“Your confidence in me leaves me speechless.”
“I know how touchy you can be when you don’t get your own way. You’re like a little boy. Women only like little boys when they’re adorable and need mothering, not when they’re spoiled and temperamental. If you’re not careful, you may find yourself sent to bed without any supper.”
Tracey felt the balance shifting again, out of his favor. Nell’s picture of reality did not conform to his ideal. Frustration began to rise inside him at the thought of the work involved in bringing Francesca to heel. Charm grew tiresome and Nell was right about his temper. These women with their money, he thought. Of all of them, Nell Ryder was the worst. Suddenly he felt as if he were no closer now to his goal of independence than he was before. That’s ridiculous, he thought. Of course he was further ahead. He was just casting his mind back to the happy thought of life without Nell when she interrupted his musings.
“I assume you’ll need money until the wedding. You certainly can’t let yourself begin to look careworn. We must make the little Chickadee proud, mustn’t we?”
His expression confessed as much. He would need Nell’s money.
“I do wish you could manage to buy things for her without my money. Oh yes, the ring. You did manage that, didn’t you? A hopeful sign.”
“The most hopeful sign,” said Tracey, “is that a year from now you won’t have to worry about my buying anything that isn’t purchased with my own money. Until then, my dear Nell, I expect we shall continue as we have always done.”
“What do you mean, ‘until then’? I expect to continue a good deal beyond that.”
“Now, what did you really want to see me about?” Jerry said. If she looked as sheepish as she felt, Francesca thought, he had exposed her motive.
The waiter had cleared away the plates and scooped the crumbs from the linen cloth. They were waiting for coffee and dessert. Francesca had asked Jerry to take her to luncheon to discuss business. Jerry seemed a little impatient at having been corralled in the middle of a workday when all her innocuous questions could have been dispatched at another place and without appointment.
“Jerry,” Francesca began, “do you remember when the Burnhams were married a couple of years ago? Freddy didn’t really have any money of his own, did he?”
“No. The Burnhams did have money at one time, and some property here and there, but nothing much to speak of anymore. They were—they are—very respectable people, though, with a good reputation. Freddy held up his end of it and got a good job, did reasonably well and proved himself reliable. In the end that was good enough for the Tomlinsons—at least for Rachel. Why?”
“They seem to be very happy, don’t they? They haven’t had many obstacles to overcome, aside from Mr. Tomlinson’s initial disapproval. I mean, the money part of it has worked out amicably, hasn’t it?”
Jerry leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other as if settling in.
“I believe Rachel and Freddy had a marriage contract worked out before they married, which probably left most of the control of the money in Rachel’s hands. It’s not uncommon, Francesca, and isn’t something you should be afraid to ask about.”
“I feel terrible even thinking about such a thing. You’d think I didn’t trust Edmund.”
“Do you trust him?”
“Of course I do.” She knew the answer was too quick the moment the words left her lips. Doubt had taken on a persona that hounded her since the discovery of her father’s file. It had always puzzled Francesca that she could have known Edmund Tracey for five years and yet he had betrayed to her so little about himself. He had given her no reason to doubt him in any aspect of their relationship; she had only concluded by process of elimination that the money must have been her father’s chief concern. Jerry’s scrutiny was at once unnerving and comforting.
“Then you have nothing to worry about.” He watched her and waited. “And your interest in marriage contracts is purely academic.”
“Yes,” she said, then hesitated. “No. No, it isn’t academic.”
“You shouldn’t feel bad about it, Francesca,” he said again. “Many women with fewer means than yours have marriage contracts. It makes sense to have financial arrangements worked out well in advance. If it’s any comfort, I think your father would have brought up the subject much earlier than this if he were here.”
“Do you think so?” That Jerry’s thoughts echoed hers brought small relief.
“I do. Marriage contracts come in all shapes and sizes, just as people do. There’s no reason that one such agreement couldn’t be worked out amicably between you and Edmund. You could choose to manage all your money and only give him money when he needed it.”
“An allowance? That sounds so humiliating.”
“I know it probably sounds like the harshest of your choices. If you have some measure of confidence in his ability to manage, but feel that his only problem is that he doesn’t have much money of his own, you might consider settling a sum on him—either in one lump or an annuity paid out regularly. Let him manage it while you control the rest.”
“That seems more fair.”
“Fair?” Jerry straightened, put one hand upon the table, and met her eye. “Seems more generous than most men of limited means deserve. If a man hasn’t discovered some way to earn a living, a sudden infusion of his wife’s capital won’t change him.”
“Maggie would think this whole discussion is ridiculous and unnecessary.”
“My dear, for everything that Maggie believes is ridiculous and unnecessary, I can produce at least three things she swears by that are equally ridiculous and unnecessary.”
Such a family discussion played out fleetingly in Francesca’s imagination. “No doubt, she thinks I should simply turn everything over to Edmund at marriage and let him have the entire management.”
“That can be done, too,” said Jerry, leaning back and folding his hands in his lap, “if you wish it.”
She hesitated. “I don’t think I do wish it. In fact I’m sure I don’t.”
The arrival of cake and coffee gave her time to gather her wits. She reproached herself for not having pressed Edmund about money and family, particularly early on when these subjects might have been less volatile. Having come this far in seeking Jerry’s counsel, she could only continue.
“What’s happened, Francesca?” Jerry asked sternly. “What prompted this?”
“I’ve been going through Father’s study. I wasn’t sure about the business papers he had locked in his desk. I almost threw them out wholesale, but then I decided to go through them all myself and consult you on anything I didn’t understand.”
“Sounds reasonable. What did you find?”
She didn’t answer him immediately, but worked at the cake and took a sip of coffee as if to clear her head. Jerry stopped, fork poised in midair, and looked at her.
“Something serious?”
“Apparently Father was having Edmund investigated. Nearly five years ago now.”
She could almost hear a hundred questions rattling through his brain as Jerry allowed an interval for cake and reflection.
“I’m not surprised,” said Jerry, with forced nonchalance, she thought. “You were young when you first met, you know, and very passionate about young Edmund, if I remember rightly. He was certainly paying a lot of attention to you, even then. If there had ever been an understanding . . .”
“There wasn’t. Not then.”
“To the rest of us it looked very much like there might have been. Your father naturally would have been concerned. Quite frankly, he probably would have had any young man investigated if he wasn’t from a family of your parents’ own circle. To have a young man from halfway across a continent show interest in his daughter.” He took a sip of coffee. “Well, put yourself in your father’s shoes.”
They finished their dessert and the waiter replenished the coffee. She knew not how to proceed. Fearing Jerry’s wholesale disapproval
, she felt obliged to guard Edmund’s reputation now that she had agreed to spend her life with him. At the same time she sought relief in tumbling out the few new facts as she understood them to have Jerry dispel her fear. She waited for Jerry to probe as he saw fit.
“Did the papers show that the investigation had been completed?”
“No. The investigator—a Mr. J. Shillingford—had charge of the case. Case.” She sighed and felt the long breath go out of her. “That sounds dreadful. His correspondence with Father up until Father died appeared to produce nothing conclusive. At least, nothing extraordinarily bad, if that’s what Father was looking for. Not related to Edmund himself.”
“That sounds like a lot of hedging, Francesca, what does it mean?”
She unfolded a tale that was not unfamiliar to a War veteran like Jerry. The Traceys had owned a large plantation in the Felicianas in Louisiana before the War. Edmund’s grandfather had swindled the original plantation owner out of the land. The original owner suffered straitened means and borrowed money from Edmund’s grandfather at high interest. When the man couldn’t pay, the Traceys foreclosed. The family grew to exercise unwelcome influence. Edmund’s father went missing shortly after enlisting in the Confederate army. His mother sold everything except a small parcel with some outbuildings and put food on the table through black marketeering. She may have sold secrets to the Union.
“Certainly, Edmund would want that kept quiet,” said Jerry. “Many families survived as best they could. As you say, there is nothing against him personally. Or is there?”
“He gambles,” she said reluctantly.
“So do a lot of men. So do I, come to that. And we’ve been to the races with him.”
“Apparently he has done so from an early age with mixed success.”
Jerry had restrained himself admirably, Francesca thought, but now the cloud that passed over his countenance looked about to burst into a storm.
“No wonder he’s so evasive about where he gets his money. And he must get it from somewhere. He’s never asked you for money—or has he?”
“No, never.”
“Is he still living at the Brevoort?” Francesca nodded. “Not an extravagant place, but respectable. It could be that he knows how to live within his means. That’s something at least, though I confess I don’t like a habitual gambler. You were right to consult me, and you may be right about settling something on him that he can manage himself and remove yourself from his dealings. That is, if you are still determined to have him.” He waited, but she could give no answer and met his eye with a determined look. “If you’re having doubts, better to act on them now than regret them later. Was that all?”
“Only one thing. In Shillingford’s last letter to Father from New Orleans, he said that he had uncovered another line of inquiry that he wished to pursue. If what he surmised was indeed borne out, it would be not only of interest, but also of importance.”
“Did he say anything about the nature of this line of inquiry?”
“No. He didn’t wish to commit himself on paper until he had gathered all his evidence. If Father wished him to pursue it, he was to wire a further twenty dollars. There was no receipt for a wire transfer. The letter was dated in late June of 1886, shortly before the accident.”
“So we can assume that Shillingford never finished the investigation and that your father never knew what he was after.”
“It would seem so. I tell you, Jerry, I feel so despicable and disloyal. I never would have thought to do any of this if it hadn’t been for the papers. I’m sure Father wouldn’t have pursued such a line unless he thought it was in everyone’s best interests.”
“It’s understandable that you should feel that way when it involves someone you love,” he said, though his words conveyed no comfort.
“I thought you’d like to see the papers. I’ll send them around to the bank in the morning. I’d sooner that you kept them anyway. I don’t think Edmund has been in Father’s study above twice, but eventually he’ll have a right to be there and, I suppose, a right to know what’s in the desk. I’d rather not have them in the house.”
“Yes, I’ll keep them for you.” He finished his coffee. “And I think we should pursue the marriage contract as soon as possible. There should be nothing at all suspicious about doing so. If Edmund has half the knowledge of the world that I give him credit for, he won’t be shocked and should have no objection. You haven’t been engaged long, but I’ll feel better if we can get the contract nailed down.”
The waiter arrived with the check and Jerry pulled his pocket book from his breast pocket and leafed through its contents.
“I wonder if Shillingford is still operating in New York,” he said.
“As a matter of fact, he is,” said Francesca. “I checked.”
CHAPTER 10
Formality
A gentleman should not be presented to a lady without her permission being previously asked and granted. This formality is not necessary between men alone; but, still, you should not present any one, even at his own request, to another, unless you are quite well assured that the acquaintance will be agreeable to the latter. You may decline upon the ground of not being sufficiently intimate yourself. A man does himself no service with another when he obliges him to know people whom he would rather avoid.
—Decorum, page 36
The charity ball was in full swing when Blanche and Connor arrived at the Academy of Music at nine-thirty. A traffic jam of fine broughams and landaus mixed with a crush of hansom cabs outside the imposing edifice, just as a traffic jam of people crowded inside the imposing entrance. Connor was amused and heartened by the delight that overspread Blanche’s face. Her dark eyes shone and her ivory complexion flushed as her look darted from one carriage window to the other. Connor gently tugged on her arm.
“No you don’t,” he said as she appeared ready to bound from their carriage. “You’ll get your slippers all dirty. I’m sure they’ve not been able to clean up after the horses. Best to sit tight till we pull up to the curb and I can help you down properly.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, smiling. “Here, let me look at you.”
She played at tidying him up, tugging at the ruffled jabot, smoothing his moustache, securing the scarf around his head, pulling down the eye patch, and fluffing the plume on the tricorn. As she smoothed his beard, with her hand still upon his cheek, she kissed him.
Atelier Maximillian had certainly delivered, Connor had to admit, and with a minimum of fuss. Once or twice the tailor alluded to people or instances that seemed to Connor a bit “off.” Blanche merely laughed, but Connor was uneasy with this familiarity and wondered what Blanche might be getting up to. Still, the man delivered the goods and Connor credited Atelier Maximillian with making him look far less ridiculous than he felt.
“No need to worry. It’ll be wonderful. I’m certain of it.” She kissed him again.
Connor descended the carriage steps and offered Blanche his hand as she bent her white-wigged head low, squeezed the skirt of her enormous blue satin French ball gown through the carriage door, and swept into the Academy’s main lobby. Sumptuous costumes were everywhere. Hogarthian shepherds and shepherdesses, Chinese nobles and Persian harem girls, cavaliers and Puritans, medieval knights and Renaissance damsels, and the predicted Harlequins, Raleighs, and Brunhildes were displayed in stunning variety.
Blanche stood still as if soaking nourishment from the atmosphere—the scent of perfumed bodies, the sight of rich finery, the glitter of lamplight, and the strains of the music that emanated from within. Even as he watched, she seemed to become conscious of herself, and her black eyes took on a worldly, self-indulgent, and slightly mischievous look. A seductive smile emerged as her face disappeared behind the covering of blue satin, as if she knew it would only add to her allure. Connor’s offer of his arm broke her reverie. They entered the ballroom.
The massive room glittered gold and white. The orchestra section had been floored ove
r and made level with the stage, creating a mammoth dance floor. The stage had been converted into a miniature Venice of the Renaissance, with bridges, streets, and the Doge’s Palace with its heraldic pennants and shields. The boxes were perfect Venetian balconies, with revelers hanging over the railings. In the tier above, the orchestra was striking up a waltz. People began to break off into pairs, gracefully stepping to the downbeat and ending each measure in synchronized pirouettes. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people crowded the dance floor, boxes, and tiers.
Suddenly, Blanche turned to him and squeezed his arm to her. Her eyes were expressive, even behind her mask. “Thank you for this,” she said. “You have no idea what this means to me. It’s absolutely splendid.” She turned back to the scene before her and seemed to devour it.
John Ashton Worth and Jerry had said that their wives wished to be introduced. Neither they nor their wives, however, had mentioned introduction to a companion, nor had Connor hinted at such a companion—or that she would be glad of such an introduction. Blanche had remained undeterred.
“After you’ve paid your respects you might ask them to join us for a drink later on,” she had said, somewhere between request and demand.
“Let me see how it goes first,” he had told her, encircling her in his embrace. “You forget that I haven’t met half these people myself yet. If they don’t appear to be very favorable toward me, it won’t help if there are two of us to contend with. We’ve got to build it step by step. We’ve got to be the bigger people and show them we know how it’s done. If we go rushing in and make a mess of things, they’ll take us for the hooligans they may think we are already.” She nodded her resignation. Connor well understood her longing for acceptance. He hadn’t reckoned on how much he himself longed for it and what he might sacrifice to get it.
A Sir Walter Raleigh and a Falstaff in the company of a Cleopatra and an Empress Theodora were the figures he was to look for and finally spied them on the other side of the horseshoe. They were laughing and nodding, the ladies fanning themselves, the gentlemen bringing them champagne punch. He wondered for a moment if he’d ever find a place among them, secure and accepted. He decided they should plunge in as best they could.
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