Decorum

by Kaaren Christopherson

  “Did anyone come to see you yesterday?” she asked.

  “My lawyer, of course.” He drew up a stool and sat down at the table opposite her.

  “What did he say?” She pushed out the words. “Will there be another appeal?”

  “There’s no new evidence in my favor to make that possible. With the Louisiana business looming it’s unlikely there’ll be anything.”

  Louisiana, where they had seen their happiest days together before life had intervened. New Orleans, with the lacy loveliness of its gritty gentility, the refined culture alongside primal superstition. They had soaked up experience moment by moment many a moonlit evening and many a steamy afternoon. Now it was all gone. She wondered if she should bring up the happy past to divert him. She couldn’t, she thought. If he had half the feeling for her that she had for him, the remembrance would only bring pain. That there would ever be a time to come when she could look back on these memories with fondness seemed an utter impossibility.

  “Has she come to see you?” Blanche asked.

  “To which ‘she’ are you referring?” Tracey smirked. “My wife? My fiancée?”

  “Anyone,” Blanche said.

  “They’ll let me have no contact with my wife.” Tracey sighed. “It’s just as well. She is also a guest of the City of New York, over in the Women’s Prison. Ironic, isn’t it? This is the closest we’ve lived together in years, but not for long. She faces trial in Louisiana with her brother, as soon as the extradition has gone through. It seems there’s to be quite a family reunion, since I may be joining them. I’m quite popular, you know. Louisiana is haggling with New York State over who will have the pleasure of dispatching me. Louisiana wants its chance to hang me before New York can send me to Auburn and allow me the honor of being among the first to test their electric chair. I don’t know which is more appealing—to hang like a gentleman in my native land or to fry among the imposters like a foreigner.”

  “Oh, Edmund, don’t.” Blanche hated the acid tone that crept into his languid voice.

  “The Chickadee and the Magpie,” he said disdainfully. “They both have written—frequently.”

  “What do they say?”

  “I have no idea. The prison authorities know them intimately, of course, having perused my correspondence with interest. I’m sure they found them entertaining. Would you like to read them?” He picked up a little stack of opened letters and held them out to her. “You may as well. I’ve not been able to bring myself to do it. The Magpie would either say that I had been cruelly misunderstood or rail upon me as a villain for having deceived everyone for so long and condemn me to perdition.”

  “Might she offer some help?”

  “She might.”

  “Isn’t it worth finding out?”

  “I think Jerome may see that as a conflict of interest, since he is doing everything he can to act in the interest of the Chickadee. As to the Chickadee herself, she has sent me three. I can almost predict what they contain.” He did not look at her, but looked toward the barred window. “The first is an appeal to unburden myself as to what drove me down this path—a desire to understand me in a way she had hitherto not bothered. One contains a self-examination and asks me to forgive her for anything she might have done to hurt me. The final one, if I know her at all, requests an interview that we may exchange our mutual forgiveness. I find it revolting and hypocritical—a reminder of everything I hated about New York and her class of people. Had the scheme come off and we had . . .” His voice trailed off. He looked down at the table. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not the man I was when we were both free and knew each other well, when we loved each other in New Orleans.”

  “But I still see in you the man I knew.”

  “And that’s the man I want you to remember, not the one you see before you.” He raised his eyes to hers. She wondered for a moment whether she had lied, to him and to herself—that this was not the man she had known, but a stranger.

  “I don’t want you to come anymore, Blanche,” he said softly.

  His statement shocked her. In one instant she felt the fear of being cut off from him and the shame of relief at being released. The distress must have shown plainly on her face, for he continued quickly.

  “Don’t think I haven’t appreciated your faithfulness,” he said, almost comfortingly. “No one has ever shown me this kind of fidelity—especially now. If there is such a thing as Christian charity, you at least haven’t been ashamed to visit the prisoner.

  “I don’t want you to come because I want to spare us both. I am selfish in this, I admit, but I want to remember you at your loveliest and happiest. I know you’ve tried to cheer me, to look your best and not like some woebegone widow. I also see how visiting me has worn you down. You have seen me waste away day after day. I don’t want to be remembered like that—not by you of all people. Will you please honor my request?”

  Blanche could no longer hold back the sadness that welled up in her. She began to cry. He reached across and took her hand. She had feared that the warmth of his touch would stir painful memories. But the cold she felt through her lace glove nearly repelled her. She was glad, but the gladness did nothing to suppress the tears.

  “Please listen, Blanche. I have a request to make of you. After everything is over, I have directed my lawyer to find you and send you all my personal effects.”

  She shut her eyes and put her hand tightly over her mouth to keep herself from sobbing. He continued.

  “Among these you will find a large ring with a crest in it. It belonged to my fiancée’s father. It’s the only thing among my few possessions that is not mine. She gave it to me upon our engagement. Please see that it is returned to her. I leave her to wrestle with its associations. Anything else that’s left, you may keep or do with as you see fit.”

  She could not help the sobbing now. He waited for the flood to subside.

  “If they send you to Louisiana, shall I follow you?” she offered, knowing—or rather hoping—his answer would be negative.

  “No. Leave it alone, Blanche. Leave our good memories there. Don’t scar them.” She nodded her assent. The warmth from her fingers slowly gave his cold hand life.

  “You must go now,” he said.

  “Can’t I stay a little longer?”

  He shook his head. “No. There’s no point. Let’s say our farewells now.”

  “May I send you some things—anything you might need?” she asked, nodding toward the basket.

  “As you wish. Yes, it does help. But please don’t bring them yourself.” She nodded.

  She looked toward the door at the policeman standing there.

  “Officer, I’m about to leave. I’m not coming back. May I say my good-byes?”

  The policeman sighed and looked to his right and to his left. He made no move to turn away, but averted his eyes.

  Blanche and Tracey rose. In their embrace she felt how thin he had grown, the ripple of ribs beneath his shirt and the sharp collarbone against her cheek, but it didn’t matter. She was comforted that he held her for so long, that he might regret releasing her. Then she raised her face to his and her hand to the back of his head and kissed him, not with the passion of a lover, but with an ardent esteem she felt for him now. She held the kiss for a moment and afterward leaned her forehead against his mouth and felt the auburn moustache brush her brow.

  “Say my name once more,” she said.

  He put his hand under her chin and pulled it up gently until their eyes met.

  “Go quickly now,” he said. “Farewell, my dearest Blanche.”

  She did not resist as he urged her toward the door. The policeman unlocked it for her and closed it again with a dead clang. She did not look back, but hurried down the hallway and descended the stairs.

  She was halfway to the entrance when she saw a tall veiled figure coming through the door. Blanche stopped and waited till the figure saw her. The woman approached and stood before her. Francesca lifted her veil.
/>   “He said you’d want to come,” said Blanche. She felt almost triumphant, as if she owned something this privileged woman never would. Yet this was no triumphant time. There was pain enough without heaping it upon a woman who merely wanted to make her peace. Blanche could not begrudge her that. “He doesn’t want to see you.”

  “No. I suppose he doesn’t.”

  “Then why come?”

  “You think I shouldn’t?”

  “I suppose you have a right to try.” Blanche sighed. “No, I suppose I can’t blame you.”

  “You’re sure he—”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” said Blanche. “He said he doesn’t want to see you.”

  “He actually said as much?”

  “Yes. Just now when I was there.”

  Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes, but her voice was steady. “That’s that, then,” she said. “I’m actually glad to have seen you. I’d rather hear it from you than hear it from some official or embarrass Edmund with a scene that neither of us wants.”

  Blanche nodded.

  “I’ll go then,” said Francesca.

  Both women hesitated.

  “I’m so sorry about all this—” Francesca began.

  “Don’t,” said Blanche. “Please don’t bother.”

  “No. No, I’m sorry.”

  Neither woman moved. Blanche thought the other looked a little awkward and was surprised at herself for feeling completely at her ease.

  Then Francesca turned and added, “May I drop you somewhere? I have a carriage outside. . . .”

  “Thank you. No,” said Blanche. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find my own way.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Gallantries

  It is a still greater crime when a man conveys the impression that he is in love, by actions, gallantries, looks, attentions, all—except that he never commits himself—and finally withdraws his devotions, exulting in the thought that he has said or written nothing which can legally bind him.

  —Decorum, page 184

  The manservant showed no emotion as he admitted a soberly dressed, dark-haired, pale man with dark, morose eyes. The news that Edmund Tracey would be executed by a method both modern and horrific made a call on Francesca tricky at best. To present a small tribute might be appropriate or it might be thrown out after him. Resisting his homing-pigeon urge to take in Tiffany’s on the way, he settled on a nosegay of hothouse roses, African violets, and ivy whose only significance lay in sentiment. Connor produced his card.

  “Is Miss Lund receiving visitors this afternoon?” asked Connor.

  “I will inquire, sir. Won’t you step in? Shall I take those for you, sir?” the manservant said, indicating the flowers.

  “No, I’ll hang on to them.”

  The manservant gave two quick raps at the drawing-room door, pushed it open, and announced, “Mr. O’Casey, ma’am.”

  Momentary silence greeted this news. Braced for dismissal, Connor breathed again at the announcement, “This way, sir.”

  Connor surveyed the room. It was not so crammed and cluttered as in many of the houses of their peers, the walls decorated in a plainer paper with a few well-executed paintings in ornate gilt frames. He recognized the vase of flowers from that day at Venables’, situated next to the fireplace. The settees, though severe, were upholstered in green. Belgian lace or tatted doilies covered the piano, tables, sideboard, chairs, and settees. Francesca’s doing, no doubt.

  “Mrs. Gray, Miss Lund, Miss Lawrence,” said Connor with a nod to each in turn.

  Esther rose, her needlework still in her hand. Vinnie, her surprise evident, remained seated. Francesca was standing with one hand on a mantelshelf crammed with photographs in silver frames. In her pale rose dress and a high neck of cream lace that blended with her hair, she nearly matched the decor of the room. The small cut high on her cheekbone, the one flaw in the otherwise perfect picture, was red and taut and made her look more vulnerable, and more defiant. He would remember this look of her forever.

  “Oh, God. What do you want?” Francesca said, in a foul-humored tone Connor didn’t recognize.

  “I beg your pardon if I’m intruding,” he began.

  “We weren’t expecting you, Mr. O’Casey. I apologize for my niece—”

  “Don’t bother apologizing, Aunt Esther,” said Francesca.

  “—but I agree with her that this may not be the most opportune moment for a visit.”

  “I realize that. It was all in the morning editions,” said Connor. He extended the nosegay to Francesca. “A small balm.”

  “Thank you,” said she, taking them from him. “Yes, every gaudy detail,” she said, speaking of the papers, a trickle of venom in her voice. “I thought I had heard everything. It seems I was mistaken. Bloodhounds and leeches, all of them.”

  “There’s nothing to be done, it seems,” said Connor.

  “No, there’s nothing,” said Francesca. She fixed her gaze on the flowers and crossed to the piano and set them upon it.

  “My niece isn’t well, as you can understand, Mr. O’Casey,” said Esther as she stepped forward—like the female Marquess of Queensbury laying down the rules for two pugilists. “Perhaps if you would have the decency to wait a few days before you call again.”

  Vinnie preempted her and rose and extended her hand. “I, for one, am glad to see you, Mr. O’Casey. I think it’s very kind of you to give us a little diversion.”

  “Thank you, Miss Lawrence.” Bully for the referee, thought Connor.

  “Francesca tried to see him, you know,” continued Vinnie.

  “Lavinia,” said Esther firmly. “I don’t think we need burden Mr. O’Casey—”

  “On the contrary, ma’am, I’m here to see if there was anything I could do, don’t you know,” said Connor, closing the drawing-room door behind him. Though he hated that she had made such a gesture to a man he considered a blight on humanity, he recognized that Francesca’s generosity of spirit toward Edmund Tracey was the same generosity he hoped for himself. As long as this was her attitude, he couldn’t very well gainsay it.

  “He wouldn’t have anything to do with her, I’m afraid,” continued Vinnie quietly, as she cast a glance over her shoulder at Francesca.

  “I’m not surprised that Miss Lund would try to see him. I’m even less surprised that he wouldn’t want to see her.” All three ladies reacted to his words with gestures of dismay and looks of astonishment.

  “I’m afraid I have to agree with you,” said Esther. “I told her it was unwise, especially now.”

  “But why?” protested Vinnie. “I should think he would have something to say to her after all this time.”

  “What would that be?” asked Connor. “To ask her forgiveness?” Vinnie’s look told him he had guessed right.

  “To at least express some remorse—something,” Vinnie said.

  “I’m afraid if a man is unaccustomed to asking for forgiveness under the best of circumstances he’s not likely to ask for it when circumstances are at their worst.”

  Vinnie opened her mouth to protest again, but Connor continued.

  “Think of it from his point of view—a man’s point of view, if I may so put it. He may not have wanted her to see him that way, when all the world appears to be against him, when every hope is gone. He could be torn between wantin’ to see a loved one and wantin’ to spare her—and himself.” Awkward that he was trying to make the man look less like a cad, now that he was as good as dead. He paused and let silence fill up the room, as if the moment had a reverence about it. “I confess I would feel that way—torn, I mean. For instance, I wish I could take back everything I ever did or said in the last few months that may have hurt or offended you. I’m me own worst enemy most of the time. I talk a lot and put off those I care about most. As for Mr. Tracey, he may feel this is the one thing left that he can still control—whether to see you or not. He’s chosen to exercise that control.”

  “Control was certainly something he wanted—and nev
er got,” said Francesca, nearly inaudibly. She’s not crying, Connor thought, she’s simply played out.

  “I don’t mean to be unkind, Mr. O’Casey, but I really do think it would be best—” Esther began again.

  “Would you like some tea, Mr. O’Casey?” interrupted Vinnie. “Won’t you please sit down?”

  “If you’re sure I’m not intruding—” said Connor, though he remained on his feet.

  “I believe you are, Mr. O’Casey.”

  “I think he should stay, Mrs. Gray,” said Vinnie. “Mr. O’Casey means well. What do you think, Francesca? Milk and sugar, Mr. O’Casey?”

  “You can’t have come solely to inquire after my health,” said Francesca, turning to face him. “What other subject could have caused you to make such a tasteless and unfeeling gesture as to come here at this moment? You could have had the decency—”

  “Beg pardon, Frankie,” said Connor. The name slipped out, easy and natural. It brought her up short. She stood still and threw him a look of—what was it? Astonishment? Puzzlement? Pain? Another moment, and the look was gone. “Decency wastes time, which I can’t afford. I’d like a few moments alone with you, if I may.”

  “Really, Mr. O’Casey,” said Esther. “I hardly think—”

  “Mr. O’Casey might be a tonic—” Vinnie began.

  “A tonic?” cried Esther.

  “As a matter of fact, your health does concern me,” said Connor to Francesca, paying Esther no mind. “I’m relieved to find you’ve not taken to your bed. That’s a good sign.”

  “Is it? I wonder.” Francesca dragged herself to a low overstuffed chair on the opposite side of the room and sank into it.

  “Of course it is,” said Connor. “You’re up and about. That can only be good.”

  “You’re not disappointed that I haven’t suddenly sought consolation upon your manly breast? That I haven’t swooned so that you can minister to me, wretched invalid that I am?”