Authors: Ellen Pall
Slightly Abridged (4 page)
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Aside from the fact that a wind like fingers of ice was chasing the
tourists around the Empire State Building Observatory, Juliet's visit with Mrs. Caffrey to that monument was a great success. Mrs. Caffrey had had it in mind to dine at Schrafft's afterward, or the Automat, but on learning that both of these were gone, agreed to try the Tavern on the Green instead. They followed this with a drink at the Plaza, where Mrs. Caffrey took a fancy to their distinguished-looking waiter, flirted ferociously, and ended by making a date to meet him at the skating rink at Rockefeller Center the following afternoon.
tourists around the Empire State Building Observatory, Juliet's visit with Mrs. Caffrey to that monument was a great success. Mrs. Caffrey had had it in mind to dine at Schrafft's afterward, or the Automat, but on learning that both of these were gone, agreed to try the Tavern on the Green instead. They followed this with a drink at the Plaza, where Mrs. Caffrey took a fancy to their distinguished-looking waiter, flirted ferociously, and ended by making a date to meet him at the skating rink at Rockefeller Center the following afternoon.
It was past midnight when Juliet finally left her at Suzy's and went across the street. In the ticking kitchen, her answering machine blinked, and she remembered the call from her father.
“Hi, sweetheart,” began the first message, and the breezy, smooth baritone chilled Juliet's blood more swiftly than had the icy wind at the Observatory. “I've been seeing a great gal lately, and I'd love to get the two of you together. How about dinner tomorrow? Let's say seven-thirty at Le Perigord?”
Then came the sound, not of a receiver settling into its cradle, but of a speaker phone toggling obediently off. Ted Bodine was a man born to speak on a speaker phone, born to project his personality, a man who would not have been troubled had his daily life been displayed in real time on an electronic billboard in Times Square. He oozed confidence and charm. Hardened businessmen
melted in his presence. Women clung to him like children. Juliet often wondered how he had come to marry her mother, who, from everything she could learnâJuliet was three when she diedâhad been a quiet, kind, somewhat frightened soul, nothing like the brassy, energetic girlfriends who had succeeded her.
melted in his presence. Women clung to him like children. Juliet often wondered how he had come to marry her mother, who, from everything she could learnâJuliet was three when she diedâhad been a quiet, kind, somewhat frightened soul, nothing like the brassy, energetic girlfriends who had succeeded her.
She made a mental note to call Ted (she had long ago begun to speak and think of him as Ted) in the morning and regret that, due to a string of (fictitious) commitments, she couldn't join him and his great gal tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. She would suggest Saturday. Then he'd almost certainly postpone it till a weeknight the following week (he never gave her time during his weekends). And by the following week, maybe he and the great gal would have broken up.
The second message, left just before nine o'clock, was from Dennis.
“I wondered if I could interest you in a glass of port,” he had said. His voice was deep, slow, and faintly southern (he had lived in Louisiana until the sixth grade), and Juliet could hear the smile in it as he went on, “Or a glass of port and a bit of sport. Give me a call when you get in. I'll be here.”
Juliet smiled, too, but at the same time was aware of a part of herself that was not entirely charmed. In the first weeks of their acquaintance, she had found Dennis's erudition fascinating, and his courtly, enthusiastic admiration flattering, even delicious. But lately she'd found herself starting to resist him. Something about him struck her asânot insincere, but so conscious of himself that it almost added up to insincerity. When she went to his apartment, it seemed to her that he had set up a scene, a stage set that she could not enter without feeling equally conscious of herself. On their first date, he had set bottles of cognac and Chartreuse beside another of bitters and half a lemon; having mixed these into Champs Elysées, he read aloud a paragraph from a history of cocktails describing these as a favorite of the Lost Generation. But he was so interesting, later onâ
on the subject of locks and how to pick them, of all thingsâthat she forgot all about it until her next visit. On that occasion she came in to find a warm throw waiting on the sofa and, on the coffee table before it, a bowl of popcorn, the videotape he proposed they watch,
and
a crisp copy of its review in the
Times
downloaded from the Internet. Sometimes Juliet felt she was dating Martha Stewart. Was that a fault in a man? Surely not a dreadful one, but it made her uneasy.
on the subject of locks and how to pick them, of all thingsâthat she forgot all about it until her next visit. On that occasion she came in to find a warm throw waiting on the sofa and, on the coffee table before it, a bowl of popcorn, the videotape he proposed they watch,
and
a crisp copy of its review in the
Times
downloaded from the Internet. Sometimes Juliet felt she was dating Martha Stewart. Was that a fault in a man? Surely not a dreadful one, but it made her uneasy.
Still, Dennis was singleârare enough all by itself, it seemed latelyâkind, heterosexual, and attractive. He worried constantly about his looks, however, largely because he had been born with talipes equinovarus, or clubfoot. When, at age twelve, he had learned Lord Byron, too, had a clubfoot, he began to identify with him strongly. Dennis's own foot had been insufficiently treated in early life and later required surgery; now he had to wear an orthopedic shoe, which he incorrectly imagined everyone noticed.
Apparently, he was also monogamous, a big plus for Juliet, whose troubled marriage had finally sunk under the weight of an affair between her husband and an adoring actress. And Dennis was fun to listen to; they seemed to have so many interests in common. He had set out in life to be a poetâlike Byronâan ambition he modified by the time he graduated from City College to being a poet slash English professor. He paid his way through his B.A., his Master's, and almost a Ph.D. by working part time at a secondhand book-shop on Fourth Avenue. He never finished his dissertation (on Byron, of course) since he had discovered by then, he said, that he was neither a very good poet nor a very good teacher. What he was quite good at was selling books, especially rare ones. He started Rara Avis by selling much of the private collection he had slowly built up during his school years. Now, though he still wrote poems for the pleasure of doing it, he never tried to publish them. Juliet had to agree that he wasn't a very good poet, but she liked him for trying. Too bad she got his phone message three hours too late.
On the other hand, those curious pages that might have been
suppressed from Harriette Wilson's famous memoirs had been tantalizing her all evening. She fixed herself a mug of peppermint tea, went into her library, unlocked the cabinet, and sat down to read.
suppressed from Harriette Wilson's famous memoirs had been tantalizing her all evening. She fixed herself a mug of peppermint tea, went into her library, unlocked the cabinet, and sat down to read.
At the top of the page a few words had been crossed out, probably pertaining to the previous victim.
Apropos to finery,
were the first words she could make out,
did you ever know a gentleman who preferred wearing his inamorata's clothes to admiring her in them? Such a one was the Hon. Edward Hertbrooke, later Viscount Quiddenham, of Quiddenham cum Nottington, who used to come to my house near Bedford-Square in order to wear my gowns. When my sister, Fanny, was with me, as often happened, the good gentleman also would borrow her cap or shawl. This embarrassed poor Fanny no small amount; but she was ever too good-natured to refuse him.
Up and down the drawing room this modish beau, or rather belle, would goâhe was about nineteen or twenty at the time I write ofâquaintly arrayed in a walking dress, cap and ribands, or a thin petticoat with nothing below. He was a well-looking boy, tall and slender, with a countenance beautifully expressive, and a serious, soft and graceful manner. Fanny and I sometimes amiably disputed whose friend he was. He frequented my house, but Fanny generally laced his stays.
As it was this gentleman's wish that we should comport ourselves during his visits exactly as if he wore a coat and breeches, he would often sit quietly by the fire, in his muslin skirt, while I read aloud from Shakspeare, whose command of human nature ever thrilled and delighted me. Or he would trip about the room, Fanny's best Cashmere shawl carefully draped about his arms, a pair of my old slippers groaning under his toes, giving us news from the clubs. After an hour or so of conversation, the future viscount would retire alone upstairs.
It was all he ever asked of us. Poor boy, it made him so happy!
After he succeeded to his title, this lord married a lady very much à la mode, though whether it was the lady or the mode he loved, I cannot say. I hope he had the courtesy to make his tastes known to his bride beforehand. Else, how distressed she might be to learn she must share her wedding-clothes! However, no harm came of his pleasure that I know of, save an occasional ript hem.
Lord Byron once observed of his lordship,
“A ladâor is it lady?âof high virtue!
“He may unseam your gown, but can not hurt you.”
That's all! Vive l'amour!
The boldly written lines had gone right down to the bottom of the paper, and this exclamation was crammed in along the right-hand margin.
Juliet set the page down and returned to the letter, then reread the fragment of manuscript. How could one know if these pages were authentic? If so, were they, in fact, absent from the complete memoirs? Had Byron really “observed” what Harriette reported, and if so, when, where, and to whom? Who was Viscount Quiddenham, and did he once own a bed like a church? There was quite a famous general of the British Raj named Quiddenham, she seemed to recall; could this one have been his father? Juliet was quite sure she had read not long ago of a movement afoot in London to remove a statue of this general from its pedestal near Pall Mall as being an unseemly celebration of British imperialism.
Thoughtfully, she locked the manuscript back into the glass case. She sat up late into the night reading Lesley Blanch's (highly abridged, alas) edition of Harriette's memoirs, scanning a biography of Wilson published in 1936 by Angela Thirkell, rereading Virginia Woolf's brief essay on Harriette as a figure on the “shadow side of the sword” that divided womanhood in two parts, ferreting among various Regency diaries, collections of letters, biographies of Byron, and in other, more abstruse volumes for any information that might shed light on the legitimacy of Mrs. Caffrey's find. All this sufficed to keep her mind well occupied (she even dreamed of a male figure fleeing down a mirrored corridor dressed in a gown of lawn) until the morning, when she paid an earlyish visit to Ada Caffrey at Suzy's apartment.
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Suzy came to the door wrapped in a thick burgundy robe. She
looked tired and not particularly happy.
looked tired and not particularly happy.
“Mrs. C. is very chatty, isn't she?” she whispered, as Juliet
followed her in from the vestibule. More loudly, “I'll get you some tea,” she added.
followed her in from the vestibule. More loudly, “I'll get you some tea,” she added.
Ada was at the breakfast table, bright-eyed and fully made up, arrayed in a vintage, quilted, salmon pink dressing gown, with a broad sash and considerable décolletage. She reeked of gardenia. A matching band of salmon ribbon was tied rakishly around her head.
Suzy, Juliet could see, had made a conscientious effort to transcend her army boot-and-overall instincts and provide the style of morning meal the phrase “bed-and-breakfast” conjured up: baskets of toast and muffins, fruit salad, scrambled eggs, and a set of Blue Willow dishes Juliet had never seen. From the look of Ada's plate, though, she had eaten nothing except a quarter of a blueberry muffin. Her coffee cup was well stained with her crimson mark, however, and the saucer liberally sloshed with drips.
She looked at Juliet sharply. “Well?” she demanded, as Suzy vanished into the kitchen.
“Well, to my eye, the pages are authentic enough. But I don't think my opinion means much.” She took the manuscript fragment and letter from a leather portfolio she used to carry her papers when she spoke publicly. “Where shall I put them?”
Ada waved her impatiently to a small sideboard near the door to the kitchen. Juliet set the pages down there, at the same time making a mental note to be sure to get her receipt back before she left.
“How valuable do you think they are?”
“I don't know.” She took an empty place beside the old lady. “The memoirs are very, very long, and I only have an abridged copy anyway. You'd need an expert to say whether it's Harriette's handwriting, if she really could have known this Lord Quiddenham, whether these pages appeared in the memoirs or not, I'm really not expert enoughâOh, thank you.” She interrupted herself to accept a steaming mug from Suzy. “I'm really not qualified to guess how
much someone might pay for them if they are authentic,” she went on. Reaching into the pocket of her jeans, she brought forth a folded paper. “But I've written down my friend Dennis Daignault's name and number. I imagine he'd need to keep them for a day or two while he looks them over. Please don't feel you must go to him just because he's a friend of mine. I think the best thing for you to do is give him a call and meet him, see if he seems like the rightâ”
much someone might pay for them if they are authentic,” she went on. Reaching into the pocket of her jeans, she brought forth a folded paper. “But I've written down my friend Dennis Daignault's name and number. I imagine he'd need to keep them for a day or two while he looks them over. Please don't feel you must go to him just because he's a friend of mine. I think the best thing for you to do is give him a call and meet him, see if he seems like the rightâ”
“I'm sure he's perfect, my dear,” Ada interrupted, “but I wonder if you would mind terribly calling him for me?”
Juliet glanced uneasily at Suzy, who had resumed her own seat.
“I'm sending her to Dennis,” she explained. “But I'd really feel more comfortable if you spoke with him yourself,” she went on, turning again to Ada. “It's just a matter of a phone callâ”
“Then I'll let you make it. May I?” Mrs. Caffrey batted her mascaraed eyelashes at Juliet. “And perhaps you would even be kind enough to run the pages up there yourself? These old bones ⦔
She shook her head, smiling wistfully. It was the first hint she had given that she felt her age. After last night's hijinks, Juliet could not help but suspect she was using it as an excuse to get out of a bit of business she considered tedious compared with the fun of visiting architectural landmarks and flirting with the waiters of New York.
But a lifetime of standing up for old ladies on the bus, holding doors for them, and generally deferring to their needs prevented her from arguing further. And maybe Ada really was tired; at the least, New York must be very noisy after the quiet of the country.
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