Decorum

by Kaaren Christopherson

  “She’s playing the piano again? Splendid. Can we persuade her to play, do you think? Isabel would love it.”

  “She’s taking piano and singing lessons again, yes,” answered Jerry.

  “Marvelous. Then we shall persuade her,” said Mr. Worth.

  “Yes,” said Jerry. “She tends to take refuge in things rather than people—books, music, God, though I suppose God is a person after all and not a thing. She does take great satisfaction in helping people who can’t help themselves. She’s developed a passion for this new settlement movement and has thrown a good deal of her time and financial support behind it. I was a little dubious at first, but I honestly think that it’s had a wonderful effect on her. But she prefers to remain in the background, and not in the limelight. Maggie’s always trying to get her to take center stage.”

  “Well, we must work on that then,” said Mr. Worth. “She has much to give and much to teach. Isabel would be delighted to help, I’m sure.”

  “Sounds as if Maggie and Isabel would make ideal conspirators.”

  Blanche was testy. She was standing in Connor’s hotel suite at the Grand Central, in her hat and coat, watching him as the young valet Jamie helped him prepare to go out. “So, why can’t I go?” Connor had hoped to avoid confrontation. Now that she was here, he was determined not to work himself into a lather. He would have the final word.

  “You know very well why you can’t go. You weren’t invited.” He was unruffled as he preened before the mirror. Jamie buttoned the collar onto Connor’s shirt and buttoned the shirt at the neck as Connor inserted the jasper cufflinks.

  “And why wasn’t I invited?” asked Blanche, more as a statement than a question. “Because they don’t know I exist, that’s why I wasn’t invited. And why don’t they know I exist?” She raised her muffed hand and let it fall. “Because you didn’t tell them.”

  Connor turned to her. “They know you exist all right. They saw you at the charity ball, didn’t they? Can I help it if none of the ladies have come to call? You can hardly expect me to simply pop up and say, ‘Can I bring a friend?’ now, can you?”

  He turned back to the mirror. Jamie handed him his necktie.

  “No, but you could have been more chivalrous about it and said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Worth, but I have a previous engagement. Mrs. Alvarado and I will be eating our lonely Thanksgiving dinner at the hotel’”—here she gestured melodramatically—“ ‘while others more fortunate gather with family and friends.’ Perhaps you could have troubled yourself to tug harder at the old man’s heartstrings and managed two invitations instead of one.”

  “That wouldn’t be proper, Blanche, and you know it. Besides, you wouldn’t like it. It’s their children and grandchildren. It wouldn’t be right, havin’ you come.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Meaning that I know how you feel about children. You couldn’t stand being there more than five minutes before they’d drive you stark-starin’ mad.” As long as he had known Blanche, she had avoided the subject of children, whether from a barefaced dislike, a fear of encumbrance, or the failure to produce her share, he couldn’t tell.

  “And you like them, I suppose?”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t mind the little beggars.” He pinned his tie with a jasper stickpin. “At least I have more patience round ’em than you do. And I’ll not have you go insulting the children and grandchildren of an important business partner and blowing this carefully cultivated relationship to smithereens.” Jamie held the waistcoat as Connor slipped it on and buttoned it. Jamie strung the watch chain through the buttonhole and attached the jasper fob as Connor flipped open the watch and checked the time against the clock on the wall. He snapped it shut and put the watch in his pocket.

  “Do you mean to say that you think I don’t know how to behave?”

  “Oh, you can behave, Blanche. It’s just that you’ve no power to dissemble. Your displeasure winds up written all over your face, no matter what sugary sweetness comes out of your mouth.” Jamie helped him on with his coat. “Nope. This time it’s on me own. If all goes well, your chance’ll come soon enough.”

  “And what am I supposed to do while you’re cultivating your relationship?”

  “You’ll think of something, I’m sure.”

  Blanche was furious and deeply hurt. Connor’s refusal had been so cavalier. He left her at home as one might leave a pet dog. He never would have come this far if it hadn’t been for her. She had subordinated her own desires for Connor’s sake. Ungrateful wretch. Now that he was on the point of making his first real entrance into society he didn’t want her there. Selfish bastard. She couldn’t get out of Connor’s hotel room fast enough.

  Outside the Grand Central Hotel she hesitated. She dreaded going back to her room, the reminder of her predicament—the clothes Connor bought her, the jewelry, the paintings and bric-a-brac and the interminable isolation. Her usual refuge at the Iris was distasteful now, a shabby substitute for the society she longed for. Nell had cooled since discovering Blanche’s former association with Tracey. In any case, she had assured Nell that she would be well occupied for the day, hinting that this might be her groundbreaking occasion. She couldn’t go to Nell now and admit defeat.

  She walked on past the hotel, determined to work herself out of her present misery. A reckless and ridiculous thought surfaced on the murky waters of self-pity—all the more appealing for its recklessness. She remembered an idle comment someone had made at Nell’s one afternoon—about a small and somewhat less-than-smart hotel. A careworn place that once pretended to be chic, but had long since given up pretending.

  “How humiliating it must be, poor darling. I wouldn’t wish such a place on my worst enemy,” an all-knowing someone had said that gloomy afternoon.

  “Yes,” answered a sardonic someone else, “to be in such reduced circumstances. And such a charming gentleman. It’s too cruel.”

  Men are bastards, thought Blanche. Her fury rose at her predicament with the immovable Connor O’Casey. To Blanche, her situation defied logic and deserved sympathy.

  “Such a shabby little place it is.” The voice crept up through Blanche’s consciousness. “Hardly the sort of place in which to ‘entertain, ’ shall we say?”

  She stopped to collect herself in front of a door, to the right of which was a brass plate. She looked at it blankly. Jeffers. Jameson. Brier. Stanley. Names that meant nothing to her. She conjured up the party at the Worths’ with Connor standing in their midst, the solitary recognizable figure. Fresh pain shot through her anger. She put a gloved hand to her mouth and extended the other to steady herself against the wall.

  “Are you all right, madam?” Blanche felt a firm and gentle hand tug on her arm. “Can I help you in some way?”

  She pulled her arm free, not unkindly, and turned without looking at the woman who addressed her and threw back a “No, I’m quite all right, thank you” as she continued down the street. She stumbled on, pushing past numberless others hurrying somewhere.

  “And where is this wretched hotel?” swam the voice of the sympathetic soul.

  “Somewhere in SoHo, I think,” echoed the all-knowing.

  “Do you recall the name of the place?” asked the voice.

  Do you recall the name of the place? insisted Blanche’s own thoughts. The pace of her recollection picked up with each determined footfall.

  She hailed a cab and made for the street in SoHo, confident that once there she would know the name of the hotel when she saw it. The cab clattered its way along the busy avenue, fashion yielding block by block to a more careworn gentility. As the cab picked its way through a jumble of horse-drawn conveyances, Blanche strained to give attention to both sides of the street. “There!” she called out, and knocked on the roof. The cab drew up.

  As she entered, she felt larger than her surroundings, as if she might bump her head on the door frame. Her confidence expanded into the dingy lobby, where the lethargic clerk unfo
lded himself and addressed her with something like respect. Her query was answered shortly. She mounted the long staircase, breathless with anticipation. She stopped in front of Number Ten and, without hesitating, knocked. A stir indicated life within. A few steps ended in an abrupt turn of the doorknob and the opening of the door an eye’s breadth before it opened fully.

  “I hoped it wouldn’t be long before you found me,” said Tracey.

  CHAPTER 17

  Many Foibles of Manner

  A young man or woman upon first entering into society should select those persons who are most celebrated for the propriety and elegance of their manners. They should frequent their company, and imitate their conduct. There is a disposition inherent in all, which has been noticed by Horace and by Dr. Johnson, to imitate faults, because they are more readily observed and more easily followed. There are, also, many foibles of manner and many refinements of affectation, which sit agreeably upon one man, which if adopted by another would become unpleasant. There are even some excellences of deportment which would not suit another whose character is different.

  —Decorum, page 26

  As the cab sped toward the Worths’, Blanche receded further and further from Connor’s consciousness. The wide boulevards, green parks, and fashionable squares whetted his appetite for more than a festive dinner. Thanksgiving would be an auspicious occasion, he was sure—a baptism, a confirmation. Yes, he would mark November twenty-seventh as his birthday. Though the real date of his birth eluded him, the year, 1847, was burned into history—the year that pushed Ireland over the precipice. Today would be a day of renewal, a day of great things. Connor even dared to picture himself dandling Worth grandchildren on his knee, children who might one day look favorably upon their old Uncle Connor. The cab pulled up in front of an imposing stone structure with turrets and balconies and leaded glass and wide steps that swept up from the street to massive double doors of dark-stained oak. Old gas lamps on the front of the castle-like mansion were the only hints of warmth. A moat and a drawbridge would not have surprised him.

  He rang the bell. A footman answered the door and with a cordial but businesslike manner ushered Connor in and took his hat, coat, and stick. Humble the gathering may be, he thought, but not the surroundings. Everywhere were the fruits of wide-ranging interests—magnificent ornaments gathered from their travels with none of the vulgar curiosities of distant cultures so often displayed on a pianoforte under a bell jar. The royal blue carpet contrasted with the warm yellow of the carved oak paneling. Chinese porcelains of all sizes with nature scenes and stylized flowers adorned the mantelpiece above a crackling fire. A magnificent sideboard of intricately carved tiger oak offered a host of nooks and crannies for displaying more chinoiserie. The graceful staircase swept up to the top of the landing, where an exquisite Tiffany window depicted Oriental flowers, birds, and insects.

  The house was not in the state of chaos Connor had expected, as several of the littlest Worths had just gone down for their afternoon naps. Mrs. Worth greeted him. She was stylishly dressed, if a bit overdone, he thought, but was an attractive woman, round, soft, and white-haired with piercing dark eyes.

  “I’m so glad you could join us, Mr. O’Casey. I hope our humble family gathering won’t tax you too much, being a bachelor.”

  “May I compliment you on your wonderful home, ma’am.” Connor was shown upstairs to the drawing room. The kind of home he could see himself in, he thought, presided over by a woman of taste and accomplishment. And where does one find a Mrs. Worth—or more to the point, a Mrs. O’Casey—to find the right bits and bobs to adorn a man’s life and home and do him proud? “I understood from Mr. Worth that you’re an exceptional collector. It’s clear to me now that he was being modest on your behalf. If time permits, I’d be pleased to have a tour.”

  “The pleasure would be mine, Mr. O’Casey, I’m sure,” she said, much gratified. “And if the day gets away from us today, perhaps I may have the pleasure on another occasion.” Another occasion? A good sign, thought Connor.

  He followed her to a sprawling room of dark, fumed oak where the light of two large fireplaces danced merrily against the high polish. Her heels clicked on the parquetry between the thick Persian rugs. East had moved West, with dark medieval European pieces mixed with the contemporary.

  The older Worth grandchildren were strewn across the floor, absorbed in puzzles, maps, building bricks, and games, except for one little girl of six, clearly bored, half-reclining in an overstuffed chair and absently stroking a cat. The men lounged in comfortable chairs, chatting or reading the newspaper. The eldest daughter and granddaughter were the only adult females in attendance. The gentlemen rose as Mrs. Worth introduced the ladies, two sons, and two sons-in-law, who in turn introduced the scatterlings, who sprang to their feet and came forward to shake Connor’s hand.

  One of the younger ones was a freckle-faced boy of eight with strawberry blond hair, wearing a paper sailor’s hat and sporting a homemade sword. “You look like a pirate,” he said to Connor.

  “Jeremiah!” said Mrs. Worth as the rest of the children giggled and adults suppressed smiles—except for Jeremiah’s mother, Mrs. Edith Blackhurst, who shot Jeremiah a look of reprimand.

  “And so I am, Master Jeremiah,” said Connor, amused, but glaring at him soberly with his dark, disturbing eyes. This bit of frankness gave Connor courage. “I’ve sailed the Seven Seas and plundered and pillaged, too.”

  Jeremiah turned to his siblings and cousins. “See, I told you,” he whispered.

  “We Worths teach our young ones to size people up from an early age, Mr. O’Casey,” said the eldest son.

  “Heavens, Frederick,” said his sister, Mrs. Blackhurst. “What will Mr. O’Casey think?”

  “It’s amazing how accurate they can be when they’re not burdened by adult biases and misconceptions,” said Connor. “They’ve got only their gut instincts to go on, beg pardon, ladies, so off they go.” Frederick laughed at the remark.

  “Then perhaps we should take their accounts more seriously,” said the senior Mr. Worth, smiling as he strode across the room, followed by the remaining Worth women.

  “We should at that, Father,” said Frederick.

  “Don’t encourage him, Mr. O’Casey,” said his wife as she came up and stood beside her husband. “He’s bad enough on his own. I’m Mildred Worth, Frederick’s wife.” Mr. Worth senior completed the introductions, presenting Linton Blackhurst, Edith’s husband, and the Worths’ younger daughter, Margaret, married to Samuel Curry. First impressions all round seemed favorable. Connor couldn’t know that only hours before, the elder Mr. Worth had given the family its marching orders.

  “Of course I know his reputation,” Mr. Worth had said. “And yes, I know about this woman of his. She was not invited and, God willing, he’ll have the good sense not to bring her along. If he does, we’ll know what we’re dealing with.”

  “But Father,” protested Margaret. “How are we to explain such a person to the children?”

  “There’s nothing to explain, my dear. No one need know anything about him other than that he is a business associate of mine. He’s a big fish, and likely to become an even bigger fish.”

  “Or simply more fishy,” chimed in Frederick.

  “And,” said Mr. Worth, paying no heed, “I’d rather he swim in this pond than jump the dam and wind up in someone else’s pond.”

  “Father, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Edith, he’s done absolutely nothing to offend thus far. He has bent over backward to accommodate me at every turn. He’s got a very good head on his shoulders and has wisely pointed out particulars where we might have put a foot wrong. He’s no fool, even if he is a bit lax in the morals department. And he’s a friend of Jerry Jerome’s, whose friendship I’d like to keep. Besides, there have been many sound men of business—and politics, and the law, and any other profession you can name—who have had the misfortune to suffer from their own little personal weaknesses of one ki
nd or other.”

  “Little?” Margaret exclaimed.

  “Personally, I think he’s a lost soul in some ways,” said Mr. Worth.

  “Oh, Father, you’re worse than Mother,” said Edith.

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  “But Father, do you have to drag him into our drawing room?”

  “Yes, my dear Edith, I do.”

  “Well, I, for one, am willing to give him a chance,” said Frederick. “He might prove quite amusing.”

  “However much I appreciate your support, Fred—and I do—I still expect you to be polite to Mr. O’Casey,” said Mr. Worth.

  “I wouldn’t dream of being otherwise, Father,” Frederick said, more seriously. “I’m curious about Mr. O’Casey, to see whether he’s the devil incarnate that Edith thinks he is.”

  “If this is important to you, Father,” said Linton Blackhurst, who had been listening in silence to the family harangue, “then I’m with Fred. If he makes a gaffe he hurts no one but himself. If he comes off well, so much the better for all of us.”

  “Thank you, Lin. My point exactly,” said Mr. Worth. “Innocent until proven guilty.”

  So, unbeknownst to Connor, he had leapt over the first hurdle—leaving Blanche to sulk at the hotel, much to the collective relief of the Worth women—and spent the afternoon charming the family.

  Thank God for the children, Connor thought: amiable buffers to awkwardness and an endless topic of conversation. Whenever possible, he queried the children directly regarding their ages and interests, their schooling and subjects. In turn, they plied him with questions about sailing, which eventually led to other kinds of travel, then to questions about distant shores. It ended with Connor sitting in a club chair with an atlas open on a large ottoman and the children gathered around, pointing to places on a large map. To most of their questions Connor could formulate a reasonably accurate answer and for those that he could speak to from experience he had a ready fable fit to entertain. He feared he might have overstepped the bounds of decorum, but the children’s pleasure, Connor’s willingness to answer anything they asked, and the tranquility of the warm fire made wholesale disapproval nearly impossible.