Parlor Games

by Maryka Biaggio

  I was so grateful for her many kindnesses that I took her on a shopping trip to her favorite antiques emporium, where I purchased a mantel clock that caught her eye—a lovely French piece inlaid with mother-of-pearl. It wasn’t inexpensive—seventeen hundred dollars—but the cost hardly approached the value I placed on our friendship and family bond. I even found an Egyptian Isis statue for her parents, which fit perfectly with their parlor collection.

  Two weeks after my arrival in Pittsburgh, a blizzard descended, a howling, bone-chilling storm that unleashed over two feet of snow. That evening, Frank stoked the fire in her bedroom fireplace to roaring and pulled our chairs close to it. I nestled into my plush armchair, listening to the blasting wind rattle the windowpanes and swing the weathervane in erratic arcs.

  Frank draped a wool blanket over my lap and eased into the chair beside mine. “Awfully good news about the hotel.”

  Gene had wired us earlier in the day about Fratto’s new offer—$225,000, even better than the minimum I’d set. “The best,” I said. “What a relief not to worry about the place anymore.”

  “You did damn well. An excellent return.”

  “If all the paperwork—and money—come through.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Fratto’s rolling in money. And he loves to gamble.”

  “He does seem anxious to wrap it up.”

  “Believe me, he’ll want in before the track opens. So he can strut around on opening day.”

  “I suppose Gene’ll be moving to Chicago now.”

  Frank held her palms out toward the fire. “Maybe. Doesn’t always do what I expect.”

  I hadn’t let on that Gene had told me about Frank’s reservations, but I thought if I could draw her out perhaps I could patch things up between her and Gene. “Have you had some problems with him?”

  Frank drew her hands back from the fire and curled her fingers into her palms, as if to warm her fingertips. As she faced me, her face reflected the fire’s licking flames. “Let’s not bother ourselves over husbands or husbands-to-be tonight.”

  The fire crackled. A branch of kindling tumbled onto the hearth, one end of it aflame. I picked up the other end and tossed it into the fire. With a giggle I said, “Who needs them anyway?”

  Frank laughed. “This room, this night. It’s a helluva good place to be.”

  I stretched my feet out under the blanket, unlaced my boots, and wriggled my toes before the blaze. “Pour us a Cognac, will you?”

  And then I told her about my Mexican adventure—about pulling off the business deal, my love affair with the son of the Secretary of Resources, and the government pressuring me to leave. I didn’t bother with the part about Reed Dougherty: It would have required too much backtracking.

  Frank nestled into the corner of her chair so she could face me, and, when I’d finished my story, said, “My God, you’re a plucky dame.”

  I lifted my Cognac glass to her. “You’re no poltroon yourself. Taking men on in the courtroom.”

  “We ought to travel together,” said Frank. “We’d have a rip-roaring time.”

  After we’d laughed ourselves out over a few too many drinks, I made my way down the hall to my bedroom, toting my boots. The cold of the wooden floor leached the heat from the soles of my feet and set me to shivering. Although the home’s Franklin stove had been well stoked with coal, its warmth failed to reach my out-of-the-way upstairs bedroom.

  Quickly, I stripped off my dress, my chemise, my corset. Dancing up and down to keep warm, I wriggled into my nightgown and flipped back the blankets on my bed. I slid my hands under the top sheet, preparing to plunge under it. Its icy, slick surface chilled my hands; I yanked them away. Cupping my hands together, I stepped out into the hall and looked toward Frank’s room. An orange glow flickered through her cracked door. I pranced back into her room, closed the door behind me, and ran toward her bed.

  Frank flung the bedcovers aside, and I dived in. As I slithered under the blankets, she scooped me up in her arms. We rocked away in our mutual embrace, soaking up each other’s body heat and giggling like schoolgirls. When Frank’s touch turned amorous, I figured, if a few kisses and caresses were enough to keep her happily ensconced in the family fold, who was I to rebuff her? In the morning, I woke to her nakedness spooned against my bare back and her arm draped over my waist, enveloped in the afterglow of the guileless affection only women can share.

  Come the last week in February, Frank and I packed up. Frank’s work beckoned her back to Chicago, and I’d decided to meet up with Daisy in New York before sailing across the great pond. Since Frank’s train was slated to leave only two hours before mine, we said our good-byes to her parents and rode to the station together in the family carriage.

  Frank tucked the warming blanket over our laps and sighed. “Sure wish I could spend more time with you. But this wretched trial’s been delayed too many times already.”

  I snuggled my chilled hands under the blanket, though the day’s bright sun had actually warmed the compartment to a balmy thirty degrees or so. “It’s done me a world of good. Just relaxing with you.”

  “What’ll you do now?”

  “I’ll wire Rudolph from New York. Tell him what ship I’m leaving on so he knows I mean it.”

  “You sure you want to go back to him?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Will you let me know how it comes out?”

  “Yes. And you, what about you and Gene?”

  Frank stared at her hands. “Didn’t like what I heard in his last letter.”

  “But all he said is he’ll see you in Chicago after visiting Maman and Paul.”

  Frank swung her gaze back to me. “Uh-huh, that’s all he said.”

  Confused, I shot her a quizzical look. “What did you expect?”

  “He was supposed to go to Chicago and look for work.”

  “You can’t blame him for visiting his family. You know Maman missed him.”

  “He promised me he’d head straight for Chicago.”

  “You aren’t going to hold that little thing against him, are you?”

  “I’ve already written him. The engagement’s off.”

  My mouth dropped open. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “And you’re only now telling me?”

  “Thought he should know first. I mailed the letter last week.”

  “You’re not going to marry him because he’s visiting his mother instead of looking for a job?”

  “It’s not such a little thing—a man constantly borrowing money from a woman and turning lax about repaying it.”

  “Does he owe you anything right now?”

  “No. I decided after the last go-round that he wouldn’t get another penny from my pocketbook.”

  “Don’t you love him? I know he cares for you.”

  “Love’s not everything, is it?”

  “No,” I said, twisting my fingers together under the blanket. “But it’s the most important thing.”

  “Then why are you going to London instead of Mexico?”

  “I told you—it’s complicated. There could be problems with Philip’s business deal.”

  “You don’t fool me. You’re sly enough to work around things like that.”

  “Oh, no, I can’t go up against the Mexican government and a business deal worth tens of thousands. Not little old me.”

  “Fine, just don’t expect me to take on a husband that’s good for nothing.”

  “Good for nothing?”

  “You heard right.”

  “Frank, you’re talking about my brother.”

  “Maybe that’s why you can’t see him for what he is.”

  “Gene’s the most fun-loving young man I know. You could do worse.”

  Frank set her jaw and narrowed her eyes. “I don’t need a husband. Can’t you see that?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Then you’re more blind than I thought—or were you just keeping me wa
rm for your brother?”

  “That? That was nothing.”

  “You say that now.”

  I threw the blanket off my heated-up hands. “And I would have said it then. I love you as a friend.”

  “I refuse to be taken in by your worthless brother.”

  “You want to remain friends with me and cast my brother aside?”

  “Are you asking me to marry him for your sake?”

  “No, for his sake.”

  Frank placed her hand atop mine. “It’s not your brother I want.”

  I pulled my hand away and turned, staring blankly at the passing scenery. To respond to her thinly veiled suggestion would only have encouraged a conversation I refused to broach. Frank had made it altogether clear that the engagement was over. I’d looked forward to having her as a dear sister-in-law, but apparently that wasn’t enough for her. Our farewell at the train station was decidedly cool and stiff. Neither of us mentioned writing or seeing each other. And I considered it best left at that.

  ANOTHER LETTER FROM FRANK

  MENOMINEE—JANUARY 27, 1917

  On Saturday evening, after the first week of the trial, I received another letter from Frank.

  Dear May,

  Damn, you’re a stubborn one. All I wanted was to meet you for a drink. The least you could have done was give the message boy a time that would’ve worked for you. Are you afraid to talk to your Frank? What do you have to fear from me? You sure as hell aren’t following lawyer’s orders! That line won’t work on me. Remember the story you told me about besting the Mexican government back in ’03? That’s the real May.

  You’ve got a birthday coming up in May, don’t you? Number 48. Face it, May, you’re no spring chicken anymore. You’ve been living off your looks and charms for an awful lot of years. Charm may never desert you, but 48 isn’t so young, is it? When you were 20, 30, even 40, you could reel them in one right after another. But how many men are going to fall all over themselves for a woman pushing 50? It’s about time you looked in the mirror. Men want delicate little flowers, and the bloom’s off your rose, my dear.

  When we women reach our mature years we can’t just think about the next adventure. We need to consider our security, how we’re going to live our years out comfortably. And an awful lot of women end up living those years without a man. They die off on us, or they hang around in a wheelchair and expect us to wipe their drool and warm up the bed for them.

  Have you known anybody who stuck with you as many years as your Frank? We both know you go through people like whiskey through a sieve. But I’ve always been there for you, whenever you needed someone to keep you company between your barons and tycoons.

  This trial does more damage to you every day. It’s not just the Menominee papers carrying the story. People all the way to New York City are reading about you. If you let this trial play out to its ugly end, you’re going to end up a ruined woman. Think about all those prospective catches out there. How many New York businessmen are going to line up to be seduced by May de Vries after she’s found liable for swindling a friend out of $100,000?

  Let’s call it off right now. I know you can come up with the money. And once you do, I’ll invest it so that it’ll last us a long time. Then we can get back to living again, and you can trust that your Frank will always be there for you.

  Your faithful friend,

  Frank

  THE WAX AND WANE OF HOPE

  NEW YORK—MARCH–MAY 1903

  What had I to show for my life? Enough money from Rudolph’s last allotment and the Arkansas hotel sale to see me through a good many years. But no one to enjoy it with.

  More than anything, I wished to return to Alonso. But I dared not. Dougherty would certainly follow through on his threat to expose my marital status, as well as the ploy I’d used to win the mining contract—if Alonso’s father hadn’t already done so. And if Alonso learned all this, he might assume I never really loved him. Even if I returned to convince him otherwise, Secretary Elvira Pérez and Dougherty would no doubt do everything in their power to force my departure. And with a divorce looming, I could not depend on the Baron’s protection, which might embolden them to jail me. No, that path was foreclosed.

  I was inclined to determine whether Rudolph would take me back. But first I needed to settle the battle raging in me over our marriage. I’d been of mixed feelings for years, but I couldn’t deny the appeal of the life I’d built with him: a respectable life in which I’d mingled with the landed and royal classes in Holland and England; attended the finest theater and opera London had to offer; and, as a baroness, commanded respect and admiration everywhere I traveled.

  If I simply accepted the divorce, I’d never know whether I might reclaim some measure of happiness with Rudolph. At the least, I could try to reconcile with him and give us a second chance. Once I’d finally decided on this course, my hopes soared. I sent him a cablegram from New York: PLEASE HALT DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS STOP BOARDING SS CEDRIC FOR LIVERPOOL IN TWO DAYS AND TRAVELING TO LONDON TO SEE YOU STOP.

  Within hours I received his reply: NO NEED TO TRAVEL HERE STOP DIVORCE TERMS CAN BE MANAGED THROUGH CORRESPONDENCE STOP.

  Was he serious? Could he be dissuaded? Although he sounded determined, perhaps I could devise some strategy that would instill doubt or reawaken his love for me. I could forgo groveling and let him think I was willing to proceed with the divorce, albeit throwing up plenty of hurdles, and see if that gave him pause. At this point it behooved me to seek legal counsel. I refused to turn to Frank. As far as I was concerned, she had no place in my life.

  I invited my friend Hanna Harrington in from Southampton to luncheon at the Waldorf-Astoria. She recommended a Mr. Oliver Biltwell, who happened to specialize in divorce cases for New York’s wealthiest. And she invited me to the annual Easter dinner she hosted for her closest friends. Under the circumstances it was especially gratifying to be welcomed back into my own circle of New York acquaintances.

  Once Rudolph’s solicitor made his terms known, I secured the services of Mr. Biltwell and countered Rudolph’s ungenerous offer with my own proposal: a financial settlement four times the size of his offer, about $380,000, the London home, and the right to my baroness title in perpetuity.

  I decided to settle in New York for the time being: What other place, outside of London, offered so much entertainment, high society, and cachet? I checked out of the Waldorf-Astoria and moved to the Gilsey House, which offered more amenities for a long-term stay. As I went about renewing my New York acquaintances, I called on Daisy to come stay with me there (just like old times) and serve as my assistant.

  She arrived at my room as arranged, at noon on March 28. When I opened the door, she swept in and embraced me. “May, it’s been far too long.”

  I hugged her and grasped her hands. “My dear Daisy, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished you were at my side.”

  “Your letters were a delight.” She raised her eyebrows in a show of mischievous camaraderie. “I’ve missed some high adventure.”

  “Ah, yes,” I said, chuckling, and led her to the couch in my suite. Then I noticed: “But you’ve not brought a suitcase.”

  That dampened her—and my—spirits. She perched beside me on the couch and clasped her hands primly on her lap. “I must speak with you about Mother. I thought it best to talk in person.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “She’s got the rheumatism. Quite bad. I’ve taken to doing all the cooking and cleaning and chores.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. And Dicky, how is he?”

  “He drives his own coach now. We don’t see much of him.”

  “He doesn’t help with your mother at all?”

  “Every now and then he brings around a tin of cookies.”

  “Ah, off on his own, then.”

  “Like father, like son.”

  I figured I might as well come out and ask, since Daisy seemed to be pussyfooting around. “So you’ll not be able to sta
y with me?”

  “Not without some kind of arrangement.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we can work something out.” The truth is, she was the best assistant I could have asked for. And I needed her now more than ever.

  “I’d be pleased to come back into your service if I can be sure Mother will be taken care of.”

  “Heavens, I won’t need you twenty-four hours a day. We’ll work out a schedule.”

  “And might you be able to pay a housemaid to attend to Mother when I’m not there?”

  What could I say? I wasn’t so heartless as to leave an old woman alone in her hovel. I patted her hands. “Of course, Daisy. That’s no problem at all.”

  Two weeks after I’d submitted my counteroffer, Rudolph’s solicitor fired back: REQUESTED FUNDS ARE OUT OF THE QUESTION STOP THEY ARE NOT IN LINE WITH WHAT IS CUSTOMARY IN SUCH CASES STOP THE LONDON HOME HAS BEEN PUT ON THE MARKET STOP CANNOT BE CONSIDERED IN THE DIVORCE STOP.

  I responded: WILL RELINQUISH ANY REQUEST FOR PROPERTY STOP REQUEST THE EQUIVALENT OF $440,000 AND THE BARONESS TITLE STOP. I imagined that would keep them quiet for a spell.

  Rudolph and I were obviously locked in a game of offers and counteroffers. If only I had some insight into Rudolph’s state of mind, I might better know how to proceed. And that made me think of Saskia and Philip, whom I missed terribly. I would have loved to dine and go to the opera with them. But circumstances precluded continuation of our friendship. I’m sure Saskia missed me as much as I missed her. And no doubt Philip still appreciated the assistance I’d provided in Mexico. But I understand family ties and loyalty as well as the next person. Our friendship, alas, had fallen casualty to my husband’s impatience and intransigence.