Speak Easy, Speak Love

by McKelle George

  A wave of disappointment swept through her.

  Never mind, she thought, and turned back to the main crowd as she fiddled with one of the pins. She was terrible at doing nothing.

  She’d forgotten, perhaps because he was so uninterested in it, that Benedick came from this shiny world. Here he was “Ambrose’s boy,” and he never failed to answer, with aplomb, when called upon, but he kept to himself when he had the choice, shoulders hunched with a misery that seemed to do with more than just gray weather. How carelessly he switched himself on and off; engrossed and uninterested at the same time. The kind of person to make friends easily and not even want them.

  Soon enough he was chatting with an older gentleman and looked, for perhaps the first time since she’d met him, perfectly polite and deferential. The old man leaned on his cane and occasionally used it to rap Benedick’s shoe.

  “Miss Clark, you look quite different unarmed and in a dress.”

  She turned, and there was Conrade Minsky. He smiled; he had rosy cheeks, and for some reason she couldn’t stop staring at them; they seemed absurd on his face.

  Conrade nodded toward Benedick. “Leave it to Benedick Scott to chat up Payne Chutney like it’s nothing. The old dodger looks about ready to croak where he stands. I heard the estate is positively infected with Chutneys all hoping to get a slice of his fortune. Maybe he’ll give Ben a couple of thousand for sheer audacity.”

  Had he sauntered over here to gossip with her, of all things? Finally she said, “You’re risking a lot on the assumption that I’m unarmed.”

  Conrade looked at her, his head tilted. “Are you hiding a shotgun under your skirt?”

  “Not all weapons are long-barreled guns.”

  “I can’t tell if that means you have a smaller gun or if you consider your tongue a weapon.”

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t press me to find out.”

  His smile widened. “Miss Clark, would you like to come out to the theater sometime?”

  “Your mother’s theater? The vaudeville shows?”

  “You’ve heard of us, I see.”

  “What’s your angle, Mr. Minsky? If you’re hoping to ferret some insider information by telling me I have pretty eyes, I’m afraid you won’t have much luck.”

  “I never said you have pretty eyes.”

  “And I don’t have much interest in vaudeville shows. Alas, an impasse.”

  “What would interest you? A shooting range? Trouser shopping?”

  “How about a padlock over the door of your family business?” Beatrice asked. “Put that in your mother’s ten-inch cigarette holder and smoke it.”

  Conrade laughed—which frankly caught Beatrice off guard. Even more so when he leaned in and said, “I think your eyes are stunning.” He straightened before she could reply, the mirth dropping out of his face. “Hello, Ben,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Clark. I’d hate to say anything untoward in front of a lady, and Mr. Scott tends to draw such indiscretion out of me. Maybe you’ll save me a slow dance at Hero’s birthday party?”

  “You’re not invited!” Benedick called at his retreating back.

  Conrade turned, walked backward with his hands in his pockets, and grinned. “Not by you anyway,” he said, and spun around.

  “Not by anyone,” Benedick said, turning to Beatrice, “I should hope.”

  “What makes you think I would?” she asked.

  “I don’t. I’m just confirming.”

  “Maybe he actually likes me. Did you ever think of that?”

  “Oh, yes, you and your stunning eyes.”

  “Maybe they are stunning.”

  “They’re not.”

  Her teeth ground together. As calmly as she could manage, she said, “Even if he was flirting, I am not the kind of girl to be flattered into forgiveness, so you may take your concern and shove it elsewhere. I do have some suggestions if you’d like directional advice.”

  “Of course you are never that kind of girl. Maybe all the other silly, common girls, but never you, brilliant you.”

  She stepped close and jabbed him hard in the chest. “I’ve had just about enough of this. You’re only acting so nasty because I didn’t fawn all over your stupid novel!”

  “That is not—” He stopped, lowering his voice to a hiss. “That is not why.”

  “Then you admit you are acting like a nasty little stink.”

  His face twitched with exasperation. “I wouldn’t sic you on my worst enemy. So there, that’s the real reason. I’m sparing Conrade Minsky a scratched face, one man to another.”

  “How about I scratch your face? Can’t make it worse.”

  “I—” He visibly stopped himself. His eyes closed, and his hand curled into a slow fist, which he pressed briefly to his mouth. After a careful breath he opened his eyes and said, “Good day, Miss Clark.”

  And then he walked away.

  She stood there aghast. How dare he walk off in the middle of a sparring match? And then she strode after him. He picked up his pace, a tic appearing in his clenched jaw.

  “Is that any way to treat a lady?” she asked.

  There, she’d practically gift wrapped it for him. If I happen to come across one, he’d say, I’ll be sure to take that advice to heart.

  Nothing!

  She grabbed his arm. He yanked it free but whirled around, so quickly they almost collided. “Do you want something, Miss Clark?” His swift stride had carried them far beyond the pavilion and the crowd. No shade to block the morning sun, which had turned away from rain to become obnoxiously bright. In this setting he had the advantage, his hair lit up like gold, his clothes tailored against any sort of rumpling.

  Breathless, missing a glove, she said, “You spent three pages on a man ruminating over the coffee grounds in his cup!”

  “That was metaphorical,” he hissed. “It represented the shambles of his life. Haven’t you ever read a modern novel?”

  “What about the ten pages he spent wandering the streets, hating everything, and possibly lusting after cockroaches? I couldn’t quite tell.”

  “That was stream of consciousness; it’s art.”

  “And what about . . .” Beatrice trailed off. She didn’t want to admit to stealing that other paragraph, the one she didn’t want to give back because it was sort of lovely. He had a gift for storytelling: the way he described their encounter with Sage? Or first coming to Hey Nonny Nonny? “What I mean to say is, maybe you ought to write something happier.”

  That was not the right thing to say. Immediately his expression darkened, and it had been no ray of sunshine before. “Enough, Beatrice. I asked for your honest opinion, and I got it and I thanked you. I assure you there’s no need to dump salt on it.”

  “If I had known you’d act like this, I would never have agreed to read it.”

  “Really? Do other people’s feelings matter to you now?”

  That one stung. “Would you have preferred that I lied?”

  “I asked because I knew you wouldn’t.”

  “Then stop condemning me for it! You avoid me, you won’t speak to me—”

  “Sharp as a marble, as ever, Miss Clark. I’m not avoiding you; I am indifferent to you, so far as I can be when you’re not chasing me across a lawn.”

  “But why?”

  It was a silly thing to say.

  She felt it all the more when he gave a hard and pointed laugh. “The street cuts both ways, wonder girl,” he said. “You can’t dole out judgments and expect not to be judged.”

  “I don’t!”

  “Oh, no?” he asked quietly. “You don’t assume if someone has money, they’ve automatically had an easier time than you? That their suffering is not quite as deep as yours? You don’t think that if only you were in my shoes, all your problems would be solved? You don’t resent my choosing not to use my advantages in the same way you would?”

  Beatrice found she had nothing to say to that.

  “Well, I apologize,” he said. “I�
��m sorry I haven’t buckled down and made something useful of myself. I’m sorry I couldn’t accept my gilded lot like a proper heir, but you’ll find a lot of humans behave in their own interests—”

  “That’s not fair! I am just as human—”

  “Are you, though? You’re more like a train, always moving forward, stopping for no one, and God help anyone who gets caught under your wheels. You don’t care if anyone likes you because no relationship with any flesh-and-blood person matters so much as becoming a doctor. No one wants to be told all the ways they’re falling short of your lofty standard of humanity. Kindly allow me the relief of not engaging with you.”

  Beatrice felt as winded as if she’d sprinted the hundred-yard dash. Her breath came short, her chest rising and falling; spots of heat erupted along her neck and collarbone. She wouldn’t admit to him that he was right and it had made her so lonely at times, nobody saying a word to her, only trivial greetings in a cramped dorm room at the beginning and end of a day. Studying, studying.

  So, this was what it felt like to get hit between the eyes with the truth?

  She couldn’t say she cared for it, but neither could she blame him. Some dazed part of her even wanted to compliment how poetically he’d eviscerated her; he did have a way with words.

  “Yoo-hoo!”

  Beatrice glanced up. Hero waved, pulling Claude along.

  “Claude says everybody’s headed to the Cherry Hill Club. Prince has utterly refused to join us, but I know you won’t disappoint me.”

  “I’m afraid,” Beatrice said carefully, “that I will. I’m not sure a country club will be good for my stomach just now.”

  “You know what?” Benedick said. “It would be terrific for mine; I’ll come.”

  Hero’s red mouth pursed as if they’d each said the exact opposite of what she’d wanted.

  Beatrice had only herself to blame. She’d gotten too comfortable; wasn’t that always the way? She’d been here a week. What did she think, that she could just arrive somewhere, out of the blue without any money, and have a home forever after?

  Of course not.

  She yanked her nightshirt on, washed up, and climbed into bed. A bed for now. Not her bed. She supposed she’d never have one until she’d saved up and bought one for herself. She bunched up the sheets around her chin, ignoring the way her heart caught every time she heard a footstep overhead.

  She hadn’t gotten any closer to sleep when her door opened and a pale blur slipped inside. Without a word Hero crawled into Beatrice’s bed and, smelling of perfume and powder, snuggled against her. “Oh!” Hero hushed. “How cool you are.” She dug her toes into Beatrice’s calf and put her warm cheek on Beatrice’s bare shoulder. “Mmm.”

  Beatrice didn’t know what to say. Hero didn’t seem sick or hurt. “Are you all right?” she asked finally.

  “Isn’t Claude a dreamboat?”

  Beatrice twisted onto her back. “The boatiest. Objectively speaking.”

  “But truly, do you like him? I’m asking because you’re so sensible. I can’t tell my own head when I like them like this.” Hero sat up on her elbow. Her skin glowed luminescent in the darkness. Oh, she had it all over, like a bad rash. “Of course the real matter at hand was that heated discussion I spied between you and Ben. Lover’s spat?”

  Even his name was like getting struck by a paralyzing needle; Beatrice’s skin tightened and recoiled. “No. A regular spat. Between two people who don’t like each other.”

  “The line between like and dislike is almost invisible when attraction’s involved.” Hero’s tone turned sly.

  “Which it isn’t!” Beatrice made an Olympic effort to keep the dragon out of her voice. She only partially succeeded.

  “If you’d give him a little something to hang on to, compliment him, take his arm—”

  “Hero.” Beatrice sat fully upright. “I don’t want to hear it! I don’t like him, and I don’t secretly hope he likes me, and here’s something else: You’re a real piece of work, do you know that? I bet you’re only trying to push us together now because you saw me with Prince, and you’re worried you might lose your most loyal manservant.”

  Hero’s mouth opened.

  The silence was awful. Hero drew back, as if she were gathering every invisible piece of herself like scattered clothes, then slid off the bed and was out the door before Beatrice remembered to breathe again.

  Beatrice drew her knees up and rested her forehead on them. Well, there was a nice and tidy way to prove Benedick right. She knew she wasn’t much for charm; it had always been her policy to be honest and to be kind, and then at least she had nothing to be ashamed over.

  Of course kindness and honesty didn’t always go hand in hand, did they? Occasionally one trumped the other, and that was where she got into hot water. Like with Benedick. Like with Hero.

  Benedick could loop a brick around his neck and drown in a lake for all she cared, but as it turned out, she did care, very much, about Hero.

  Just like the rest of them, Beatrice had fallen head over her heels for her charming cousin. Based on that first day meeting her, Beatrice hadn’t been sure they’d get along as friends. Family was family, but you didn’t always do more than politely stand each other when it came to things like fun and conversation.

  But then Beatrice did like her. A reckoning here and there of true fondness that expanded outward. Until suddenly she looked around and wanted to punch out the lights of some middle-aged woman for hurting Hero’s feelings.

  Only now Beatrice was the one hurting her feelings.

  She lifted her head so her chin rested on her knees and glared into the darkness. Don’t be such a piker, Clark.

  So decided, she marched from her room to Hero’s. She knocked on the door and opened it without an answer, before she lost her nerve. Hero was brushing her hair at the end of her bed. Her eyes narrowed at Beatrice’s entrance.

  “I’m sorry,” Beatrice burst out clumsily. “Please. I was only mad because Benedick said some things to me that were very . . . well, true.” She finished lamely. “But I’ll kiss him on his stupid mouth if you’ll be my friend again.”

  “Beatrice.” Hero’s eyes had gone from coolly regarding to surprised and then at last to tender. “Come here, you daft bird.” She patted the space next to her, and Beatrice shuffled over like a cowed puppy. She sank next to Hero and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Are you tired of me?” Beatrice asked.

  “Maybe I am just at this moment, but aren’t you a little tired of me, too?”

  “I lost my temper.”

  “So? Everybody does some time or other. Sometimes I’ll be sick to death of you and wish you’d jump out a window, but the way this works is that even when that happens, even if I actually tell you to jump out the window, you don’t have to. You can stay. I’ll expect you to stay even after I tell you to go away.”

  That was the single most baffling and perfect thing Beatrice had ever heard. “That’s nuts.”

  Hero laughed. She tucked her arm into Beatrice’s. “In normal protocol, I would take up not speaking to you for at least a day, except for an underhanded gibe at your hair over breakfast, but in this one particular case we’ll skip that step and go straight back to loving each other.”

  “Do you?” Beatrice asked, surprised.

  Hero turned to look at Beatrice over her shoulder and batted her eyelashes hard enough to start a windstorm. “Do you not?”

  Beatrice laughed. “I guess I do.”

  Hero pulled her back, until they were nestled under the covers together. “Anyway,” said Hero, “you were maybe a little right. I might have gotten just the teensiest bit jealous. Prince wouldn’t take me to look at rusty old planes, I know that much, but I don’t want to look at rusty old planes, so I guess that’s not really fair.”

  “You’ve never been sweet on him?”

  “Not like that. It’s easy to be sweet before you like them. And a girl’s got to have her spark. I depend on Pr
ince like my own arm, but kissing your elbow doesn’t make you dizzy, if you know what I mean.”

  “Claude makes you dizzy.”

  “As a merry-go-round. He kisses like a matador. At the airstrip today I kept imagining what it would be like to be Mrs. Claude Blaine. Going to luncheons and parties and charity banquets. Wearing pretty hats like those women. He’s a real gentleman. Do you think he’d love me, even though I’m not cultured or upper class?”

  Beatrice couldn’t think of any boy who’d care how cultured Hero was. Forget how she looked in a dress and heels; she was witty and warmhearted. “He’d be a dope not to.”

  “I bet I could make him happy,” said Hero. “We’d live in a big house, I guess. And the only thing I’d worry about was which fancy school to send our perfect children to and whether we should summer on Long Island or in Dorset.”

  So far Hero hadn’t mentioned a single advantage that pertained to Claude personally. She seemed more infatuated with his ability to show her the world and all that was in it than the boy himself.

  “He played halfback on the football team”—Hero continued—“and he was an honor student. His parents want him to stay in America and get into politics. He’s got two older brothers and a sister who are practically running Britain by now, he says. He’s going to law school.”

  “Oh, law school. Of course he could love you. You haven’t known him long, that’s all.”

  “I guess not. But I have a gut feeling. That’s how Mama knew to marry Papa. He gave her a card after she clocked him. And that night she took it out and thought, ‘That’s my husband.’ She knew it then. She always said if I ever found a man I loved, I shouldn’t waste time. I should go right up to him and say, ‘The thing is, I love you. How about we get married?’”

  Beatrice had never put much stock in gut feelings. Most of the time it was a rotten piece of meat more than anything else, but it was also true that the same molecules that registered information in the brain also appeared in organs like the intestines, stomach, heart, liver, kidneys, and spine; these, too, could send and register information. So one could, she supposed, have a legitimate “gut” feeling.