Parlor Games (8 page)

As for a reliable paycheck, I wasn’t disappointed. I couldn’t have imagined a busier residence, nor have I since encountered a more enterprising operation. Miss Watson employed three maids, two cooks, an elderly Negro carriage man, and, of course, Mr. Montcrief, the piano professor. Being new to the household, I was relegated to a small bedroom on the second floor, just up the rear stairs from the kitchen. Try as I might, I rarely managed any sound sleep in the morning hours, what with the clanging of pots and shouts of industry sounding from the kitchen, to say nothing of the heavy-footed delivery men clomping in and out with crates of eggs, gallons of milk, beef and pork cuts, and all manner of vegetables and fruit.

When I finally opened my bedroom door for the day’s noon meal, smells of coffee, bacon, pancakes, and fried eggs beckoned me to the kitchen, where we girls gathered for breakfast, visited, and planned our day. Over breakfast and throughout the afternoon, the place teemed with the chatter and rowdiness of a henhouse under rooster raid, banishing the last of my fears that life in such a place
was akin to imprisonment. After our bountiful breakfast, we were at our leisure: to read or relax in our rooms or visit in the parlor; to run errands to the dressmaker or apothecary; or to stroll Lake Park. As evening approached, the scents of castile soap permeated the upper floor, where the younger girls giggled away in their baths and the older ones scoffed at their silliness and took advantage of the time to luxuriate and perhaps read in the tub until their time ran out.

Come six o’clock, the maid removed the cover from the birdcage in the entranceway and the resident parrot called out, “Miss Watson’s, come in, gentlemen.” The parlor slowly filled with our visitors, and the ensemble of piano, violin, and cello performed chamber trios. Dinner was served in the dining room at seven, and we girls dined with the men who came around for an always sumptuous feast. Into the evening, conversation and chuckles enlivened the parlors and bedrooms, and perfume mixed with cigarette and cigar smoke throughout the hallways and up the stairwells.

Many might consider work of this sort demeaning. But I would say it afforded an excellent education. Miss Watson entertained only the most refined clientele, though they sometimes parked their refinement at the bedroom door. House rules precluded me from turning away any guest, but I quickly learned to sort the ill-behaved brutes from the genuine gentlemen and to encourage steady visits from the latter. In two months’ time I had cultivated several loyal regulars, including an assistant to the mayor, an artist who only managed sporadic visits, and Mr. Hall, a generous-tipping but cantankerous professor of law who had obviously tired of the company of Rose, quite possibly because she was beginning to show her thirty-two years.

And, after all, men are not terribly difficult to manage. They are rather like puppies: Roll them on their back and convince them you’re master and you’ve tamed them. Of course, there are those who charge ahead, as gluttonous as children gobbling candy. The trick with that sort, if you can first get their attention, is to get the candy in hand and stretch it out like taffy. Ah, yes, aren’t a hundred nibbles and groans more pleasurable than one greedy gulp?

Since I no longer needed to worry about shelter and livelihood, I put my energies toward a more traditional education. My own hard-earned money, as well as Robby’s allowance, enabled me to
enroll in two additional classes. In Business Law I learned about contracts, bailment, promissory notes, negotiable papers, partnerships, and corporations. And I absolutely adored my French class. French is such a beautiful language, the language of my own ancestors.

Early afternoons were my favorite time at Carrie Watson’s. With October bringing cooler days to the city, I often strolled along Michigan Avenue or took in the breezy waterfront at Lake Park. But mostly, determined as I was to make myself worthy company for cultured gentlemen, I settled in the parlor with a newspaper, textbook, or novel. (I especially enjoyed Charles Dickens, Wilkie Collins, and William Dean Howells.) And, when he wasn’t playing at the Boston Store, I listened to Mr. Montcrief at the piano. I barely knew Beethoven from Baedeker when I first arrived in Chicago, but Claude’s music enchanted me. “What was that piece?” I would ask each time he dropped his hands to his lap. Being the solicitous-uncle type and perhaps appreciating my interest in music, Claude took me under his wing, which had the most unexpected outcome. But I will get to that later.

During August and September, Robby had written regularly. But as of mid-October, I hadn’t heard from him in nearly two weeks, which I found encouraging. Perhaps he had met some new girl and given up his pursuit of me. And now, having attained a modicum of financial independence, I decided the proper thing to do was break off the engagement.

After composing a note to Robby announcing the sad news, I hastened to the post office to mail it, along with a letter and some money for Maman. A blustery October wind funneled down the streets, buffeting my hat and skirts. I tucked the letters into my purse and gripped my hat brim, steadying it against the chilly gusts. Thank goodness, I’d earned enough money to afford a new wool cloak, which cozily clasped my torso. I burst through the door of the post office, took two steps inside, and spotted Robby, his eyes popped so wide you’d think he’d seen a ghost—when it was merely me, his supposedly large-with-child fiancée, looking about as pregnant as a bean pole.

A LETTER FROM FRANK
MENOMINEE—JANUARY 23, 1917

U
pon joining the breakfast table before day two of the trial, I found Frank had delivered a letter to the house.

Dear May
,

My attorney advises me not to speak to you, and I know I shouldn’t even write. If he knew, he’d ask me what in tarnation I’m doing
.

But damn it, May, you and I both know this trial isn’t only about money. I still can’t believe it’s come to this. Don’t all the years we’ve known each other, the visits with each other’s families, and all those highball-charged train rides and transatlantic crossings mean anything to you?

I know what you’re thinking: You started it. Why’d you have to get up a lawsuit against me?

Do you think I wanted to resort to this? That I enjoy sitting across the aisle from you in a courtroom? I detest seeing you under the gun, my own damn attorney smirking every time he calls you Baroness. You think I like old man Sawyer digging through our private affairs and scrounging for dirty linen?

But you’ve backed me into a corner. When you discovered the well was dry, you threw me down it. Oh, no, my dear Baroness, I’m not going to let you get away with it. You and I were in this together until you decided you were only in it for yourself
.

You know there’s a way to stop this confounded trial. My lawyer claims it’d be foolish to negotiate with you at this point. But you and I never played by the rules. Why should we start now?

All you have to do is turn over the stocks and the money you owe me. I’d even settle for a promissory note. And then we could get back to enjoying life together. How about celebrating big? We could take the train to Los Angeles and escape this wretched cold weather
.

Consider my offer, May. You can allow Sawyer to ruin your reputation one day at a time and pretend I never meant anything to you. Or you can open your arms to your Frank again
.

Here’s to good times
,

Your devoted friend
,

Frank

Perhaps Frank believed the first day of the trial had given her an advantage over me, but she had miscalculated. In the spirit of fair play, I didn’t even surrender the letter to my attorney. Nor did I respond to it. After all, my attorney hadn’t yet delivered our opening statement.

THE TRIAL
MY LAWYER
’
S STATEMENT
MENOMINEE—JANUARY 23, 1917

F
inally, after Alvah Sawyer had taken up hour upon hour with his litany of claims, my counsel took the floor. I must say I very much like my attorney, George Powers from Iron River. He’s hardworking and willing to dig for just the right evidence to construct a compelling argument. George is a dapper, fortyish man with high cheeks and a narrow-lipped mouth. And can that mouth talk.

“If it pleases the jury,” said Mr. Powers, flaring a palm in my direction, “I invite you to consider my client, the Baroness May de Vries. She is of humble beginnings. You know her family: her dearly departed, widowed mother and her two upstanding brothers. She grew up among you and went on to become a well-educated and well-traveled lady. In 1892, at the young age of twenty-three, she married a wealthy Dutch nobleman, Baron Rudolph de Vries. Although the Baron is now deceased, the Baroness is still welcomed in the courts of Europe. She is, to put it simply, accustomed to the world of wealth and royalty.

“Frank Shaver has had a long association with the Baroness, dating back to 1901. On occasion, Miss Shaver chose to travel with the Baroness, and traveling the world is an expensive undertaking. She spent her money during these trips. From time to time she bought gifts for the Baroness. And now, fifteen years after she met the Baroness, she claims she was cheated. After all these years of knowingly spending her own funds, she says she doesn’t know what happened to her money. After keeping close company with the Baroness and her family, even living in their home, she contends she was hoodwinked.”

Powers paused and swept his gaze over the jurors. “My client will fight these patently ridiculous charges. They have no basis in reality. They are designed solely to coerce the Baroness into paying out a large sum of money by harassing and distressing her with this lawsuit.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Frank shift in her chair. As I turned to look at her, she pursed her lips and shot me one of her you’ll-pay-for-this looks. Apparently, she was disappointed I hadn’t acceded to the request in her letter.

Powers pulled a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his pin-striped suit. “Miss Shaver would have you believe that her friendship with the Baroness was a one-way street, that she showered the Baroness with loans, gifts, and living expenses and got little in return. The reality is quite different. In preparing for this trial, the Baroness took great pains to recall the cost of some of the many gifts she gave Miss Shaver over the years—gifts for which
she
never expected compensation.”

The insinuation in Mr. Powers’s last statement seemed to hit home. Frank’s jaw dropped and she swiveled her head about, looking at me, her attorney, and the jurors as if to declare this suggestion of pettiness on her part completely absurd.

“To wit,” continued Mr. Powers, reading from the list, “a brooch costing $1,500; a mesh bag valued at $450; a gold ring for $150; a fine evening coat of sealskin valued at $500; a diamond set for $3,000; a bedroom set costing $550; linen for $350; a tea service for $300; a historic prayer book, which Miss Shaver hinted she would like for a gift, purchased for $150; a mantel clock—Miss Shaver has a fancy for historic and artistic objects—valued at $1,700; and a fine marble statue for $2,000.”

Mr. Powers folded up his paper, returned it to his suit pocket, and faced the jurors straight on. “Furthermore, while Miss Shaver resided at the Menominee residence owned by the Baroness and her brothers, the Baroness expended $17,500 on the remodel and upkeep of this residence, even though she herself visited Menominee infrequently.

“I ask you, gentlemen of the jury,” said Powers, chopping the air with his stiffened hand, “is this the behavior of a person intent on fleecing another?

“Yes, it is true that Miss Shaver gave gifts and money to the Baroness. But the Baroness did the same. Was Miss Shaver only ingratiating herself to the Baroness, a woman of wealth and means, all this time?”