Chasing Midnight

Julia Pomeroy broke off, her head snapping toward the house. Matrons gaped, and the handful of mature gentlemen in attendance muttered and shook their heads. Even the imperturbable Starke looked vaguely startled.

One by one the older guests and the few younger ones who had remained outside converged on the house like sleepwalkers under some sorcerer’s spell. Griffin left Mrs. Pomeroy and strode ahead of the others, already suspecting what he was about to find.

Every shade and curtain in the summer parlor had been drawn back to let in the sun. The oriental carpet had been rolled up and pushed against the wall, and a jazz recording was spinning on the turntable of the flattop Victrola, while a dozen young men and women clustered around Allegra Chase, clapping in time to her gyrating body and flying feet.

Griffin stood transfixed in the doorway, held captive by the music and the woman who danced with such abandon. Francis Spaulding began to copy Allegra’s movements, knobby arms and legs flailing. Elvira Dearing lifted her skirts above her knees and gave a few hesitant kicks, and then Tansy Higgenbotham threw herself into the dance with a little squeal of delight.

Allegra looked up at Griffin with a smile that he knew was meant for him and him alone. You see? she seemed to say. What’s the harm in a little fun?

Gemma laughed, her face glowing with happiness. Across the summer parlor, leaning against the doorjamb, Malcolm Owen gave a wry smile. Don’t ruin it. Let them be kids a little while longer…

“My God!” Mrs. Higgenbotham gasped in Griffin’s ear. “Is my Tansy…is that one of those horrid jazz dances?”

“Oh, my. Oh, my,” Mrs. Dearing murmured.

“Disgraceful,” Julia Pomeroy hissed.

“Come out of there at once, young man!” Mr. Spaulding bellowed at his son. He plunged past Griffin and reached for Francis, knocking into Gemma, who in turn bumped into the Victrola. The needle skidded off the record with a screech that brought everything to a violent halt.

Chapter Six

GRIFFIN STEPPED into the room and pulled Gemma out of the way. “Mr. Spaulding,” he said sharply, “I’ll ask you to watch where you’re going.”

“And I’ll ask you, Mr. Durant, not to expose my son to this vile mongrel…” He made a sound of disgust and dragged Francis from the room. The other young people looked at each other in stunned silence.

“What are you afraid of?” Allegra said to the parents, her body like a defiant shout. “Do you really believe that a little music and high spirits will turn your children into monsters of sin and depravity?” She met Griffin’s gaze. “Do you?”

“Well, I never!” someone choked.

“Disgusting!” another voice barked from the rear of the crowd.

Julia Pomeroy pushed forward, facing Allegra with a look of such hatred that it seemed her brittle face was about to crack under the strain. “You and your kind,” she snarled, “are destroying this great country with your filth and immorality. If I had my way—”

“If you had your way, madam,” Griffin said, “no one would be allowed to live in this great country but people exactly like you.”

Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. “Mr. Durant! I—”

“You would suffer a very great shock if you were to discover the extent of your ignorance of the world, Mrs. Pomeroy. There are far worse things than jazz and lipstick.”

His words shook the room like thunderclaps. For a moment no one stirred, and then everyone moved at once. Julia Pomeroy swayed as if she were about to faint. Distraught parents snatched their children from the jaws of corruption and scurried to safety. Mrs. Higgenbotham bellowed at her cringing daughter. Elvira Dearing hung back, resisting Mrs. Dearing’s limp tug.

“That was simply the bee’s knees, Miss Chase,” she said. “If I could only—”

Mrs. Dearing found unexpected strength and hauled Elvira away. Within two minutes the room was deserted except for Allegra, Griffin and Gemma, who stared after her friends with anger and bewilderment.

“Don’t they have any guts at all?” she demanded. “And you think I should marry one of them?”

Griffin held on to his calm by a thread. “This is hardly the time to discuss such matters, Gemma.”

She wrenched out of his hold and snatched her record from the Victrola. “It’s ruined,” she said, as if the gift were the only casualty of the afternoon’s fracas. “I only got to play it once.”

Allegra glanced at Griffin, her expression almost subdued. “I’m sorry, Gemma.”

“It isn’t your fault.” Gemma hugged the scratched disc to her chest. “It was the best present anyone could have given me.”

Griffin raked his hands through his hair and looked out the window. The lawn was deserted. The guests had undoubtedly found their way to the drive and their limousines. The party was most definitely over.

“Aren’t you going to go after them and apologize?” Mal asked from the hall doorway.

Griffin was in no mood for Mal’s gentle mockery. “Apologize?” he snapped. “Apologize for what? This is my home, and my sister. I won’t tolerate any selfrighteous criticism about how Gemma conducts herself or whom she chooses to invite to her own party. If those dried-up old prunes can’t bring themselves to crawl out of the nineteenth century…”

He stopped, aware that Gemma was staring at him in astonishment. Allegra watched him with an expression he couldn’t interpret. Mal lifted his glass in salute.

“Do you really mean it, Grif?” Gemma said, uncertainty in her voice. “The things you said to Mrs. Pomeroy…”