Decorum (24 page)

C
HAPTER
29

The way Miss Blanche had talked, thought Jamie, she might be running the show, telling Mr. O’Casey what to do and how to arrange everything to best advantage. For whatever Jamie might think of Miss Blanche personally—and it wasn’t his business to be thinking things—he had to admire her knowledge of manners and dress and what was proper, when propriety was called for.

An opera party followed by a late supper at Louis Sherry’s— Delmonico’s new venue being not yet opened—was on the docket for the evening, Connor playing host to his ever-widening circle of friends. The Worths, the Jeromes, the Gages, the Calloways, and assorted others would be there.

Connor and Blanche had had words. Clearly, Connor had his fill of Miss Blanche for the present. He snapped his impatience as she barged into the bedroom and headed for the wardrobe, ready to rout all of Jamie’s thoughtful work. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, for God’s sake, didn’t she have preparations of her own, Connor barked, she ought to get a move on. He had been dressing himself for more than forty years, he barked again. He and Jamie would do just as well by themselves. Blanche was dismissed. He would call for her later. Holy Mother of God.

Connor usually enjoyed the rituals of dressing and was particular about clothes and the impression they would create. Tonight, however, presented a new predicament. Having divested himself of Blanche’s help, Connor was between a sartorial rock and hard place. To play host—not only to his most important business associates, but also their wives—transformed an otherwise enjoyable preparation into an exercise of sweat and tears. The Met would take care of the entertainment. Sherry’s would take care of the food and drink. If they could only dress Connor O’Casey. Having arrayed himself to the best of his ability, Connor turned from the mirror and faced Jamie.

“You’re not goin’ like that, are you?”

“What do you mean by that?” Connor snapped.

“You look like you just stepped out of a brothel—sir.”

“And who the hell asked you?” he said. “So, what’s wrong?”

“It’s that waistcoat, sir. It’s too shiny, sir, and too, well, loud.”

“And what do you mean by ‘loud’?”

“You look like a bloody pimp, sir.”

“Jesus! Since when are you an authority on formal attire for formal occasions?”

“Since I been watching other people, like you told me. Makes me as much an authority as you—sir. Gentlemen always wears black or white—mostly white,” said Jamie, unbuttoning and removing the offensive waistcoat and holding out the white silk brocade.

“You’re working yourself into a lather over nothin’, Mr. O’Casey, sir. If you don’t ease up a bit, I’ll have to take you apart and put you back together again proper. And no amount of diamond studs’ll make up for you smellin’ like a pig. A fine impression you’d make then.” Jamie cooed and clucked like a mother hen and tried to smooth the ruffled feathers of Connor O’Casey. “So why don’t you let Miss Blanche help you like she always does? She can see you’re put together right.”

“Miss Blanche isn’t here. I don’t need Miss Blanche to help me. I can do it myself. Can you get this damn tie to work?”

“Will you just put your hands down and let me take care of the tie?” Jamie turned Connor around to face the mirror and pulled up a stool to stand on behind him while he tied the tie, made all the more difficult by Connor’s fidgeting hands over collar and shirt studs. Jamie stopped and stared over Connor’s shoulder into the glass. Connor caught Jamie’s look and, with a frown, relented.

“There, sir,” said Jamie, hopping down and smoothing out Connor’s shirtfront and buttoning the waistcoat again. “You look a right picture.”

“Don’t be daft, boy.”

Why get so het up over a simple formal costume of black and white? In no other attire did Mr. O’Casey create such a strong impression. Why muck about with perfection? What could possibly be so important about a dinner party with business associates that Connor O’Casey should work himself into such a twist?

A brilliant thought struck Jamie. “Why not wear that diamond ring you bought yourself? The one from Tiffany’s. It’s enough to create an impression, but not gaudy-like.”

Connor considered. “Fetch it then,” he said.

“What about that fob with the little diamond in the end of it?”

“Fetch it.” Jamie rummaged through Connor’s jewelry box and found the fob and attached it to his watch chain. “Pleased with yourself then, Mr. Lynch?” asked Connor, surveying himself in the mirror.

“More pleased with you, sir. Just enough glitter, but not too much. Miss Blanche would approve.” Jamie winced. It slipped out before he could call it back.

“I don’t want to hear another word about Miss Blanche,” said Connor, smoothing the shirtfront under the waistcoat. “We’ve done all right on our own.”

We?
thought Jamie.

“You think I’ll keep for another six hours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right, then. Get me hat and coat and get me a cab.”

Jamie helped him on with his scarf and coat and handed him his topper, gloves, and stick.

“Now off with you.” Connor took one last look in the mirror, adjusted his hat, tugged at the ends of his sleeves, and squared his shoulders. Jamie ducked out and dashed down the hall and was just at the head of the stairs when he heard Connor pull the door to. He knew exactly how long it would take him to reach the hotel’s front door and tell the doorman, “A cab for Mr. O’Casey,” and have the cabby pulling up at the very moment that Connor emerged from the hotel with just enough time to tip the doorman as he breezed past. Jamie heaved a deep sigh and watched as the cab trotted away into the dark night.

All this fuss and bother. He’d never been so bad as he was tonight. His nerves were all shot to smithereens. And no Miss Blanche to look after him. If ever there was a man who needed taking care of in an everyday way, it was Mr. O’Casey. A valet couldn’t do it all, even a good one. What he needed was a woman’s touch to see him right.

As Jamie trudged up the stairs, his weary brain began to tick over with an entirely new thought.
No Miss Blanche, eh? No Miss Blanche. Holy Mother of God, let’s hope the next one’s as good as the last one.

 

So at home at the opera was Blanche Wilson de Alvarado that it might have been her own drawing room. She had hired a man to wait upon them and gave him orders from behind the half-opened fan of expensive black lace. Her insistence upon command may have robbed Connor of some of the pleasure of playing host, but Blanche needed to score an unequivocal social victory among his peers if she was to remain in his good graces.

Blanche’s ease with the Gages and the Calloways turned to recalcitrance with the Jeromes. Though she well understood how important Jerry Jerome had been to Connor’s ascent, she disliked the Jeromes and repaid Jerry’s affability with restraint and gave no attention to Maggie at all. She bent her efforts toward repairing her relationship with the Worths and courting the Gages and the Calloways, on whom she had yet to make an impression. Connor had offered himself up as a sacrifice to mollify Maggie, who seemed to soften toward him, albeit slightly.

Francesca Lund and Tracey, being lesser lights in this social constellation, occupied the party’s outer orbit. Blanche was glad that the woman who had shown her such courtesy at Christmas seemed content to remain in the background. Still, Blanche was uneasy with Francesca there. Connor’s eyes often strayed to that outer orbit and rested upon the translucent neck and shoulders and the soft well between the breasts. The white-blond beauty in icy blue-gray and her engagement ring as her only adornment contrasted sharply with her own shining black hair and attire of blue-black and sparkling jet. But this was Blanche’s night to shine, she reminded herself, and with the Gages, the Calloways, the Worths, and the Jeromes within her sphere, she was determined to burn brightly.

With difficulty she kept her eyes on Jerry’s face or watched the stage as he spoke, for it was too easy for her own gaze to wander and light upon Edmund Tracey. Tracey sat at Francesca’s shoulder, legs crossed, a hand in his trouser pocket, an arm resting on the back of Francesca’s chair. Occasionally he ran his fingers along the nape of her white neck.
A gesture of possession rather than affection,
thought Blanche.

The four hours between Blanche’s departure from her hotel with Connor and the last curtain call passed uneventfully. When Sherry himself stepped forward to greet Connor as the party was ushered into the elegant private room with its silver fixtures, she ceded control, as any wife would.

As soon as waiters arrived with their gleaming trays of champagne flutes, Connor began to make his way around the room. He greeted each lady with some question or snippet of information that reflected her particular interest—a garden club event, an announcement of a lecture, or a new exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum. Blanche coveted Connor’s ease among his company. She did not mind, she told herself. The evening afforded her the opportunity to query the guests themselves. She was skilled at conversation, and the opera, the dinner, and the hotel business provided ample subjects.

Francesca and Tracey had been collared by Mrs. Worth to become better acquainted with Mrs. Calloway. Connor drew up between this lady and Francesca, and made a genial offer of more champagne. Blanche, who was speaking with Mr. Gage and Mr. Worth, could only catch a phrase or two—superb soprano . . . Academy of Music . . . next season . . . no piano in the room. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Tracey. He was such a poor dissembler, poor lamb. She wished she could give him a hint that he was doing himself no good by sulking. Blanche was comforted to think that she might be the only creature in the room who could claim his affection and wished the thought of it were enough. It was Francesca’s reaction to Connor that caused Blanche the greatest consternation. Did Francesca study his face more intently than was proper for an engaged woman? Perhaps it was her imagination.

At the announcement of the first course Blanche seized the opportunity to preside. She had fought with Connor days before about where she would sit. A commanding place at the foot of the table, where she would entertain Mr. Worth and Mr. Jerome, would have signaled a higher position in Connor’s life. Connor, however, was determined that this honor would belong to Mrs. Jerome to ensure she had little cause to complain. Blanche’s only consolation in sharing the head of the table with Connor was that seeing them together might solidify them in the minds of guests as a pair. Mrs. Worth sat at Connor’s left.

“I hear from my husband you’ve purchased a new painting, Mr. O’Casey,” Mrs. Worth said when the hubbub had died down and the waiters were serving the soup.

“Indeed, I have. Mrs. Alvarado and I were at Venables’ recently and I acquired a handsome painting of a racecourse.”

“A Degas,” put in Blanche, seizing upon the remark. “I keep telling him he should acquire other more recent works by the same artist if his style suits, but Mr. O’Casey seems obsessed with that particular subject.”

“Well, you can’t blame a man for wanting his collections to reflect his interests,” said Mr. Gage cheerfully.

“Thank you, Charlie,” said Connor, raising his glass.

“I simply don’t want him to find himself in an artistic rut,” said Blanche. “We did consider a landscape, which he quite liked, but in the end he would have nothing but horses.”

“I quite agree with you, Mrs. Alvarado, it is so easy to become fixated on one subject. But if one must have horses, are they well portrayed, that’s the question,” teased Mrs. Calloway, “not dissected into these dreadful dots and blotches?”

“I’ve seen the painting,” said Jerry, “and I can vouch for it—an excellent likeness of horses.”

“Jerry’s an excellent judge of horseflesh, however portrayed,” said Maggie, “as is Edmund, aren’t you, dear?”

“I have some capacity in that arena, yes.”

“Mr. Tracey is too modest,” said Jerry. “He has been known to pick a winner for me on more than one occasion.”

“I believe I know where Jerry gets his knowledge of horses,” said Mr. Calloway. “Your people raised them, did they not, Jerry?”

“That’s right. We had a large farm in Ohio, near the Kentucky border. Still do, or rather my sister and brothers are still there and run the business,” said Jerry.

“How does Mr. Tracey come by his knowledge?” asked Mr. Calloway, directing his question to the gentleman.

“How shall I put it?” said Tracey in mock consideration. “It has been the subject of constant observation and study.” Everyone laughed. Tracey seemed to warm to the attention. “I may not have raised horses, but I enjoy riding and did a lot of it in my younger days before I came East. I’ve been around horses and stables and trainers a good deal in one way or other.”

“You have to be to make any kind of a decent showin’ at the track,” said Connor.

“Even the most knowledgeable among us don’t always possess the luck, isn’t that so, Mr. Tracey?” asked Mrs. Gage.

“Very true, ma’am, but making a study of it does increase one’s chances.”