Decorum (15 page)

“You must hurry, darling,” she said, as much for her sake as for his, to leave the gloomy room and its gloomier occupant. “You must cultivate these people. They may be able to help you, but you must at least make yourself agreeable to them.” She tugged his coat on him like dressing a child and handed him his hat and gloves as she hurriedly buttoned her coat and pinned her hat.

At the door he stopped her and held her and kissed her deeply. How dearly she wanted to stay with him. How dearly she wanted to escape with him. But it was impossible. With effort she pushed him away.

“We mustn’t linger,” she said. “You must go.”

 

The centerpiece was removed from the table only to be replaced by a huge epergne of candied fruit, cakes, and other sweets. The children had acquitted themselves well in the matter of vegetables, turkey, and gravy; they raided these delicacies and spied out their favorites, which the servants reached for them from the epergne’s upper tiers. Exquisite squares of cake with colored icing, rich chocolates, sugary meringues, and meaty, nutty tarts were as much a delight to the eye as they were to the palate.

Everyone was talkative and genial.
Nary a stick-in-the-mud among ’em,
thought Connor as he surveyed the table. The look on his face must have been one of enjoyment for he caught Mrs. Blackhurst looking at him with amusement on her face.

“You like children, don’t you, Mr. O’Casey?”

“I confess I do, ma’am,” he said, turning his gaze back to the children. “You’re lucky, if I may be so bold, ma’am. You and Mr. Blackhurst have done well. They’re nice children, yours, and the others. Neither spoilt nor smarmy like some. Very nice children indeed.”

“You’re very kind,” she said with a sincerity that surprised him.

“Not at all. It’s the truth,” he said.

“They’re a bit forward sometimes.”

“They’re spirited and curious, not impolite, or at least I don’t believe they mean to be. There’s nothing wrong with confidence and curiosity. I’m sure they’re a great joy.” He was almost musing. When he surveyed the table again, he saw Francesca through the spidery, sweet-laden arms of the epergne, staring at him. He was so caught off guard that he hardly noticed when a servant came up to Mrs. Worth and whispered a word to her.

“Goodness,” she said to catch everyone’s attention. She hesitated, then rose and sent the servant away. Connor wondered for a moment what could have caught so self-possessed a woman off balance. She fumbled with the long strands of beads that hung to her waist and stole a brief glance at the time. As if by reflex, Connor consulted his own watch. Nearly four hours since he had arrived. An instant later, the servant ushered in a tall fair man with auburn hair who wore a sheepish look of apology as easily as he wore his finely tailored suit of brown wool. At the other end of the table, Mr. Worth rose. Connor looked across the table at Francesca, who sat upright in her chair and looked toward the door. Color crept into her cheeks as she looked away and fixed her eyes on the table in front of her. Then, as if to dismiss an unpleasant thought, she took a deep breath and cleared her countenance and rose. Her usual grace restored, Mrs. Worth took the man by the hand and drew him forward.

“Everyone,” said she. “Edmund has just arrived.”

C
HAPTER
18

It was one of those afternoons in late autumn when the sun is so bright and the bursts of wind so sharp they give an edge of clarity to everything they touch, as if the whole world were startled to attention. Francesca loved this weather. The air that filled the lungs seemed purer, like water purified by a headlong journey over rocks. It was the perfect day for a walk in the park. Instead, she was going to the opera. Vinnie, Michael, and Anne were her guests. Their objective: an afternoon performance of
Asrael,
the opera that marked the beginning of the Metropolitan Opera’s most peculiar season to date. They chatted animatedly, recapitulating the newspaper accounts and hazarding whether
Asrael
could really be as bad as all that. Better to waste an afternoon in pleasant company than to go to the trouble of evening dress for nothing.

With much shedding of outerwear and smoothing of hair, they walked through the main vestibule and ascended the grand stairs to Francesca’s private box. The brisk, bright day dissolved to dim memory as they were engulfed in the splendor of the Met, with its plush red upholstery and glistening crystal.

Francesca stood arranging the folds of her dress behind her, giving her plenty of time to let her glance encompass the hall before she sank onto her seat. The three ladies sat at the front of the box, Francesca to the right. Michael sat behind them, between Vinnie and Anne. Then commenced a show of consulting and commenting upon the program.

Opera glasses popped up like mushrooms. Francesca preferred first to take in the entire scene unaided and study the ripples of humanity nodding and chatting, waving to friends, and reading librettos. The box was nestled in the curve of the horseshoe-shaped tier, the orchestra whorling out beneath it. It afforded the ability to see a three-quarter back view of people. How amazing that the smallest bit of facial anatomy can betray so much emotion. A clenched jaw. A raised brow. A shy smile. The shimmering warmth and the buzzing conversation enveloped her. Francesca was serene and content.

“Francesca, look. That man,” said Vinnie, seated on Francesca’s left and trying discreetly to indicate a direction.

“What man?” Francesca stirred herself from her preoccupation.

“That interesting-looking man who tipped his hat to you at the gallery.”

“Oh, that one,” Francesca said. Bother the man. She was determined to pay Connor no mind, just as she was determined not to tell Vinnie that she had discovered who he was, which would only result in an endless barrage of questions. “Where is he?” she asked as she continued to survey the crowd, her opera glasses before her eyes.

“He’s over there, about four boxes to our right. He’s been staring at you for the last ten minutes. He’ll look at you through the glasses, then take them down, then put them back up again. I know it’s you he’s looking at.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“How impertinent,” Vinnie said, with obvious relish, bringing the glasses to her eyes. “It’s almost as if he’s trying to catch your eye.”

“It certainly would be impertinent.”

“He’s with a lady.”

“Oh?” She wouldn’t admit curiosity. Being in the company of ladies and one gentleman who was not hers made her feel exposed. Edmund’s absence annoyed her. Business, he had said. And here was that infernal O’Casey in company with a woman to whom she had not been introduced—nor would be, with any luck.

“Why on earth would he be observing me if he’s with a lady?”

“Well, she’s gone out,” said Vinnie. “He’s been taking the opportunity to observe you while she’s gone—and with the glasses.”

“Vinnie, for heaven’s sake.”

“Oh, dear. She’s back now. He can’t look at you anymore. He’s paying attention to her.” Vinnie put her glasses down.

“I should hope so.” To try to catch her attention while in the company of another woman? No matter what the other woman might be, his conduct was inexcusable.

“She’s quite something. The woman who accompanied him at Venables’.”

“Oh, really?” Oh, bother. What should she care who this dreadful man might take to the opera? It was none of her business—and none of Vinnie’s.

“Foreign looking. Very dark. He’s really not so much to look at, though.” Vinnie put the glasses up to her eyes. “Maybe he’s not so bad—more interesting than handsome.”

“Vinnie, put the glasses down.”

“Well, he’s talking to her. He’s not paying any attention to us. Oh, wait. He’s looking this way.” She put the glasses down and fiddled with her program. “He’s looking at you, I tell you. He’s sitting to her right, so he can look past her and observe you.”

“Vinnie, stop it.”

The lights dimmed. The concertmaster rose and called for the tuning pitch. A cacophony of sound rose from the pit and fell again. The conductor entered, accompanied by applause. Gradually, the sound died away and the overture began.

Francesca let herself be carried away. Music was half-opiate, half-incense to her, especially music like this. She could empty her mind and shut out everything.

“Francesca. Francesca. He’s looking at you again.”

“Hush, Vinnie, please. I want to listen.” Her annoyance at Edmund Tracey resurfaced. His presence could have scotched this dreadful man’s impropriety.

“But he is—and she doesn’t like it.”

“Who?” Francesca said dreamily, like someone trying to go back to sleep.

“The dark woman. The Jet Woman.”

“Jet what?”

“She sparkles like she’s wearing jet.”

“Tell me later, Vinnie, I want to listen.” The lights were making their final descent, but it was no good. Curiosity got the better of the cool and detached Francesca. As the curtain opened and all attention was drawn to the stage, she turned toward the infernal box to the right, only to be met by an impertinent smile that was becoming all too familiar.

Caught, she quickly turned her attention back to the stage. Oh, bother.
If I were given to profanity,
thought Francesca,
this would be the perfect time
.

 

The Letourneaus’ lawyer had met his match. The more tightlipped and insulting he proved to be, the more Shillingford calmly pummeled him with questions.

“I appreciate your position . . .” said Shillingford, ramrod straight on the hard leather chair that stood before the lawyer’s desk, and looking like he was dug in for the long haul.

“I fail to see how the disposition of the will of Charles Montague Letourneau can make any difference in your investigation,” said LeGros in a heavy French accent. “You have seen a copy of the deed, have you not?”

“I have. The deed was changed in 1884 to reflect the name of the current occupant of Maywood—Henri Gerard Letourneau. It was previously held by his father, Charles Montague Letourneau, who, I am given to understand, died in 1884. The will may have every bearing on the circumstances surrounding the transfer of the property and whether there were impediments.”

“Has someone made a claim to the property?” asked LeGros.

“I take by your swift deduction that there was indeed an impediment.”

“I am sure your investigations to this point have dispelled a good deal of the ignorance you profess. I see no reason to answer the inadequacies. The legal aberrations of the Letourneau family, then and now, are their business, monsieur, and neither yours nor mine. Has Edmund Tracey made a claim?”

“I make no claim to familiarity with the legal customs of this region, which I am attempting, through this interview, to ascertain. It would seem to me that the sooner you provide me with the information I seek the sooner the matter may be drawn to a close.”

“That hardly seems likely, monsieur,” said the lawyer. “It may be only the beginning.”

“Would you prefer that I lay out before a clerk the matter of a dispute regarding Maywood Plantation? Or would you rather that I come directly to you, so that the discretion you are so keen to observe might be preserved?” Shillingford thought he detected a barely perceptible shifting in the chair of the gentleman before him. “It is Charles Montague’s will that interests me and his original intent for the disposition of his property. To what lengths would you prefer that I resort?”

LeGros considered, then said, “I can give you its main provisions, after which you will leave this office and not return.” Shillingford gave no answer. LeGros made no move, but retrieved the document’s provisions from his memory.

“Charles Montague Letourneau left the bulk of his estate, including Maywood Plantation, to his daughter, Henriette Genevieve Agnes Letourneau, who, at the time of Charles Montague’s death, was married to Edmund Francis Tracey. The sons, Henri Gerard and Philippe, each received considerably less in terms of fortune, consisting mainly of properties in New Orleans, but certainly each had enough to keep a prudent man comfortable for the rest of his life.”

“What of the daughter’s husband?” continued Shillingford. “Would he not have some legal claim to the property if it were last in his wife’s name? I should imagine that in the case of property a husband holds rights over his wife, unless the wife holds the property in her own right, in which case he may likely inherit upon her death?”

“Likely, yes.”

“I assume that in the event of the daughter’s death, if her marriage produced no issue, and the husband forfeited any claim, the property would pass to the eldest of her brothers.”

“Obviously your researches have failed to uncover the fact that there was a child.”

Shillingford had not failed, of course. Despite the suggestion that he was anything less than thorough—against which his professional being revolted—he asked, “A child?”

“Hardly a fact to be spoken of in polite society, but yes, there was a child.”

“And the child is now living?”

“The child was born dead, monsieur, and the mother died too.”

“A husband, a child. Indeed these are impediments.”

“I said, monsieur, the mother and child are dead. Regardless of the chain of events in the end, Charles Montague was cognizant of the”—he searched for a word—“
suitability
of either of his sons to manage the estate. He was also a pragmatist. His will was written before Tracey appeared and provided that if Henriette met with an untimely death by natural causes, the property would be divided between his surviving children, Henriette’s brothers Henri Gerard and Philippe. But if her death could in any way be attributed to foul play, all rights would be forfeit, and Maywood would be given, with all moveable property, to the Church. Tracey seems only to have been a minor inconvenience.”

“Then the husband made no claim?”

“Maywood came to him briefly upon the death of Henriette, but within days of her burial, he determined to quit the place and signed the property over to Henri Gerard.”

“Signed over? A sum of money must have changed hands. Presumably Maywood, however reduced in circumstances, would have been worth a great deal.”

“Presumably.”

“You don’t know?”

“I was not consulted, monsieur.”

“Oh?” said Shillingford. “Henriette died as a result of childbirth, and the child died, too, so there was no living issue and no foul play?”

“That is correct, monsieur.”

“Then where is Philippe Letourneau and why has he not laid claim to his half of the property?”

“As I said, monsieur, Charles Montague had reservations regarding his sons’ fitness to oversee the property. It appears that his concerns were not unfounded. Philippe Letourneau left the country for France shortly after Henriette’s death and has not been heard from since. Henri Gerard took over the property, as I have stated. I can make no further answer, monsieur. Charles Montague provided for each of his children according to the measure of his affection and his assessment of his—or her—abilities. What has happened to each subsequently and how he or she has disposed of what was bequeathed, I am no longer in a position to speculate or pass judgment upon.”

“Oh?”

“Shortly following the reading of the will, I was informed by Henri Gerard that my services would no longer be required. Thus a relationship of many years was brought to an abrupt, and I need not say acrimonious, end.” LeGros rose. “If I have given you the information you require, monsieur, I will presume this interview is at an end.”