Decorum (10 page)

“I wasn’t sure. It’s been so many years.”

“I thought we parted on perfectly friendly terms.” She took another drag on the cigarette, which made her face screw up into a curious grimace as she eyed Blanche.

“We did indeed,” said Blanche as she drew off her gloves. “But you know how it is, the years pass, and I’m afraid I’m a horrible correspondent. I thought you might not want to see an old friend. I didn’t even know you were still in town until I saw you at the Iris. I thought perhaps you and Anton had gone off to Paris or something.”

“We had, shortly after you left. We were there a couple of years, as a matter of fact, dear Anton having quite a number of business dealings there. But one gets homesick, doesn’t one? Yes, of course, you know what that’s like, poor darling. Well, you certainly look like you’ve landed on your feet.”

“Yes, fortune seems to have taken a turn in my favor at last.”
Enough explanation for now,
she thought. Nell was never a good confidante—or rather, she only kept the confidences that suited her. The Ryders observed their own decorum. “How is dear Anton?”

Nell threw her head back and with her upturned face in full profile placed the cigarette to her lips and drew on it. “My dear Anton continues to be one of the kindest, most considerate, and understanding individuals on the face of the earth.”

“I’m very happy to hear it.” Blanche finally smiled. She was beginning to relax, but only beginning.

“Yes, he is a sweet man,” Nell said more naturally. “Growing a bit of a paunch, though I must say, poor dear, and a little fleshy in the face. Other than that, you’d certainly know him.”

“I’m sure I should. Out and about on business this afternoon, no doubt,” Blanche chuckled. She waited to see if this familiarity would be well received. The years may only have made the Ryders more circumspect in discussing their marriage. Nell’s reaction would signal that Blanche was either considered an intimate or an outsider.

“No doubt—somewhere.” Nell smiled.

“And his business is just as varied and interesting as it always was?”

“Probably even more so than when we saw you last.” Blanche was satisfied.

They were interrupted by the arrival of tea. Another diminutive young woman, who appeared to struggle to erase the look of intimidation on her face, arranged the silver tea service and china on a low table and left the room. Both women sat forward to pour.

“Allow me, darling, you relax,” said Nell. “Milk and sugar, if I remember correctly.” She prepared the cup as Blanche took a piece of cake. “You should have looked me up earlier. Anton had it from Max that you were back.”

“It would have been impossible to look you up, even if I had thought you were in New York,” Blanche said reluctantly. “I haven’t been mistress of my own activity as much as I would like. You see, I’m not alone on this trip.”

“So that was the man—at the Auxiliary Ball?” Nell laughed. “You could have brought him along, darling. It would have been perfectly all right with me.”

“But it may not have been all right with him.”

“Oh, I see. No wonder I haven’t seen you.” Nell drew again on the cigarette and squinted at Blanche through the smoke. “I hope I didn’t make things awkward for you when I spoke to you at the ball.”

“Not that I’ve noticed. You caught me at a good time. He was paying his respects to some business associates.”

“Goodness, how dreary for you.”

“Not really, Nell. He actually has some very promising prospects here in the city. My job is to help him smooth the way.”

“You won’t make me believe that I’m witnessing Blanche Reformed. Well, he’s either terribly amusing or he has buckets of money.” She crushed out her cigarette. “Knowing you, he has buckets of money.”

“He certainly has the means to make himself a success. Only a few rough edges that need a bit of smoothing and polishing.”

“Introductions?”

“None yet. He’s only just made the acquaintance of the wives of his business associates, but we’re hopeful that the calls will come in due course.” Though Blanche refrained from disclosing much about his business or social ambitions, Nell’s curiosity clearly was roused.

“In the meantime, you should bring him along. Anton knows absolutely oodles of people it might be useful for you to know. I leave it open to you, darling, to come to any of our little soirees that might suit you both.”

“We’re usually much engaged in the evening,” said Blanche.

“The invitation stands nonetheless.”

C
HAPTER
13

Plans for the Excelsior were moving apace. Commitments for financial backing were settled, garnering for Connor an eighteen percent share. With Jerry and Mr. Worth in for equal sums, they made a triumvirate with fifty-four percent. Inclusion among this elite and tight-knit crew was an enormous and well-earned coup. Documents of incorporation were drawn up. The triumvirate and three more major investors—with a carefully selected tie-breaker yet to come—would make up the board of directors. When stock was finally issued, the triumvirate would be the principal shareholders.

Connor reveled in his newfound success. He vented his excitement to Blanche in endless recitals of the intricate workings of big business. A small notebook he carried in his breast pocket was filling rapidly with jottings of his ideas and particulars of the Grand Central and Fifth Avenue hotels that he liked and disliked. Suitable premises had, as yet, eluded them, with a plot on Madison Avenue near Central Park a tantalizing possibility. Where he felt out of his element was in the intricate world of artists, craftsmen, and decorators, but was nevertheless determined to take part in these deliberations too. Announcing to Blanche his desire to learn more about what constituted fine art, he allowed her to steer him toward an old and reputable establishment known simply as Venables’.

Venables’ establishment consisted of a reception room connected to a set of three spacious and high-ceilinged showrooms on the ground floor. A grand staircase at one side of the second of these rooms wound up to an open gallery. A doorway hung with a gold portiere next to the staircase led to the office, which adjoined a large room for receiving, crating, and wrapping. Paintings in heavy gold frames, double- and triple-hung or more, spread over walls, archways, and doorways, with smaller paintings cheek-by-jowl going up the stairs.

The frontmost room, which could be seen from the street window, was devoted to popular genre paintings. The second room was awash with landscapes, seascapes, and cityscapes. The third room held still lifes. Upstairs were the figure paintings and portraits. A statue or bust rose majestically upon its pedestal. Here and there an upholstered ottoman invited the viewer to sit and contemplate. The gallery was bustling with activity.

“Good morning, sir. Good morning, madam,” said the eager young man who accosted them the moment they entered.

Connor dearly wished to bolt ahead and explain that he was Connor O’Casey,
the
Connor O’Casey who was acquiring land on Madison Avenue to build the finest hotel New York had ever seen—but he restrained himself.

“I’d be obliged if I might have the privilege of speakin’ to Mr. Venables himself.”

“He’s with another client at the moment, sir. Have you an appointment?”

“Mr. O’Casey has only recently settled in New York and is desirous of becoming acquainted with the city’s finest art dealers,” said Blanche. “Naturally, Venables’ Gallery is at the top of the list. I myself am acquainted with Venables’ reputation from my previous residence in New York. I am happy to see that the intervening years have been kind.”

“Indeed, thank you, madam.”

“I realize we have no appointment,” she continued, “but perhaps if Mr. Venables might grace us with a few moments for introduction, we would be most grateful.” Connor produced his visiting card on cue.

“You’ve rather caught us at sixes and sevens today, I’m afraid, madam. Mr. Venables’s engagement diary is full and we’ve just received a new shipment from Europe a day early, which Mr. Venables is endeavoring to oversee himself. Perhaps I may be of assistance.” A new shipment. What unbelievable luck. It was like going on a hunt and being in at the kill.

“We certainly don’t wish to be any trouble. May we know what has just arrived?” Blanche said smoothly as Connor felt an almost imperceptible squeeze against his arm.

“Some paintings acquired by our agents in France for clients here, and a healthy selection of Académie paintings and some very new works, madam.”

“Oh, how splendid,” said Blanche. “We won’t detain you. In the meantime, we should be delighted to take in your collection, if you will permit us.”

“Certainly, madam,” said the assistant, examining the card; handing them each a catalogue, he departed.

As assistants came and went, Connor noticed that certain of Venables’ clients gained admittance behind the portiere to the workroom. He caught glimpses of elegantly attired patrons covered in bits of straw and dust, magnifiers in hand, bent over paintings for minute examination.

“They might be at sixes and sevens,” Connor whispered, “but seems to me we’ve come on the right day. How do we get a look in?”

“We should look around. You did want to look at art, you know. The more you learn, the better you’ll be able to converse with the owner when the opportunity presents itself. If the opportunity comes, a well-placed word in reference to the hotel and its future decoration may go a long way toward gaining us admittance. It wouldn’t do to be too pushy. Come along. Let’s see what we have here.”

O’Casey attacked the catalogue as if it were the racing form. With only a question or two he quickly picked up the formula of artist, medium, school, and provenance. The genre paintings came first, the easiest to explain and understand, unencumbered by the allegory, mythology, and history. He remarked enthusiastically to Blanche upon their light and color and composition, an enthusiasm that she shared as she amplified his observations. Connor was captivated by the boldness of these paintings that transformed an ordinary field or figure or vase of flowers from the mundane into something more vibrant than the original.

A racecourse and a painting of the St. Lazare train station in Paris so captivated Connor that he asked to have the latter taken from its upper berth for a better look. Connor stepped forward to examine it minutely, then stepped backward to take in the entire view, the assistant hovering at Connor’s elbow and extolling Degas and Monet. He fixated on the contrast—the smooth flesh of the horses and silks of the jockeys on a shimmering field of golden light, and the steely blue-gray of the smoke-filled station with the black iron behemoths and delicate buildings materializing through the mist. Blanche asked if they might see more work by these artists. The assistant answered in the affirmative and conducted them upstairs.

“These are some of our finest works by these artists, sir,” said the assistant as Connor prepared to pounce on more paintings. The young man drew Connor’s attention to two pastels of ballet dancers and an oil of a nude. Blanche smiled and stifled a snicker. The assistant left them to browse.

“Where are you going?” she asked as Connor headed for the stairs.

“To look at my paintin’s again. Well, they’re as good as mine. I don’t want anyone else to buy them.”

“I doubt very much that Venables’ will suddenly be invaded by droves of connoisseurs itching to buy pictures of train stations.”

Connor wasn’t sure he agreed with her, but acquiesced.

Finally, they were joined by Mr. Venables himself, a robust little man with frazzled hair, a raspy voice, and a quick manner. “My dear Mr. O’Casey, I believe,” he began as he peered at Connor above his spectacles, seeming to forget whether to look through or over the spectacles to read Connor’s card. He extended his hand. “I do apologize. We’re in something of a muddle today. So sorry. I hope you haven’t been inconvenienced.”

“Your assistant has been most attentive,” Connor answered. He exerted himself with businesslike charm and after a few polite questions steered the conversation back to the two paintings that by now were becoming obsessions. The proprietor was on the point of conducting Connor and Blanche down to the beloved paintings, when the assistant met him halfway up the stairs.

“Your noon appointment is here, Mr. Venables—about the Redon and the Ravier. We’d be grateful for your attention.”

“I’m so sorry, sir, madam,” Mr. Venables said, turning to each. “Duty calls, I’m afraid. Pray continue your perusal and tell my assistant to call me if there is anything else in particular you would like to see.”

As they descended the stairs a young woman came into the second gallery and met Mr. Venables at the bottom step. She was tall and fair—the Scheherazade whom Connor had seen at the ball, but no highwayman accompanied her. Instead, the smaller, darker young woman of the afternoon tea was again her companion along with a third young woman who was plainer still. Before he could make further assessment, Mr. Venables whisked the ladies into the workroom.

A rose among the cabbages,
thought Connor.
Three times now she’s been where I’ve been
. He began a mental list of what he knew about her—the dancing, the art. He speculated upon the circles in which she might travel. Did she know people he knew? Had they missed each other in other places? Had she been at dinner anywhere he dined with Blanche? Had he passed her in the park on their afternoon drive?

Denied the pleasure of further appraising this woman, Connor was about to protest that he had had enough cultural stimulation for one day. He wanted to pack up his paintings and go home, when the assistant met them and announced that a crate containing another work by one of his favorites had just been unpacked. Would the gentleman and the lady care to step into the workroom for an advance look before it went on display? Connor’s eyes sharpened and his chest expanded; he squared his shoulders and followed Blanche as the assistant held back the portiere and guided them in.

 

Venables’ workroom was a hodge-podge of elegance and industry, nearly two full stories high with large windows on the two outer walls and a loft with bookcases and cabinets and stairs and catwalks that marked the circumference. Near the double doors that opened out onto the alley were workbenches equipped with vises and clamps, with pulleys, chains, and hauling tackle overhead. Well-worn cabinets held tools. The smell of straw and solvents for repairing and cleaning fine art hung in the air. Wooden barrels held scraps of frame molding while fresh supplies in every style and thickness stood against the wall.

A section was screened off where an enormous oriental rug covered the rough wooden floor and easels were arrayed like soldiers waiting for duty. A Franklin stove stood in the corner, in front of which stood two chairs and a low table crowned with a costly set of Wedgwood that held the remnants of tea. Nearby stood a well-stocked liquor cabinet and a hutch that protected fine crystal. Wealthy clients wore bits of straw like badges of honor, part of the select set who were privy to the inner workings of the gallery. Several parties were examining paintings, but their placement was so skillful and the service so individual that an air of exclusivity and discretion belied the high degree of activity.

Two easels were prepared for Francesca against a backdrop of dark velvet. A small, brilliant still life of a vase of flowers and a landscape of a sunlit classical arch hemmed in by trees and shaded hedges were secured by the assistant’s gloved hands. The strong primary hues of the still life with its golden ground and jewel-like flowers beckoned her from across the room. Immediately she knew this would hang where she could see it the moment she entered the drawing room. The landscape—cool and sunny, solitary and refreshing, with its fresh hedges and pebbled path—would go in the study. To mentally transport these works and see clearly where they should live was a sure sign that they were meant to be hers.

A striking couple entered the workroom, she handsome, he not handsome but arresting in appearance. As the newcomers entered, all the parties quickly turned to look and just as quickly returned to their own activities. Mr. Venables detached himself from the ladies with a bow and directed the couple to another easel beyond. The woman was pale with jet-black hair and black eyes and a look of unabashed self-satisfaction, elegant in deep blue and with a large fur muff. He was equally dark—dark of feature and of mood.

The lady passed first and Francesca dropped her gaze. Just as the man came upon her, just before she turned back to her paintings, Francesca caught him out of the corner of her eye. He looked at her directly and touched the brim of his topper. She quickly faced the paintings, face flushed. Anne uttered, “Of all the abominable cheek.” Vinnie repressed a smile. Francesca instantly recognized his impertinence, if not his face. She had seen him at the charity ball.

A packing crate had been pried open and a large canvas taken from its linen shroud and placed upon the easel. The woman’s exclamation of pleasure drew all eyes toward them. The painting was indeed exquisite, a small cottage on a brilliant and thickly vegetated cliff overlooking a misty azure and aqua sea. Francesca, too, looked at the painting with its brilliant yellow light and then back at her own beloved Ravier. It seemed puny for a moment until it drew her into its cool pathway. She looked at the Monet again and cocked her head.

“He’s looking at you,” Vinnie said at Francesca’s shoulder. “He is.” Anne pressed Vinnie’s arm as Francesca turned to the Ravier, but Vinnie would have none. “She’s quite something,” she persisted, “she sparkles like jet. You should look.”

“I saw her quite adequately, Vinnie, thank you,” said Francesca. “You shouldn’t whisper about people so.”