly wouldn’t tonight. Instead she’d lie awake, remembering how often she’d dreamed of kissing Thomas Whitman. And she’d try not to think about the fact that now he knew she worked for Ziegfeld, he’d never want to see her again.

‘“None of the Victorian mothers – and most of the mothers were Victorian – had any idea how casually their daughters were accustomed to be kissed”,’ Evelyn Lockhart read aloud from the book hidden inside the covers of Ladies’ Home Journal.

‘I don’t believe it says that,’ said Viola, looking up from her embroidery.

Evelyn carried the book over to her older sister and pointed at the page. ‘There. Kissing is the bee’s knees.’

‘Mr Scott Fitzgerald isn’t a reliable source of information.’

Evelyn groaned. ‘You sound like Mother. Don’t you want to know what it’s like?’

‘Curiosity killed the cat.’

‘Why should only bad things happen to a girl who is casually kissed?’ Evelyn dropped the book and the magazine on the sofa and walked over to the Victrola, which was droning ‘Sweet Adeline’ at her like a dirge. She began to dance to a song in her head which had decidedly more brass.

‘I’m not going to read it,’ said Viola. ‘So you needn’t leave it there. And did you know that Ladies’ Home Journal disagrees with you?’ She put down her beloved embroidery and picked up the magazine. ‘“Anyone who says that youths of both sexes can mingle in close embrace – with limbs intertwined and torso in contact – without suffering harm lies. Add to this position the wriggling movement and sensuous stimulation of the abominable jazz orchestra …”’

Evelyn wriggled her hips as hard as she could and extended a hand to her sister. ‘Dance with me, Vi. Have some fun.’

Viola stood up and Evelyn thought they might dance around the room together, talking about the things that mattered, like kissing and life in the city and women who did things besides sew coloured thread into pieces of fabric.

But Viola walked past Evelyn to the window and gasped. ‘Charles is coming up the path,’ she said. ‘If he sees you dancing like that he’ll never get around to proposing.’

‘And I suppose he’ll marry you instead,’ Evelyn retorted.

‘I’m the oldest.’

‘It doesn’t matter. He …’ He likes me better, Evelyn started to say. She stopped herself. But her unspoken words hung in the air anyway, causing Viola to study her stitches, which were straighter and smaller than Evelyn could ever manage, and Evelyn wished for a moment that Viola would be able to find a man to whom sewing mattered more than beauty.

She heard the maid answer the door and Charlie’s footsteps in the hall. She stilled her hips but couldn’t help whispering, before he came into the room, ‘I wonder if Charlie is accustomed to casually kissing the daughters of Victorian mothers?’

‘Evie!’ Viola bleated.

The door opened.

‘Ladies,’ said Charles Whitman, bowing with a flourish. ‘What a picture you look, sewing so contentedly.’

‘I can’t remember the last time I saw Evie sew anything,’ Viola said smugly.

Evelyn laughed. ‘You win, Vi.’

‘She stitched a crooked C on a hanky for me to take to Harvard,’ Charlie said.

‘That’s right! I did,’ said Evelyn triumphantly, although she couldn’t help wondering why such a minor accomplishment should matter so much.

‘It’s the one I always carry with me.’ Charlie tapped the left side of his chest and looked at Evelyn in a way that made her wonder what it would be like to touch his cheek, to run her hand through the waves of his blond hair. To casually kiss. To think of him as Charles the man, not Charlie the boy who’d been her great friend.

‘I’m glad you’re back,’ Evelyn said. ‘But aren’t you supposed to be studying for your examinations?’

‘I’ve been asked to take a week off,’ Charlie replied, grinning unrepentantly. ‘Somehow Harvard’s taxidermied animals escaped from their cases and were found lurking around campus and I’ve taken the blame. I’ll return with downcast eyes next week, be forgiven, and I can get back to learning to be a banker.’

‘You get away with everything,’ Evelyn said. ‘If you’re rich, charming and a man, you can steal a stuffed cougar, call it a prank, make a donation to the college and then become a banker in the time it takes me to embroider a hanky.’

‘Not that long, surely?’ Charlie smiled.

‘Evie’s just annoyed because she can’t do whatever she wants,’ Viola broke in, always eager to highlight Evie’s flaws in front of Charlie. ‘She wants to stay on at Radcliffe but Papa won’t let her.’

Evelyn tried to defend herself against Viola’s accusation, at the same time noting that Charlie’s hand was still resting over the pocket that kept her hanky safe. ‘I’ve taken literature at Radcliffe and am qualified for nothing,’ she said. ‘So I thought about continuing on. I thought doing more study would …’ Her voice trailed off. Would what? Keep her amused as if she was a lapdog yapping for a bone?

‘Surely literature’s more than enough?’ Charlie asked.

‘That’s what Papa says,’ Viola agreed.

‘Maybe I’d like to do more than sit in the parlour and compose pretty sonnets while I wait for my true love to sweep me off my feet.’

‘What lady wants more than that?’ Charlie said.

‘I don’t,’ said Viola.

Her mother’s arrival in the room stopped Evelyn from saying the words that nobody – her mother, her father, Viola and possibly Charlie – wanted to hear: I think I do.

‘Charles!’ Mrs Lockhart exclaimed, kissing his cheek. ‘Lovely to see you. It’s been so long. I was hoping you’d escape Harvard and come to your parents’ party this evening.’

‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ Charlie replied, not mentioning the prank that was the real reason he was in Concord. ‘Thomas is bringing along a lady from Boston whom everyone expects him to marry. My parents want to introduce her to Concord society.’

‘Oh,’ breathed Mrs Lockhart. ‘I didn’t know. How marvellous. An engagement is exactly what we need.’ She looked pointedly at Evelyn, who pretended not to notice. ‘Well,’ she continued, ‘it’s such a fine day, why don’t you go for a walk together. I’m sure your mother will be glad to keep you out of the house while she prepares for the party.’

Charlie nodded. ‘A walk sounds capital. Ladies?’ He held out his arms for Evelyn and Viola.

‘Go on ahead, Charles,’ Mrs Lockhart said. ‘I need a word with my daughters first.’

Charlie left the room to collect his hat and Mrs Lockhart turned on Evelyn. ‘With a bit of effort, you could find yourself with a ring on your finger, or at least the promise of one, by the end of the night. Be pleasant on your walk and again tonight and anything could happen. You’re quite the belle when you want to be.’

‘Mother,’ sighed Evelyn.

‘Marrying Charles is what you want, isn’t it?’

It’s what you want, thought Evelyn. And it was something Evelyn used to think she wanted from the moment she was old enough to understand that certain things were expected of her. She’d begun to look forward, with more than her usual enthusiasm, to summer, when the Whitmans left New York and came to Concord, to Mrs Whitman’s grand and gracious family home, to escape the sticky heat.

Having Charlie next door filled Evelyn’s days with fun and adventure, especially as Charlie did anything Evelyn dared him to do, even dive off the North Bridge outside the Old Manse in a ridiculous attempt to disturb the peace of the town. Evie and Charlie went together like roses and sunshine, which Evelyn’s mother thought was splendid, because it would have been impossible for the Lockharts to ever mix with the likes of the Whitmans if they weren’t summertime neighbours. Mrs Lockhart might consider her family to be upper-middle class, but the distance to upper-upper class, where the Whitmans resided, was like flying to the moon. And the moon could be conquered if Evelyn married Charlie. Even her mother had had to relinquish her hopes for her favourite child, Viola, the one who was most like her, when Charlie’s preference for Evelyn was so obvious to all. There was the older brother, of course, but as Thomas came to Concord so rarely, busy as he was at the Whitman Bank, Mrs Lockhart had accepted he was beyond their reach. Whereas handsome young Charlie would make the perfect husband for a Lockhart girl. And the Lockhart girl he seemed to adore was Evelyn. But Evelyn couldn’t help the thoughts that had begun to nag at her lately, now she’d finished college and had nothing to do: what if marriage meant she became like her mother, napping in the afternoon from the exertion of coming downstairs to breakfast, content to organise parties of ladies to sew useless whatnots for the hospital fair?

‘Do you really like sewing?’ Evelyn asked her mother and sister before she stepped into the hall.

‘Of course.’ Her mother shook her head, as did Viola, puzzled by the question.

‘I hate it. It’s not something I want to spend the rest of my life doing.’

‘What other choice do you have?’ Evelyn’s mother said.

And that was the problem. Here in Concord she had none.

Evelyn followed Viola out of the room. ‘What if it doesn’t work out the way it’s supposed to?’ she whispered to her sister.

‘Of course it will,’ said Viola, clearly unable to imagine anything other than what was expected of them. ‘Charles will propose tonight and you’ll be married and be the lady of the house next door. And I’ll marry one of his friends,’ she added determinedly, her plain face momentarily brightened by the thought.

Evelyn smiled. So Viola had dreams too. But she had to ask, ‘What comes after that? After I’m married?’

Viola looked surprised. ‘Does it matter?’

They’d reached Charlie, so Evelyn couldn’t answer. As they walked down the front path to the road, Evelyn glanced at the house next door, the Whitman house. She was unable to picture herself there, waiting for Charlie to come home from work, embroidery hoop laid in her lap like a noose ready to squeeze the life out of her.



Early summer in Concord was glorious. The blossom trees extended their jewelled fingers into the sky and petals drifted down to wreath Evelyn’s hair. Rabbits hopped out of the way, their cottony tails bobbing like bits of fallen cloud. Robins twittered a tune that reminded Evelyn of ‘April Showers’ and all its optimism about blooms that follow the rain and the hidden bluebirds that could be found if only one listened hard enough. She wished the birds would sing something more spirited and less sentimental. At the same time, she looked around and realised that she was alone with Charlie and that Viola was nowhere in sight.

‘Viola’s bootlace came undone. She’ll catch up,’ Charlie said, taking Evelyn’s hand and stopping in front of her. ‘You’re so beautiful, Evie,’ he continued. ‘If I took you to Harvard my pals would burn with jealousy.’

Evelyn knew she was blushing; it was nice to be complimented rather than criticised or ordered around as was her parents’ way. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, but somehow, even in the midst of all the glorious summer colour and Charlie’s admiration, she couldn’t shake the word noose from her mind.

Charlie put his finger under her chin and lifted her head so he could see her face. ‘With you beside me, everyone would know I was the successful one,’ he said.

Evelyn had thought he might be about to kiss her. She certainly hadn’t expected him to say that. ‘But you are successful,’ she said.

Charlie took his hand away from her face and began to walk on. ‘My father doesn’t think so. Not compared to Thomas.’

Perhaps you should study more and play with stuffed animals less, Evelyn wanted to say. If her parents let her go on to university, she wouldn’t waste the chance on stupid pranks. But she knew Charlie wanted petting rather than scolding, so she kept her thoughts to herself as she walked beside him.

‘Thomas is announcing his engagement tonight,’ Charlie said. ‘Why else would he invite a girl out here for a party? I could make it a night for engagements. Beat Tommy at his own game.’

‘I don’t think Thomas is getting engaged just to show your father he’s more successful.’ Why were they talking about Charlie’s older brother? Charlie had practically just told her he would propose. They should be strolling hand in hand at the very least, savouring the moment. But did he want to marry her because he loved her, or only because he thought she was pretty and it would help him prove a point? And did she really love him, or did she just want to know what it would be like to kiss someone?

Evelyn had never been so glad to see her sister reappear, lank hair stuck to her cheeks and her face flushed red with the exertion of hurrying after them. It saved Evelyn from her confusion. But she had to work out an answer to her question – did she want to marry Charlie? – before tonight.

She needed to be by herself so she could think. Her mood suited a brisk pace, whereas Viola needed to catch her breath and Charlie was lost in the art of strolling, clearly preoccupied with his idea of trumping his brother at the party. She soon found herself well ahead of the others, and the further she tramped, violently crushing swathes of white lilies beneath her feet as if they were embroidery hoops, the more she knew embroidery was not the issue. There was so much she had not yet done, so much she could do – go to university, or work like women in the big cities did. If she married Charlie, the only life she would ever know was the one she lived right now, the one that chafed her like a tightly laced corset.

‘Aaaarrgh!’

A sudden wail made Evelyn glance back; Charlie and Viola weren’t in sight and, in any case, the cry was coming from somewhere ahead, closer to the river. The sound came again, the guttural, animal cry of someone in pain.

Evelyn scrambled down the bank. When she reached the river’s edge she could see nothing, but she heard a rustle of movement in a copse of reeds. She bent down, pushed the stems aside and gasped at the sight of a woman crouched on all fours like a cat, her skirts rucked up around her waist and her backside bared – two hanks of thick white flesh and between them a rush of blood, pouring onto the soil below. But there was something else there, something emerging from that place Evelyn knew existed but had never really seen, that space of secret monthly bleeding and other things she had heard whispered of, and which she knew could somehow produce a result such as this. A baby. This woman, screaming in terror, was giving birth to a baby right here and right now. Evelyn’s skin began to prickle because she felt as if the baby was looking straight at her,
pleading with her. Was that even possible? Could a half-born baby open its eyes?

Evelyn blinked and the sensation vanished. ‘Let me help,’ she said, crawling into the reeds, heedless of the blood. She gasped again when she saw the woman’s face. ‘Rose!’

The woman was a fellow student from Radcliffe. She and Evelyn had collided one day while crossing the quadrangle with their heads down to avoid the pouring rain. They’d laughed and taken refuge in the main hall. After they’d introduced themselves, Rose had told Evelyn that she was one of the few women going across to Harvard to take courses at the medical school, even though Harvard wouldn’t allow women to graduate with a degree in medicine. Evelyn had been fascinated by the idea, so Rose had smuggled her into one of the lectures.

It was like stepping off this world and into another. No decorous recitations of Shakespearean sonnets. Instead, the inner workings of the human body were exposed. Evelyn had since crept into a few more lectures with Rose, who welcomed the female company and urged her to come along whenever she could. But Evelyn knew her parents would banish her to a cornfield in Iowa if they ever found out. As it was, it had set off a restlessness inside her, a longing to know more. College had finished a week ago, leaving Evelyn with only a taste of the possibilities that existed beyond literature and marriage, and she hadn’t seen Rose for some time because Rose had simply vanished after Easter. Now here she was, her face as white as if it had been laundered to Evelyn’s mother’s exacting standards. Her arms were sinking into the ground; she was no longer able to bear her own weight and she clearly didn’t recognise Evelyn. Her eyes were glazed with pain and fear.

‘Lean against me.’ Evelyn said. She sat on the ground with her legs extended, helping Rose to turn over and lean back on her. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘My father used to be a doctor. I’ll call for the others to get him. You shouldn’t be out here on your own. You should be in Boston with your family. You should be …’ She realised she was babbling, because this was beyond anything she’d ever imagined. How could Rose be having a baby? And why was she on a riverside in Concord, far from home?

She cradled Rose’s head against her shoulder, wiped the hair off her clammy brow and hugged her. Rose’s body sagged. Was she simply tired? Unconscious? Dear God, she couldn’t be dead, could she? And what was happening with the baby? ‘Charlie!’ she shouted, as loudly as she could. ‘Charlie!’

Evelyn heard footsteps. Viola and Charlie were getting closer. She needed to check on the baby. She eased herself out from behind Rose, propped her against the reeds, lifted her skirts and found the baby’s head, still exactly where she’d first seen it. It hadn’t moved, it was blue and Evelyn didn’t know if this was normal. ‘Help!’ she screamed.

Kneeling between Rose’s legs, she put her hands on the baby’s head.

‘Evie! What is it? Are you hurt?’ Charlie’s voice sounded panicked and Evelyn was glad he was there: he would help her while Viola fetched Father.

The baby’s shoulders began to move into Evelyn’s hands and she forgot about feeling scared. If she could get the child out, perhaps Rose would wake up. She pulled gently and felt a surge of wonder as more of the baby appeared.

Then Evelyn found herself cradling a child. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Look at you.’

She wanted to hug the baby, hold it close, but some instinct told her to wrap it in her skirts and rub it. It was so blue and it hadn’t made a sound. ‘Cry,’ Evelyn whispered. ‘Please cry.’

Charlie’s face appeared above the reeds, followed by Viola’s.

Viola’s hands flew to her mouth and she said, ‘Oh. Oh,’ before turning away and holding onto a tree.

‘She had a baby,’ Evelyn said, needlessly, but what else was there to say? Help us, we need help, I don’t know what to do. What if I hurt the baby?

Charlie grabbed Evelyn’s arm and pulled her, heedless of the child.

‘Careful,’ Evelyn said. ‘Hold the baby while I check on Rose.’ As she spoke, the baby began to cry. Thank God. ‘Get Father,’ she called to Viola. ‘Tell him to bring his medical bag. He still has it somewhere.’

But Charlie didn’t take the baby from her. ‘You need to leave. Now. Take Viola with you,’ he said.

‘I can’t leave. I have to help. Viola can go by herself.’ Evelyn realised that her sister was still standing there, her back turned to them. ‘Viola!’ she called again. ‘Hurry up!’ She cradled the baby in one arm so she could help Rose with the other.

‘This woman doesn’t deserve your help,’ Charlie said. He tightened his grip on her arm and tried to force her to stand.

Evelyn dug her shoes into the soil. ‘Stop it!’ she cried. ‘You’ll hurt the baby. Let me go!’ She tugged her arm away but Charlie was strong, stronger than she’d realised. The baby was wailing now, as if it sensed danger, and Evelyn wanted nothing more than to soothe it, to see if Rose had revived, but Charlie would not let go. She tried pleading. ‘You can’t expect me to leave them here. If you’ve ever felt anything for me you’ll let me help. Please!’

Her last word was a frantic scream. She could no longer hear the baby crying, had no idea where Viola was. All she could see was Charlie’s face, so close to her own that she could not mistake the hard flash of anger in his eyes, and the curl of disgust on his lip at Rose’s plight. Damn you! she wanted to shout. Damn everybody and their stuffy rules that said she couldn’t help someone who might be dying, just because there was a whiff of scandal. She would not move. She would not stand up. And short of dragging her up the riverbank, she knew there was nothing Charlie could do.

He let go of her arm suddenly and Evelyn tipped backwards onto her elbow, desperate to keep the child safe. Charlie stormed up the riverbank, not bothering to help Viola, who stumbled after him, crying.

Evelyn could only hope that he would be back soon with her father and that her father’s long-retired skills as a doctor would somehow revive Rose, whose eyes were closed, her face devoid of colour, her limbs lifeless. What should Evelyn do? She had no idea. Nothing she had ever learned at Concord’s Ladies’ Academy or at Radcliffe had taught her anything about saving someone’s life. What good were French and dancing to her now?

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered to Rose as the tears ran down her cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Her father and Charlie found her like that, sobbing, the baby held close to her chest, her body curved around Rose as if she could will life into her.

‘Evelyn!’ her father snapped. ‘Stand up at once!’ Mr Lockhart’s face showed the same look of horror as Charlie’s had.

‘You’ll help her?’ she asked, unwilling to move until she had secured his promise.

‘Go straight back to the house,’ her father bellowed. ‘Only then will I help her.’

Evelyn scrambled to her feet and gave the baby to her father. He glared at her and she reluctantly walked away.

The climb up the riverbank was like a hallucination. The woods were still awash with peach blossoms and buttercups. And she was in Concord, home of girlish delights and Little Women, not death and scandal and secrets. There was no longer any blood, except that covering Evelyn’s hands and soaking her skirt. There was no crying or screaming, just the rustle of Evelyn’s feet and the constant drip of tears from her face. The sense of stupor intensified when she reached the house. As she stood in the doorway of the sitting room, surrounded by the warmth of mahogany wood, gilt lamp stands and the ochre velvet of the chaise longue, what she had witnessed seemed unreal. Had it really happened?

‘Viola?’ Evelyn said.

Viola, who was collapsed on the lounge, uttered a groan that Evelyn knew came from no real affliction, so she said it aloud, trying to make it real again. ‘She had a baby.’

‘Evelyn!’ It was the nutcracker snap of her mother’s voice. ‘Your dress!’

Evelyn stepped aside to let her mother pass. ‘There was a woman by the river,’ she said. ‘I tried to help her.’

Mrs Lockhart held up her hand. ‘I know what happened. I heard Charles tell your father. This is the last time it will be discussed. A woman like that has fallen in the eyes of God and in the eyes of man and her fate is not a subject for young ladies.’

‘But –’

‘No. Besides being filthy, your skirts are pulled up so high I can almost see your knees. Go and change now.’

‘They’re just knees, Mother.’

‘And that attitude is how women end up in disgrace by the river.’ Mrs Lockhart moved over to Viola, to smooth her brow and murmur consolation in her ear, as if Viola, not Rose, had been the wretched one.

Evelyn understood that the incident had been swept away like breakfast crumbs, discarded and forgotten. Nobody would speak of it again. All of Evelyn’s questions would remain unanswered. But they clamoured in her mind nonetheless: was Rose alive? Was the baby? Had Evelyn helped it or hurt it?

She took off her hat and laid it on the hall stand. She suddenly realised she hated that stand, with its gold Minton tiles and gold-plated drip trays. Who really needed their umbrella to drip into a gold tray? Society did. A society that thought Evelyn was not supposed to sit in the dirt and let a labouring mother bleed all over her. She was supposed to run away, aghast, and then faint like a lady. Because an unmarried woman having a baby alone by the river was a position never to be recovered from; it guaranteed invisibility and revulsion, so that every time hereafter, when Rose went to the grocer’s store and was ignored, she would know she was also being mocked and judged and declared repugnant, like the cow’s feet the butcher threw away because even the poor wouldn’t eat them.

Evelyn remembered the baby’s eyes, how they’d stared at her. It was helpless and trusting, yet she’d abandoned it. For its whole life, everyone would treat that baby the way Evelyn had, turning their backs. How could she have left Rose and her baby to the mercies of Charlie and her father? And would she ever be able to make amends?

‘Evie!’

As the Lockharts stepped inside the ballroom of the Whitmans’ enormous home that evening, Charlie rushed over to greet them. He took Evelyn’s hand eagerly and kissed it, eyes fixed on her face, but the ache in her arm where he’d gripped it that morning and the memory of his concern for decorum over compassion made her look away.

‘I hope you’ll dance every dance with me,’ Charlie said. When Evelyn didn’t reply, he turned to her mother. ‘You won’t mind if I monopolise Evelyn tonight?’

‘Not at all,’ Mrs Lockhart replied, staring at her daughter, trying with the power of her eyebrows to make her respond to Charlie with gratitude and a smile.

Charlie held out his arm. Evelyn was aware that people were watching them, having heard Charlie call out her name and kiss