A Fatal Finale

by Kathleen Marple Kalb

Speaking of quotes, I thought.

  Hetty wrote that down, too, then closed her notebook. Saint Aubyn and I both stood.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” She held out her hand, in a lacy half-glove, to shake.

  He did. It meant he was treating her as a professional, just as he would with a man. I don’t know if she understood how important a gesture of respect that was, but I certainly did. I’d tell her later.

  “Thank you, Miss MacNaughten. I’ll look forward to reading your article.”

  “I’ll have a copyboy bring you a bulldog edition late tonight.” She smiled. “It’s the least I can do. Where?”

  “I would like that.” Saint Aubyn nodded. “Waverly Place Hotel, then.”

  “Why, we’re all practically neighbors.” Hetty grinned. “Perhaps you’d like to join us for a velocipede ride one of these days.”

  His eyes widened. “I leave that to the ladies.”

  “Probably wise.” I could not imagine him on a velocipede. “Later this week, Hetty?”

  “Yes. I suspect we both need a good ride.”

  Saint Aubyn refrained from comment, but one eyebrow flicked almost imperceptibly.

  “Ah, well,” I said quickly. “We can talk about that later.”

  Hetty nodded, tucking her notebook and pencil in the pocket of her jacket, moving on from the awkward moment to the work at hand. “Yes. I’ve got to get back to the office.”

  As she headed out, Hetty turned to the mirror to make sure her hat was properly in place. And then came the whirlwind. Tommy and Father Michael blew into the foyer, laughing about something. Tommy popped up behind Hetty in the mirror, making her laugh, too, as he said, “Lovely as ever.”

  Father Michael saw Saint Aubyn and me, and tried for a little ecclesiastical dignity.

  “Hello, Miss Ella and... ?”

  I laughed, too. “Glad you and Toms are having a good day.”

  “It will be a better day after I beat him at checkers.” Tommy smiled evilly as he held the door for Hetty, who cut her eyes to me as she made a hasty escape. “We’ve got enough time for at least one game before dinner.” He only then noticed Saint Aubyn. “Hello, Your Grace. How’s your checkers game?”

  “I usually play chess, actually.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Tommy chuckled. “Well, you’re still welcome to join in.”

  “I don’t think we’ve met. Are you the duke that Tom has told me about?”

  He nodded. “Gilbert Saint Aubyn.”

  “Father Michael Riley.”

  They bowed, but didn’t shake hands, and carefully assessed each other for a moment, with some unmistakable tension simmering below the surface. From Father Michael’s teasing comments about the matter a few days ago, I’d never have expected this.

  “It’s the Irish Question, isn’t it, Father?” Saint Aubyn finally spoke quietly.

  “All due respect, Your Grace, it’s not a question for us. It’s your grandfather letting my grandmother die in the road.”

  Tommy looked at me. The Hunger is always a wound for the Irish, but we rarely speak of it. Perhaps the presence of a British aristocrat had sparked something in our usually genial priest.

  “Father, that’s not quite fair,” I spoke up. “You don’t hold the alleged misdeeds of my ancestors against me.”

  “And I don’t hold whatever his family did or didn’t do against him, Miss Ella. Prejudice does none of us any good. I’m just not sure how I can have a friendly—”

  “All due respect, Father, you know nothing about my family. Or, for that matter, my views on Ireland.” Saint Aubyn was radiating tension right back at the priest.

  “I don’t, for a fact.”

  The tension eased a tiny bit, but I knew I’d best pour some oil on these troubled waters.

  “I do, however, know both of your views on shepherd’s pie, and that happens to be what Mrs. Grazich is making for dinner tonight,” I offered, looking from one to the other. “What do you say?”

  “Miss Shane is always right,” Saint Aubyn said, offering a hand to Father Michael.

  “That, she is.” The priest took it and gave him a significant glance. “Well, you’ve clearly learned the most important thing about dealing with Miss Ella.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Her word is law, of course.”

  They exchanged a smile, and while the tension wasn’t entirely gone, they’d at least made a move in the right direction.

  “Heller thinks she’s running things, but we all know who’s really in charge.” Tommy looked every bit as relieved as I felt.

  “Not you,” I replied cheerfully, as he knew I would.

  “Never challenge an Irishwoman’s authority in her home.” Father Michael laughed.

  “I would argue, never challenge any woman’s authority in her domain,” Saint Aubyn said. “My mother is Scots, and rules only slightly less imperially than our queen.”

  All three sighed, looking like little boys who’d been ordered to come home from the playground. Nothing unites men like feeling henpecked by their women.

  Father Michael smiled. “Half Scots?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not as good as being Irish, but at least you’ve got a little of the Celt in you.”

  Saint Aubyn knew a large olive branch when he saw it. “Highland Scots, at that. She even taught me a little Gaelic.”

  “The Auld Tongue?” The priest’s smile widened, and I knew he was reevaluating his opinion.

  “My French and Latin are far better, Father,” the duke demurred.

  “No matter. I won’t make you speak it at dinner.” Father Michael took a moment and studied Saint Aubyn. “Look, I was probably a bit hard on you.”

  “It’s the disgrace of the world what the British government allowed to happen in Ireland in the forties.” He shook his head, and something in his face suggested he knew a lot more about it than the average aristocrat. “I understand it’s an open wound.”

  “But not one you inflicted. So I apologize for prejudging you.”

  “Thank you, Father.” Saint Aubyn nodded gravely. “I will tax you with only one thing.”

  “What?”

  “You surely haven’t been troubling Miss Shane with your coreligionists’ views on Jews?”

  Father Michael looked like he’d been slapped. “Never. I don’t know how—”

  “My fault, Father,” I jumped in quickly. “Remember, I said you don’t hold my ancestors’ alleged misdeeds against me.”

  “ ‘Alleged,’ indeed,” said the priest. “You know I skip that part in the Good Friday liturgy, bishop be damned. Er . . . sorry.”

  Saint Aubyn just watched us all, unsurprisingly speechless. I doubt he’d ever had preprandial conversation like this. I shook my head. “We are all at a pretty mess of cross-purposes, gentlemen.”

  “We surely are,” Tommy said. “And you still owe me that checkers game.”

  “Well, not now, you don’t.” I looked at the clock. “Mrs. Grazich will be setting the table any second.”

  “I guess we shall have to call a truce for the moment, Tom,” Father Michael said.

  “Enjoy your dinner, because you’re going to taste defeat later.”

  They fell into their usual amiable bickering as they headed for the dining room, and Saint Aubyn turned to me.

  “Is this the typical evening at your home?”

  “Pretty much. They play cards, too.” I laughed. “It’s often rather like having two very, very large seven-year-olds running about. And sometimes the sports writers come over.”

  “Like your dear Mr. Dare?”

  “No. He’s special, a sort of surrogate uncle, who watches over Tommy and me.”

  Saint Aubyn nodded. “No doubt, good to have an older and wiser protector about.”

  “Yes.” I decided he’d best know the rest. “Preston lost his wife and child in a cholera epidemic many years ago. We are good for him, too.”

  “Poor man.” He was sil
ent a moment. “My late wife. Influenza.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “I still have my sons. I cannot imagine losing a child, too.”

  I had nothing to say to that, the unthinkable that so many families must face.

  “Well,” Saint Aubyn said finally, studying me with that barrister’s appraising glance. “I understand why he watches over you.”

  “Tommy too. And, as you can tell, he’s very good company.”

  “He does seem quite interesting.”

  “He is, on his own. It’s only when the whole sports department comes over that things get a bit loud.”

  The duke smiled. “No wonder you go on tour.”

  “I’m used to it. I often hole up in the studio with Montezuma and a book, and I’m free and quiet, unless they need someone to referee.”

  Saint Aubyn shook his head, and offered his arm, formal protocol for dinner, even on a typically crazy night at the town house. I took it, not missing the twinkle in his eyes.

  “My stars and garters!”

  That would be Mrs. G, at her first view of me walking in with our guest. The exclamation was followed by a thud and the tinkle of bouncing silver. She’d just dropped the shepherd’s pie onto the trivet at the center of the table when she saw him. Not my fault, since I’d warned her he might stay; but I guessed the sight of both a duke and a priest at her table was simply more than she could stand. Either that, or she was as fond as I am of tall, dark-haired men, and less shy about showing it.

  “Thanks, Mrs. G, it looks wonderful.” I nodded to her as she straightened the dish.

  “Not the only thing that looks wonderful, miss.” She grinned. “Enjoy the night.”

  Thankfully, my squire had decided to be amused, favoring her with a smile as she made for the door.

  “This is not service à la russe,” I observed as Saint Aubyn held my chair.

  “Fortunately, I had no such expectations.”

  The boys took their seats as well, and I dished up plates of the main dish, as is usual practice for the lady of the house, and made sure the salad was passed.

  Father Michael offered a brief and not especially Catholic grace, probably in deference to our Protestant guest, and we tucked in.

  “You were not exaggerating about the shepherd’s pie, Miss Shane.”

  “Mrs. G is an amazing cook.” Tommy took a breath as he happily demolished his own. “Even when the father isn’t here.”

  Saint Aubyn’s eyebrow arched.

  “A lot of women take pride in cooking for the priest. It’s a pleasure when it’s Mrs. G, not always with others.” Father Michael’s beleaguered expression said far more than the few diplomatic words. “You don’t want to know about the alleged delicacies I’ve been forced to enjoy over the years.”

  They laughed.

  “This actually rather reminds me of home, Miss Shane.” Saint Aubyn had a wistful look.

  “Really?” Tommy asked. “Surely, arrangements are far more elegant at the castle.”

  “I grew up in a town house in York, with my Scots mother serving meals very much like this. And when we have to be at the family seat, she usually holds our meals in a small room. There are even books.”

  I blushed a little as he looked at the stacks of library books on the sideboard, where Tommy and I usually left them so they would not get mixed in with our own volumes.

  “No criticism intended. I do not trust people who don’t read.”

  “Neither do we,” Tommy said. “What are you reading now?”

  “General Grant’s memoirs. Seemed appropriate for a trip to America.”

  I nodded. “A good and improving book, and such a brave man to write it all out as he was dying.”

  “Indeed.” Saint Aubyn looked thoughtful. “The last thing he could do for his country, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps.” Tommy smiled. “I’m actually much more of a Lincoln man. I will happily read absolutely anything about him.”

  “Lincoln probably is the finest man your country’s produced so far.”

  “And you’ll get no argument at this table,” Father Michael put in. “He was truly God’s gift to our nation when we needed it the most.”

  “But if your Prince Albert hadn’t been wise enough to ameliorate the Trent crisis, we wouldn’t be here now,” I pointed out, a nod to our British guest and Queen Victoria’s husband, who’d kept Great Britain out of the Civil War.

  “Prince Albert was a bit of a stick,” Saint Aubyn said with a faint smile, “but a gifted diplomat.”

  That sparked a discussion that consumed the rest of the shepherd’s pie, and lasted us into coffee and Mrs. Grazich’s tasty lemon cake. I do not know how it happened, but I found myself reciting the end of Mr. Whitman’s lovely elegy on Lincoln, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.”

  Saint Aubyn knew it, too, and we gave the last few lines together, like a duet:

  Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,

  There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.

  We sat there for a few measures, just looking at each other, encircled in the beauty of Whitman’s words.

  Tommy broke the spell with a laugh. “And that, I strongly suspect, is why Heller is so fond of lilacs.”

  I shook my head. “You recite well, Your Grace.”

  “As do you.”

  “No achievement there, I’m afraid. Just part of the package.”

  He nodded, looking a bit dazed, as I felt, too.

  “Miss Ella, I believe you’re going to have to do that for the history class this year,” Father Michael said. “The students might not understand opera, but they surely understand Lincoln.”

  “We can only hope,” I said, making sure to take a bite of my cake before Tommy got any ideas.

  Saint Aubyn returned to his cake, too, and the rest of dinner passed in amiable and inconsequential conversation. Soon enough, we were finished and moving toward the drawing room.

  “My apologies, Miss Shane, I’m quite tired, and I think I should return to my hotel.”

  “Of course.”

  Saint Aubyn paused at the drawing-room window as I walked him to the door. “It’s another rainy evening.”

  “It’s spring in New York.” I couldn’t help laughing at his scowl. “Surely, it rains just as much in London.”

  “But one expects it there. One hopes for better from New York.”

  “Of course, one does.” No doubt our City should order its weather for his pleasure.

  “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the votive I’d forgotten to move after I lit it Friday night.

  “It’s called a yahrzeit candle. I lit it for my mother on Friday.”

  He nodded gravely.

  “Traditionally, they’re only lit on the anniversary of a death, but I do it sometimes when I need to feel closer to her.”

  “Does it help?”

  “It does.” The thought made me smile faintly. “I light a votive for my father at Holy Innocents on occasion, too. It’s the ceremony of stopping to remember them that gives comfort, I think.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “I’m not a theologian, and your vicar would probably label it ‘popery’ or ‘idolatry,’ but I don’t know anything wrong with taking a moment to light a candle, remember and ask God to take care of our lost ones.”

  Saint Aubyn’s eyes were a little too bright. “I am not especially interested in my vicar’s opinion at the moment.”

  I remembered he had narrowly averted a fight over poor Frances’s burial. If he was anything like Tommy, he probably felt he’d failed her. With far less cause than I had to feel the same. I turned to the whatnot and pulled another candle out of the drawer. “Here, if you want to try it yourself.”

  “Thank you. I just might. Is there a special prayer?”

  “Not one I can teach you. My Hebrew is awful.”

  “Really?” He smiled at that. “You, who have Italian, French, even Latin?”


  “Hebrew’s different, special, and fiendishly difficult. Someday, I suppose.”

  We were silent for a moment, watching the rain.

  Then he spoke again, turning the candle between his long fingers. “So, what do I do?”

  “Light the candle and say whatever prayer is right for you. I usually just pray that my mother is safe and happy and with my father.”

  “Perhaps safe, happy and singing for Frances.”

  “Whatever feels right. You’ll know.”

  “I suppose I will.” He started walking for the door again. “Thank you again, Miss Shane.”

  “Glad to help.”

  “You really are, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve told you before, there’s not enough kindness in the world. Where I can, I try to add to it.”

  Tommy and Father Michael appeared in the foyer as Saint Aubyn put on his coat and slipped the candle in his pocket, then picked up his umbrella. I knew what the boys were doing, however unnecessary it might be, and it made me smile.

  “Good night, Your Grace,” Tommy said. He had a bright and friendly expression that didn’t diminish the vague and, I was quite sure, intentional menace of his large presence. He hadn’t felt the need to do this a day ago, but perhaps now that it was after dark, he was concerned that the duke might be swept away by the moment. Or perhaps Preston had said something? Who knew?

  Father Michael added his own good night with a grin; he’d clearly twigged onto the idea that nothing untoward was going to happen here, and was simply enjoying the show.

  “Good night, Mr. Hurley, Father Riley.” Saint Aubyn bowed to both, then turned back to me with an impish grin of his own.

  “Good night, Your Grace.” I shared the grin, glad that he found the situation as amusing as I did.

  “Good night, Miss Shane. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

  “And you.”

  I heard Saint Aubyn’s laugh bubbling up as I closed the door, and I couldn’t control my own amusement anymore, either.

  “Really, boys,” I said through a giggle. “Did you honestly think there was some danger to my virtue?”

  Tommy had the good grace to laugh, too. “I wasn’t taking any chances. He’s a nice fellow and all, but he’s got that look. There’s no guarantee he might not try to steal a kiss.”