Woodsburner (14 page)

“Bravo, Miss Mahoney.” Eliot could not believe his good fortune—wit and beauty together. He began to worry that he was even more ill-equipped for the task at hand than he had at first suspected.

“So then, Mr.
Calvert…”
Her smile changed, almost imperceptibly, the cordiality replaced by something more calculated. “Is this the moment at which you confess your nom de plume, reveal that you are indeed the author of tonight's entertainment, and upbraid me for my presumption?”

“Oh … no … no.” Eliot felt that he was about to stammer.
He took a deep breath and lowered his voice in a masquerade of confidentiality. “I give you my most solemn assurance that I bear no responsibility for tonight's wreckage.”

“That is fortunate.” She laughed politely. “Else I would have to choose between prolonging my embarrassment and finding other company.”

Eliot believed he understood her meaning clearly. She
chose
to remain with him, for this moment, and he had to resist the temptation to fold his arms across his chest, as if to cradle the privilege.

“Is it possible, Mr. Calvert, that I have already had the plea sure of seeing one of your plays?” she asked.

Without considering the consequences, Eliot leaped upon the opportunity to display his wit at last. “No, I am afraid not, Miss Mahoney, unless you have found your way into my imagination.”
Was that too bold?
He saw her brow wrinkle, but she was still smiling.

“What an unusual thing to say.” She laughed again.

Well played!
Eliot thought to himself, growing more confident. “What I mean to say is that I have yet to subject my dramatic works to the public, as they are still in their drooling infancy.”

“Your plays, or the public?” she said quickly.

“I, ah, I beg your pardon?” Eliot felt that he had advanced well into the conversation, had in fact turned a corner, only to come upon a wall of stone.

Margaret Mahoney held him in her stare, the way he imagined she might appraise a piece of jewelry on first glance, before picking it up for further consideration. He was distracted by the silky blackness of her hair, by the way the coiled ringlets at the sides of her face bounced gently when she shook her head.

“Who or what is doing the drooling, Mr. Calvert?” she said.

It took Eliot another few seconds to gather her meaning, and then it seemed to spark before his eyes. “Oh, yes, of course. My
plays or the public, you mean. I was referring to my plays, certainly, though I suppose, as you wisely suggest, one might indeed say the same of the public.”

“Then perhaps we should hope for the swift maturation of both.”

“Yes, yes.” It was all he could think to say. He felt he had been bested, but he thought he detected a note of encouragement, perhaps even a compliment, in her quip. Never before had he taken such delight in being outwitted.

“I envy you, Mr. Calvert,” she said. “I should think the most delicious part of success is the moment just prior to fulfillment.”

Eliot tried to choose his words carefully. “I am confident, Miss Mahoney, that even now I stand at the very precipice of fame.” As soon as the words left his lips, he thought they sounded childish and boastful. He saw her eyes drift over the crowded lobby and feared she was seeking better conversation. It was only with great effort that he was able to keep from stammering, “I-I-I hope that I do not strike you as a braggart.”

Margaret Mahoney turned her attention back to Eliot, and the dark ringlets bounced at her ears. She looked him full in the face for several long seconds. He had not lost her, not yet.

“Mr. Calvert, I find nothing unbecoming about confidence in a man of artistic temperament. One never hears a man of business apologize for his pursuit of wealth. It is an odd measure of success, is it not, having at one's disposal a greater number of the same coin that every man carries in his pocket? I would not count hardship as an accomplishment, but the dedicated avoidance of it is an unromantic goal upon which to construct one's raison d'être. Although”—she paused and let her eyes wander again before returning to Eliot—“I suppose we women must be grateful for the men who are content to do so. We cannot all be wed to struggling artists, else who would attend the theater?”

Eliot wanted to match her sudden philosophizing with an observation of corresponding depth. He thought he might quote an appropriate passage from one of his plays, but then Margaret Mahoney sighed and he found that he could not recall a single line of his own writing. She waved her playbill at the crowded lobby, as if the room of silvered heads and glittering necks proved her point.

“I should think it far easier to instruct an artist in the ways of amassing a fortune than it would be to instill a banker with a love of poetry,” she said. “Would you not agree?”

Miraculously, a swift reply came to Eliot, and he delighted in hearing the words slide from his tongue as if their delivery required no effort at all.

“I cannot say, Miss Mahoney, as I have attempted neither.”

She laughed, and Eliot watched the lamp light play over the cluster of diamonds and gold filigree at her neck. He felt emboldened and decided to venture an observation of some complexity, one that he had come to some time ago. He brought his lips close to her ear, almost close enough to feel the silky black curls against his cheek—a daring move—and spoke softly.

“I suspect that many who attend the theater little comprehend the depth of humanity represented onstage, but they would be quick to judge the full measure of a man's worth solely by the girth of his bank account and waistcoat.”

She nodded. “Then I daresay Father's own success is easily measured by tailor and bookkeeper alike.”

Eliot jumped back and saw that her father was making his way toward them. Other men stepped aside to make room for the rotund patriarch, who pushed forward in the confidence that a path would be made for him. The man's cheeks shone with the exertion of lugging around his bulk, and the bare top of his head glistened with sweat between the crests of gray hair that tumbled over his ears. Something stuck in Eliot's throat. He had forgotten himself; he had let his wit outrun his sense.

“I meant no insult,” Eliot whispered.

She ignored him and opened her arms to greet her father. He lumbered toward her, and she leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. The large man patted his cheek where the kiss landed and looked at Eliot critically.

“Father, I was beginning to fear you had abandoned me. Fortunately, Mr. Eliot Calvert has entertained me in your absence. Mr. Calvert, this is my father, Patrick Mahoney.”

Before Eliot could say a word, Margaret Mahoney winked at him and said, “Mr. Calvert is a playwright, Father.”

Eliot felt his heart race.

“A writer?” Mr. Mahoney was intentionally loud. He spoke with the confidence that anyone within earshot would want to hear what he had to say. “I hope it is none of your nonsense we are suffering tonight.”

“Father!”

“You cannot expect politeness,” Mr. Mahoney barked, “as I mourn the loss of another hour that might have been spent in the enjoyment of a good cigar.”

“Honestly.” She playfully patted his arm. “The ushers will begin turning us away at the door if you continue to play the rogue.”

“They'll not turn me away as long as they have dollar seats in need of selling.” Mr. Mahoney jerked his head upward, indicating the balconies, before looking Eliot directly in the eyes.

“To be honest, sir,” Eliot said, “I cannot claim the title of
playwright
just yet—”

“Wait!” Mr. Mahoney held up a soft, thick hand and curled the fat index finger beneath the tip of his nose. “I'll warrant you're a Washington Street man, am I correct?”

“Well,” Eliot said, relieved at the tone of approval he heard in the man's voice. “Ah, yes, as a matter of fact. How did you know?”

Eliot heard Margaret Mahoney laugh, saw her roll her eyes and offer an apologetic smile, as if she knew what was to follow.
He could hardly pay attention to what her father said, so entranced was he by the way she placed her splayed fingertips to her pale throat.

Mr. Mahoney grunted in satisfaction. “You see, Calvert, it is my business to know men—their motives, their ambitions, their shortcomings. I knew straight off by the cut of your coat that you were more than just a writer, though I did not doubt that you were occupied with the printed word in some fashion. The ink beneath your fingernails gave you away. Where on Washington Street do you ply your trade?”

“Carter, Hendee & Co.”

“
Carter and Hendee?
Ha! Then I'll wager it's
Ticknor and Allen
you'll be working for soon enough, once they've acquired the capital. Mark my words, Messieurs Carter and Hendee will be bought before the year is out.”

“I had not heard this,” Eliot said. There were always rumors, and he had learned to ignore the whispers that periodically sent Mr. Carter or Mr. Hendee (or sometimes both) into pencil-snapping fits; still, he found Mr. Mahoney's matter-of-factness disconcerting. “Are you certain?”

“It's no secret. Scarcely a month passes that one publisher is not swallowing another. I have reliable eyes and ears, as it were.”

“You are in the publishing business yourself, then?”

“No. Far from it,” Mr. Mahoney said. “Finance. Opportunity. I make it my business to detect opportunities. Intriguing developments in your corner of the city, so I am told.”

“Yes, well, the publishing world presents a most tumultuous drama,” Eliot replied.

“Drama indeed!” Mr. Mahoney practically bellowed as he stabbed the air with a thick forefinger. “And that is what makes any business more profound than the empty entertainments of the theater, eh? We think alike, Calvert. A man of business is a
man of endless interest. I have told my daughter so a thousand times.”

“A thousand times at least,” she said, and squeezed her father's arm.

Mr. Mahoney cast his eyes upward again. “The trials we men endure, eh, Calvert? The tallest theater in Boston, and she persists in calling it her favorite.” He eyed the stairs and cleared his throat. “At the prices we pay, they should be obliged to carry us. Shall we accompany you to your box?”

“Thank you, sir, but, no, I am waiting for…” Eliot noticed Margaret Mahoney taking an interest in his response and he stumbled for a convincing conclusion. “For a colleague.”

Mr. Mahoney eyed the stairs again, as if he had forgotten they were there, and grumbled, “Well, let's get on with it, my dear. Calvert, a pleasure to meet you.”

Consumed with the thought of the task ahead, Mr. Mahoney turned to begin a slow, arduous waddle toward the sweeping stairs, and the crowd parted as before; then he stopped, looked over his shoulder, and called out, “Calvert, we should have a serious conversation about the hurly-burly world of publishing. I have a growing interest in things bookish.”

Margaret Mahoney smiled and shook her head. “Please excuse me, Mr. Calvert. I must accompany my father, or the stairs will utterly confound him.”

Eliot bowed, trying to remember what he had practiced saying, the perfect line to end their first meeting. But all he could think of was his inadvertent reference to Mr. Mahoney's girth.

“Miss Mahoney … your father … truly, I meant no insult.”

Margaret Mahoney dropped her chin, coyly, and looked up at him with raised eyebrows. “Mr. Calvert, not all that may be insulting to my father is necessarily insulting to his daughter.”

She turned and followed the large man. She was truly the most
beautiful woman who had ever spoken to Eliot, and he thought he might be happy to spend the rest of his life repaying her for this act of kindness. He watched the imagined outline of her hips sway beneath the layers of crinoline. He sighed when he saw her place her hand upon her father's arm, and in that moment Eliot believed that he had indeed become a playwright, a man for whom the drama of life unfolded beyond the confines of the stage. As Margaret Mahoney climbed the grand staircase, Eliot made his way back to the gallery and found a spot in the shadows where he would not be seen from the boxes above. In the darkness, he thought of Miss Mahoney's swaying figure on the stairs, and he decided that it might not be so great an indulgence to buy a ticket in the upper tiers from now on.