Decorum (14 page)

Before the party could be seated, the bell rang. As the table filled up, Connor noticed the four empty places and reminded himself of the Jeromes and Miss Lund and her fiancé, whom he had forgotten in all the commotion. Mr. and Mrs. Worth excused themselves briefly to greet their new guests. Connor took his place. A small skirmish broke out next to him, where Jeremiah was determined to displace an older sibling.

“Let Jemima sit next to Mr. O’Casey, Jeremiah, and you come down here so I can help you cut your food,” said Mildred.

“But I want to sit here,” said Jeremiah, cross and gripping the chair.

“Jeremiah,” said Edith, “don’t speak to your aunt that way, young man.”

“He’s fine here, ma’am. I’m happy to help him with his cutting,” said Connor.

“See, I told you.”

“Jeremiah, that’s enough,” said Edith. “You’ll be eating dinner by yourself if you’re not careful, young man.”

“Then come down here, Jemima,” said Mildred. Jemima acquiesced politely.

Connor bent down and whispered, “Apologize to your mother and your aunt. That’d please ’em.” He gave Jeremiah a quick wink.

“I’m sorry, Mother, Aunt Mildred,” he said, still vexed.

“Good boy,” whispered Connor. Jeremiah looked up at Connor. The boy seemed more anxious to win the pirate’s approval than that of mere female relatives.

Suddenly, a little group appeared at the dining-room door.

“The prodigals have arrived and await the fatted calf, or should I say, the fatted turkey,” announced Mr. Worth as they entered—Maggie Jerome and Mr. Worth, then Jerry, Mrs. Worth, and Francesca bringing up the rear. The gentlemen, ladies, and children alike surged forward from the table to greet them.

Connor’s eyes ran over the party. Naw, it couldn’t be. Or could it? It’s impossible. Francesca? Grievin’ recluse? Bookish piano player? Francesca? Settlement worker? Bleedin’ mountaintop hermit? Damn that Jerome. Connor hung back a bit to give himself time to observe, having had the advantage of Francesca by a few seconds, long enough to drink her in. Her hair looked like the foam on a good head of beer, he thought. He stirred himself in time to shake Jerry’s hand.

“Connor, good to see you. You remember Maggie,” said Jerry.

“Of course, Mrs. Jerome.” He bowed slightly.

“Miss Francesca Lund, this is Mr. Connor O’Casey.”

Francesca looked at him, her surprise evident.

“Yes, we’ve met. Miss Lund.” He bowed. The alarm on Maggie’s face pleased him.

“Mr. O’Connor. How very”—Francesca hesitated—“lovely to meet you formally, and how very unexpected.”

“O’Casey, ma’am.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The name—O’Casey.”

“You’ve met, dearie. Well, I declare,” Maggie said.

“Briefly,” Francesca said quickly, looking him in the eye. He met her gaze until she blushed. “Mr. O’Casey was good enough to help me with my hair.” She smiled a smile of satisfaction.

“Helped you with your hair? Why, Francesca, whatever do you mean?” Maggie glanced at the others, as if trying to gauge whether they were as shocked as she.

“I very clumsily bumped into Mr. O’Casey at the charity ball and in doing so lost a hairpin. He retrieved it for me.”

“Oh, so that’s what you mean.” Maggie laughed unconvincingly. “You must watch yourself, dearie, or you’ll give these dear people the wrong impression.”

“Francesca, you come and take this chair next to me,” said Mrs. Worth.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” said Mr. Worth. “If we put you two together you’ll keep her all to yourself and none of the rest of us will get a decent conversation with her. Maggie, you go down by Isabel. Francesca, you may take this place.” He escorted her to a chair on the opposite side of the table from Connor.

Connor examined her, taking in every detail of her coarse, frothy hair, stubbornly held in place with pins that were even now hanging perilously. Her lips were full and pale, only a shade darker than her skin, a creamy pink-and-white, and her eyes a cool gray-blue.
She’s a beauty,
he thought.
Gray watered silk may be fine for some, but she should be covered with diamonds and pearls. How could such a rose have blossomed among the cabbages of the settlement? Can such a one prefer their company to this? Huh, this rabble. Might she learn to prefer my company? Might she make my bed smell like roses and populate my life with little rosebuds?
Connor recollected himself. Francesca was chatting away to Samuel under Connor’s gaze, something about the mission.

“How many hungry folks did you feed today, Miss Lund?” Connor broke in, his head cocked, demanding her attention, but refraining from adding sarcasm to his tone.

She turned to him reluctantly. “Nearly two hundred, Mr. O’Casey.”

“Two hundred souls seekin’ succor. A worthy cause. How many of you ladies were helping out with the cooking?”

“There were six of us.”

“Do you enjoy that sort of thing, Miss Lund?”

“Very much, Mr. O’Casey. Have you ever been to any of the charitable establishments in New York?”

“I can’t say that I have, ma’am. But I’ve seen poor unfortunates the world over. On the whole I find it rather depressing.”

“Not nearly as depressing as for those who have to live it day to day.”

“Granted, ma’am. But I’ve done my best not to have to live it day to day.”

Before Francesca could reply, Mr. Worth gave the command to bow their heads in prayer. Connor would have ignored this command in favor of enjoying the view across the table, had it not been for the nudge from Jeremiah. With the “Amen” pronounced, the servants appeared carrying steaming bowls and platters of food. A large protuberance of harvest-time foliage from the centerpiece obstructed his view of Francesca except for her eyes. She merely smiled and turned her attention to the offered food and drink.

“Do you engage in any charitable work, Mrs. Blackhurst?” said Connor, trying to keep the thread of the conversation pulled taut. Edith’s answer was carried away in a clatter of cutlery and china.

 

Blanche lay on her side, one arm outstretched, her hand hanging over the side of the bed. Tracey lay close up against her back, his arm around her, his face buried in her thick black hair. With her other hand, she cupped the hand that gently cupped her breast. They were awake, quiet, their breathing synchronous. It had been the kind of afternoon she had thought of often since finding Edmund Tracey again—the satisfaction, the exquisite release, the calm in its wake. Such had been many afternoons and evenings in those heated, desperate days when she had finally reached New Orleans from South America. Her reunion with Edmund Tracey in New York unlocked a door to her deepest self, a door that had remained bolted to all others.

Blanche seemed fated to be drawn to men who speculated. She had loved Alvarado passionately, and followed him to Argentina believing his story of a ranch and riches. Enchanted by the estancia, with its sprawling house, its cattle, and its gauchos, and captivated by her charismatic husband, she had been blind to his mounting debt. Seeing no way to escape utter ruin and disgrace, Alvarado had gone to the stables one night and had blown his brains out. Before the creditors could smell the blood, Blanche had fled.

For months she made her way across South America and the American South and landed in New Orleans. Humiliation kept her from seeking help from what remained of her family, promising herself that when she faced them again, whether in Milan or Paris or Newport, it would be with a husband and her fortunes restored. She had tried to survive in genteel poverty, hoping to trade on her knowledge of art and culture in a salon established with a friend. When Edmund Tracey walked in one day, hope rose. His breeding, his manners, his love of beauty, the ardor that boiled beneath a cool exterior drew her like no other man before or since. The heat of their liaison was so intense, it was as if a lifetime had been compressed into a few short months. Before long, however, they understood that although they complemented each other’s strengths, they also magnified each other’s shortcomings. They parted by mutual agreement, neither of them wishing to sully their relationship with constant disputes over money, and took their separate chances elsewhere.

Blanche kept her past as the merest sketch to Connor O’Casey and he never pressed her for more. He had swept her up with his winnings after an all-night poker game in Natchez, where he cleaned out the gambler who was her current lover. O’Casey had come south in that summer of 1889 to watch the pugilist John L. Sullivan fight Jake Kilrain. Blanche had fetched the men drinks, leaving the delicate scent of perfume in her wake, and with lowered eyes had sat silently in the background and watched the game over her lover’s shoulder. Only once or twice had her eyes met Connor’s across the table, as Blanche sat in the shadows, but her message had been clear. In the end the question resolved itself—the lure of O’Casey’s means was sufficient to dislodge Blanche from her prior interest and transfer her loyalties to himself.

The clock in a distant hallway struck four. She could feel Tracey’s mind and body stir.

“When does she expect you?” Blanche asked. She would not have minded lingering. After all, she had nowhere else to go.

“They’re dining by now, I expect,” he replied.

“Now? Shouldn’t you be there?”

“We needn’t worry. The invitation was open.” He kissed her on the ear. “I can come at any time. As long as I appear before the party breaks up all will be well.”

“How can you say that?” asked Blanche. “The Worths may be informal, but if I were engaged to you, my dearest, I should want you at my side the whole time. Women set great store by such things, you know.”

“Do they? It would be different if you were the one waiting for me.” He nibbled at her earlobe and breathed his hot breath into her hair as he drew her closer to him. Then, as if an unpleasant thought interrupted him, he threw himself on his back next to her. “I can’t bear to be in their presence,” he said. “Boring, tight-fisted, peevish pack of snobs.”

“I know you hate it, darling, but you must make an effort.” She sat up and drew the blankets around her. “Think how much better off you’ll be.” His situation pained her, not only because his engagement put him out of reach, but because it also reminded her of her dependence on O’Casey. “I hope you don’t make a habit of this, darling—being late, I mean. How can she be convinced of your complete devotion if you’re never there? Has she never questioned you about where you go or with whom you spend time?”

“Oh, yes, though she tries not to go on about it.” He sat up and ran his hands through his auburn thatch. Grabbing his underclothes from the foot of the bed, he began to dress. He rose and retrieved his trousers from over the back of a chair. Blanche crawled across the bed and draped his cold shirt around her shivering shoulders and embraced him around the waist. Her move arrested him. She felt the tautness in his frame, the rigid muscles in his back.

“Is everything all right between you and your fiancée?”

“I almost wish she’d throw me over.”

She squeezed him for a moment and then released him and relinquished the shirt as she pulled the blankets around her. He reached for her hand, held it and kissed it, then, sighing, continued to dress.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

His back was to her as he spoke. “Things are not turning out as I had hoped. It appears that I shall not be coming into the fortune I had expected. I am to make do with an annuity for my lifetime. She retains the principal.” They were silent.

Blanche hated life when it was reduced to dollars and cents. It was always the same for people like them, like Tracey, like her. Tracey tucked his shirt into his trousers and put on his waistcoat, then sat on an ottoman to put on his stockings and lace up his boots. “Don’t you see? I shall never be able to take any initiative on my own without going to her for the money first. If I were to find a . . . a business venture, or an investment of some sort, my paltry allowance would never cover it. I would never be truly free. What I expect from her can hardly make for the kind of freedom I’m looking for.”

He looked worried now.
No, not worried,
thought Blanche,
but angry and on edge.
All this talk of business and investment. It had been the same as long as she had known him—a fantasy of a future when everything would be amply provided.

The clock chimed the half hour. Blanche began to be alarmed at Tracey’s tardiness. She pulled her wits together and in the firelight began to dress. Tracey helped her to cage her slim figure in the corset. With each lacing, he jerked her body into alignment and pulled the stays tight with a snap. For a moment, she thought of a dog with a rat by the neck. It made her gasp. She shivered.

“You’re cold.” He made a move toward the fire to throw on more coal.

“Don’t bother,” she said. “We won’t be here much longer.” He threw the coal on anyway and pulled a chair closer. He stared into the fire as she finished knotting her hair.

“What would you do with the money if you had it?” she asked.

“The first thing I’d do is leave this miserable town. I have always hated it here. Stupid, filthy Yankee town with its barbarians and sham refinements. I knew I would hate it from the moment I set foot on Manhattan Island.”

“Why did you come if you knew you’d hate it?”

“Because, my darling Blanche, this is where the money is. I had dearly hoped that I could make my fortune here, one way or other. I thought Maggie Jerome had more influence than proved to be the case. I thought she could introduce me to opportunity. Instead, she introduced me to my beloved.” He nearly choked on the word.

Blanche had never heard his words so filled with spite. He hardly seemed to notice her, almost as if hatred were a lover with whom he was completely preoccupied. His loathing frightened her. She hardly knew Edmund Tracey anymore. She was afraid for him, afraid that he was so overtaken with his own pain that he would fail to understand the fine line he trod. In truth Francesca Lund had little to do with it. It was Edmund Tracey who would either make him or break him.