“Mr. Robert Newsome,” he said easily. “And she will.”
I went upstairs to Charlotte’s room and said through the door, “Mr. Newsome to see you, Miss Charlotte.”
There was a sound of hurried action; then the door opened and Charlotte appeared. She was flushed, her eyes bright, her body tense.
To me, she said, “Not a word to Mother or Louise, understand?”
“Yes, miss.” I was not surprised. It was irregular—in fact, vulgar—for Norrie Newsome to call on Charlotte in such a casual manner. Only if a young man knew a young lady very well could he simply stop by her home, and Charlotte and Norrie could hardly know each other that well.
Carefully composing her face into its brightest, most carefree expression, she went downstairs, crying, “Norrie, you’re too sweet! Tell me we can go for a drive!”
“Car needs repairs,” I heard him say. “But if you’re specially nice to me, I’ll take you to the Waldorf for lunch.”
“Does ‘specially nice’ mean I pay for the lunch?” Charlotte said archly.
I raised my eyebrows at this boldness and higher still when Norrie responded, “Well, since you offered…”
When they had gone, I wondered why on earth Norrie Newsome should pay a call on Charlotte Benchley, so recently of Scarsdale. His summer exploits had been more outrageous than ever; possibly he was no longer as welcome in some houses. I had also heard that Robert Newsome Sr. had limited Norrie’s funds in an attempt to rein him in; there were rumors that his accounts were overdrawn at several restaurants and certain stores no longer extended him credit. That would partly explain Charlotte’s desirability as a dining companion.
But his manner had been distinctly offhand, so I decided it was unlikely his intentions were serious. He might enjoy flirting with the new money, but ultimately, he would get around to marrying Beatrice Tyler.
3
Always, in accounts of murder, there is a scream. A cry of alarm that alerts the reader that the normal course of life has been disrupted. And so it was a scream that marked the beginning of the dark events in the Benchley house—in this case, a scream of pure joy. It was September, the first autumn day with a chill in the air, and I was just debating the storage of some of the Benchley girls’ lighter dresses when I heard it. The screamer was Mrs. Benchley, who had just discovered that Charlotte was engaged to Robert Norris Newsome Jr.
As I passed the sitting room, Mrs. Benchley called out to me, “Jane, oh, Jane, come in. We have the most wonderful news!”
“Mother!” Charlotte glared.
Mrs. Benchley flapped a hand at her. “It’s only Jane. We must tell Jane.”
To save her mother from further scorn, I guessed, “Is … there good news?”
“Charlotte,” said Mrs. Benchley, clapping her hands madly. “Charlotte is engaged to Norrie Newsome! But it’s a great secret. Even Mr. Benchley doesn’t know yet. So you mustn’t breathe a word…”
Secret, indeed. When society heard that Norrie Newsome had jilted Beatrice Tyler to marry Charlotte Benchley, it would do more than breathe. It would howl.
Charlotte pleaded, “Mother, you won’t tell anyone else, will you?”
“No, pet, not a soul. It’ll be a hush-hush secret from now on, I promise. We shan’t tell another soul about it.”
“About what?” Louise appeared at the door.
Her mother told her the news. And with that, the second element of murder came into play: tears.
* * *
Louise wailed on her bed while I dabbed her forehead with a damp cloth and offered sweet tea when she gave herself the hiccups. I couldn’t blame her. It was not enough that Charlotte was pretty and Louise not. Or had so many suitors and Louise none. Or got three marriage proposals while Louise endured her mother’s comments on spinsterhood. But that her younger sister should make such a match, it was too much to bear.
Sipping at the tea, she asked, “Did I … did I say I was happy for her? I think I forgot to.”
“You congratulated your sister, Miss Louise.” It was true, she had. Right before she burst into tears and fled up the stairs.
“Do you think I could go away, until it’s all over? Disappear somewhere?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe I’ll just die,” she said wistfully. “Get some awful disease and die.”
“Unlikely,” I said. “And thank God unlikely. Don’t wish for such things.”
Nonetheless, I could see her point. Every friend of Mrs. Benchley’s would express sympathy over her plight: the second daughter married before the first. The girls who made up the smart set would delightedly tsk at Charlotte. Did she think it was fair to be so cruel to her poor dull, plain sister?
As I went downstairs to fetch Louise a fresh cloth and a bowl of ice, I dreaded to think what the Tylers would say. They had played a long, patient game, looking past Norrie’s youthful “pranks” with expectations of revived financial fortune. Now to have him snatched by a chit who had been in New York society barely a year!
On the stairs, I overheard Mrs. Benchley say, “So lovely that Norrie proposed in the park. But it’s too bad he couldn’t get his grandmother’s ring out of the vault in time.”
“I don’t mind,” said Charlotte. “I want the ring Norrie wants me to have. I don’t mind waiting.”
“No,” said Mrs. Benchley, placating. Then in a low voice, “Dearest, the Newsomes will explain to the Tylers, won’t they?”
There was an uncomfortable pause.
Then Charlotte said, “I don’t know. I haven’t met any of his family, aside from Lucinda. His father’s in Europe.”
A note of anxiety entered Mrs. Benchley’s voice. “But Mr. Newsome has given his approval?” Her daughter did not answer. “Do you mean to say Norrie hasn’t told his father yet?”
“I mean to say I don’t know and I don’t care.”
So the Newsomes did not know. That didn’t bode well for Charlotte. Norrie’s father might well insist on the more suitable Tyler match. And yet—Mr. Newsome was in a poor position to object to his son marrying a young lady whose family was not part of New York’s fabled Four Hundred, having done something quite similar when his first wife died.
I have mentioned Caroline Astor. Toward the end of her life, the old woman took to railing against the decline of public morals, particularly among young women, “who smoke and drink and do other terrible things.” When she died, her absence seemed to free New York society from its former notions of propriety. Her own son, John Jacob, all but rushed from her funeral to divorce court and then headlong into an infatuation with a teenaged girl. (Whom he would marry—and leave widowed, but that is another story.)
Still more shocking was the marriage of the venerable Robert Newsome (coal) to Rose Briggs (no discernible assets). The groom was fifty-two, the bride seventeen. Which, as many pointed out, was quite thoughtful as he had a daughter the same age, and wouldn’t she get along splendidly with her new mama? When it was discovered that the two girls had actually attended the same school, and Mr. Newsome had first spoken with his bride when she served him punch at a parents’ day luncheon, society was beside itself with gleeful condemnation. Mr. Newsome had escaped the tensions by taking his new wife on a tour of Europe.
The Newsome children suffered. The mere mention of her stepmother’s name brought Lucinda to tears. Norrie was positively savage on the subject. At a party, someone was foolish enough to inquire after his new stepmother. His response: an impromptu performance of the wedding night. The part of his father was played by a cigar, the part of his stepmother by the blancmange.
Lingering on the second-floor landing, I heard Mrs. Benchley say with uncharacteristic firmness, “But Norrie must speak to his father. And to your father—I know we are not the Newsomes, but that doesn’t mean proprieties can be ignored.”
Raising her voice, Charlotte answered, “Norrie will speak to both fathers when he’s ready. And until he’s ready, Mother, not a word of this to anyone
. It stays a secret. I won’t have Norrie rushed.”
* * *
But if a secret known to two parties is no longer a secret, then a secret known to Mrs. Benchley might just as well be printed on the front page of The New York Times. Whether Mrs. Benchley fretted to the cook who informed her husband who happened to be the Hollicks’ chauffeur, or Louise was observed red-eyed at a party, who can say? But in a matter of weeks, the rumor began to spread that Norrie Newsome had proposed—actually proposed!—to Charlotte Benchley in Central Park, and the two were now secretly engaged.
Society was shocked, and when society is shocked, it whispers. Some did not believe the story. Why had no announcement been made? Why did Charlotte have no ring? Perhaps, opined the skeptics, Charlotte had misunderstood Norrie’s attentions. Perhaps she had intentionally misunderstood, hoping to pressure him into matrimony.
People watched the pair carefully at any event attended by both. But Norrie’s behavior toward Beatrice was as it had always been, and Charlotte gave no sign of concern. Some took this as a happy sign the rumors were false. Others sought answers.
One afternoon, Mrs. Tyler found time to visit the Benchleys at home. Coming upstairs to refresh herself, she caught me in the hallway with “Jane, I’m so pleased to see you. Walk with me a little, and tell me how you are getting on with the Benchleys.”
“There have been improvements,” I told her.
“I’m sure, I’m sure. You’ve done wonders with Louise. She was looking almost alive at Eliza Talmudge’s luncheon the other day. I believe she even spoke.”
We turned a corner, coming far enough away from the stairs for privacy. Mrs. Tyler’s praise became more pointed. “The Benchleys are certainly keeping better company these days. You must know that by seeing who comes to the house.”
“I rarely answer the door,” I said.
Mrs. Tyler leaned in closer; we were at the secrets stage.
“Come now, Jane. You see everything, even the things you’re not supposed to. You saw when my dear aunt soiled herself at lunch and took her off without fuss. You saw when that awful butler was guzzling the contents of her wine cellar. And you must have seen Norrie Newsome come to the house.”
Mrs. Tyler had done me a favor; now she expected one in return. “He has been to the house,” I admitted.
Mrs. Tyler’s eyes darkened with anger, and I added hastily, “But I have heard nothing of a formal engagement. There is no ring, and I believe neither father has been spoken to.”
Mollified, Mrs. Tyler nodded her appreciation. As she turned to go back downstairs, she paused to examine the wall. “This paper is dreadful. I must tell Caroline. Or”—she glanced at me—“perhaps I’ll forget to mention it.”
Two weeks later, a small item appeared in a newspaper called Town Topics. It would be only the first of many stories written about the Benchley/Newsome affair. And one of the very few in which all the people mentioned were still alive.
* * *
When Alice Roosevelt drank too much or visited her bookie, Town Topics regaled the American people about the latest doings of the president’s daughter. When the Metropolitan Opera House was overrun with fleas, Town Topics warned its readership of the dangers of infestation. When an unnamed gentleman shaved another gentleman’s legs, Town Topics wondered why he would wish to do so—and then extorted a tidy sum of money from the gentleman to ensure he would remain unnamed. The debutante who vomited into a potted plant, the young man who put his hand up his hostess’s gown, the financier who kept a mistress tucked away in Greenwich Village … they could all expect to read about themselves in Town Topics. Not, of course, that anyone of taste would admit to reading Town Topics.
On the morning the engagement story broke, I was taking Charlotte’s newly pressed dresses back to her room when Mrs. Benchley rushed up to me, crying, “Jane! We are in the newspapers!”
She thrust a piece of paper into my hands. “Read it. There, read there…”
Can it be true that Newsome Jr. might be following his papa down the aisle with a young lady—pardon us, another young lady? Rumor has it the junior miss in question is none other than Charlotte Benchley, she of recent great wealth and nonexistent pedigree. How democratic! (But how many of the swellest of the swell today were anything at all twenty years ago?)
“What if Mr. Benchley sees it?” Mrs. Benchley wailed. “Or hears of it from someone else—and I haven’t told him!”
Publicity might not be a bad thing for Charlotte. Norrie would be forced to either acknowledge the engagement or break it. But Mrs. Benchley was right: this was not news Mr. Benchley would appreciate being kept from him.
With sudden inspiration, I said, “But you have not known about this, Mrs. Benchley. It’s been Charlotte’s secret. She didn’t want to tell you until a formal arrangement was settled.”
Seeing Louise hovering, I said, “In fact, the only person she told was her sister.” Louise was incapable of lying. If her father demanded to know if she had prior knowledge of the engagement, she could at least be truthful.
“But how shall we behave at breakfast?” Mrs. Benchley worried. “What if, as we are sitting there, Mr. Benchley reads of this?”
“Then you will be shocked and delighted,” I told her.
Breakfast at the Benchleys’ was a chaotic affair. There was still no housekeeper, and they had hired and lost three kitchen maids in as many months. So I had decided to supervise the newest girl myself, as I was tired of cleaning all manner of jam, butter, and hot liquid from the Benchleys’ clothes.
As usual, Mr. Benchley sat at the head of the table. In my time with the family, I had rarely seen the head of the household. He was often in Washington. At breakfast, he sat concealed by his newspaper; at dinner, focused on his meal. The talk, giggles, and snarls of his family might have taken place in Africa for all they disturbed him.
On his left, Charlotte stared into the distance. On his right, Louise sat moving her eggs around her plate. Across from her husband, Mrs. Benchley wrung her napkin under the table. When Mr. Benchley cleared his throat, the Benchley women jumped.
“Someone,” he said calmly, “has blown up a building.”
Cries of “What?” and “How awful!” rang out in the dining room. In the confusion, I drew near to peek at the newspaper. On the front page, a photograph of a building in flames. The headline: L.A. TIMES BUILDING BOMBED! 21 PEOPLE DEAD!
Mr. Benchley said, “The ironworkers’ union has demanded the city’s trades unionize. Here”—he laid the paper on the table, open to the scene of destruction—“you see the union’s latest bargaining tactic.”
I instructed Kathleen to refill the teapot, accompanying her to make sure it was done correctly. From the kitchen, I heard Mr. Benchley say, “Charlotte. Louise.”
I heard Charlotte say, “Yes, Father?”
“Yesterday, a gentleman congratulated me on the engagement of my daughter. I said, ‘Thank you, but you are mistaken.’ I am curious how he came to be so misinformed.”
Wanting to see the reaction, I cracked the kitchen door. Charlotte said lightly, “Norrie Newsome has asked me to marry him. I intend to accept.”
On cue, Mrs. Benchley burst out with “Why, Charlotte!”
Mr. Benchley interrupted her, saying, “In that case, would you ask young Mr. Newsome to pay me a call at my office?”
“Of course, Father.”
“This afternoon, if possible.”
Opening his paper, he added, “One day is enough for this family’s name to be in the newspapers.”
4
There are women who seem to make a friend of everyone they meet. Then there are some who have only a small circle of companions. And then there are those rare truly friendless individuals.
When I was young, I thought I would be one of the last. But when I was eleven years old, I met Anna Ardito.
I was pouring a bucket of water on the refuge steps, a necessity in summer when the entryway became both bed and toilet for many. It was
early in the morning, and the street was quiet. I heard a scream, so fierce that I dropped the bucket. A second scream set me running down the street.
In the middle of the alley, flanked by tenements, there was a girl being attacked by two men. One had hold of her arm, the other a fistful of her hair, which he used to yank her almost off the ground. The girl kicked wildly. One foot managed to catch him in the groin, and he dropped her. A moment later, she had buried her teeth in the other man’s arm, and he let go as well.
I thought she would run, but she flung her skinny arms wide and shrieked. One man took a hesitant step toward her, but she snatched up a stone and threw it at him. The other man got a handful of horse manure in his face. They cursed at her, but they were beaten, and they knew it, so they turned and ambled back down the alley.
She was brushing the dust from her dress when I ran up to her, asking, “Are you all right? Will they be back?”
“Back?” She gave a contemptuous look behind her. “No.”
“Should we go to the police?” I asked.
“No police. They are animals, yes, but they are also my brothers.”
She started walking, and I fell in beside her. “Then why do they act like that?”
“They don’t want me to go to work. They say only whores work in factories. I say, ‘No, whores sit around all day and drink like you.’ And now they made me late, so…”
She ran down the street and disappeared.
I was not in the habit of missing people. But over the long, steamy summer days, I found myself wandering down to the alley on the off chance I might see the girl again. One evening I caught sight of her as she propelled herself forward in a queer, jerky gait, straggly curls bouncing, skinny arms swinging.
“Hello!” I shouted.
She stopped, startled. Then she pointed in recognition.
An invitation of some kind seemed called for. The back door to the refuge was open. I asked, “Do you want to come in?”
With a short “Okay,” she followed me through the back and into the kitchen. Aileen, who had been with the refuge for years, put on the kettle and let us sit on the work stools by the sink. I listened as Anna answered my questions about her life. She was a little older than I was. Her family was from Italy, and she lived with two aunts, an uncle, a lot of cousins, and her brothers.
A Death of No Importance--A Novel Page 3