Parlor Games (11 page)

“Miss Shaver, you have told us of considerable sums of money that you either loaned or turned over to the Baroness after cajoling and manipulation on her part.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” said Mr. Powers. “ ‘Cajoling and manipulation’ implies motive.”

“Sustained. Mr. Sawyer, please rephrase your statement.”

“Yes. You turned over significant funds in loans or in response to requests, funds totaling a little over one hundred thousand dollars. Correct, Miss Shaver?”

“Yes.”

“And you retained receipts for those funds which were loans, shares, or investments, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And in 1916 did you show those receipts to the Baroness?”

“Yes, she requested that I turn the receipts over to her. She said she’d repay all of them.”

“And did she?”

“Not one cent.”

“What happened when you pressed for payment?”

“She said she didn’t owe me anything. So I decided the only way I’d ever see any of my money was to take her to court.”

Mr. Sawyer slowly pivoted away from the jury, summoning the gravity of an actor, and faced the judge. “Your Honor, that’s all I have today.”

That concluded day two of the trial. Disheartening, it was. In fact, the whole affair unnerved me. I hated being stuck in Menominee, facing the prospect of being cooped up in a courtroom for days on end. In the middle of winter, no less, with more snow in the forecast. If it weren’t for the war raging all over Europe, I’d never have set foot on U.S. soil, and this lawsuit might never have been filed.

My lawyer had gotten off to a good start, but I didn’t care for the impression Frank had left with the jury. Thank goodness, we still had an ace in the hole—a document Frank herself had signed.

PROPOSALS AND PROPOSITIONS
CHICAGO—NOVEMBER 1887-JUNE 1888

B
eing anxious to leave Carrie Watson’s and step out on my own, I hoped my new friends, Melody and Melissa, might afford some such avenue. I had told them I was staying at the Palmer House while I attended to my deceased uncle’s will; they believed I seldom saw them in the evenings because I needed to look after my grief-stricken aunt. But this pretense created certain problems: I feared the excuse would sooner or later wear thin, and my engagement at Carrie Watson’s prevented me from mingling with their circle of fascinating friends. These cumbersome circumstances, as well as the deteriorating condition of my relations at Miss Watson’s, thus forced some action.

After the Jastrow lecture, Melody, Melissa, and I retired to the Palmer House for drinks. We settled on red velvet seats in the lobby and ordered cordials. All around the thick-carpeted lounge, couples and foursomes bent their heads together in hushed conversation. Candle lights flickered across their faces, revealing expressions animated by good humor or, at the least, by wine and spirits.

“Wouldn’t you just love one of those new Gramophones so you could listen to music whenever you wanted?” I asked them, taking in the piano player’s even-tempered rendition of a Chopin piece.

“Oh, my,” said Melody, the elder and more practical of the two, “we just asked Father to buy us a new dining-room set.”

Melissa, who was always keen to acquire new playthings or contraptions, rolled her eyes. “You’re such a spoilsport.”

“Well, I’m thinking of buying one,” I said. “But it seems a shame to keep it in a little hotel room that’s hardly fit for entertaining.”

“You could keep it at our house,” said Melissa.

Melody clapped her hands together. “And you could visit and even stay over whenever you wanted.”

And that is how I found my way out of Carrie Watson’s and into their home. After I gave Melody and Melissa a new Gramophone for Christmas, they made me a bona fide member of their household. Such gay parties and receptions the sisters held in those days. Their lovely home, not far north of the river, on Chestnut Street, attracted socialites, businessmen, and general rounders—a most eclectic mix of Chicago’s young people. At the sisters’ New Year’s Eve reception, I met a promising young man, Charles Dale Andrews, Jr. Dale, as everyone called him, worked as a teller in his father’s bank, First Chicago National.

By March, Dale and I had become enamored to the point of serious involvement. One Friday he sent a hansom to bring me to the bank before our planned evening of dinner and a performance of
Richard III
at the Haymarket Theatre.

It was my first visit to his place of employment, and I arrived bearing the mink muff he had purchased for me only two weeks earlier, on the occasion of our still-secret betrothal. My boot heels clicked on the polished marble floor as I made my way toward the stately tellers’ booths lining the high-ceilinged room. Dale spotted me before I saw him and hurried out to greet me, his posture more erect than usual, his brilliantined russet hair combed to a tidy swoop.

Dale’s appeal lay more in his generous and carefree nature than in his appearance. His arms and legs were too lanky for his compact torso, and his nose was so narrow and delicate it resembled a piece of porcelain. Eyeglasses lent him a studious look and also a certain self-consciousness. You see, he fancied himself the dashing and debonair type: Upon first being introduced to anyone, he would yank off his glasses before offering his customary hail-fellow handshake.

Dale helped me off with my coat and cupped his hand under my elbow. “Darling, I’m so glad you could come around.”

Directing me to the bank of tellers’ windows, Dale introduced me to the other tellers, who showed the deference due to the bank president’s son.

“Come,” he said, “we must say hello to Father.”

Dale escorted me up the wide spiral staircase to the sanctuary of
offices on the second floor. He paused in the hallway and whispered, “Soon, I’ll have an office on this floor, too.”

I circled my hand around his arm. “I have every confidence in you. Your fellow employees obviously hold you in high esteem.”

He smiled and showed me to the solid wooden door with his father’s brass nameplate. Rapping gently at the door, he called, “Father, may I come in?”

Dale opened the door and opened his hand, directing me to enter first.

I greeted Dale’s father, whom I had met only three weeks earlier, at a reception in their home, with a smile. “Hello, Mr. Andrews. I hope you are well.”

The plump Mr. Andrews, who was obviously not only well, but well indulged, rose from behind a six-foot-square desk and lumbered around. His fleshy cheeks congealed into a diffident smile. “Yes, and you, Miss Davidson?”

I offered my hand. “Fine, thank you, sir. Dale has been kind enough to show me around your very impressive establishment.”

“Ah, yes, we do our best.”

Dale stepped up beside me. “Well, Father, I’ve closed out my window for the day.”

“And where are you two young people off to this evening?” Mr. Andrews directed his gaze at Dale, and I detected the same knotting of his eyebrows I’d observed upon our last encounter. Mr. Andrews either did not approve of me or found his only son disappointing in some way.

A little later that evening, I discovered that both were true. We had just finished our dinners at the Silversmith Restaurant when Dale scratched his forehead and said, “I believe I’ll speak with Father about my promotion tomorrow.”

“And do you suppose you’ll meet with success?”

He shook his head, as if considering a weighty proposition. “I can’t hazard a guess. He probably intends to torture me a little longer, even though he’s promised me the post.”

“Oh, I doubt he means to torture you.”

Dale fingered the bowl of his Cognac glass. “You don’t know him very well.”

I gave him my kindest smile. “Perhaps you should come at it in a roundabout way. Find out his intentions before you ask outright.”

“I’m tired of waiting at his pleasure. And keeping quiet about our engagement. Once I get the promotion, we can tell Mother and Father and set the date.”

“There’s no rush, my dear. They’ve only just met me.”

“I believe they’d like to keep me in the house forever.”

“Perhaps it would be best to give them more time to get to know me.”

“The thing is, they haven’t approved of a single young lady I’ve introduced them to. I suspect Father wouldn’t be happy unless I married the mayor’s daughter.”

“All the more reason for a long engagement.”

Dale raised his eyebrows. “How long?”

I reached out and squeezed his hand. “Perhaps a year. Give me some time to win them over.”

“I don’t give a deuce about winning them over.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. There’s no pleasing them, especially Father. I don’t care what he thinks about you. Sooner or later, he needs to understand you’re the one I’m marrying.”

“Let’s at least wait until you’ve received your promotion.”

Dale swooped his cigarette close to his mouth and held it there. “I won’t wait forever.” He inhaled deeply and forced out a narrow draft of smoke.

A few weeks later, in mid-April, Dale invited me for Saturday dinner at his family’s home. He said he intended to announce our engagement that evening. I urged restraint and patience, but Dale insisted he’d burst if he tried to keep our secret one day longer. I had little choice but to acquiesce and brought out my most modest dress for the occasion, a turquoise-blue gown with a high-necked lace collar.

The Andrewses lived on the Near North Side of Chicago, a short carriage ride from Melody and Melissa’s, in a handsome two-story brick house large enough to entertain a crowd of forty. The home had a distinctively unpleasant odor, like a combination of mothballs, mold, and overused perfume.

Mrs. Andrews welcomed me in the entranceway with kisses directed at the air around my cheeks and escorted me to the parlor to join the menfolk for “a spot of sherry before dinner.” What a profile the woman made—her hefty bosoms might have toppled her, save for the solid hips that counterbalanced them. Mr. Andrews was also portly, carrying perhaps forty pounds around his midriff. I wondered if Dale would balloon to similar proportions in his advanced years, a prospect that did not please me.

“Darling, hello,” said Dale, coming up to me and kissing my forehead.

As Dale came around to my side, I turned to Mr. Andrews. “Hello, sir. Thank you for having me to your lovely home.”

The maid served our sherry, and we seated ourselves, by couples, on two separate sofas.

Mrs. Andrews addressed me. “Pauline, we’ve never had a chance for a proper visit. Tell me, where is it you’re from?”

“A small town in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, Menominee. It’s on Lake Michigan and well known for its shipping.”

“And what is your family’s business there?”

I had told Dale all this, though I hadn’t been able to bring myself to admit that my brother worked at a lumber mill. Still, it appeared Dale hadn’t told his parents. Or perhaps they wanted to hear it directly from me. “My father is deceased, but my brother is in the mining business.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Andrews, flattening a hand over her heart. “I didn’t know about your father.”

“It’s been quite a few years now. Though I still miss him.”

Mr. Andrews pulled his vest down over his belly. “Yes, well, it seems everyone from the U.P. is either in mining or lumber. Do you know that it was lumber from the U.P. that rebuilt this city after the Great Fire?”

“Oh, yes, it’s quite a booming industry there. I have some relatives in lumber, too,” I said. After all, Maman’s cousin did supervise at Spies Lumber.

We soon retired to the dining room and took our places around a well-appointed oak table with carved claw feet. Imagining the three of them seated around that vast table for breakfasts, luncheons, and suppers, I sympathized with Dale’s desire to make a separate
life for himself as soon as possible. Everything about this room—its fat-legged furniture, the burgundy velvet wallpaper, the sour odor of old carpets—set my teeth to aching.

The maid served a spring-vegetable soup from a tureen on the sideboard and exited through the swinging door off the dining room. The door had barely ceased its whooshing when Dale picked up his spoon and said, “Mother, Father, Pauline and I are to be married.”