“And Miss Ella would flatten him!” Father Michael said. “Tom, you missed that one pretty wide.”
“Probably. But there’s nothing wrong with letting people know Heller’s properly defended.”
I patted Tommy’s cheek. “Indeed there isn’t.”
We three stood there for a moment. Then Father Michael smiled. “Would Mrs. Grazich have left a bit more cake?”
“Probably,” I said. “I’ll investigate.”
Tommy piped up, turning to Father Michael with a competitive gleam in his eye. “And I believe you owe me a rubber match on checkers.”
Father Michael stayed behind as Tommy went to set up the board. “I am sorry I was a little—”
I shook my head. “He understood, and, more important, I do.”
“He’s a good man, for a duke.”
“I agree.”
The priest’s perceptive brown eyes focused on my face. “He pinned me right back on your faith. He didn’t have to stand up for you like that. Didn’t even have to notice it.”
“He’s not your usual duke.”
“I’m not familiar with the run of dukes, but I’d have to agree.”
“Rematch, now!” Tommy called.
I sighed. Just another typical night at the town house. I hoped Saint Aubyn would get some comfort from the candle, but I suspected the good laugh at Tommy and the father’s expense might help just as much.
Chapter 26
Perfidy and Prejudice Among the Lilacs
I walked out to Chalfont’s Pharmacy next morning to place an order for a new supply of throat lozenges, and, not incidentally, just to enjoy a stroll in the spring air. Even though it was a little chilly, and there were a few clouds at the edge of the sky, it was still a May morning. Since it would be a busy afternoon of fencing with the comte, vocal practice with Louis and fittings with Anna, the errand might be my only chance to get out and smell the flowers.
Mr. Chalfont was behind the counter again when I stepped in. He finished with his customer, then glanced over at the few other people browsing amongst the nostrums and turned to me.
“Miss Shane. Delightful to see you.”
“Thanks. Yourself as well.”
“Perhaps not so delightful alone?”
I narrowed my eyes.
“I saw the paper this morning. So your friend is a duke. And the dolly was his cousin, wasn’t she?”
“All true.”
“Well, I did a little checking around after I talked to you two. There are several patent medicines with nicotine in them, but the only one popular among young ladies is Mrs. Redfern’s Beauty Tonic. Nicotine and an emetic, among other things. Nasty stuff.”
“I’ll say.” Later I will ask Saint Aubyn to check the box in Frances’s trunk, I thought. I remembered it was a Mrs. Something’s Something, but that was all. I looked at the druggist. “Have you ever heard of young women vomiting up what they eat?”
He thought for a measure or two. “I’ve heard of it a few times. Obviously, for most people, not getting enough food is a bigger problem than not keeping it in . . . but once in a great while, I’ve seen a mother or father who’s trying to stop a daughter from doing it.”
“Is there a cure?”
Mr. Chalfont sighed, much as Dr. Silver had. “Not that I know of. I think it’s a problem of the heart and mind. We don’t know nearly enough about that.”
“Isn’t that the truth.”
We shook our heads in silence for a moment, and I finally moved on. “Anyway, I find I am running low on throat lozenges, so I might as well put in the order for the tour, as well as the usual beauty supplies.”
He smiled. “We’ll get right to it. Still prefer my daughter’s cold cream to that stuff they sell at the theatrical supply house?”
“Of course. My skin is happy. I don’t argue.”
“Indeed. You could probably make a few dollars endorsing cosmetics the way some actresses do.”
“They’re actresses, Mr. Chalfont,” I reminded him.
“Of course, they are. And you are not.” He gave me a wry smile, having heard my thoughts on the topic more than once. “I’ll send your delivery around in a few days.”
“Thank you.”
“And give your duke my condolences.”
“He’s not my duke.”
“Don’t tell him that.”
I took the long way home, through Washington Square Park, enjoying the flowers in bloom, and the scene, with little boys chasing each other on the paths, a few ladies on velocipedes, and the elegantly-dressed women risking the weather to show off their spring hats. I’d only worn my second-best, because I did not like the look of those clouds.
I walked on, turning down the side path that would lead me toward home. The lilacs had just come out, and I stopped to smell a cluster, bending to bury my nose in the soft, pale purple flowers, and breathing deeply of the heavenly scent that can’t be distilled or simulated. Lilacs are the only flower I really love.
“Miss Shane, is that you?” called a carefully-cultured voice behind me.
I turned to see Aline Corbyn, garbed in eau de nil silk and matching hat, with ostrich plumes; her youngest, and only unmarried, daughter trailed behind her in a suitable white dress with straw hat. I believed the last Corbyn was coming out this year. Her older sisters had married appropriately, but not brilliantly by mama’s standards.
And suddenly even a product of a Lower East Side primary school could do this math. I stole a glance at the daughter as I rose to greet her mother, and I came away with an impression of limp sandy hair, bored grayish eyes, and a sullen pout. Yes, no doubt, Gilbert Saint Aubyn would be entirely swept away.
“Mrs. Corbyn, how nice to see you. And your lovely daughter.” I smiled and bowed appropriately.
“Yes. Pamela came for a walk with me. It’s so important for young ladies to get their fresh air.”
“All ladies, really,” I said with a light laugh. “I know I need mine.”
Pamela just gave me a leaden glare.
“Why don’t you go draw the roses, dear?” Mrs. Corbyn said to her daughter as she moved toward me. “I’d like to walk a bit with Miss Shane.”
“Certainly.” I fell into line beside her, wishing I’d worn my best hat despite the risk of rain. Pamela took her sketch kit and scuttled away to a nearby bench. I hoped she was better at that than conversation. “A lovely musicale the other day.”
“Yes. My father was quite transported by your ‘Ave Maria.’”
“Thank you. It was a privilege to give him some comfort. I understand it was his mother’s birthday.”
Mrs. Corbyn nodded. I waited. I knew something was going on here, probably a request for a performance at a special soiree or some such thing, and I hoped she’d just get it over with.
“He also told me what he said to you, and I’m terribly sorry if he gave you the wrong impression.”
No? Really? I managed a light social laugh. “I’m well aware of the pleasantries, Mrs. Corbyn. I don’t expect your papa to show up at my door with roses, and, in fact, I quite hope he doesn’t.”
“No, dear. I meant his comment about a diva can look at a duke.”
Oh. Well, meet the society mama, I thought. I looked at her face, which I’d always thought seemed kinder and friendlier than some of the other matrons, who made no bones about looking down on the likes of me. But that, of course, was before there was a coronet at stake.
“Of course, he was being kind, but I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea, dear. Just for your own good.”
My own good, or that of your surly daughter . . . and your social standing? I nodded carefully, keeping my eyes on her face. I was going to make her say it. Make her look me in the eye and tell me I was not worthy.
“You know a man like the duke can’t marry outside his own circle. If he’s spending time with you, dear, it’s not because he wants to court you.”
Tommy and his boxer friends would have had many suitable words
for her at that moment, none of which would have been appropriate for me to use. I contented myself with the thought that even if Mrs. Corbyn did think she was clearing the field, her sweet Pamela would not catch Gilbert Saint Aubyn’s eye unless she accidentally stuck one of her colored pencils in it.
“Thank you for your kind concern,” I said with a polite smile—and the cool voice that only years of training can produce. “I’ve merely been helping the duke find out about an unfortunate relative’s life in America. I have no interest in courtship or anything else, as you no doubt know.”
“No?”
“No, Mrs. Corbyn. I am married to my art.”
She didn’t even try to conceal her relief; I had the distinct impression she wanted to do a cartwheel right there on the cobblestones, but she hung on to some filament of demeanor.
“I do hope you’re not offended. I know you did not grow up in the highest circles, and I did not want you to be led down the primrose path.”
“Thank you for the warning.” And for slipping in yet another reminder that I was not quality. I looked at the watch on my charm bracelet. “I’m so sorry. I have a full afternoon of rehearsals and practices.”
“I wouldn’t want to keep you. Are you singing at the settlement house benefit?”
“Yes. The Balcony Scene, with Marie de l’Artois.”
“She’s returned from her indisposition? Splendid.” Aline Corbyn’s face lit up with genuine interest. “I will look forward to it.”
We bowed, and I walked on toward the town house as the sun faded from the sky, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. I’d held my own in the heat of battle, but, good Lord, it was crushing.
Not that I had any real desire for Saint Aubyn to court me, or any idea what might come of it if he did. What hurt was the attitude that I was unworthy. No matter what I do, no matter how well I do it, no matter how much the world changes, I’m still just an orphan girl from the Lower East Side, and there will always be someone to remind me of that fact. As I turned for my street, with the first drops of rain starting to fall from the heavy gray clouds, I could cheerfully have burst into tears myself.
I wasn’t really wet at all when I walked in, but I was pretty miserable. I took off my pretty hat, now a little damp, and just sat down on the chair in the foyer for a moment.
“Heller? Is that you?”
Tommy bounded down the stairs, smiling, newspaper in hand. “Hetty did well by your man, the duke.”
“Not my man,” I said slowly, Mrs. Corbyn’s sleek well-fed face still too fresh in my memory.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just another little reminder of who I am and where I’m from served up by someone I thought was better than that.”
Tommy stood over me for a second, then took my hands and pulled me to my feet, dragging me over to the hall mirror. “Come here. Look at us.”
“All right.”
Weepish as I was, we did make a handsome, prosperous pair—a far cry from the tenements of our birth.
“What do you see?”
“The Champ and the Diva.” I smiled in spite of myself. “A couple of Lower East Side kids made good.”
“Damn good.”
“Yes. Damn good.”
“And what do we Irish say to anyone who tries to make us feel inferior?”
“The hell with you.”
“Exactly.” He pulled me into a hug and I put my head on his shoulder. “I don’t know who it was, or what they said, but the absolute hell with them, sweetheart.”
Chapter 27
In Which We Make Our Duke Useful
The cold rain continued falling that afternoon, but thanks to Toms, I quickly recovered my balance after that nasty run-in with Mrs. Corbyn. I put my wet hat in a window to dry and hung up my damp clothes. I changed into my breeches for my fencing lesson with the comte (Mr. Woods!), and the whirl of the busy day quickly spun away the low spirits.
Most of them, anyhow. With a sad little look on her face, between my fencing lesson and vocalization, Rosa brought me the latest edition of the Illustrated News. “I hope it ain’t true, miss.”
“ ‘Ain’t’ ain’t a word, Rosa, and very little in the yellow papers is true, anyway.”
She just nodded at “The Lorgnette”:
“The Lorgnette” breathes a sigh of relief with word that there is no danger of losing Miss Ella Shane to the Empire. We hear that her gentleman friend is merely an old acquaintance from London, a genuine duke who is actually in town to pay court at the Corbyn manse. A happy announcement may be coming soon. We hear Miss Shane is likely to sing at the blissful occasion, since she is known for her transcendent “Ave Maria.”
My compliments, Mrs. Corbyn, for that extra little twist of the knife, I thought. I just shook my head at Rosa, then tossed the paper down on the side table by the chaise, on top of Hetty’s article, reminding myself of Toms’s excellent phrase: “the absolute hell with them.”
Henry Gosling appeared after my fencing lesson with a list of baritones for the tour. He quickly assessed the whirlwind of the house and decided not to stay for coffee, though he did accept a small plate of Mrs. G’s raisin bars. He also assured me he’d thoroughly checked their professional references, and his new investigator, the future son-in-law, was taking an equally careful look at their personal habits. We’d probably start auditions within the week.
* * *
Preparations for the big settlement house benefit were in full swing when Gilbert Saint Aubyn appeared at the town house a bit later. Louis was pushing me into top form with a good vocalization session, with Montezuma, of course, following along, when Rosa dashed upstairs. I’d been hoping it would be her younger sister, Sophia, whom I’d asked her to send for—so she could watch the Morsel for Anna and Louis while we worked. But . . . no.
I ran down the stairs, laughing when I realized I was still in my breeches from fencing practice the hour before, with my shirt and hair more than a little disheveled. Poor Saint Aubyn will never get a chance to get used to me in clothes, as he puts it.
He didn’t seem to mind when he saw me, smiling as I walked him into the parlor.
“I came over to thank you for introducing me to your reporter friend. Her article this morning was kind and sensitive, and certainly seemed to shut the door on the matter.”
“She’s rather wonderful. I wish they’d give her something more to do than features on parties and hats.” I sighed, glad to think about a different newspaper item.
“But, surely, she doesn’t dream of covering politics and murders.”
I smiled at that. “Of course, she does. She’s a reporter.”
“And a woman.”
“The two are not mutually exclusive.”
“I suppose not.” He shook his head. “Is this yet another area where we will need to adjust our attitudes for the new century?”
“Probably.”
“New women, new world, what next?”
I had nothing to say to that, so I just laughed. As I did, I felt a tug on the untucked back of my shirt. Little Morrie had gotten away from Anna, not surprisingly, since she was busy with some very fine needlework. I scooped up the little cherub.
“Miss Ewwa,” he said, cuddling into me and turning his face up to mine.
After rubbing noses, I tried to figure out what to do next. I’d have happily enjoyed a few moments with the Morsel, but there was far too much to do on this day. As I cast about for a solution to this particular babysitting conundrum, my eyes landed on the duke. Well, time for His Grace to make himself useful, as well as ornamental.
“What’s this?” he asked, not unkindly, looking at the little fellow.
“A child.”
“I am aware of that. What are you—”
“Here.” I handed him the Morsel before he could protest.
To his credit, he didn’t drop him. “What am I supposed to do with . . . him?”
The Morsel batted his big blue eyes at Gilbert Saint Aubyn. �
�He-wo, Mr. Man.”
Like all other humans when confronted with the Morsel in full effect, the Wicked Duke melted. “Ah . . .”
“Watch him. Anna’s taking in Marie’s costume, I need to do my vocalization with Louis, and Tommy’s meeting with the theater owners about the tour, so you’ll have to do.”
The Morsel snuggled into Saint Aubyn’s arms and smiled up into his face, which actually spoke very well of the duke. Young Master Abramovitz is an excellent judge of character.
“How long—”
“Until Rosa’s sister Sophia gets here. May be a while.”
His eyes widened in absolute terror. “I don’t know anything about children.”
“You managed to produce an ‘heir and spare.’ I have no doubt—”
“I didn’t care for them!”
I should have been moved to pity, or something, by the note of panic in his voice, but I found myself devilishly amused. “Well, you men like to tell us that taking care of children is the most important and sacred job there is.” I allowed myself a wicked smile. “I’m sure you’re up to it.”
“But—”
“The Morsel’s a good sort. Just don’t let him near your watch or anything else mechanical you may have. He’ll take it apart.”
“The Morsel?”
“As in little morsel of humanity. Full name, Morris Abramovitz.”
“Cookie?” asked the young gentleman in question.
“Absolutely.” I grabbed the plate of cookies off the table and handed it to His Grace. Mrs. G had prepared a nice nursery tea for the little fellow. “There’s milk in the carafe. He can drink from a cup just fine.”
The Morsel took his cookie and smiled radiantly at the duke. “Thanks, Mr. Man.”
“You’re very welcome.” The icy blue eyes narrowed at me over the curly blond head.
I just grinned at him. “Thanks. Enjoy.”
Little sister Sophia never did get there. She’s a bit flighty. It was nearly dark by the time I got back downstairs, halfway expecting to find a battleground.
Instead, Gilbert Saint Aubyn was asleep on the chaise, with the Morsel happily curled up on his shoulder. Both had gone to dreamland, and were utterly adorable. The sight brought up all sorts of unfamiliar and uncomfortable feelings. I took a deep breath, trying to tamp them back down into the lockbox where I keep the things I can’t afford.
A Fatal Finale Page 21