The Trainmasters (18 page)

They ate at a restaurant on Walnut Street, not far from the theater. And as they ate, she told him about herself—about how
her family had been part of a theatrical company that traveled around Ireland, about the Jesuit member of the company who
had taught her and her brother Egan how to read and write, and most importantly, how to appreciate what was fine and moving
in what they read. And she told him about the famine, and the terrible boat trip to America, when all of her family died except
herself and Egan. And finally, she talked for a time about Egan himself, whom she adored, even though he despised the life
Teresa was leading.

“You know, Teresa O’Rahilly,” Graham said to her when he had pried out of her all that he could manage at one sitting, “you
are a most unusual and amazing woman.” She beamed at that, so shyly and self-consciously, so distinctly different from the
carefully orchestrated act that she had tried to put on for him the day before, that Graham’s mind was left in a spin. “Would
you like to join another theatrical company?” he asked. “Would you like to act again?”

“There’s nothing I want to do more,” she said with quiet intensity.

“If your performance yesterday is any indication of your talent, you could be a leading lady in London.” He said this to her
lightly, but Teresa did not respond in kind. She caught his eye, and then her shoulders drooped and eyelids closed in resignation
and hopelessness.

“Why don’t you try?” he persisted.

Her eyes flashed with anger. “Have you ever been Irish?” she spit out. “And a woman?”

“But you have a brother, Egan,” Graham said, choosing to ignore her outburst. “Why can’t the two of you—”

“Egan hates me,” she interrupted. Then she threw up her hands, imploring him. “Please, Graham! Please talk about something
else.”

But Graham would not be shaken from the track he was on. “Do you really believe that his hostility to you can be permanent?”

She nodded. Her face flushed, and she turned away from him.

“But you aren’t certain that he will ever forgive you?”

She nodded again, with her face still turned. “He has a soul of iron,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said kindly, thinking of his own father’s attitude toward him, “but I understand.”

They saw that night an operetta called
Clari, or the Maid of Milan
, with a script by John Howard Payne and a score by Sir Henry Rowley Bishop.
Clari
had first been performed at London’s Covent Garden Theater nearly thirty years earlier, but it remained popular with theatergoers,
especially in America, Payne’s home country.

The play itself was about a beautiful, rustic lass Clari, who so attracted the eye of the wandering traveler Duke Vivaldi
that he was overwhelmed with love for her. Promising her his hand, he took Clari back to his palace. There the girl was surrounded
by luxuries. But even so she grew increasingly disconsolate. She had been deceived, and even worse, she was homesick for her
family and her rustic village.

The duke showered rich gifts upon her—gowns, jewels, the frilliest of Paris bonnets—everything a young beauty could possibly
desire, except matrimony. But Clari only pined away. Finally, left alone in a magnificent apartment of the palace, she sadly
sang the operetta’s famous aria, and then intermission soon followed.

Graham had not much liked the play so far. He thought it was silly and unreal, and thus he felt superior to it. But when the
lights came up, he saw that Teresa’s face was flushed with emotion and her eyes were bright with tears. When Clan sang “Home
sweet Home,” Teresa’s hand had reached over the arm rest between their seats and firmly gripped his. And after the curtain
fell, she did not let his hand go or rise to her feet, even as the others in their row of seats tried to pass her.

“Tess,” he said, shaking her hand gently, “let the others pass.”

She looked at him, released his hand, and stood up mechanically, like a windup toy. “I’m sorry,” she said automatically as
the other people slipped by her. Then she came to her senses and gave Graham a wide smile.

“You like
Clarit
he asked, making a strong effort to sound indifferent. But he could not succeed in hiding his dislike for the play itself.
Teresa caught the distaste in his voice.

“You’re not enjoying yourself,” Teresa said.

“I like it well enough,” he said without conviction.

“I adore it,” she said, turning to face him, and then raising her hands and laying them upon his shoulders. “It’s beautiful.
She
is so beautiful. And the duke so thick and empty of feeling.” She took his hand again. “Why don’t you like it?”

Graham smiled. “Don’t let me spoil your pleasure,” he said, trying to dismiss her question.

She looked at him. Her face was full of dismay at his insensitivity. But he was full of the arrogance of his own youthful
opinions.

“You don’t sympathize with Clari?” she asked.

“Sympathize with Clari? I guess,” he said, “that if I liked her, I might sympathize with her. But to me she is empty-headed
and weak. And you?”

“Naturally I like Clari, and I sympathize with her. She is a lovely, sweet, and innocent girl who is held by the duke against
her will. She is so lonely. And so bereft. And she has a home, Graham, a home and family to return to, people who would take
her in and cherish her, if he would only let her! Or else, if the duke would only really take her in, marry her, accept her
in his heart, then both of them could be truly happy.”

“Home?” He was confused. “What does her home have to do with anything? How does that matter?”

“It does, Graham! Don’t you see? Clari has a home, and a family… and I don’t! Do you know what it means, Graham, not to have
a home?”

Graham saw a depth of longing in her eyes that he had never seen before. But he didn’t know how to interpret what he saw.
Teresa baffled him right now. What was going on within her? And how could they each be seeing such a different play? But especially,
how could she have an opinion different from his? How could she, a woman, be so argumentative? That disturbed him very much.

He didn’t know what to do about it, however, so he did nothing. Or rather, he tried to change the subject.

“The duke would not make the same mistake with you, would he?” Graham chuckled.

“No,” Teresa said fervently, deliberately missing his meaning. “I would never make that mistake with a man like him.” She
looked away from Graham for a time, gazing at the closed stage curtain, lost in thought.

At that moment, Graham suddenly realized that he had just caused her great pain, and he was deeply shamed. He looked around
the auditorium, angry and disgusted at himself for his callousness toward her.

When I play cards
, he thought,
can conceal my feelings. But with this girl, I’m transparent
.

Will she get over my cruelty soon?

Several minutes later, she turned to him again. The audience was now starting to return to their seats.

“Do you miss England?” she asked.

“England? No,” he said. “I don’t miss it. England meant very little to me, especially after my mother died.”

“I don’t miss Ireland either. I’ve never been homesick once, nor do I ever want to see the place again. If I ever create a
home and a family, it will be in this country.”

He looked at her but said nothing, afraid he might cause her further pain.

What was she thinking of when she told me she longed for
a home? Graham wondered.
And why did she tell me she has never been homesick for Ireland?

The others in their row were now back in their seats, and so Graham and Teresa sat down.

“Tess,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry.” The gas lights on the walls and those suspended from the high ceiling of the auditorium
were beginning to dim. “I don’t like to be cruel.”

She looked at him for a time before she spoke. “Yes,” she said finally, “I’m sure you regret it now.”

Graham wondered what she meant by that, but the curtain was rising, so he could not ask.

During the second act, Clan pined away more than ever, until Duke Vivaldi, having become worried about her health, decided
that she needed a break from her melancholy. And so he decreed that Clan should be entertained. A band of traveling players
arrived and put on a play. As chance would have it, it was about a country girl who was enticed by a wealthy suitor from the
splendors of home and family.

The play finally tore asunder Clari’s already wounded heart. She fled the palace and returned to her native village.

But she was not made welcome there by her father, who could not accept her life of sin with the duke. The duke, however, had
meanwhile come to his senses. And, before matters could deteriorate even further, he arrived in the village and asked Clari’s
father for her hand.

After the play, Graham and Teresa went to a dance hall. It was a short walk, but it had started to rain, so the walk wasn’t
pleasant. In a way, though, Graham was grateful for the rain; he didn’t much want to converse about the play.

He was also grateful that Teresa seemed to have forgotten the bad moment they’d had during the intermission. She seemed indifferent
to the rain, moving easily, only covering her head with her shawl; and she laughed freely and gaily.

Soon they reached the building that housed the dance hall. The hall itself was reached by walking down a long entrance corridor
with private dining rooms on either side. When they stepped into it, they found the entranceway was empty, as were the dining
rooms. When Teresa saw that she stopped and caught Graham’s hand.

“Look at me,” she said.

“All right.”

Then she took his head in her hands and pulled his face down toward hers so that she could kiss him.

“There,” she said. “That’s better. Thank you for taking me to the theater, Graham. I’ve enjoyed myself more than you’ll ever
know.”

He was like a little boy when she did that. And his face grew red with embarrassment.

“You’re not mad that I didn’t like the play?” he asked.

“I’ll permit you not to like it,” she said with a grin. And then she laughed. “But I may not like you if you don’t like the
play. I insist that my men agree with me.”

“How strange,” he said, his mood growing instantly lighter. “I’m exactly the same. I insist that my women agree with me.”

“So what do we do, now that we disagree?” she asked.

“I don’t know, though I must tell you that I’ve been known to get violent with my women.”

“Really? Several of my men are dead. Did you know that?”

“I’m not surprised,” he said. Then took her face in his own hands and stared at her, liking what he saw. “So we should dance,
then, no?” He could not take his eyes off of hers.

“Yes,” she said, “let’s dance.”

Though it was Monday, the dance hall was more than half full. Americans loved dancing. And Graham loved dancing every bit
as much as they did. So, it proved, did Teresa O’Rahilly.

As soon as the two of them had entered the hall and removed their outdoor clothes, he swung her out onto the floor.

“You do this well,” she said breathlessly, a dance or two later.

“I enjoy it,” he agreed. Then, more emphatically, he said, “I enjoy it tremendously!”

“You danced often in England?”

“Whenever I could find the freedom to do it. And you?”

“My mother and father taught me, in Ireland.”

‘They taught you well. You are… urn, delightfully responsive and light on your feet.”

She smiled. “You were about to say ‘surprisingly light on your feet,’ weren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, with an embarrassed look. “How did you read my mind?”

“I’m Irish. I’m sure you expected my feet to be still mired in the bog.”

“Don’t be so sensitive,” he said. “You’re a glorious dancer. And I don’t give a damn whether you are Irish or German or French
or Cherokee or Chinese.”

“But I care that you are English,” she said, suddenly serious. “And yet, even so, I think I like you.”

“You have extraordinarily good taste then,” he said, taking her hands and drawing her into a faster rhythm.

They swept around the floor, enjoying themselves like children on a carousel, laughing gaily.

Then Teresa suddenly and unexpectedly froze. She was staring across Graham’s shoulder.

“Why did you stop?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and then faced him again. “I saw someone I know.”

“An old lover?” he asked with very little concern. They were moving again.

“Yes,” she said. “An old lover… I think we should leave soon.”

“Really? What does an old lover have that I do not?”

“His name is Ben Kean. And he imagined that I cared for him more than I do, or than I did. I’m sure he still believes that
our relationship will continue.”

“And you want to avoid an unpleasant scene?”

“Ben is dangerous, Graham. He’s passionate. He has no control. And he likes to hurt.”

Graham’s manhood was aroused. “What would happen if we met him here? If he’s capable of making trouble, now is as good a time
as any to get it over with.”

“Trust me, Graham. I know Ben Kean.” She was urging him toward the door with her hand. “There’s nothing to be gained from
provoking him.”