Decorum (31 page)

“Romance? What the hell has romance got to do with anything? Holy Mother of God, woman, what I’m offering your friend is a perfectly good, reasonable proposition—”

“Proposition?”
all three women said in chorus.

“Will you please do me the courtesy of hearing me out?” They were silent.

“Look at your choices, Frankie. You are, as you say, fairly swimmin’ in a sea of scandal. You’ve been taken in by a man who’s a crook and a murderer, which proves to all the world that you are an ignorant, vulnerable female—”

“But Mr. O’Casey—” Vinnie broke in. He raised a hand against the onslaught.

“Do you think no one will talk about you while you’re away frolicking in the Rockies? You’ll be a social pariah when you get back to New York, not to put too fine a point on it. If the Jeromes haven’t died of apoplexy, you’ll likely get the tongue-lashing of your life before society snubs you altogether, they and all their church-going friends.”

“Really, Mr. O’Casey, I must protest,” objected Esther.

“And don’t bother to tell me how they’ll stand by you in your time of need. I’ve seen needier and worthier than you dropped like hot potatoes by better people than the Jeromes.”

“Of all the barefaced—” said Francesca.

“You’ll either end up an old maid or fall prey to a marriage to any one of a dozen thrill-seekers who thrive on scandal and aren’t worth a bean. Even genuine lords, no matter how poor, won’t give you the time of day. So what’ll you do? Slink back to the settlement to live out your days in endless charity?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Francesca said.

“Not a thing—for ordinary women,” said Connor with enthusiasm. “But it’s not good enough for you. Why not come back to New York with a bang? Nobody’d expect you to come back married, or even engaged. If you’re going to scandalize your precious society, do a proper job of it. Marriage to me would be the best shock of all. The murder of Nell Ryder would be chicken feed compared to the bodies of swooning women lining the streets of New York over that one. People can talk behind their hands all they want, but they wouldn’t dare say anything to your face. Things might be a bit warm for a while—”

“A bit warm?”
Esther interjected.

Again, Connor raised arresting hands.

“They’ll cool off fast enough, once we get back from the honeymoon and you start your music charity and picking up your life. I can help you with that. We can come in together, fighting. The miscreant and the madwoman. You can be a scrappy thing, when you set your mind to it. We can brazen it out together and choose a place for ourselves that suits us. And as to the romance?” said Connor with a nod to Vinnie. “If romance is what you want, Francesca Lund, I’ll romance you the likes of which you can’t begin to imagine.”

Vinnie raised a hand to her lips as if to suppress delight. Esther was silent. Francesca managed a smile. She shook her head. Then a little puff of laughter burst from her lips.

“Now what’s so funny about that? You don’t think I can do it, do you? Well, I assure you, woman, that Connor O’Casey will be unmatched in the romance department.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“I think so, too,” said Vinnie with a smile. Then catching the eyes of the other two ladies, she amended her remark. “Francesca’s right. You are the very limit.”

Connor strode across to Francesca’s chair and knelt in front of her, pinning her down, his hip against her knee, his arms resting on hers, his face thrust toward her face.

“What would
you
rather be? Strong and good and brave, or an object of pity?”

“They’d pity me with you.”

“Perhaps so,” he sighed. “But they’d pity you all the more for never having had, never having experienced, never having known. Or maybe by now they think you know all there is to know anyway. So, to hell with it.

“And what of yourself? Will you not pity yourself in the end? Will you not regret? Have done with regrets, Frankie, and move on. Do you want your mountaintops? Have them, I’ll not stand in your way—and your music and art and ideals, and children and a home. I want those, too.”

Francesca pushed him away. “Stop bullying me. Do you think I want a lifetime of bullying? I’m too tired to think. I’m weary to the bone. Why come here now? I can’t stop you from doing what you want to and haunting me in Banff. I don’t know what I want anymore—except that I want to be left alone.”

No legal mind could have parsed an answer so skillfully, thought Connor. She had not rejected him outright, but left him an opening that preserved all sense of decorum. Through that tiny opening he would drive a westward train to Banff.

“So I must wait? How long?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t wait forever, Frankie, and neither can you. Time’s awast-ing for us both. So, let me give you a little something to ponder: Would you prefer to spend your life known as the Poor Miss Lund, to wend your way to a decorous and respectable old age, to be pitied by all? Or would you rather revel in the grand and glorious splendor of being known as the Notorious Mrs. O’Casey?”

C
HAPTER
38

The shock of Connor’s declaration, coupled with days of inactivity forced by blustery weather, drove Francesca out of doors on the pretext of a walk for Chalk and Coal.

“You’d best go out the back, miss,” said John, helping her on with her coat. “There’ve been a couple of reporter fellows hanging around the front most of the day.”

She was redirecting the dogs to the back of the house when the bell rang. The riot of barking ensued as John opened the door to find Maggie Jerome.

“How are you, John?”

“Very well, Mrs. Jerome, thank you.”

An encounter with the press would have been more inviting than a call from Maggie. She had bothered Francesca very little since Edmund’s arrest, sending messages through Jerry or by hand.

“How are you, dearie? I didn’t sleep a wink last night—for the past several nights really. I thought perhaps we might have a little chat,” Maggie offered tentatively as she took off her gloves. “But don’t let me interrupt if you and Esther have plans.”

“She’s gone up for a little nap, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, dearie, were you going out?”

“Just to take the dogs for some exercise.”

“I’ll stay and supervise tea. I can have it ready when Esther wakes up. It’ll be nice for a change, just like I used to do for you.” She unpinned her hat.

“Yes, why don’t you. I won’t be long.”

What unbelievable timing, thought Francesca as the door closed behind her. God was punishing her by sending an angel of retribution for even contemplating involving herself with Connor O’Casey. There they would be, she and Esther and Maggie, drinking tea and talking—Francesca in agony lest she spill the news, relying heavily on Esther’s calm demeanor and diplomacy. Unless they could direct the conversation, Francesca would have to prepare to meet the terrible swift sword of Maggie Jerome. Well, so be it.

Lost in thought, Francesca lingered while Coal and Chalk investigated every wall, fence, tree, and shrub, not realizing how much ground they had covered. When she came to herself, she realized she was headed in the direction of Jerry’s office. What time was it? Jerry might still be there. She picked up her pace, the dogs happily panting at her side. Without thinking, she transferred both leashes to one hand and with the other hailed a cab. A moment later, Francesca and Coal and Chalk were piled into a hansom and whisked away to the Merchants and Mechanics Bank.

It was bad enough to explain how a lady with two large dogs had bolted past every line of the bank’s defenses, disrupted transactions at teller windows, and arrived, all three panting, at the desk of Jerry’s secretary and demanded to see him. How she would explain the arrangement with Connor O’Casey was another matter.

“You’ve
what?
”

“I know. I know.” Francesca sank into a chair, the dogs lying at her feet. “I can’t very well stop him from going where he wants.”

“Have you lost your senses completely?! How on earth could you agree to this harebrained scheme? Do you know what kind of man he is—what kind of reputation he has?”

“Apparently good enough for you to engage him as a business partner.”

“That’s beside the point and you know it, Francesca. What about that Alvarado woman?”

“He’s assured me that it’s over between them.”

“And you believe him?”

“I have no reason not to.”

“You have several million reasons. I didn’t even know he was interested in you.”

“Nor did I. Not really. I believe he wants to see if we can make a go of it.” The whole thing sounded ridiculous, even to her own ears.

“Make a go of it? Go of what? Is that his idea of a proposal?”

“Apparently,” said Francesca. Jerry began to protest. “Yes, Jerry, it was his way of proposing. And before you ask, yes, he did use the word
marriage.
” She couldn’t remember having actually uttered the word
yes
in answer. Could she really have consented to such a thing? Perhaps she was mad after all. Her head was beginning to throb.

“Do you have any idea how this looks—for either of you? Here is a very worldly man who has just shed himself of a, a, a strumpet. Here you are, having just been taken in by a man who turns out to be a gigolo and a murderer, and you think that the two of you can simply sail off into the sunset—”

“We’re going by railroad.” She cracked a smile.

“Don’t be impertinent. You think you can leave all the cares and opinions of the world behind and never have to face society again? You think you won’t be vilified up one side and down the other?”

“I know it looks dreadful.”

“
Dreadful?
Is that all you can say?”

“I could say more if I could get a word in.” She felt oddly at peace in the eye of Jerry’s storm. The plain language and concern for her welfare were comforting somehow—so unlike what she might expect from Maggie and her formulaic approach to decorum. After the initial tirade, he went to the window, unlatched the shutter and pulled it back, and looked out into the street.

“Yes, I know how it looks,” said Francesca. “I can’t say why I have the least bit of faith in him, except that he didn’t seem to be making promises he wasn’t willing to keep. He didn’t say he loves me. And while we’re on the subject, no, I don’t love him. Don’t you think his intentions would be far more suspicious if he came to me protesting love? I know full well a man like that doesn’t change overnight—if at all. There may be something in what he says about our wanting many of the same things. It seems I might have a better chance of being happy with someone who can be honest about it, with or without love.”

“I wanted better for you,” said Jerry, still staring out the window.

“Better isn’t good enough, Jerry. I want the best. Who, of all the men you know, is best for me? Name three. No, no, name two, or even one. You can’t, can you? Who is to say that in the end Connor O’Casey might not be the best? He wants a chance. So do I. He’s the only man I’ve ever known to be forthright about it and to respect my feelings, in his own bluff way, and to offer me a respectable way out.”

Jerry was calmer now. “You sound resolved to do this.”

“Let’s simply say that I believe I have the right to change my mind, though I think it would be much easier, much better, to take the chance and let God direct things. Human interference has certainly availed me nothing up to now.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

Nothing Jerry could have offered would have sounded more appalling than Banff with the Jeromes.

“Don’t be silly. Esther and Vinnie will be enough. If I need you I can wire.”

“What’ll we do about Maggie?” Jerry asked, sounding weary.

“Well, you’ll have the perfect chance to find out. How would you like to take me home to tea?”

“I wondered how long it’d be before you showed up,” said Connor, standing in the doorway. “Come in.”

Jerry decided to forgo tea and Maggie and headed for Connor’s hotel. Francesca’s revelation—and her consent, however passive—had left him stunned and perplexed. He liked Connor, the way one likes an underdog. Often Jerry spoke up for him, urging and cajoling others into giving the poor blighter a chance. Connor’s admirable persistence and guts had enabled him to rise from nothing to a position that accorded him, if not respect, at least envy. He understood Connor’s aspiration to shrug off the mantle of an outcast and acquire the tastes and refinements of the social set to which he aspired. Above all, he understood Connor’s desire to ally himself with a woman of intelligence, talent, beauty, and wealth who could help him move easily in society. When the object of that desire was Francesca, however, all Jerry’s noble biases flew out the window and Connor was reduced to the image of the brash, uneducated, unrefined, papist hooligan his friend was trying so desperately to shake off.

Jerry’s own hypocrisy alarmed him. His father had come from stock no more refined than Connor’s, and his father hadn’t Connor’s desire to become self-taught. He was proud of the rugged individualism, however coarse, that made his father self-made. The harangues with Maggie over occasions where his father might embarrass had hurt Jerry deeply.

Oh, God—Maggie. Maggie, who had protected the family honor for their thirty years together, would make life hell for Francesca over this arrangement with Connor. Until this moment he hadn’t understood her revulsion toward his father, pulling Jerry further and further away from his influence—and his love. Jerry now felt a similar revulsion at the idea of Francesca’s marrying this man who drank, swore, fought, cheated, and was far too wealthy for his own good, who had no religion, principles, or scruples. He was ashamed to discover that he couldn’t decide which of the two of them, Jerry or Maggie, was the more noble—Jerry, with his high-minded favoritism of the underdog, who found that his principles couldn’t hold water, or Maggie, who was so damnably consistent.

Connor left Jerry to shut the door while he walked to the sideboard to pour himself a drink. He held out the decanter and raised his eyebrows.

“No, thanks,” said Jerry. He started to make for the settee, then turned. “On second thought, make it a double.”

“So,” said Connor. “Out with it.”

Jerry sat, still wearing his coat and hat. “I don’t know what to say. I couldn’t believe my ears when Francesca told me. What the hell are you thinking of, proposing to expose a woman whom you profess to want to marry to the kind of scheme that could ruin her?” He took off the hat and plopped it on the settee. “Have I failed to grasp the situation? Did you not go to Francesca and suggest that you follow her to Banff so that you and she can ‘get to know one another’ to find out whether she could stand you enough to marry you?” Jerry was on his feet. “Whom do you think you’re dealing with, man? Do you think she’s the kind of woman who indulges in sordid intrigues? What can you think will happen to her reputation while you and she are ‘getting to know one another’? Do you think I’d let her do a thing like that? And Maggie—oh, my God—would probably have you shot. And what about this Alvarado woman? Do you expect me to believe that after all that show and all that talk about Italy and that indecent, yes, indecent, way that she so obviously laid claim to you, that any of us can possibly believe that you and she are through?”

Connor, who was still standing at the sideboard, now and then taking a drink, turned quietly and faced Jerry.

“Might I answer some of these charges?”

Jerry took the whiskey that had been poured for him and took a long drink.

“Did I make such a request of her? Yes. Did I propose to marry her if she could stand me? Yes. Do I understand the position I’m puttin’ her in all the way round? Of course I do.” He set the whiskey decanter back on the sideboard and paused and blew out an exasperated sigh. “Why do you think I proposed marriage outright? So’s she’d have some assurance that marriage is a choice for her if the opinion of the society that you’re so pitifully tied to should go against her. So’s she wouldn’t be left high and dry.”

“Why Francesca in the first place?”

“Why not Francesca?” demanded Connor. “Why should I not aspire to someone of her quality? Why am I not entitled to the same desires for a respectable home presided over by a woman that a man would be proud to have as queen of his castle?” Connor set down his glass and leaned upon the sideboard. “What the hell am I talking to you for? You and your pious—you know, Blanche was right about you. You’re a sanctimonious bunch of bastards.” Connor downed the contents of the glass.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be on the outside lookin’ in? Do you know what it’s like to peep through the keyhole, and to watch people feastin’ and fattenin’ themselves, and know that you don’t have the key that will let you in? Do you have any idea what it’s like to spend your whole life hammering on the door and to not have anyone who’ll answer? And what about Francesca? She’s no better off than I am.”

“Just what the hell do you mean by that?”

“You’ve got her trussed up good and proper. She can’t move without your permission or approval. I’ll wager this Banff business is just as much to get away from you and your wife as it is for a pleasure tour. You dandle her in front of people like a Christmas ornament. You wind her up and set her out to perform, then carefully wrap her in tissue or put her under a bell jar for everyone to admire. You don’t really give a damn about her except to find her a husband that you pious lot can approve of.”