Free The Heart Specialist by Claire Holden Rothman Page B

plates. There were little triangular sandwiches, their crusts meticulously removed, and a vast spread of tarts, tea cakes and cookies. All in my honour. I could hardly bear it.
    Grandmother was standing behind this well-stocked table in her familiar navy dress. What was unfamiliar was the smile beaming from her face. I lifted an arm to wave, but Mrs. Drummond appeared and clasped me in a clumsy, if well-intentioned, embrace. Mrs. D, as I called her, had been proprietary with me from the start, hugging me like a daughter, giving me tips on how to dress and what to say to Lady so-and-so or to her husband to win him to our cause. She even passed me clothes — discards from her own closet — which were slightly big but made from fabrics I could not have afforded myself.
    “Mrs. Drummond,” I began. I said nothing more, for she had already turned her attention to Felicity. Mrs. D’s sister-in-law, Lady Dunston, now had me in her sights and Miss McLea was coming to shake my hand. No one mentioned the visit to the dean.
    I was aching to cut through it all and unburden myself. “Mrs. Drummond,” I began again, reaching around her sister-in-law and Felicity. “I have bad news.”
    Mrs. Drummond’s large brown eyes turned my way. “Now Agnes. You have only just arrived. Business can wait, can it not? Take off your coat. I will get you both some tea. And if I do say so, the jam cakes turned out marvellously.”
    I looked over at Felicity, who at that moment was being dragged by well-meaning hands toward the table. Society women were odd. There was a protocol at these gatherings that they all mysteriously seemed to know. Each woman who walked in the door had to be greeted, seated and given tea before anything of substance could occur.
    A short while later I was sitting on one of Mrs. D’s delicate carved chairs, a teacup balanced on my knee, listening to my hostess chatter about a cat she had just acquired. I glanced miserably across the room and saw Grandmother wending her way toward me with Laure.
    “Agnes,” she said, walking up and clasping my hand. “You look splendid.” There followed a discussion of the dress I was wearing, which Mrs. D had given me. Grandmother had altered it, but now she pinched my waist. “It is loose,” she said unhappily. “My eyes are not what they used to be. I do not know how I missed it.”
    “It is not your eyes,” I told her. “I think I have lost weight.”
    Grandmother had recently celebrated her eightieth birthday and had quite suddenly turned old. Laure and I were still accustomizing ourselves to the change in her, but strangely, as her body stiffened and withered, her spirit grew suppler. This past year she had shown me more love than I could ever have imagined possible. Of course it helped that I had been successful, and that women like Mrs. Drummond and Lady Dunston were now backing my cause. What would happen, I could not help wondering, when Grandmother learned I had failed?
    Laure, who had been busy scanning the room, turned to examine my waistline.
    “Huntley Stewart is here,” I announced.
    She blushed and looked away.
    “He is with The Herald now,” I continued. “You did not tell me.”
    “You dislike him.” Laure’s eyes once more began to roam.
    “He was out on the porch having a fag.”
    “Agnes,” said Grandmother in a warning tone. She disapproved of slang, but the warning went further than that. She was aware of my opinions of Huntley Stewart and thought them disloyal.
    As if on cue Huntley and Andrew Morely poked their heads into the room. The maid followed remonstrating, but Mrs. Drummond rushed over and dismissed her, ushering the men in herself. I was dumbfounded. The rule at our meetings was to exclude reporters. What was publicized had been tightly controlled.
    Huntley turned toward me and Laure and waved. Then he executed a theatrical bow for my sister’s benefit, closing his eyes and making circles with his fingers in front of his bent forehead