“So, you have no use for ladies.”
“Oh, I didn’t say I didn’t have a use for ’em.” He took a long draw on the cigar and exhaled in her direction.
She looked him in the face and then, with difficulty, looked him up and down. “And what might that be, Mr. O’Connor?”
“O’Casey, ma’am.” He smiled.
“Yes.”
“I thought you were a lady.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in them.”
“No, ma’am. I’m the great emancipator. In my eyes, all women are equal. A woman is neither high, nor low. She’s just a woman.”
“And not the equal of men?”
“None that I’ve encountered.”
“No woman that you’ve encountered or no man that you’ve encountered?”
“To clarify, no woman I’ve ever encountered has been the equal of any man that I’ve ever encountered.”
“Not equal, but better perhaps?” asked Francesca.
He paused and rested the hand that held the cigar on top of the hand that rested on the handle of the walking stick. “Perhaps.”
“Then she might be considered a lady?”
“No, never a lady, especially if she’s better than a man.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Of course it does.” He looked at her more squarely now, less mockery in his eye and in his tone. “How many women that you see in that blessed settlement of yours, scraping to hold a family together and put food in the mouths of their children, would you say were better than the men they cling to?”
“Most of them.”
“How many of them would society dub a ‘lady’ for her pains? And how many women at your society tea parties couldn’t begin to cope if the bottom dropped out of their lives and they were suddenly left to shift for themselves? How long do you think they’d last as ‘ladies’? How many of your society ladies would sooner forget where they came from—from their lowly forebears? How many would rather die than have to go back to earning an honest living? Can you see Maggie Jerome behind a plow? I think not. Give me a woman rather than a lady any day. Women can hold their own where ladies cannot—or dare not.”
“So you prefer a workhorse to a lady.”
“What I prefer is a woman. A woman who isn’t all lace and perfume and the latest gossip.”
“The latest gossip I can understand, but I thought most men preferred the lace and the perfume.”
“So they do. So do I, I confess. But most ‘ladies’ could no more survive in this world than the man in the moon.”
“You greatly underestimate these ladies,” said Francesca, her ire rising. “How many of them do you think are happily married, eh? How many? Is it not survival that makes them cling to loveless marriages? Is it not facing the world as it is? Is that so different from the world your so-called ‘women’ face? Is it not these ladies’ own talents and abilities that keep their households afloat when the folly of their men brings the family to the brink of ruin? Do you think that half the women who sell themselves into that sort of slavery for the sake of survival do so willingly and willingly throw themselves into the ‘protection’ of the lowest form of man?”
“Men are fools and blackguards, I’ll grant you that.”
“What makes you think I couldn’t take care of myself?”
“I think you could, as a matter of fact. I don’t think you’d be afraid of it. I think you’d work it out somehow—and manage to keep your self-respect. You’re not proud like the others. You’re stubborn as a mule and got your head in the clouds most of the time, but not proud. But you also forget that you have resources other than money that most women don’t have—not even your society women. You have an education—”
“So do other ladies.”
“You’re better informed than most. You’ve a certain practical knowledge of the way the world works, even from that blessed settlement, though you may lack certain experience. You know what work is and what it will yield and what that yield will pay for.”
“So do other ladies, and many have wider ‘experience,’ as you call it, than I do.”
“And what does your society call them behind their backs?”
“You’re a filthy hypocrite. You’d compromise the first society lady that would give you a second look.”
“I have done,” he said dryly.
She looked at him in disgust and was silent.
“What do they say about you, while we’re about it?” he asked.
This abrupt turn startled her and made her wary. “What do you mean?”
“What are they whispering behind their hands about ‘Poor Miss Lund’? So lovely. So sweet. So accomplished. They can’t understand why she hasn’t hooked herself a more worthy husband. Ah yes, acute melancholia. Isn’t that what the doctors said? Four perfectly good years lost, poor thing. If she only wouldn’t show her brains so much. All those books. She’ll frighten away all the good prospects. A man likes to know he’s smarter than his wife, now, doesn’t he? And Jesus, if she wouldn’t be always talking about God, for Christ’s sake. If she’d just give up the damn settlement and look more domestic-like. If she’d only just—conform.”
Francesca felt like smoldering fury. She looked him in the eye, barely containing herself. He looked so smug and self-satisfied. She could think of plenty of names to call him, but name-calling was not only childish, it would have no effect. Effect. Of course, effect. Her mind stepped back and watched herself and him. The memory of him sitting at the piano, fidgeting with the music, flashed into her mind. He was all bluff, she thought. He wanted to see how far he could push before he got a rise out of her. How stupid of her not to realize before. Another memory followed—the memory of Edmund’s jealousy that accused her of interest in Connor, an accusation she had dismissed for its absurdity, and yet . . . ? She relaxed as she had relaxed that night.
“Do you always swear and try your best to offend people?”
“Always.”
“No wonder you’re not married,” she said.
He chuckled at this and drew on the cigar and blew out the smoke.
“I suppose so,” he said. “You’re not a reformer, by any chance, are you, Miss Lund?”
She laughed. “So that’s what you’re afraid of? A vigorous overhaul for the good of your soul?”
“Let’s just say I’m not reform-minded.”
She laughed again. “I venture to suggest that you’d be hard pressed to find a woman who wouldn’t want to reform you, even if she vows to take you as you are.”
“Oh, I’m always eager to improve myself, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that improvement means reform.”
“How so?”
“One can improve in education, in prospects, in station in life without changing the essential person,” he said.
He had hit the mark truer than he knew. She thought of Edmund Tracey and his pervasive sullenness, his reserve, and his inattention to her. Edmund would never change. “I suppose that’s true,” was all she could say.
“Do I offend you?” he asked.
“Yes. Sometimes.”
“How?”
“Your observations about my life and my associations, for one thing,” she said evenly. “To be honest, I don’t particularly care what you think of me, or what anyone else thinks for that matter. I don’t care what you think about my life or my brains or my friends or what I can do or what I can’t.”
“Are you always this honest?”
She laughed. “I try to be.”
“With yourself?”
She sighed and thought again of Edmund. “That’s the hardest thing, isn’t it? To be honest with oneself, to know what’s right and to be brave enough to follow that path.” She mused for a moment, watching the skaters. She looked at him and found him musing, too, as he dropped the cigar butt and watched it smolder and flicked snow on it with the toe of his boot. He took up the thread of conversation.
“So you don’t like my sweari
ng?”
“Not particularly, though I suppose it isn’t the swearing so much as your choice of words.”
“Come again?”
“When you take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Oh. A sore spot then? I’m sorry.”
“You see,” said Francesca, not quite knowing how to give voice to a subject so private to her and wondering whether it was worth the effort with Connor, “my faith has always been important to me, ever since I was a small child. Not just religion, not just going to church. It’s something much deeper than that. It’s so much a part of my being I can’t imagine life without God. In those awful years after I lost Father and Mother and Oskar, I don’t think I would have had the strength to go on if I hadn’t had the confidence that a wisdom greater than my own was at work. It frightens me to think that I might not even be here but for that. So you see, I will never excuse your making use of God, even thoughtlessly or in jest. You insult Him, and you insult the only member of my family I’ve got left.” She roused herself and whistled to the dogs, who came at a dead run.
“And you can’t afford to insult Him, Mr. O’Casey, because He represents the one thing you do believe in.” She bent and snapped on the leashes.
“What might that be?”
She paused a moment and then said, “Redemption.”
He stood silent.
“Or don’t you believe in redemption?”
“Do you believe in it?”
“Are you afraid to answer?”
“Are you?”
“Never,” said Francesca with a broad smile, her spirit soaring. “I believe in it with my whole heart and soul. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to contemplate whether you believe in it yourself. Good day to you.” She turned and left him.
“I not only believe in it,” he called after her, “I’m countin’ on it.”
CHAPTER 28
Intending to Be Absent
When you are going abroad, intending to be absent for some time, you enclose your card in an envelope, having, first, written p.p.c. upon it;—they are the initials of the French phrase, “pour prendre conge”—to take leave, and may with equal propriety stand for presents parting compliments.
—Decorum, page 74
Mrs. Lawrence was plumping the cushions on the black horsehair settee when the sound of a cab pulling up outside arrested her attention and drew her to the window.
“Who is it, Mama?” Vinnie asked.
“Francesca, dear.”
A moment later, Vinnie, Anne, and Mrs. Lawrence were greeting her.
“What a relief to see you up and about, dear,” said Mrs. Lawrence. “A little pale perhaps,” she said, holding Francesca’s chin and examining her face, “but it looks like you’re on the mend. Brava. I’ve been telling the girls we don’t see as much of you as we’d like. Do come and warm yourself. Such a bitter day. You must be frozen through. Violet, bring some tea, would you please?”
“Don’t trouble, Mrs. Lawrence.” The maid took away Francesca’s coat and muff.
“Nonsense, dear, it’s no trouble. It’ll give you something warm to put your hands around.” The ladies sat and Mrs. Lawrence recounted the callers for the day. Vinnie hinted at gorier details before reproof in her mother’s eyes checked her. After a short interval Mrs. Lawrence excused herself to see to the family’s dinner. “You will stay, dear, won’t you?” she asked as she paused in the doorway. “We’d so love to have you.” She departed.
Vinnie might have had an electric current running through her, so alive was she to every word Francesca uttered, to every look and gesture. Francesca politely redirected Anne’s artless questions about the wedding back to Anne herself, who chattered with enthusiasm. Minutes ticked away until Michael breezed through the front door, home from work, and Anne led him by the arm in search of Mrs. Lawrence.
“I wanted to talk to you,” Francesca said when the parlor doors were closed.
“I thought maybe you did. Is everything all right? You do look so pale.”
“I’ve been thinking a great deal over the last few days,” she began. “I must get away for a while, and I hoped you would consider joining me.”
Vinnie was not shocked by this proposal. She half-expected it. Perhaps some fresh intelligence had come to Francesca, that she knew about Edmund and the Jet Woman after all. If Francesca knew, however, this sudden desire to leave New York betrayed nothing. Vinnie probed gingerly.
“Get away. What do you mean? Like when Agnes went away for her rest cure?”
“Not exactly. I just can’t seem to think about anything clearly anymore. Not here. Not now. Everywhere I turn I encounter someone or something that causes me to doubt myself, my actions, my reasons for my actions.”
“Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”
“No.”
“Not even to Edmund?” Vinnie held her breath and waited.
“Especially not to Edmund. In fact, Edmund is one of the reasons I must get away.”
Vinnie could have burst for joy, but bridled her tongue with heroic self-control. “It was about New Year’s Day?” was all she said.
“New Year’s Day, Christmas Day, Thanksgiving Day, every day in one way or other. It isn’t simply the resentment and embarrassment. I find I like him less and less. I do care for him, but in a more detached way, as one might feel toward a friend, not a fiancé. What’s more, I feel myself changing in the most distressing ways. I must get away to see if this really is the person I’m becoming—whether I’m the cause of our difficulties, or if the person I’m becoming is caused by the difficulties—because of Edmund.”
“You seem to me as you always were—just a little sad, perhaps, but that’s perfectly reasonable given everything . . .”
“Given everything I’ve been through? Yes, I suppose it is reasonable, but that’s years ago now, Vinnie. It retreats further and further into the past every day. Not in some maudlin way, but more peaceful, more accepting. I miss them all now as much as I ever did, but it’s funny how I’m able to draw strength rather than grief from the memories. I was so proud to be back in the house, so sure of my ability to make a life for myself, to decide for myself. So I decided to marry Edmund. But having come so far, shouldn’t I be happy? Shouldn’t I like myself more? Shouldn’t Edmund and I be happier because of each other?”
“Yes, you should be very happy,” said Vinnie. “It grieves me to see that you’re not.”
“Then why am I not? Why all this doubt and turmoil? I can’t seem to fix on a reason except to blame myself. What should I have done? What should I have been? I turn it over and over in my head: What could have changed him so?”
“I don’t believe it’s you, Francesca. I really don’t,” said Vinnie in earnest, wanting to spill out everything she knew, but she dared not. Francesca must arrive at the conclusion by herself—with any luck—to end her engagement to Edmund. Yes, it was best for her to get away, and if Vinnie needed to push her along, she would do it. “I think you’re very wise. I’m sure things will become clearer if you put some distance between you and New York. And Edmund.”
“And that dreadful Irishman.”
“Mr. O’Casey? Has he been imposing himself on you?” This was an interesting prospect.
“Not exactly. But he does seem to emerge at the most inconvenient times. Every time I walk away from a conversation with him I’m more confused than I was before.”
“You don’t mean that you’re interested in him?”
“Interested? Good heavens, Vinnie, how can you suggest such a thing? I’m an engaged woman.” Too quick an answer, thought Vinnie, and much too pat.
“That doesn’t mean you’ve had your eyes and ears cut out,” said Vinnie. “I think he’s nice, and he’s very funny. I like being around him. I always get the feeling I should be scared to death of him, but I’m not. Not at all.”
“Don’t tell me you’re interested in him.”
“Good gracious, Francesca, don’t be silly. Could
you see me as Mrs. O’Casey? A scalawag and a parson’s daughter? Wouldn’t that be a scandal?” She paused and thought. “It’s funny, though. I can see him with you.”
“Me? Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, you see what havoc he causes.”
“I like him. Don’t you?”
“I don’t dislike him. But you see what happens—the moment he’s even introduced into the conversation he creates absolute bedlam. I must go, Vinnie. Don’t you see?”
“Yes, I do see.”
“You don’t think I’m simply running away from a problem?”
“I don’t think you’re running from a problem as much as looking for a solution. I think you’re giving yourself a chance to consider your decision before . . .” Francesca looked up and searched Vinnie’s face. “Before it’s too late.”
“It’s not cowardly?”
“No. I think it’s wise.”
“Will you come with me?”
“Where?” Vinnie asked, trying not to grimace until she heard the answer. “I mean, of course you know I will. But where will we go?”
“I saw this advertisement in the newspaper some time ago when I was thinking about honeymoon venues,” said Francesca, pulling a leaflet and a dog-eared newspaper cutting from her pocket. “I’ve been carrying it around forever. It looks so interesting.”
“What? Baniff? Barnff? I don’t know how to pronounce it, let alone know where it is.”
“Banff, Vinnie. Read on.”
“The wilderness? Do we have to leave civilization altogether to be able to think?” Vinnie began to wonder what she had agreed to.
“No, look, Vinnie,” said Francesca as she shoved the leaflet into Vinnie’s hand. “I went to the booking agent’s just before I came here and inquired and they gave me this. It’s quite exclusive. The accommodation is first class—a new hotel. The Canadian Rockies are supposed to be breathtaking. I think it’s just the atmosphere I need—clear air and vigorous exercise. Spring must be beautiful there.”
Decorum Page 23