“Would you like to dance, Blanche?”
“I’d adore it.”
As luck would have it, the waltz ceased, but without a word or a grimace he guided her to one of the many squares that was forming for a country dance. When a waltz was offered again, Connor put a commanding hand at her back above her waist as Blanche took several folds of her skirt in her left hand and he took her right. They stepped out and joined the dancers in a dizzying progress around the floor.
They had nearly reached the miniature Venice when Connor saw a tall, slim woman dressed in a gown of shimmering gauze, the deep décolleté adorned with rough-cut gems in gold necklaces, the bare arms cuffed by bracelets above the elbows. A large jewel was suspended from the center of a jewel-encrusted conical headdress and hung down on her forehead like someone out of the Arabian Nights. Instead of a mask, a filmy veil covered the lower half of her face. She danced with a seventeenth-century highwayman swathed in a large hat, a large mask, and a large cape. As the couple turned, Connor saw the white-blond hair in a knot at the nape of her neck and he realized where he had seen her before—the Fair One from the Morocco Room. In an instant she and her companion had turned and sailed across the dance floor.
“Do you see someone?” Blanche cried over the noise. “Do you see someone you know? Your business associates? Where?”
“There. Raleigh and Falstaff.” He nodded in the general direction.
She strained to spot them. “With the Egyptian something-or-other?” Connor nodded. “They’ve seen us. Are you going to speak to them?”
“I’ll have to pay my respects at some point, yes.”
Only by his introduction to Mrs. Jerome and Mrs. Worth could he gauge the likelihood of a favorable turn in the path of Blanche’s social destiny. The music ended and he led her back to the far side of the ballroom.
“Would you like some refreshment?” he asked. “I could do with something myself.” He could see behind her mask that the light had gone out of her eyes. She looked away and took his arm. He wrested a vacant seat for her on the main floor, from which she might observe the room. He would wrestle with the Jeromes and the champagne punch alone.
The corridors were choked with people as Connor picked his way to the Worths’ box. Ascending the stairs, he was met by two women who weren’t looking where they were going. The smaller one was saying, “Your hair’s coming down in back. Shall I help you?” to which the taller one said, “No, that’s quite all right. I can do it. I won’t be a moment.” Her head bent slightly, one hand holding up the wayward tress, she nearly toppled into Connor. He looked up into the unveiled face of the Fair One, the Scheherazade of the dance floor.
“Oh, pardon me.” The voice was darker and fuller than he expected. She moved.
“The fault’s mine.” Connor moved.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She moved again.
“I beg your pardon.” He moved again. Even with the patch over one eye he was well able to note the flawless complexion, the thick fair hair, the full bosom. He returned her look of cool irritation with a provocative smile, removed his hat, and with an exaggerated bow let her pass. She made her way down the hall, her elegant figure swaying ever so slightly as she gathered up the tress, the one flaw, the little vulnerability in this otherwise perfect picture and disappeared. He made his way to the Jeromes’ box.
Mrs. Worth was cordial. Connor admired people like the Worths who were not easily ruffled by anyone. His self-effacing remarks upon his own dancing abilities made her laugh and her eyes twinkled in her soft pink face. Odd, Connor thought, that this woman, whom her husband credited with so much taste, should be swathed in a costume that could have been knocked off by a tentmaker for Sears, Roebuck, and Company. Still, he liked her.
Mrs. Jerome was cool and hardly moved when introduced, save fanning herself with a peacock-feather fan. Only when the other ladies removed their masks did she follow suit. She was handsome enough, but her smug self-importance did nothing to enhance her looks. Jerry was his affable self. At Mrs. Worth’s offer of a seat, Connor accepted.
More than once he caught himself glancing toward Blanche, conscious of not wanting to appear to her to be having a rip-roaring good time. She watched the dancers, moving her feathered fan gracefully to and fro, looking now and then in his direction. He began to feel sorry for her seeming isolation, this blue satin hothouse flower in society’s formal garden. He was about to excuse himself to Jerry when he noticed a woman had pushed through the crowd and appeared at Blanche’s side. She was dressed as some garish circus character—perhaps a female lion-tamer, for she carried a whip. Her chat with Blanche was brief, but despite their formal attitude, it seemed the encounter was deliberate and not mere civil courtesy of two ladies abandoned by their escorts. Then, as quickly as she had come, the woman melted into the crowd. When he came to himself, he realized that Mrs. Worth and Mrs. Jerome had seen his distraction, and had turned to see where he had been looking.
“Have you made many acquaintances since arriving in New York?” Mrs. Jerome asked pointedly.
“A good many, thank you, ma’am, but only through the kind offices of your husband and Mr. Worth—in connection with the hotel, don’t you know,” replied Connor, a bit uneasy.
“New York offers such a variety of acquaintance,” she continued. “One never knows what kind of person one might be meeting.”
“In the most innocent of circumstances,” added Mrs. Worth, with sincerity, Connor thought. “I declare, we can be such fusspots when it comes to judging our fellow man.”
“Nonetheless,” said Mrs. Jerome, “proper introductions can save a person a good deal of trouble, don’t you agree, Mr. O’Casey?”
“I do indeed, ma’am,” he said.
“In my limited experience of Mr. O’Casey,” put in Jerry, “I find him to be a reliable judge of character, regardless of the circumstances. He’s put us off a couple of shady characters already, isn’t that so, John?”
“Yes. I thought I was a good judge of character myself,” said Mr. Worth. “But when O’Casey said we should have these people investigated, we did, and he was right.”
“That’s all well and good in business,” said Mrs. Jerome. “But one can’t have everyone one meets investigated now, can one?”
“If that were the case,” said Connor, beginning to feel a little testy, “half of New York would be spending its time investigating the other half and the city would grind to a standstill. Introduction is the best way, of course, but sometimes a man—or a woman—has to take a few things on trust.” Connor acknowledged them all with a tip of his plumed tricorn. “John, Jerry, Mrs. Worth, Mrs. Jerome, gentlemen, ladies, I must be leaving. It was a pleasure meeting you. If you’ll excuse me.”
Relieved to be exiting the Golden Horseshoe, he felt strained by this short but important encounter and he still had Blanche’s cross-questioning to face. For the moment he shook off speculation about what they might be saying and walked through the lobby and out into the street for a breath of air. He removed his hat and dug in his pocket for his handkerchief and was just blotting the perspiration from his brow when he saw the highwayman remove his cape and place it around the shoulders of the veiled Scheherazade. She looked defiantly at Connor, turned to her escort, and smiled. They walked to the corner and back past him to the far end of the Academy, then back again to the entrance. Connor somehow knew she was keenly aware of him. As they neared him, Connor allowed his attention to be diverted to the street. As they reentered the building, he turned to look at them. To his immense satisfaction, she looked back.
CHAPTER 11
Rightly Appropriating the Money
In all money matters, act openly and honorably. Keep your accounts with most scrupulous exactness, and let your husband see that you take an honest pride in rightly appropriating the money which he entrusts to you. “My husband works hard for every dollar that he earns,” said a young married lady, the wife of a professional man, to a friend who found her busily e
mployed in sewing buttons on her husband’s coat, “and it seems to me worse than cruel to lay out a dime unnecessarily.” Be very careful also, that you do not spend more than can be afforded in dress; and be satisfied with such carpets and curtains in your drawing room as befit a moderate fortune, or professional income.
—Decorum, page 202
Francesca decided to speak to Edmund Tracey about the marriage contract herself. She overruled Jerry’s suggestion that he himself or her lawyer be present. The suggestion seemed heavy-handed. Besides, surely Edmund would be reasonable. Instead she hit upon the idea that the Reverend Lawrence, Vinnie’s father, who would perform the ceremony, might come to luncheon to discuss the wedding. As long as they were talking “business” she might ask Mr. Lawrence for a few moments alone with Edmund. Mr. Lawrence was happy to put himself at Francesca’s disposal. Tracey, too, was eager to “get the ball rolling.”
Mr. Lawrence, satisfied with Tracey’s intentions, set appointments for Edmund’s instruction in the Lutheran faith so that he might be a regular communicant well before the wedding the following Christmas, 1891. Mrs. Lawrence was volunteered to help with the church arrangements and Mr. Lawrence would guide them through the spiritual aspects of their nuptial. The initial business concluded, he excused himself to her father’s library, leaving them in the drawing room, the door ajar. Edmund began.
“I thought that went rather well, didn’t you?” he said.
“Yes. I’m so pleased.”
She realized, now that the moment had come, that she felt a little uncomfortable.
“What was it you wanted to talk to me about, duchess?”
“Well,” she began. “I must admit to feeling a bit awkward, but I thought we had better make a start. It’s the subject of finance.”
He gave her a quizzical look.
“Oh, not of the wedding. Heavens no, that’s my bailiwick. No, I mean finance in general, yours and mine, after we’re married.”
He seemed nonplussed and didn’t speak for several moments. Walking to the fireplace, he drew his cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket, opened it, seemed to think better of it, slapped the case shut, and replaced it in his pocket. Francesca chose not to fill the silence.
“Certainly,” he said at length. “Frankly, I no doubt should have introduced the subject myself. It was remiss of me. Forgive me, duchess.”
“That’s quite all right,” she said. “I thought we might begin to talk about how we’re fixed and how we might manage it.”
He drew a sharp breath. “Certainly,” he said again, “how we might manage it. You must have given some thought to the matter or you wouldn’t have raised it.”
“Yes. Some.”
“Well?” He stood with his back to the fireplace and his hands clasped behind him.
“Well, the house, for instance. It is the house where I grew up and I’m attached to it, of course, but it doesn’t follow that we must live here. I don’t mind the idea of moving to a different house. And the house is part of our collective wealth, so to speak, so that is one thing I thought we should at least begin to think about. You’ve never expressed a desire one way or another about where we might live.”
“That is because I have no objection to living here and thought it was understood.”
“Oh. Splendid,” she said, forcing a smile. “If at some later date we want to move to a new home, we can talk about it then.”
“Of course. I am glad to hear that you are so amenable.” His expression did not exude gladness. He stood looking at her as if he hoped the subject was ended.
“Naturally, I assume that no matter where we live, you would want to add a servant for yourself,” she continued.
“Yes, I will. Perhaps more than one, and of course I shall probably have certain opinions about any changes or additions to the household in future.”
“Naturally, I would consult you. But for the most part I would expect that the majority of the household arrangements would be left to me.”
“Of course. But I’m glad you would consult me. Is that all?” He said it as if he had one foot over the threshold and only a word of extreme import would arrest him.
“No.” She felt awkward and feared she looked and sounded the way she felt. So again she confessed as much. “I’m so sorry, Edmund. This is so very awkward and tiresome—”
“Very tiresome,” he broke in.
“—but necessary, if we—if I—am to understand our relative positions in money matters.”
“May I venture a guess that we are discussing your money, rather than mine?” Light had gone out of him and good humor had followed.
“You’ve never talked much about your occupation, except vague references to business that has kept you occupied. I assumed you were a man of independent means and that business was more of an amusement. Of course I have no objection whatever to a man having no profession, as long as he has the means to support such a lack of profession. Clearly”—she gestured toward Tracey’s elegant new suit—“you’re able to support yourself. So I’m sure I needn’t worry about how our money is managed.”
“Of course, you needn’t worry.” He continued to face her. She waited for him to say more, especially to divulge his occupation or explain where he got his money. This time he took the cigarette from its case and lit it. Neither she nor her mother—nor any woman—would allow smoking in the drawing room, but she felt helpless to voice her wishes, not wanting to use an awkward moment to begin to nag him. She did, however, take it as a small act of rebellion.
“You seem to be implying that I might be a poor manager.”
“No, not at all,” she said with genuine feeling. “It’s just that since under normal circumstances my money would come under your jurisdiction, I would like to know what plans you might have and how I might be consulted.”
“Normal circumstances? How I might consult you?” He shook his head as if he were straining to understand her. “I believe it is customary for the husband to take over management of the finances completely—to relieve the wife of the burden, of course. I fail to see why any consultation would be necessary.”
Francesca could hardly believe her ears. Though she far from claimed to understand how the world worked, she couldn’t help but remember what Jerry had told her that awful day when he brought home the first balance sheets for her to learn to read.
“Look at this,” Jerry had said, putting before her a sheet of paper with figures on it. He was sitting at his desk in his library. She had just brought him a cup of coffee. “It’s your bank statement. I want to give your whole portfolio a good going-over. I could use some help. Why don’t you pull up a chair?”
“Help? From me? Why?”
He stopped fussing with the papers on his desk and looked up at her. “You’re a woman of means, Francesca. You’re young and relatively unprotected. Even if you weren’t attractive, your money will be.” Jerry’s blunt recital of her situation made her feel vulnerable, naked to everyone but herself.
“But I don’t know anything about banking and figures and things. Besides, I’ve got you to look after everything for me.”
“You of all people should know that I won’t always be here to help you.” Yes, she of all people knew how fleeting life could be. “Francesca, there are two things that make people crazy—having money and not having money. If they haven’t any money of their own to control, they want to control somebody else’s. When it comes to money, if someone says he has your best interest at heart, don’t you believe him—not anyone. Even me. You don’t have to be a banker to learn to read your own statements. If you don’t understand something, question it. Keep questioning it until you’re satisfied that you’ve gotten the right answer—not necessarily the answer you want, but the right one. Don’t let anybody bully you. You’re a bright woman. No one has the right to make you think otherwise. You have a right and an obligation to be a good steward of the means that have been left to you.”
Now, facing the man s
he intended to marry, she said, “It is my money, after all. And we never have discussed what sort of settlement I might make on you at marriage.”
“Settlement?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “What sort of settlement were you about to propose?”
“I hadn’t thought of any particular percentage—”
“Percentage?” He stood at the fireplace with his foot on the fender and his elbow on the mantel. “Am I to believe that we’ve known each other for more than five years and yet the trust you bear me only extends to the management of a percentage of the whole?”
“But even a percentage would be a generous sum, considering the whole. I think it only wise that the majority be held against catastrophe.”
“Held by you?” It was more statement than question. His displeasure was evident, though he governed himself impeccably.
“Presumably, yes,” she said, adding hastily, “This is why I wanted to talk with you, Edmund, because I wanted to know your expectations and intentions, so that we might work out any differences and come to a workable agreement.”
“My expectations, as you call them, were that we would be following the modern—and legal—custom of my taking over the management of our, how did you put it? Our collective wealth.” His tone was condescending and sarcastic. It grated on her. “Of course, I have no objection to your keeping a portion for yourself, as I expect you will have your own expenses and, as you say, you will have a household to run.”
“Do you expect me to have an allowance of my own money?” She stared at him in incredulity. A deep flush crept over her cheeks and her whole body suddenly felt over-warm. Defensiveness and indignation rose in her that took all her strength to suppress.
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