Decorum (18 page)

C
HAPTER
22

Blanche had wheedled out of Connor that the Worths’ invitation to Christmas dinner had arrived. She had also wheedled out of him that the woman she saw at Madame Pommier’s millinery was the same Miss Lund who attended the same Jeromes who were guests at Thanksgiving, the same Miss Lund who was engaged to Edmund Tracey.

A change had come upon Connor, though he tried to conceal it—the introspection, the distraction, the obvious effort to show enthusiasm for anything that interested Blanche. She had attributed it to the press of business and the hotel, but she soon realized it was something else. He seemed a little lost, absorbed in reverie from which she found it hard to rouse him. Even in the midst of their lovemaking he was absent from her.

With this new invitation, she was determined to stand her ground. She had a right to complain, didn’t she? She had given up Thanksgiving, hadn’t she? She was a respectable widow. If she didn’t stand up for herself, Connor would certainly never respect her.

“Oh, no you don’t, not this time,” Blanche fumed, “I will not be left behind again.”

“It’s not my party, Blanche. I didn’t make the choices. You’d hate it anyway. The place’ll be crawling with kids, just like it was at Thanksgiving.”

“That’s not the point. You promised me that once you broke in with these people you’d see to it that I would be introduced. I won’t let you shove me in a cupboard as if I don’t exist. You’ve had your chance—two in fact. What am I supposed to do by myself while you’re eating your Christmas pudding?” Her face was hard and her words were sharp.

“I’m sorry, Blanche. Truly. The Worths asked me again for Christmas dinner—and did not include any guest of mine in the invitation. It’ll be just like it was, only worse. Kids’ll be crawling all over and shouting and showin’ off all their presents. You’ll go mad.”

“If you can stand it, so can I.”

“You wouldn’t last an hour.”

“Well, the whole party can’t be made up of children. Who else will be there?” Blanche tried to make the question seem natural.

“Whadaya mean?”

“It’s a straightforward question. Who else was invited?”

“Just a few friends of the Worths.”

“Who are they?”

“Some people you wouldn’t know.” The comment stung.

“What are you on at me about?” he snapped. “Probably the Jeromes and maybe a few other people, that’s all. How should I know?”

Question, evasion, question, evasion. It was infuriating.

“I want to go.”

“It’s a bit late for that.” His irritation showed more and more. She didn’t care.

“Then decline. Say you can’t go. Say you’re sick. Say anything.” She choked back her last words and turned away.

“I can’t do that,” O’Casey said.

“Why not?”

“It’d insult them.”

“Decline!” Blanche lost her composure. “Decline and tell them you’re spending your Christmas with me!”

“I can’t do—”

“So help me, O’Casey, if you don’t either decline or get me invited, I’ll find out where they live and I’ll come and make a spectacle of myself.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” said Connor. He grunted as he rose from the divan in her sitting room. “You’ll ruin everything.”

“If you don’t take me I swear to God that when I’m through, they’ll be glad to see the back of you.”

“Don’t go threatenin’ me, Blanche.” His voice had dropped to the low growl she knew well—the tone he took on just before the real shouting began. He took one step toward her and pointed at her. “Don’t you dare try it with me.”

She picked up a china figurine and hurled it with all her might at Connor, who ducked just before it went crashing into the mirror above the mantel. Two more ornaments were sacrificed before he could grasp her around the arms. Desperation welled up in her chest as she flailed about. She could hardly breathe. Anger choked her.

“I won’t be treated like this! I won’t! I won’t!” she shrieked.

“Stop it, Blanche!”

She kicked him.

“Damn you!” He threw her against the settee. She could see on his face the pain his maneuver cost him. She sprang to her feet and rushed toward him. He grabbed her wrists before her hands could reach his face. He backed her toward the settee and tripped her up to let her fall back upon it.

As he let her go, she grabbed the front of his waistcoat and pulled him on top of her. Using the only weapon she had, she planted her mouth across his mouth and entwined her leg around his. The friction of her leg inched up her skirt as she held him in a firm grasp that she knew he would have no inclination to break. He tried to pull away, but the attempt was half-hearted. Anger and frustration seared through her.

“Take me,” she said as she grasped at his mouth with hers. She grabbed the waist of his trousers and continued to pull at him so that he gave in and fell heavily upon her. “Take me with you.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” she said, every movement of her body enticing him onward. “You can, and you will.”

 

Shillingford sat on the edge of the bed in his modest hotel room and by the light of a small oil lamp deciphered the scrawl that was as lanky and tousled as the Georgian himself. The thought of McNee’s body in some remote hollow, the fear of discovery, of careful planning gone awry shot anxiety and weariness through the detective’s frame—but McNee was alive. That was something at least. He fingered the thick letter in his hand. How could anybody—even McNee—wax philosophical for four pages on the subject of defeat? He lay back on the bed and prepared to be astonished.

Get on with it,
thought Shillingford.

C
HAPTER
23

“So, you got your wish, then.” Connor dropped the letter on the table in front of Blanche. “Happy now?”

She swept it up triumphantly. “Of course. I knew they couldn’t resist another poor homeless waif on Christmas.”

Though she reveled in her triumph over Connor, the invitation had cost Blanche dearly. She asked no questions as to how he had engineered it, but, forewarned to expect a call, she received Mrs. Worth and her daughter Edith at teatime one afternoon. Connor’s stress upon the importance of this meeting and the consequences of any misstep had unnerved her. The ladies were cordial and impeccably correct, but Blanche felt their scrutiny keenly. She could practically hear the gears turning in their minds, noting every aspect of her dress and toilette, her deportment and manners, her expressions, her taste, searching for any objection that might justify excluding her. With great effort Blanche overcame her natural acerbity and desire to display her wit and made do with elegance and etiquette. They stayed half an hour.

“Just remember who she is, and where you are, and who you’re talking to while we’re there,” Connor warned.

“You never cease to amaze me, the way you think I don’t know how to behave.”

“Yeah, well, just remember that you know how to behave when the children start screaming and carrying on.”

“You underestimate me. I may surprise you.”

“I think not,” said Connor.

 

On Christmas Day, Blanche was in hell. She contained her displeasure at being introduced to the Jeromes and gave Mrs. Jerome a fishy handshake. The noise of children was deafening and the disapproval of the adults palpable. Nothing, however, could compare to her displeasure at meeting Miss Lund. Still, she was determined not to give Connor the satisfaction of seeing her misery. Mr. and Mrs. Worth had received her with cool cordiality. Edith Blackhurst’s disdain, Frederick Worth’s amusement, and Margaret Curry’s and Mildred Worth’s curiosity could hardly escape her as she traversed the gauntlet of Worth guests.

Francesca acknowledged that they had seen one another before and were now fortunate to finally meet. Was there a sudden exuberance in Connor’s address upon meeting Francesca? Was he going out of his way to establish familiarity by his unoriginal bromide, “So, we meet again . . .” that trailed off into reminiscences? Blanche forced herself from looking at Connor as he looked at Francesca, but she knew how his eyes could feel, as if his eyes were hands. The amusement in Francesca’s eyes annoyed her. Did Miss Lund find Connor amusing on his own merit or in the idea of his attachment to herself?

To make matters worse, Blanche had not anticipated the surge of emotion Edmund Tracey’s presence produced in her. He showed indifference at the charade of their introduction, equaled only by his indifference toward Francesca. Blanche was embarrassed for Edmund’s discomfort just as she was embarrassed at having to be seen with Connor in Edmund’s presence. He stepped forward and briefly took her hand, then retreated. She checked herself as her eyes followed him, almost of their own accord. An involuntary flush suffused her face. The room was very warm.

Blanche observed Francesca’s attire minutely—nothing out of the ordinary, though it suited the woman perfectly. Francesca’s complexion radiated warmth, heightened by the Russian green frock and the jet that twinkled around her neck and ears. Or was it Connor’s attentions that gave her cheeks rosiness—or the crush of these abominable children?

Blanche had been saving the new wine-colored dress and hat for an occasion when this stylish apparel could be put to good use. Connor thought the velvet unlikely to withstand the rough and tumble of a Worth family dinner. She shrugged off his comment, saying that it was simply a muted tone of a Christmas red and that velvet would serve for anything. Within an hour of their arrival, the dress had been threatened by the grubby little hands and crumb-encrusted little faces longing to press themselves into its soft folds.

Blanche sought refuge in the company of the ladies near the fire and soon discovered that she was joining a conversation on Sunday sermons. No subject could have been more ill-suited to her knowledge or experience. She dearly wished she could have hidden long enough to take a deep swallow of gin from the thin silver flask hidden beneath her skirt. Mrs. Jerome was speaking.

“I said to the reverend, I said, ‘Reverend, it is all well and good to preach about how to resolve the moral dilemmas in our day-today lives, but it is the Bible that must be preached. People just don’t know the Bible anymore. If people knew the Bible they could figure out the moral dilemmas for themselves.’ Then he said to me, ‘Mrs. Jerome,’ he said, ‘if all I did was preach from the Scriptures like a Bible study, the Moral Dilemma Faction would be up in arms, saying that I care nothing for the moral and ethical problems they face every day.’ So we are quite divided on the subject.”

“I certainly agree with you, Maggie, that people don’t know the Scriptures anymore the way they should, especially these young people,” said the elder Mrs. Worth. “So caught up with their telephones and fast trains and scientific expeditions. It’s no wonder they favor the moral dilemma over plain preaching, poor souls.”

“One has to move with the times, Mother,” said Mildred. “One can’t stand still, even for moral dilemmas.”

“I know, dear, but it does seem we’re moving away from the fundamental things of life with such rapidity these days,” Mrs. Worth replied. “There are so many more distractions than there ever were. It seems that every invention meant to make for convenience and to give us more leisure only gives us more time to get into trouble, and we seem to be able to do so with increasing ingenuity.”

“Hence the moral dilemma, Mother,” put in Mrs. Blackhurst. “I couldn’t have stated the problem more cogently myself.” The younger women smiled and nodded their support.

“But what about real progress in the sciences,” offered Margaret Curry, “medical advances and such? Surely you can’t think that discoveries—what about this germ theory, for instance?—that they can create a crisis of conscience.”

“I think I was a much happier person when I didn’t know about germs,” said Mrs. Worth, to the general amusement and dismay of the younger women.

“I do agree with you though, Isabel,” pursued Mrs. Jerome. “People do seem to be able to get themselves into trouble in the most ingenious ways. I blame education for a good portion of it. I believe there are some things that mankind simply wasn’t meant to know. God set the world in motion and mankind shouldn’t go tinkering with it.”

“I suppose you would extend that to the education of women, Maggie,” said Miss Lund.

“Now, let’s not begin that sore subject, dearie,” Mrs. Jerome retorted, looking a bit embarrassed.

“You yourself have done quite well, Francesca,” Mrs. Worth cut in, “balancing the spiritual and the temporal. You always seem so at peace with yourself.”

“Oh, Francesca never has to grapple with that sort of thing, any moral dilemmas I mean, do you, dearie?” The Jerome woman seemed to comment for Blanche’s benefit.

“You make me sound like an empty-headed fool, Maggie. Of course I face them. All the time. One cannot count oneself as human without having faced some sort of dilemma of action or conscience, wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Alvarado?” Blanche was at once grateful and resentful of a civil question being asked from that quarter.

“Yes, I would.”

“And wouldn’t you agree,” continued Francesca, turning toward Blanche, “that simply being a woman requires that one be even more vigilant with regard to these dilemmas? For men are always getting away with things that women could never do in a million years.” Blanche might have taken this remark as a decided breach of decorum, had it not been delivered with such innocence and sincerity.

Jerry Jerome, who overheard the last remark, broke in before Blanche could answer. “And what on earth does a man do that you would ever want to do?”

“Work. Vote. Go out late at night alone. Escape to one’s club. Escape halfway around the world—”

“Dearie, really,” broke in Maggie with a nervous laugh.

“And not be dependent,” said Francesca.

“You could hardly call yourself that, dearie.” Maggie shifted in her chair and fumbled with the long chain of little ornaments that fell from around her neck.

“When I marry I might be.” Blanche’s ears attuned themselves to this remark. “Certainly for most women it’s true. Everything she has might be her husband’s. Now there is a moral dilemma for you. If she remains single and financially independent, she’s subject to the censure of society for being unmarried. If she marries, she gains the approval of society but loses her independence. Is that not a dilemma, Mrs. Alvarado?”

“Most definitely, Miss Lund.” A thinly veiled comment about Miss Lund’s engagement to Edmund, or a deliberate insult directed at her? How odd to have such a dilemma in common when this protected beauty had not the least idea what dependence really meant. How odd and how ironic, thought Blanche, to have chased across half the world in pursuit of a man to whom to shackle oneself in marriage in hopes of being forever free of being dependent. Now here she was in the presence of a young woman at risk of losing her independence by virtue of the very same shackles. Blanche had expected to have to brazen out the evening somehow, but she hadn’t expected the conversation to strike so deeply at the heart. She was miserable.

Blanche caught Connor’s eye as he and Jeremiah pored over a new picture book on the Orient and shot him a look of distress.

“Jeremiah,” he said. “I’m sure Mrs. Alvarado would enjoy looking at this new book you have here.” Hardly the rescue Blanche had envisioned. The suggestion was clearly unpalatable to Jeremiah, who threw Connor a look of one who had just been ordered into the presence of the wicked witch.

“But we haven’t finished looking at it,” the boy protested. “We missed a part at the beginning, and we have a whole bunch more pages to go.”

“We can pick it up again after you’ve showed it to Mrs. Alvarado,” Connor assured him. Jeremiah clapped the book shut on his lap.

“Jeremiah, show the book to Mrs. Alvarado,” Mrs. Blackhurst insisted. Jeremiah proffered the book and pushed the ottoman beside her chair and sat upon it.

“Have you ever been to the Orient, ma’am?” asked Jeremiah politely.

“No,” said Blanche with an edge of sarcasm, “have you?”

“No, ma’am,” he said seriously.

“Lots of young people travel the world, you know,” said Blanche, recovering her civility.

“Yes, ma’am.” Jeremiah brightened. “Mr. O’Casey’s been to the Orient, and he wasn’t much older than me.”

“Than I,” corrected Blanche.

“No, ma’am.”

“Yes, Mr. O’Casey has been absolutely everywhere,” she said, throwing Connor a look of disdain before returning to the book.

“Mrs. Alvarado is herself well traveled, I believe,” chimed in Frederick Worth. The entire room looked at him and froze. Mrs. Blackhurst shut her eyes. Samuel Curry coughed. The elder Mr. Worth, who was pouring a glass of punch, stood upright. Mildred Worth nearly choked. Blanche looked at Connor to supply a graceful way out.

“Mrs. Alvarado knows Europe like the back of her hand,” said Connor. “She has a sister who lives in Italy with her husband and family.”

“I understand you lived in South America for a time, Mrs. Alvarado,” said Linton Blackhurst, betraying knowledge that he should not have had.

“Yes, my late husband was from Argentina and we lived there for some years.” The room breathed again.

“It is reputed to be a very beautiful part of the world, is it not?” he continued.

“Much of it is.”

“And very hot?” asked Frederick Worth.

“Only if one is unable to adapt to it, Mr. Worth,” Blanche said. “One does find relief in the mountains when the atmosphere becomes overheated.”

“Yes, adaptability is certainly a virtue,” the younger Mr. Worth replied, “especially when traveling where one is unaccustomed.”

“The highlands are coffee country, I believe, Mrs. Alvarado,” offered Francesca.

“Not so much in Argentina, though other parts of South America produce many excellent varieties. Many people prefer South American coffee to the Turkish or other Far Eastern varieties. We were ranchers.” Again Blanche was obliged to think well of the woman for her civility.

“What did you raise?” asked Francesca.

“Cattle and horses.”

“Mr. Worth is a devoted connoisseur of Turkish coffee, are you not, John?” asked Jerry.

“Let’s just say a ‘devotee,’ Jerry,” replied Mr. Worth. It was he who provided Blanche with a graceful exit. “Mrs. Worth has just acquired some very interesting artifacts from South America. Pre-Columbian, I believe, aren’t they, my dear? Perhaps Mrs. Alvarado would be interested in seeing them.”

“I’m hardly an authority, but I should certainly be happy to see any of Mrs. Worth’s collection, if she would be kind enough to oblige me,” said Blanche with more grace than she felt. She was glad of the escape. With Connor left behind conversation about her would be stanched.

“I’d be delighted,” said Mrs. Worth as she rose. “If anyone would like to join us for a brief tour, you would be most welcome.”