Decorum (11 page)

“I’d stop whispering if you’d start looking.” Anne pressed Vinnie’s arm again as the jet woman glanced over her shoulder and the dark man looked openly at Francesca, who was trying to maintain her dignity—and Vinnie’s—in spite of the flush she could feel rising in her cheeks.

“Are you here to look at paintings or people?” she said.

“Oh, bother the paintings,” said Vinnie. “The people are much more interesting. Mr. Venables seems very interested in them.”

“Of course he does,” Anne said. “They are customers, after all. Professional interest is not the same as being nosy.” Francesca supported Anne’s sentiment with a stern look at Vinnie, who rolled her eyes and continued unabated.

“I think the man has more than a ‘professional interest’ in Francesca.”

“Mr. Venables?” said Francesca, just to irritate her.

“Oh, he’s back looking at that painting again,” said Vinnie, ignoring Francesca.

“As he should,” said Anne.

“He looks very interesting.”

“Everyone and everything is interesting to you, Vinnie,” said Anne, lowering her voice with each syllable. The assistant rejoined the ladies.

“Who is that over there?” Vinnie inquired of the assistant, while Francesca and Anne looked on, horrified. “I mean, what artist are they looking at?”

“That’s a Monet, miss.”

“Oh, a
Monet,
” she said with emphasis. At that, Francesca expressed herself satisfied with the Redon and the Ravier. The assistant motioned to Mr. Venables, whose back was turned to them. It was the gentleman who caught the assistant’s eye and drew Mr. Venables’s attention to them. The latter excused himself with a bow and invited the ladies to follow him. Before disappearing into the office, Vinnie turned to look over her shoulder.

“He’s looking at you again.”

“Stop it, Vinnie.”

C
HAPTER
14

Jerry stood in front of the tall windows of his office at the Merchants and Mechanics Bank and peered between the slats of the dark oak shutters and looked down onto the street, Shillingford’s letter in his hand. He had steeled himself for a result like this, much as one steels oneself for the death of a loved one after a prolonged illness. But as with death, however long anticipated, the announcement came as a shock just the same.

Jerry dearly wished he could have confided in Maggie. He wished she could be more circumspect and more considerate of another person’s situation and feelings. But such had not been the case in nearly thirty years. When she did find out about Shillingford and Tracey, they would row. The thought of it made him weary.

The real question, of course, the preservation of Jerry’s home life notwithstanding, was whether to tell Francesca this crumb of information or to wait for more evidence. What he really wanted was for Tracey to be discredited. He was not good enough for Francesca, but in the absence of evidence to the contrary, there was no good reason to prohibit her marriage. Having been married and widowed was no crime, though hiding the fact may be suspect. Jerry dearly hoped for sufficient evidence to the contrary.

What a mess a life could be—a once-proud family broken by war, divided loyalties, betrayal, deprivation, desperation, and defeat, all the makings of bitter resentment and bolstered by an attitude of wanting the world handed over on a silver salver. Jerry’s sympathy was fleeting, however. Having given her pledge, Francesca would be loath to break it. Though she had come to him about Tracey, Jerry did not want to push her into defending her fiancé against unsubstantiated accusations.

He had no choice. Until Shillingford could produce evidence to vindicate Tracey, Jerry must keep the matter to himself. He could only reply to Shillingford to conclude his investigation with all due speed.

 

Blanche had nagged Connor, in a mild way, into setting a regular luncheon date with her on Fridays. A mild nagging did Connor good, now that their life was becoming more settled. Most men expected it, didn’t they? Besides, a too-contented Blanche, she reasoned, would make him suspicious, as if she didn’t need him. And Friday luncheon with Connor helped to stanch any questions he might have about how she spent the rest of her week, especially her regular Wednesday visits to Nell.

One Friday, Connor couldn’t make it. A crisis in the land deal for the hotel had arisen and the investors needed him for the negotiations. Blanche knew it couldn’t be helped, but it peeved her nonetheless. The tiny seed of rebellion, already planted in the fertile ground of her isolation, flowered in the shape of an unexpected visit to Nell.

The maid took Blanche’s card and went to inquire as to whether Mrs. Ryder was receiving visitors. That Blanche had caught Nell at an unguarded moment was evident. As she waited in the entry hall, she could hear voices in the drawing room—Nell’s, the maid’s, and a man’s. Silence, then Blanche heard, “Yes.” Blanche made her entrance, hand extended toward Nell, who was sitting in the overstuffed chair, feet drawn up in her characteristic pose.

“Nell, dear, forgive me for intruding. . . .”

A gentleman rose. He was tall, well built, with thick, short auburn hair and a thick moustache. He was thoroughly composed, his posture careless. He faced her, absently slipping his fingers into the watch pocket of his waistcoat. He betrayed no emotion, but in the brief moment of surprise and recognition, Blanche thought she detected an expression of pleasure in the deep blue eyes and the sunny-freckled face. Then, as quickly as it had come, the pleasure disappeared into a reserved and disinterested countenance.

“Hello, Blanche.”

The sultry drawl took her breath away. She felt a gripping pleasure and thought her knees might buckle under her. For a moment she thought how awkward she must look, but it didn’t matter. She withdrew the hand still extended toward Nell and offered it to the man.

“Why, Edmund,” she said, letting her confusion flood the room. She looked at Nell. “Nell, dear, I had no idea . . .” her voice trailed off.

“Nor did I,” said Nell. “Mr. Tracey’s little surprises never fail to entertain.”

Tracey’s look apologized to Blanche for Nell’s remark. He took her hand, kissed it, and returned it to her side before he let it go.

“You’re looking very well, Blanche. Are you well?”

“Yes. Very well indeed. Thank you, Edmund. You look well, too.” Blanche’s feelings overwhelmed her, her mind crammed with questions. Where had he been? Where did he come from? Did she still move him as deeply as he did her? Surely Nell would assume that Tracey’s prior acquaintance with Blanche was intimate, as Blanche assumed his current acquaintance with Nell was no less so. What must Edmund Tracey be thinking of them both? The overriding question was how the three of them came to occupy the same room.

“Do sit down, dear, and you can tell me how on earth you know dear Edmund. Edmund, be so good as to ring the bell. We may as well have some tea. Unless you prefer a different sort of libation. You both look as if you could use a drink.”

As Tracey crossed the room Blanche thought how well acquainted she once had been with the strong back and broad shoulders. She was sensible of the freckled hands as he pulled the bell, and remembered how those hands had caressed her. He was the only one who ever loved her without judgment, and whom she felt justified her love. When they parted, she knew she would never feel that way with anyone else.

Blanche had seen Connor O’Casey as a man with ambitions and appetites, not unfeeling or unkind yet rough and worldly. He was good to her, as any man with means can be good to a woman. Perhaps she had expected too much of him and thus of her own powers to mold him into an image she could adore. Edmund roused her as if from a long slumber. Here was an idol ready-made, who could draw from her adoration. She wondered why she ever thought she could marry this man with whom she had spent this last, arduous year. Oh yes, she remembered. The money.

Tracey went to the liquor cabinet and poured a large bourbon and extended it and said, “Blanche?” She declined and he offered it to Nell.

“Well, if you don’t need it, dear,” said Nell, “I certainly do.” There was an awkward silence until Nell changed the subject.

“What brings you here on a Friday, Blanche darling? You’re always welcome, of course, but this is a bit unusual for you. O’Casey occupied?” said Nell. Then, turning to Tracey she said, “Mr. Connor O’Casey is Blanche’s gentleman friend, Edmund,” giving a barely perceptible emphasis to “friend.”

“O’Casey,” he said, pondering the name, “O’Casey. Oh, yes. I believe I have heard that name. Does he not have business dealings with a Mr. William Thomas Jerome?”

“William?” asked Blanche as she made herself more comfortable.

“Known as ‘Jerry’ to his friends and associates,” continued Tracey.

“Oh, really? Yes. Why? Do you know Mr. Jerome?”

“He knows the Jeromes intimately, don’t you, darling?” offered Nell, smiling. “Though among their friends there are others whom he is about to know better.” She chuckled. He consumed his drink, but Blanche recognized the little habits of manner that signaled his displeasure and concluded that his relationship with Nell was one of dependence. Money. Always money. She pitied him for that, even as she tried never to pity herself.

“Oh, let’s not make this any more difficult than it needs to be,” Nell cooed with an edge of sarcasm. “Do tell Mother how you two met.”

“It’s quite simple.” Blanche surprised herself by stepping into the breach to save Tracey the necessity of a polite reply. “You remember, Nell, how I spent so much time in the South after Alvarado died? Well, Mr. Tracey being Southern, it can hardly surprise you that he and I might cross paths.”

“But the South is such a big place, is it not, Edmund?”

“Indeed it is,” Blanche continued. “But we were both in New Orleans for a time. Besides, circles of like-minded people are generally smaller than one thinks, no matter where they are. It’s not unusual for such people to find each other.”

“True,” said Nell. “And I’m sure you two were very ‘like-minded. ’ ”

“New Orleans is as cosmopolitan a place as you’ll find anywhere and a natural draw,” Blanche continued, deflecting Nell’s last statement. “The port is always bustling and the French influence is so cultivated. It’s really quite an interesting place. Mr. Tracey used to come to the salon to play cards, didn’t you, Edmund?” she said. “You brought a letter of introduction with you, didn’t you? I can’t remember now from whom.”

“Another like-minded person, no doubt,” said Nell.

Blanche would get nowhere by defending him, even mildly. Despite the thousand questions that invaded her thoughts, to linger was to no purpose and she might make matters worse. The sooner Tracey faced it and told whatever story he chose about his previous life with herself the better. She consumed her tea and cake. Tracey spoke little, ate nothing, and drank bourbon. She felt homesick for his embrace and the shelter of his body. Nell, curled up in the chair like a contented cat, held her plate of cake in one paw under her chin and ate it with the air of having been caught doing something naughty. As soon as she could do so politely, Blanche left.

C
HAPTER
15

To lubricate the priest’s memory and powers of speech, Shillingford arrived at the rectory with a gift of two bottles of very fine sherry and a bottle of very old bourbon. Father Marcel had come to the Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus as a young cleric and had spent all his career there, so he knew well the tumultuous history of la Famille Letourneau.

A darkness came into Father Marcel’s expression at the mention of the Maywood Plantation. He had had no meaningful contact with the Letourneaus since the death of Henriette. Hospitable though he was, he stated firmly that he still was bound to the confidentiality to which his profession held him, even after all this time. Shillingford chose a roundabout probe, avoiding reference to the fact that a young woman’s reputation might be ruined by Henriette’s husband. The priest replaced the glass stopper in the sherry decanter and, his own glass in hand, took his seat opposite Shillingford in front of the fire.

The priest embarked on an interminable family history—the arrival of the patriarch, Georges Letourneau, and his French bride, Elodie DuLac, in Ascension Parish and the establishment of the Maywood sugar plantation. The son, Charles Montague, and his regrettable marriage to Celestine, who nearly bankrupted the family in luxurious living. Charles’s debauchery with a slave woman, and his cowardly escape to France during the War. The account was peppered with comments on Georges and Elodie’s generosity to the Church and the marked contrast in the behavior of their children.

“The first fruits of Georges’ and Elodie’s labor came here, as it should. They gave sacrificially to the Church,” he said, and sipped the fine sherry. “What remained of their wealth they put back into Maywood and the sugar business, so despite the fact that they had very few debts and came to have enormous property and slaves, there was very little actual capital, you see.” He sipped the sherry again. “The younger generation don’t know what sacrifice means. They spend it all on pleasure and forget God.” Shillingford noted the fine carved paneling, the comfortable furnishings, and the thick rug in the priest’s study. He noted equally the priest’s fine linen, meticulously kept, but a little threadbare at the neck and cuffs. At one time, at least, Father Marcel had indeed benefited from their patronage.

“Slowly Maywood came back, but it would never achieve the greatness it had known in the old days, especially since the slaves had been freed.”

“And what of the sons? I assume they were raised to take over the business.”

“Hmph, business.” The priest dropped into musing again. “Henri Gerard and Philippe should have made it their business. They should have made eternity their business. There was much they could have repaired besides Maywood.” The priest appeared to want to say more, but held his tongue. “Their relationship with Charles Montague was less than a father might hope for. Their relationship with Celestine was somewhat better. They exhibited the same social tendencies as she, which she simply put down to her sons’ high spirits.

“Etienne was a different breed. He tried to keep up with his older brothers in mischief, but one sensed that his heart was not in it. I believe he felt some burden for his brothers’ behavior and the family’s reputation. He even asked me once about the Church, and I believe with a little encouragement he might have made the Church his career. Worse villains than he have become some of our most revered saints, you know. But Etienne Letourneau died prematurely. He was out hunting with his brothers. A gun discharged accidentally. He was killed.” The priest sighed, looked into the fire.

“I see.”
A hunting accident,
thought Shillingford. This chilling bit of news shed new light on the Letourneaus. “You mention only the three boys. What of the daughter?”

“Ah, yes. We come to Henriette. Henriette was born after Charles Montague returned from France. A sad business. Celestine died in childbirth. Montague was prostrate with grief. He gave generously to the Church to have her remembered there and doted upon the little girl as the last remnant of her mother. Henriette was a petite thing, doll-like, with dark hair and black eyes, and tiny feet, I remember. She used to flit about everywhere.
Le papillon,
the butterfly, they used to call her. Her father put her in the Ursuline Convent School in New Orleans. When she finished her schooling at thirteen she went back to Maywood.

“She was the little princess. Their father treated the boys more like vassals than princes, so there was bad blood from the beginning. Except for Etienne. He and Henriette were closer in age. When he was killed, she was overcome with grief.

“Then a young man from an Anglo family appeared and set the Letourneaus on what I believe was their final path to destruction,” said the priest.

“Edmund Tracey,” said Shillingford.

“Yes, Edmund Tracey. He had been an acquaintance of Henri Gerard, the eldest. Charles Montague disapproved. He felt Tracey was a bad influence on his sons. I believe it was the meeting between Tracey and Henriette and her infatuation with him that sealed their fates. Henri Gerard brought the Anglo to Henriette’s coming-out ball. She was barely fifteen.”

“You were present at the ball?”

“Naturally. I was always invited to all the important family celebrations. The Anglo made himself agreeable to her, an impressionable young girl. He had no right, of course, and should have been thrown out then and there. But Henriette was always determined to have anything she wanted and she wanted Tracey. Eventually they married.”
A skillful omission of detail,
thought Shillingford,
and a baby is no small detail
. The path from coming-out ball to matrimony appeared to be a short one for Henriette and Edmund Tracey. “I blessed the union on condition that any children would be raised in the Church in spite of his Anglo heritage. The entire episode was dreadfully hard on Charles Montague. It broke him. He died only a few months after they married.”

“And they lived at Maywood—Tracey and Henriette?”

“Yes.” The priest’s face grew hard and drawn.

“And Henriette herself died shortly thereafter?” asked Shillingford.

“Yes.” Father Marcel rose and went to the hearth and made rather a business of stirring the fire and laying on more wood. He decanted more sherry for each of them and resumed his seat, staring for a moment into the crackling flames. When he finally spoke he did so haltingly, without looking at Shillingford.

“It was so queer,” he said. “All of it, so very queer. I had been there for her father, of course, only a few days before. Everything had been done decently, properly for him. I was called to administer the last rites. He was
in extremis,
but he managed to kiss the Cross. Yet for Henriette, I was not called.” He stared into his glass. “She lingered for a day or two, yet I was not called. There would have been plenty of time for her—to ensure her everlasting peace. After she died, there was no wake, no vigil, no rosary, no leave-taking of any kind. I fully expected the burial to be in one of the family tombs, with Charles Montague and Celestine. But Henri Gerard said no. A year and a day had not passed since Charles Montague’s death. That was his defense for his reprehensible actions.

“Maywood has a little city of tombs in the countryside where Georges and Elodie had constructed monuments for the family, to keep them dry throughout eternity.” The priest made a feeble smile, then continued, “Henri Gerard insisted that she be placed there as quickly as possible. She would not have received Christian burial at all, had I not intervened when I heard of her death and had proven equally stubborn in insisting that the dead must at the very least be entombed with the proper words.

“When I arrived, the coffin lid was bolted down. I was not permitted to see let alone anoint the body. I was shown the death certificate signed by the doctor—Dr. Warren—which Henri Gerard declared to be enough. He and Tracey and I transported the coffin on a wagon to the graveyard. The ground in the little grove of trees was overgrown and thorny, like some forgotten place. My whole being revolted at the thought of laying Henriette to rest there. But Henri Gerard threatened to turn me out altogether, so I helped them pull the wagon up next to an old box tomb. Do you know what that is?”

“I believe I’ve seen them.”

“They’re horrible things. They look like they should be a box on top of the ground, but they have no bottom and are dug deep. It took the three of us to budge the stone slab. The moment we opened it the air came up cold and damp and stale. Henri Gerard and Tracey dug it even deeper until all they hit was mud. We lowered her coffin in that awful muddy hole and I gave her Christian burial. Then I was sent on my way.”

“Philippe was not there?”

“He had left for France.”

“And since then?”

“Nothing. That was the last contact I had with the Letourneau family and Edmund Tracey.”