“These are some of our finest works by these artists, sir,” said the assistant as Connor prepared to pounce on more paintings. The young man drew Connor’s attention to two pastels of ballet dancers and an oil of a nude. Blanche smiled and stifled a snicker. The assistant left them to browse.
“Where are you going?” she asked as Connor headed for the stairs.
“To look at my paintin’s again. Well, they’re as good as mine. I don’t want anyone else to buy them.”
“I doubt very much that Venables’ will suddenly be invaded by droves of connoisseurs itching to buy pictures of train stations.”
Connor wasn’t sure he agreed with her, but acquiesced.
Finally, they were joined by Mr. Venables himself, a robust little man with frazzled hair, a raspy voice, and a quick manner. “My dear Mr. O’Casey, I believe,” he began as he peered at Connor above his spectacles, seeming to forget whether to look through or over the spectacles to read Connor’s card. He extended his hand. “I do apologize. We’re in something of a muddle today. So sorry. I hope you haven’t been inconvenienced.”
“Your assistant has been most attentive,” Connor answered. He exerted himself with businesslike charm and after a few polite questions steered the conversation back to the two paintings that by now were becoming obsessions. The proprietor was on the point of conducting Connor and Blanche down to the beloved paintings, when the assistant met him halfway up the stairs.
“Your noon appointment is here, Mr. Venables—about the Redon and the Ravier. We’d be grateful for your attention.”
“I’m so sorry, sir, madam,” Mr. Venables said, turning to each. “Duty calls, I’m afraid. Pray continue your perusal and tell my assistant to call me if there is anything else in particular you would like to see.”
As they descended the stairs a young woman came into the second gallery and met Mr. Venables at the bottom step. She was tall and fair—the Scheherazade whom Connor had seen at the ball, but no highwayman accompanied her. Instead, the smaller, darker young woman of the afternoon tea was again her companion along with a third young woman who was plainer still. Before he could make further assessment, Mr. Venables whisked the ladies into the workroom.
A rose among the cabbages, thought Connor. Three times now she’s been where I’ve been. He began a mental list of what he knew about her—the dancing, the art. He speculated upon the circles in which she might travel. Did she know people he knew? Had they missed each other in other places? Had she been at dinner anywhere he dined with Blanche? Had he passed her in the park on their afternoon drive?
Denied the pleasure of further appraising this woman, Connor was about to protest that he had had enough cultural stimulation for one day. He wanted to pack up his paintings and go home, when the assistant met them and announced that a crate containing another work by one of his favorites had just been unpacked. Would the gentleman and the lady care to step into the workroom for an advance look before it went on display? Connor’s eyes sharpened and his chest expanded; he squared his shoulders and followed Blanche as the assistant held back the portiere and guided them in.
Venables’ workroom was a hodge-podge of elegance and industry, nearly two full stories high with large windows on the two outer walls and a loft with bookcases and cabinets and stairs and catwalks that marked the circumference. Near the double doors that opened out onto the alley were workbenches equipped with vises and clamps, with pulleys, chains, and hauling tackle overhead. Well-worn cabinets held tools. The smell of straw and solvents for repairing and cleaning fine art hung in the air. Wooden barrels held scraps of frame molding while fresh supplies in every style and thickness stood against the wall.
A section was screened off where an enormous oriental rug covered the rough wooden floor and easels were arrayed like soldiers waiting for duty. A Franklin stove stood in the corner, in front of which stood two chairs and a low table crowned with a costly set of Wedgwood that held the remnants of tea. Nearby stood a well-stocked liquor cabinet and a hutch that protected fine crystal. Wealthy clients wore bits of straw like badges of honor, part of the select set who were privy to the inner workings of the gallery. Several parties were examining paintings, but their placement was so skillful and the service so individual that an air of exclusivity and discretion belied the high degree of activity.
Two easels were prepared for Francesca against a backdrop of dark velvet. A small, brilliant still life of a vase of flowers and a landscape of a sunlit classical arch hemmed in by trees and shaded hedges were secured by the assistant’s gloved hands. The strong primary hues of the still life with its golden ground and jewel-like flowers beckoned her from across the room. Immediately she knew this would hang where she could see it the moment she entered the drawing room. The landscape—cool and sunny, solitary and refreshing, with its fresh hedges and pebbled path—would go in the study. To mentally transport these works and see clearly where they should live was a sure sign that they were meant to be hers.
A striking couple entered the workroom, she handsome, he not handsome but arresting in appearance. As the newcomers entered, all the parties quickly turned to look and just as quickly returned to their own activities. Mr. Venables detached himself from the ladies with a bow and directed the couple to another easel beyond. The woman was pale with jet-black hair and black eyes and a look of unabashed self-satisfaction, elegant in deep blue and with a large fur muff. He was equally dark—dark of feature and of mood.
The lady passed first and Francesca dropped her gaze. Just as the man came upon her, just before she turned back to her paintings, Francesca caught him out of the corner of her eye. He looked at her directly and touched the brim of his topper. She quickly faced the paintings, face flushed. Anne uttered, “Of all the abominable cheek.” Vinnie repressed a smile. Francesca instantly recognized his impertinence, if not his face. She had seen him at the charity ball.
A packing crate had been pried open and a large canvas taken from its linen shroud and placed upon the easel. The woman’s exclamation of pleasure drew all eyes toward them. The painting was indeed exquisite, a small cottage on a brilliant and thickly vegetated cliff overlooking a misty azure and aqua sea. Francesca, too, looked at the painting with its brilliant yellow light and then back at her own beloved Ravier. It seemed puny for a moment until it drew her into its cool pathway. She looked at the Monet again and cocked her head.
“He’s looking at you,” Vinnie said at Francesca’s shoulder. “He is.” Anne pressed Vinnie’s arm as Francesca turned to the Ravier, but Vinnie would have none. “She’s quite something,” she persisted, “she sparkles like jet. You should look.”
“I saw her quite adequately, Vinnie, thank you,” said Francesca. “You shouldn’t whisper about people so.”
“I’d stop whispering if you’d start looking.” Anne pressed Vinnie’s arm again as the jet woman glanced over her shoulder and the dark man looked openly at Francesca, who was trying to maintain her dignity—and Vinnie’s—in spite of the flush she could feel rising in her cheeks.
“Are you here to look at paintings or people?” she said.
“Oh, bother the paintings,” said Vinnie. “The people are much more interesting. Mr. Venables seems very interested in them.”
“Of course he does,” Anne said. “They are customers, after all. Professional interest is not the same as being nosy.” Francesca supported Anne’s sentiment with a stern look at Vinnie, who rolled her eyes and continued unabated.
“I think the man has more than a ‘professional interest’ in Francesca.”
“Mr. Venables?” said Francesca, just to irritate her.
“Oh, he’s back looking at that painting again,” said Vinnie, ignoring Francesca.
“As he should,” said Anne.
“He looks very interesting.”
“Everyone and everything is interesting to you, Vinnie,” said Anne, lowering her voice with each syllable. The assistant rejoined the ladies.
“Who is tha
t over there?” Vinnie inquired of the assistant, while Francesca and Anne looked on, horrified. “I mean, what artist are they looking at?”
“That’s a Monet, miss.”
“Oh, a Monet,” she said with emphasis. At that, Francesca expressed herself satisfied with the Redon and the Ravier. The assistant motioned to Mr. Venables, whose back was turned to them. It was the gentleman who caught the assistant’s eye and drew Mr. Venables’s attention to them. The latter excused himself with a bow and invited the ladies to follow him. Before disappearing into the office, Vinnie turned to look over her shoulder.
“He’s looking at you again.”
“Stop it, Vinnie.”
CHAPTER 14
A Good Stock of Information
Still it is a sober truth, of which everyone should feel the force, that, with the single exception of a good conscience, no possession can be so valuable as a good stock of information.
Some portion of it is always coming into use; and there is hardly any kind of information which may not become useful in an active life.
When we speak of information, we do not mean that merely which has direct reference to one’s trade, profession, or business.
—Decorum, page 48
Jerry stood in front of the tall windows of his office at the Merchants and Mechanics Bank and peered between the slats of the dark oak shutters and looked down onto the street, Shillingford’s letter in his hand. He had steeled himself for a result like this, much as one steels oneself for the death of a loved one after a prolonged illness. But as with death, however long anticipated, the announcement came as a shock just the same.
Registered letter to Mr. W. T. Jerome, New York,
New York, from Mr. J. K. Shillingford, New
Orleans, Louisiana, November 20, 1890, In re:
Investigation of E.F.T:
Dear Sir:
We are pleased to report progress at this early date. Specifically, we have confirmed that the subject in question wed Henriette Genevieve Agnes Letourneau at the Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus in Ascension Parish, Louisiana, on 4th February 1884. This ceremony followed an earlier civil ceremony performed by a justice of the peace on 15th January in New Orleans.
Other discoveries are noteworthy: a death certificate for the father, Charles Montague Letourneau, dated 3rd June 1884, at Maywood Plantation, the family property in Ascension Parish. In addition, a death certificate for Henriette Letourneau Tracey and a stillborn child, a boy unnamed, is dated 9th June 1884. All the deaths were certified by a Dr. Andrew Warren, whom we are now seeking for information concerning the circumstances. We intend to pursue inquiries into who might gain by these deaths and how. Should you wish us to cease these lines of inquiry based upon our current report, please wire instructions to this effect.
I am continuing the investigation in New Orleans. Operatives are assisting here and in New York to bring this case to a thorough, rapid, and, we hope, satisfactory conclusion. I will wire you of an address where I may be reached. I am,
Your servant,
J. K. Shillingford
Jerry dearly wished he could have confided in Maggie. He wished she could be more circumspect and more considerate of another person’s situation and feelings. But such had not been the case in nearly thirty years. When she did find out about Shillingford and Tracey, they would row. The thought of it made him weary.
The real question, of course, the preservation of Jerry’s home life notwithstanding, was whether to tell Francesca this crumb of information or to wait for more evidence. What he really wanted was for Tracey to be discredited. He was not good enough for Francesca, but in the absence of evidence to the contrary, there was no good reason to prohibit her marriage. Having been married and widowed was no crime, though hiding the fact may be suspect. Jerry dearly hoped for sufficient evidence to the contrary.
What a mess a life could be—a once-proud family broken by war, divided loyalties, betrayal, deprivation, desperation, and defeat, all the makings of bitter resentment and bolstered by an attitude of wanting the world handed over on a silver salver. Jerry’s sympathy was fleeting, however. Having given her pledge, Francesca would be loath to break it. Though she had come to him about Tracey, Jerry did not want to push her into defending her fiancé against unsubstantiated accusations.
He had no choice. Until Shillingford could produce evidence to vindicate Tracey, Jerry must keep the matter to himself. He could only reply to Shillingford to conclude his investigation with all due speed.
Blanche had nagged Connor, in a mild way, into setting a regular luncheon date with her on Fridays. A mild nagging did Connor good, now that their life was becoming more settled. Most men expected it, didn’t they? Besides, a too-contented Blanche, she reasoned, would make him suspicious, as if she didn’t need him. And Friday luncheon with Connor helped to stanch any questions he might have about how she spent the rest of her week, especially her regular Wednesday visits to Nell.
One Friday, Connor couldn’t make it. A crisis in the land deal for the hotel had arisen and the investors needed him for the negotiations. Blanche knew it couldn’t be helped, but it peeved her nonetheless. The tiny seed of rebellion, already planted in the fertile ground of her isolation, flowered in the shape of an unexpected visit to Nell.
The maid took Blanche’s card and went to inquire as to whether Mrs. Ryder was receiving visitors. That Blanche had caught Nell at an unguarded moment was evident. As she waited in the entry hall, she could hear voices in the drawing room—Nell’s, the maid’s, and a man’s. Silence, then Blanche heard, “Yes.” Blanche made her entrance, hand extended toward Nell, who was sitting in the overstuffed chair, feet drawn up in her characteristic pose.
“Nell, dear, forgive me for intruding. . . .”
A gentleman rose. He was tall, well built, with thick, short auburn hair and a thick moustache. He was thoroughly composed, his posture careless. He faced her, absently slipping his fingers into the watch pocket of his waistcoat. He betrayed no emotion, but in the brief moment of surprise and recognition, Blanche thought she detected an expression of pleasure in the deep blue eyes and the sunny-freckled face. Then, as quickly as it had come, the pleasure disappeared into a reserved and disinterested countenance.
“Hello, Blanche.”
The sultry drawl took her breath away. She felt a gripping pleasure and thought her knees might buckle under her. For a moment she thought how awkward she must look, but it didn’t matter. She withdrew the hand still extended toward Nell and offered it to the man.
“Why, Edmund,” she said, letting her confusion flood the room. She looked at Nell. “Nell, dear, I had no idea . . .” her voice trailed off.
“Nor did I,” said Nell. “Mr. Tracey’s little surprises never fail to entertain.”
Tracey’s look apologized to Blanche for Nell’s remark. He took her hand, kissed it, and returned it to her side before he let it go.
“You’re looking very well, Blanche. Are you well?”
“Yes. Very well indeed. Thank you, Edmund. You look well, too.” Blanche’s feelings overwhelmed her, her mind crammed with questions. Where had he been? Where did he come from? Did she still move him as deeply as he did her? Surely Nell would assume that Tracey’s prior acquaintance with Blanche was intimate, as Blanche assumed his current acquaintance with Nell was no less so. What must Edmund Tracey be thinking of them both? The overriding question was how the three of them came to occupy the same room.
“Do sit down, dear, and you can tell me how on earth you know dear Edmund. Edmund, be so good as to ring the bell. We may as well have some tea. Unless you prefer a different sort of libation. You both look as if you could use a drink.”
As Tracey crossed the room Blanche thought how well acquainted she once had been with the strong back and broad shoulders. She was sensible of the freckled hands as he pulled the bell, and remembered how those hands had caressed her. He was the only one who ever loved her without judgment, and whom she felt justified
her love. When they parted, she knew she would never feel that way with anyone else.
Blanche had seen Connor O’Casey as a man with ambitions and appetites, not unfeeling or unkind yet rough and worldly. He was good to her, as any man with means can be good to a woman. Perhaps she had expected too much of him and thus of her own powers to mold him into an image she could adore. Edmund roused her as if from a long slumber. Here was an idol ready-made, who could draw from her adoration. She wondered why she ever thought she could marry this man with whom she had spent this last, arduous year. Oh yes, she remembered. The money.
Tracey went to the liquor cabinet and poured a large bourbon and extended it and said, “Blanche?” She declined and he offered it to Nell.
“Well, if you don’t need it, dear,” said Nell, “I certainly do.” There was an awkward silence until Nell changed the subject.
“What brings you here on a Friday, Blanche darling? You’re always welcome, of course, but this is a bit unusual for you. O’Casey occupied?” said Nell. Then, turning to Tracey she said, “Mr. Connor O’Casey is Blanche’s gentleman friend, Edmund,” giving a barely perceptible emphasis to “friend.”
“O’Casey,” he said, pondering the name, “O’Casey. Oh, yes. I believe I have heard that name. Does he not have business dealings with a Mr. William Thomas Jerome?”
Decorum Page 11