by Nan Ryan
Colonel Mitchell was not looking at the ocean. He had the telescope turned on the Boardwalk. He caught sight, far down the wooden promenade, of a bareheaded, smiling Lucy Hart. She was not alone. Blackie LaDuke was with her. As the Colonel watched, Blackie leaned close and said something against Lucy’s left ear. She immediately burst into fits of laughter and playfully hit at Blackie. Blackie caught her hand and, walking backward, drew her, laughing gaily and shaking her head, toward a Boardwalk photo gallery.
The Colonel, frowning, watched until the laughing, battling pair disappeared within. He pushed the telescope away. He gritted his teeth. He drew a thin brown cigar from inside his linen suit jacket, came over and sat down in a chair near Lady Strange.
He struck a match, puffed his smoke to life, and said, “Tell me I’m worrying needlessly, if you will, but…”
“I will,” Lady Strange interrupted, “you are worrying needlessly and I do wish you would stop it.” She stroked the purring Precious and irritably told the Colonel, “Unless this young woman is a raving beauty, I doubt that Blackie’s interest in her will last another twenty-four hours.”
“I know,” mused the Colonel, puffing on his cigar. “And I hate to see that happen because…”
“Well, make up your mind! Isn’t that what you want?” Lady Strange’s many chins quivered as she spoke. She pursed her lips and added, “If the danger of seduction is your concern, then surely the sooner he tires of her the better.”
Struggling to place a red jack on a black queen, Lochlin MacDonald spoke up. “Has it occurred to either of you that what may or may not take place between Lucy Hart and Blackie LaDuke is strictly between the two of them?” He glanced at the Colonel. “Lucy is not a child, my friend. Nor is she a feather-headed fool. I met her. The young lady possesses a natural dignity and reticence that should keep even our brash Blackie in his place.” Lochlin tussled with a red nine, managed to push it onto a black ten. He laughed then and added, “Unless, of course, she doesn’t want to keep him in his place.” He chuckled happily.
Lady Strange nodded her hearty agreement. Shaking a short, plump finger at the Colonel, she said, “He’s right, Cort. Men like to think that they seduce women, but actually it’s the other way around.” She giggled like a girl. “Why I remember when I first met Lord William. He didn’t stand a chance, poor thing. I decided then and there that I was going to have him. It took me less than a week to make him fall helplessly in love.” She smiled, remembering, and her fair, round face colored. “I shall never forget how I…”
Both men had heard the story of her royal romance many times before. But they never stopped her when she felt like telling it once again. They listened now as she boasted of her easy triumph, talked wistfully of how she had been a beautiful seventeen-year-old commoner who took the thirty-year-old, titled British nobleman away from the stuffy Dutch princess to whom he was betrothed. She related with glee how Lord Strange had fallen head over heels in love with her after spending but a few stolen hours in the moonlight with her.
They had married within a few weeks and the lord had pampered and petted her, spoiling her outrageously. Lord William Strange was so mad about her he was absolutely dotty!
That was as much of the tale as Lady Strange ever told.
She kept to herself how her besotted bridegroom showered her with presents when seeking sexual pleasures. Gifts of sparkling diamonds and peek-a-boo French lingerie and rich Belgian chocolates literally filled her private pink boudoir where she eagerly entertained her amorous husband.
To please the lusty lord she went about in the privacy of their suite wearing only gobs of precious jewels and naughty lingerie. She eagerly devoured the exquisite chocolates and just as eagerly made love with her handsome royal husband.
Theirs was life of privilege and pleasure. They divided their time between London and New York, moving easily among the varied levels of society. From the glittering Court of St. James to the opulent drawing rooms of Manhattan, they caused a sensation. What a striking couple they were; the handsome blond lord and his petite brunette lady. He of the towering frame and majestic bearing and she of the tiny form and sensual manner.
Neither he nor she noticed—for several years at least—that she was becoming more and more voluptuous. Her flashing diamond rings grew tight and uncomfortable on her fingers. Her lush womanly curves, both top and bottom, spilled out of the wispy lingerie until the lord was forced to purchase the gauzy goodies meant to display the lovely female form in increasingly larger sizes. The big boxes of chocolates evaporated with alarming speed.
She did notice that the lord spent more and more time at London’s exclusive clubs, White’s and Boodle’s and the St. James Club. It was the same in New York. He began to spend his afternoons and evenings at the Jockey Club.
Until that fateful day when Lord Strange visited their boudoir for the final time. She had awaited him in their Fifth Avenue mansion throughout the long summer afternoon. After lingering in a bath filled with exotic perfumed oils she donned a daring black lace negligee and brushed her dark hair out about her naked white shoulders.
She was posed prettily amongst the many pink satin pillows pushed up against the headboard of their gold leaf bed when at last the lord arrived. He walked through the door, glanced at her, and frowned. He strode across the room and there was an unforgettable look of disgust on his aristocratic face when he told her he was through with her.
It was not until he had gone, leaving her to weep out her misery alone, that she fully realized she was no longer the ninety-pound sugar dumpling he had married fifteen years earlier. She had more than doubled in size. She weighed a hundred and ninety-five pounds. She was so large there was no longer room in the lord’s life for her.
Within a week she was stepping off the train in Atlantic City in that summer of ’73. Banished from the lord’s life like a discarded mistress. She was thirty-two years old.
She had been in Atlantic City ever since.
“…don’t you think so?”
“What? I…I’m sorry, Lochlin,” Lady Strange sighed and returned to the present. “Did you say something?”
“I said, your Ladyship, ‘Lucy Hart is neither as young nor as pretty as you when you so easily seduced Lord William’.”
Lady Strange nodded, pleased. Preening a little, she said, “No, no, of course not.” She stroked the underside of Precious’ throat with a forefinger. The black Persian made low rattling sounds of pleasure and his slitted golden eyes closed completely. “How old is this small town postmistress?” Lady Strange asked, looking from one man to the other. Neither knew.
“Maybe you can tell us,” said Lochlin. “Blackie’s coming up around one o’clock to wheel me back down to the Boardwalk. If they’re becoming close friends, he’ll likely bring Lucy along.”
“Oh, I hope so,” said the smiling Lady Strange. “Don’t you, Cort?” No answer. “Cort?”
“Blackie ought to leave her alone,” said the Colonel, unsmiling.
Chapter Seventeen
“Hey, anybody home?”
The deep masculine voice came from just inside Lochlin MacDonald’s parlor.
“Where is everyone?”
“On the balcony, Blackie,” Lochlin called to him. “Come on out here.”
Lucy stepped out first. Blackie was right behind her. Both were smiling and blinking in the bright August sunlight. Both looked younger than their years.
Lucy’s fair face was flushed from the sun, the added color giving her a healthy, youthful radiance. Tendrils of her chestnut hair, having escaped the neatly dressed bun at the back of her head, curled appealingly around her flushed cheeks and trailed in coiled ringlets down her graceful neck. Her freshly laundered dress of lilac and white-checked gingham had a tightly belted waist, fashionably full, puffed, elbow-length sleeves, and a gored skirt fitted closely over her hips.
She was, on this August afternoon, prettier than usual.
Blackie, in turn, was tall and striki
ng, with flashing black eyes and curly black hair. As dark as Lucy was fair, he was dressed in a cool summer shirt of sky blue Egyptian cotton with a pair of white duck yachting trousers. Always one to break barriers, stretch rules, and ignore conventions, he wore no socks or stockings of any kind. His brown feet were bare inside the soft, well worn moccasins he’d owned for years. Whether casual or in white tie and tails, Blackie was good-looking.
He was, incredibly, even handsomer than usual on this sunny Friday in August.
Greetings were exchanged all around. The Colonel rose to his feet, smiling and nodding. Lochlin invited the pair to have a seat. Blackie introduced the two women.
Lucy extended a hand. “I’m honored to meet you, Lady Strange,” she said graciously. “Black…er…Mr. LaDuke tells me you’re a reader of tea leaves.”
“A royal reader of tea leaves,” Blackie corrected, leaned down, and kissed Lady Strange’s fleshy cheek.
“You must come up to visit me, Lucy,” Lady Strange said, gripping Lucy’s hand. “And allow me to look into your future.”
“I’ll do that,” said Lucy, politely.
“Lucy, you and Blackie pour yourselves some iced tea,” Lochlin MacDonald said. “And sit down, sit down!”
Blackie shook his head no to the iced tea. Lucy passed as well. She sat down at the end of a long white settee, close to the Colonel’s chair. Blackie purposely waited until she was seated, then he plucked at the creases in white trousers and dropped down directly beside her. Ignoring the quick frown that appeared on the Colonel’s face, Blackie raised a long arm and draped it over the settee’s high back behind Lucy’s shoulders.
“So you are actually a postmistress?” Lady Strange said, smiling at Lucy.
“I am,” Lucy said, nodding, “In Colonias, my hometown in upstate New York.”
“This world is changing rapidly,” Lady Strange commented. “In my day a young lady would not have been considered for such an important position.”
“I hope you approve,” Lucy said.
“Oh, I do. Most assuredly. You must tell me more about it.”
After the requisite round of pleasantries, the talkative Lady Strange dominated the conversation. Stroking the spoiled Precious, she told Lucy that when she was young the main interests of her circle of friends were gala balls, marriages, foods, wines, horses, gaming, and seaside villas in the South of France.
Her eyes disappearing in laugh lines, she happily boasted, “My name had appeared in Town Topics—New York’s most widely read tattle sheet—a dozen times before I turned twenty.”
“Your life in New York sounds very exciting,” Lucy graciously remarked.
“It was,” said Lady Strange. “And in London as well.” She sighed softly. “But do forgive me. I’ve been prattling on about myself, as usual. I want to hear about you. I really do.”
“There’s not much to tell, I’m afraid,” said Lucy.
Blackie spoke up, “Lucy’s too modest. She was appointed to her position at the Colonias post office by President Benjamin Harrison himself. She was just eighteen years old. The youngest postmistress in America and she…”
Lucy gently interrupted, “Blackie, I’m sure they don’t want to hear…”
“But we do,” said Lady Strange and she urged the younger woman to talk about her important work.
At their coaxing Lucy related, with modesty and quiet authority, her extensive knowledge of the post office system. She knew its operation inside out and was indeed very proud to be one of the more than 170,000 people presently employed by the United States post office.
The Colonel said, “Wasn’t Honest Abe a postmaster at one time, Lucy?”
“He was, yes, he was. When Abe Lincoln was young,” she said, smiling at the Colonel, “he was the postmaster in Salem, Illinois in 1833. He considered one of the main attractions of the position to be that he could educate himself by reading the many newspapers and journals before delivering them to his patrons.” Lucy laughed melodiously and admitted, “I do the very same thing. I read every magazine and newspaper and bulletin that comes through my post office.”
“Good for you,” said Lady Strange. “A well informed woman is an interesting one.”
“I just hope my box holders don’t find me out,” said Lucy.
“I’m sure they wouldn’t object,” said the Colonel, fully approving.
“Lucy Hart, I do believe you’re one of the smartest young ladies I have ever met,” praised Lochlin.
Lucy smiled at him, glanced at the cards spread out on his wooden tray. Gesturing, she said, “Black five to the red six.”
Lochlin looked down. “Now how did I miss that?”
He began to struggle manfully to maneuver the weightless card across the few inches of space. Watching, her heart going out to him, Lucy automatically leaned forward a little, started to help. Blackie touched her forearm. Shook his head.
She sat back.
Lady Strange asked about Lucy’s family. Lucy spoke freely and fondly about her handsome, silver-haired father who had been a Civil War hero and Colonias’ first postmaster. She disclosed, without sentimentality or emotion, that her dear mother had suffered through a long, debilitating illness; had finally, mercifully, passed away two summers ago.
Blackie, listening intently, gazed at Lucy in amazement and admiration. He’d had no idea—until this minute—that Lucy had lost both her parents.
“No, no, I’m not alone,” Lucy quickly assured Lady Strange. She went on to say she had plenty of family. Two older brothers. One in Texas. The other in California. And she had a half dozen nieces and nephews. She was blessed as well with a number of dear friends. Her face lighted when she told the attentive Lady Strange about the darling four-year-old girl who lived next door and came over to visit at least once a day.
When she concluded, Lady Strange said, “You’re certainly a more resourceful woman than I was at your age. Why, you must not be more than twenty-five or twenty-six.”
“A bit older than that,” Lucy said without hesitation. “On the last day of August, I will turn thirty.” She made a slight face, shrugged.
“Why, that’s only a week away,” exclaimed Lady Strange. “So you will be here in Atlantic City on your birthday?”
Lucy nodded. “Yes. I’m staying through Labor Day.” She glanced at Lochlin, gave him an embarrassed smile. “I told you I was leaving, didn’t I? But here I am.”
“Well, we’re all glad you stayed,” he said, smiling broadly.
“We will celebrate your birthday,” said the Colonel.
“You bet we will,” agreed Lochlin, the self-appointed, widely recognized activity director and chief party planner of the Atlantic Grand. “We’ll throw a big wing-ding in the Blue Room with an enormous birthday cake and an orchestra and…”
“Hold on a minute,” Blackie coolly cut in. “That’s really thoughtful of you all, but Lucy and I have already made plans.” He looked at her. “Tell ’em, Lucy.”
Caught off guard, she gave him a quick questioning look. He grinned and his black eyes twinkled. He hadn’t known, until just now, that her birthday was coming up. She hadn’t told him. They had made no plans. But she played along.
She said, looking from Lochlin to Lady Strange to the Colonel, “Can you believe it? Blackie won’t even tell me how we’re going celebrate. Wants it to be a surprise.”
“How wonderfully exciting,” enthused Lady Strange, ever the romantic. “I love secrets and surprises.” She looked directly at Lucy. “You’ll tell us afterward?”
“Maybe she will,” said Blackie before Lucy could answer. “If she doesn’t,” he paused, gently squeezed Lucy’s shoulder, and winked at Lady Strange, “don’t ask.”
Lady Strange clasped her hands to her pillowy breasts and swooned.
Lochlin chuckled merrily.
The Colonel cleared his throat.
Chapter Eighteen
The buzz along the Boardwalk, that warm Friday evening the 25th of August 1899, was o
f the grand opening of yet another big amusement pier. This one was at the foot of Pennsylvania Avenue and contained a large indoor auditorium meant for theatricals and musicals.
Hence its name, the Auditorium Pier.
Blackie and Lucy were part of the animated crowd that swarmed out onto the brand new pier that sultry August night, eager for an exciting evening of entertainment. After a ribbon cutting ceremony and a couple of brief speeches by visiting state dignitaries, young and old alike streamed into the new auditorium, quickly filling every available seat.
The houselights dimmed.
The footlights came up.
The expectant crowd applauded.
The curtain rose on a performer who was billed as ‘America’s Greatest Comic Juggler’.
A smiling, ruddy-faced young man, with light brown hair and a bulbous nose, stood alone at center stage. He reached into the pocket of his baggy brown trousers and withdrew a red rubber ball. He held it up, showed it to the crowd, then tossed it into the air with his right hand. He caught it with his left while pulling a second red rubber ball from his pocket. He tossed the second ball into the air and out of his pocket came a third. He dexterously juggled the three red rubber balls to the wonderment of the approving audience. After putting aside the red rubber balls, the young man expertly juggled three heavy white bowling pins. Then three china plates. Finally, three dangerously sharp butcher knives.
The juggling portion of his act came to end and the comedian stood in the spotlight and told jokes, one right after another. He was hilarious. He held the crowd in the palm of hand with his funny, offbeat stories. Loud, riotous laughter rocked the new auditorium and echoed out over the water.
The audience absolutely loved him.
Young W.C. Fields triumphantly concluded his act to deafening applause and the spirited shouts of ‘encore, encore’.
Lucy clapped as enthusiastically as anyone, the palms of her hands stinging like fire, tears of laughter brightening her shining, green eyes. The dry, outlandish wit of the juggling comedian left her in stitches.