old-fashioned boy, always courtly, even in the Gentsâ.
âPatrick,â she said. The rest of the sentence was more difficult to say; there were so many choices for how it could end: âI donât want to lose youâ or âI donât want to lose myselfâ or âI donât know if I have time to love anyone properlyâ or âIâm not the sort of person people love.â But the way Kate said his name seemed to tell Patrick everything he needed to know. She could see it in his faceâa trace of disappointment, and then that smile.
âWeâre fine now, Kate?â he said. âSorry I overstepped.â
Friends again, she thought. But wasnât sure that was what she wanted at all.
âWell, then,â he said. âNice suit. How have you been?â
He was trying to make her smile, but she couldnât. He put his arm around her. âLet me walk you home. Whereâs your hat and gloves?â
The last Kate remembered, they were on the rosewood table in front of the fireplace at The Carlyle, looking as if they belonged. But they didnât belong, and neither did she. And now her very best hat and her beautiful, soft kidskin gloves were gone. She took the package from Patrick. âIâll be fine. Go back and have fun.â
Kate gently pushed her way past him, into the crowd and then into the night, alone.
Chapter Eight
âYou gotta have style. It helps you get up in the morning. Itâs a way of life. Without it youâre nobody.â
âDiana Vreeland
A hot bath was what Kate needed, a good, long soak, but it was little comfort. Steam filled the small, white room: a poor heaven. Windows kept the stars at bay. She couldnât imagine what Mrs. Brown thought of her going into the Gentsâ. Patrickâs peace offering made her feel even worse. It had been slid under her door. Inside the large manila envelope there was a poem by Yeats that Patrick had copied out carefully, calligraphy style, on cream parchment paper with deep, black ink. No one had ever done such a lovely thing for Kate before.
Had I had the Heavenâs embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light
Kate hadnât thought of Yeats since her days at National School, when sheâd had to memorize one of his poems. Sheâd chosen this very one because it was short, although at the time sheâd thought it was overly grand. Enwrought was just a fancy word for embroidered, after all. As soon as sheâd passed her exams, sheâd forgotten it.
I would spred the clothes under your feet.
But I, being poor, have only my dreams:
Now she couldnât get it out of her head. Outside Kateâs window, the pub crowd was stumbling home. William Butler Yeats as a way of apology. Only Patrick Harris would do such a thing.
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Kateâs heaven was poor indeed. There was no fabric embroidered with golden or silver light. Water pipes ran from floor to ceiling, exposed and rusting. The painted cast-iron bathtub was peeling. And yet, there was Yeats and his exquisite vision of the world; there was some comfort in that.
 Â
Kate meant to close her eyes for just a moment but slipped into sleep. Then slipped further, nearly under the water. It was a laugh that woke herâslurred and squealing outside her window. Maggie, very late and quite drunk, was coming home with Big Mike in tow. Kate jumped out of the cold tub. She couldnât stop shaking. Her thin terry-cloth robe smelled of bluing and was stiff. It felt harsh against her skin. She put it on, tied it tightly, and sat on the chipped bathroom floor.
The bare lightbulb, the stained walls, and the rusting pipes that moaned nearly continuouslyâ This is my life, she thought. Life under the clouds. It suddenly did not feel beautiful and broken, but merely broken. That was when Kate decided that she would copy Chanelâs toile even before
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