And Gail Hoyt had already demonstrated her suitability for the profession.
There is more to this story of how Gail Hoyt came to be upon that roof. If you guessed that the perpetrator was Mrs. Pell’s jealous, black-hearted suitor Mannheim, you would be all but technically correct — it was a man that Mannheim hired who did the dirty deed.
When the wind blows, the baby shall fall
And Lana and I shall marry after the bawl.
But in fairness to the veritable multitude of characters who are waiting to march, strut, stroll, stride, tramp, tiptoe, goose-step, mosey, limp, stumble, sashay, ramble and/or promenade in the cavalcade that is this book, we must leave Gail to the care of her leotarded, high-flying adoptive parents. However, it should be noted that our protagonist’s life was destined to take no small number of interesting twists and turns before her candle finally sputtered out in 2001. Should you wish to spend a few moments with her in the year before her death, by all means skip to the final pages of this book and have done with it. But if you will be patient, you’ll be rewarded by a visit with Gail long before then in a story that puts her back upon a roof and once again in harm’s way.
Because Gail Hoyt Hopper Rabbitt, human analogue to this century now past, could not keep herself content and quiet and still. It simply was not in her nature. Nor was it in the nature of that which has been called the American Century to go quietly into the annals of history.
It is a fact from which, this author hopes, we will all derive profit.
1902 VEHICULAR IN NEW YORK
“I should think that he would have better sense. He looks like an absolute fool.”
“Who looks like an absolute fool, dear?”
“Haven’t you been listening to me, Mother?”
Rosalinda Eames turned from the window to face her mother, who sat knitting across the room, the older woman’s spectacles resting halfway down her aquiline nose, so that she should better see her daughter just over the rim. The picture was one of maternal scrutiny writ casual, almost transitory.
“Of course I’ve been listening to you. But you have yet to say his name — the object of your studied observation. Am I to guess it? It’s much too early in the morning for games, my dear.”
“It’s Cadwalader, Mother.” Rosalinda returned herself to the serious business of descrying. With the sleeve of her green-checkered muslin blouse, she wiped away a little of the condensation from her breath that had clouded her view through the pane
“Cadwalader? I had heard that the poor man had taken to his bed. What’s he doing standing at the end of our lane looking like a fool, and so very, very sick in the bargain?”
Rosalinda heaved a theatrical suspiration of impatience. “It isn’t the father to whom I’m referring, Mother, and you know it. It’s Wilberforce. The son.” Rosalinda was set to punctuate her superfluous clarification with another labored sigh, when suddenly her exasperation demanded expression of a different sort: a gasp of overwhelming indignation. “Just look at him — shaking his fist like a character in some wretched melodrama.”
“At whom is he shaking his fist, dear? God?” Mrs. Eames set her knitting down upon her lap, taking care not to surrender her skein of yarn to the calico that lay at her feet, the creature, no doubt, cogitating upon the skein’s many playtime possibilities.
“Not God, Mother. The tree. Our tree. Our cherry tree. He’s run his machine into it and then to add insult to injury, he has stepped out of that awful crumpled contraption to indict the tree.”
“Why has he hit our tree with his motor, dear?”
“Because he doesn’t know how to steer it, apparently. Had he a carriage, the horse would certainly have avoided collision. As a rule, horses do not run themselves into trees. Oh, for the love of God, Mother, he’s coming this way. He’s heading directly for our door. He’ll want to use our telephone, I’ll wager.” Rosalinda stepped away from the window and quickly drew the curtains. “Be very quiet. Perhaps he’ll think we’re out.”
“It’s quite early, dear. He must know that people like us don’t leave their homes at such an early hour. It’s only the servants who have business in town betimes.”
In a strained whisper: “Yet he’s out. Out and about at the crack of dawn like the insufferable fool that he is.”
“You judge people much too harshly, dear. It isn’t becoming.”
Rosalinda sat herself upon the divan and tried to compose herself. The door chime sounded and within a moment, Mary Grace, the housemaid, appeared in the adjoining foyer.
“Mary Grace!” summoned Rosalinda in a raised whisper. “We are not at home.”
“But of course you’re at home, miss. I can see you sitting right there.”
Rosalinda turned to her mother. “She’s a dolt, Mary Grace is — a perfect dolt. Sack her, mother. Sack her this very morning.”
Mary Grace, who now stood halfway in the foyer and halfway in the drawing room, frowned. “I heard what you said, miss. I may be a perfect dolt but I have perfect hearing as well.”
“What I mean, Mary Grace, is that you should tell him — Mr. Cadwalader — you should tell him that we are not in. In short, you are to lie. We pay your wages, Mother and I, and so you must do what we ask without question.”
Mary Grace nodded and went to the door. It was not possible for Mrs. Eames and her twenty-two-year-old daughter to see the door from where they sat in the drawing room, but it was quite easy for them to hear the exchange that took place over its threshold.
“Good morning, Mary Grace,” said Cadwalader in a voice that seemed almost too sonorous and refined for his youthful twenty-three years. “I’ve had a mishap with my machine. It has hit a tree and is no longer operable. I must have it removed to my garage for repairs.”
“Begging your pardon, sir — what’s a garage?”
“It’s like a stable but for automobiles. May I use your telephone?”
Mary Grace hesitated. “Are you not going to ask if my mistress and the baby mistress are here?”
“Well, it isn’t necessary for me to speak to Mrs. or Miss Eames. I simply require access to a telephone.”
“Because they aren’t here. They have both gone into town.”
Mary Grace, having failed to place herself sufficiently in the way of Cadwalader, was unable to successfully prevent his incursion into the foyer and, subsequently, his sighting of both Mrs. and Miss Eames, neither of whom appeared to be out. In point of fact, both women were sitting in close proximity, their heads identically cocked in an eavesdropping posture.
Cadwalader removed his cap and brushed the shoulders of his duster with opposite hands. “I believe that you are mistaken, Mary Grace,” he said, with an arch grin. “They are returned already. Here they are. Good morning, Mrs. Eames. Good morning, Miss Eames. I seek use of your telephone, if you will permit me. I have had a vehicular mishap.”
“You have rammed our prized cherry tree is what you have done!” gnarred Rosalinda, bounding up from her chair. “Planted by my grandfather with great care and devotion. It came all the way from the Orient and will be most difficult to replace.”
“I have every intention of indemnifying you fully for your loss, Miss Eames. Remind me: where is the instrument so that I may place my call?”
“Please take Mr. Cadwalader to the telephone, Mary Grace,” said Mrs. Eames in a composed manner. “Mr. Cadwalader, you are welcome to remove your horseless carriage from our front lawn by whatever means best suits your purpose.”