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Authors: Meg Waite Clayton
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“Which indeed it is.”
Inside Trefoil Hall, a white-haired butler met them in a vaulted-ceilinged receiving hall frescoed with a crowd looking down from a balcony and romanticized heads of horses and swirls that weren’t really anything at all, a painting that somehow made the cavernous space seem less so. “Larkins,” Fletcher said, greeting the old man with genuine enthusiasm as the improbable sound of giggles spilled from above. Up a wide sweep of steps, the stairway paused at a landing before splitting into two narrower stairways, right and left, down which a dozen little girls—seven- and eight- and nine-year-old schoolgirls—came tumbling, peering through the banister.
Fletcher bounded up the stairs and scooped two of the girls into his arms, laughing and saying, “My sweet cherubs!” in a tone that suggested he knew how ridiculous he was.
Liv started up the stairs after him, but Charles remained with his feet planted in the entry hall, his hand reaching to the vulnerable balding spot Liv could see from the higher elevation of the stairs.
“Now listen,” Fletcher said to the girls, “you must give agrand hello to Mr. Charles Harper. He runs a whole newspaper in New York.”
“That’s in the United States,” one of the girls said. “It’s the biggest city in the world.”
All the girls peered down at Charles, who peered back at them like a child who wants to play ball but is awkward with bat and glove. Liv longed to coach him, to say, It’s just like with grown-ups, Charles, you touch them on the arm and say something charming.
Fletcher said, “I suppose that makes him rather an important chap, doesn’t it? And he has the extraordinary fortune to have married quite well, as you can see. This is his wife, Olivia James Harper. She’s a talented photojournalist, can you believe that?”
Another girl, one with the same wispy, off-blond hair most of them shared, tilted her head up at Liv. “But she’s a girl!”
Fletcher peered exaggeratedly at Liv. “Emily, by golly, you’re right. That she is.”
They all giggled.
“Well, you’ll have to take my word for it. She may be a girl, but she’s on her way to Paris to photograph the liberation. I expect she plans to be the first to take pictures there. I imagine she intends to march in before the troops will have done!”
Charles, below, crossed his arms, creasing his jacket. “It isn’t a race, Fletcher.”
“To Paris? Don’t be a berk, Charles.” Fletcher bent down on one knee so that he was at the girls’ level and said to them, “Of course it’s a race. One every journalist and photographer in Europe is eager to win, all in good fun. And do you know on whom I would place my wager, girls?” He nodded at Liv. “I’d like to point out, too, that I’m a pretty fair gambler.”
“’Cept Cecily always wins at dice,” the girl he’d called Emily said.
“Well, yes, but then Cecily is awfully lucky.”
Charles frowned. “You’ve taught them to shoot craps?”
Fletcher looked down at him, a mock scolding look. “Please, Charles. Dice. ” Again, he addressed the girls conspiratorially. “Liv is going to be the first into Paris all right, and you can bet she’ll be famous then.”
The girls crowded around Liv, everyone speaking at once: “You want to see my shrapnel collection? I got some of them when they were still warm.” “I got gum wrappers, thirty-six of them.” “I have cigarette packages. Pippa has a hundred.” “A hundred and eight. ”
Liv stooped to their level and said hello to a sad-eyed, curly-haired brunette in white cotton pajamas who hadn’t said a word in all the chaos. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Ella doesn’t speak,” Emily said. “She used to talk, but then her mum stopped coming and now she doesn’t say nothing.”
Liv leaned back against the banister, trying not to look startled. “Doesn’t . . .” She took the girl’s hand, which was birdlike, fragile, wanting to
Inside Trefoil Hall, a white-haired butler met them in a vaulted-ceilinged receiving hall frescoed with a crowd looking down from a balcony and romanticized heads of horses and swirls that weren’t really anything at all, a painting that somehow made the cavernous space seem less so. “Larkins,” Fletcher said, greeting the old man with genuine enthusiasm as the improbable sound of giggles spilled from above. Up a wide sweep of steps, the stairway paused at a landing before splitting into two narrower stairways, right and left, down which a dozen little girls—seven- and eight- and nine-year-old schoolgirls—came tumbling, peering through the banister.
Fletcher bounded up the stairs and scooped two of the girls into his arms, laughing and saying, “My sweet cherubs!” in a tone that suggested he knew how ridiculous he was.
Liv started up the stairs after him, but Charles remained with his feet planted in the entry hall, his hand reaching to the vulnerable balding spot Liv could see from the higher elevation of the stairs.
“Now listen,” Fletcher said to the girls, “you must give agrand hello to Mr. Charles Harper. He runs a whole newspaper in New York.”
“That’s in the United States,” one of the girls said. “It’s the biggest city in the world.”
All the girls peered down at Charles, who peered back at them like a child who wants to play ball but is awkward with bat and glove. Liv longed to coach him, to say, It’s just like with grown-ups, Charles, you touch them on the arm and say something charming.
Fletcher said, “I suppose that makes him rather an important chap, doesn’t it? And he has the extraordinary fortune to have married quite well, as you can see. This is his wife, Olivia James Harper. She’s a talented photojournalist, can you believe that?”
Another girl, one with the same wispy, off-blond hair most of them shared, tilted her head up at Liv. “But she’s a girl!”
Fletcher peered exaggeratedly at Liv. “Emily, by golly, you’re right. That she is.”
They all giggled.
“Well, you’ll have to take my word for it. She may be a girl, but she’s on her way to Paris to photograph the liberation. I expect she plans to be the first to take pictures there. I imagine she intends to march in before the troops will have done!”
Charles, below, crossed his arms, creasing his jacket. “It isn’t a race, Fletcher.”
“To Paris? Don’t be a berk, Charles.” Fletcher bent down on one knee so that he was at the girls’ level and said to them, “Of course it’s a race. One every journalist and photographer in Europe is eager to win, all in good fun. And do you know on whom I would place my wager, girls?” He nodded at Liv. “I’d like to point out, too, that I’m a pretty fair gambler.”
“’Cept Cecily always wins at dice,” the girl he’d called Emily said.
“Well, yes, but then Cecily is awfully lucky.”
Charles frowned. “You’ve taught them to shoot craps?”
Fletcher looked down at him, a mock scolding look. “Please, Charles. Dice. ” Again, he addressed the girls conspiratorially. “Liv is going to be the first into Paris all right, and you can bet she’ll be famous then.”
The girls crowded around Liv, everyone speaking at once: “You want to see my shrapnel collection? I got some of them when they were still warm.” “I got gum wrappers, thirty-six of them.” “I have cigarette packages. Pippa has a hundred.” “A hundred and eight. ”
Liv stooped to their level and said hello to a sad-eyed, curly-haired brunette in white cotton pajamas who hadn’t said a word in all the chaos. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Ella doesn’t speak,” Emily said. “She used to talk, but then her mum stopped coming and now she doesn’t say nothing.”
Liv leaned back against the banister, trying not to look startled. “Doesn’t . . .” She took the girl’s hand, which was birdlike, fragile, wanting to
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