Fallen Sparrow Read Free Page B

Wilhite?” he asked.
    The maid had followed him. She said with stupid eyes on his gum drop, “Mr. and Mrs. Wilhite are in Florida, sir.”
    He should have known. Geoffrey Wilhite’s perfect inherited taste hadn’t gone wrong when he’d convinced Beatrice McKittrick she should marry him. No one would ever guess she’d come up the hard way. She’d forgotten it herself. Neither she nor the upper crust she’d cavorted with for twelve years would ever have a picture of a young bride hanging diapers out a tenement window. Maybe she’d laughed more when she and Chris were courting at Tammany’s Fourth of July picnic; hearty laughter didn’t exactly fit in a Wilhite drawing-room; but she had more fun now. And part of it was Palm Beach in season.
    He walked to the window, looked out, looked fourteen stories down to the street. He’d never liked living on Park, nothing but the tops of taxicabs to see. On Riverside there was the river, the smoky little tugs. But Riverside wasn’t smart enough for the Geoffrey Wilhites. To Chris it had been an achievement. He turned back to the dumb girl.
    “Is Lotte here?” Cooks didn’t come and go; not when they could cook like Charlotte. Someone should welcome him.
    “Cook’s night out?” No, that wouldn’t be until Thursday.
    “She’s gone to her niece’s in New Jersey. To help with the twins.”
    That was that. He said, “I’m Kit McKittrick.”
    She didn’t blink an eye to show she understood. “Yes, sir.”
    He explained, “Mrs. Wilhite’s son.” There wasn’t a picture of him less than ten years old in the apartment. She couldn’t know. But she wasn’t surprised.
    “Yes, sir. I’m Elise. Anything I can do, sir.”
    She didn’t look up to a meal. He said, “Bring me a double brandy and soda.” She certainly wasn’t too smart and he warned, “Don’t mix it, just bring me the tray. Never mind about food. I’ll be going out.” He’d known it as soon as he’d learned his mother was away. He was going to see Barby.
    He didn’t have to apologize to himself as the shower rained down on his dark head. It was necessary to see Barby, to tell her that he wouldn’t be seeing her for a while. God damn rationalization. It was necessary to see Barby because she was an itch, and she’d been an itch ever since Ab Hamilton had her down for Junior Week six years come spring. He must be under her skin some way too or she’d be married by now. She was twenty-four, three years younger than he. There wouldn’t be a lack of offers. The combination of looking like a model for top hat illustrations and being the daughter of the Burr Tavitons wouldn’t leave her unasked. And she wasn’t like some, take marriage without the ceremony. He might have been married to her himself, not that the Dowager Taviton made any pretense about Chris McKittrick’s son being good enough for a Taviton heiress, but Geoffrey Wilhite’s stepson was a horse of another hue. He and Barby married—that was what he’d wanted for six years. But no, he’d gone junketing off four years ago with an idealistic yen to save Spaniards from other Spaniards. He spat the shower water out of his mouth; definite end to that kind of thinking. But it was healthy that he could think about it again. He dug at his shoulders with the rough towel. When he’d docked last year he couldn’t have. When they’d shipped him out to Arizona five months ago he couldn’t have. But now he didn’t hear deformed footsteps any more.
    That was another reason to see Barby. He poured a second drink from the tray load which the dumb girl had left on his desk. One thing about Geoffrey, he bought the best brandy. The girl hadn’t brought in his bag but he didn’t need it. Plenty of clean stuff in the drawers and he’d shaved closely before arriving. It had helped to pass the hitching time of those final hours. He had to show Barby that he was a man again. He could stand up straight and his knees didn’t flap; his waistline