Across the room the piano was unoccupied, an opportunity not to be missed. At least music, in whatever form, might be a pleasure he and Miss Lund could share. His repertoire was limited, having been schooled at the Academy of Taverns in Western Mining Towns. So far, however, he had been able to turn his limitations into opportunities to be schooled by the more refined. Scanning the room to make sure that none of the ladies appeared to be moving toward the piano, he slid onto the bench and began to look through the music piled to the side of the rack.
“Do you play, Mr. O’Casey?” called Miss Blair from across the room. The ladies’ collective gaze turned toward him. It was the opening he needed.
“Yes, ma’am, though I’m afraid you’ll find my schoolin’ in music somewhat lackin’.”
“Nonsense. Won’t you favor us?” she said kindly. “You certainly don’t mind, do you, Maggie? Pray, continue, Mr. O’Casey.”
Connor had noticed in the pile of music a sheet of “Love’s Old Sweet Song” and began to play it, though from memory. He refrained from singing, which might detract from any favorable impression his playing might create. By the time he reached the refrain he was so engrossed in the song that he was a little startled to hear Francesca’s mezzo voice and looked up to see her standing by the piano. She sang the second verse, seemingly more for her own pleasure than for the benefit of the company. The party half-whispered, half-listened. Tracey stood near the back, his face red with displeasure. When she finished, Tracey moved to fetch coffee for himself.
“I didn’t have you pegged as quite such a sentimentalist,” said Francesca.
“What did you peg me as? Someone with a hide tough enough that nothing could penetrate?”
Francesca unabashedly looked him over as he sat there looking back at her. “No,” she said after a moment, “no.” She looked him in the eye. “I think you’re all bluff.”
In that fraction of a moment, a tiny, barely perceptible look passed between them—a depth of understanding that Connor would never have owned. Bluff. The word itself didn’t matter. He had been called worse—much worse, and to his face. She seemed not to judge him at all, but the sincerity in the way she said it and the way she looked, not at him but into him, made him feel exposed—as if he were sitting at the piano stark naked. He felt unsettled and aroused by something unexpected in her. If she could unbalance him like that in such a simple yet penetrating way, what else might she be able to do to him? Was he mistaken, or was there not a tiny speck, an atom of attraction in her eyes as they rested on him? It happened so fast. In an instant the look was gone, leaving him to wonder if it had ever really happened, and at once to wish and to dread that it might happen again.
He maintained his demeanor with effort and tried to smirk. “Is that so?” was all he could manage, leaving the tenor of the next remark to her so that he might breathe.
“Yes. I believe that’s so.” He couldn’t mistake the flush on her cheeks, though her eye was steady.
“And are you all bluff, Miss Lund?”
She considered again. “Rarely, sir. I am not sure I would know how to bluff.”
“I expect not.”
“I do think I have ample ability to call the bluff of others,” she said quickly.
“That’s a conceited reply, with all due respect, ma’am.”
She laughed. “Yes, very conceited.” Her laugh was mellow and pleasing.
“Do you do so successfully—call the bluff of others, I mean?”
“You, no doubt, would call it a mixed success. But I generally find my ability adequate for my purposes.”
“Your purposes? Ah, yes. Most of your sex have ‘purposes.’ What might yours be?”
“I would not claim to be representative of my sex, Mr. O’Casey.”
“You’re being evasive.”
“Am I?” she asked. “Oh, I suppose my purpose is merely to understand a person’s character—the inner man, so to speak—rather than simply rely upon what comes out of his mouth. There’s nothing devious in that, is there?”
“No,” said Connor. “It’s quite admirable. A lot of people wouldn’t bother.”
“You mean, a lot of women wouldn’t bother.”
“If you like.”
“You don’t think much of women, do you, Mr. O’Casey?”
“On the contrary, Miss Lund, I think of certain women often.” Especially at this moment, he thought.
“I hardly think that ‘much’ and ‘often’ refer to the same thing in this instance,” she said with perfect steadiness.
“Perhaps you’re right, Miss Lund.”
“And am I right about your being all bluff, Mr. O’Casey?” His fingers began to run over the keys in a series of chords and arpeggios, playing nothing in particular.
“Perhaps your assessment bears further investigation,” he said. He thought she colored again, though her eyes remained fixed on him.
“Now you’re being evasive.”
“No, I’m not,” he said. “Just allowing you the privilege of an unbiased assessment.”
“So you would put the burden of assessing your character upon me? Do you never examine your character yourself?”
“Never. Why should I where there’re plenty who’d do it for me?” She laughed at this.
“Then I shall be sure to lend my voice to the chorus when I have more information to go upon.”
“Fair enough.”
At the sound of her laughter, Tracey strode up and joined them at the piano. Neither his expression nor his tone was friendly.
“Perhaps you should lend your voice to the rest of us, duchess,” he said, leaning past her on the piano so that he brushed her back and his face came up by her right cheek. “Mr. O’Casey would surely relinquish his seat to you for our entertainment.”
“Indeed, I should have before now. Forgive me, Miss Lund.” Connor rose and gestured toward the bench.
“Not at all,” said Francesca. “Mr. O’Casey is more than capable of entertaining this crowd.” She laughed again. There was kindness in her laugh.
“I’d be happy to accompany you, Miss Lund, if there’s a bit of music we both know,” Connor said, rifling through the sheet music again.
“I’m sure Miss Lund could manage “Dem Golden Slippers” or “The Man on the Flying Trapeze.” Tracey was a troublesome bee buzzing around a rose, thought Connor. It was all he could do to keep his seat and direct his attention to Francesca.
“I’m sure your comment isn’t meant to reflect upon Miss Lund’s talents,” said Connor. “I’ve heard enough of them to assume she’s capable of a good deal better.”
“I meant no slight on my fiancée’s abilities, sir,” Tracey drawled. “I merely meant that perhaps your repertoire was not as extensive as hers.” Though Tracey’s posture was easy, his eyes conveyed a warning.
“Edmund. That’s not necessary,” she said in quiet reproof.
“I’m sure it isn’t,” said Connor, referring to the comment on his repertoire. “I’ve had the pleasure of hearing Miss Lund sing at Thanksgiving, you know. She certainly deserves a more worthy accompanist than I. I’d be happy to give the piano over to you, Mr. Tracey, if you would prefer to accompany Miss Lund yourself. Perhaps your repertoire matches hers more favorably,” he said, reckoning that Tracey might not play at all.
“I would sooner decline in favor of Miss Lund playing, in which she’s equally accomplished,” retorted Tracey.
Francesca blushed. “Stop, please. Let Maggie decide what type of entertainment she’d like to hear,” she said, throwing the last comment over her shoulder toward the ladies sitting on the settee in rapt attention toward the scene being played out at the piano.
“If Miss Lund would favor me,” said Connor more loudly, “I’d be happy to accompany her on the song I was just playin’.”
“Do go right ahead, Mr. O’Casey,” said Maggie, whose face betrayed a decided lack of enthusiasm.
“Then I’d be delighted,” Francesca said, turning to f
ace her audience, who by now were assembled in low chairs scattered around the drawing room. Tracey retreated.
“Edmund, do come and sit next to me,” said Maggie. Sent to the corner where he should be. Tracey took Francesca’s hand and kissed it before crossing the room.
Connor waited for a signal from Francesca to start. She nodded to him and he broke into the flourish of an improvised introduction. She took up the verse on cue.
Once in the dear, dead days beyond recall,
When on the world the mists began to fall, . . .
Connor glanced up and saw Tracey, looking as if a black rain cloud were hovering over him. A minor obstacle, thought Connor. The question was how to detach Francesca from this bounder without losing her good will. For the moment, Connor could only hope that Tracey would make himself objectionable and that she would see through the blighter and release him. Though Connor never gave Divine Providence a thought, he was struck by the feeling that he was now at this moment where he was meant to be, doing what he was meant to do. There was a fundamental rightness to the idea of spending the rest of his life with Francesca Lund. An enormous wave of comfort and desire overcame him. He could picture the two of them playing and singing in the evening in their own home, with their children tucked up in bed.
Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low,
And the flick’ring shadows softly come and go,
Tho’ the heart be weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight comes Love’s old song,
Comes Love’s old sweet song.
Everyone had gone. Tracey was waiting to escort Francesca home. He sat cross-legged in a deep leather chair, alone in Jerry’s library, staring out into space. One hand held a glass of bourbon. He drew on the cigarette he held in the other. The dinner had put him out of spirits.
He loathed Connor O’Casey. He had constructed a mental picture of a man not unlike the newspaper caricatures of the immigrant Irish—dark, unkempt, dull-witted, shiftless, loud, and inebriated, possessing neither heart nor brain. Indeed, Connor was dark of feature and dark of humor and put himself too much forward. If O’Casey were going to commit a social gaffe he was determined to do it deliberately and loudly. But Connor was not a bumpkin. Tracey was surprised at the man’s erudition in matters of travel, business, and current events. This degree of polish he credited to Blanche at first, but as the evening wore on Tracey perceived that Connor’s understanding went deeper than could be ascribed to Blanche. She may have given him outward polish, but his knowledge and opinions clearly were informed by experience gained in the School of Hard Knocks.
Connor’s respectable impression on the rest of the party unnerved and irritated him. The Irishman’s speech was very plain and sometimes pushed the limits of propriety, but there was no snickering behind the hands at his tales. Connor’s reception merely confirmed Tracey’s opinion that the rest of the party lacked judgment and taste, save Maggie Jerome, who possessed the redeeming virtue of being on Tracey’s side.
Jerry Jerome had swept Connor into the tight fellowship of fortunes made, leaving Tracey to dangle stupidly on the fringes. Tracey never liked Jerome, but he could not escape the strategic position he held in relation to Francesca. Tracey might have been amused at his current predicament had it not caused him so much mortification. For to make himself agreeable to Jerry, who held sway over Francesca, Tracey was forced to make himself agreeable to Connor, who slept with Blanche. The mortification was multiplied by Francesca’s apparent fascination with the man. Though he had no reason to doubt her loyalty, his self-regard would not let him leave well enough alone.
“So here you are,” said Francesca. She stood in the doorway, smiling, adjusting a pin in her hair. She yawned and held her hand out as she approached him. Tracey didn’t stir himself except to put the cigarette in his mouth and hold out his hand to her. She sat on the arm of the chair and leaned across him, removed the cigarette from his lips, and kissed him. She held the cigarette away from him, out of reach, and kissed him again more deeply.
“You’re not going to give that back?” he asked with a rueful expression.
“No. That cigarette tastes appalling.” She crushed it out in the ashtray of a nearby smoking stand and kissed him again as he put his hand on her waist and felt the crust of beads and pearls that adorned the bodice of her gown—the crust, the outer shell he seemed not to be able to penetrate of late. She looked into his face intently and smoothed his hair and ran the back of her fingers under his chin and along his cheeks. He questioned for a moment how he could ever have been worried about the evening’s events, about the dreadful Irishman or Francesca’s loyalty. For a moment, Tracey thought there was nothing to forgive or apologize for and considered letting the matter drop—but he couldn’t.
Attempting self-deprecation he said, “I fear I’ve disappointed you.”
She looked genuinely puzzled. “Whatever do you mean?”
“That whole business at the piano.”
“With Mr. O’Casey?” She shook her head. “I don’t think anybody was really paying attention. They were getting coffee.” He searched her face for any sign of insincerity. “Besides, he was the one who provoked the situation.” He knew she was being generous.
“I need not have responded as I did.”
“Well, I suppose I need not have responded as I did either.”
“No, you needn’t have.” A slight start in her eyes hinted that he should check the reproof in his own voice.
“I’m sorry, dear. I was just trying to be polite.” She sighed. “The poor man was simply trying to get on. He doesn’t possess the same charms that you do, you know.” He was unsatisfied with this remark.
“Dear, is something the matter?” she continued. Tracey rose and went to the low bookcase where the tray of glass decanters stood and poured himself another bourbon.
“Edmund? Did I say something?”
Tracey could feel the ire swelling in his chest. He could only picture her ease with the man, her manner, her laugh, her attention to O’Casey and her reprimand of himself. If he turned and looked into the face that he knew was overspread with incredulity he would explode. He threw his words at her.
“What should it matter to you whether he gets on or not?”
“Well, it doesn’t really. I was only trying to be polite.”
“Do you find him charming?”
“I find him an oddity, if you want to know the truth.” Her voice had an ever-so-slight ring of defensiveness.
“I do want to know the truth,” he said, turning toward her.
“What do you mean? I thought he was funny to listen to. He did have some amusing things to say.”
“And I had nothing amusing to say?”
“You were a little quiet, but you often are in a large party. I know that. So am I, usually. Neither of us has the talent for conversing easily with everyone. I understand that and there’s no harm in it.”
“But it does tend to make one appear dull,” he said.
“Nothing of the sort, unless one makes a big flap about it.”
“You certainly weren’t your quiet, restrained self.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You found his talents attractive.”
“Mr. O’Casey simply hit upon something I enjoy, something I feel at ease about. Had he not sat down at the piano, you probably would never have heard a peep out of me the whole evening.”
“But you were attracted to him.”
“I was attracted to the music.”
“The music wasn’t your usual style.”
“Does it have to be? I enjoy sentimental songs just as much as the next person.”
“I wasn’t referring to the music.”
“Then I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“To your making yourself agreeable to that man. It’s not your usual style to go exposing yourself to other men.”
“Exposing myself? What on earth . . . ?” She stood. �
�I was singing and making conversation. How was that to be construed as exposing myself?”
“Did you not see how everyone watched you? How you drew everyone’s attention and left me to stand by and watch the two of you? My fiancée?”
“You sound as if I were conspiring with him against you.” Her voice rose. “Good heavens, you can’t suppose I have an ounce of interest in that man.”
“You made me look like a fool.”
“You didn’t look a fool. Your only foolish behavior is occurring now, as we speak. You’re making an absolute mountain out of a molehill.”
“So now my judgment is in question.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said.
“You weren’t the one who sat back with the others and had to listen to their remarks.”
“What remarks?”
Tracey really could not think of any to cause her contrition and bring her to heel. In truth, nothing untoward was said, only compliments. But the focus on Francesca and Connor O’Casey together was more than he could bear and he meant to make her feel the weight of his displeasure. He chose not to answer her directly.
“I wish in the future you would not draw so much attention to yourself.”
“You usually complain that I don’t put myself forward enough. You always want me to sing.”
“But I don’t choose to have you make a spectacle of yourself.”
“A spectacle?” she cried. “What on earth did they say?”
“It is of no importance. If you are ready, I’ll see you home.”
“Have you seen this Dr. Andrew Warren?” McNee asked, handing back the copies of the death certificates to Shillingford. They were seated in a private room above their rendezvous at Mills’s country tavern, their evening meal and an oil lamp in front of them.
“No. But I must see him. He seems to be the only one left who can tell us what actually happened in June of 1884—save Tracey and the brother, of course.”
“Yes. I inquired of Mills about the brother, Henri Gerard. An unsavory character by all accounts. A regular tear-’em-up at one time. Now pretty much keeps to himself.”
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