Decorum

by Kaaren Christopherson

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” said Connor. “You’d prefer, I suppose, that I make you ten times the invalid you are. I don’t believe that for a moment and neither do you.”

  “Francesca, don’t make things worse with these histrionics,” said Esther.

  “Exactly,” said Connor.

  “I thought you wanted him to leave, Aunt Esther.”

  “I never said I thought you should be coddled,” retorted Esther. “It may be the one point upon which Mr. O’Casey and I agree.”

  Connor relaxed and looked at Francesca.

  “I do want to talk to you—” he began.

  “Did you really expect a private interview, Mr. O’Casey?” asked Esther.

  “Of all the barefaced impertinence,” said Francesca. “All the unfeeling, stupid—”

  “I do understand where this is going,” said Connor.

  “—unsympathetic, selfish, arrogant, insensible—”

  “All right, all right, I do get your drift. But I’m not leavin’ till you hear me out so you may as well simmer down. A private interview would have been preferable, but there’s nothing I have to say that can’t be said in company.” He paused and sighed and collected his thoughts. “I want a chance with you. I’m proposing a way to find out if you can stand me. I’m proposing that I go to Banff with you.”

  “What?” said all three ladies.

  “Hold on. It’s not what you’re thinking. I’m proposing that we travel separate-like, and that you go on and be chaperoned by your lady friends, but we’d end up in the same place. I’d get to see you. We could spend time in each other’s company without all of New York breathin’ down our necks.”

  “You must be mad.” Her look at him was not unlike the look she gave him that night at the Jeromes’, a knowing look—not disapproving necessarily, but calling a spade a spade.

  “I know it may appear that way—”

  “Appear that way, yes,” she said.

  “But it’s the sanest thing I’ve ever proposed to anyone. Don’t you see? Would the Jeromes ever stand to let you see me unless we had an understandin’ between us? At least if I could see you in Banff we could spend some regular time together. Then, at the end of two or three months, if you think we can’t make a go of it, I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Just what do you mean by ‘make a go of it’?” she said.

  He squared his shoulders. “Marriage.”

  She got up and walked to the piano, picked up the nosegay, and held it to her face, breathing deeply, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to speak. She circled the room and came back to the piano, not looking at him.

  “I’m afraid my honesty hasn’t gotten me very far with you up to now,” he said.

  “No, it hasn’t, thank you very much.”

  “That’s why I wanted to see you. To apologize—and to propose to be at Banff together, to let us start out again on a different footing. Don’t you see? It really is the perfect answer.” He was working up a head of steam.

  “Oh, yes? For whom, you or me?”

  “For both of us. We can see other daily—”

  “I don’t know if I can stand you daily,” she cried, returning to her chair. “My entire purpose in going is to get away from everyone—which includes you, I might add. Every time I see you the encounter turns to absolute bedlam.”

  “Now, hold on—”

  “They may as well meet me in Calgary with a straitjacket. How am I supposed to find rest? How am I supposed to find peace? You can’t possibly think I can find peace with you?”

  “Now, hold on there. Why not? Why not with me any less than anyone else? Not everything between us comes to ruin. We’ve had some good times, have we not? Well, here’s the perfect way to find out whether we can have them more regular-like.”

  “I cannot believe what I’m hearing. Your sense of timing is positively breathtaking.” Francesca’s eyes were red and hard. The little furrow tightened between her brows. She leaned back in the chair, feet planted on the floor, a handkerchief clasped in one hand. She had something of the cornered animal in her. “You are the very limit. Here I am at the age of twenty-eight, standing amid the wreckage of my own life, watching as everything I ever cared about or hoped for crumbles under the weight of scandal, not knowing whom I can call friend—and you have the gall to come to me about marriage? What do you think this is, a rescue mission?” She laughed. “Or do you think that my marrying you will make up for two deaths and the misery around them?” she said distractedly. “Or is it three or four deaths? I’ve lost count.”

  “You certainly think highly of yourself, don’t you, Mr. O’Casey?” said Esther.

  “No, ma’am,” Connor said. “It may surprise you to learn that I don’t think particularly highly of any of it, nor of myself. Don’t you think I wish that none of this awful business had happened to her? Don’t you think that I, above all people, wish that things could have been different? That I could have come to Frankie—to Francesca, Miss Lund—as a plain, honest man from the start? That I could have offered her a reputable, honest name and a life full of beauty and culture and good works and religion and all things that she holds most dear, without the stain or blemish of scandal? Do you think I’ve known her all these months only to know so little about her and how little I measure up?” He turned to Francesca.

  “I am what I am, Frankie. I can’t help it. I wish things were different. I wish I were a better man. But that doesn’t stop me from knowing I’m the best man for you.”

  She glared at him.

  “You are the absolute limit, aren’t you?”

  “So I understand.”

  “So,” said Francesca, “you have no decency, you’re arrogant, insufferable—”

  “Yes, you needn’t cover that ground again.”

  “You have no sense of romance, have you, Mr. O’Casey?” Vinnie chimed in.

  “Romance? What the hell has romance got to do with anything? Holy Mother of God, woman, what I’m offering your friend is a perfectly good, reasonable proposition—”

  “Proposition?” all three women said in chorus.

  “Will you please do me the courtesy of hearing me out?” They were silent.

  “Look at your choices, Frankie. You are, as you say, fairly swimmin’ in a sea of scandal. You’ve been taken in by a man who’s a crook and a murderer, which proves to all the world that you are an ignorant, vulnerable female—”

  “But Mr. O’Casey—” Vinnie broke in. He raised a hand against the onslaught.

  “Do you think no one will talk about you while you’re away frolicking in the Rockies? You’ll be a social pariah when you get back to New York, not to put too fine a point on it. If the Jeromes haven’t died of apoplexy, you’ll likely get the tongue-lashing of your life before society snubs you altogether, they and all their church-going friends.”

  “Really, Mr. O’Casey, I must protest,” objected Esther.

  “And don’t bother to tell me how they’ll stand by you in your time of need. I’ve seen needier and worthier than you dropped like hot potatoes by better people than the Jeromes.”

  “Of all the barefaced—” said Francesca.

  “You’ll either end up an old maid or fall prey to a marriage to any one of a dozen thrill-seekers who thrive on scandal and aren’t worth a bean. Even genuine lords, no matter how poor, won’t give you the time of day. So what’ll you do? Slink back to the settlement to live out your days in endless charity?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Francesca said.

  “Not a thing—for ordinary women,” said Connor with enthusiasm. “But it’s not good enough for you. Why not come back to New York with a bang? Nobody’d expect you to come back married, or even engaged. If you’re going to scandalize your precious society, do a proper job of it. Marriage to me would be the best shock of all. The murder of Nell Ryder would be chicken feed compared to the bodies of swooning women lining the streets of New York over that one. People can talk behind their hand
s all they want, but they wouldn’t dare say anything to your face. Things might be a bit warm for a while—”

  “A bit warm?” Esther interjected.

  Again, Connor raised arresting hands.

  “They’ll cool off fast enough, once we get back from the honeymoon and you start your music charity and picking up your life. I can help you with that. We can come in together, fighting. The miscreant and the madwoman. You can be a scrappy thing, when you set your mind to it. We can brazen it out together and choose a place for ourselves that suits us. And as to the romance?” said Connor with a nod to Vinnie. “If romance is what you want, Francesca Lund, I’ll romance you the likes of which you can’t begin to imagine.”

  Vinnie raised a hand to her lips as if to suppress delight. Esther was silent. Francesca managed a smile. She shook her head. Then a little puff of laughter burst from her lips.

  “Now what’s so funny about that? You don’t think I can do it, do you? Well, I assure you, woman, that Connor O’Casey will be unmatched in the romance department.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “I think so, too,” said Vinnie with a smile. Then catching the eyes of the other two ladies, she amended her remark. “Francesca’s right. You are the very limit.”

  Connor strode across to Francesca’s chair and knelt in front of her, pinning her down, his hip against her knee, his arms resting on hers, his face thrust toward her face.

  “What would you rather be? Strong and good and brave, or an object of pity?”

  “They’d pity me with you.”

  “Perhaps so,” he sighed. “But they’d pity you all the more for never having had, never having experienced, never having known. Or maybe by now they think you know all there is to know anyway. So, to hell with it.

  “And what of yourself? Will you not pity yourself in the end? Will you not regret? Have done with regrets, Frankie, and move on. Do you want your mountaintops? Have them, I’ll not stand in your way—and your music and art and ideals, and children and a home. I want those, too.”

  Francesca pushed him away. “Stop bullying me. Do you think I want a lifetime of bullying? I’m too tired to think. I’m weary to the bone. Why come here now? I can’t stop you from doing what you want to and haunting me in Banff. I don’t know what I want anymore—except that I want to be left alone.”

  No legal mind could have parsed an answer so skillfully, thought Connor. She had not rejected him outright, but left him an opening that preserved all sense of decorum. Through that tiny opening he would drive a westward train to Banff.

  “So I must wait? How long?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I can’t wait forever, Frankie, and neither can you. Time’s awast-ing for us both. So, let me give you a little something to ponder: Would you prefer to spend your life known as the Poor Miss Lund, to wend your way to a decorous and respectable old age, to be pitied by all? Or would you rather revel in the grand and glorious splendor of being known as the Notorious Mrs. O’Casey?”

  CHAPTER 38

  An Habitual Self-Control

  Cautiousness, and the check of an habitual self-control, should accompany the mind of every one who launches out in animated conversation. When the fancy is heated, and the tongue has become restless through exercise, and there is either a single listener or a circle, to reward display, nothing but resolute self-recollection can prevent the utterance of much that had better been left unsaid.

  —Decorum, page 230

  The shock of Connor’s declaration, coupled with days of inactivity forced by blustery weather, drove Francesca out of doors on the pretext of a walk for Chalk and Coal.

  “You’d best go out the back, miss,” said John, helping her on with her coat. “There’ve been a couple of reporter fellows hanging around the front most of the day.”

  She was redirecting the dogs to the back of the house when the bell rang. The riot of barking ensued as John opened the door to find Maggie Jerome.

  “How are you, John?”

  “Very well, Mrs. Jerome, thank you.”

  An encounter with the press would have been more inviting than a call from Maggie. She had bothered Francesca very little since Edmund’s arrest, sending messages through Jerry or by hand.

  “How are you, dearie? I didn’t sleep a wink last night—for the past several nights really. I thought perhaps we might have a little chat,” Maggie offered tentatively as she took off her gloves. “But don’t let me interrupt if you and Esther have plans.”

  “She’s gone up for a little nap, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, dearie, were you going out?”

  “Just to take the dogs for some exercise.”

  “I’ll stay and supervise tea. I can have it ready when Esther wakes up. It’ll be nice for a change, just like I used to do for you.” She unpinned her hat.

  “Yes, why don’t you. I won’t be long.”

  What unbelievable timing, thought Francesca as the door closed behind her. God was punishing her by sending an angel of retribution for even contemplating involving herself with Connor O’Casey. There they would be, she and Esther and Maggie, drinking tea and talking—Francesca in agony lest she spill the news, relying heavily on Esther’s calm demeanor and diplomacy. Unless they could direct the conversation, Francesca would have to prepare to meet the terrible swift sword of Maggie Jerome. Well, so be it.

  Lost in thought, Francesca lingered while Coal and Chalk investigated every wall, fence, tree, and shrub, not realizing how much ground they had covered. When she came to herself, she realized she was headed in the direction of Jerry’s office. What time was it? Jerry might still be there. She picked up her pace, the dogs happily panting at her side. Without thinking, she transferred both leashes to one hand and with the other hailed a cab. A moment later, Francesca and Coal and Chalk were piled into a hansom and whisked away to the Merchants and Mechanics Bank.

  It was bad enough to explain how a lady with two large dogs had bolted past every line of the bank’s defenses, disrupted transactions at teller windows, and arrived, all three panting, at the desk of Jerry’s secretary and demanded to see him. How she would explain the arrangement with Connor O’Casey was another matter.

  “You’ve what?”

  “I know. I know.” Francesca sank into a chair, the dogs lying at her feet. “I can’t very well stop him from going where he wants.”

  “Have you lost your senses completely?! How on earth could you agree to this harebrained scheme? Do you know what kind of man he is—what kind of reputation he has?”

  “Apparently good enough for you to engage him as a business partner.”

  “That’s beside the point and you know it, Francesca. What about that Alvarado woman?”

  “He’s assured me that it’s over between them.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I have no reason not to.”

  “You have several million reasons. I didn’t even know he was interested in you.”

  “Nor did I. Not really. I believe he wants to see if we can make a go of it.” The whole thing sounded ridiculous, even to her own ears.

  “Make a go of it? Go of what? Is that his idea of a proposal?”

  “Apparently,” said Francesca. Jerry began to protest. “Yes, Jerry, it was his way of proposing. And before you ask, yes, he did use the word marriage.” She couldn’t remember having actually uttered the word yes in answer. Could she really have consented to such a thing? Perhaps she was mad after all. Her head was beginning to throb.

  “Do you have any idea how this looks—for either of you? Here is a very worldly man who has just shed himself of a, a, a strumpet. Here you are, having just been taken in by a man who turns out to be a gigolo and a murderer, and you think that the two of you can simply sail off into the sunset—”

  “We’re going by railroad.” She cracked a smile.

  “Don’t be impertinent. You think you can leave all the cares and opi
nions of the world behind and never have to face society again? You think you won’t be vilified up one side and down the other?”

  “I know it looks dreadful.”

  “Dreadful? Is that all you can say?”

  “I could say more if I could get a word in.” She felt oddly at peace in the eye of Jerry’s storm. The plain language and concern for her welfare were comforting somehow—so unlike what she might expect from Maggie and her formulaic approach to decorum. After the initial tirade, he went to the window, unlatched the shutter and pulled it back, and looked out into the street.

  “Yes, I know how it looks,” said Francesca. “I can’t say why I have the least bit of faith in him, except that he didn’t seem to be making promises he wasn’t willing to keep. He didn’t say he loves me. And while we’re on the subject, no, I don’t love him. Don’t you think his intentions would be far more suspicious if he came to me protesting love? I know full well a man like that doesn’t change overnight—if at all. There may be something in what he says about our wanting many of the same things. It seems I might have a better chance of being happy with someone who can be honest about it, with or without love.”

  “I wanted better for you,” said Jerry, still staring out the window.

  “Better isn’t good enough, Jerry. I want the best. Who, of all the men you know, is best for me? Name three. No, no, name two, or even one. You can’t, can you? Who is to say that in the end Connor O’Casey might not be the best? He wants a chance. So do I. He’s the only man I’ve ever known to be forthright about it and to respect my feelings, in his own bluff way, and to offer me a respectable way out.”

  Jerry was calmer now. “You sound resolved to do this.”

  “Let’s simply say that I believe I have the right to change my mind, though I think it would be much easier, much better, to take the chance and let God direct things. Human interference has certainly availed me nothing up to now.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  Nothing Jerry could have offered would have sounded more appalling than Banff with the Jeromes.