Decorum (12 page)

C
HAPTER
16

“How are you observing Thanksgiving, gentlemen?” inquired Mr. Worth. The investors were concluding a business meeting in rooms newly leased for the purpose. Their three partners had left. Only the triumvirate of Jerry, Connor, and Mr. Worth remained.

“Nothing special,” said Connor, sensing an invitation. “I shall probably have dinner at the hotel.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. Mrs. Worth and I are gathering the holiday waifs for a celebration at our house. We’d be pleased if you would join us. We conduct a rather homey affair for Thanksgiving—lots of family and lots of food. A glorified Sunday dinner plus games for any grandchildren who wander through.” Connor had heard about dinner with the Worths. Unlike most of their peers who hid the children away whenever they entertained adult guests, the Worths prided themselves on including children at dinner.

“That’s very kind of you, sir. In fact, I may be engaged—”

“And you, Jerry?” interrupted Mr. Worth. “You’re not exactly a waif, but we’d be pleased to have you and Maggie and Miss Lund.”

“Thank you, John. I’ll have to consult with the Jerome Entertainment and Mission Committee.”

“Oh?” said Mr. Worth, with an amused grin.

“Maggie and Francesca will spend Thanksgiving morning slaving away at some mission,” Jerry said, “cooking meals and feeding the poor. By the time they get home they won’t be able to stand the sight of turkey. I may have to eat the whole unfortunate bird myself.”

“Then perhaps you’d better come, Jerry. It sounds like you’re a waif after all. I leave the invitation open, though Isabel will see to the formalities, I’m sure. We dine at four o’clock, but people begin arriving around noon, so you’re all welcome anytime.”

“Thank you. I’ll consult with the Committee and let you know.”

“What about Mr. Tracey?” asked Mr. Worth. “It appears I must become accustomed to including him, too.” His tone had an edge.

“Yes,” said Jerry, attempting a show of enthusiasm. “Miss Lund has recently become engaged to a Mr. Edmund Tracey, Connor. None of us are quite used to the fact.”

“Isabel would be happy to see Miss Lund again,” said Mr. Worth, passing over Edmund Tracey. “You should have seen Mrs. Worth and Miss Lund the last time we came together, O’Casey. Thick as thieves they were, talking art, music, religion, and books. Isabel nearly forgot that she had other guests.”

“Talking about some obscure musical notation or literary quotation or some desert hermit or mountaintop mystic, no doubt,” chuckled Jerry.

“No doubt,” chuckled Mr. Worth. “Though I must say, Isabel is like a new person after one of her ‘Lund episodes.’ Can’t stop her talking about Miss Lund’s accomplishments and interests.”

Connor looked dubious.
Jesus,
he thought.
Probably a member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union and a suffragette to boot. Thank God she’s engaged
. At this moment he felt his bachelorhood keenly.

“Don’t worry, O’Casey. The Worth billiard room is the male bastion—unless of course it’s taken over by a gaggle of children. In which case we retreat to the library.”

“Children I can take,” said Connor. “Mountaintop mystics, I’m not so sure of.”

“I don’t blame you, sir,” said Mr. Worth, laughing again. “Any children of your own—in your own family, I should say?”

Was this a slip, or was it meant to be funny? thought Connor. This was not the first sidelong reference to his personal life that he had endured from his colleagues. Had he been married, of course, the question would have been an innocent one. But for a man who was well known to be not only single but eligible, the question held more than innuendo. Connor had successfully dodged all mention of a family. Yet his increasing intimacy with his colleagues had already made him privy to the everyday doings of wives and children and grandchildren. He had not reciprocated with a recital of his own commonplace, and certainly not about Blanche.

Jerry and Worth knew about Blanche, of course, and had construed correctly what his arrangement with her might be. They freely dropped names of suitable women whom their wives and society had thoroughly vetted and offered, in so many words, to effect introductions. They had hinted that Blanche had also been vetted and found wanting. If Connor wanted to keep a bit of something on the side that was his lookout, but if he aspired to the circles in which their wives and daughters traveled, then an acceptable wife was the only alternative. Connor had never contemplated a divided life and the thought of it now displeased him. One woman, acceptable only to him, was all he ever cared about. But now, even elevating Blanche to the rank of wife might not be enough to excuse their prior conduct or to remove the stain with which they had so clearly marked her character.

Connor chose to take Mr. Worth’s question at face value. “No, sir. I don’t have much experience of children, but am, in general, favorably disposed.”

“Splendid. Then you’ll fit right in.”

“Thank you, sir, I look forward to it.” Connor felt he could not say otherwise.

“You know, John, your talk of Isabel and Francesca makes me think I should push the Mission Committee a bit this year,” said Jerry. “It would do Francesca good. She needs more people who share her enthusiasms. She still stays so bottled up.”
So long as she keeps it bottled up around me,
thought Connor. “I’m afraid Maggie and I are no match for her artistic passions. If she didn’t have the piano and the opera—”

“She’s playing the piano again? Splendid. Can we persuade her to play, do you think? Isabel would love it.”

“She’s taking piano and singing lessons again, yes,” answered Jerry.

“Marvelous. Then we shall persuade her,” said Mr. Worth.

“Yes,” said Jerry. “She tends to take refuge in things rather than people—books, music, God, though I suppose God is a person after all and not a thing. She does take great satisfaction in helping people who can’t help themselves. She’s developed a passion for this new settlement movement and has thrown a good deal of her time and financial support behind it. I was a little dubious at first, but I honestly think that it’s had a wonderful effect on her. But she prefers to remain in the background, and not in the limelight. Maggie’s always trying to get her to take center stage.”

“Well, we must work on that then,” said Mr. Worth. “She has much to give and much to teach. Isabel would be delighted to help, I’m sure.”

“Sounds as if Maggie and Isabel would make ideal conspirators.”

 

Blanche was testy. She was standing in Connor’s hotel suite at the Grand Central, in her hat and coat, watching him as the young valet Jamie helped him prepare to go out. “So, why can’t I go?” Connor had hoped to avoid confrontation. Now that she was here, he was determined not to work himself into a lather. He would have the final word.

“You know very well why you can’t go. You weren’t invited.” He was unruffled as he preened before the mirror. Jamie buttoned the collar onto Connor’s shirt and buttoned the shirt at the neck as Connor inserted the jasper cufflinks.

“And why wasn’t I invited?” asked Blanche, more as a statement than a question. “Because they don’t know I exist, that’s why I wasn’t invited. And why don’t they know I exist?” She raised her muffed hand and let it fall. “Because you didn’t tell them.”

Connor turned to her. “They know you exist all right. They saw you at the charity ball, didn’t they? Can I help it if none of the ladies have come to call? You can hardly expect me to simply pop up and say, ‘Can I bring a friend?’ now, can you?”

He turned back to the mirror. Jamie handed him his necktie.

“No, but you could have been more chivalrous about it and said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Worth, but I have a previous engagement. Mrs. Alvarado and I will be eating our
lonely
Thanksgiving dinner at the hotel’”—here she gestured melodramatically—“ ‘while others more fortunate gather with family and friends.’ Perhaps you could have troubled yourself to tug harder at the old man’s heartstrings and managed two invitations instead of one.”

“That wouldn’t be proper, Blanche, and you know it. Besides, you wouldn’t like it. It’s their children and grandchildren. It wouldn’t be right, havin’ you come.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Meaning that I know how you feel about children. You couldn’t stand being there more than five minutes before they’d drive you stark-starin’ mad.” As long as he had known Blanche, she had avoided the subject of children, whether from a barefaced dislike, a fear of encumbrance, or the failure to produce her share, he couldn’t tell.

“And you like them, I suppose?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t mind the little beggars.” He pinned his tie with a jasper stickpin. “At least I have more patience round ’em than you do. And I’ll not have you go insulting the children and grandchildren of an important business partner and blowing this carefully cultivated relationship to smithereens.” Jamie held the waistcoat as Connor slipped it on and buttoned it. Jamie strung the watch chain through the buttonhole and attached the jasper fob as Connor flipped open the watch and checked the time against the clock on the wall. He snapped it shut and put the watch in his pocket.

“Do you mean to say that you think I don’t know how to behave?”

“Oh, you can behave, Blanche. It’s just that you’ve no power to dissemble. Your displeasure winds up written all over your face, no matter what sugary sweetness comes out of your mouth.” Jamie helped him on with his coat. “Nope. This time it’s on me own. If all goes well, your chance’ll come soon enough.”

“And what am I supposed to do while you’re cultivating your relationship?”

“You’ll think of something, I’m sure.”

 

Blanche was furious and deeply hurt. Connor’s refusal had been so cavalier. He left her at home as one might leave a pet dog. He never would have come this far if it hadn’t been for her. She had subordinated her own desires for Connor’s sake. Ungrateful wretch. Now that he was on the point of making his first real entrance into society he didn’t want her there. Selfish bastard. She couldn’t get out of Connor’s hotel room fast enough.

Outside the Grand Central Hotel she hesitated. She dreaded going back to her room, the reminder of her predicament—the clothes Connor bought her, the jewelry, the paintings and bric-a-brac and the interminable isolation. Her usual refuge at the Iris was distasteful now, a shabby substitute for the society she longed for. Nell had cooled since discovering Blanche’s former association with Tracey. In any case, she had assured Nell that she would be well occupied for the day, hinting that this might be her groundbreaking occasion. She couldn’t go to Nell now and admit defeat.

She walked on past the hotel, determined to work herself out of her present misery. A reckless and ridiculous thought surfaced on the murky waters of self-pity—all the more appealing for its recklessness. She remembered an idle comment someone had made at Nell’s one afternoon—about a small and somewhat less-than-smart hotel. A careworn place that once pretended to be chic, but had long since given up pretending.

“How humiliating it must be, poor darling. I wouldn’t wish such a place on my worst enemy,” an all-knowing someone had said that gloomy afternoon.

“Yes,” answered a sardonic someone else, “to be in such reduced circumstances. And such a charming gentleman. It’s too cruel.”

Men are bastards,
thought Blanche. Her fury rose at her predicament with the immovable Connor O’Casey. To Blanche, her situation defied logic and deserved sympathy.

“Such a shabby little place it is.” The voice crept up through Blanche’s consciousness. “Hardly the sort of place in which to ‘entertain, ’ shall we say?”

She stopped to collect herself in front of a door, to the right of which was a brass plate. She looked at it blankly. Jeffers. Jameson. Brier. Stanley. Names that meant nothing to her. She conjured up the party at the Worths’ with Connor standing in their midst, the solitary recognizable figure. Fresh pain shot through her anger. She put a gloved hand to her mouth and extended the other to steady herself against the wall.

“Are you all right, madam?” Blanche felt a firm and gentle hand tug on her arm. “Can I help you in some way?”

She pulled her arm free, not unkindly, and turned without looking at the woman who addressed her and threw back a “No, I’m quite all right, thank you” as she continued down the street. She stumbled on, pushing past numberless others hurrying somewhere.

“And where is this wretched hotel?” swam the voice of the sympathetic soul.

“Somewhere in SoHo, I think,” echoed the all-knowing.

“Do you recall the name of the place?” asked the voice.

Do you recall the name of the place?
insisted Blanche’s own thoughts. The pace of her recollection picked up with each determined footfall.

She hailed a cab and made for the street in SoHo, confident that once there she would know the name of the hotel when she saw it. The cab clattered its way along the busy avenue, fashion yielding block by block to a more careworn gentility. As the cab picked its way through a jumble of horse-drawn conveyances, Blanche strained to give attention to both sides of the street. “There!” she called out, and knocked on the roof. The cab drew up.