Decorum (16 page)

C
HAPTER
19

Blanche looked through the voile curtains and out into the street. She avoided the gilt mirror that stood on a tiny round table in Madame Pommier’s millinery salon. At one time, she had been proud of her dark, exotic features, her thick, straight black hair, and the thick black brows that framed her large jet-black eyes. Now she was all too aware that the dark brows appeared more like wedges cut into her face, and that tiny lines were beginning to appear around her eyes and mouth. Her gaze swung back to the mirror. She sat absorbed, looking at the hair over her temples, and wondered if Connor could tell that art rather than nature had staved off the encroachment of a few silver threads. She examined her hands and twisted the large rings upon them. The hands, at least, were smooth and unmarred.

Giselle had gone to fetch another model for her to try. Mimi was engaged with another client at another tiny table. Madame was concluding a purchase. A fire crackled in the hearth. The women’s dresses rustled softly as they brushed past each other, moving to and fro between salon and workroom. The lacy ruffle of French accents was interrupted by the hard, flat calico of American speech.

So absorbed was Blanche in her minute examination that she was startled by Giselle’s return.
“Madame voudras bien essayer ceci?”
was uttered not quite as a question, not quite a statement, the hat presented and turning to and fro on the tips of her fingers. Blanche felt as if she were facing a doctor who was prescribing a new patent medicine. She gave the girl a sulky nod. Giselle stepped behind her and placed the hat snugly on Blanche’s head.

Giselle’s butterfly-like hands caught the crepe ribbon from the back of the hat. The ribbon
zzzipped
as she made the first tie under Blanche’s chin and
zzzipped
again as she made the bow. She whisked up the hand mirror from the little table and stood behind, holding the mirror. Not so long ago a black hat resting atop the black hair with a black ribbon framing an exotic face with black eyes was very becoming. The crisp black bow under the chin emphasized the natural blush of her lips and stark contrast of the smooth skin. Blanche looked in the mirror, then turned her head from side to side to view the back.

The girl moved the mirror lower and tilted it upward. Perhaps it was the gray winter afternoon light coming in the window, or the somber green moiré silk oppressing the little room that caused her to appear ashen and tired.

She sighed. “I don’t think so, Giselle, do you?”

“No, madame,” said the girl.

“Is there nothing else to try? Something perhaps with a bit more color?”

“I will see if there is something with color, or perhaps some fur, that is still dignified for madame.”

Dignified. The word struck like a coffin nail.
So that’s what I’ve come to,
thought Blanche mockingly,
dignified.
She took up swatches of color from the table and held them one by one under her chin. The wine color looked well, she thought. Yes, like garnets that old women wear to bring brilliance to fading skin. The electric blue was not bad, though she could no longer carry off so strong a color with such a hard edge the way she once had done. Mutton dressed as lamb, Connor would say.

A slight commotion stirred at one table of the small salon as one of Madame Pommier’s patrons prepared to leave.

“Oh, Madame, you are too, too unkind,” cried a silver-haired woman of very upright carriage. “How can you say that this color no longer suits me? Why, half my clothes are in this green. I shall have to rout my entire closet and begin again. How am I to bear it? And how am I to afford it? Thank Heaven, Osgood is dead. The prospect of a whole new wardrobe would certainly kill him.”

“Ah, but,” said Madame, cooing and cajoling as she took the woman’s arm and conducted her toward the door, “you certainly would not want others to associate Madame’s taste in color with a time now many years past, would you?” The woman gave sullen assent. “Madame has made a bold break and has ordered a stunning new design in the latest shade. Madame will look fresh and new.”

Mutton dressed as lamb,
thought Blanche.

“But my green, Madame,” whined the woman.

“Perhaps a splash of your green could be used as accent, but only accent. If one is to break with the past, then one must break indeed.”

Blanche looked in the mirror.
Indeed, one must break with the past,
she thought.

She returned her gaze to the window. The squeak of the carriage springs, the thwack of the doors on the hansom cabs, and the sharp clatter of horses’ hooves drowned out the foot traffic on the near side of the street. The clack, clack, clack was mesmerizing. The black masses of animal and conveyance swam before her in the gray light. She barely noticed when a cab pulled up in front of the salon and two figures emerged—a small young woman with chestnut hair, followed by a tall, fair woman with hair the color of flax.

Blanche stirred herself and parted the voile curtain for a better look. By the time she had collected her thoughts, they had entered the salon and were being greeted in the entry by Madame Pommier. She knew instantly to whom the velvety mezzo voice belonged.

“Bonjour, Madame. Vous vous portez bien. Vous vous souvenez de mon amie, Mademoiselle Lawrence
.
”

“
Mademoiselle Lund, quel plaisir de vous revoir.
And of course, Mademoiselle Lawrence. A pleasure.
Mimi, prends les manteaux de ces dames et apporte une autre chaise pour Mademoiselle Lawrence. Et sonne Marie pour lui demander de préparer le thé.
”

“
Oui,
Madame.”

Blanche hadn’t quite caught the mezzo’s name. In the meantime, Giselle had appeared and drew Blanche’s attention from the new arrivals. “Come and sit by the fire a moment while Mimi clears the table.” Madame Pommier escorted them to a green-velvet settee. Mimi arrived with the extra chair and began clearing the small table of ribbons, fur, feathers, and other accoutrements of the millinery.

As the fair mezzo sat, her eye fell upon Blanche. For a split second she hesitated. Knowing she had recognized her, Blanche pretended not to notice, but surveyed the hat and motioned to the girl to help her try it on. Out of the corner of her eye she watched the mezzo sink onto the settee, her companion chattering quietly behind her. Then the companion, too, stopped and brought a gloved hand to her lips before lowering her eyes and sitting next to her friend. Their backs were to Blanche and she shifted her gaze. The maid’s arrival with the tea tray would occupy the two women on the settee for a bit longer.

Blanche soon became engrossed in their interaction with Madame, hoping to catch the names and learn who this beauty might be who had so decidedly caught Connor’s eye. She remembered herself and Giselle, who stood behind her with the mirror. For an instant, Giselle’s reflection betrayed how accurately she read Blanche’s thoughts. An instant later, Giselle had resumed her expressionless demeanor. Having been thus caught with her thoughts exposed, Blanche regained her composure and threw Giselle a defiant look.

Before many minutes passed, the women rose and moved to the little table on the opposite side of the room. “Now, Mademoiselle Lund,” began Madame as Mimi came forward with the hat, “let us see how it looks.” The hat was made of black velvet and nestled easily on the crown of the young woman’s head. Mimi secured it with a pin and attached a quantity of simple black netting edged in black lace to the front of the hat and let down a portion of this over the woman’s face. She gathered up the ends and secured them to the back of the hat with another pin.

“Oh, Francesca, you look stunning,” exclaimed the smaller young woman.

Francesca Lund. So that was the name of this beauty whom Connor admired—as yet from afar. Reluctantly, Blanche agreed. One wouldn’t have guessed that such a fair woman could carry off black so well. The woman sat in profile, facing the mirror in front of her, turning and tilting her head to see the hat from all angles, Mimi holding the mirror behind her. She turned her head toward Blanche and looked at herself in the mirror out of the corner of her eye, then looked purposefully at Blanche. Their eyes met for a second before she turned to face the mirror once again. Blanche caught her own sour expression and an ever-so-slight smile from Giselle that again vanished. The women conversed with Madame and Mimi.

“Maggie will think it’s ever so fine, Francesca. You look ever so smart and elegant.” The chestnut-haired woman raised her voice slightly on the two adjectives. She stole a glance at Blanche, then resumed, “You’ve made a wonderful purchase.” Madame Pommier gave a slight bow.

“You must remember me to Mrs. Jerome. It has been several months since she has graced my establishment. She has not found herself another milliner, I hope,” said Madame, wagging a finger in mock reproof.

“You have nothing to fear from that, Madame. No, Mrs. Jerome was only saying the other day that she must consult with you.”

Jerome. Maggie Jerome. It couldn’t be, thought Blanche. Surely it couldn’t be the Jerome that Connor goes on about day and night, the Jerome with whom he’s making deals.

Suddenly Blanche felt sick and panicky. If indeed this woman traveled in the same circles as the Jeromes, it would only be a matter of time before she and Connor would meet. Blanche picked up one color swatch, then another, then handled the lace and ribbon. She spoke abruptly to Giselle and demanded a different hat, anything to get rid of the girl so she could collect herself. Her thoughts made a terrible racket as she tried to listen, to learn anything more. A flood of unpleasant scenarios between Connor and this woman played out across her mind. A snatch of conversation brought her back to herself.

“. . . and we’ve received ever so many donations for the church . . . Mrs. Jerome was saying to the reverend only the other day . . . took all morning to make visits to the tenements . . . and teaching them their alphabet in English . . . there are some very talented seamstresses among the new arrivals, if Madame would consider . . . yes, of course, send them along and tell them to bring samples . . .”

Blanche breathed easier. Yes, yes. This was the one who would be Edmund’s in due course. Church and settlement house would be his problem, poor darling. Such a woman could never occupy—let alone hold—Connor O’Casey. The image of this gravelly Irishman teaching a bunch of grubby little foreign children to speak English made her forget herself. She pictured him on a leash, kneeling in church at the fair woman’s feet. A little bubble of laughter escaped her. The women at the other table stopped short and stared at her. She tried to stem her mirth, gave them an engaging smile and bit her lip, but to no avail. She pictured him sitting unhappily in a roomful of cradles, each containing a screaming infant, rocking a cradle with each hand and each foot, just out of reach of a bottle of whiskey sitting on a miniature altar. A peal of laughter shot forth. Never. Never in a million years would Connor O’Casey be satisfied with an innocent Sunday-school teacher.

“Est-ce que vous vous sentez mal, Madame Alvarado?”
Madame Pommier had drawn up close to Blanche, her head cocked in a no-nonsense manner. “Is there nothing I can get for you?”

“
Si, Madame. Je crois que je vais commander un chapeau bordeaux.
Do you not think wine color becomes me well? I’m thinking of having a new frock designed in wine color and I shall need a smart hat to go with it.”

“Of course, madame. Let me conclude with these ladies and I shall be happy to oblige you.” Madame Pommier turned back to the other table. “Is there anything else I can do for you ladies?”

“No, nothing more for today, Madame,” said the fair mezzo, relinquishing the hat to Mimi to be boxed and wrapped. As she rose, she faced Blanche and surveyed her up and down, not with the look of disdain that Blanche would have expected, but with cool curiosity. Blanche returned the look, but hers was half defiant, half mocking, and deliberately annoying.

The business was concluded in the privacy of Madame’s tiny office. The coats and the hatbox were brought to the hallway. As Madame Pommier saw the ladies to the door to bid them farewell, she called over her shoulder,

When Madame Pommier returned to the salon, Blanche was watching through the voile curtains as the women climbed into the cab. She smiled to herself.

“Now, Madame Alvarado. Have you made up your mind about what you might like?”

“I believe so, Madame. Can you dye a veil in this color?” she asked, holding up the wine-colored swatch. “I’m feeling a little frivolous.”

C
HAPTER
20

“You sound as if you’ve got no faith in me, Jerome,” said Connor, taking a cigar from the walnut humidor proffered by the hovering servant. The cut glass decanter of port followed. Connor declined it. “You’ve set me a pretty problem, looking for a venue for the Excelsior.”

“You gentlemen wouldn’t know of a good parcel of land that’s going cheap?” Jerry asked with a chuckle. “Something stronger?” he asked, addressing Connor. “Don’t be shy. The port is just a concession to Maggie, who would even proscribe our masculine post-dinner rituals with the ‘done thing’ and apparently the thing that’s done is port.”

The dining room began to cloud over as cigar after cigar was lit and the pungent plumes of exhalation hung in the air. The Jeromes’ dinner party of old friends had been an amiable social stepping-stone. Mr. and Mrs. Cameron and a Mr. Blair and his sister, who had known the Jeromes for years, gave the gathering variety. The Reverend Lawrence and his wife and their daughter might quash some of Connor’s more colorful storytelling, but no matter. Miss Lawrence was Miss Lund’s bosom friend. The latter had come on the arm of Edmund Tracey. The Gages and the Monroes, whom he knew from the hotel business, rounded out the party. He suspected Miss Blair had been prompted to keep him occupied, she being a spinster and near his age. She was sensible and intelligent and tolerant of his plain ways and she and her brother were genuinely kind.

At Thanksgiving Connor had sized up Tracey as full of himself and patronizing. Truth be told, if Connor were engaged to a woman like Francesca Lund, he’d no doubt be puffed up as well. What man wouldn’t be? Still, Tracey was condescending where Miss Lund was gracious. Connor had squashed bugs with better manners than Tracey’s.

“There’s plenty of land at the northern end of Manhattan,” said Mr. Cameron from across the table, “if you can persuade some farmer to sell.”

“It’s not as easy as buying up some vacant field. I wish it were,” said Connor, clipping the end of his cigar and accepting the match lighter from Charlie Gage, and passing humidor and lighter together to Reverend Lawrence, who passed them on to Mr. Blair. “The problem with lower Manhattan, of course, is that most of the choice land is taken, unless we try to buy out someone—or several someones—and pull everything down and start from scratch. We’d pay a premium, of course—top dollar for the land and again for demolition.”

“Which is certainly being done,” put in the reverend, helping himself to a thimbleful of port. “It’s happening all over town. Progress, people call it, but I don’t know.” Several gentlemen nodded in agreement.

“At the other end of the scale, so to speak, is what you suggest, Mr. Cameron,” continued Connor, “purchasing farmland cheap with nothing to demolish. No doubt eventually the whole of Manhattan will be covered with people living cheek by jowl.”

“I can’t feature that,” said Mr. Blair with a chuckle. “The upper end of Manhattan will be farmland till doomsday.”

“Then doomsday’s coming,” said Connor. “Mark my words. The trouble with being the first is simply that—being first. You’ve got water and sewerage and bringing up electricity and there’re muddy roads to contend with to get patrons there, let alone the workmen and their gear to build the place. But more than that, there are no amenities that would entice a person to seek a good hotel in that district. That’s the one advantage of pullin’ down old and puttin’ up new—the right location should have restaurants and shops and entertainment ready-made.”

“O’Casey’s right,” put in Charlie Gage. “Our hotel restaurant has to be first class, certainly, and we can offer a few exclusive shops on the premises, but we can’t do everything. A lot may be said for farm-fresh milk and eggs for breakfast, but when people are spending the kind of money we’ll be asking, they’ll want more entertainment in the evening than watching the cows graze.”

“That leaves you somewhere in the middle,” said Edmund Tracey, lighting his cigar and taking a whiskey glass from the proffered tray. “It seems to me that any venue that fronts Central Park would be an advantage, especially with a good restaurant in the hotel.”

“Come again?” asked Jerry.

“Yes,” said Reverend Lawrence. “I know what you’re driving at. Many people like a nice stroll before breakfast or a drive through the park after dinner if the weather is fine. The absence of any entertainment in the immediate vicinity might be made up for if the hotel were on Central Park.”

“Precisely,” said Tracey. “If there are good stables nearby that can offer riding . . .”

“And good livery in general and cabs,” said Mr. Monroe. “People have to be able to get around easily and stable their own conveyances. . . .”

Ladies’ laughter came from the drawing room. Connor, who usually relished this masculine ritual following a meal, found it difficult to keep his mind on the debate. His attention swung like a compass needle toward Edmund Tracey.
What in God’s name does a woman like her see in a man like him? He wouldn’t spark her interest in other quarters. Perhaps that’s it—a man can be all beauty and no brains just as much as a woman. The man’s a bounder, and no mistake.
Interrupting these reflections Jerry rose and released the gentlemen to the drawing room where Maggie was supervising the arrival of the coffee.

Across the room the piano was unoccupied, an opportunity not to be missed. At least music, in whatever form, might be a pleasure he and Miss Lund could share. His repertoire was limited, having been schooled at the Academy of Taverns in Western Mining Towns. So far, however, he had been able to turn his limitations into opportunities to be schooled by the more refined. Scanning the room to make sure that none of the ladies appeared to be moving toward the piano, he slid onto the bench and began to look through the music piled to the side of the rack.

“Do you play, Mr. O’Casey?” called Miss Blair from across the room. The ladies’ collective gaze turned toward him. It was the opening he needed.

“Yes, ma’am, though I’m afraid you’ll find my schoolin’ in music somewhat lackin’.”

“Nonsense. Won’t you favor us?” she said kindly. “You certainly don’t mind, do you, Maggie? Pray, continue, Mr. O’Casey.”

Connor had noticed in the pile of music a sheet of “Love’s Old Sweet Song” and began to play it, though from memory. He refrained from singing, which might detract from any favorable impression his playing might create. By the time he reached the refrain he was so engrossed in the song that he was a little startled to hear Francesca’s mezzo voice and looked up to see her standing by the piano. She sang the second verse, seemingly more for her own pleasure than for the benefit of the company. The party half-whispered, half-listened. Tracey stood near the back, his face red with displeasure. When she finished, Tracey moved to fetch coffee for himself.

“I didn’t have you pegged as quite such a sentimentalist,” said Francesca.

“What did you peg me as? Someone with a hide tough enough that nothing could penetrate?”

Francesca unabashedly looked him over as he sat there looking back at her. “No,” she said after a moment, “no.” She looked him in the eye. “I think you’re all bluff.”

In that fraction of a moment, a tiny, barely perceptible look passed between them—a depth of understanding that Connor would never have owned.
Bluff.
The word itself didn’t matter. He had been called worse—much worse, and to his face. She seemed not to judge him at all, but the sincerity in the way she said it and the way she looked, not at him but into him, made him feel exposed—as if he were sitting at the piano stark naked. He felt unsettled and aroused by something unexpected in her. If she could unbalance him like that in such a simple yet penetrating way, what else might she be able to do to him? Was he mistaken, or was there not a tiny speck, an atom of attraction in her eyes as they rested on him? It happened so fast. In an instant the look was gone, leaving him to wonder if it had ever really happened, and at once to wish and to dread that it might happen again.

He maintained his demeanor with effort and tried to smirk. “Is that so?” was all he could manage, leaving the tenor of the next remark to her so that he might breathe.

“Yes. I believe that’s so.” He couldn’t mistake the flush on her cheeks, though her eye was steady.

“And are you all bluff, Miss Lund?”

She considered again. “Rarely, sir. I am not sure I would know how to bluff.”

“I expect not.”

“I do think I have ample ability to call the bluff of others,” she said quickly.

“That’s a conceited reply, with all due respect, ma’am.”

She laughed. “Yes, very conceited.” Her laugh was mellow and pleasing.

“Do you do so successfully—call the bluff of others, I mean?”

“You, no doubt, would call it a mixed success. But I generally find my ability adequate for my purposes.”

“Your purposes? Ah, yes. Most of your sex have ‘purposes.’ What might yours be?”

“I would not claim to be representative of my sex, Mr. O’Casey.”

“You’re being evasive.”

“Am I?” she asked. “Oh, I suppose my purpose is merely to understand a person’s character—the inner man, so to speak—rather than simply rely upon what comes out of his mouth. There’s nothing devious in that, is there?”

“No,” said Connor. “It’s quite admirable. A lot of people wouldn’t bother.”

“You mean, a lot of women wouldn’t bother.”

“If you like.”

“You don’t think much of women, do you, Mr. O’Casey?”

“On the contrary, Miss Lund, I think of certain women often.”
Especially at this moment,
he thought.

“I hardly think that ‘much’ and ‘often’ refer to the same thing in this instance,” she said with perfect steadiness.

“Perhaps you’re right, Miss Lund.”

“And am I right about your being all bluff, Mr. O’Casey?” His fingers began to run over the keys in a series of chords and arpeggios, playing nothing in particular.

“Perhaps your assessment bears further investigation,” he said. He thought she colored again, though her eyes remained fixed on him.

“Now you’re being evasive.”

“No, I’m not,” he said. “Just allowing you the privilege of an unbiased assessment.”

“So you would put the burden of assessing your character upon me? Do you never examine your character yourself?”

“Never. Why should I where there’re plenty who’d do it for me?” She laughed at this.

“Then I shall be sure to lend my voice to the chorus when I have more information to go upon.”

“Fair enough.”

At the sound of her laughter, Tracey strode up and joined them at the piano. Neither his expression nor his tone was friendly.

“Perhaps you should lend your voice to the rest of us, duchess,” he said, leaning past her on the piano so that he brushed her back and his face came up by her right cheek. “Mr. O’Casey would surely relinquish his seat to you for our entertainment.”

“Indeed, I should have before now. Forgive me, Miss Lund.” Connor rose and gestured toward the bench.

“Not at all,” said Francesca. “Mr. O’Casey is more than capable of entertaining this crowd.” She laughed again. There was kindness in her laugh.

“I’d be happy to accompany you, Miss Lund, if there’s a bit of music we both know,” Connor said, rifling through the sheet music again.

“I’m sure Miss Lund could manage “Dem Golden Slippers” or “The Man on the Flying Trapeze.” Tracey was a troublesome bee buzzing around a rose, thought Connor. It was all he could do to keep his seat and direct his attention to Francesca.

“I’m sure your comment isn’t meant to reflect upon Miss Lund’s talents,” said Connor. “I’ve heard enough of them to assume she’s capable of a good deal better.”

“I meant no slight on my fiancée’s abilities, sir,” Tracey drawled. “I merely meant that perhaps your repertoire was not as extensive as hers.” Though Tracey’s posture was easy, his eyes conveyed a warning.

“Edmund. That’s not necessary,” she said in quiet reproof.

“I’m sure it isn’t,” said Connor, referring to the comment on his repertoire. “I’ve had the pleasure of hearing Miss Lund sing at Thanksgiving, you know. She certainly deserves a more worthy accompanist than I. I’d be happy to give the piano over to you, Mr. Tracey, if you would prefer to accompany Miss Lund yourself. Perhaps your repertoire matches hers more favorably,” he said, reckoning that Tracey might not play at all.

“I would sooner decline in favor of Miss Lund playing, in which she’s equally accomplished,” retorted Tracey.

Francesca blushed. “Stop, please. Let Maggie decide what type of entertainment she’d like to hear,” she said, throwing the last comment over her shoulder toward the ladies sitting on the settee in rapt attention toward the scene being played out at the piano.

“If Miss Lund would favor me,” said Connor more loudly, “I’d be happy to accompany her on the song I was just playin’.”

“Do go right ahead, Mr. O’Casey,” said Maggie, whose face betrayed a decided lack of enthusiasm.

“Then I’d be delighted,” Francesca said, turning to face her audience, who by now were assembled in low chairs scattered around the drawing room. Tracey retreated.