Time Out of Mind (34 page)
Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
At about this time, Ella had begun to come upon Ansel
Carling while abroad shopping or on calling day, which
was Tuesday in her part of the city. Calling day was another
social ritual that Tilden, in his ignorance, considered an
absurd waste of time. One day each week, several hours were set aside during which a household would receive
callers, mostly women and children, the men being occu
pied in business or bastioned at their clubs. A call would
last fifteen minutes, little more and little less and regulated by some inner clock since it was considered unmannerly to
glance at a timepiece. Mrs. Sherwood's book of etiquette
also prescribed those topics of conversation which were acceptable, ruling out all that might possibly give offense, and
effectively leaving only the weather. During the first
months of their marriage, Tilden gamely made these
rounds
in order to help establish Ella but, like most men, found it
exhausting to mouth expressions of appreciation of the
charms of each season at one stiff parlor after another and
was glad when he could consider his duty done.
It is
not
done,” Ella told him. “If one is to remain
en evidence,
one must call. If one is to appear on the better
guest lists, one must be known at the better homes.”
“
But I
am
known, Ella,” Tilden pointed out. “We have
not gone a single week in the past year without at least two
stultifying dinner parties at which everyone expresses re
strained enthusiasm for the wines and the sauces and inquires about my day while having not the slightest interest
in my reply.”
That is another thing. At the Whiteheads' the other
night, your five-minute account of having your shoes pol
ished was not at all amusing.”
“
You complain, madam, when I speak of business and
when I speak of athletics. If I am to be boring, I might as
well try to make an art of it.”
“
You are quite hopeless, sir.”
What has happened to you, Ella?” he asked quietly.
“You were once so gay. Could two years in New York
have taken the joy out of you or is the love of life some
thing you put on and take off with the rest of your wardrobe
as it suits your purpose?”
”
I have no idea what you mean, sir.”
“
No, I don't suppose you have.”
“
It is late, Tilden.” Ella allowed her face to soften. ”I
suppose you'll be wanting to share my bed tonight.”
“
No, Ella,” he answered, “as a matter of fact, I will
not.”
I dare say Ansel Carling would, she thought, angrily at
first, and then quivering inwardly at the daring of that notion. There is also a man who understands the need to call
and to cultivate. It may be true, as they say, that Mr. Carling
has received more than his share of cards sealed in envelopes. But these are from weaklings. Anyone who uses the language of calling cards to discontinue a relationship with a man like Mr. Carling is simply less of a person than he. They fear his strength. They fear those eyes. Those mar
velous jungle-cat eyes.
It was not long before coincidence found Ella and Car
ling calling at the homes of mutual acquaintances at very
nearly the same hour, and not long after that before they
were discreetly lunching together at a cafe in Greenwich
Village where waiters sang Italian opera. Soon he was
walking with her around his building, explaining the several
Spanish architectural styles of the Navarro Flats and the motifs of its various lobbies. Soon after that, she was in Carling's library viewing his small but quite exquisite col
lection of illuminated manuscripts, one of which he'd
snatched practically from the hand of J. P. Morgan, whose
agent was late to an auction, and his not inconsiderable
collection of diamond studs, which were no less polished
than Ansel himself. And no less hard.
second year of her marriage to Tilden, Ella's ultimate de
struction set its roots. Tilden suspected nothing, noting only
that ever less about him seemed attractive or even tolerable to Ella. The announcement to her that he must voyage to London for ten weeks on a business matter brought an unexpected flicker of excitement to her eyes. For the briefest moment he thought that she would beg to accompany him,
and, in fact, he had prepared himself to argue any such request by citing the dangers and discomforts of a two-
week crossing in March. These reasons, in any case, would
not be true ones. Business aside, a solitary crossing aboard
a packet steamer in the company of rough-hewn men
seemed a welcome tonic for a soul that found little peace
of late. But Ella denied him the scene and speech he'd
rehearsed for this occasion. Her interest, far from being in
going with him, seemed to be more in the fact of his prolonged absence. Tilden, perversely, found himself both an
noyed and disappointed. On the day of his departure there
was only his father to see him off.
Ten weeks later, the trip a modest success, Tilden re
turned to a New York that had sprung miraculously to life
with the flowers of May, although winter held fast inside
his flat at the Osborne. He plunged back into his work. On
a pretty afternoon a week later, he chose to leave his office
at five, two hours short of his usual time, and to forsake
the Sixth Avenue Elevated in favor of a long and invigor
ating walk up Fifth Avenue with perhaps a stop along the
way for a sherry at one of his clubs. The nearer his stroll
brought him toward Ella, however, the more doleful Tilden
became. On the corner of Thirty-sixth Street, he paused for no reason that he knew. Georgiana Hastings's parlor house,
he realized fully, was only a few doors down, but to stop
in there now that he was married would be quite inappro
priate. But perhaps not, he argued. Georgiana’s sherry was
as good as could be found elsewhere and the conversation
a good deal more cheerful. An hour at most.
Good evening, sir.” A butler named Wilkins bright
ened with recognition. “‘Mrs. Hastings will be very pleased
to see you again.”
Thank you, Wilkins.” Tilden, warmed at once by the welcome, held out his walking stick and hat. ”I was just
passing by and I thought—”
Is that Tilden Beckwith?” A soft Southern accent
flowed like honey down the stairway past the butler's
shoulder. The glint of silver shoes and the skirt of a brocade gown from Worth of Paris came into view, then the narrow
waist and bosom and welcoming smile of the proprietress
of New York's finest sporting house. Georgiana was per
haps thirty-five years old, though she'd aged not at all since
last he'd seen her, and from Charleston, it was said. Her
hair, piled high, was the color of chestnuts before roasting,
and her skin was like risen cream to which a drop or two
of coffee had been added.
“
Georgiana.” Tilden grinned, stepping forward and taking the ungloved hand she offered. “How wonderfully well you look.” More than well, she was quite lovely. She was
also the first woman ever to have taken Tilden to her bed.
He remembered gratefully how patient she'd been, how
kind and encouraging, with the clumsy and painfully bash
ful young man soon to be graduated from Harvard.
“
Are you here as a client,” she asked, “or dare I hope
that you've come to see an old friend?”
In truth I was rather tugged here in passing,” he told
her. “It is a gentle place, Georgiana. A happy place. But
not as a client, I think. Perhaps for a glass of your very
fine Malmsey.”
”
A happier place than some others, I gather. Come”—
she took his arm in hers—“sit with me.”
She steered him toward the quietest of three sitting rooms
on the first floor of her handsome town house. In one of
the others Tilden caught a glimpse of a very wealthy
yachtsman he knew, and a city official with Boss Croker's
Tammany machine, and another man he thought might have
been a judge. The latter was playing whist with a petite
blond girl in a middy costume who seemed no more than
thirteen. Annie, he recalled. Yes. Little Annie. She had
looked thirteen when last he saw her as well, on the oc
casion of the bachelor party forced upon him by his friends, but he'd learned at that time that she was easily past twenty.
Great heavens, he thought, does no one age in this place?
Does no one frown?
”
I see an uncommon weariness in your eyes, Tilden.”
Georgiana led him across a velvet carpet to a small sofa
that sat beneath two excellent paintings and an expensive gilt-framed mirror. A grand piano filled one corner of the
room. “You are well, I hope? Your father is well?”
“
His vigor isn't what it might be. He's been fighting the
effects of cholera for twenty years now. But he speaks of
retiring to the Carolinas soon.”
“
Cholera.” She nodded. “It was aboard one of Cyrus
Field's cable ships, was it not?”
“
What a memory you have, Georgiana. When must I have told you that? Five years ago, at least.”
”
A young man's pride in his father becomes him, Tilden.
The laying of a telegraph cable all the way to Liverpool is
a feat that dizzies one even to think on it.”
“
The feat was Mr. Field's,” Tilden corrected her.
“
But your father did assist; he secured the necessary
funds when others thought the notion to be lunacy, and he
did it at great peril to his health. Let that be our toast to
him, Tilden. To that and to a rest in the Carolinas, well
earned.”
although Tilden
had seen no signal. He waited while the butler poured
the garnet-colored liquid and then picked up both glasses,
handing one to Georgiana Hastings.
“
And what of you, Tilden?” she asked, barely touching the sherry to her lips. “Now that you are here, how can I
please you?”
“
You have already with your kindness, dear lady.”
Georgiana reached for his hand and squeezed it. “It has
been a long time since we've had a good talk. There is
more than one way to find comfort in my house.” That
remark was as near as Georgiana thought proper to asking
him outright about Ella. One did not ask a client, not even
an affectionate friend such as Tilden, about his wife or
about his other personal baggage unless the client first showed a wish to unburden himself. But Tilden had come
to her, more than a year ago, for her advice in understanding
the mysteries of womanhood, and of the art of pleasing his new wife in their bedchamber, and of the sullen moods
that overtake her every fourth week. And then, not two
weeks past in this very house, Georgiana had overheard
Ella's name and Tilden’s mentioned amid sneering laugh
ter. She heard boasting of the ease with which Ella had
been seduced, and of her contempt for the man she married,
who was at that time abroad. They were Jay Gould's peo
ple. Something else was said, which Georgiana did not
quite catch. It was about business. Business secrets, she
thought. Cyrus Field's name had been mentioned. Could
Ella possibly have been betraying her husband's business
affairs as well? Georgiana did not know. In any case, the
men were told that their patronage would not be welcomed
in future.
