It was not long before coincidence found Ella and Carling calling at the homes of mutual acquaintances at very nearly the same hour, and not long after that before they were discreetly lunching together at a cafe in Greenwich Village where waiters sang Italian opera. Soon he was walking with her around his building, explaining the several Spanish architectural styles of the Navarro Flats and the motifs of its various lobbies. Soon after that, she was in Carling's library viewing his small but quite exquisite collection of illuminated manuscripts, one of which he'd snatched practically from the hand of J. P. Morgan, whose agent was late to an auction, and his not inconsiderable collection of diamond studs, which were no less polished than Ansel himself. And no less hard.
In this way, ever more boldly and recklessly, in only the second year of her marriage to Tilden, Ella's ultimate destruction set its roots. Tilden suspected nothing, noting only that ever less about him seemed attractive or even tolerable to Ella. The announcement to her that he must voyage to London for ten weeks on a business matter brought an unexpected flicker of excitement to her eyes. For the briefest moment he thought that she would beg to accompany him, and, in fact, he had prepared himself to argue any such request by citing the dangers and discomforts of a two-week crossing in March. These reasons, in any case, would not be true ones. Business aside, a solitary crossing aboard a packet steamer in the company of rough-hewn men seemed a welcome tonic for a soul that found little peace of late. But Ella denied him the scene and speech he'd rehearsed for this occasion. Her interest, far from being in going with him, seemed to be more in the fact of his prolonged absence. Tilden, perversely, found himself both annoyed and disappointed. On the day of his departure there was only his father to see him off.
Ten weeks later, the trip a modest success, Tilden returned to a New York that had sprung miraculously to life with the flowers of May, although winter held fast inside his flat at the Osborne. He plunged back into his work. On a pretty afternoon a week later, he chose to leave his office at five, two hours short of his usual time, and to forsake the Sixth Avenue Elevated in favor of a long and invigorating walk up Fifth Avenue with perhaps a stop along the way for a sherry at one of his clubs. The nearer his stroll brought him toward Ella, however, the more doleful Tilden became. On the corner of Thirty-sixth Street, he paused for no reason that he knew. Georgiana Hastings's parlor house, he realized fully, was only a few doors down, but to stop in there now that he was married would be quite inappropriate. But perhaps not, he argued. Georgiana’s sherry was as good as could be found elsewhere and the conversation a good deal more cheerful. An hour at most.
“Good evening, sir.” A butler named Wilkins brightened with recognition. “‘Mrs. Hastings will be very pleased to see you again.”
“Thank you, Wilkins.” Tilden, warmed at once by the welcome, held out his walking stick and hat. ”I was just passing by and I thought—”
“Is that Tilden Beckwith?” A soft Southern accent flowed like honey down the stairway past the butler's shoulder. The glint of silver shoes and the skirt of a brocade gown from Worth of Paris came into view, then the narrow waist and bosom and welcoming smile of the proprietress of New York's finest sporting house. Georgiana was perhaps thirty-five years old, though she'd aged not at all since last he'd seen her, and from Charleston, it was said. Her hair, piled high, was the color of chestnuts before roasting, and her skin was like risen cream to which a drop or two of coffee had been added.
“Georgiana.” Tilden grinned, stepping forward and taking the ungloved hand she offered. “How wonderfully well you look.” More than well, she was quite lovely. She was also the first woman ever to have taken Tilden to her bed. He remembered gratefully how patient she'd been, how kind and encouraging, with the clumsy and painfully bashful young man soon to be graduated from Harvard.
“Are you here as a client,” she asked, “or dare I hope that you've come to see an old friend?”
“In truth I was rather tugged here in passing,” he told her. “It is a gentle place, Georgiana. A happy place. But not as a client, I think. Perhaps for a glass of your very fine Malmsey.”
”A happier place than some others, I gather. Come”— she took his arm in hers—“sit with me.”
She steered him toward the quietest of three sitting rooms on the first floor of her handsome town house. In one of the others Tilden caught a glimpse of a very wealthy yachtsman he knew, and a city official with Boss Croker's Tammany machine, and another man he thought might have been a judge. The latter was playing whist with a petite blond girl in a middy costume who seemed no more than thirteen. Annie, he recalled. Yes. Little Annie. She had looked thirteen when last he saw her as well, on the occasion of the bachelor party forced upon him by his friends, but he'd learned at that time that she was easily past twenty. Great heavens, he thought, does no one age in this place? Does no one frown?
”I see an uncommon weariness in your eyes, Tilden.” Georgiana led him across a velvet carpet to a small sofa that sat beneath two excellent paintings and an expensive gilt-framed mirror. A grand piano filled one corner of the room. “You are well, I hope? Your father is well?”
“His vigor isn't what it might be. He's been fighting the effects of cholera for twenty years now. But he speaks of retiring to the Carolinas soon.”
“Cholera.” She nodded. “It was aboard one of Cyrus Field's cable ships, was it not?”
“What a memory you have, Georgiana. When must I have told you that? Five years ago, at least.”
”A young man's pride in his father becomes him, Tilden. The laying of a telegraph cable all the way to Liverpool is a feat that dizzies one even to think on it.”
“The feat was Mr. Field's,” Tilden corrected her.
“But your father did assist; he secured the necessary funds when others thought the notion to be lunacy, and he did it at great peril to his health. Let that be our toast to him, Tilden. To that and to a rest in the Carolinas, well earned.”
A tray had appeared, brought by Wilkins, although Tilden had seen no signal. He waited while the butler poured the garnet-colored liquid and then picked up both glasses, handing one to Georgiana Hastings.
“And what of you, Tilden?” she asked, barely touching the sherry to her lips. “Now that you are here, how can I please you?”
“You have already with your kindness, dear lady.”
Georgiana reached for his hand and squeezed it. “It has been a long time since we've had a good talk. There is more than one way to find comfort in my house.” That remark was as near as Georgiana thought proper to asking him outright about Ella. One did not ask a client, not even an affectionate friend such as Tilden, about his wife or about his other personal baggage unless the client first showed a wish to unburden himself. But Tilden had come to her, more than a year ago, for her advice in understanding the mysteries of womanhood, and of the art of pleasing his new wife in their bedchamber, and of the sullen moods that overtake her every fourth week. And then, not two weeks past in this very house, Georgiana had overheard Ella's name and Tilden’s mentioned amid sneering laughter. She heard boasting of the ease with which Ella had been seduced, and of her contempt for the man she married, who was at that time abroad. They were Jay Gould's people. Something else was said, which Georgiana did not quite catch. It was about business. Business secrets, she thought. Cyrus Field's name had been mentioned. Could Ella possibly have been betraying her husband's business affairs as well? Georgiana did not know. In any case, the men were told that their patronage would not be welcomed in future.
“A.bite of supper then,” she offered. “What would you say to a plate of cold roast beef?”
“Nothing for me, thank you.” He snapped open his watch. “Actually, I should be getting home.”
”I will not permit it.” The young madam held fast to his hand. “No friend of mine may leave my house with any weight, however small, upon his heart. Perhaps some soothing music.” She gestured toward the Steinway. “You are partial to Bach, as
I remember.”
“You've learned to play?” he enthused, glad of a suggestion that did not require conversation.
“No new tricks for this old dog, I fear. Although I'll tell you in confidence that I've been plucking away at a harp when no one is listening. No, there is a young lady who has come to stay with me. She plays quite beautifully.”
Once again, Tilden saw no nod or glance in Wiíkins' direction, but in the foyer outside the parlor door he saw the butler's arm reach for a bell cord and give it a silent tug.
She was wonderful. She sat shyly, nervously, at the piano at first, never once meeting Tilden's eyes, forcing a small but pretty smile in answer to Georgiana's encouraging cough. But when her fingers caressed the keyboard and the melodic whisper of a Bach cantata caused even the chatter in the other room to cease, a look of dreamy contentment came over her. Tilden could see Wilkins at the door, thrilling to each exquisite counterpoint, his right hand twitching as if it held a baton. Little Annie, the childlike whore, appeared at the butler's elbow, beaming and shaking her fist in a soundless cheer. The slender girl at the piano looked up at her with a generous blushing smile, which to Tilden seemed to brighten the room by the light of another dozen mirrors. She completed the piece and, not waiting for applause, moved smoothly into a medley from the “Well-tempered Clavier” and several fugues, which heretofore Tilden had heard only in concert halls.
“Where did you find her?” he whispered.
“Wait.” Georgiana patted his hand. She brought her fingertips together under her chin and made a slight bow in the Oriental manner toward the young woman who was playing. Wilkins grinned in apparent anticipation, and Annie clapped her hands excitedly. A new sound filled the room, a delicate and haunting tune that called up images of a Japanese garden.
“What is that ‘piece?” Tilden asked softly. “It isn't Bach.”
“It's Gilbert and Sullivan. Their new operetta. Have you never heard The Mikado?”
“No.”
“She loves Gilbert and Sullivan. One day we'll coax her to sing for you as well.”
“Ask her now.”
“She's too shy. Shhh!”
“But it's her job, isn't it? She's one of your girls.”
“Not exactly. Be still, Tilden.”
A maid brought in a tray of cheeses and set them before Tilden, where they sat unnoticed. He could not take his eyes from the delicate dark-haired girl in the green high-necked dress whose heart was now adrift in the distant court of the Japanese emperor. When at last she finished and her heart returned, Tilden rose to his feet, clapping loudly, startling her as one might a forest deer.
“Thank you, sir,” she managed. Her enormous brown eyes met his for a fleeting moment and her soft smile caused a curious thumping in his chest.
“Margaret, dear,” Georgiana Hastings said, “this is Mr. Tilden Beckwith. He is here as a friend. Though he may look the part of a brawler, he is a very kindly young man.”
“How do you do, sir.” Something happened to the young woman's expression. The shyness remained but now she appeared to be studying Tilden, appraising him.
“Tilden Beckwith, this is Margaret Barrie. She lives in my house, she assists me, she plays music as you've heard, and she sometimes makes conversation with my guests. She has no other duties.”
”I am delighted, Miss Barrie.” Not to say relieved, he thought to himself.
“Thank you, sir.” She answered his bow with a curtsy. “Perhaps you'll visit again one day soon.”
”I believe I shall, miss. I believe I shall indeed.”
“Margaret,” Georgiana told her, “you may stay with us or go, as you prefer.”
”I have some of your correspondence to finish.” She gestured toward the stairs.
“Another time then. We'll talk tomorrow.”
“What was that all about?” Tilden asked when they were alone.
”I don't know your meaning, Tilden.”
“If this were a home of another sort, I would swear that a possible match was being arranged. She was evaluating me as if I were a prospective suitor.”
“Nonsense. She simply found you interesting.”
”I would never dream of contradicting a lady,” he said pleasantly, “not even a shameless schemer such as you. But you were matchmaking, were you not?”
“Discovered!” She laughed.
“Is Margaret one of your girls or is she not?”
“She is deciding, Tilden.” Georgiana stepped to the door and closed it. ' ‘And yes, I am matchmaking. I promised Margaret that she and I would choose her first guest together and in her own good time.”
“And I am being considered for the honor?” Tilden's smile faded.
“If you wish it, yes.”
Tilden found that he was appalled. He searched for a way of responding that would not insult Georgiana.
”I do not think I could bear that,” he said at last.
“May I ask why?”
“Well”—he threw up his hands as if the answer should be obvious—“romping with a girl who has already chosen that path is one thing. Deflowering virgins to make whores of them is quite another.”
“Margaret is hardly a virgin, Tilden.” Georgiana took his arm and forced him into his seat. “What she is is a quite charming young lady whose prospects have been limited by circumstance. I have offered her this alternative and suggested others. The decision will be her own.”
Tilden felt his cheeks becoming hot. While he had never considered that any girl within these walls might possibly
be unspoiled, it upset him to hear that Margaret was not the pure young thing she gave every outward appearance
of being. Nor, though he was not unworldly at the age of twenty-seven, had it ever occurred to him that the decision
to become a fille d ejoie must be consciously made at somepoint and with no small amount of consideration. He rose
again and stepped to the piano, where he touched his fingers to the keys she'd played for him. Her warmth was still upon
them. .
“She could teach piano,” he said quietly. “Why can she not teach piano?”
“She can,” Georgiana answered. “She might also teach French, in which she is fluent. But to earn a proper living at it she must teach in the better homes. Those homes will require references.. Margaret cannot provide them.”
“Cannot?”
“Margaret's story is like many another, Tilden,'' she said gently. “It is not unlike my own. She was well raised in an upright home, she met a young man, was betrayed by her own heart and by the young man as well, and once the whispers began she found herself without prospects for a decent marriage and probably without a roof over her head if her parents chose not to share her disgrace.”
“You say ‘probably.’ I assume you know her history perfectly well.”
”I know what she's chosen to tell me.”
“Who are her people? Where is she from?”
”I never ask that, Tilden.”
”I would like to know.”
“You have no such right.”
“Then I would like to know how a decent young girl, compromised or not, spurned by her family or not, heads straightaway to the front door of Georgiana Hastings's house and enrolls herself as an apprentice prostitute.” Tilden was becoming angry and did not quite know why. “It is a ridiculous story, Georgiana. It is the stuff of those melodramas which the Eagle Theater plays to weeping audiences. Surely a girl like Margaret could not have been without a friend or protector.”
”I am her friend,” the madam said evenly.
“You are her—” Tilden stopped himself.
“You were about to say that I am her ruin.” Georgiana withdrew her hand and folded it with the other across her lap. “Tilden,” she asked, “how do you suppose I find my girls? It is said that they are the handsomest and most cultivated young ladies of any house in New York. It is also said that there are twenty thousand prostitutes working their trade in t
his city. How do you suppose I find the best of them?”
”I have not considered it.”
“Of course you haven't. They are here, they are available for your pleasure, they are to be forgotten or denied when you leave, and that is that. What is it to you how they came here?”
Tilden sighed deeply. ”I stop in here for a quiet sherry and now I am an unfeeling beast. Since your business appears to be thriving, can I assume that not all your patrons receive this lecture? If I go to buy a new shirtwaist, am I hardhearted if I fail to consider the immigrant seamstress who ruins her eyes in the stitching of it for fifty cents a day?”
“You asked,” Georgiana reminded him. “You asked where she came from. You were also making judgments and you have no right to do so.”
Tilden threw up his arms in a gesture of surrender. “How did she come here, Georgiana?”
”I found her.”
“Poised to leap from a ledge, I presume.”
“Tilden—”
“I'm sorry.”
“Margaret has been in New York for a year,” she went on, “from someplace near Boston, I think. She tried, as you suggested, to teach piano. She then applied that same dexterity toward learning to be a typewriter. Margaret next secured a position with the New York World where a senior editor forced his attentions upon her and then fired her when she rebuffed him. I know a reporter there who told me the story. After she'd gone several months without employment, speaking of melodramas, her landlord offered to forgive her the back rent she owed in return for her favors. She refused and she was evicted. Margaret was on the street with her belongings when I went for her with my carriage.”
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