Decorum (34 page)

C
HAPTER
42

Connor stood on the platform at Grand Central Terminal with Jerry Jerome and Charlie Gage, who had come to see him off. Charlie’s offer to bring a carriage to take Connor and Jamie to the station had saved Connor no end of trouble, especially by sparing him the parting words of disapproval Jerry surely would have lavished on him had the two of them been alone.

“You’ll escape the city just in time,” Charlie shouted over the platform’s uproar. He adjusted his brown bowler hat and squinted up at the taller men and shifted so that Connor gave him shade in the bright sunlight. “I envy you that cool mountain air already. Have you heard from the ladies, Jerome?”

Ten days had passed since Francesca, Vinnie, and Esther Gray had left New York. To be honest, Connor was glad of the respite from daily wonder about whether he should call at Sixty-third Street. His own preparations, though simple, had kept him busy. He had secured a first-class stateroom for himself and would make do with the first-class fare the restaurant car offered. Nonetheless there were travel details, last-minute purchases, and what seemed to him like relentless packing to attend to. More than once he had caught the patient and efficient Jamie muttering to himself about needless worry and undue haste.

Now, on the railway platform, Connor’s spirits were buoyant. He was leaving the scrutiny of New York to pursue the last goal on the quest that had brought him here nearly a year before. Business and society had embraced him, however cautiously. Francesca had not said yes to his proposal, but neither had she rejected him outright—a chink in the wall that Connor felt sooner or later he might just squeeze through. He was gambling his future on this venture in Banff, exposing her not only to his amiability, but also to his temper, his stubbornness, and all his other faults. Yet living with a woman and being able to please her, in spite of that outcome, gave him hope that he would not fare so poorly.

“Oh, yes,” said Jerry without enthusiasm. “Francesca wired from Toronto to say they had arrived there safely and the varnish had transferred to the Canadian Pacific line without mishap. They planned to see something of the city before leaving for Banff.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t try to make at least half the journey cross-country here,” said Charlie. “Maybe head north at Minneapolis or somewhere.”

“I had suggested something of the sort, but having determined to see Canada, they decided to see it from stem to stern.”

“I can’t say as I blame them,” said Charlie. “You decided to follow suit, I see, O’Casey.”

“Indeed,” said Connor. “I’m unfamiliar with that part of the world, so as the ladies have done, I intend to make a good job of seeing it. The ladies should be there by now, I should think.”

“I expect so,” said Jerry, looking up and down the platform.

“What’s eating you, Jerome?” asked Charlie. “You look positively dyspeptic. Something not agree with you?”

Connor laughed. “He’s just jealous he’s not going. I said that he and Maggie should be heading for Florida. When are you off, Charlie?”

“I can’t get Cora to make up her mind where she’d like to go—unless it’s the courts of Europe,” he chuckled. “I told her we’re not moving a muscle until she’s decided between the Grand Hotel in Michigan and that place in New Brunswick. This is not a pleasure trip, I told her—not strictly speaking.”

The conductor gave a blast of the whistle and called passengers to board.

“All aboard, gentlemen, please,” he said as he passed them. He consulted his railway pocket watch. “The train’ll be leaving in two minutes. All aboard.” He sauntered the length of the platform admonishing stragglers.

Connor shook the men’s hands, accepted their good wishes of safe journey, mounted the steps of the first-class carriage, and turned to face them.

“All secured and correct, Mr. O’Casey, sir,” said Jamie in his ear as he came up behind him. Connor nodded and Jamie disappeared into the depths of the carriage.

“I wish you weren’t abandoning the Excelsior like this,” said Jerry—much less than he wanted to say, Connor suspected—“just when we need you most.”

“Nonsense. I won’t be out of touch,” said Connor. “What do you think modern communications are for, man? I’m told that telegraph wires extend to Calgary at least, and no doubt to Banff itself. You’ll find me right enough.” Connor was jubilant. “And don’t worry, I’ll find
you.
”

“What about Europe?” shouted Jerry. “What about all this talk of furnishings and searching out fifteenth-century rooms?”

“Don’t worry,” called Connor as the train slowly pulled away from the platform. “With any luck, I’ll be going there on my honeymoon.”

 

“May I help you, madam?” The gentleman stood up from his desk and came forward.

“Yes,” said Blanche. “I have a reservation on the
Etruria
and wanted to inquire as to whether it is too late to cancel it.”

The attention of two other booking office clerks, who were assisting customers, was diverted long enough to note the striking woman standing at the counter. Posters adorned every inch of wall space, announcing special fares and limited-time offers, including a ten-day package tour of the Caribbean for the bargain price of forty-seven dollars.

“Of course, madam. Won’t you please come through.” The man opened the low swinging gate for her to enter. She took her seat in front of the desk.

“Now, madam, how may I be of assistance?”

“I have a passage booked on the
Etruria
on June twenty-fifth to Liverpool via Queenstown and from thence to London, where I shall stay for a few days, from whence I should be traveling by the boat train for the Continent.”

“Yes, madam. Did this agency handle the booking?” The man peered at her over his spectacles.

“Yes, I believe so,” said Blanche. “The matter was put into the hands of a friend who handled the booking for me.”

“A single passage, madam?”

“And my maid, of course.”

“And your name, please, madam.”

“Mrs. Blanche Wilson de Alvarado.”

“Wilson?”

“Most likely under Alvarado.”

“A-l-v . . .”

“A-r-a-d-o.”

“Thank you. One moment, madam.” The man consulted a card file, a register, and a passenger list before returning to his customer.

“Yes, madam, we have you listed for a first-class stateroom on the
Etruria
departing on twenty-fifth June. The booking came to one hundred dollars.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately, I have experienced a rather drastic turn of events and find that I am prevented, sadly, from traveling to Italy. I’m heartbroken, of course, but I’m afraid the change simply cannot be avoided. Would it be possible to cancel the reservation and have my money refunded?”

“Well, I’m very sorry, madam,” the man said, feigning embarrassment, “but I have a note here that indicates that the booking was paid for by a check from the other party. So I’m afraid that unless that party wishes to cancel the reservation and claim the refund, we shall not be able to accommodate you.”

Blanche tried to hide her displeasure. Connor had bought the ticket himself, no doubt to make sure she left the country. “But you see, I gave my friend the money with which to buy the ticket. The silly man must have deposited the money to his own account and then wrote a check against it.” Her smile was as seductive as her annoyance would permit.

“Yes, madam, but I’m afraid that we are powerless to deal with anyone but the signatory.”

“Even though the reservation itself is in my name.”

“I’m afraid so, madam.”

Blanche was silent for a moment, her brow furrowed. “Dear me. Surely, I don’t want to inconvenience my friend.”

“Of course not, madam.” The man looked at her, clearly prepared to wait as long as necessary.

“This is rather trying.” She bit her lip and tried to look helpless, not an attitude that came naturally. “You see, my friend has already left the city and is therefore unable to conclude the business himself.”

“Is it possible to send your friend a telegram and apprise him of your change in plans? If we could obtain instructions from him as to where to deposit the money—which I’m sure would be to your own account, madam—we may be able to conclude the business for you satisfactorily.”

“Oh, no, no. He is quite out of reach at the moment—on a hunting expedition.”

“Indeed. I’m so sorry, madam.” The man continued his blank and unhelpful expression. He evidently was not moved by an attractive woman in peril.

The cash Connor had left should have supported her for months, but these resources were so drained from the trial that she had little left for a good showing before her sister. The well would soon run dry. To arrive at her sister’s home with a rich man on her arm was one thing. To arrive with no prospects and no money was quite another.

“Well, I suppose that is that.” She rose and prepared to leave.

“Unless you have alternative arrangements you wish to make.”

“What?”

“Alternative arrangements. If your change in plans calls for alternative arrangements for travel, I see no reason not to use the sum already committed toward the alternative.” The man looked at her with a more hopeful expression. She thought for a moment.

“Why, yes. Yes,” she said slowly, settling back on her chair, “as a matter of fact, I must make alternative arrangements. How kind of you to remind me.”

“Indeed, madam.”

“Would it be possible, can you tell me, to cancel my sea voyage and book a railway journey to Banff?”

C
HAPTER
43

Francesca stood on the steps of the
Caprice
and inhaled deeply. The opiate of fresh air, crisp as a starched pleat, filled her lungs with the heady scent of earth and pine. As the train made its way across the seemingly unending sweep of Canadian plains, she could feel the pull of the mountains. Like gravity, once in the Rockies’ grasp, Francesca’s spirit was helpless to resist.

With each westward mile her wonder grew at how the tiny fragment of earth that was New York could chain her to so restricted an orbit of a single set of people. Even in Toronto she still felt the tug of the American East and struggled daily to break free of its associations. She could not bring herself to jot but a few words in the journal Vinnie had bought her, confining her remarks to “weather hot” and “roast pork fine” while Vinnie flooded the Lawrences with notes and postcards and chronicled each day’s minutia. New York held no one with whom Francesca wished to share her thoughts. She left to Esther the decorum of keeping the Jeromes apprised of their journey’s progress. Besides, she told herself, she had brought her childhood friend with her; no need to confide her feelings to a bit of paper. Amused and a little envious, she looked on as Vinnie sent the Lawrences a telegram on their last day in Toronto, her eagerness spilling out over a dozen words.

Now, with the Rockies within reach, she was impatient to shed the remaining vestige of New York. In Banff, the
Caprice
would be uncoupled from the other cars and moved to a siding to await the next eastbound train back to New York. The train was at the last of the Canadian Pacific Railway’s dining stops before the final dash to Banff.

“I must admit,” said Esther’s voice behind her, “I shall be sad to lose the
Caprice
. Apart from its amenities, one doesn’t appreciate one’s privacy until it’s gone.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Francesca mused aloud. “We’ll be in the mountains after all. What more does one need, really, besides a decent bed, decent food, and a bit of hot water now and then? I might even give up the food—not all of it, but you know what I mean, the
cordon bleu
business—if I could be surrounded by a landscape unlike any other as part of a steady diet. The solitude—that’s what is so powerful.”

“Solitude and privacy are vastly different things,” said Esther.

“You’re quite right, of course,” Francesca continued, “but to be in a place where one can achieve some inner solitude. That’s what I hope I can carry with me.”

Francesca could not bring herself to add, “to New York,” and all it represented.

“I take your point, my dear,” said Esther. “There is much to be said for a still center in oneself, but for the moment I will leave the philosophical side of our journey to your care and settle for a little privacy.”

“Privacy is all well and good,” said Vinnie as she joined them, “but I for one can’t wait to see who else might be traveling to Banff. With all the comings and goings at each stop it’s hard to tell who might be going as far as we are.”

The three ladies alighted and began to walk down the platform toward the substantial log structure that comprised the dining room and kitchen, with guest rooms on the second floor and construction underway on a new wing. Another varnish was moored on a nearby siding, nearly as large as the
Caprice,
with a green-and-black lacquered finish trimmed in gold. It bore no frivolous moniker, but a coat of arms with an inscription—
Nec spe, nec metu.
Without hope, without fear. A dark, well-built young man of medium height, presumably a servant, was gathering sundry sporting gear on the vestibule.

“Well,” said Vinnie in a low voice to Francesca as another man emerged carrying a collection of hunting gear.

He was somewhat older than the first, in his forties perhaps, but striking in appearance and command, with olive skin and black eyes. His hair was close-cut about the ears and neck, nearly all silver gray save for a thick wave of dark brown across the crown, which he was covering with a Tyrolean-style hat. The loden-colored European tweeds clothed a slim, muscular form and the knitted stockings below the buckled knickerbockers showed legs well used to exercise. Francesca, whose ear for languages was good, placed their speech in the eastern part of Europe—a Slavic language perhaps or a German dialect she did not recognize. As the two men descended the steps and made their way toward the platform, Francesca saw the same crest emblazoned in some fashion on cases and gear they carried. Stopping to let the ladies pass, the tweedy gentleman gave them a brief, courteous inclination of the head and his servant gave a slight bow. Was it her imagination, or did the gentleman’s eye seem to single out Francesca? What an attractive man.

“Mmm, what a nice-looking man,” whispered Vinnie nearly in her ear. “I wonder who he is. Maybe he’s going to Banff too.”

To have her own thoughts come out of Vinnie’s mouth, and with an inflection Francesca herself would not dream of, gave the words an almost risqué quality that startled her. All ideas of attraction had been tucked away behind a convenient barricade of remorse and grief. All thoughts of Banff had been of escape and rest, never the possibility that so remote a place could offer diversions other than fresh air and exercise.

What of Connor? The friction of their encounters, in spite of their buried compliment to her, threw a wrench of consternation into her feelings at the same moment when his wit and intelligence made him fascinating. He might trouble himself to romance her, Francesca thought, a skill that remained to be seen. That the fleeting regard of a total stranger could set her thoughts dancing caused her to wonder what kind of complete fool she could make of herself and whether she really even cared. By the time she had arrived at this disconcerting notion, they had reached the dining room.

The room of rough-hewn beams and rustic paneling was filling up with passengers eager to feast on fresh local game. Vinnie made for a table for four and stood with her hands upon the back of the chair as she waited for Francesca and Esther. With Vinnie’s back to the corner, her position commanded the room. Torn between scenery and satisfying her natural curiosity, Francesca faced Vinnie, content with a view out the nearest window. Esther drew up between them and, with a nod of approval, sat on Francesca’s right. With these two ladies as her eyes and ears—and the balance between sensationalism and sense—Francesca would miss nothing. No sooner had they ordered the soup than a voluble lady of middle age could be heard approaching.

“Silly girl,” said the voice with a flat twang that grew louder with each tap of a walking stick. “I thought I asked you to save a table for me. Now they’re almost all full up.”

The reply came in a whisper that arrested movement. The room strained to hear.

“But madame rekested zee tapestry reticule and a fresh handkerchief before proceeding, which rekired a search sroo madame’s luggage.” The voice was refined but with an edge that suggested familiarity with confrontation and a disinclination to back down.

“Zere is a seat at zat table,” she continued. “I am sure zoz ladies will not mind so much to share. It appears to be zee custom, no?”

Realizing at once that they were the target of “zee custom,” the three ladies froze—Esther with eyes fixed on the sugar sifter, and Francesca with a reproving eye on Vinnie’s suppressed smile. The walking stick gave a tap of finality behind the empty chair. Francesca was surprised to find that the Amazonian voice belonged to a diminutive, buxom middle-aged woman, wearing a gray woolen traveling suit and a black hat with a short feather held in place with a cameo brooch. A three-strand pearl necklace fought with the ruffled blouse collar around the short neck. The reticule in question was of fine petit point and hung from her wrist by a silver chain.

“I’m sorry to trouble you ladies,” she said with a smile and more grace than Francesca expected, “but I seem to have been a bit slow out of the starting gate, so to speak. Would you mind so terribly if I shared your table?”

“Not at all,” said Esther, gesturing toward the empty chair. “Please join us.”

“Thank you kindly,” she returned, waving a hand of dismissal at the maid, who gave the briefest curtsey before vanishing.

In an instant, a waitress was at her elbow, proffered a menu, and waited for instructions. The woman hooked the ivory handle of her walking stick on the table, laid the reticule and gloves in her lap, produced a pair of pince-nez from her breast pocket, and glanced through the menu.

“Is the fish fresh?” she inquired of the waitress.

“Of course, madam.”

“The soup of the day?”

“Bean soup, madam.”

“Very well,” she said, handing back the menu and replacing the pince-nez. “That’s what I’ll have.”

“To drink, madam?”

“Well,” said the woman, looking at the water pitcher and three glasses on the table and frowning. “I guess it’ll be water then.” The waitress took the empty pitcher away. The woman folded her hands on the table, as if prepared to mind her own business.

“Please continue with your meal, ladies,” she said. “Don’t let it get cold on my account.” The three took up their soupspoons.

A few moments passed. The waitress appeared with a large tray and deposited the water pitcher and the soup and a glass. Francesca looked at Esther, to gauge between them whether to offer conversation. This stranger, despite the bluff manner and incongruous costume, seemed eager not to offend. Esther cleared her throat.

“Is this your first journey to the Rockies?” she asked.

“Land sakes, no,” said the woman, appearing relieved to be addressed. “Sometimes I ask myself why I’ve come, exchanging one end of the Rocky Mountains for another. Denver is my home—Denver, Colorado. So you see, I already have the Rocky Mountains on my back doorstep, as you might say.”

“That must be very pleasant,” offered Francesca.

“It is,” replied the stranger, “though I’m afraid a person gets used to his surroundings wherever he might be and might not appreciate them as much as when they were new to him.”

“That’s probably true,” said Francesca.

“I suppose that’s one of the virtues of travel among folks who are strangers to a place,” the woman continued. “They help a person to see things fresh and new, as you might say. I’m sure when I was in Europe last year I noticed ever so many interesting things that the Europeans themselves took for granted. So much more history than we have, of course, and art and music and so many refined and beautiful things to see and hear.” The woman sighed. “It was almost more than a person could take in.”

“Were you there long?” asked Vinnie.

“Yes, indeed. Nearly a year. My daughter was being married in England and we had many arrangements to attend to.” Her plain speech was modest and perhaps even a little embarrassed. They lapsed into silence at the arrival of the main course.

“I declare, one does miss home, though,” said the woman at last, her tone softened by a touch of wistfulness, “traveling for such a long time. The Alps were certainly splendid, I’m not saying they weren’t, but they were different. They did make a person homesick.”

A widow,
thought Francesca,
who has just married her daughter to a penniless European, perhaps with a title—a vagabond of the nouveau riche whose work is done, now that her daughter is well settled.
The woman seemed to gather her wits and posed a polite question in return.

“Have you ladies seen the Rockies before?”

“No,” said Francesca. “This will be our first encounter with them.”

“You say that as if the Rocky Mountains were people,” said the woman with a little more animation. “Well, I daresay you’re right, if you’ll allow me to say so. The mountains—and the trees and the rivers—each has a character of its own, if we could just appreciate it. Some say, ‘You’ve seen one mountain, you’ve seen ’em all,’ but if that’s so, you may as well say, ‘You’ve seen one cathedral, you’ve seen ’em all,’ or one palace or one fountain, but I never found that to be the case myself. Every peak is as different as people can be.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” said Francesca, glad to see this glimmer of sentiment. “Are you traveling far—if you’ll forgive my inquiry?” Esther threw her a cautionary glance.

“Why, land sakes, of course. I’m stopping off for a time at Banff, but I may go as far as Vancouver if the mood takes me.”

“How interesting,” said Esther.

The first shift of luncheon diners was beginning to leave. A waitress, brandishing an enormous tray and a damp cloth, cleared and wiped a small nearby table and returned the condiments to their proper order.

“We’re going to Banff . . .” said Vinnie, cutting herself off in mid-sentence. The other three ladies followed her gaze, which had lighted on the sporting gentleman in tweeds making his way across the room. Before he sat, his eye caught that of the stranger at their table, to whom he gave a slight bow. This she returned with a smile and an upraised hand.

Amazed at this new factor in their acquaintance with this unknown woman, the ladies gave up all decorum, exchanged glances, and fixed their collective gaze upon her.

“Yes,” she chuckled, raising her napkin and daubing her lips. She lowered her voice and bent toward them a little. “Handsome fellow, isn’t he? His name is Sándor Krisztián Filip Király. A count, a member of the Hungarian nobility—a second cousin so-many-times removed to someone. He told me who it was, but I do so like to learn to pronounce a name properly, and I’m afraid I didn’t quite master it this time.”