Decorum (2 page)

May was right. Her family would have urged her to work out her own grief and move on. Yet the thought of leaving the only underpinning she had known for two years threatened to overwhelm her. This was all Vinnie’s doing, she thought—all her doing, bless her. Her childhood friend had discovered the new settlement through the gossip of her father’s New York parish and proposed a flat in Forsyth Street near the settlement house as Francesca’s means of escape. In helping others, she would help herself, Vinnie had said. Now that the time had come, Francesca wasn’t so sure.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re never hungry,” said May, “and look at you. So thin and pale.”

Francesca looked at the ghostly reflection in the mirror—the white skin with two ice-blue pools surrounded by dark circles.

“Them at the settlement’ll think you’re the one who needs the help, and not the one who’ll be giving it,” May said. “You won’t last for the cab ride to Forsyth Street. I won’t let you out of this house until you’ve eaten the rest of this bread and cheese, and finished the tea. But you must make haste. Miss Lawrence should have the cab drawing up at the corner at any moment.”

Francesca stuffed the last of the bread and cheese into her mouth and washed it down with the tepid tea as May held up the woolen coat and slid it onto Francesca’s shoulders. Francesca pinned the gray woolen hat, picked up the carpetbag and a small valise, extinguished the oil lamp, and followed May to the back stairs. They reached the basement kitchen only moments ahead of the footsteps that began the morning descent from the servants’ rooms. Grabbing a shawl from a peg by the door, May stepped out into the cold gray morning and up the stone steps, opening the iron gate onto the street. She cautioned Francesca to stay as she ran to the corner to make sure Vinnie was waiting. At May’s beckoning, Francesca quietly pulled the gate to, then ran on tiptoe the half block.

“You’re here. Thank God,” said Vinnie as Francesca settled next to her and May set the bags at her feet. Vinnie rapped on the cab’s roof. “Forsyth Street, cabby.”

“It’s like a dream,” said Francesca. “Shall I ever wake up?”

She turned and shouted as the cab pulled away from the curb.

“May, how can I ever thank you? I’ll let you know how I get on. And I promise you, in a year we’ll all be back at Sixty-third Street.”

C
HAPTER
2

 

Tea.
Bloody hell,
thought Connor as he emerged from the hansom into the drizzly autumn afternoon. Couldn’t this have been done at Jerry’s club? Or at the fireside of a respectable little tavern? But no. Jerry Jerome had gone to a lot of trouble to persuade Mr. Worth to meet him at all, let alone cut him in on the deal. The deal, after all, was what brought him to New York. Since the deal was Worth’s, Worth called the tune. A church vestryman and teetotaler, it was Worth who had suggested the Morocco Room.

The maître d’ was expecting him. In an instant his hat, coat, gloves, and soggy umbrella were whisked away. Leaning for a moment on the walking stick, he surreptitiously flexed his right knee, which had been playing up—the damp weather, no doubt. Connor stepped away from the tearoom’s entrance for a moment and moved a self-conscious hand over his dark wavy hair and adjusted the tie and the jasper stickpin. In doing so he trod on something soft and discovered a lady’s kid glove underfoot. As he picked it up by its long and slender fingers, the faint scent of violets met his nostrils. He was recalled to himself when the maître d’ cleared his throat, and Connor absently slipped the glove into his pocket.

The room before him glowed in red, gold, and black carpets, dark polished oak, and wallpaper strewn with russet poppies and gold acanthus leaves. With its potted palms and porcelain urns of hothouse flowers, Connor likened it to a high-class brothel.

He spied the table where Jerry and Mr. Worth were seated, by the ornately carved screen that separated the gentlemen’s tearoom from the airier tearoom of the ladies with its alabaster fountain and cool white and coral marble. The men were in serious confabulation. A dispute, he wondered—about himself? If Worth was half the businessman his reputation foretold, it would take more than Jerry’s word to give Connor entrée into the tight fellowship of dealmakers New York boasted. Could an immigrant upstart from the wilds of Colorado make New York sit up and take notice? It was full steam ahead between Worth and Jerome, with or without O’Casey. Better that it be
with
O’Casey. As he followed the maître d’, he caught Jerry’s eye and the latter rose, smiling.

“Connor, I see you’ve found us, and right on time,” he said, extending his hand. “John, may I present Mr. Connor O’Casey, late of Denver, St. Louis, Chicago, and no doubt many points even I’m not aware of. Connor, this is Mr. John Ashton Worth.”

The man whose hand met Connor’s firm grip was impeccably barbered with a wreath of short white hair around a pink pate and a well-manicured set of white moustaches.

“Glad to meet you at last, Mr. O’Casey,” Mr. Worth said genially. “Please, take a seat. Jerry tells me you’re settling in at the Grand Central. I hope they’re making you comfortable. Finding your way around all right?”

“Indeed, sir,” replied Connor. “I’m finding New York much to my liking. I’ve been making a point of takin’ in new streets almost every day—by carriage and on foot—until I can get the lay of the land, so to speak. As far as the hotel”—he hesitated and smiled—“the accommodation is only as good as might be expected. Where’s a respectable man of means supposed to lay his head when he was in New York, in a stable? Horses were bedded down better than most people I know—the Grand Central notwithstanding.”
Pull back, boy, pull back,
Connor thought.
Don’t look too eager
.

“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Jerry.

Mr. Worth chuckled and pulled a cigar case from his breast pocket, opened it, and offered it to Connor. A waiter costumed in a caftan and fez arrived with tea. In the interval for serving refreshments, Connor’s attention was drawn to the ladies’ entrance to the Fountain Terrace by a tall, slender young woman who appeared to be joining a friend. He might not have noticed her, except for her beautifully erect carriage. Her attire was somber black and dark gray with a simple black hat covering most of her white-blond hair. The fragments of her face he could see through the lacework of the screen were enough to tell that she was delicately featured. The friend whose table she joined was plainer, though not unattractive, of smaller frame and darker hue and fussier clothes. The Fair One—for so he thought of her—sat with her back to him.

“I can see Mr. O’Casey is already disposed to our way of thinking,” said Mr. Worth, turning the offer of a cigar to Jerry. “Jerry tells me you’ve been in timber and mining, Mr. O’Casey. Done rather well for yourself, I gather.” Had Jerry not told him, thought Connor, the intervening months while the deal was brewing gave ample time for investigation. Short of examining the books, Mr. Worth was likely to know Connor’s state of affairs nearly as well as he himself. So much the better. The Midwestern timber, the killing he made in the Comstock Lode, his tight friendships with Mackay and Daly, and part ownership of the lucrative Five Star Mine would bear scrutiny. “Still active in those pursuits?”

“I keep myself apprised of what’s happening in Denver and Leadville,” replied Connor, “but on the whole I would say I’m retired from any active involvement.”

“A bit young to be retired,” commented Mr. Worth. “You can’t be much past forty, if you’ll forgive such a direct observation.”

“Which is why I’m looking for a new project to occupy my time,” said Connor. “A man can’t let his brain go to seed at any age now, can he?”

“So when I met Connor in Chicago last spring,” interjected Jerry, “it seemed only natural to raise the subject of—”

“Of my little pet project?” asked Mr. Worth. Jerry made an affirmative gesture.

“Indeed, sir,” said Connor, his attention straying momentarily to activity on the other side of the screen. The tall fair lady had risen and appeared to be searching for something. “A very interesting prospect, if I may say so,” he continued, forcing his gaze back to Mr. Worth, “a luxury hotel in the heart of New York City.” By now the lady had enlisted her companion in the search around their table and Connor’s hand stole instinctively to his jacket pocket.

“People want to be pampered when they travel, don’t you agree, Mr. O’Casey?” Mr. Worth asked rhetorically. “They are perfectly prepared to pay for it, but they want value for their money. Value in the service, certainly, but also in the quality of their surroundings.”

“No doubt the Vanderbilts and the Astors would agree,” Connor observed. A bit of a spoke in their wheel would do no harm—for the good of the finest luxury apartment hotel in New York. “What makes you think your ‘pet project’ will trump anything they might build?” Jerry and Worth exchanged looks.

“Well you might ask, Mr. O’Casey,” said Worth. “I needn’t bore you with a recitation of all the modern conveniences we intend to install in the way of electrical fittings, elevators, and private water closets. No doubt Jerry has catalogued these.”

“He has, in detail,” said Connor. “You can put modern conveniences in a barn and it’s still a barn. What will make your establishment unique?”

“People want pleasant things, beautiful things to look at, just as they might collect for themselves in their own homes,” said Worth, warming to his subject. “The Europeans understand this. Of course, they are in a better position to choose their ornaments and decorations, being surrounded by them.”

Beautiful things to look at, Connor considered as the lady resumed her seat with a shrug of her shoulders, suggesting the futility of their search. “Wouldn’t it, or couldn’t it, be part of the attraction to have some rooms brought over wholesale and refitted and installed? A client might fancy boastin’ to his neighbor that he stayed in the Louis XV Suite at the Excelsior.”

“Excelsior?” Jerry laughed.

“It was the first thing that came into my head,” said Connor. He could barely tamp down the thrill at the prospect of luxury on such a scale. It was not just the money that could be made. The chance to learn about fine things was being handed to him in a way he could never have imagined in the dark days of his childhood in Belfast, talking his way onto the first outbound ship that would have him, or the darker days in the lumber mills and the Montana mines as a young man.

“If this is to be as elegant as you suggest, the craftsmanship alone will be an enormous expense. Take these screens here,” Connor said, toting up the figures in his head as he gestured toward the dark, carved wood that attracted his frequent gaze, “they must have cost a pretty penny, either to tear them out of some building in Marrakesh and import them, or to have them carved on the spot. What do you propose for your establishment?”

“You’re quite right,” said Mr. Worth. “I’m proposing that the laborers and craftsmen be hired either here or abroad and the work to be completed on the site—made to order, so to speak.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Worth has catalogued many dealers in France or Prussia or Italy who could direct us to the makings of a Louis XV Suite, hasn’t she, John?” asked Jerry. “Mrs. Worth has excellent taste, Connor—a great asset in this little enterprise.”

“I believe she could be persuaded,” said Mr. Worth, visibly pleased.

Could Blanche’s knowledge and tastes keep up with those of the formidable Mrs. Worth? Connor wondered. If Worth’s investigations had been as thorough as suspected, they would have uncovered his liaison with Blanche. Blanche may well speak of opera and art in three languages and impress Connor O’Casey, but when called upon to impress New York society, that might be another matter. Her manner may suit New Orleans or St. Louis, but would she invest herself in the social success of his business? Blanche could be dismissive and perverse when she chose. If she chose to be dismissive of a Mrs. Worth or a Mrs. Jerome? Well, then.

Mr. Worth summoned the waiter and ordered a particularly exclusive brand of Turkish coffee. As the waiter bowed and was about to melt away, Connor motioned him closer and said in a low voice, “I believe the lady yonder may have lost this.” He retrieved the glove and handed it over.

“Thank you, sir. She said she’d lost it. I’ll see that it is returned.”

 

“I nearly didn’t come,” said Francesca, “but I didn’t want to leave you wondering.”

“You’re only just coming from lunch?” asked Vinnie, pouring Francesca a cup of tea as the latter helped herself to cake. “I hope it wasn’t as dreadful as the look on your face suggests. I wonder sometimes why you put yourself through this ordeal. You only have yourself to blame.”

“I know,” said Francesca with a sigh. “I thought with time things might improve between us.”

Neither the substance nor character of Maggie Jerome’s discourse had changed in four years. Francesca wished she had been stronger in those fatal hours following the worst calamity of her life. A year at the settlement had restored her to health and given her strength to return to her home. What remained was to see whether her relationship with Maggie Jerome could also be restored. Luncheons with Maggie had been a tenuous olive branch. Besides, scenes were more difficult in public.

“Maggie doesn’t still blame you for leaving, does she?” Vinnie asked.

“It’s more the fact that I deprived her of someone else to order around. She still harps about the flat—says it wasn’t ‘dignified’ for a lady in my position to share a flat with two others in
that
part of town. And then, of course, there’s Edmund.”

Maggie quarreled with Francesca and Jerry by turns about Edmund Tracey. For Francesca herself, she gave Tracey credit for having withstood four years’ interlude of illness and grief, and wanting her nonetheless. If Maggie would only let Nature take its course, however meandering and slow, all might be agreeably concluded. Still, by protesting so vehemently solely to stave off Maggie’s meddling, Francesca worried that she jeopardized her chances of attracting a suitable man. At nearly twenty-eight, she feared that if something didn’t happen soon, she indeed would be taking her comfort in old age in the work of the settlement house.

“Have the workmen gone?” said Vinnie, introducing a welcome change of subject.

“The last of them left this morning, thank goodness. I can’t wait to arrive home this evening to fresh paper and paint and no scaffolding anywhere. I’m almost proudest of the kitchen, though Mrs. Howell was still fussing about the new stove when I left to meet Maggie.”

“Has Maggie seen the changes?”

“No,” said Francesca. “Nor will she anytime soon.”

“You can’t stop her from calling.”

“Oh, can’t I?” said Francesca with a sidelong look. “I’ve already planted that seed by saying that I’m attacking the other rooms myself. She wanted to help, of course, but I declined her offer with thanks. You and your parents must come for tea one day. But you come before then, certainly. I think you’ll be pleased with the result.”

 

The business of the hotel agreeably concluded, the men were chatting amiably when Connor perceived movement on the other side of the screen. The Fair One gathered up a small parcel wrapped in brown paper, a handbag, and an umbrella and turned to look around her, as if to check around her table one last time. Another waiter approached and proffered the glove, which drew an exclamation of pleasure and a nod from its owner. Connor tried to picture Blanche in the alabaster and wrought-iron sanctuary of the Fountain Terrace, gossiping with a society friend over tea, but couldn’t feature it. The Terrace’s elegant but restrained lines seemed contrary to Blanche’s passionate nature. Hard to tell though, thought Connor, especially when “contrary” might be coined to describe Blanche’s primary operating principle.