Decorum (3 page)

The companions walked and talked together, on terms of equality, yet how unequal. The Fair One seemed unaware of the attention she drew. She swayed as she walked and inclined her head toward her friend, listening, turning to look at her. He watched them move from the Fountain Terrace to the ladies’ entrance and on out of the tearoom.

He continued to watch for a moment as if he half-expected to see them reappear, but the moment was gone. He began to wonder if he had really seen them at all.

 

How events do turn out, thought Jamie. He often dropped into a pensive frame of mind when he was performing mundane tasks such as this—brushing down his master’s overcoat and topper, hanging the coat in the large mahogany wardrobe, and placing the topper in its leather hatbox—all giving the illusion of industry while the mind was busy elsewhere.

He had come a long way in two years, under the tutelage of a tough but not unbenevolent taskmaster. It never failed to amaze him that the whim of a moment that autumn of 1888 had made the difference between the likelihood of prison and the chance to make something of himself.

The man had appeared out of nowhere like an avenging angel of God, wearing a black top hat and a frock coat, and carrying a silver-handled walking stick. Jamie would never have guessed that a gentleman so finely turned out could run so fast and deliver such a blow. He thought he could outpace the man and escape with the purse. But the blow had knocked Jamie out cold. When he came to, he found himself covered with a blanket, lying on a hard settee in front of a roaring fire. A pair of dark brooding eyes loomed above him.

“What did you do a stupid thing like that for, boy?” said the man. “Not very good at sizin’ up your mark, are you?” Jamie could not tell whether the man was more upset that he had been chosen as the mark, or that Jamie hadn’t exercised better judgment by choosing someone else. “You’ve not been at this game long, have you, boy?”

“I’m not a boy.” Jamie’s head was splitting.

“If you’ve not been around long enough to be able to size up your mark properly or to know when and how to govern yourself, you’re a boy—I don’t care how old you are.” He had poured a glass of water and extended it to the aching figure on the settee. “By the way, how old are you?”

“Seventeen,” Jamie replied.

“Seventeen—sir.”

“I don’t call nobody ‘sir,’ least of all you.”

“Considering I could’ve cracked your skull open for you or dragged you off to jail, I don’t see’s how you have much choice—do you?”

Jamie had sipped the water in silence. The man had turned away for a moment.

“Seventeen—sir,” Jamie had said without looking up. The man faced him.

“Do you have a name you’d be willing to share?”

“James Lynch—sir.”

“So, Mr. James Lynch, have you been in trouble before?”

“On and off, but not so’s anyone could catch me.”

“That’s the trouble with that sort of game. Someone eventually does.” The man stared at him, making Jamie uneasy.

“You’re Irish.” Jamie had nodded. “Where from?”

“Sligo,” Jamie said, avoiding mention of his country-bred origin.

Again silence.

“How long have you been here?”

“Not a year.”

“Family?”

“None.” The man raised his dark eyebrows. “None—sir.”

The man went to the hearth and stirred the fire. With his back to Jamie, he said, “And what’s your plan, Mr. Lynch?”

“Meanin’ what, sir?”

The man turned and faced him. “Meaning now that I’ve spared your worthless hide, what do you plan to do?”

“I mean to go out West. Strike it rich.”

“Doing what?”

“This and that.” He sipped the water.

“Look at me, boy. ‘This and that’ don’t count for much in this world without a plan. ‘This and that will get you thrown in jail for sure. ‘This and that’ can get you killed.”

“I can take care of meself well enough—sir.”

“Like you’ve done so far, I suppose. Well, at least you’ve got yourself out of Ireland in one piece, I’ll say that for you. When was the last time you ate?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You can’t do a bit of ‘this and that’ on an empty stomach now, can you?”

The man had gone to the door and bellowed down the hallway for a servant, demanding a cold plate of food and a pint of beer. As Jamie ate, the pain in his head subsided and he realized the pain had been more from hunger than from the blow. He devoured the food like a feral cat. The man paced the room, observing him first from the mantel, then from the sideboard, where he poured himself a drink.

“Where are you from then?” Jamie had asked to fill the uneasy silence.

“Here and there,” the man had said.

“No, really, sir.”

“Really? Belfast.”

“And how long’ve you been here then?” he said, omitting the “sir” without disrespect.

“I came when I wasn’t much older than you.”

“A long time then, sir.”

“I’ll overlook the remark upon me age. But, yes, a long time.” He gave a long, deep sigh and crossed again to the mantel. “Are you interested in a job?”

“What kind of job?” Jamie had been surprised and skeptical.

“Valet,” the man said, with a definite
T
.

“What?”

“Valet. Take care of me, my clothes, my belongings—understanding, of course, that what’s mine is
not
yours—carry messages, hail cabs, do what needs doin’, and be my general dogsbody.”

“I don’t go into service for no one,” Jamie had said. “You can find yourself another dogsbody.”

“So, the idea of regular food, decent clothes, a warm bed, and pocket money till you get on your feet doesn’t appeal to you? I’ll admit I’m no prize to work for. And the minute I catch you pilfering or otherwise causing disruption to hearth and home, I’ll give you a hiding you’ll never forget and throw you back out onto the streets where I found you. It does, however, seem preferable to a bit of ‘this and that.’ Think it over. You can sleep where you are tonight. Tomorrow morning I’ll feed you. You can give me your answer then.” The man disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Jamie to wonder at the proposition.

The cold, gray light of day and a bitter, blustery downpour had brought fresh perspective to the problem. Though the idea of being beholden to anyone was unpalatable, Jamie found himself inclined to prefer a life that, while not wholly independent, at least would afford him the basic necessities and a temporary relief from scrounging on the streets. A breakfast of steak and eggs and potatoes had been eaten in silence, with the man shoving extra portions across the table without ceremony or acknowledgment. When the dishes had been cleared and the last cups of coffee sat before them, the man spoke.

“Well?”

Jamie was about to ask for terms, but seeing the grave expression on the man’s face, he admitted to himself that the man held all the cards.

“I’ll stay.”

“Well, then. You’ll get half days on Wednesdays and Sundays—Sunday mornings so’s you can recover from the night before and go to confession for the good of your immortal soul.” Jamie couldn’t tell if the man was serious. “You’ll start at two dollars a week, plus you’ll get your room and board. And I want no nonsense. I’ll break your skull for you, boy, so I will, and no mistake. Now,” he said, rising. “We’ll see about cleaning you up.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man made for the door.

“Sir!”

“Yes,” said the man, turning back.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“My name, boy, is Connor O’Casey.”

C
HAPTER
3

“What is it?” Tracey called in answer to the knock.

The knock came again. “What is it?” he called again, this time irritably.

The shutters flattened the room of plush and paisley into a pattern of gray stripes. A pile of clothes lay fermenting on a chaise of black horsehair that was draped with a fringed throw. A half-empty bottle of whiskey and a glass sat on the stand by the bed, a pool of drink in a sticky film on the green marble surface. A second glass had tipped over on the floor, the few remaining drops dried into amber spots on the thick rug. The stale memory of expensive perfume and cigarette smoke clung to every object in the room.

“Does Mrs. Ryder want her tea, sir?” The voice was timid. The social rituals had to be observed, even in an oven.

Edmund Tracey stirred and extracted himself from his companion’s embrace, rose, and stumbled naked out of the alcove that held the ornate bed and into the adjoining sitting room. He fumbled through the rubble of clothing on the chaise to find something to cover himself. His long, collarless shirt would do. He ran his hand through his thick thatch of auburn hair as he made for the door and opened it without a word. The maid shrank back and looked confused, her arms loaded with the silver tray arrayed with afternoon tea.

“Does Mrs. Ryder want her tea, sir?” she repeated, then fixed her gaze upon the tray. The man eyed her for a moment, then turned his head toward the bed.

“Nell? Hey, Nell! Shall I have the tea brought in?” His tone was mocking. He made a graceful sweeping gesture with his arm.

The woman sat up. Her henna-red hair, disarrayed in the heat of lovemaking, sat in a ball on her shoulder and hung in clumps in front of her face like a ratty veil. Groggy, she drew up the sheet to cover her bare, sagging breasts and rubbed her pale face. As she came to, she took up the silk dressing gown from the end of the bed, pulled it on, and tied it tightly at the waist. The silk matted to her sweating form.

“Yes,” Nell said, “have her bring it in.” She rose and rearranged her gown, threw her head back, and squared her shoulders like an empress who had just donned her raiment. She moved to the bureau, picking pins from the knotted ball of hair on her shoulder.

Tracey stood aside and let the maid pass. She kept her eyes averted from the man and woman as she went to a round table and emptied the tray of its silver service, fine china, bread and butter, and jam. She turned, eyes cast down, to inquire whether anything else was wanted.

“That’ll be all for now, thank you, Daisy,” Nell said. The maid made a slight curtsey and escaped.

Tracey approached the bureau where Nell Ryder stood, put his hands on her waist, and nuzzled the hair she was trying to untangle. She smiled at his reflection in a curious, self-satisfied way.

“It’s just as well. Anton will be home soon,” she said.

“And how is dear Anton? As interestingly engaged this afternoon as I was?”

“Perhaps. I never ask.”

“Not even ask him, in your good and wifely way, whether he has had a good day?”

“To that question I would no doubt receive a pleasant ‘Yes.’ And you have an engagement this evening, if I’m not mistaken.”

He stood upright. She needn’t have reminded him. To be caught thus between two undesirable circumstances, using one to seek relief from the other, was sapping his strength. He had come to rue the day she had fixed her roving eye on him. The timing could not have been more deadly. Tracey had been down to his last good suit and Nell had been down to her last gigolo.

“I’m glad Harold persuaded you to come out with us,” remarked the female companion of a friend as Tracey joined them in a cab bound for a party at an unknown house. “Someone must take you in hand and cajole you out of this dreariness. You aren’t in mourning, even if she may be. I’m sure you’ll find amusement aplenty at Nell’s. Everybody does—and I mean
everybody
.”

The cut of the friend’s evening suit pegged it as three years old—an offense Edmund Tracey would not excuse in himself. The girl was more fashionable, but her style was too emphatic for good taste. She was young, though Tracey deduced that her skill with unguents and corsetry had been acquired with much practice. Their confidence in a favorable reception at the Ryders’ made it clear enough what sort of party this would be.

“Who is likely to be there?” Tracey had asked.

“Anyone,” said the friend with a careless wave of his gloved hand. “Anarchists to antiquarians. Jurists to jugglers. Politicians to prizefighters. Thieves to thespians.”

“Do they all dress?” asked Tracey, indicating their evening attire.

“Those who can, do,” said the friend, “though I suppose it isn’t strictly necessary. I’m sure our hosts will appreciate the effort.”

“And our hosts?”

“He’s an impresario,” said the friend. “Always on the lookout for new talent or a promising production. His wife is equally on the lookout for new talent, which makes things interesting.” The friend’s words had been prophetic.

“Harold, that’s terrible,” the girl had said with pleasure. They all had laughed.

Tracey had liked the game at first. Nell Ryder had been beautiful in a vulgar sort of way. Such physical allure as she might continue to possess would be enhanced by more paint and rouge, which would sink into the smoky creases around her eyes and mouth. In the final analysis, nothing would give him greater satisfaction than to one day tell Nell Ryder and her whole posh, disreputable set to go to blazes.

He held her for a moment, motionless, eyes closed, with his face buried in the hennaed hair. How he could bear to continue, he could only wonder, but continue he must until his future was secure. He looked over Nell’s head into the mirror and pressed his lips into her hair. Pulling her closer, he smiled and ran his hands under her breasts. She pushed his hands away and smiled again, then brushed her hair as he nuzzled her.

“I do indeed, my darling Nell,” said Tracey, betraying a refined Southern drawl. He crossed to the nightstand and poured whiskey into the dirty glass and sat on the edge of the bed, sarcasm welling up and spreading unpleasantly across his face.

“How do you think you’ll fare this time?” she asked.

“Oh, probably no better than at any other time.”

“No? You certainly are a persistent gentleman.”

“I am nothing if not persistent.”

“My poor, poor pet,” said Nell. She took the glass from his hand and drank from it, then poured him another and handed him the glass. He put his hand to her face and turned it to kiss her on the mouth. “I wish I could help you,” she continued. “I wish I had some magic potion to make rich but recalcitrant ladies fall in love with you.” She took the whiskey bottle and drank from it.

“I wish you had, too.”

“The Magpie hasn’t made any headway on your behalf?”

“No. They don’t seem to be getting along again, which makes things very awkward. I keep being invited to attend every possible function, but nothing ever comes of it. The Magpie billows and coos but the Chickadee only gets annoyed. I’m afraid it is only a matter of time before the Magpie tires and gives me up to my luckless, penniless fate.”

“So you haven’t bedded her down to keep her interested in you?”

“You don’t understand, my dear Nell. If I slept with the Magpie, she would consider it a betrayal of her Chickadee, not a token of my loyalty to herself.”

“How awkward. She certainly doesn’t allow you to play to your strengths, does she?”

“I think I frighten her.”

“You haven’t done anything stupid, have you?” Nell asked in a mocking tone.

“I think if I were to make serious advances she wouldn’t know what to do. She would have neither the nerve to accept nor the courage to be indecorous enough to tell me to go to hell. Even thirty years of marriage to that bore Jerome hasn’t driven her to seek more interesting company. She’s a dried, shriveled-up shell with no seed and no imagination. I seem to fascinate her, which is enough to hold her and plenty for me to cope with.”

“But would you bed her down if it were—necessary?”

“Since I do not think it will become necessary, my dear Nell, I would sooner refrain from speculating on any such action. Flattery and attention are crumbs enough to satisfy her meager appetite—thank the Lord.” He poured another glass.

“My poor pet.” Nell went to the table and drew two cigarettes out of a silver box, placed them both in her lips, lit them, and brought one to Tracey. “She still believes you’re dripping with money?”

“To which ‘she’ do you refer? The Magpie or the Chickadee?” he asked, drawing on the cigarette and exhaling a plume of smoke. She liked to see him squirm and it took all his power to deprive her of the satisfaction. Their mental arm wrestling was a game for which he had little strength. He drew on the cigarette again. Nell’s were expensive cigarettes. His one consolation was that she only paid for the best.

“Either, I suppose. I was referring to the Magpie.” Nell considered him. “She does still think you are dripping with money, doesn’t she?”

“Positively dripping.” He couldn’t look at her. He studied the bottom of the glass and then held it up and tapped the bottle she held with the glass’s rim. She poured him another.

“Meaning that she’ll be offering you none?”

“Positively none.”

“Then I take it you need money.”

“Don’t I always need money?”

“Always, my poor, dear Edmund.” Nell crossed back to the bureau and took a purse from the top drawer. He did not watch her as she pulled out the wallet and thumbed through its contents. She replaced the wallet in the purse and the purse in the drawer. He drew on the cigarette and kept his eyes fixed on nothing.

“Will a hundred do?”

“Two hundred would be better.”

“I’m sure it would.”

The oft-repeated scene was wearing him down. Though Edmund Tracey had long believed—indeed from childhood—that someone else should have the trouble of paying for his keep, to have to ask for money and have it meted out chafed at his image of himself as an independent man. He should not be kept, but be served.

“You know if I give you more you’ll only spend more.” She held out the money. He stirred and looked at her. She made no move toward him, but fixed him in her gaze. She expected him to come to her. The picture irritated him—the dyed hair, the traces of rouge and powder, the erect carriage draped in silk that clung to her still-shapely form, the knowing look, the money in her hand, the purse in the bureau that held more.

“Well, do you want it or not?” she said, smiling, shrugging her shoulders a little, still holding out the money.

“The question is, Do
you
want it or not?” he said.

“Want what?” she replied in mock innocence.

“To continue these lovely afternoons in each other’s company.”

“Let me put it this way: I’ve become as dependent on you as you have on me.”

He lingered a moment, then rose grudgingly and went to her, taking the money from her hand. Before she could let her hand drop he caught it and pressed it to his lips.

“You are a picture, Mrs. Ryder.”

“You are a bastard, Mr. Tracey.”