Decorum (7 page)

“There wasn’t. Not then.”

“To the rest of us it looked very much like there might have been. Your father naturally would have been concerned. Quite frankly, he probably would have had any young man investigated if he wasn’t from a family of your parents’ own circle. To have a young man from halfway across a continent show interest in his daughter.” He took a sip of coffee. “Well, put yourself in your father’s shoes.”

They finished their dessert and the waiter replenished the coffee. She knew not how to proceed. Fearing Jerry’s wholesale disapproval, she felt obliged to guard Edmund’s reputation now that she had agreed to spend her life with him. At the same time she sought relief in tumbling out the few new facts as she understood them to have Jerry dispel her fear. She waited for Jerry to probe as he saw fit.

“Did the papers show that the investigation had been completed?”

“No. The investigator—a Mr. J. Shillingford—had charge of the case. Case.” She sighed and felt the long breath go out of her. “That sounds dreadful. His correspondence with Father up until Father died appeared to produce nothing conclusive. At least, nothing extraordinarily bad, if that’s what Father was looking for. Not related to Edmund himself.”

“That sounds like a lot of hedging, Francesca, what does it mean?”

She unfolded a tale that was not unfamiliar to a War veteran like Jerry. The Traceys had owned a large plantation in the Felicianas in Louisiana before the War. Edmund’s grandfather had swindled the original plantation owner out of the land. The original owner suffered straitened means and borrowed money from Edmund’s grandfather at high interest. When the man couldn’t pay, the Traceys foreclosed. The family grew to exercise unwelcome influence. Edmund’s father went missing shortly after enlisting in the Confederate army. His mother sold everything except a small parcel with some outbuildings and put food on the table through black marketeering. She may have sold secrets to the Union.

“Certainly, Edmund would want that kept quiet,” said Jerry. “Many families survived as best they could. As you say, there is nothing against him personally. Or is there?”

“He gambles,” she said reluctantly.

“So do a lot of men. So do I, come to that. And we’ve been to the races with him.”

“Apparently he has done so from an early age with mixed success.”

Jerry had restrained himself admirably, Francesca thought, but now the cloud that passed over his countenance looked about to burst into a storm.

“No wonder he’s so evasive about where he gets his money. And he must get it from somewhere. He’s never asked you for money—or has he?”

“No, never.”

“Is he still living at the Brevoort?” Francesca nodded. “Not an extravagant place, but respectable. It could be that he knows how to live within his means. That’s something at least, though I confess I don’t like a habitual gambler. You were right to consult me, and you may be right about settling something on him that he can manage himself and remove yourself from his dealings. That is, if you are still determined to have him.” He waited, but she could give no answer and met his eye with a determined look. “If you’re having doubts, better to act on them now than regret them later. Was that all?”

“Only one thing. In Shillingford’s last letter to Father from New Orleans, he said that he had uncovered another line of inquiry that he wished to pursue. If what he surmised was indeed borne out, it would be not only of interest, but also of importance.”

“Did he say anything about the nature of this line of inquiry?”

“No. He didn’t wish to commit himself on paper until he had gathered all his evidence. If Father wished him to pursue it, he was to wire a further twenty dollars. There was no receipt for a wire transfer. The letter was dated in late June of 1886, shortly before the accident.”

“So we can assume that Shillingford never finished the investigation and that your father never knew what he was after.”

“It would seem so. I tell you, Jerry, I feel so despicable and disloyal. I never would have thought to do any of this if it hadn’t been for the papers. I’m sure Father wouldn’t have pursued such a line unless he thought it was in everyone’s best interests.”

“It’s understandable that you should feel that way when it involves someone you love,” he said, though his words conveyed no comfort.

“I thought you’d like to see the papers. I’ll send them around to the bank in the morning. I’d sooner that you kept them anyway. I don’t think Edmund has been in Father’s study above twice, but eventually he’ll have a right to be there and, I suppose, a right to know what’s in the desk. I’d rather not have them in the house.”

“Yes, I’ll keep them for you.” He finished his coffee. “And I think we should pursue the marriage contract as soon as possible. There should be nothing at all suspicious about doing so. If Edmund has half the knowledge of the world that I give him credit for, he won’t be shocked and should have no objection. You haven’t been engaged long, but I’ll feel better if we can get the contract nailed down.”

The waiter arrived with the check and Jerry pulled his pocket book from his breast pocket and leafed through its contents.

“I wonder if Shillingford is still operating in New York,” he said.

“As a matter of fact, he is,” said Francesca. “I checked.”

C
HAPTER
10

The charity ball was in full swing when Blanche and Connor arrived at the Academy of Music at nine-thirty. A traffic jam of fine broughams and landaus mixed with a crush of hansom cabs outside the imposing edifice, just as a traffic jam of people crowded inside the imposing entrance. Connor was amused and heartened by the delight that overspread Blanche’s face. Her dark eyes shone and her ivory complexion flushed as her look darted from one carriage window to the other. Connor gently tugged on her arm.

“No you don’t,” he said as she appeared ready to bound from their carriage. “You’ll get your slippers all dirty. I’m sure they’ve not been able to clean up after the horses. Best to sit tight till we pull up to the curb and I can help you down properly.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, smiling. “Here, let me look at you.”

She played at tidying him up, tugging at the ruffled jabot, smoothing his moustache, securing the scarf around his head, pulling down the eye patch, and fluffing the plume on the tricorn. As she smoothed his beard, with her hand still upon his cheek, she kissed him.

Atelier Maximillian had certainly delivered, Connor had to admit, and with a minimum of fuss. Once or twice the tailor alluded to people or instances that seemed to Connor a bit “off.” Blanche merely laughed, but Connor was uneasy with this familiarity and wondered what Blanche might be getting up to. Still, the man delivered the goods and Connor credited Atelier Maximillian with making him look far less ridiculous than he felt.

“No need to worry. It’ll be wonderful. I’m certain of it.” She kissed him again.

Connor descended the carriage steps and offered Blanche his hand as she bent her white-wigged head low, squeezed the skirt of her enormous blue satin French ball gown through the carriage door, and swept into the Academy’s main lobby. Sumptuous costumes were everywhere. Hogarthian shepherds and shepherdesses, Chinese nobles and Persian harem girls, cavaliers and Puritans, medieval knights and Renaissance damsels, and the predicted Harlequins, Raleighs, and Brunhildes were displayed in stunning variety.

Blanche stood still as if soaking nourishment from the atmosphere—the scent of perfumed bodies, the sight of rich finery, the glitter of lamplight, and the strains of the music that emanated from within. Even as he watched, she seemed to become conscious of herself, and her black eyes took on a worldly, self-indulgent, and slightly mischievous look. A seductive smile emerged as her face disappeared behind the covering of blue satin, as if she knew it would only add to her allure. Connor’s offer of his arm broke her reverie. They entered the ballroom.

The massive room glittered gold and white. The orchestra section had been floored over and made level with the stage, creating a mammoth dance floor. The stage had been converted into a miniature Venice of the Renaissance, with bridges, streets, and the Doge’s Palace with its heraldic pennants and shields. The boxes were perfect Venetian balconies, with revelers hanging over the railings. In the tier above, the orchestra was striking up a waltz. People began to break off into pairs, gracefully stepping to the downbeat and ending each measure in synchronized pirouettes. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people crowded the dance floor, boxes, and tiers.

Suddenly, Blanche turned to him and squeezed his arm to her. Her eyes were expressive, even behind her mask. “Thank you for this,” she said. “You have no idea what this means to me. It’s absolutely splendid.” She turned back to the scene before her and seemed to devour it.

John Ashton Worth and Jerry had said that their wives wished to be introduced. Neither they nor their wives, however, had mentioned introduction to a companion, nor had Connor hinted at such a companion—or that she would be glad of such an introduction. Blanche had remained undeterred.

“After you’ve paid your respects you might ask them to join us for a drink later on,” she had said, somewhere between request and demand.

“Let me see how it goes first,” he had told her, encircling her in his embrace. “You forget that I haven’t met half these people myself yet. If they don’t appear to be very favorable toward me, it won’t help if there are two of us to contend with. We’ve got to build it step by step. We’ve got to be the bigger people and show them we know how it’s done. If we go rushing in and make a mess of things, they’ll take us for the hooligans they may think we are already.” She nodded her resignation. Connor well understood her longing for acceptance. He hadn’t reckoned on how much he himself longed for it and what he might sacrifice to get it.

A Sir Walter Raleigh and a Falstaff in the company of a Cleopatra and an Empress Theodora were the figures he was to look for and finally spied them on the other side of the horseshoe. They were laughing and nodding, the ladies fanning themselves, the gentlemen bringing them champagne punch. He wondered for a moment if he’d ever find a place among them, secure and accepted. He decided they should plunge in as best they could.

“Would you like to dance, Blanche?”

“I’d adore it.”

As luck would have it, the waltz ceased, but without a word or a grimace he guided her to one of the many squares that was forming for a country dance. When a waltz was offered again, Connor put a commanding hand at her back above her waist as Blanche took several folds of her skirt in her left hand and he took her right. They stepped out and joined the dancers in a dizzying progress around the floor.

They had nearly reached the miniature Venice when Connor saw a tall, slim woman dressed in a gown of shimmering gauze, the deep décolleté adorned with rough-cut gems in gold necklaces, the bare arms cuffed by bracelets above the elbows. A large jewel was suspended from the center of a jewel-encrusted conical headdress and hung down on her forehead like someone out of the
Arabian Nights
. Instead of a mask, a filmy veil covered the lower half of her face. She danced with a seventeenth-century highwayman swathed in a large hat, a large mask, and a large cape. As the couple turned, Connor saw the white-blond hair in a knot at the nape of her neck and he realized where he had seen her before—the Fair One from the Morocco Room. In an instant she and her companion had turned and sailed across the dance floor.

“Do you see someone?” Blanche cried over the noise. “Do you see someone you know? Your business associates? Where?”

“There. Raleigh and Falstaff.” He nodded in the general direction.

She strained to spot them. “With the Egyptian something-or-other?” Connor nodded. “They’ve seen us. Are you going to speak to them?”

“I’ll have to pay my respects at some point, yes.”

Only by his introduction to Mrs. Jerome and Mrs. Worth could he gauge the likelihood of a favorable turn in the path of Blanche’s social destiny. The music ended and he led her back to the far side of the ballroom.

“Would you like some refreshment?” he asked. “I could do with something myself.” He could see behind her mask that the light had gone out of her eyes. She looked away and took his arm. He wrested a vacant seat for her on the main floor, from which she might observe the room. He would wrestle with the Jeromes and the champagne punch alone.

The corridors were choked with people as Connor picked his way to the Worths’ box. Ascending the stairs, he was met by two women who weren’t looking where they were going. The smaller one was saying, “Your hair’s coming down in back. Shall I help you?” to which the taller one said, “No, that’s quite all right. I can do it. I won’t be a moment.” Her head bent slightly, one hand holding up the wayward tress, she nearly toppled into Connor. He looked up into the unveiled face of the Fair One, the Scheherazade of the dance floor.

“Oh, pardon me.” The voice was darker and fuller than he expected. She moved.

“The fault’s mine.” Connor moved.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She moved again.

“I beg your pardon.” He moved again. Even with the patch over one eye he was well able to note the flawless complexion, the thick fair hair, the full bosom. He returned her look of cool irritation with a provocative smile, removed his hat, and with an exaggerated bow let her pass. She made her way down the hall, her elegant figure swaying ever so slightly as she gathered up the tress, the one flaw, the little vulnerability in this otherwise perfect picture and disappeared. He made his way to the Jeromes’ box.

Mrs. Worth was cordial. Connor admired people like the Worths who were not easily ruffled by anyone. His self-effacing remarks upon his own dancing abilities made her laugh and her eyes twinkled in her soft pink face. Odd, Connor thought, that this woman, whom her husband credited with so much taste, should be swathed in a costume that could have been knocked off by a tentmaker for Sears, Roebuck, and Company. Still, he liked her.

Mrs. Jerome was cool and hardly moved when introduced, save fanning herself with a peacock-feather fan. Only when the other ladies removed their masks did she follow suit. She was handsome enough, but her smug self-importance did nothing to enhance her looks. Jerry was his affable self. At Mrs. Worth’s offer of a seat, Connor accepted.

More than once he caught himself glancing toward Blanche, conscious of not wanting to appear to her to be having a rip-roaring good time. She watched the dancers, moving her feathered fan gracefully to and fro, looking now and then in his direction. He began to feel sorry for her seeming isolation, this blue satin hothouse flower in society’s formal garden. He was about to excuse himself to Jerry when he noticed a woman had pushed through the crowd and appeared at Blanche’s side. She was dressed as some garish circus character—perhaps a female lion-tamer, for she carried a whip. Her chat with Blanche was brief, but despite their formal attitude, it seemed the encounter was deliberate and not mere civil courtesy of two ladies abandoned by their escorts. Then, as quickly as she had come, the woman melted into the crowd. When he came to himself, he realized that Mrs. Worth and Mrs. Jerome had seen his distraction, and had turned to see where he had been looking.

“Have you made many acquaintances since arriving in New York?” Mrs. Jerome asked pointedly.

“A good many, thank you, ma’am, but only through the kind offices of your husband and Mr. Worth—in connection with the hotel, don’t you know,” replied Connor, a bit uneasy.

“New York offers such a variety of acquaintance,” she continued. “One never knows what kind of person one might be meeting.”

“In the most innocent of circumstances,” added Mrs. Worth, with sincerity, Connor thought. “I declare, we can be such fusspots when it comes to judging our fellow man.”

“Nonetheless,” said Mrs. Jerome, “proper introductions can save a person a good deal of trouble, don’t you agree, Mr. O’Casey?”

“I do indeed, ma’am,” he said.

“In my limited experience of Mr. O’Casey,” put in Jerry, “I find him to be a reliable judge of character, regardless of the circumstances. He’s put us off a couple of shady characters already, isn’t that so, John?”

“Yes. I thought I was a good judge of character myself,” said Mr. Worth. “But when O’Casey said we should have these people investigated, we did, and he was right.”

“That’s all well and good in business,” said Mrs. Jerome. “But one can’t have everyone one meets investigated now, can one?”

“If that were the case,” said Connor, beginning to feel a little testy, “half of New York would be spending its time investigating the other half and the city would grind to a standstill. Introduction is the best way, of course, but sometimes a man—or a woman—has to take a few things on trust.” Connor acknowledged them all with a tip of his plumed tricorn. “John, Jerry, Mrs. Worth, Mrs. Jerome, gentlemen, ladies, I must be leaving. It was a pleasure meeting you. If you’ll excuse me.”

Relieved to be exiting the Golden Horseshoe, he felt strained by this short but important encounter and he still had Blanche’s cross-questioning to face. For the moment he shook off speculation about what they might be saying and walked through the lobby and out into the street for a breath of air. He removed his hat and dug in his pocket for his handkerchief and was just blotting the perspiration from his brow when he saw the highwayman remove his cape and place it around the shoulders of the veiled Scheherazade. She looked defiantly at Connor, turned to her escort, and smiled. They walked to the corner and back past him to the far end of the Academy, then back again to the entrance. Connor somehow knew she was keenly aware of him. As they neared him, Connor allowed his attention to be diverted to the street. As they reentered the building, he turned to look at them. To his immense satisfaction, she looked back.