Still, to prevent wavering, she focused on the book she had packed. Ten Days in a Mad-House. It was Nellie Bly’s firsthand report of committing herself to an asylum for a shocking exposé. Lily had read the account so many times one could easily question her own sanity. Rationale, perhaps, for what she was about to do.
After the reception, Clayton would escort her back to her hotel, and before parting ways, she would bring to an end what she never should have started.
• • •
The ceremony—aside from the stained glass, marble columns, and vaulted ceilings at St. Patrick’s Cathedral—was fairly standard as marital masses went. It was the reception that boasted all the extravagance of New York high society. In the Waldorf Astoria, the grand ballroom swirled with a sea of tuxedos and formal gowns, of colognes and perfumes and haze from expensive tobacco. Conversations and laughter competed with the strings of an unseen quartet.
Save for the pretension, Lily couldn’t refute it was an impressive affair. Six-arm candelabras flickered at the center of each round table. Spread over pressed white linens were identical displays of gold serving ware, crimson petals, and perfectly folded napkins. Gloved waiters served crystal flutes of champagne—the presence of two congressmen, as Clayton pointed out, apparently precluding the event from any legal hassles.
“May I?” Clayton slid Lily’s chair out for her. By candlelight, in his white jacket and black bow tie, his hair slicked with pomade, he looked undeniably dashing.
She smiled politely and took her seat, joining the table of his New York press friends and their wives. With Clayton at her side, it occurred to her just how much like a couple they appeared, putting her ill at ease.
She welcomed the diversion of the bride’s father giving a formal toast with a dose of wit, apt for an oil tycoon. He made only one playful jab about his son-in-law marrying up. Then the men at Lily’s table plunged into their journalistic gabbing. Between drags on their cigarettes, they lobbed tales of wrathful editors, newsroom politics, and off-the-record scandals. They described run-ins with the infamous William Hearst and ribbed one another about which of their papers deserved the top spot.
Their wives also shared a common history, made clear by their gossip and updates on mutual friends. When the topic of their children finally emerged, Lily perked up at the chance to contribute. But then she recalled how any mention of Samuel would require an awkward explanation. Thus, she continued to nibble on her quail and sip her champagne, feigning intrigue over the words curling around her.
Not until later, as she rose to excuse herself to the powder room, did she feel the full effects of her drink, magnified by the warmth of the ballroom. Rarely one to indulge, she lingered in private to collect her bearings and remembered the ultimate mission of her evening.
Various women passed behind her as she stood before an ornate oval mirror. Once steadied by a few deep breaths, she started back for the reception. At the ballroom entrance awaited Clayton, their overcoats draping his arm.
“There you are.” His tone was more anxious than relieved.
She sifted through her muddled thoughts, wondering just how long she had been in the ladies’ room. “Are we leaving?”
“There’s been a robbery. It’s a jewelry store off Times Square. A fatal shooting, maybe. Might even be Willie Sutton, escaped from the pen. That’s the word we just got.” He motioned to other newsmen collecting their belongings from the coat-check girls. When Lily was slow to react, he added, “Of course…if you want to stay, we can.”
The distracted thrill in his eyes said he was already there, on the scene, formulating a story. Although she knew this was his job, his eagerness to race toward a dead body as if it weren’t a real person who’d be mourned by loved ones made her cringe inside.
“No, that’s fine,” she said. “I have an early train. I should be calling it a night anyway.”
“Ah, good. Then I’ll just take you to your hotel first.”
Her hotel—the location for a talk that obviously would have to wait.
He held her coat open for her. As she slid her arms in, she realized she still needed her purse. Had she left it in the lavatory? Or was it under her chair? Or perhaps…
“Lily?” Clayton was yards away when he discovered she hadn’t followed. He returned with the impatience of a track star summoned back for a false start.