Decorum (20 page)

 

“Jesus, sir.” Jamie’s tone was hushed. He was alarmed but relieved to find Connor lying on a cot, locked up at the Bummer’s Hall. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’ picking a fight . . .” He was going to add, “at your age,” but thought better of it. Jamie steadied the big man, trying to cushion Connor from further abuse, keeping one move ahead of the policeman who pulled Connor up smartly by the collar.

“Shut up, boy, and get me out of here,” was all the reply his master could manage.

Connor’s head and lip were cut and bloody and one eye was swollen nearly shut. Grime was ground into his coat and the sleeves were tearing from their seams. Jamie could only imagine how the shoulders had been wrenched in their sockets.

“All right,” the officer had growled, “he’s free to go. Get him out of here, lad. If I sees this ugly bastard again, ain’t no amount of money’ll get him out. Got that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Jamie had grasped Connor bodily, letting Connor drape himself over Jamie’s slight but strong frame. The two men pawed their way past the tramps, drunks, prostitutes, and vagrants who shared the Tomb’s large holding cell and walked quickly out the Franklin Street entrance and piled into a waiting cab—all before the morning’s Police Court docket was complete.

Jamie had felt the bubbling undercurrent. Connor had been underfoot all day, not venturing out of the Grand Central Hotel. He had paced the sitting room or stared at nothing out of the window, a large cigar hanging between his fingers and thumb, its ash falling onto the sill. Jamie had gone about his business, doing and redoing the work of the wardrobe. He polished boots that already shined, brushed suits, and checked for the missing buttons he had sewed on but yesterday, all so that he would be within easy call. Surmising that his master might require a good drinking base, he ordered a simple evening meal of bread and cheese. At length, having eaten, Connor prepared to go out—not in his usual meticulous apparel, but old clothes that he kept retrieving from the odd lots that Jamie kept setting aside to be thrown away.

“Shall I get you a cab, sir?”

“No, not tonight. I’ll see to it meself. You needn’t wait up.”

It was well past midnight when Jamie finally went to look for him. Despite being used to Connor’s late hours, this night he sensed that something was wrong. He weighed the consequences of being absent when his master arrived against the prospect of his master being found dead in some alleyway. He found the burly cabby who was used to Connor’s nocturnal rovings, and tucked a small derringer into his pocket, just in case.

The late hour prompted Jamie to skip the usual haunts and make straight for the Tombs, where disorderlies would be kept until their hearing the next day or until someone came to fetch them. Hospitals would be next, and then, if worse came to worst, the morgue. His foresight had been rewarded. He had located Connor at the Bummer’s Hall within an hour of the latter’s being picked up. The big man was doubled up on a stinking mattress on a rickety metal cot, a pool of vomit drying on the floor next to it. The crowded place smelled like urine and booze and unwashed flesh. Dirt and blood were ground into Connor’s heavy coat. The cap and stick and cash had gone by the boards.

“Can’t you keep out of trouble?” said Jamie, once they had made it to the cab.

“I didn’t go lookin’ for it,” said Connor with effort.

“No, but it managed to find you right enough,” said Jamie, matching Connor brogue for brogue.

“I don’t need your lip now, do I, boy?”

“Well, you need lip from somebody, sir, begging your pardon. What am I supposed to do, may I ask, if you go getting yourself killed?”

“Just shut up and get me home.”

C
HAPTER
25

Francesca Lund let it be known that on New Year’s Day, 1891, she would observe the old tradition of opening her home to receive guests. The Lund family home would again be a center of conviviality. No harkening back to her mother’s days as hostess. This New Year’s Day would be hers.

“Edmund will be here all afternoon to help and can protect me from any unwanted attention,” Francesca replied with a wink at Jerry over the Jeromes’ early New Year’s Eve dinner, “and Michael and Anne will be here the whole time. It will be quite like two engaged couples sharing the duties as host. Vinnie and Anne and I will be trading places at the piano all afternoon and I’ve engaged the cellist whom you liked so much. Reverend Lawrence, Anne’s father, various Messrs. Worth, and Jerry will call by”—at which Jerry nodded his assent—“and Dr. Barton promised to come early and bring his mother to sit by the fire and drink tea. So you see, we shall all be quite proper.” Maggie’s objections were silenced.

The house was fragrant with good cooking and fresh greenery. Mrs. Howell had outdone herself in the kitchen. A festive display of pine and holly mixed with blood-red hothouse roses and carnations graced the entrance, drawing room, dining room, and banister.

The hostesses made a splendid trio: the diminutive, chestnut-haired Vinnie in creamy, chocolate-brown taffeta and velvet; the plainer but pleasant-looking Anne, whose deep green bengaline silk lit up her complexion; and the fair and stately Francesca in purple brocade with a collar that stood up at the back of the neck and plunged to a deep and narrow
V
at the bosom. Ear bobs and necklaces of cameo, pearl, or silver adorned each lady, and their lace fans matched their gowns. The patter of their soft kid shoes was masked by the elegant and provocative rustle of petticoats and the swish of heavy skirts.

At one-thirty the cellist, a Señor Grimaldi, arrived with his brother, a violinist, to take up their stations by the piano and began tuning up. Michael Lawrence arrived to take up his post with the ladies. John, all spit and polish in his crisp black suit and white shirt and white gloves, stood at the dining-room table, which had been extended to its full twenty-four-seat length, concocting punch in the gleaming silver punchbowl that sat surrounded by silver cups like a luxury steamer surrounded by a fleet of tugboats on a white linen sea. Gold-rimmed china plates and silverware sat at the opposite end of the table. The table was being decked with cold ham, roast beef, and fowl, condiments, breads, and salads. Cakes, chocolate éclairs, sweetmeats, and tea were to be served from the massive buffet. Bottles of champagne stood ready in ice buckets on the server with the rest in copper washtubs of ice and snow on the back porch.

An invisible policeman might have been directing traffic, so smoothly did the servants move from serving tray to dumbwaiter or staircase, Mrs. Howell and the scullery maid restocking refreshments on the trays as fast as the trays could be emptied. The pastry chef had arrived and was putting the final touches of decoration on the large cake. Two hired men replenished drinks. May stood by with the sewing basket should disaster strike.

Edmund Tracey had not come yet. Francesca thought she had made herself clear on this point. She so wanted them to be seen in society together, especially in the company of Michael and Anne, who looked so comfortable together they might have been married for years.
Edmund is always late,
she told herself.
There’s nothing in it. He’ll be here on time.

True to his word, Dr. Barton arrived at two o’clock with Mrs. Barton, an elderly lady in stiff black bombazine whose wrinkled face beamed from beneath a lace cap that peeked out from beneath her black bonnet. Linton Blackhurst arrived. Two old business acquaintances of Jurgen Lund’s who had known Francesca since she was a child paid their respects, downed large quantities of reception fare, and moved on. Waiters offered champagne. The Grimaldi brothers struck up a pleasant air. Anne and Vinnie greeted guests and inquired politely after wives, sisters, and daughters and ushered the gentlemen toward the dining room. Francesca renewed old acquaintances and effected introductions.

Many of Francesca’s family friends wished to make Edmund Tracey’s acquaintance. Francesca grew more and more embarrassed as she recited in turn a set of patent excuses.

“Why, I should have thought he could have used that newfangled telephone contraption to ring you,” one elderly family friend replied bluntly. “You mean you’ve not heard from him at all? He could have sent a message around at the very least.” Each caller echoed every indignation Francesca felt, yet she felt forced to defend her fiancé.

By the end of the second hour, Francesca had ceased to blush at the mention of Edmund’s name. The flush that bathed her face was a glow of mounting anger. She gladly took her turn at the piano and let Beethoven and Chopin drown the remarks while relinquishing the burden of courtesy to Vinnie, Michael, and Anne, but she couldn’t hide from Vinnie and Anne the strain under which she labored.

“I’m sure he’s only been detained,” said Anne, putting on a brave face. “He’ll be here soon.” Michael Lawrence was indignant and made his views known to his sister and his fiancée, which Francesca could not help but overhear.

At last Jerry Jerome arrived, to Francesca’s great relief. She would have drawn him aside had not Connor O’Casey followed on Jerry’s heels. He looked under the weather, with a bruised forehead into the bargain, and leaned more heavily on his walking stick than usual. The small betraying cut at the corner of his mouth had not hampered his speech. The nerve of the man, to turn up in that state.

“Oh, so you’ve turned up,” she said to Connor in a tone that made Jerry start.

“We caught up with each other—when was it, Jerome? Three? Four houses ago? Can’t seem to shake loose of each other. Always easier to share a cab, as long as we’re goin’ in the same direction, don’t you know.” Francesca was ashamed at her own lack of grace. Yet she could not have handpicked anyone whom she was more loath to have intimate knowledge of her personal affairs. His look seemed to penetrate her embarrassment for Edmund. She grew redder still.

Jerry asked the dreaded question before she could prevent him. “Where’s Edmund?” he said, as he and Connor scanned the room, expecting him to materialize.

“He’s not here. He’s been detained,” she said as she met Jerry’s eye.

“Detained?” said Jerry, pulling the watch from his waistcoat pocket. His anger was clear. Then, remembering himself, he said, “It’s nearly four. I hope nothing’s happened. Did he say when you might expect him?”

“No. No, he didn’t.”

“You have heard from him?” Jerry’s question was almost a demand, not of Francesca, but of Tracey.

“No.” Francesca took Jerry’s arm and steered him toward the drawing room. “Jerry, you probably know everyone here,” she said. “Would you do the honors and introduce Mr. O’Casey to anyone he may not know? Then you gentlemen must help yourselves to refreshment.” Jerry did as he was bidden, but soon was cornered by Michael Lawrence.

Connor detached himself from this private conversation and made his way among the callers, greeting acquaintances and seeking new introductions. All the while, Francesca could feel his eyes follow her, with each offer of champagne, each introduction, each salute of recognition. His eyes followed her as she made for the dining room and spoke to John. As she turned, she was startled to find Connor beside her.

“I’m sorry about your fiancé,” he began. She nodded without looking at him and fussed with the table. At the end of the room he intercepted her. He stood so close that she could have brushed her cheek against his shoulder. His baritone voice whirred in her ear—like the mesmerizing voice of the devil himself.

“I know it’s none of my business—” he began.

“No, it’s none of your concern—”

“You needn’t put up with it—any of it.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” he said in a low voice. “It’ll only get worse, you know. Minor impoliteness. Indifference to your opinions. Opposition to your wishes. Now this. It wouldn’t surprise me if you’re on that path already.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m busy. I have guests to attend to.”

The room was oppressive and hot. She turned away, eager to escape, but Connor blocked her path. The infernal man would not let up.

“Look at the men in this room,” he said. “Any one of them would be better for you than he is. Any one of them would be kinder, prouder of you, happier to be with you, or at the very least would know where his duty lay.”

“The duty, as you call it, for these gentlemen lies elsewhere, since the men in this room are married or soon will be.”

“Not all,” he said, his face close to hers. The two words smote her disbelieving ears.

“You can’t be serious.” The thought had never occurred to her that this man could have any possible interest in her. “Of all the barefaced impertinence. How dare you. How dare you,” was all she could think to say. What unspeakable gall. She faced him, but before she could give voice to her anger he spoke.

“The man’s a blackguard. You could do better.”

“You are speaking of my fiancé, sir. Someone for whom I care a great deal.”

“Do you?” He drained the champagne glass. “He’s certainly displayed his regard for you this day, in spite of any finer feelings you may have for him. To be honest, I fail to see which is worse—his behavior or your judgment.”

“How dare you,” she gasped. “Get out of my house before I throw you out myself.”

Connor set his glass on a tray and bowed. “Please make my excuses to Mr. Jerome and to your lovely hostesses,” he said, and then more loudly as he kissed her hand, “It’s been a great pleasure, ma’am. My warmest wishes for a very good New Year.” He departed.

Never had Francesca felt so foolish, as if she had been the butt of some horrible joke while everyone around her laughed. To make matters worse, the dreadful Irishman, who at once fascinated and angered her, had spoken plainly what others only hinted. It couldn’t be true. All Edmund’s early protestations of love couldn’t have been for nothing. Yet a man is defined by his actions. This afternoon Edmund’s action had been reprehensible. For the sake of decorum and her reputation, Francesca hoped that in the later recitation of their New Year’s calls, no one would be able to deduce that Edmund Tracey never came at all.