“I don’t care about the outfits.”
Veronica noted a grim expression on the editorial director’s face. She certainly did, although she didn’t seem eager to share that fact.
One by one, the models gingerly made their way down the stone steps. The snowflakes acted as a gauzy filter for the weighty stone wall and gray trees rising above Fifth Avenue, the perfect winter tableau. Maybe Barnaby knew what he was doing, after all. They wouldn’t be out here long, certainly.
Within minutes, Veronica’s ankles turned to ice, the snowflakes bit into her bare cheeks and arms, and the wind, which had picked up, almost swept her off her feet.
They posed as directed, shivering together in a huddle while the PAs replaced the film in the camera, then posed again. Veronica couldn’t feel her fingers or her toes, and her silk shoes were sopping wet.
“I have a brilliant idea,” said Barnaby, pointing up with his free hand. “I’m going to go to the floor above and shoot down at you. I want you all on your backs making snow angels when I give the order.”
“What?” asked Tangerine. “In the snow?”
“Of course.”
“Can we come in and warm up a little while you set up?” Veronica ventured.
“No, won’t be long. Stay put.”
It would take him at least ten minutes to reset on the floor above. And then they were supposed to roll around on the ground? Veronica and Tangerine exchanged glances.
“But it’s freezing,” said Tangerine, her lips blue.
“Tangerine.” Barnaby pointed a finger at her. “I wouldn’t think you would be so cold, with that extra layer of fat you carry around.”
To Veronica’s astonishment, not one of the other models said a word in protest, even though they all had chattering teeth. She remembered the go-see where, fed up by the lack of consideration for the models’ time, she’d channeled her frustrations and discovered a power she didn’t even know she had. She drew on that now. He had no right to be so cruel.
“This is inhumane,” she said. “We’re all going to get terribly sick. And that’s an awful thing to say to Tangerine. You should apologize.”
“Stop it,” hissed Tangerine. “Shut up.”
Veronica turned to her. “We don’t have to be treated like this.”
Barnaby spoke up. “Are you going to hold up the shoot even further than it already is? Let me remind you, we all have a train to catch, and right now you’re the one keeping these girls stuck out in the cold.”
“Yeah, shut the hell up.” Gigi practically spit out the words.
Barnaby spoke with crisp displeasure. “I will make the next few days hell for you if you don’t obey me. You got that, Veronica? If you’re so cold, go inside. We’ll do this without you.”
She thought of Polly, of all the money she was earning, and grudgingly allowed her courage to dissipate. “I’m fine,” she muttered.
Ten minutes later she was flat on her back in a foot of snow, waving her arms and legs back and forth while Barnaby yelled out orders from the upper floor of the Frick Collection. The evening gown stuck to her body, the wet cutting into her skin like acid.
“Veronica, you’re not trying,” brayed Barnaby. “More arms, please.”
A strong gust of wind swept a coating of powdery snow over them, causing the girls to shriek. They’d be buried alive if this continued. Veronica sat up. “I can’t anymore. It’s too cold.”
Barnaby lowered his camera. “That’s it. Get out of my sight. Now.”
He didn’t have to say it twice.
Veronica ran past the crew and disappeared deep into the house.
Upstairs, Veronica stripped off the soaked, utterly wretched gown, and used her scarf to dry herself off. Shivering still, she pulled on her street clothes, thankful that she’d packed a thick turtleneck and jeans. Outside the window, the snow was coming down even harder. She watched it, mesmerized, miserable at herself for not being able to cope, frustrated at having stood up for Tangerine, only to make matters worse. She packed up her suitcases and sat for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Go down and wait? Leave and catch the next plane back to London?
She glanced out the window again. As much as she’d like to return home, she couldn’t imagine flights were taking off in this weather. In fact, she wondered if the train would make it out to Newport. Storms like this occurred so infrequently in Britain, she was unsure of how it all worked here. Americans most likely soldiered through regardless of the weather, as the models had earlier. That stupid, snowy caper had been ridiculous.
But was Veronica willing to put her plan for Polly in jeopardy over one lousy photographer? Sabrina would be terribly disappointed as well. Veronica let out a long breath. No, instead, she’d go down and talk to Barnaby, try to reason with him, and get him to agree to a fresh start in Newport. It was the grown-up thing to do.
She gave one last look at that unnerving portrait of the little girl on the wall and walked out.
As she rounded the corner, the high-pitched squeals of the other models rang up the stairwell. They were on their way back upstairs. For all of Veronica’s earlier swagger, she wasn’t ready to see the other girls yet, to have them regard her as if she were some kind of madwoman. Instead, she ducked through the nearest open door and closed it softly behind her.
She was standing in a small vestibule that opened off to the left into a larger room that was filled with strange shiny tubes. She put down her suitcases and walked farther inside.
The tubes must be the pipes for the organ in the stairwell. During her family’s few pilgrimages to the local parish, Veronica had stared up at the pipes that rose behind the church organ and wondered how the sound traveled from the keyboard, if there wasn’t someone back there blowing into them to make them work.
A narrow walkway cut through the maze of tubes, and she wandered through as carefully as she could toward a small window on the far side of the room, which looked to the north but didn’t have much of a view.
The girls’ voices had dissipated. They would need some time to change out of their clothes and pack up, so for now the coast was clear. Veronica was heading back to the vestibule to collect her suitcases when her right heel unexpectedly skidded along the floor and she lost her balance, stumbling backward. She fell hard on her bottom, breaking some of the impact with her palms. How pathetic. She had no right being a model if she couldn’t even put one foot in front of the other without ending up in a heap.
She sat for a moment, legs out in front of her, and rubbed her stinging palms together. As she braced herself to stand back up, a flash of white caught her eye. Deep within the forest of organ pipes lay what looked to be a small pile of papers. They were slightly curled at the edges, and reminded her of the love letters her mother had stashed in a box at the back of a hall closet after her father’s death. She reached in, sliding her fingers between the cold metal until she could grasp them, and slowly pulled them out.
The pages were covered in dust, and she sneezed twice. Sitting cross-legged, she gently fanned them to one side to shake off the residue. What a strange place for old papers. Maybe it was the instruction manual for the organ.
But it wasn’t. Each page contained some kind of odd poem, written with a fountain pen in an old-fashioned calligraphy. They were numbered, and filled with strange references to pillars of salt, marriage caskets, seascapes. You’re halfway to the end of the course of clues, read one.
A series of clues. The very first one had a date on it: November 1919.
When she and Polly were young, they’d entertain themselves with scavenger hunts on rainy days when they couldn’t go out in the garden. Or rather, Veronica entertained Polly. She’d rummage through their toy chest and pick out the smaller items, like a penny whistle, or a tiny doll, and make drawings of what they were and where they were—a doll holding a biscuit to indicate the biscuit jar, for example. Then she’d hide them about the house and watch with glee as Polly tried to locate each one. Whenever her sister found one, she’d throw her head back and make her happy sound, which always made Veronica burst into laughter as well.