Decorum (13 page)

As she entered, she felt larger than her surroundings, as if she might bump her head on the door frame. Her confidence expanded into the dingy lobby, where the lethargic clerk unfolded himself and addressed her with something like respect. Her query was answered shortly. She mounted the long staircase, breathless with anticipation. She stopped in front of Number Ten and, without hesitating, knocked. A stir indicated life within. A few steps ended in an abrupt turn of the doorknob and the opening of the door an eye’s breadth before it opened fully.

“I hoped it wouldn’t be long before you found me,” said Tracey.

C
HAPTER
17

As the cab sped toward the Worths’, Blanche receded further and further from Connor’s consciousness. The wide boulevards, green parks, and fashionable squares whetted his appetite for more than a festive dinner. Thanksgiving would be an auspicious occasion, he was sure—a baptism, a confirmation. Yes, he would mark November twenty-seventh as his birthday. Though the real date of his birth eluded him, the year, 1847, was burned into history—the year that pushed Ireland over the precipice. Today would be a day of renewal, a day of great things. Connor even dared to picture himself dandling Worth grandchildren on his knee, children who might one day look favorably upon their old Uncle Connor. The cab pulled up in front of an imposing stone structure with turrets and balconies and leaded glass and wide steps that swept up from the street to massive double doors of dark-stained oak. Old gas lamps on the front of the castle-like mansion were the only hints of warmth. A moat and a drawbridge would not have surprised him.

He rang the bell. A footman answered the door and with a cordial but businesslike manner ushered Connor in and took his hat, coat, and stick. Humble the gathering may be, he thought, but not the surroundings. Everywhere were the fruits of wide-ranging interests—magnificent ornaments gathered from their travels with none of the vulgar curiosities of distant cultures so often displayed on a pianoforte under a bell jar. The royal blue carpet contrasted with the warm yellow of the carved oak paneling. Chinese porcelains of all sizes with nature scenes and stylized flowers adorned the mantelpiece above a crackling fire. A magnificent sideboard of intricately carved tiger oak offered a host of nooks and crannies for displaying more chinoiserie. The graceful staircase swept up to the top of the landing, where an exquisite Tiffany window depicted Oriental flowers, birds, and insects.

The house was not in the state of chaos Connor had expected, as several of the littlest Worths had just gone down for their afternoon naps. Mrs. Worth greeted him. She was stylishly dressed, if a bit overdone, he thought, but was an attractive woman, round, soft, and white-haired with piercing dark eyes.

“I’m so glad you could join us, Mr. O’Casey. I hope our humble family gathering won’t tax you too much, being a bachelor.”

“May I compliment you on your wonderful home, ma’am.” Connor was shown upstairs to the drawing room. The kind of home he could see himself in, he thought, presided over by a woman of taste and accomplishment. And where does one find a Mrs. Worth—or more to the point, a Mrs. O’Casey—to find the right bits and bobs to adorn a man’s life and home and do him proud? “I understood from Mr. Worth that you’re an exceptional collector. It’s clear to me now that he was being modest on your behalf. If time permits, I’d be pleased to have a tour.”

“The pleasure would be mine, Mr. O’Casey, I’m sure,” she said, much gratified. “And if the day gets away from us today, perhaps I may have the pleasure on another occasion.” Another occasion? A good sign, thought Connor.

He followed her to a sprawling room of dark, fumed oak where the light of two large fireplaces danced merrily against the high polish. Her heels clicked on the parquetry between the thick Persian rugs. East had moved West, with dark medieval European pieces mixed with the contemporary.

The older Worth grandchildren were strewn across the floor, absorbed in puzzles, maps, building bricks, and games, except for one little girl of six, clearly bored, half-reclining in an overstuffed chair and absently stroking a cat. The men lounged in comfortable chairs, chatting or reading the newspaper. The eldest daughter and granddaughter were the only adult females in attendance. The gentlemen rose as Mrs. Worth introduced the ladies, two sons, and two sons-in-law, who in turn introduced the scatterlings, who sprang to their feet and came forward to shake Connor’s hand.

One of the younger ones was a freckle-faced boy of eight with strawberry blond hair, wearing a paper sailor’s hat and sporting a homemade sword. “You look like a pirate,” he said to Connor.

“Jeremiah!” said Mrs. Worth as the rest of the children giggled and adults suppressed smiles—except for Jeremiah’s mother, Mrs. Edith Blackhurst, who shot Jeremiah a look of reprimand.

“And so I am, Master Jeremiah,” said Connor, amused, but glaring at him soberly with his dark, disturbing eyes. This bit of frankness gave Connor courage. “I’ve sailed the Seven Seas and plundered and pillaged, too.”

Jeremiah turned to his siblings and cousins. “See, I told you,” he whispered.

“We Worths teach our young ones to size people up from an early age, Mr. O’Casey,” said the eldest son.

“Heavens, Frederick,” said his sister, Mrs. Blackhurst. “What will Mr. O’Casey think?”

“It’s amazing how accurate they can be when they’re not burdened by adult biases and misconceptions,” said Connor. “They’ve got only their gut instincts to go on, beg pardon, ladies, so off they go.” Frederick laughed at the remark.

“Then perhaps we should take their accounts more seriously,” said the senior Mr. Worth, smiling as he strode across the room, followed by the remaining Worth women.

“We should at that, Father,” said Frederick.

“Don’t encourage him, Mr. O’Casey,” said his wife as she came up and stood beside her husband. “He’s bad enough on his own. I’m Mildred Worth, Frederick’s wife.” Mr. Worth senior completed the introductions, presenting Linton Blackhurst, Edith’s husband, and the Worths’ younger daughter, Margaret, married to Samuel Curry. First impressions all round seemed favorable. Connor couldn’t know that only hours before, the elder Mr. Worth had given the family its marching orders.

“Of course I know his reputation,” Mr. Worth had said. “And yes, I know about this woman of his. She was not invited and, God willing, he’ll have the good sense not to bring her along. If he does, we’ll know what we’re dealing with.”

“But Father,” protested Margaret. “How are we to explain such a person to the children?”

“There’s nothing to explain, my dear. No one need know anything about him other than that he is a business associate of mine. He’s a big fish, and likely to become an even bigger fish.”

“Or simply more fishy,” chimed in Frederick.

“And,” said Mr. Worth, paying no heed, “I’d rather he swim in this pond than jump the dam and wind up in someone else’s pond.”

“Father, for heaven’s sake.”

“Edith, he’s done absolutely nothing to offend thus far. He has bent over backward to accommodate me at every turn. He’s got a very good head on his shoulders and has wisely pointed out particulars where we might have put a foot wrong. He’s no fool, even if he is a bit lax in the morals department. And he’s a friend of Jerry Jerome’s, whose friendship I’d like to keep. Besides, there have been many sound men of business—and politics, and the law, and any other profession you can name—who have had the misfortune to suffer from their own little personal weaknesses of one kind or other.”

“Little?”
Margaret exclaimed.

“Personally, I think he’s a lost soul in some ways,” said Mr. Worth.

“Oh, Father, you’re worse than Mother,” said Edith.

“Thank you, my dear.”

“But Father, do you have to drag him into our drawing room?”

“Yes, my dear Edith, I do.”

“Well, I, for one, am willing to give him a chance,” said Frederick. “He might prove quite amusing.”

“However much I appreciate your support, Fred—and I do—I still expect you to be polite to Mr. O’Casey,” said Mr. Worth.

“I wouldn’t dream of being otherwise, Father,” Frederick said, more seriously. “I’m curious about Mr. O’Casey, to see whether he’s the devil incarnate that Edith thinks he is.”

“If this is important to you, Father,” said Linton Blackhurst, who had been listening in silence to the family harangue, “then I’m with Fred. If he makes a gaffe he hurts no one but himself. If he comes off well, so much the better for all of us.”

“Thank you, Lin. My point exactly,” said Mr. Worth. “Innocent until proven guilty.”

So, unbeknownst to Connor, he had leapt over the first hurdle—leaving Blanche to sulk at the hotel, much to the collective relief of the Worth women—and spent the afternoon charming the family.

Thank God for the children,
Connor thought: amiable buffers to awkwardness and an endless topic of conversation. Whenever possible, he queried the children directly regarding their ages and interests, their schooling and subjects. In turn, they plied him with questions about sailing, which eventually led to other kinds of travel, then to questions about distant shores. It ended with Connor sitting in a club chair with an atlas open on a large ottoman and the children gathered around, pointing to places on a large map. To most of their questions Connor could formulate a reasonably accurate answer and for those that he could speak to from experience he had a ready fable fit to entertain. He feared he might have overstepped the bounds of decorum, but the children’s pleasure, Connor’s willingness to answer anything they asked, and the tranquility of the warm fire made wholesale disapproval nearly impossible.

“Have you ever seen John L. Sullivan fight?” asked Jeremiah’s elder brother, Vaughan, as more of a challenge than a question.

“I have, sir. And shook his hand, too.” Connor allowed both his Irish pride and his accent to swell as he lapsed into soliloquy. “I saw him fight his famous bout with Jake Kilrain. Blistering heat we had that day. It was so hot the willow trees themselves were perspiring (I beg your pardon, ladies). Paint was fair peeling off the sides of buildings. The birds in their nests were fanning themselves against the heat. Yet for all that, three thousand strong we were, standing and shouting and nearly passing out from the heat ourselves. And it was in this heat that the great Sullivan laid blow upon blow with his bare knuckles, jabbing and thrusting until the life was nearly battered out of poor Jake Kilrain. Seventy-five rounds they went—more than two hours, until Kilrain could stand no more. Afterward, I pushed my way to the front of the crowd and clasped the bruised and bleeding hand of the great man himself in my own two hands and blessed him for a fine fight. He looked me in the eye and said in a hoarse voice, ‘God bless you, sir.’ ” The children were spellbound. The women sat in rapt attention. Connor was pleased with the effect. Even the men could not help but admit to a slightly elevated respect for the man whose hand shook the hand of John L. Sullivan.

Edith was reserved, though not uncivil, throughout the afternoon and seemed to laugh in spite of herself. Now she looked at him and Connor caught her.

“Sizin’ me up, Mrs. Blackhurst?” said Connor.

“Yes, Mr. O’Casey,” said Edith. “It’s the way of the Worths.” The adults laughed.

Connor made no bones about his own lack of education or his great pleasure to be making up for it now. What he wanted was some guidance, a hint directed at Mrs. Worth senior for the promised tour of her collection of art and antiquities. He asked intelligent questions and plainly accepted her kind correction and filed the facts away.

He felt as if he were living a portion of childhood he had missed, plying Mrs. Worth with questions in an unabashed, unyielding, but good-natured manner. Curiosity had been his faithful companion since he scrounged for pennies at the Belfast shipyards, watching, asking, practicing, using everything his brain could absorb. When a merchantman took on this clever lad of twelve, he felt as if he had graduated from a rough schooling on the docks to a floating apprenticeship in the ways of the world. Every port and people, custom and marketplace, landmark and back alley, vice and virtue fired his imagination and sharpened his judgment. His break came at twenty, when opportunity converged with his preparation and his ship docked in San Francisco and his own golden gateway to a new life. Until now, he regarded his education as only useful to himself or to those in whom he had an interest, and a business interest at that, certainly not a family of children.

In its way, this confrontation with the Worths’ grandchildren was a greater test than passing muster with their children. Though whether his own children might one day be ashamed of their papa had never worried him before, he was relieved to think there were things in the recesses of his past that could be of interest and use beyond simply earning a living. If curiosity and a love of learning were his few noble legacies, they would be enough.

Faint, irregular wails from the nursery foretold the arrival of the three remaining Worths, rousted for a wash-and-brush-up.
It’s a pleasant sound,
thought Connor, lusty and full of life, a sound full of promise. He wondered if he would be any good at holding small children. Surely a man can get the knack. He amazed himself for wondering such things.

As the dinner hour approached, the wails grew closer. Connor and Mrs. Worth met a servant in the hallway, about to announce dinner. She made the announcement herself and paired the women with escorts, handing Connor to Edith and Mildred to Mr. Worth, and choosing her bachelor son, Clayton, for herself.

Minty-green watered silk lined the dining-room walls and hung in graceful folds at the tall leaded glass windows and gave a sense of breathing space for the long table set with twenty-two places. Light from the alabaster fireplace danced off the two cut glass chandeliers and flickered off the etched crystal goblets and glasses. Sequestered on more formal occasions, today the children scurried around the table, looking for their places, spotting their special dishes or cups or silverware.