Decorum

by Kaaren Christopherson

  “William?” asked Blanche as she made herself more comfortable.

  “Known as ‘Jerry’ to his friends and associates,” continued Tracey.

  “Oh, really? Yes. Why? Do you know Mr. Jerome?”

  “He knows the Jeromes intimately, don’t you, darling?” offered Nell, smiling. “Though among their friends there are others whom he is about to know better.” She chuckled. He consumed his drink, but Blanche recognized the little habits of manner that signaled his displeasure and concluded that his relationship with Nell was one of dependence. Money. Always money. She pitied him for that, even as she tried never to pity herself.

  “Oh, let’s not make this any more difficult than it needs to be,” Nell cooed with an edge of sarcasm. “Do tell Mother how you two met.”

  “It’s quite simple.” Blanche surprised herself by stepping into the breach to save Tracey the necessity of a polite reply. “You remember, Nell, how I spent so much time in the South after Alvarado died? Well, Mr. Tracey being Southern, it can hardly surprise you that he and I might cross paths.”

  “But the South is such a big place, is it not, Edmund?”

  “Indeed it is,” Blanche continued. “But we were both in New Orleans for a time. Besides, circles of like-minded people are generally smaller than one thinks, no matter where they are. It’s not unusual for such people to find each other.”

  “True,” said Nell. “And I’m sure you two were very ‘like-minded. ’ ”

  “New Orleans is as cosmopolitan a place as you’ll find anywhere and a natural draw,” Blanche continued, deflecting Nell’s last statement. “The port is always bustling and the French influence is so cultivated. It’s really quite an interesting place. Mr. Tracey used to come to the salon to play cards, didn’t you, Edmund?” she said. “You brought a letter of introduction with you, didn’t you? I can’t remember now from whom.”

  “Another like-minded person, no doubt,” said Nell.

  Blanche would get nowhere by defending him, even mildly. Despite the thousand questions that invaded her thoughts, to linger was to no purpose and she might make matters worse. The sooner Tracey faced it and told whatever story he chose about his previous life with herself the better. She consumed her tea and cake. Tracey spoke little, ate nothing, and drank bourbon. She felt homesick for his embrace and the shelter of his body. Nell, curled up in the chair like a contented cat, held her plate of cake in one paw under her chin and ate it with the air of having been caught doing something naughty. As soon as she could do so politely, Blanche left.

  CHAPTER 15

  A Complete Stranger

  In good society, a visitor, unless he is a complete stranger, does not wait to be invited to sit down, but takes a seat at once easily. A gentleman should never take the principal place in the room, nor, on the other hand, sit at an inconvenient distance from the lady of the house. He must hold his hat gracefully, not put it on a chair or table, or if he wants to use both hands, must place it on the floor close to his chair.

  —Decorum, page 79

  To lubricate the priest’s memory and powers of speech, Shillingford arrived at the rectory with a gift of two bottles of very fine sherry and a bottle of very old bourbon. Father Marcel had come to the Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus as a young cleric and had spent all his career there, so he knew well the tumultuous history of la Famille Letourneau.

  A darkness came into Father Marcel’s expression at the mention of the Maywood Plantation. He had had no meaningful contact with the Letourneaus since the death of Henriette. Hospitable though he was, he stated firmly that he still was bound to the confidentiality to which his profession held him, even after all this time. Shillingford chose a roundabout probe, avoiding reference to the fact that a young woman’s reputation might be ruined by Henriette’s husband. The priest replaced the glass stopper in the sherry decanter and, his own glass in hand, took his seat opposite Shillingford in front of the fire.

  The priest embarked on an interminable family history—the arrival of the patriarch, Georges Letourneau, and his French bride, Elodie DuLac, in Ascension Parish and the establishment of the Maywood sugar plantation. The son, Charles Montague, and his regrettable marriage to Celestine, who nearly bankrupted the family in luxurious living. Charles’s debauchery with a slave woman, and his cowardly escape to France during the War. The account was peppered with comments on Georges and Elodie’s generosity to the Church and the marked contrast in the behavior of their children.

  “The first fruits of Georges’ and Elodie’s labor came here, as it should. They gave sacrificially to the Church,” he said, and sipped the fine sherry. “What remained of their wealth they put back into Maywood and the sugar business, so despite the fact that they had very few debts and came to have enormous property and slaves, there was very little actual capital, you see.” He sipped the sherry again. “The younger generation don’t know what sacrifice means. They spend it all on pleasure and forget God.” Shillingford noted the fine carved paneling, the comfortable furnishings, and the thick rug in the priest’s study. He noted equally the priest’s fine linen, meticulously kept, but a little threadbare at the neck and cuffs. At one time, at least, Father Marcel had indeed benefited from their patronage.

  “Slowly Maywood came back, but it would never achieve the greatness it had known in the old days, especially since the slaves had been freed.”

  “And what of the sons? I assume they were raised to take over the business.”

  “Hmph, business.” The priest dropped into musing again. “Henri Gerard and Philippe should have made it their business. They should have made eternity their business. There was much they could have repaired besides Maywood.” The priest appeared to want to say more, but held his tongue. “Their relationship with Charles Montague was less than a father might hope for. Their relationship with Celestine was somewhat better. They exhibited the same social tendencies as she, which she simply put down to her sons’ high spirits.

  “Etienne was a different breed. He tried to keep up with his older brothers in mischief, but one sensed that his heart was not in it. I believe he felt some burden for his brothers’ behavior and the family’s reputation. He even asked me once about the Church, and I believe with a little encouragement he might have made the Church his career. Worse villains than he have become some of our most revered saints, you know. But Etienne Letourneau died prematurely. He was out hunting with his brothers. A gun discharged accidentally. He was killed.” The priest sighed, looked into the fire.

  “I see.” A hunting accident, thought Shillingford. This chilling bit of news shed new light on the Letourneaus. “You mention only the three boys. What of the daughter?”

  “Ah, yes. We come to Henriette. Henriette was born after Charles Montague returned from France. A sad business. Celestine died in childbirth. Montague was prostrate with grief. He gave generously to the Church to have her remembered there and doted upon the little girl as the last remnant of her mother. Henriette was a petite thing, doll-like, with dark hair and black eyes, and tiny feet, I remember. She used to flit about everywhere. Le papillon, the butterfly, they used to call her. Her father put her in the Ursuline Convent School in New Orleans. When she finished her schooling at thirteen she went back to Maywood.

  “She was the little princess. Their father treated the boys more like vassals than princes, so there was bad blood from the beginning. Except for Etienne. He and Henriette were closer in age. When he was killed, she was overcome with grief.

  “Then a young man from an Anglo family appeared and set the Letourneaus on what I believe was their final path to destruction,” said the priest.

  “Edmund Tracey,” said Shillingford.

  “Yes, Edmund Tracey. He had been an acquaintance of Henri Gerard, the eldest. Charles Montague disapproved. He felt Tracey was a bad influence on his sons. I believe it was the meeting between Tracey and Henriette and her infatuation with him that sealed their fates. Henri Gerard brought the Anglo to Henriette�
�s coming-out ball. She was barely fifteen.”

  “You were present at the ball?”

  “Naturally. I was always invited to all the important family celebrations. The Anglo made himself agreeable to her, an impressionable young girl. He had no right, of course, and should have been thrown out then and there. But Henriette was always determined to have anything she wanted and she wanted Tracey. Eventually they married.” A skillful omission of detail, thought Shillingford, and a baby is no small detail. The path from coming-out ball to matrimony appeared to be a short one for Henriette and Edmund Tracey. “I blessed the union on condition that any children would be raised in the Church in spite of his Anglo heritage. The entire episode was dreadfully hard on Charles Montague. It broke him. He died only a few months after they married.”

  “And they lived at Maywood—Tracey and Henriette?”

  “Yes.” The priest’s face grew hard and drawn.

  “And Henriette herself died shortly thereafter?” asked Shillingford.

  “Yes.” Father Marcel rose and went to the hearth and made rather a business of stirring the fire and laying on more wood. He decanted more sherry for each of them and resumed his seat, staring for a moment into the crackling flames. When he finally spoke he did so haltingly, without looking at Shillingford.

  “It was so queer,” he said. “All of it, so very queer. I had been there for her father, of course, only a few days before. Everything had been done decently, properly for him. I was called to administer the last rites. He was in extremis, but he managed to kiss the Cross. Yet for Henriette, I was not called.” He stared into his glass. “She lingered for a day or two, yet I was not called. There would have been plenty of time for her—to ensure her everlasting peace. After she died, there was no wake, no vigil, no rosary, no leave-taking of any kind. I fully expected the burial to be in one of the family tombs, with Charles Montague and Celestine. But Henri Gerard said no. A year and a day had not passed since Charles Montague’s death. That was his defense for his reprehensible actions.

  “Maywood has a little city of tombs in the countryside where Georges and Elodie had constructed monuments for the family, to keep them dry throughout eternity.” The priest made a feeble smile, then continued, “Henri Gerard insisted that she be placed there as quickly as possible. She would not have received Christian burial at all, had I not intervened when I heard of her death and had proven equally stubborn in insisting that the dead must at the very least be entombed with the proper words.

  “When I arrived, the coffin lid was bolted down. I was not permitted to see let alone anoint the body. I was shown the death certificate signed by the doctor—Dr. Warren—which Henri Gerard declared to be enough. He and Tracey and I transported the coffin on a wagon to the graveyard. The ground in the little grove of trees was overgrown and thorny, like some forgotten place. My whole being revolted at the thought of laying Henriette to rest there. But Henri Gerard threatened to turn me out altogether, so I helped them pull the wagon up next to an old box tomb. Do you know what that is?”

  “I believe I’ve seen them.”

  “They’re horrible things. They look like they should be a box on top of the ground, but they have no bottom and are dug deep. It took the three of us to budge the stone slab. The moment we opened it the air came up cold and damp and stale. Henri Gerard and Tracey dug it even deeper until all they hit was mud. We lowered her coffin in that awful muddy hole and I gave her Christian burial. Then I was sent on my way.”

  “Philippe was not there?”

  “He had left for France.”

  “And since then?”

  “Nothing. That was the last contact I had with the Letourneau family and Edmund Tracey.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The Most Unreserved Friendships

  If you call to see a friend who is staying at lodgings, however intimate you may be with him, wait below until a servant has carried up your name and returned to tell you whether you can be admitted. . . . These decent formalities are necessary even in the most unreserved friendships; they preserve the “familiar” from degenerating into the “vulgar.” Disgust will very speedily arise between persons who bolt into one another’s chambers, throw open the windows and seat themselves without being desired to do so. Such intimacies are like the junction of two electrical balls—only the prelude of a violent separation.

  —Decorum, page 72

  “How are you observing Thanksgiving, gentlemen?” inquired Mr. Worth. The investors were concluding a business meeting in rooms newly leased for the purpose. Their three partners had left. Only the triumvirate of Jerry, Connor, and Mr. Worth remained.

  “Nothing special,” said Connor, sensing an invitation. “I shall probably have dinner at the hotel.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Mrs. Worth and I are gathering the holiday waifs for a celebration at our house. We’d be pleased if you would join us. We conduct a rather homey affair for Thanksgiving—lots of family and lots of food. A glorified Sunday dinner plus games for any grandchildren who wander through.” Connor had heard about dinner with the Worths. Unlike most of their peers who hid the children away whenever they entertained adult guests, the Worths prided themselves on including children at dinner.

  “That’s very kind of you, sir. In fact, I may be engaged—”

  “And you, Jerry?” interrupted Mr. Worth. “You’re not exactly a waif, but we’d be pleased to have you and Maggie and Miss Lund.”

  “Thank you, John. I’ll have to consult with the Jerome Entertainment and Mission Committee.”

  “Oh?” said Mr. Worth, with an amused grin.

  “Maggie and Francesca will spend Thanksgiving morning slaving away at some mission,” Jerry said, “cooking meals and feeding the poor. By the time they get home they won’t be able to stand the sight of turkey. I may have to eat the whole unfortunate bird myself.”

  “Then perhaps you’d better come, Jerry. It sounds like you’re a waif after all. I leave the invitation open, though Isabel will see to the formalities, I’m sure. We dine at four o’clock, but people begin arriving around noon, so you’re all welcome anytime.”

  “Thank you. I’ll consult with the Committee and let you know.”

  “What about Mr. Tracey?” asked Mr. Worth. “It appears I must become accustomed to including him, too.” His tone had an edge.

  “Yes,” said Jerry, attempting a show of enthusiasm. “Miss Lund has recently become engaged to a Mr. Edmund Tracey, Connor. None of us are quite used to the fact.”

  “Isabel would be happy to see Miss Lund again,” said Mr. Worth, passing over Edmund Tracey. “You should have seen Mrs. Worth and Miss Lund the last time we came together, O’Casey. Thick as thieves they were, talking art, music, religion, and books. Isabel nearly forgot that she had other guests.”

  “Talking about some obscure musical notation or literary quotation or some desert hermit or mountaintop mystic, no doubt,” chuckled Jerry.

  “No doubt,” chuckled Mr. Worth. “Though I must say, Isabel is like a new person after one of her ‘Lund episodes.’ Can’t stop her talking about Miss Lund’s accomplishments and interests.”

  Connor looked dubious. Jesus, he thought. Probably a member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union and a suffragette to boot. Thank God she’s engaged. At this moment he felt his bachelorhood keenly.

  “Don’t worry, O’Casey. The Worth billiard room is the male bastion—unless of course it’s taken over by a gaggle of children. In which case we retreat to the library.”

  “Children I can take,” said Connor. “Mountaintop mystics, I’m not so sure of.”

  “I don’t blame you, sir,” said Mr. Worth, laughing again. “Any children of your own—in your own family, I should say?”

  Was this a slip, or was it meant to be funny? thought Connor. This was not the first sidelong reference to his personal life that he had endured from his colleagues. Had he been married, of course, the question would have been an innocent one. But for a man
who was well known to be not only single but eligible, the question held more than innuendo. Connor had successfully dodged all mention of a family. Yet his increasing intimacy with his colleagues had already made him privy to the everyday doings of wives and children and grandchildren. He had not reciprocated with a recital of his own commonplace, and certainly not about Blanche.

  Jerry and Worth knew about Blanche, of course, and had construed correctly what his arrangement with her might be. They freely dropped names of suitable women whom their wives and society had thoroughly vetted and offered, in so many words, to effect introductions. They had hinted that Blanche had also been vetted and found wanting. If Connor wanted to keep a bit of something on the side that was his lookout, but if he aspired to the circles in which their wives and daughters traveled, then an acceptable wife was the only alternative. Connor had never contemplated a divided life and the thought of it now displeased him. One woman, acceptable only to him, was all he ever cared about. But now, even elevating Blanche to the rank of wife might not be enough to excuse their prior conduct or to remove the stain with which they had so clearly marked her character.

  Connor chose to take Mr. Worth’s question at face value. “No, sir. I don’t have much experience of children, but am, in general, favorably disposed.”

  “Splendid. Then you’ll fit right in.”

  “Thank you, sir, I look forward to it.” Connor felt he could not say otherwise.

  “You know, John, your talk of Isabel and Francesca makes me think I should push the Mission Committee a bit this year,” said Jerry. “It would do Francesca good. She needs more people who share her enthusiasms. She still stays so bottled up.” So long as she keeps it bottled up around me, thought Connor. “I’m afraid Maggie and I are no match for her artistic passions. If she didn’t have the piano and the opera—”