Decorum

by Kaaren Christopherson

  “Mrs. Jerome, this will only aggravate the wound,” the doctor began.

  “Please, Mrs. Jerome,” said John, taking Maggie by the arm, “perhaps you should wait in the drawing room.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Maggie to John. “Take your hands off me. How dare you speak to me—”

  “Mrs. Jerome, please,” said the doctor firmly. “Leave us.”

  John had promised to meet Jerry and tell him everything. John also was to tell him that Mrs. Jerome was not to be admitted under any circumstance.

  Francesca was about to drift off when she felt her hair smoothed away from her bruising face.

  “May I look?” Jerry asked. He lifted the patch. A welt of more than half an inch was swelling under the neat stitches.

  “What did he hit you with?” he asked.

  “It was Father’s ring, of all things—the one with the crest carved into it. It caught just right.”

  “The doctor said she was lucky it wasn’t higher,” May whispered over his shoulder. “She could have lost an eye.”

  “Are you all right otherwise?” he asked. His fingers trembled as he replaced the bandage.

  “I fell over the end of the settee. My ribs are sore and there’ll be some bruising, but not too bad. I was more surprised and angry than hurt.”

  May pushed a chair next to the bed and he sat. The orange tabby dislodged himself from the cocoon of quilt and crawled onto Jerry’s lap and began to purr. The house lay still.

  “You don’t know how sorry I am,” he said softly. His words echoed as if she were falling down a well. She shook her head weakly. “I should have insisted—”

  “Don’t, Jerry,” said Francesca. “Please . . .” Her tongue felt thick and clumsy.

  “Well, it’s over and done with now,” he said. “God willing, you won’t have to face Edmund again.”

  Every organ of the New York press ground out a version of the Nell Ryder murder case. The Herald, the Times, and the Globe presented at least a toehold on the truth. The old Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper issued a special edition with engravings coupling the moment Tracey struck Francesca with an inset depicting the murder. The New York World reran the story of the Lunds’ deaths, which had been buried in the musty archives of the news and society pages, embellishing on each juicy drop. On top of it all, a queue was forming of those who hoped to get their hands on Edmund Tracey. “And compared to what some of them want him for,” the lawyer Mr. Grimly said, “Miss Lund’s scar will look like chicken feed.”

  The Ryders’ maid discovered the body almost as soon as Tracey had slammed the front door behind him. Premeditation only stretched the length of time it took to travel from Sixty-third Street to Gramercy Park, but it was enough to warrant hanging. On top of it all, the assailant failed to take away from the scene a vital piece of physical evidence—the ring Francesca had returned to Tracey an hour before was discovered in the dead woman’s hand. This sensational bungle linked Francesca directly to Nell and dashed the last hope of privacy.

  Upon hearing that the moneyed class had interests in Tracey’s fate, creditors began circling like vultures. Sadly for them, not one of the social elite would hear of covering Tracey’s many debts. The vultures were left to circle the civil courts in hopes of picking his bones when the criminal courts were finished with him.

  Then appeared a number of women to testify to Tracey’s character—in the negative. The women were mostly of dubious character, breach of promise their complaints. The most plausible of these arrived at the district attorney’s office armed with a baby.

  Finally came a wire from Shillingford and McNee, promising extradition papers for crimes committed in Louisiana. With the bullet Philippe Letourneau’s coffin had yielded and discovery of the doctor’s body at Maywood, Henri Gerard began to bleat promises of help to convict Tracey if his own life was spared. The more that came to light, the clearer it became that should he pay the ultimate penalty no one would mourn him—except perhaps Blanche.

  As the prosecution’s star witness in the murder trial, Francesca had worries enough without pressing charges of her own for the physical and emotional injuries. Instead, Jerry and Mr. Grimly bent their energies toward preparing her for her ordeal upon the witness stand. The prosecution pinned its hopes on presenting Miss Lund as the linchpin that could bring the sordid details of Tracey’s past to light. Her father’s file and the detectives’ testimonies, if admissible, might supply ample evidence regarding Tracey’s activities in Louisiana and thus motives for his actions in New York. Privately, Jerry concurred with Mr. Grimly in hoping that Francesca’s stitches would not come out before the trial.

  McNee wasted no time in tracing the St. Louis telegraph office that had received the communications for Mrs. Helene Terrey, who called regularly and personally to collect them. With the tenacity of a bloodhound he went street by street until he located the modest boarding house whose landlady confessed to an occupant of the same name.

  “But she’s gone now,” said the landlady.

  “Gone?” asked McNee with a sinking feeling.

  “Left yesterday in quite a hurry. She in some kind of trouble?”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “No, can’t say I do. She received some kind of message, then she packed everything she had and paid an extra week’s rent—for my inconvenience, she said. Nice lady, Mrs. Terrey. Quiet. Always paid on time. Wish all my boarders were like that. Real reliable, you know. Sorry to see someone like that go. I was just about to clean up her room and put the sign up in the window.”

  “Before you do, may I take a look around?”

  “Suit yourself, but I think she’s pretty well cleared out.”

  The sunny room was indeed bare except for the plain furnishings provided by the house. McNee’s eye caught the heap of ashes in the grate. Clearly a great deal of paper had been burned and the charred remains beaten into the tiniest fragments.

  He sat on the quilt-covered bed and rubbed his eyes and face. Twenty-four hours lost. How could he have been so slow, he thought, kicking himself, yet how could he have been any faster? Having thus failed to clap a jar over the elusive butterfly, he wanted to stop altogether. He cast his weary eyes around the room. Nothing much to search. May as well do a thorough job and be done with it.

  He looked under the mattress and in the chifferobe. Nothing. He opened the lady’s desk and slid his hand into empty cubbyholes and pulled at the small drawers, one of which refused to budge. Nothing. He took down the one picture of a Biblical scene that hung on the wall above the bed and examined the back. He took up the wool rug and examined the floorboards, but even those concealed no treasure.

  Again, he sat at the desk with his elbow upon it, with his head in his hand, looking around the room. Absently, he fiddled with the obstinate drawer, giving it a good yank. It released itself part way. He drew out his penknife. With much jiggling and coaxing the drawer surrendered and with it a letter that was crammed at the back.

  McNee couldn’t believe his eyes. The envelope was addressed to Mrs. Helene Terrey at the address of the house where he now sat. To anyone else, the back flap’s scrawled words would have meant nothing, but to McNee, “New York, New York” meant everything. He opened the letter, dated 18th August 1886, and read:

  My dearest,

  I hope this letter finds you well and that you are able to find respite from the summer heat. The summer here is most trying, what with all the people and little opportunity to escape. I hope that you are more fortunate and can persuade your friends to an outing in the country.

  The means of securing our future continues to elude me. I seem to have misjudged the influence of my patroness. Despite my exertions, her introductions yield little.

  However, I have one bright spot to relate. I have gained introduction to a much more fashionable set, in particular to a theatrical producer and his wife, who seem to be intimate with anyone who is anyone in society and may well lead to connections that may
help to restore our fortunes.

  As yet all my connections here remain oblivious to my straitened circumstances, which is a mixed blessing. It affords me the ability to move easily among them, but it does nothing to relieve the humiliation I feel at my dependence and my longing to bring honor back to you and to my family. I must make the sacrifice now and find a way for us to live, though I am afraid by such means as are distasteful to you. Please believe that I find them equally distasteful.

  My one solace is that soon I may try my luck again in St. Louis or Natchez and thus may be able to spend time with you as man and wife. Please write and let me know how you get on. I hope that soon I may either reply and tell you of our improved fortunes, or present myself at your door.

  I am,

  Your devoted,

  Edmund

  CHAPTER 34

  As Self-Reliant as Possible

  A lady, in traveling alone, may accept services from her fellow-travelers, which she should always acknowledge graciously. Indeed, it is the business of a gentleman to see that the wants of an unescorted lady are attended to.... Still, women should learn to be as self-reliant as possible; and young women particularly should accept the proffered assistance from strangers, in all but the slightest offices, very rarely.

  —Decorum, page 139

  Ear-splitting blasts of the whistle announced the train’s gradual, lurching arrival until the brakes finally screeched the black iron behemoth to a halt at the platform.

  “Francesca! Francesca! Here, dear!” Esther Gray stood on the step of the first-class carriage and waved, a small handbag bouncing on her wrist. Out of the steam and smoke Francesca and Harry appeared like apparitions.

  “Esther!”

  The women caught each other in a hearty embrace, Francesca bending over to catch Esther around the waist, their hats colliding. They laughed. Half the platform’s occupants were adjusting their clothing following exuberant greeting.

  “I’m so glad you’re finally here. What an uproar we’ve been in.”

  “Keep your voice down, dear,” said Esther, threading her arm through Francesca’s and pulling her close to emphasize the point. “Hello, Harry. How are you?”

  “Very well, Mrs. Gray, thank you.”

  “Rosemary, help Harry locate the trunks. Harry, you remember Rosemary, don’t you? I take it the carriage awaits.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Gray,” said Harry, turning and doffing his hat to Esther’s maid.

  “Good. Rosemary, mind you see that the porter doesn’t drop anything.” Esther was all business, even in the midst of affection. She was a small package charged with energy, deceptively benign until the switch came on. “You, young lady, haven’t bothered to tell me how wonderful I look after all this time. It’s not as bad as all that, is it?”

  “Don’t be silly, Aunt Esther. Aside from looking generally wonderful, you can’t imagine how glad I am to see you.”

  “That’s better, though only slightly. Harry, this blue portmanteau is mine, too.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Gray.”

  Esther started forward, but was pulled back by the dead weight of Francesca, feet firmly planted, looking down into Esther’s face. Francesca’s smile mingled concern and amusement with gentle affection. Esther squeezed Francesca’s arm.

  “Everything will be all right,” said Esther. “Now let’s get along home.”

  “I know it will, one way or another,” said Francesca. They strode down the platform toward the terminal.

  “Do we dine alone tonight?”

  “Yes. I managed to put off the Jeromes for a bit. Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence have invited us for tea tomorrow afternoon, so you’ll see Vinnie. But you know Maggie. She may well breeze in at any hour.”

  “Well,” said Esther. “We might have a little reprieve so you can fill me in.”

  They met the carriage at the curb. The hand luggage was hoisted aboard and the passengers deposited inside, a cart to follow with the trunks. Winter was yielding reluctantly to thaw. Snow was turning to slush and thence to free-flowing rivulets that splashed down gutters and pooled in puddles that sprayed up under hoof and wheel.

  John’s greeting was more like a suction pump that nearly sucked Esther into the front hallway. Dogs barked, penned up in the bowels of the house. The orange tabby cat appeared and quickly retreated. Coats and hats were taken as polite inquiries were made as to the general health of the household and the efficiency of the railroad. As the dust began to settle, the entire house seemed to heave a relieved sigh.

  “You look well, John,” said Esther.

  “I’m very well, thank you, Mrs. Gray,” said John. “Welcome to New York, madam. We’re all very pleased to see you. Your room is ready, if you’ll allow me . . .”

  “In a minute, thank you, John. I’ll give Rosemary a chance to sort things out and then Miss Lund can show me up. Shall we go into the drawing room, dear?”

  “If you’re tired—” Francesca began.

  “Nonsense. I’m not as decrepit as all that, thank you,” said Esther.

  Esther Gray had been Sonia Lund’s dear friend—a steady woman who had her share of heartache and the world’s wisdom. She had married for love and never regretted it, despite the disapproval of her family. Widowed and childless, she had “retired” from society, until Francesca had drawn back the curtain of seclusion with a ferocious yank and proposed the journey to Banff.

  Esther surveyed the drawing room and for a moment tried to conjure up the ghostly past of heavier furnishings and more somber hues. How many years had it been since she had last stood here? Six years? Seven? Since before Josiah’s illness, it must have been. Sonia and Jurgen and the children had come to visit in Boston, but Josiah had been too ill and Esther too worn out from caregiving for the Grays to be much away from home. When Josiah died, the Lunds had come to be with her and then within the year they, too, were gone. She had been too overcome to offer Francesca solace or an escape from the Jeromes—a state of affairs Esther had always regretted. Then Francesca’s appeal for help and proposal of travel roused her from hibernation and offered adventure with a double attraction—a chance to reengage with Francesca and to rejoin the world.

  “You must be hungry, Aunt Esther. I’ve asked for sandwiches with our tea.”

  “In a moment,” said Esther, warming her hands over the hearth. “First you can tell me anything you’re dying to tell me.” They sat together on the settee and Esther took Francesca’s hand and searched her face—so like Sonia’s fair beauty and equally inscrutable. “Tell me, how are you bearing up?”

  Francesca looked away. Then came the tears. She pressed her hand to her mouth as if this might suppress them.

  “I’m so sorry, Aunt Esther,” she said in two small gasps. “I didn’t mean for . . .”

  Esther drew a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to her.

  “Nonsense,” said Esther, putting her arm around Francesca. She understood well the Lund tendency to brace up under trying circumstances, to face out unpleasantness with a serene exterior while enduring torment and mortification within. From what Esther remembered of the Jeromes, they themselves could be classed as a trying circumstance, even beyond the tragedy that had befallen Francesca. With few safety valves at her disposal, was it any wonder that Francesca should break down? Esther felt glad—not for Francesca’s distress, but for the respect and confidence this intimacy of tears showed. At last she might be of real use to her niece. Francesca blew her nose and dried her eyes.

  “I can only guess what this has done to you,” said Esther. “Have you been hounded very much?”

  “Whenever something new comes to light the press seems to take up some sort of vigil around the house. It was horrible for about a month when the investigation ended and the trial began. I can’t even tell you how to prepare for it. You can see now why I’m desperate to be gone. At first I only wanted to get away from Edmund, but now . . . ”

  “Yes, the sooner we’re gone, the better for you. Shall we ring
for tea and get a little sustenance?” asked Esther, rising and ringing the bell herself. She stood before Francesca for a moment before sitting again. “So tell me about the next few days.”

  “We’ve been invited to dine as the guests of Mr. Connor O’Casey on Saturday night, mostly as a courtesy to Jerry, I believe. I wasn’t too keen, since the last dinner he hosted was a disaster—that horrible night at Louis Sherry’s I wrote you about. But Jerry assures me that it will be a much smaller affair. I believe Mr. O’Casey may feel that he owes Jerry and Mr. Worth a proper dinner after Sherry’s. They’re all partners in the hotel business.”

  “Yes, I remember.” She regarded Francesca for a moment. “You look none too happy about this. Why?”

  “Mr. O’Casey is involved in this dreadful business with Edmund, though unwittingly. He—Mr. O’Casey—was on intimate terms with Mrs. Alvarado.”

  “Oh, yes, I certainly remember her name from the newspapers. I had no idea what association all these people had with you—Edmund with Mrs. Ryder, Mrs. Ryder with the Alvarado woman, she with Edmund. Now Mrs. Alvarado with this Mr. O’Casey, he with Jerry, and Jerry and Maggie back to you and Edmund. What a horrible web. Oh my dear, how did you manage to get yourself into this?”

  “I really don’t know. It just seems to have happened.”

  “I’m convinced there is no such thing as true coincidence. Everything happens for a purpose—for our edification or reproof. Let us hope in this case it’s for the former.”

  “I do believe that Mr. O’Casey had no more idea than I that she was carrying on with Edmund,” said Francesca. “I’d have more sympathy for the man if he weren’t so insufferable. He appears at the most inopportune moments, presents himself as charming and funny, and seems determined to annoy and insult me.”

  “Might he be interested in you?”

  “Good heavens, Aunt Esther, what a preposterous idea. You and Vinnie. What a pair you’ll be in Banff. Yes, she thinks he’s interested in me.”