The Adventures of Johnny Vermillion (14 page)

The 1875 London social season began splendidly for the pilgrims from America, with more invitations than they could possibly accept during their six-week stop, and ended on a sour note, with a challenge to a duel.

The
S.S. Columbian
docked at Gravesend in calm weather, at the end of three days of rough seas that left Johnny Vermillion grateful for the support of the fine alderwood stick he'd bought in New York City and April Clay powdered more artfully than usual to conceal a gray pallor. She had, nevertheless, been a popular dancing partner for many of the male passengers during balls, and Johnny had charmed the ladies over games of whist. They went directly from the boat train to the Langham Hotel in London and registered as Mr. and Mrs. John McNear of Chicago, U.S.A. The suite included gas fixtures, a bath with running water, a magnificent Regency four-poster bed, and a divan in the sitting room for Johnny to take his rest while April slept behind lock and key with her little Remington beneath her pillow.

This last was the only condition she'd imposed, and since her arm in his improved his social opportunities every time they appeared in public, he honored it without protest. Their arrangement had already furnished him with one shipboard liaison while the woman's husband was engaged at poker in the main salon; the absence of a romantic commitment spared Johnny chagrin at April's own conquest of a commander of the British Empire that same night. At breakfast the next morning they celebrated each other's success with champagne cups.

To those who'd heard it before, the name McNear was vaguely associated with power in the great Midwestern city whose beef graced many an English sideboard. Because politics and trade were forbidden topics of discussion in a class whose estates had benefited from investments made during the American Civil War, neither Johnny nor April had been required to utter a single untruth about their livelihood. This was a relief, since to confess to a background in the theater would hardly be more disastrous than to account for their activities in banks, express offices, and pursers' cabins over the past year. Whatever small gaucheries they committed in their new company were applied to their Yankee pedigree: “Quite charming, don't you know, and neither of them appears to chew tobacco.”

In private, the couple made sport of their late acquaintances as they had their victims in the cities and hamlets out West.

“They're as witless as bullwhackers beneath the accents,” Johnny had confided over that congratulatory breakfast. “One wonders if their cashiers and clerks are as ripe to pluck.”

“Shopkeepers and clarks, dear.” April pouted. “Don't forget, we're on holiday. And Scotland Yard is not a citizens' posse.”

“You're right, of course. How old Scipio Africanus would chuckle to learn I've become a slave to my profession.”

“It's time you emerged from his shadow. You're a better thief than ever he was.”

“A successful run depends upon a talented cast; the leading lady above all.”

They clinked glasses.

The connections they'd made at sea had provided them with introductions to West End society, and also created the necessity to drape themselves properly for garden parties, shootings on weekends, and evenings at the opera. They learned quickly that what was considered the zenith of fashion in St. Louis and Denver had had its season when Gladstone was at Downing, and that high collars, round lapels, and prominent bustles had become inexpressibly provincial under Disraeli. Standards (such as those that governed adultery) were relaxed during the transition of an ocean voyage and reinstated rigidly in Westminster. Johnny spent his first full day in London on Praed Street, being measured for morning dress and tails and wardrobes for both city and country, while April consulted a Regent Street seamstress among yards of taffeta and bolts of Chinese and Italian silk. Parcels and hatboxes piled up in their suite and their memorandum books filled with appointments for additional fittings.

The days sped past. April, striking in a new scarlet habit, took riding lessons in Hyde Park; Johnny shot at grouse at Fulham and clipped the elbow off a marble statue of Hermes; April saw a Russian grand duchess in a portrait in the British Museum whom she insisted was her fabled grandmother; Johnny lost his watch at darts in a public house on Northumberland; April dined at Simpson's with the third son of a baron and returned to the hotel the
following morning to find the suite filled with carnations; Johnny sprained an ankle jumping from a balcony adjoining a married lady's boudoir in Kensington. They toasted and commiserated over kippers and tea, laced with cognac from a hammered silver flask Johnny had bought from a peddler in the Tottenham Court Road.

“What did you say to him?” She leaned forward eagerly.

“ ‘Well, which is it? Irving or Henry?' ”

She laughed, turning heads at the restaurant as toward a fresh breeze through crystal pendants.

He looked rueful. “I'd overimbibed a bit. I daresay I won't be invited back to the Garrick, and I may strike Irving's name off my list of professional contacts.”

“Poor dear. I'm afraid you've had the short end of things.”

“Not a bit of it. I came to Europe for adventure and the old girl hasn't let me down.”

His next encounter with Old World customs dampened his taste for exploits.

Johnny and April attended
Lohengrin
at Covent Garden; and more than a few pairs of opera glasses turned their way when they entered their box. Her fuschia gown was a flicker of rose flame and his black cutaway and snow-white waistcoat called attention to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. At intermission, he excused himself to seek lemonade for them both, but did not return until the lights were lowering for the second act. His face was nearly as pale as his collar and he was empty-handed.

“What's happened?” she whispered.

He looked at her in silence for a moment, then gave a short hollow cough of a laugh. “I saw a woman of my acquaintance in the foyer—and her husband, whom I did not know. It seems we're to meet with pistols tomorrow at dawn.”

“Oh, Johnny!”

“Where the devil is Hampstead Heath, anyway?”

April said, “I don't understand why we don't simply cut short our visit and sail to France.”

They were riding in a hired brougham through the predawn damp. He wore his caped overcoat, she an embroidered shawl over a white dress. A cold mist condensed into drops on her opened parasol, white also.

“The husband is something in shipping,” said Johnny. “He'd have me pulled down the gangplank and shot under the blasted rules of chivalry.”

“Next time you seduce a married woman, make sure you're not on an island.”

“You're in awfully good spirits considering you're about to become a widow.”

“Perhaps you'll win.”

“The only way that could happen is if I shot at something else and hit him by accident. No statue is safe when I take aim at a bird just released from a trap.” He tapped the driver's seat with his stick. “Stop here. I'll walk the rest of the way.”

“Go on, driver. You know very well I can't walk far in these heels.”

“Stop, I said. I'm doing the walking. You're riding back to the hotel. I don't know why I let you talk me into bringing you this far. Women don't attend duelling matches.”

“I don't see why not. We're the cause of most of them.”

The driver slowed the horses to a walk and twisted in his seat. “Which is it?”

“Stop.”

“Go. I won't get out, Johnny, and you'll be late for your appointment. What do the blasted rules of chivalry say about that?”

“Oh, drive on. The least you could have done was put on something less conspicuous. When the sun comes up you'll stand out like a field of lillies.”

“I should hope so. It's such a dour day. Where do you want to lunch?”

“Buckingham Palace. Or on top of the Albert dome, if you prefer. I'll have wings by then.”

“Perhaps we'll dine in the suite. Ah! Here we are. Good luck, Johnny.” She presented her cheek.

He took her face between his palms and kissed her on the lips. “Good-bye.”

As he struck off through the wet grass toward where the party awaited him, she opened her reticule and repaired the damage to her makeup. Then she swung open the door.

“You'd best stay here, missus,” said the driver. “You never know which way them balls will fly.”

“Isn't that the truth?” She stepped down and lifted her hem clear of the mud. As she approached the slight rise where the men stood—Johnny, the aggrieved husband, his second, the man who'd volunteered to attend Johnny, and a tall, sallow-faced fellow carrying a doctor's bag—the sun broke over St. Pancras and the rain stopped. She folded her parasol.

The movement caught the attention of the men on the rise, who turned their heads her way and began gesturing animatedly.

“. . . absolutely irregular . . .”

“. . . rules . . .”

“. . . no restrictions . . .”

“Yellow cad.”

This last, from the husband, reached her ears all in one piece, unbroken by the open distance. Johnny made no response, but as no one approached her she assumed the controversy of her presence was settled.

Johnny selected a long-barreled pistol from a box in the hands of the husband's second and made a show of testing its balance and accuracy, raising it to shoulder level and holding it at arm's length, sighting along it; bits of business straight out of the third act of
The Count of Monte Cristo
. The husband, obviously unfamiliar with the production, seemed hesitant at this display of expert knowledge, but then Johnny spoiled the effect by dropping the pistol at his feet. A delay followed during which the second extracted the ball and wadding and damp powder, cleaned and oiled the weapon, and reloaded it. The sun by this time was clear of the distant roofs, and April adjusted her position.

At last the curtain rose on the action. Johnny and the husband, a burly brute with the erect bearing of an experienced campaigner, stood back to back with pistols elevated and started pacing.

“One . . . two . . . three . . .” Johnny's second called the count.

April loosened the drawstring of her reticule, dangling from her right wrist.

“. . . seven . . . eight . . .”

A cloud crept in front of the sun. April took her lower lip between her teeth and held it until it passed.

“. . . ten.”

The duellists turned and leveled their pistols. April jerked open her parasol. The white lace caught the sun like a sudden puff of smoke. The husband, startled, jerked his trigger. Smoke shot out the end of the barrel. A yew three twenty feet behind Johnny stirred its branches.

A brief silence followed, ending when Johnny's second cleared his throat. “You may take your shot, sir.”

Johnny swayed, and April worried he'd been hit after all. Then he stiffened his stance, pivoted wide to the right, and fired at an uninhabited section of the heath.

April exhaled and tied up the reticule with her little Remington inside.

Johnny stood with arms akimbo among their packed trunks and valises. “Why don't we extend our stay a few days? Paris has waited for us this long. It will still be there at the beginning of next week.”

“You're saying that only because you're the social lion this week.” April, seated at the secretary, circled an item in the Times. “As if surviving a ridiculous stunt carries any sort of merit.”

“It was gallantry. I could have struck the fellow down but chose mercy instead.”

“That was luck—and my parasol. You said yourself the only way you could hit him was if you aimed elsewhere.”

“The parasol may have been unnecessary. Anyone so easily distracted is no kind of marksman.”

“He's wounded three men in four years. And you're forgetting duelling is outlawed in England. We should have left yesterday.”

Someone knocked at the door. Johnny said, “It's too early for the porter.”

She directed him to step into the bedroom and went to the door to inquire who it was.

“New Scotland Yard, Madam.”

The door to the bedroom drew shut with a thump. She undid the latch.

The little man in the hall removed his bowler and introduced himself as Inspector Gargan. He was accompanied by a constable in uniform. “We're here to ask your husband to come with us,” he said. “He must answer for what took place at Hampstead yesterday morning.”

“My husband has left for America. He took the boat train to Gravesend two hours ago.”

His moustaches twitched, increasing his unfortunate resemblance to a rodent. “What ship, please?”

“The
Dolley Madison
, bound for Boston. Here, he's circled it.” She turned briefly, picked up the
Times
from the secretary, and handed it to him. It was folded to the shipping column.

He glanced at the mark she'd made. “Why did you not accompany him?”

“We've separated. He was unfaithful to me, and nearly killed another man for his transgression.” Her lower lip quivered.

“Are all those traps yours?” He peered past her.

“Yes. I'm going on to Paris. Search the suite if you like.” She stepped aside from the doorway.

The constable tugged at his helmet and took a step forward. Gargan stopped him with a gesture. “That won't be necessary. I'll wire Gravesend. Perhaps they've delayed departure. Thank you very kindly, madam. I'm sorry for your trouble.”

Johnny came out after they'd left. His face was flushed. “That was taking a chance.”

“Not really. They'd have searched the place on their own if I hadn't offered.”

“What if they took you up on it?”

She smiled. “Then you'd have had your chance to play Sidney Carton. A ‘far, far better thing,' and all that.”