Chapter Two
June 16, 1934

Laura limped through the front door, her feet sending violent spasms of protest up into her legs as she shuffled into the foyer. It was the third day in a row that she'd decided to walk home instead of take a cab, and she'd hoped that the pain would ease as her body got used to the exercise. Her best heels weren't in the greatest shape, and they certainly had not been made for walking all over New York City in search of a job.

She leaned against the rail of the stairway and decided to wait a while before attempting the stairs. Now that she'd stopped moving, her feet and ankles prickled; it felt like a thousand hot needles covered the insides of her shoes. She hoped she could make it to the sitting room without falling over.

It wouldn't have been so bad if she could actually wear shoes meant for walking. She had two fine pairs of hunting boots sitting in her closet that would never torment her the way heels did, but most people didn't consider them proper attire for job interviews. At least, not for the jobs for which she was applying.

The house was still and quiet, making the sounds of her heels on the hard floor harsher as she hobbled into the sitting room. It was almost seven on a Friday evening; Alice had gone uptown to meet with George and his friends, and she wouldn't come home until midnight. Margaret did not approve of such late nights on the town, but Laura remained indifferent as long as Alice didn't ask for more money.

Margaret usually waited for Laura in the sitting room, but today it was empty. Laura threw herself onto the couch, taking off her little green cap and pulling her brown hair out of its usual bun. Her straight, shoulder-length hairstyle was horribly out of date, but she refused to chop off her hair and plaster it to her head in the waves that were so popular these days. That was fine for girls like Alice, but Laura was a mature divorcee. She felt she had no business trying to imitate younger styles.

Her mother's voice came from the kitchen. "Is that you, Laura?"

"Who else?" Laura called back.

She heard the kitchen door open and close, and then Margaret's footsteps sounded in the foyer with a graceful surety. Laura couldn't help but envy her mother for what seemed like a natural ability to endure the tortures of a high-heeled shoe. It helped that at home one had plenty of opportunities to sit down – not so in the midst of the city.

Margaret swept into the sitting room, looking as fresh as she had that morning when Laura left for the day. A large, unabashed smile lit her face. Laura did all that she could to keep from glaring at her.

"Why are you smiling?" she asked.

"Smiling?" Margaret said without hesitation. "Am I?"

"Is Dad doing better?"

"No," replied Margaret, and though the smile faltered, it remained as sincere as ever. "I'm afraid not. But, I have a surprise for you. It's in the kitchen."

"Is it steak?"

Now, Margaret's face tightened, and a stern frown replaced the smile. "Laura, you know we don't have the money for steak."

Laura would have laughed if that hadn't been a painful truth. "It was a joke, Mother. I have decided, the day before we run out of food, I'm going to steal the biggest steak I can find, eat in raw, and then jump off the Brooklyn Bridge."

The frown turned into an outright disapproving glare. "I wish you wouldn't say such things. It's morbid."

Laura brushed her bangs against her forehead and reasoned with herself that she certainly felt morbid. Perhaps that was what the looming specter of hunger and unpaid bills did to a person.

Margaret sat at the end of the couch and began taking off Laura's shoes for her. "Still no luck?"

"I'm not quite finished yet," Laura said. She managed a small, insincere smile. "I'll find something before the savings run out."

"Of course you will," said Margaret. Patting Laura's nylon-clad ankles, she dropped the heeled shoes on the floor.

Sighing, Laura wiggled her toes, enjoying the freedom of movement. The prickles began to abate. "I've been thinking," she said slowly. She stared at her toes to avoid her mother's gaze, unsure of how Margaret would react to what she wanted to say. "We should consider selling the house. We can find a smaller one. We can get rid of some of the clutter here; Alice and I could share a room."

Margaret's lips quivered, and she looked away. Laura hated to even mention the possibility of leaving the house; her grandparents had been so proud of the home, the first they could afford in an upper-class neighborhood. Margaret had spent the last of her pre-marriage years here, and it was the only property from her inheritance that she still controlled. Laura knew she'd wanted to leave it in the hands of her own children, to pass down through the generations as a legacy to the Baum family's American dream.

But Laura would not hold on to such idealistic notions, and the fact was that they could not afford the house anymore. Repairs had been prolonged because they simply didn't have the money, and the winter heating had drained more from their savings than Laura had expected. One of the bedrooms and the nursery stood empty, and Alice wouldn't remain in the house much longer, if only that high-browed beau of hers would quit stalling and buy a ring.

"You're right," said Margaret, and her voice sounded far away. She stood up, swaying a little. "Of course, you're right. Who needs a house this size these days anyway? Shall I call Mr. Darcy?"

Laura sat up, grabbing Margaret's arm, partly to steady her and partly because she just wanted the contact. "It's a bit late to do that. I'll call him in the morning. I'll take care of it. You don't need to worry."

Gazing down at her daughter, Margaret looked more focused, and she patted Laura's cheek. "I never worry with you around, dear. You'll keep us going."

"Right," Laura said, letting go of Margaret's arm. "So, no more worries. What about my surprise?"

"Oh!" Margaret cried. Her eyes went wide, and the smile returned to her face, but it had dimmed some. Happiness clung to it, never quite making a complete return. "Just wait here, and I'll run and get it."

As Margaret left the room, Laura lay back on the couch and closed her eyes, trying to will away the aches in her feet and back. The day had ended much like the previous thirteen days: unproductive and tiring. None of her father's friends and acquaintances had any need for her. Some had promised to pass on any openings to her, but she doubted anything would come of it. Secretaries and office girls weren't exactly in high demand, especially if the applicant was the thirty-something daughter of a baronet. That wasn't on her resume, but most of the men she'd met with in the past two weeks knew it, and a few even held it against her. She'd long ago given up explaining that baronets weren't even nobility, because nobody ever listened to her.

Having exhausted her father's business connections, she'd have to look elsewhere. Tutoring might be the only option left to her; there were still plenty of wealthy young ladies in need of French lessons living in New York. She'd taught in Bombay for a few years before marrying Will, and she would do it again if she had to. But all the bright, shining faces of the little heiresses, hopeful in the promises of their futures – the thought of it depressed her.

Footsteps in the foyer again, but this time, they were heavier and belonged to a flat sole rather than a heel. They stopped in the sitting room's entryway, replaced by the rumble of a man clearing his throat. The smell of men's cologne tickled her nose. When she opened her eyes, it took a moment for her to recognize the man as her brother Robert.

The last time she had seen him, he'd been thinner and paler, the result of living the life of a rather unsuccessful playboy in Paris. Now, he filled out his stylish suit nicely, though he didn't have the typical athletic Ashfield frame. Robert preferred gambling on sporting events to actually participating in them. His dark hair, slicked back into a shiny cap, gave him an aristocratic air, aided by the smooth lines of his jaw. Many women thought him handsome, and when he cleaned himself up, Laura could begin to understand why.

"Good Lord," she said, sitting up on the couch. "Look at you. You look almost civilized."

"That's a fine way to greet me," replied Robert. "It's only been three years, after all."

"How much money do you need? We don't have any, you know."

He smiled, but she could tell it hurt him. It didn't feel as satisfying as she thought it would. "Actually," he said, "I'm here to give you money."

That startled her, and it put her on guard. Since entering and flunking out of college, Robert had made a career of spending money, even when he had none of his own. Never in his twenty-five years had he offered to repay any of the money he had borrowed – God knew how much the Ashfields had given to him. Only when their own finances had hit bottom had Sir Walter refused to continue paying for his vices.

"I'm finding that hard to believe," she said after a moment.

"I've got a job, Laura!" he cried. He leapt over to the couch and pulled her into an embrace that she didn't return. "A real job, not like the ones I had in college."

She remembered those jobs well, and she also remembered Sir Walter bailing him out of jail a few times. Pulling away from him, she said, "I still find that hard to believe."

"Understandable," he replied. He stood over her, and she disliked being so much lower than him. She rose from the couch, stepping away a bit to make some breathing room. "This one's different," he continued. "A film job, in Bombay of all places! It's completely legit."

Laura's eyes narrowed. "You're dealing with Carl Denham, aren't you?"

"Yes," Robert said earnestly. Off Laura's glare, he added, "What's wrong?"

She stared at him, scrutinizing his suit. "Is that new?"

"You like?" Robert grinned and turned around, modeling the suit with his hands on his hips. A fine-looking suit it was, no doubt tailor-made of the finest product. "It was just finished today. A little tight around the waist, but I can attest that to the fine lunch Carl insisted on having."

Laura grabbed him by the lapels of that fine new suit and gave them a twist. "Tell me you didn't take any money from him."

"Easy," he said. He grabbed her hands and attempted to pry them off the fabric. She should be careful, a suit like this wasn't meant to be manhandled – She gave him a shake to let him know she was still attached and still mighty interested in getting an answer to her question. "I wouldn't say I took it from him. I mean, he gave me a check. How could I say no to Carl?"

"You fool," Laura said. She shoved him away, and he fell back a few steps. He smoothed his lapels, pleased to see that she hadn't done any real damage. Laura pressed a palm to her forehead, her anger now spent and replaced by a sense of resignation. "Why did you have to accept his money?"

"We need the money," Robert said. She shifted her gaze to his suit. "I didn't spend it all. We can pay off Dad's doctor bills. I can pay off some of that money I owe to Arthur. And this was just a retainer; we'll get more as soon as we leave for India."

Laura held out a hand, pressing her palm against his chest. "What?"

"He didn't specify how much we'd be getting, but it should be a fine amount with the both of us going."

"You told Denham that I would go to India with the Society?"

"He seemed to think that you didn't want to go."

"I don't."

"But," Robert said, and then he paused, trying to determine the problem. He sat down on the couch and gazed up at her with confused brown eyes. "You've never been fond of New York. Mother says you want to go back to Bombay."

"I do," she replied, sitting next to him. "But not like this."

"You've worked with Denham before."

"He's not the issue. The Society is the issue."

"Oh," he said, and the expression on his face suggested that he didn't understand at all what she meant.

Laura patted his knee. "I don't know who's crazier: you or Denham. Trusting Beaufort is like trusting a snake not to have any venom when it bites you."

"He's not the first businessman to put his interest in the movies."

"But in a serial? It's ridiculous."

Something else troubled her, though she would not mention to Robert. He had none of the experience that she and John had with Bombay. He'd been only five when they left India at the onset of the Great War, hardly old enough to begin seriously taking up hunting.

No doubt he'd hunted some with his upper crust friends in England – where the fashionable set planned its year around the hunting seasons – but that could not be compared to sitting up all night in a stand waiting for tiger. She didn't know if Robert had ever even seen a live tiger in the wild. If he was to be the Society's handler, Laura was concerned for the safety of the group. She'd have made a solid bet that Denham had only used Robert as bait for her.

He knew her well enough to suspect it would work. She wouldn't take the money herself, so she wouldn't have seen what she could do with it. Robert refused money from no one, and he'd already demonstrated that all he knew was hot to spend that money on himself. Their father was dying, and he went out and thought nothing of buying a new suit. Could she really allow herself to put the fate of the family in his hands?

"Goddamn it," she muttered. "What else can I do?"

"You'll go?" he asked eagerly. He looked, for a moment, like the little boy he had once been, begging to be included in the Matheran camping trips Sir Walter used to take the two older children on.

"Well," she said. "At least I'll be going home."

Robert whooped and jumped off the couch, lifting Laura up with him. She cried out in surprise as he grabbed her by the waist and whirled her into the foyer. He swung her around and around, dancing to music that couldn't be heard, and it took all of Laura's will not to vomit her meager lunch all over his new suit.