Decorum (5 page)

C
HAPTER
6

A good deal of dickering took place before Connor and Blanche agreed upon the characters for their costumes for the charity ball. Connor nixed the Harlequins, Columbines, Brunhildes, Siegfrieds, Raleighs, and Elizabeths that were in vogue this year and Spanish gypsies were “not fine enough.” Blanche settled on Marie Antoinette but failed to persuade him to sacrifice his buccaneer for Louis XVI. Blanche was to engage a costumer and settle on designs, fabrics, and fittings with minimal interruption to the Hotel Excelsior’s progress. And if the expenses for visiting gowns and reception gowns were slipped in among the costumer’s charges, no matter. Connor’s bank account could stand the strain.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Blanche had assured him when he cross-questioned her about costumers. “I’ll find the best places. By the time we’re done, Blackbeard himself won’t be able to tell you from a member of his crew.”

The parts of New York that catered to those for whom costumes, characters, and impersonation were a way of life were not the finest in town, nor would their clientele necessarily be on Mrs. Vanderbilt’s guest lists. Connor might not approve, but he could not disapprove of what he did not know. Blanche felt as if she’d been sprung from a trap.

Though her father’s family had come from money, he himself had been a younger son, the renegade—a musician and composer whose work made him a frequenter of opera houses, theaters, music halls, and mansions. With an artist for a wife—and she reputed to have come from Spanish gypsy stock—the bohemian life of artists’ studios, salons, and the adoption of personae as the situation dictated were as familiar to Blanche as if they had been inscribed on her personality from birth. The gifts of money her father’s mother had intended for her and her sisters’ education financed the family for two years in Europe, where indeed the young and striking trio of Blanche, Teresa, and Harriet received an education beyond anything their grandmother would have imagined—or approved. With the preoccupation of survival and the desire to rise in the world, Blanche had given not a moment’s thought to the withdrawal her spirit had undergone when deprived of the color, noise, odor, and sensation of the life she had known. The chance to reacquaint herself with the theatrical costumers and the world with which she and her family had been so familiar was intoxicating.

Though the theaters that catered to the elite had begun their great migration uptown many years before, the Bowery still boasted good entertainment. Blanche picked her way through the dirty back streets and fetid, trash-strewn alleyways. She jostled with handcarts and horse-drawn vans and stopped at shop after shop, referred on to street after street until she found what she sought.

Down a blind alley, recessed into a windowless wall of dingy brick, was a door bright with red-, green-, and yellow-painted panels and a brass knob and knocker. Above the door, a black sign with bold red letters edged in gold proclaimed A
TELIER
M
AXIMILLIAN.
She gave the knocker a brisk rap. A peephole door snapped open and a spectacled eye appeared and raised a bushy eyebrow. The door was flung open by a portly man in plaid trousers, a brocade waistcoat, and a white collarless shirt, with a smattering of grizzled hair on top of his head and sticking out over his ears.

“My dear Mrs. Alvarado,” the man exclaimed as he took her hand and kissed it. “How do you do, my dear lady?”

“Hello, Max, darling.”

“You should have wired that you were in town. How long it has been since we’ve had the pleasure. Come in. Come in.”

“I had a good job tracking you down,” said Blanche, stepping over the threshold. “You seem to have moved shops several times since we last met.”

“Yes, well, you know how it is,” he said, still smiling. “The fortunes of war, one might say. The modern bill collector is such a relentless breed of bloodhound.”

“The Oriental and the Neue Stadt still not paying up?” asked Blanche sympathetically.

“Oh, my dear, the list gets longer and longer. But let us not speak of unpleasantness. Come on back and let us become reacquainted.”

He led her through a rabbit warren of rooms crowded with costumes hanging from every hook and pole, mounted a narrow staircase, and skirted the perimeter of a workroom flooded with light from three tall windows. Three women ran three sewing machines that kept up a steady rat-tat-tat as a man cut a pattern at a long table. Fabric was stacked to the ceiling, scraps of braid and lace were trodden underfoot, and trays of notions were set higgledy-piggledy on shelves. The proprietor admitted Blanche to a small glassed-in office and indicated a shabby wooden chair. She sat down and drew off her gloves.

“Now, my dear, may I offer you refreshment from my somewhat limited stores?” he said, opening a small cabinet containing a single bottle and two glasses. “Gin or gin?” This invitation she declined and Max, glass in hand, sat down with a creak at the well-worn desk.

“What brings you to New York and to my humble establishment, my dear?”

“I arrived here several weeks ago to join a gentleman who has just concluded a rather lucrative business deal. We are expecting to be caught up in a number of social engagements. One of them happens to be a masked ball.”

“This wouldn’t be in aid of the new hospital,” ventured Max.

“The Ladies’ Auxiliary Ball, yes. My friend and I want completely original designs, you see. Naturally I wouldn’t rest until I had found you.” Max beamed.

“You understand, my friend is a very busy man and couldn’t possibly be bothered to come here, but mightn’t you be able to send someone to his hotel for measurements and fittings and such like?”

“Say no more, dear lady. We shall send a man accoutered as the most respectable of costumers for the highest of high society. Simply tell me where and when.”

“You are a darling, Max,” she said as she took a folded piece of paper from her handbag. “Here is the gentleman’s name and address and a list of the types of fabrics and accessories we shall require. You can arrange for wigs and shoes and such, as always?”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Naturally you and I shall consult as to the finer points, though the lion’s share, darling Max, will remain in your capable hands. Here’s a little something on account,” she added, pulling her wallet from her bag and handing him several bills.

“You’re too generous.”

“You don’t possess a telephone?”

“Alas . . .”

“Then I’ll wire you as to an appointment time for Mr. O’Casey and for a time when you and I might consult here again.”

“Certainly.”

Blanche rose and Max hoisted himself to his feet. They retraced their steps through the workroom, down the stairs, and squeezed among the costumes to the door.

“Until then,” said Max. “Charmed to see you again.”

“Likewise, darling,” she said, giving him her hand. She turned to go, then stopped. “And Max,” she said. “For heaven’s sake, make sure you pay your workers.”

It was one-thirty and Blanche was hungry. She turned down a side street where she used to know a smaller, quieter luncheon room, hospitable to ladies, that served excellent though simple fare. Until today she had resisted visiting her old haunts and renewing old acquaintances. At any moment she expected to be introduced to Connor’s associates and thus be released into the boundless surge of the mainstream. Her search for Max brought the old longings back to her. Besides, she couldn’t wait for Connor forever. Her step quickened. She saw the sign: T
HE
B
LUE
I
RIS
T
EAROOM
.

The decor had changed little since she was last there, a lifetime ago it seemed. Chinaware in patterns of blue were still displayed on a shelf that ran around the entire room—vases, porcelain ladies in blue dresses, flow-blue cups, saucers, plates, and English china teapots of all descriptions. A hodgepodge of familiar historical prints still occupied the walls. A small china vase with a few cuttings of the season’s last chrysanthemums sat on each linen-covered table. Mismatched chairs were brought into greater symmetry with identical deep russet and blue-violet upholstered seats.

Ladies were lunching alone at several tables. A neatly frocked waitress in a white apron and cap showed her to a table toward the back. Blanche deposited her jacket and handbag on an empty chair and sat, taking in the whole room. The moment she closed her menu the waitress was at her elbow, took her order, and departed. Blanche relaxed.

That evening Connor congratulated her on her luck with their costumes and said that he was glad she had found in the Blue Iris a small retreat. She took advantage of this approval and included a stop at the Iris whenever she ventured out.

One afternoon after an unusually good visit with Max, she decided to celebrate at the Blue Iris. Seated at what was becoming her usual table, she had ordered her tea and cakes and had pulled from her handbag the small notebook to review the day’s progress when an arrival at the front of the room caught her attention.

A woman entered wrapped in a dark paisley shawl with a dark oversize soft velvet hat with a heavy broach at one side. So flamboyant a costume would have made most women look ridiculous, but something confident and familiar in the woman’s posture carried off the ensemble. Blanche could see the profile of a white chin, smiling lips, and straight nose beneath the hat. Blanche sat arrested.

“Is everything all right, madam?” inquired her waitress.

“Yes, everything is fine, thank you,” answered Blanche, caught a little off guard.

“Shall I bring you fresh hot water?”

“Yes, if you please,” she said to send the girl away.

By then the woman stood by a table unwinding the shawl and laying it across the back of a chair and unbuttoning her coat. She sat in the frame of the tearoom’s front window, the fading afternoon light casting her in silhouette. A waitress drew up to take her order. The order completed, the woman’s glance followed the retreating waitress and then took in the rest of the room, stopping one by one at each table. Blanche waited. Surely the flamboyant style was unmistakable. The gaze passed lightly over Blanche.
Probably a mistake,
she thought as she breathed again. Then in an almost imperceptible moment of recognition, the woman’s look returned. She looked away and smiled from under the hat, then turned again toward Blanche. This time Blanche saw an amused smile spread across the woman’s face. Relieved, Blanche smiled in return.

Neither acknowledging the other, the women took their tea and cakes in silence. Finally, the woman made a show of drawing out her purse to pay her bill. She handed the girl the money, rose, wrapped herself in the coat and shawl, and left without another look. As the waitress retreated to fetch a tray from the sideboard, she passed by Blanche’s table.

“The lady asked me to give you this, madam,” she said, proffering a card.

The card read,

C
HAPTER
7

The drawing-room table was arrayed with gleaming pink luster china, silverware, sandwiches, and seedcake. Vinnie and her brother, Michael, her friend and Michael’s fiancée, Anne, Maggie and Jerry Jerome, and Vinnie’s parents, the Reverend and Mrs. Lawrence, had been invited to tea in anticipation of the engagement ring, the prelude to the official announcement and the party to follow.

Vinnie had not greeted the news with her usual gushing abandon. For ten years they had watched their friends marry and become occupied with families and children. Their spinster status seemed to cement their friendship and made spinsterhood not look so very dim. Vinnie could only picture a year of busyness ahead with little time for her. A veil of experience was about to come between them that she could not penetrate until her own marital fortunes changed. She would be the spinster friend, powerless, without status or vocation, and doomed to a life at home. When this melancholy overtook her, Vinnie wept for the loss of a friend—and her own foolishness. If twenty years’ friendship had taught her anything about Francesca, Vinnie would be enfolded in the bosom of a new family.

“Edmund is late,” said Maggie, peering between the lace curtains.

“No, he isn’t, not yet anyway,” said Francesca. “You’re early, you know.”

“We must all be early, then,” said Jerry, looking at his watch. “What did his note say?”

“Just that he’d been detained,” said Francesca. “He didn’t give a reason.”

“Business, no doubt,” said Mrs. Lawrence kindly.

“Yes,” said Maggie. “Gentlemen are always letting business detain them.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t use the new telephone,” said Vinnie, then wished she could call back the remark. Edmund had made such a fuss about the telephone. A modern convenience, he had said, one that everyone would have sooner or later. Why have one now when there weren’t that many people to talk to? “Maybe he couldn’t find a telephone himself,” she added, trying to make amends for her unkindness.

“Here he is at last,” said Maggie as a hackney carriage drew up. “Dear Edmund.”

John moved past the drawing room to answer the insistent sound of the knocker. Tracey showed himself into the drawing room, pushing both doors open and leaning into the room with a look of boyish mischief on his golden, freckled face.

“Ladies!” he said, his smile wide. “Good afternoon!” He straightened his tall frame and pulled the doors closed behind him. “Hello, my duchess.” Francesca went to greet him and he put both hands on her waist. “You all won’t think me too forward, will you, if I show a little more affection than usual to my fiancée, whom I haven’t seen in four days?” Without waiting for an answer he drew her to him and kissed her full on the mouth. He embraced her in a bear hug and held her for a few moments, then kissed her mouth again before releasing her. Only then did he shake hands with each gentleman and lady.

“Edmund, dear, it’s so nice to see you,” said Maggie, extending her hand. Tracey took the offered hand ceremoniously and kissed it.

A bit overdone,
thought Vinnie. Tracey’s ardor seemed barometric rather than passionate. The pressure of his frequent presence was the indicator of attachment rather than passionate protestations of love. Still, he had pursued Francesca doggedly. He was handsome, charming, and well-mannered, which certainly added another mark on the credit side of the ledger. His infrequent references to money hinted at family resources from Louisiana gentry. Perhaps she was selling Edmund Tracey short.

“You’re in good spirits,” said Francesca.

“Why should I not be? To spend the afternoon in the company of my own duchess and her lovely court.”

“Silly,” said Francesca with a rueful smile. “You’ve been to your tailor, I see.”

“Does it become me?” He held open the front of his warm brown jacket to show off it and the brown-on-brown striped waistcoat beneath it.

Francesca tugged on the bottom of the waistcoat as if to straighten it. “Very well indeed,” she said, then suddenly encircled his waist in a quick, hard embrace.

“Well,” said Tracey with a broad smile, “this is more like it.” As he folded his jacket around her and held her, he pulled a small velvet-covered box from his pocket, took Francesca’s hand, and placed the box snugly in her palm.

Overdone,
Vinnie thought again. Francesca, though warmhearted and generous, was rarely this demonstrative, her affection reserved for private moments. Was Vinnie unconsciously hoping this open affection masked some other feeling?

“Well, go on, duchess, open it,” he said, smiling and nudging her gently. Before she could move, he took the box from her and said, “Allow me.” He opened it and turned it to face her. The ring was indeed beautiful, two large, round, and lustrous opals side by side, a garnet filling the gap between them at the top and bottom, the whole setting surrounded by seed pearls and mounted in rose gold.

“Edmund,” Francesca exclaimed, “it’s exquisite.” He took the ring and placed it on the middle finger of her left hand.

“An old custom,” he said, “for an engaged lady. To follow decorum, you know.”

“Such fine taste,” said Maggie. “I would have expected no less, Edmund. It’s
lovely.
”

“And so unusual,” said Francesca, gazing at her finger. Vinnie and Anne rose from the settee and joined Mrs. Lawrence and Maggie in exclaiming over the beautiful ring. Even Mr. Lawrence and Michael agreed and offered Tracey congratulatory handshakes. “Don’t you think so, too, Jerry?” she asked, going to the chair where Jerry was sitting and extending her hand.

“Very nice,” he said flatly.

“That, dear duchess, is why I have been absent for so long. I was determined that the next time I saw you it would be with ring in hand to seal our betrothal.”

Betrothal possibly,
thought Vinnie.
Proposal definitely.
Francesca had evaded Vinnie’s queries up till now, which had given the latter small comfort that her friend had not yet made up her mind. The ring seemed to put the matter to rest.

“I was having the ring made up specially and it took a little longer than I anticipated. Am I forgiven?”

“There’s nothing to forgive, dear,” she said, admiring the ring. “I see you’ve observed more than one tradition.”

“Indeed?” he asked.

“Yes. Opals are for hope, aren’t they,” Anne broke in, “and garnets for constancy? Very appropriate, Edmund. So much nicer to have a ring with meaning, don’t you think?”

Anne
would
be happy for her, thought Vinnie. She doesn’t know how to be any other way these days. Anne and Michael radiated joy. Never had two people been more suited to each other or more thrilled at the discovery of it. The wedding plans catapulted forward, with no problem insurmountable and difficulties addressed with humor. Yet those things that should be common to engaged men and women were not there for Francesca and Edmund. Their relationship lacked vitality. Francesca’s quiet warmth flickered in Edmund’s presence when incandescence should have filled the room.

Why did Francesca look a little sad as she showed the ring? Then the irony of Tracey’s choice struck her. Francesca’s mother had always been one for interpreting the language of flowers and portents of gemstones. Opals might represent hope, indeed, and garnets fidelity. But opals held a double meaning. Opals could mean misfortune and pearls, tears.