Decorum (26 page)

C
HAPTER
31

Connor was silent during the drive from Sherry’s to Blanche’s hotel. He didn’t appear to be angry or even annoyed but had receded into a place she couldn’t reach. His calm countenance would change in an instant to a barely perceptible look of sadness.

None of the guests had blamed Connor for the maelstrom that had all but swamped Edmund Tracey and Francesca Lund. The Worths, the Calloways, and the Gages had been more than civil as they took their leave, their handshakes warm and their parting looks sympathetic. Nonetheless, Blanche was troubled that she felt none of the flush of victory. Moreover, Connor was not crowing in triumph and producing from his pocket a glittering token of his gratitude.

“The Gages certainly seem worth cultivating,” she began. “It’s clear that Charlie Gage likes you very much. His wife is typical of so many society women, of course—not very original in her ideas, but none the worse for that. She’s thought of as very reliable in social circles, I hear, which is all to the good. She was telling me that she feels it will be ‘their turn’ to host an event next and more than hinted that we should be on her guest list. It’s tiresome not to have our own establishment, don’t you think, darling? You really should begin to think of finding premises that would suit you or build something somewhere.”

As the cab made its way through the lamp-lit streets, Blanche fidgeted with the silk fringe of her evening bag, opened and shut the black lace fan, and looked out at the darkened buildings. One by one the lights that proclaimed the havens of society and entertainment were being extinguished for the night. Here and there a solitary light glowed behind a curtained window.

“I believe Mrs. Calloway and I shall be great friends,” Blanche continued. “Now there is a woman of taste, I daresay—clearly a superior person. I’m sure we shall have many things in common, particularly in the arts. She is familiar with a number of up-and-coming artists who are new to me. She so much as promised me to secure us introductions.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Connor’s hands flex over the handle of his walking stick. So profound was his silence that she could hear the tiny squeak of the fine glove leather against the silver, even over hooves and wheels that clomped and ground against the pavement. He moved his head toward her only to look past her into the street. A lamp illuminated his countenance for a moment. His sober look brought an instant sting of tears to Blanche’s eyes. The longer he waited to respond, the more rapidly her heart beat and a knot rose in her chest. She looked away and opened her eyes wide and hoped the tears would dry so that he might not see them fall.

“You were so right, darling, to place Mrs. Jerome opposite you at the end of the table,” she said, and wondered if Connor could hear the tremor in her voice. “She seemed to appreciate such notice.” In fact, the table’s length had only spared Blanche the discomfort of sharing by proximity Maggie’s vexation at the scene between Tracey and Francesca. Blanche wanted to blot out the memory of Tracey’s ungentlemanly behavior and the disaster it might bring. The spring of her conversation began to run dry. They fell silent.

“It’s no good, Blanche,” he said finally. He spoke in a voice so low that she allowed herself to believe she hadn’t heard him.

“What?”

“It’s no good.” The cab pulled up in front of the hotel.

“What do you mean?” But she knew. She knew it well. She suddenly felt like the struts had been knocked out from under her and she was falling down a deep chasm.

“I don’t understand. It went so well tonight. You—we—made such a favorable impression, we—”

“It’s no good,” he said for a third time. He sat motionless, not looking at her. “We can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this anymore. It would never work between us, Blanche. Not over the long haul. I’m surprised we lasted this long. We’re too alike, in all the worst ways. We’d wind up wretched and killing each other eventually. You need someone different from me, except just as rich or maybe richer. God only knows what I need, except a drink. It’s not fair to either one of us to hang on. It’s no use trying. It’s over.”

“Fair!” she said. “Fair! Since when has Connor O’Casey ever worried about being fair? Since when have you concerned yourself with anything or anybody who might put a hitch in your jolly little plans? You certainly dispatch people fast enough when it suits you. You lie, cheat, anything that will get you what you want. Grubby little cast-off guttersnipe.”

Shock seemed to disengage her brain. The human part of her ceased to function as the essential part of Blanche telescoped to nothing and was overcome by the animal instinct to survive. Every fiber of her limbs fired to life and surged with energy that made her want to strike out. She grasped for words to hurl at him.

“You tog yourself up in rich men’s clothes and make yourself out to be as good as the next man when you’re nothing and nobody. You’re nothing but the scum from the Belfast gutters. Filthy, no-good by-product of the docks. Bilge and scum, that’s all you are.” She was saying anything to get a rise out of him and make him strike back so that she would have something to strike against. He sat there, composed, his hands folded over the silver handle of his walking stick.

“You’re right. For once, Blanche, you’re right.”

“It’s that woman, isn’t it? That Sunday-school teacher. That puritanical, do-gooding charity lady. She’s got you sewn up good and proper. You’ve been watching her for months. What makes you think she’d have anything to do with the likes of you? She’d never let you touch her. Miss Plaster Saint. Miss Virgin Queen. Or do you think she yearns for some excitement and would fall for the dangerous type? You could wipe that innocence off her face in a hurry, given half a chance. For all I know you’ve been seeing her. What did she do, bare her ankle in your presence? Or has she been baring more than that?”

Connor grabbed her by the wrist. “Shut up, Blanche. You may find this hard to believe, but I’ve never hit a woman. I’d gladly start with you, if you don’t watch your lying mouth.” He threw her back against the seat.

Blanche’s laugh held a sadistic edge. “A pretty piece of behavior to present to your goddess, your domina, your divinity. Has she ever seen you when you’ve lost your composure?”

“Why don’t you shut up, Blanche. Face it. You don’t care about me any more than I care about you. It’s me cash you’re madly in love with. Well, you shall have enough cash to get by and more. I’ll see to it. You shall have enough to pay your expenses here and to get yourself to Italy to stay with your sister and keep yourself in Europe for a while till things here cool down.” He got out of the cab and waited to help her down. Blanche hesitated, loathing to emerge from the cab. With effort, she pulled herself together and got out. He shut the door and walked toward the hotel. Blanche stood on the curb.

“Is this blackmail? Is there something in your dirty little past that you don’t want her to know?”

“Such as what?” he asked. “There isn’t anything that a hundred tongues from here to Denver wouldn’t be happy to tell about me. Half of it’s wound up in the newspapers anyway. Besides, there isn’t a thing you could have on me that I couldn’t match on you and more. The one amazing difference between us is that I have a hard time livin’ up to the reputation I’ve got. It appears you’ll never be able to live down the reputation you’ve got.”

Shrieking like a wounded mountain lion, Blanche leapt toward his face and nearly sent him flying. Only her gloves prevented her from leaving deep gouges in his skin. Nevertheless, scratches seared across his face. He thrust himself against her and shook her off balance. Grabbing her arm before she could fall, he dragged her to her feet. Then he retrieved the hat and walking stick that had sailed across the pavement.

“No one walks out on me. No one.”

He turned. “I’m doin’ it, Blanche. I’ll make the arrangements and let you know.” He waited for her to move. She walked up to him and looked him in the face.

“She’ll never take the likes of you. Never.”

“Good-bye, Blanche.”

Nothing, not even Alvarado’s deceit nor his death nor her subsequent bankruptcy, had made Blanche as angry as this thorough dumping by Connor O’Casey. Alvarado may have deceived her in money, but he had never deceived her in love and his love and honor had extended to matrimony. How little she appreciated honor then, when he pursued her in Italy, the son of an Argentine
patron,
making his grand tour. It amused Blanche that Alvarado’s honor had dictated that the liberties between them be followed rapidly by marriage. Experience had thus far taught her that such was not the case with all men and their professed devotion. She had greeted his first proposal with laughter, and his second. But as her relationship with Alvarado intensified she could picture herself with no one else. Their joy seemed complete the day he secured Blanche’s consent and her father’s permission to marry her. That she once possessed the power to make a man so happy seemed as if it were part of someone else’s life. The prospect of another journey, another struggle to find yet another protector, was almost more than she could bear.

To her shock she realized that she was closer to Francesca’s age when Alvarado died—and so much more resilient. She felt no such resilience now. The sinews of her being were taut and stretched to the limit. She had been pushed blindfolded into a rocky gorge to claw at the air and never be sure when she would hit bottom. All of what was once the proud Blanche Wilson de Alvarado would disintegrate into bloody and unrecognizable fragments.

She stood there on the pavement. Other cabs and carriages were pulling up to the curb, their merry patrons alighting and making for the warmth of the hotel, scarcely giving Blanche a second look. She pulled the hood of her wrap closer to her face and swept into the lobby, hesitating only long enough to ask for her key.

She slammed the door of her room behind her with a force that rattled the glass shades of the low-lit wall lamps. A fire crackled in the sitting-room hearth. She stood for a moment leaning back against the door. Rage shook her frame. She strode to the middle of the room and whirled around, looking for the first victim. A Chinese vase, Staffordshire dogs, a gilt mirror one by one were smashed into shards and dust. Faster and faster she hurled delicate objects against the marble fireplace. Fury mounted with each crash.

“O’Casey’ll pay, O’Casey’ll pay!” she shrieked with each missile. “Damn that bastard! He’ll pay. He’ll pay. If it’s the last thing I ever do I’ll make him pay!” Her arms flailed wildly as she recoiled from each throw. She heaved a ceramic urn up over her head and threw it with such force that she nearly toppled over with it. The tile hearth cracked under the weight. Small sticks of furniture were next—chairs reduced to kindling.

A violent knock at the door competed with the cataclysm visited upon the room.

“Open up! Open up!” called a gruff voice. “This is the management! Cease this instant and open up or I’ll call the police!”

“Go to hell!” Blanche yelled back, hurling a side chair at the door.

“Make way! We’re coming in!” called another voice. In a second the door was opened with the manager’s passkey.

The two men stood in the doorway for a moment, horror spreading over their faces. Glass and porcelain ground into the carpet under their feet. The second man turned up the gas jets in the wall sconces. It was as if a tornado had ravaged the place, totally destroying some areas while leaving others virtually untouched. Blanche was reeling in the center of the room.

“What in blazes do you think you’re doing?!” yelled the manager.

Unable to think or say or do anything, she started to laugh.

“I have never in all my years seen such wanton destruction as this, never in any establishment of mine. Have you any idea of the damage you have caused? Of the extreme inconvenience to other guests—and the damage to the reputation of this hotel?”

“Reputation,” Blanche said and began to laugh uncontrollably. She threw her head back and howled at the absurdity of her predicament.

“Tomorrow, madam, you are out of this hotel. You have until noon. Every last penny of the damages will be paid or this establishment will not hesitate to file suit. Is that clear?!”

Still laughing and swaying like a drunkard, she motioned them toward the door. “O’Casey’ll pay,” she said. “Don’t you worry, dearie. He’ll pay all right.” The men left.

Exhausted and sweating, she flung herself onto the settee. Her laughter gave way to sobs. She wept long, loud, and hard, not bothering to wipe the tears that washed across her face, into her hair and around her ears. She eased herself down on her back, one hand low over her forehead. Her face ached and her sides railed against her stays. Her head felt bulbous and swollen and her eyes burned and temples throbbed.

As the turbulent waters subsided, she lay there for a long time, breathing in, breathing out. She couldn’t remember ever hating anyone as much as she hated Connor. Where others might count their blessings, Blanche counted the things she hated about him. His appearance. His brusqueness. His bravado. His self-importance. His arrogance.

Connor would be true to his word, of course. He would pay the damages to get her out of his hair. He would give her enough money to get her to Italy, and probably more than that. It wasn’t the money that needled and nagged at her. It was Connor. What to do about Connor and whether it was worth the effort. After all, she didn’t love him.