Connor had enough bloodhound in him to enable him to quickly sniff out the fact that the Ryders’ marriage was founded on mutual appreciation, respect, and trust—they appreciated that they both were incapable of fidelity, respected each other’s privacy, and trusted each other not to noise it about. Hardly the makings of an acceptable acquaintance. Outside the Fifth Avenue Hotel, she hailed a cab for Gramercy Park.
Blanche stood for a moment in front of the house as the cab clattered away behind her. It stood in a row of imposing stone edifices on a street that had been one of the city’s finest, though it had begun to suffer erosion of moneyed families to newer and grander premises. At first glance the flat facade was nothing remarkable with its plain rectangular windows and long, well-scrubbed staircase. Then she noticed the unusual modern renditions of natural plant life that were carved in the stonework around the front door. A handsome carved stone planter sat just inside the gate. It almost didn’t matter what kind of reception lay behind the polished oak door. To stand in that familiar front hallway, to take off one’s coat and hat and sink onto a familiar chair was too good to pass up. She mounted the stairs and rang the bell.
The maid who answered was very young, small, and neat.
“Good afternoon. I’m here to see Mrs. Ryder,” said Blanche, producing her visiting card and depositing it on the small silver salver the maid offered her.
“Won’t you step in for a moment, madam, and I’ll see if Mrs. Ryder is at home.” The slight, straight figure mounted the stairs.
The handsome foyer had undergone a change. A new paper of warm browns and beiges in lilies and leaves accented by gilt and royal blue adorned the walls. A lush brown carpet ran from the edge of the black-and-white tiled floor of the entrance. On a low marble-topped cabinet stood a white-marble card receiver carved as a stylized calla lily. Blanche rifled through the ten or so cards and noted only one or two names that she could place.
The maid was gone an unusually long time. If the verdict had been dismissal, she would have been down forthwith. Blanche heard voices at the top of the stairs, but out of sight. The maid, unhurried, descended.
“You may come into the drawing room, madam. Mrs. Ryder will be with you in a moment.”
The girl slid open the double doors and ushered Blanche into a rich and chilly room, dull in the fading light of an autumn afternoon. It smelled at once of patchouli and cigarette smoke. The maid quickly stirred a few dying embers to life in the grate and put on more coal. She then pulled the switch on an electric table lamp whose only value lay in its modern design, not in illumination. She left the room and pulled the doors to behind her.
The lamp cast a garish yellow light on a steely gray velvet divan that sat at an angle across the corner of the room near the front window. The brown and royal blue of the entrance bled into the drawing room, but in peacock blues and greens. A piano stood near the divan, the keys toward the window. Against the opposite wall was an enormous Rococo-style cabinet, ornate and gilded and very gaudy. On the other walls hung paintings of the modern type, with bold interpretations of ordinary life. In spite of the room’s style it lacked warmth. The place reflected perfectly the colorful and dark personalities that inhabited it.
Blanche had known Nell Ryder from a lifetime ago. Among the more risqué element of artistic society that Blanche’s mother entertained ran Nell’s parents, who commissioned Roberto Wilson to compose the incidental music for many performances, which first brought the Wilson girls and Nell Montagne together. Not until the girls were grown did friendship with Nell become more central to Blanche’s life. Such innocence as either girl possessed was lost among the properties and costumes. When Europe beckoned the Wilsons, Nell predicted Blanche would be painted in Paris. Confronted with the question on her return Blanche replied coolly that Nell had been mistaken—she had been painted in Florence. The girls laughed. Finally marriage sent them in opposite directions in geography and fortune—Blanche with Alvarado to South America and ruin, Nell with Anton Ryder to Europe and prosperity. In the separation of their destinies, correspondence faded. Since returning to New York, Blanche had heard a guarded remark that she “simply must meet Mrs. Anton Ryder. Her husband is an impresario, you know. Brilliant man. They’re rich as Croesus, but do you think they are accepted? Hardly.” Great was Blanche’s surprise when it turned out to be her girlhood friend.
Presently Blanche heard the creak of stairs and she felt her pulse rise. Then came the footfall on the carpet, and then the tile, and then a hesitation outside the door. Blanche rose, and in that moment the door slid open.
Nell stood with her hand on the door handle, the other hand holding closed the neck of a loose-fitting dress, her russet hair carelessly pulled up and knotted on top of her head. In the harsh glow of the electric light her powdered face had a ghostly aspect seared through by sealing-wax red lips that curled into a knowing smile.
Her look lasted an eternity. Blanche was transfixed. When Nell spoke, anticipation was broken and speech took its place as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Darling,” exclaimed Nell, pulling the door shut behind her back, “let me look at you.” She stood for a moment more, surveying Blanche. “My God, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” She came forward and grasped Blanche’s hand and greeted her with a kiss on each cheek. “You can’t imagine my surprise when I saw you at the Iris.”
“Yes, I can. I was just as surprised to see you.”
Nell stepped back to look at Blanche again. “You look well. Very well indeed.”
Blanche did look well and knew it. It pleased her that she had worn better than Nell. In the room’s harsh light, Nell’s hennaed hair only made her look sallow and the little creases that were beginning to show around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes were more pronounced.
“So do you,” Blanche said politely.
“Nonsense. I look like hell.”
Blanche ignored the remark.
“I may have caught you at an inconvenient time.”
“No more than usual,” she said with the same knowing smile. She crossed to an overstuffed chair and sat, drawing up her slippered feet beside her. She took a cigarette from a silver box and placed it in a holder and lit it. She held the open box by its lid and extended it toward Blanche, who declined.
“I can come back another time.”
“Not at all.” Nell relaxed a bit as she drew on the cigarette. “I’d rather have you here at an inconvenient time than not have you here at all. You haven’t had any tea, I expect. Would you like some? Or would you prefer something stronger?” Without waiting for an answer, she rose and rang for the maid. As she returned to her chair, she said, “Good heavens, darling, do make yourself comfortable. You are welcome, you know. Truly.”
“I wasn’t sure. It’s been so many years.”
“I thought we parted on perfectly friendly terms.” She took another drag on the cigarette, which made her face screw up into a curious grimace as she eyed Blanche.
“We did indeed,” said Blanche as she drew off her gloves. “But you know how it is, the years pass, and I’m afraid I’m a horrible correspondent. I thought you might not want to see an old friend. I didn’t even know you were still in town until I saw you at the Iris. I thought perhaps you and Anton had gone off to Paris or something.”
“We had, shortly after you left. We were there a couple of years, as a matter of fact, dear Anton having quite a number of business dealings there. But one gets homesick, doesn’t one? Yes, of course, you know what that’s like, poor darling. Well, you certainly look like you’ve landed on your feet.”
“Yes, fortune seems to have taken a turn in my favor at last.” Enough explanation for now, she thought. Nell was never a good confidante—or rather, she only kept the confidences that suited her. The Ryders observed their own decorum. “How is dear Anton?”
Nell threw her head back and with her upturned face in full profile placed the cigarette to her lips and drew on it. “My dea
r Anton continues to be one of the kindest, most considerate, and understanding individuals on the face of the earth.”
“I’m very happy to hear it.” Blanche finally smiled. She was beginning to relax, but only beginning.
“Yes, he is a sweet man,” Nell said more naturally. “Growing a bit of a paunch, though I must say, poor dear, and a little fleshy in the face. Other than that, you’d certainly know him.”
“I’m sure I should. Out and about on business this afternoon, no doubt,” Blanche chuckled. She waited to see if this familiarity would be well received. The years may only have made the Ryders more circumspect in discussing their marriage. Nell’s reaction would signal that Blanche was either considered an intimate or an outsider.
“No doubt—somewhere.” Nell smiled.
“And his business is just as varied and interesting as it always was?”
“Probably even more so than when we saw you last.” Blanche was satisfied.
They were interrupted by the arrival of tea. Another diminutive young woman, who appeared to struggle to erase the look of intimidation on her face, arranged the silver tea service and china on a low table and left the room. Both women sat forward to pour.
“Allow me, darling, you relax,” said Nell. “Milk and sugar, if I remember correctly.” She prepared the cup as Blanche took a piece of cake. “You should have looked me up earlier. Anton had it from Max that you were back.”
“It would have been impossible to look you up, even if I had thought you were in New York,” Blanche said reluctantly. “I haven’t been mistress of my own activity as much as I would like. You see, I’m not alone on this trip.”
“So that was the man—at the Auxiliary Ball?” Nell laughed. “You could have brought him along, darling. It would have been perfectly all right with me.”
“But it may not have been all right with him.”
“Oh, I see. No wonder I haven’t seen you.” Nell drew again on the cigarette and squinted at Blanche through the smoke. “I hope I didn’t make things awkward for you when I spoke to you at the ball.”
“Not that I’ve noticed. You caught me at a good time. He was paying his respects to some business associates.”
“Goodness, how dreary for you.”
“Not really, Nell. He actually has some very promising prospects here in the city. My job is to help him smooth the way.”
“You won’t make me believe that I’m witnessing Blanche Reformed. Well, he’s either terribly amusing or he has buckets of money.” She crushed out her cigarette. “Knowing you, he has buckets of money.”
“He certainly has the means to make himself a success. Only a few rough edges that need a bit of smoothing and polishing.”
“Introductions?”
“None yet. He’s only just made the acquaintance of the wives of his business associates, but we’re hopeful that the calls will come in due course.” Though Blanche refrained from disclosing much about his business or social ambitions, Nell’s curiosity clearly was roused.
“In the meantime, you should bring him along. Anton knows absolutely oodles of people it might be useful for you to know. I leave it open to you, darling, to come to any of our little soirees that might suit you both.”
“We’re usually much engaged in the evening,” said Blanche.
“The invitation stands nonetheless.”
CHAPTER 13
To See Rather Than Talk
In visiting picture-galleries one should always maintain the deportment of a gentleman or lady. Make no loud comments, and do not seek to show superior knowledge in art matters by gratuitous criticism. Ten to one, if you have not an art education you will only be giving publicity to your own ignorance.
Do not stand in conversation before a picture, and thus obstruct the view of others who wish to see rather than talk. If you wish to converse with any one on general subjects, draw to one side out of the way of those who wish to look at the pictures.
—Decorum, page 150
Plans for the Excelsior were moving apace. Commitments for financial backing were settled, garnering for Connor an eighteen percent share. With Jerry and Mr. Worth in for equal sums, they made a triumvirate with fifty-four percent. Inclusion among this elite and tight-knit crew was an enormous and well-earned coup. Documents of incorporation were drawn up. The triumvirate and three more major investors—with a carefully selected tie-breaker yet to come—would make up the board of directors. When stock was finally issued, the triumvirate would be the principal shareholders.
Connor reveled in his newfound success. He vented his excitement to Blanche in endless recitals of the intricate workings of big business. A small notebook he carried in his breast pocket was filling rapidly with jottings of his ideas and particulars of the Grand Central and Fifth Avenue hotels that he liked and disliked. Suitable premises had, as yet, eluded them, with a plot on Madison Avenue near Central Park a tantalizing possibility. Where he felt out of his element was in the intricate world of artists, craftsmen, and decorators, but was nevertheless determined to take part in these deliberations too. Announcing to Blanche his desire to learn more about what constituted fine art, he allowed her to steer him toward an old and reputable establishment known simply as Venables’.
Venables’ establishment consisted of a reception room connected to a set of three spacious and high-ceilinged showrooms on the ground floor. A grand staircase at one side of the second of these rooms wound up to an open gallery. A doorway hung with a gold portiere next to the staircase led to the office, which adjoined a large room for receiving, crating, and wrapping. Paintings in heavy gold frames, double- and triple-hung or more, spread over walls, archways, and doorways, with smaller paintings cheek-by-jowl going up the stairs.
The frontmost room, which could be seen from the street window, was devoted to popular genre paintings. The second room was awash with landscapes, seascapes, and cityscapes. The third room held still lifes. Upstairs were the figure paintings and portraits. A statue or bust rose majestically upon its pedestal. Here and there an upholstered ottoman invited the viewer to sit and contemplate. The gallery was bustling with activity.
“Good morning, sir. Good morning, madam,” said the eager young man who accosted them the moment they entered.
Connor dearly wished to bolt ahead and explain that he was Connor O’Casey, the Connor O’Casey who was acquiring land on Madison Avenue to build the finest hotel New York had ever seen—but he restrained himself.
“I’d be obliged if I might have the privilege of speakin’ to Mr. Venables himself.”
“He’s with another client at the moment, sir. Have you an appointment?”
“Mr. O’Casey has only recently settled in New York and is desirous of becoming acquainted with the city’s finest art dealers,” said Blanche. “Naturally, Venables’ Gallery is at the top of the list. I myself am acquainted with Venables’ reputation from my previous residence in New York. I am happy to see that the intervening years have been kind.”
“Indeed, thank you, madam.”
“I realize we have no appointment,” she continued, “but perhaps if Mr. Venables might grace us with a few moments for introduction, we would be most grateful.” Connor produced his visiting card on cue.
“You’ve rather caught us at sixes and sevens today, I’m afraid, madam. Mr. Venables’s engagement diary is full and we’ve just received a new shipment from Europe a day early, which Mr. Venables is endeavoring to oversee himself. Perhaps I may be of assistance.” A new shipment. What unbelievable luck. It was like going on a hunt and being in at the kill.
“We certainly don’t wish to be any trouble. May we know what has just arrived?” Blanche said smoothly as Connor felt an almost imperceptible squeeze against his arm.
“Some paintings acquired by our agents in France for clients here, and a healthy selection of Académie paintings and some very new works, madam.”
“Oh, how splendid,” said Blanche. “We won’t detain you. In the meantime, we
should be delighted to take in your collection, if you will permit us.”
“Certainly, madam,” said the assistant, examining the card; handing them each a catalogue, he departed.
As assistants came and went, Connor noticed that certain of Venables’ clients gained admittance behind the portiere to the workroom. He caught glimpses of elegantly attired patrons covered in bits of straw and dust, magnifiers in hand, bent over paintings for minute examination.
“They might be at sixes and sevens,” Connor whispered, “but seems to me we’ve come on the right day. How do we get a look in?”
“We should look around. You did want to look at art, you know. The more you learn, the better you’ll be able to converse with the owner when the opportunity presents itself. If the opportunity comes, a well-placed word in reference to the hotel and its future decoration may go a long way toward gaining us admittance. It wouldn’t do to be too pushy. Come along. Let’s see what we have here.”
O’Casey attacked the catalogue as if it were the racing form. With only a question or two he quickly picked up the formula of artist, medium, school, and provenance. The genre paintings came first, the easiest to explain and understand, unencumbered by the allegory, mythology, and history. He remarked enthusiastically to Blanche upon their light and color and composition, an enthusiasm that she shared as she amplified his observations. Connor was captivated by the boldness of these paintings that transformed an ordinary field or figure or vase of flowers from the mundane into something more vibrant than the original.
A racecourse and a painting of the St. Lazare train station in Paris so captivated Connor that he asked to have the latter taken from its upper berth for a better look. Connor stepped forward to examine it minutely, then stepped backward to take in the entire view, the assistant hovering at Connor’s elbow and extolling Degas and Monet. He fixated on the contrast—the smooth flesh of the horses and silks of the jockeys on a shimmering field of golden light, and the steely blue-gray of the smoke-filled station with the black iron behemoths and delicate buildings materializing through the mist. Blanche asked if they might see more work by these artists. The assistant answered in the affirmative and conducted them upstairs.
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