“When I do meet this gentleman,” he said at last, “I’ll tell him what you said.”
“Oh, please do. He’ll have a few nasty things to say about me, too, I’m sure. But we really ought to be nice. Why would he be here at all if he weren’t desperately lonely?”
He practically threw her away from him, taking a step back. Beatrice had always been plagued with a mouth that was a little too big and a little too full of salt and vinegar or, most offensive of all, too full of the truth. Still, she couldn’t imagine Benedick gave a hill of beans about her opinion—even if he truly believed she thought she was talking to a stranger.
“Sir, perhaps you—”
“Excuse me,” he muttered, the country accent gone, and stormed away. Beatrice watched him go, wondering if the slight twist in her stomach was, for the first time, guilt over speaking her mind.
CHAPTER 11
SHE SPEAKS PONIARDS, AND EVERY WORD STABS
Benedick knew the proverbial warning about girls who took the stuffing out of you, such as it were. Girls like Hero or his own mother, who had fled to Hollywood to star in films, whose effect paralyzed the tongue, turned the brain to potatoes. Benedick had always thought himself immune but had to consider if it wasn’t happening to him now, with this unlikely candidate.
The bass sound of strings beat off the stone wall and tickled the back of his neck. His gigantic mask rested on his knee. This was his favorite spot in Hey Nonny Nonny—the area just to the side of the band, among their instrument cases and abandoned cocktails. Cast in the shadow of the staging lights, it was beyond the reach of most eyes. He sat, leaning his head against the wall, the lit end of his cigarette bright in the darkness. He watched it slowly burn up but didn’t bring it to his lips. Every time he tried, Beatrice’s voice prattled about clogged chimney stacks.
It wasn’t as if he were one of those fellows who required girls to be sweet and adoring to him. Hero and Maggie, whom he considered on par with angels, weren’t halfhearted about taking off their wings when the situation called for it. But Beatrice went horns first all the time.
“I thought I’d find you here.” A figure materialized out of the gloom: Prince. He lowered himself next to Benedick and plucked the cigarette from his fingers. Without a word he blew it back to life and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. “Hello.”
“I’m never going to amount to anything. I’m going to die in utter obscurity, with nothing to mark my grave but a few pages of meaningless drivel.”
Prince didn’t blink. “We agreed,” he said, “no three-syllable words after midnight.”
“Syllable is a three-syllable word.”
Prince sighed, glanced over. “Look, I know your brain is large and perpetually at war with itself, but you will be published. You’re talented.”
“You’ve barely read my work.”
“Yes, but I listen to you talk. More than enough to fill a book.”
Benedick grinned and stole his cigarette back.
“I saw Beatrice,” said Prince. Benedick sat up straighter, like a plucked harp string. “Curious girl.”
“You understate it, Prince.”
“Seems she danced with a rather obnoxious gentleman.” Prince blew a smoke ring, followed by a sharp stream that knocked the top of the ring and made it a heart. “Why can’t you be nice?”
“Me?” Benedick flared up so quickly Prince startled backward. “I’m obnoxious? The most long-suffering saint would lose patience with that girl. I am, in her eyes, little better than the speakeasy’s mascot. She analyzes people like projects instead of actual human beings. I find her insufferable, and if it comes to sides, I expect you to take mine, Pedro Morello.” He took a deep breath, hot as a fired gun. Him, be nice!
“Well, at least you might have left her alone,” said Prince.
Indeed.
In his defense Benedick hadn’t disliked her so thoroughly until after he’d spoken with her, but he had been the one to seek her out. With the intention of bothering her, no less. He just hadn’t expected to lose the spat. Was that it? Or had he expected another outcome entirely?
“Rest assured,” Benedick said coldly, refusing to peek down that hidey-hole, “I will certainly leave her alone in the future.”
“Interesting,” Prince said.
“What? That she shares the same gene pool as Hero? I agree.”
“No.” Prince looked amused. “You. I’ve never seen you this passionate about a girl.”
Benedick reeled back. “You misuse the word passionate, Prince. And the word girl, for that matter, as she is more accurately a spawn of Satan.” Suddenly aware of the heat in his voice, he sank back and waved a dismissive hand. “But I see your point. The next time she says something to me, I’m going to smile and say, ‘That’s nice.’”
“An excellent plan.” Prince pushed himself up. “And now’s a good time to put it into practice since she’s coming over here.”
In his haste to sit up, Benedick slipped and smacked his elbow into the wall. “Shit—damn.”
“Yes, that’s how we say, ‘That’s nice,’ in Italian, too.”
Benedick scrambled to his feet. “She’ll see me if I try to leave and know I’m running away from her. Make yourself useful for once. Give me something to do.”
Too late. She arrived, and at her side was none other than Claude Blaine. Well dressed, handsome, sure of himself. Claude beamed brilliantly. He looked too rich for this place, a bit as though he were pandering to the masses.
“Miss Clark said she saw you wander over here, and so she was right, as I suspect”—here, Claude turned his golden smile in Beatrice’s direction—“she often is.”
Benedick was gratified to see that not even Claude’s charm could woo Beatrice. She smiled, but in a way that said she knew she’d been flattered and she saw right through it.
Better luck next time, old boy.
“I’ve brought you an admirer,” she said, turning to Benedick. “As I know how desperate you are for them. And for you, Signor Morello, a summons to return to the bar.”
A call Prince rarely ignored. Benedick was about to lose his ally. He asked, “What was it again you needed me to do?”
Prince considered and said, “Favor Beatrice with your company?”
I hate you, Benedick thought.
Prince smiled as if he’d heard him.
“Never fear, Mr. Scott,” said Beatrice. “You won’t be so burdened. I delivered one package and am to escort the second.” Naturally, Prince offered his arm, and away they went together, his nemesis and his best friend.
Claude watched them disappear into the crowd, then turned back to Benedick, the devil in his eye. “I saw your father at graduation this morning,” he said, leaning in, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Oh?” Benedick feigned indifference.
“I covered for you, though I’m not sure he believed a word I said. I told him you had friends in Flower Hill who were in dire need of help this weekend, and naturally you, being the good-hearted gentleman that you are, went at once to assist them.”
Naturally. No, Ambrose Scott wouldn’t have believed a word; Benedick could guarantee it. Scott men were not known for their altruistic tendencies. But his father had listened, and he’d heard at least two important words: Flower Hill.
“You didn’t mention Hey Nonny Nonny . . .” Benedick hedged.
“Well, not in such specifics. I didn’t say it was a speakeasy, though if you don’t mind my saying, I doubt your father gives a damn for Prohibition. I only said it was an enterprise. I was quite vague, to tell the truth.”
Good God. His father knew precisely where to find him. Benedick dragged a hand down his face and was filled with the profound desire to either flee immediately or drink himself into a nonsensical stupor. Luckily, he was in prime position to engage in the latter.
Claude either couldn’t see or didn’t understand the abject horror that must have been all over Benedick’s face. “Honestly, Ben, is that wh
at you’re doing here? Not that it’s not an okay joint, for the countryside, but it’s not our usual crowd.”
Benedick bristled at the “our.”
Even Claude, who really was the better end of their apparently hateful kind, could not shed the mark of a snob.
“Well,” said Benedick, skirting an answer, “I’m sorry it’s been disappointing to you in the end.”
“On the contrary,” Claude said, the words crisp and bouncy in his accent. “I brought half of Chapman with me, and everyone’s having a fine time, so far as I know. The music is first-rate. And the girl . . .” His eyes drifted toward the bar, though it was too far, with too many people between them, to see properly. “Hero Stahr. She is the most wonderful creature I’ve ever met. That’s all. I refuse to magnify. Except—she is perfect.” His laughter, Benedick hoped, signified self-awareness over how ridiculous he sounded. “Only there’s the niggle of a feeling she’s too worldly for me.”
“That feeling tells the truth. Let me know if it gives you any racing tips.” A sudden craving for inebriation struck Benedick: tobacco or large quantities of alcohol. Preferably both.
“That tall fella, Prince? She’s not his girl?”
Oh, she was. But not in the way Claude meant. Benedick said, “No, she’s free as a bird.” And Claude would fall for her song, and then he’d be looking at the sky, wondering where the hell he was, and she’d be gone as a dove that’d flown the coop.
“My mother arranged for me to spend most of the summer at Newport,” said Claude. “The Vanderbilts stay at The Breakers every summer, and she wants to get on the dowager’s good side. They’re still dead set on finding me an American deb . . .” He trailed off.
Benedick’s attention had glazed at “the Vanderbilts.”
“I’m going to send a telegram tomorrow morning,” Claude added. “Hero said there was an extra room here if I wanted to stay. It will be weeks before Mums gets wind of what’s happened to lecture me about it.”
“You’re staying?”
“Yes!” Claude practically burst with the word. “I have to. That’s honestly how it feels, Ben. I just have to get to know her.”
Bless his heart.
“That’s swell, Claude. Truly. Now what do you say we have a cocktail or three?”
CHAPTER 12
HE’S NOT IN YOUR GOOD BOOKS
Beatrice could not understand how she’d landed in her current predicament. No, that wasn’t true. Logistically she was aware of the series of events that had led to this point: Hero, leaving on Claude’s arm—“I’ve got to show him to his room”—and Prince helping a halfway-to-snoring Uncle Leo to his feet: “Beatrice, would you mind keeping an eye on Ben?”
It was just, in God’s name, why?
She’d assumed one of them would be back, even as the party waned into its twilight hours and only John, the band, and Father Francis remained, smoking and drinking onstage.
Neither Hero nor Prince had returned, and both had made such a fuss about Beatrice’s helping Benedick that she had the grudging suspicion they’d done it on purpose. If this was another you’d-make-a-swell-couple ruse, their plan had sorely backfired because Beatrice was even less inclined to him than before.
He stretched up from where he’d been draped like discarded laundry at a table. He swayed a little, then fumbled his way behind the bar, only to stare intently at the shelves filled with stacked glasses and a now sparse selection of bottles. The hidden door was the shelf case on the far left, but after pondering, Benedick went to the one on the right. He jiggled the wood, heaved against it with both hands, even kicked the bottom.
With a sigh, Beatrice slipped off her stool and went around to tap him on the shoulder. He turned, glaring. “I have no need of your assistance, Miss Clark. Kindly remove yourself from my presence at once.” His voice carried a bit of slur but didn’t slow, didn’t simplify.
“I’d hoped inebriation might reduce your pompous rhetoric, but it appears sobriety was your last restraint. That’s not the right shelf, Mr. Scott. Come here.”
He followed her to the left. “Pompous rhetoric,” he murmured. “I very much enjoy trying to guess what you’ll say next, except you are”—he paused, then sighed—“so horrible.”
They had a problem. Beatrice ran her hands along the lacquered shelves and lifted bottles to peer around the side and underneath, but she couldn’t find a handle or anything that would open it. She’d watched Prince slip in and out at least three times but apparently should have paid closer attention. Benedick was no help; eyes closed, he leaned dolefully against the shelf.
She glanced at the stage. Father Francis would probably know, or Maggie. But interrupting them would take just as long as going to the main entrance. “Listen,” she said, “we’re just going to have to leave the other way.”
“On second thought,” he said, beginning to slump to the ground, “that seems terribly far. I’ve decided I’ll sleep here tonight. Good evening, Miss Clark.”
“No, don’t you dare.”
To her surprise, he straightened, blinking as if he were more astonished by his obedience than she was. Tugging at his jacket sleeve when necessary, she coaxed him to the main door. Maggie waved cheerily—almost smugly, Beatrice thought—from the stage as they left. They made it to the cellar stairs, but someone had turned off the light.
They fumbled up a few steps in the dark.
“Not to worry,” said Benedick. A hiss, and his face swam into view behind a lit match. “I know where the light is. The string hangs down. By the door.”
Beatrice spotted it just as Benedick yelped in shock that the match was burning him and dropped it. She tried to find the string again, hand raised and searching; Benedick was doing the same thing, and they knocked into each other, limbs tangling, just as her fingers brushed—click. A tiny hanging lamp flickered on.
Again his face appeared, cast in swaying shadow, unbearably close to her own. He leaned against her. Whatever he’d been drinking, she could smell it full force. Just then he looked very young. He blinked slowly, eyes drifting to her shoulder. And he frowned.
Beatrice glanced down and noticed the small spider crawling on her sleeve. She let go of the string and flicked it off with two fingers. “Stand up, Ben. I’m practically carrying you.”
“Right, sorry.”
He shifted but only ended up leaning on her more.
“I’m up,” he said. “I think I’m standing.”
In defeat, she drew an arm around his torso. “I guess you won’t bite.”
“Only if you ask me nicely.”
She shoved against the cellar door, guided them both into the blessed fresh night air, and kicked the door closed with her foot.
“You’re quite strong, you know,” said Benedick, still on her shoulder, as they made their way into the house. “You shoot things and don’t fear spiders and are about as sweet as a lemon. What would a man even do with you?”
“The better question, Mr. Scott, is what would I do with a man?”
“Nothing?” He said it like an uncertain child in a classroom.
“Precisely.”
Why were there so many stairs in this house? Of course Benedick’s room had to be at the very top, and he had to be so close she kept feeling his cheek on her temple: warm and frankly not unpleasant enough considering how drunk he was. In fact drunkenness only shot him down to common, if that, which didn’t seem fair.
At long last they made it to his room. His bed—if he indeed owned one—would be even harder to find in the dark, so she deposited him on the ugly red couch. He was too big for it but curled like a content cat against the cushions and seemed to fall asleep instantly.
“Ben,” Beatrice said, irritated, and forced him back up so she could get his jacket and tie off. She unbuttoned his cuffs, but let the shirt stay on. She tugged off his shoes, muttering that this was what she’d do with a husband, no doubt, and she’d much rather get paid to act as nurse, thank you very much.
&nbs
p; She set his jacket over his shoulders as a blanket and straightened. There would be no sentimental watching of his slumber. Anyway, Benedick Scott was not the sort of creature that wanted for coddling, even like this.
Only when she was in her own room, removing her shoes, did it occur to her that she might never get another chance to use his typewriter.
The instant she’d seen it, she’d envisioned how good her admissions letter might look. Then he’d gone all dicey about it. . . .
Not that—
Obviously she was not in the habit of using someone else’s possessions without permission, but on the other hand, she could have left him on the floor behind the bar. One might consider a measly page and an ounce or two of ink payment for services rendered.
Excellent reasoning, Clark.
So decided, she went through her things to retrieve the information pamphlet on the Woman’s Medical College of the New York Infirmary. There were other colleges, but Beatrice wanted the one Elizabeth Blackwell had founded.
Armed with notes and the pamphlet, she edged open the door and peeked in, but Benedick hadn’t moved from where she’d left him. She cracked his window open a few inches, letting the chirp of deep night waft in, and turned the knob of the flat wick lamp she’d brought from her room until a dim glow lit the room.
She sat and loosened the paper already set into the platen. He’d typed one paragraph:
Perish the thought, me in love with this magnificently hideous bluestocking! For surely she was ugly, and yet there was never a question of attraction, because she had such beauty of thought. A luminous intelligence that outshone her perceived flaws. Small-minded criticisms of her visage could not withstand such tenderness, such strange, endless mystery in her eyes, of which most mortals had no conception, that left behind a sense of having encountered something truly exquisite.
Beatrice read it twice, the second time involuntarily, her eyes driven back up, so she might experience the paragraph again. Not that it wasn’t as wordy and tangled as what she’d expect Benedick to write. Maybe it wasn’t good. She wasn’t any proper critic of literature, but there was something . . .
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