“Don’t be silly. Esther and Vinnie will be enough. If I need you I can wire.”
“What’ll we do about Maggie?” Jerry asked, sounding weary.
“Well, you’ll have the perfect chance to find out. How would you like to take me home to tea?”
“I wondered how long it’d be before you showed up,” said Connor, standing in the doorway. “Come in.”
Jerry decided to forgo tea and Maggie and headed for Connor’s hotel. Francesca’s revelation—and her consent, however passive—had left him stunned and perplexed. He liked Connor, the way one likes an underdog. Often Jerry spoke up for him, urging and cajoling others into giving the poor blighter a chance. Connor’s admirable persistence and guts had enabled him to rise from nothing to a position that accorded him, if not respect, at least envy. He understood Connor’s aspiration to shrug off the mantle of an outcast and acquire the tastes and refinements of the social set to which he aspired. Above all, he understood Connor’s desire to ally himself with a woman of intelligence, talent, beauty, and wealth who could help him move easily in society. When the object of that desire was Francesca, however, all Jerry’s noble biases flew out the window and Connor was reduced to the image of the brash, uneducated, unrefined, papist hooligan his friend was trying so desperately to shake off.
Jerry’s own hypocrisy alarmed him. His father had come from stock no more refined than Connor’s, and his father hadn’t Connor’s desire to become self-taught. He was proud of the rugged individualism, however coarse, that made his father self-made. The harangues with Maggie over occasions where his father might embarrass had hurt Jerry deeply.
Oh, God—Maggie. Maggie, who had protected the family honor for their thirty years together, would make life hell for Francesca over this arrangement with Connor. Until this moment he hadn’t understood her revulsion toward his father, pulling Jerry further and further away from his influence—and his love. Jerry now felt a similar revulsion at the idea of Francesca’s marrying this man who drank, swore, fought, cheated, and was far too wealthy for his own good, who had no religion, principles, or scruples. He was ashamed to discover that he couldn’t decide which of the two of them, Jerry or Maggie, was the more noble—Jerry, with his high-minded favoritism of the underdog, who found that his principles couldn’t hold water, or Maggie, who was so damnably consistent.
Connor left Jerry to shut the door while he walked to the sideboard to pour himself a drink. He held out the decanter and raised his eyebrows.
“No, thanks,” said Jerry. He started to make for the settee, then turned. “On second thought, make it a double.”
“So,” said Connor. “Out with it.”
Jerry sat, still wearing his coat and hat. “I don’t know what to say. I couldn’t believe my ears when Francesca told me. What the hell are you thinking of, proposing to expose a woman whom you profess to want to marry to the kind of scheme that could ruin her?” He took off the hat and plopped it on the settee. “Have I failed to grasp the situation? Did you not go to Francesca and suggest that you follow her to Banff so that you and she can ‘get to know one another’ to find out whether she could stand you enough to marry you?” Jerry was on his feet. “Whom do you think you’re dealing with, man? Do you think she’s the kind of woman who indulges in sordid intrigues? What can you think will happen to her reputation while you and she are ‘getting to know one another’? Do you think I’d let her do a thing like that? And Maggie—oh, my God—would probably have you shot. And what about this Alvarado woman? Do you expect me to believe that after all that show and all that talk about Italy and that indecent, yes, indecent, way that she so obviously laid claim to you, that any of us can possibly believe that you and she are through?”
Connor, who was still standing at the sideboard, now and then taking a drink, turned quietly and faced Jerry.
“Might I answer some of these charges?”
Jerry took the whiskey that had been poured for him and took a long drink.
“Did I make such a request of her? Yes. Did I propose to marry her if she could stand me? Yes. Do I understand the position I’m puttin’ her in all the way round? Of course I do.” He set the whiskey decanter back on the sideboard and paused and blew out an exasperated sigh. “Why do you think I proposed marriage outright? So’s she’d have some assurance that marriage is a choice for her if the opinion of the society that you’re so pitifully tied to should go against her. So’s she wouldn’t be left high and dry.”
“Why Francesca in the first place?”
“Why not Francesca?” demanded Connor. “Why should I not aspire to someone of her quality? Why am I not entitled to the same desires for a respectable home presided over by a woman that a man would be proud to have as queen of his castle?” Connor set down his glass and leaned upon the sideboard. “What the hell am I talking to you for? You and your pious—you know, Blanche was right about you. You’re a sanctimonious bunch of bastards.” Connor downed the contents of the glass.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be on the outside lookin’ in? Do you know what it’s like to peep through the keyhole, and to watch people feastin’ and fattenin’ themselves, and know that you don’t have the key that will let you in? Do you have any idea what it’s like to spend your whole life hammering on the door and to not have anyone who’ll answer? And what about Francesca? She’s no better off than I am.”
“Just what the hell do you mean by that?”
“You’ve got her trussed up good and proper. She can’t move without your permission or approval. I’ll wager this Banff business is just as much to get away from you and your wife as it is for a pleasure tour. You dandle her in front of people like a Christmas ornament. You wind her up and set her out to perform, then carefully wrap her in tissue or put her under a bell jar for everyone to admire. You don’t really give a damn about her except to find her a husband that you pious lot can approve of.”
“That’s not true and you know—”
“What the hell were you pushing her off on that bastard Tracey for then?”
“That was Maggie’s doing, not mine.” Jerry was in no mood to defend Maggie. A pang of guilt gripped him as he wondered if things might have been different had he shared Shillingford’s discoveries. No, Maggie wouldn’t have believed him anyway.
“Or maybe a bastard great-grandson of an English lord, God help us,” continued Connor, “who’d have swept her off and left her bankrupt. Or some damn rich fool whose whole family hasn’t a worthwhile thought among ’em, who’d bore her senseless. None of them would ever understand what she’s made of.”
“And you do, I suppose.”
“Yes, I do,” Connor said emphatically. “I understand her better than the whole lot of you—and do you know why? Because in the end, we want the same things—to build something that lasts. A name, a family, a reputation. Not just a business or your damned luxury hotel. Businesses can be bought and sold and hotels can be torn down.”
“Reputations can be bought and sold—and torn down,” said Jerry.
“But family and name and doin’ something good that lasts can’t. If you’ve got that, you can keep your damned feasts. You can bolt the door for all I care—but the door is bolted for her just as surely as it’s bolted for me. Maybe not for the same reasons. She has things I’ll never have and I’ve gotten things she’ll never be able to get on her own. But the door is bolted for her all the same. Maybe we can unbolt it—or beat it down together.”
“Why do you want to be one of us if we’re such pious, pompous asses?”
“Sometimes I ask myself that very question. I see how you squeeze people dry, or crush them under your feet, or worse, pretend they’re not there. For all their faults poor people can be nobler than you’ll ever be.”
“I know,” said Jerry, looking into the bottom of his glass. “If you want Francesca so badly, why not court her openly here?”
“If we conduct even the properest courtship here, we’re doomed before w
e start. You people smother her and treat her like a child. She’s trying to use the brains she was born with, to experience something of life—”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“What would you have me do, show up unannounced and say, ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d pop in for a spot of scandal?’—which I could have done, by the way. Look, I’ve made her an honest offer of marriage. She can accept me or reject me. All I’ve asked is that she not reject me out of hand without our getting to know each other. This Banff business is the perfect way to do the least damage to her reputation. At least if we’re engaged by the time we get back to New York, nobody’ll have the pleasure of gossiping without a ring on Francesca’s finger.”
“You still haven’t answered my question about Mrs. Alvarado.”
“Do you think I put the two of them in the same class? Blanche isn’t fit to polish Francesca’s boots. Yes, it’s over with Blanche. I sent her packing the night of the dinner at Sherry’s. I’ve bought her passage to Italy and supplied her with money so she can go and leech off her sister.”
“Oh, God,” said Jerry. He drained his glass. “How do I know—how does Francesca know—that that kind of business is over?”
“She doesn’t. Nor does any woman when she gets married—or any man, come to that.” Connor poured himself another drink, then crossed to Jerry with the decanter. “Would you like to know where half the married men in this town go of an evenin’?” Connor poured. “It might prove quite informative for you to accompany me some night and watch outside selected small hotels and see who the clientele might be.”
“I don’t want that for Francesca.”
“Nor do I. Nor do I want it for myself. I’m tired. I’ve had enough. I just want her.”
“What on earth do you expect her to see in you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Maybe I’m not what she wants, but maybe I’m what she needs. Just like she’s what I need.”
Jerry hesitated. “You haven’t said that you love her.”
“I’m not sure I know what ‘love’ means—and I wouldn’t profane the word by using it amiss with Francesca.” He drank. “Do I appreciate her for her intelligence, her ideas? Yes. Do I appreciate her for her talents? Yes. Do I appreciate her for her gentleness and her heart and her soul? Yes. Do I agree with her religion and her mountaintops and her miracles? Probably not, at least not the religion and I don’t understand her mountaintops. But I hope I’m not so stupid that I don’t realize that without those things Francesca wouldn’t be Francesca.”
Jerry didn’t know what to say or think. To give his blessing was out of the question and he had no power to say no. A negative answer would only add fuel to Connor’s fire.
“I don’t know what I’ll tell Maggie.”
“Why tell her anything?”
“She’ll find out sooner or later. And she’ll give Francesca hell before she leaves.”
Not knowing what else to do, Jerry prepared to depart. He stood for a moment, running his hand around the brim of his hat, thinking. He looked Connor in the eye. “If you ruin her, if you leave her to face a damaged reputation alone, if you make one false promise or one false move, if you harm one hair on her head, as God is my witness, Connor, I will hunt you down, I will find you, and I will kill you. So help me God, I’ll kill you.”
CHAPTER 39
Charades
There is no game that can afford so much amusement to a circle of friends as that of acting charades. It affords a scope for the exercise of both wit and ingenuity.
—Decorum, page 357
“Our researches haven’t been as thorough as they might be,” ventured Connor one day after an investors’ meeting. Everyone had left but Jerry Jerome and John Ashton Worth.
“How do you mean?” asked Worth. Jerry shot Connor a quizzical look.
“I mean, we haven’t really looked at the competition properly, have we?” He drew his notebook from his breast pocket and began to thumb through the pages.
“The competition?” asked Jerry. “I think we’re quite familiar with most of the best hotels in New York—best for the moment, that is. We’re familiar with their service and amenities. There’s the omnipresent notebook”—he gestured toward Connor—“that gives us plenty of particulars on that score. By the way, how many notebooks does this make it? Five?”
“Seven,” said Connor, unperturbed.
“Seven. Precisely. We’ve certainly found out as much as is humanly possible about what the Vanderbilts are up to—and whom they’re scared of and why. And we know what we’re after—simply the best apartment hotel New York has to offer. You’ve been the biggest proponent of the Louis XV business, the decoration and all.”
“Yes, yes,” said Connor. “But have we really looked into how a truly modern hotel is run nowadays? Since we have the luxury of startin’ at scratch as we are.”
“I suppose you have a point there,” agreed Mr. Worth. “We won’t have had to wire an existing building for electricity, if that’s the kind of thing you mean. We’ll have the advantage of the latest plumbing and elevators and such.”
“But don’t you think it goes a bit beyond elevators and plumbing? Don’t you think we should scout out some of the newer places, see what they’ve got goin’ that the payin’ public is excited about and see if we can improve upon it?”
“Surely, it’s only wise to expand our horizons,” Jerry agreed. “The Sacher in Vienna is magnificent, I understand. It’s new and has everything a man could hope for or knows where to get it.”
“Isabel would love it, but I confess we’d easily become bogged down, what with her passion for collecting.”
“We still must look for those Louis XV rooms,” said Jerry.
“Vienna’s all well and good,” retorted Connor, “and certainly the Sacher would cater to the same kind of clientele we mean to attract. But Louis XV or no Louis XV, we should offer a hotel that’s distinctly American in service and modern convenience with the comforts of an established European hotel.”
“So we should be looking on this continent for our inspiration?” asked Jerry.
“It bears investigating. It seems to me that the uniqueness of a grand American hotel should be the draw—no matter where the clientele may come from. If we don’t go further afield in this country, we may be overlookin’ something that could be just what people are lookin’ for. I’m sure we can improve on what somebody else has thought of.”
“Hmm,” said Mr. Worth, beginning to gleam. “You mean perhaps we should choose a few select places on this side of the Atlantic and pay a visit? Check in as guests and put their service to the test? That’s certainly an idea.”
“San Francisco is booming in construction with somethin’ new goin’ up all the time,” said Connor.
“I myself wouldn’t mind seeing what Flagler’s been up to in Florida,” put in Jerry. “Sounds like he means to take a godforsaken place and turn it into a paradise and not unlike what you describe.”
This was the opening Connor was looking for. “Now you’re talkin’,” he said, sitting up straight and inching to the edge of his leather chair. “A paradise in the wilderness, an oasis in the desert. Perhaps that’s the way we should be lookin’ at this hotel.”
“I’d hardly call New York a desert,” Mr. Worth observed.
“You might, if you’re looking for an exclusive place to call home for a few weeks.”
“Is there someplace in particular you were thinking of?” said Mr. Worth.
“There are a handful of excellent possibilities. Jerome’s suggestion of Florida’s a good one—and San Francisco. There’s that place in Michigan, up on an island somewhere, a really grand place, or so they say. That’s it—the Grand Hotel.”
“San Francisco is hardly a wasteland either,” said Jerry.
“And therefore a good prospect,” Connor agreed, to smooth the way, “being much like our situation here in N
ew York. There’s St. Louis. St. Louis may not be New York, but being a major crossroads it sees a lot of hotel trade, though maybe not of the apartment variety we’re talking of. It bears lookin’ into.”
“And?” asked Jerry, awakening to Connor’s drift.
“Well, Canada is in much the same fix as we,” said Connor, avoiding Jerry’s glare. “They’ve got their big cities in Toronto and Montreal. Upper-class people must sleep somewhere when they pay a visit. The Canadian Pacific Railroad is sinkin’ a lot of money into makin’ the hotels on the line some of the best. Take this Banff place that Miss Lund is headin’ for.”
Jerry looked ready to shoot Connor.
“I know I made fun of the place when she first introduced the subject, but I’ve been lookin’ into it and her choice may not be so far-fetched as I thought.”
“You mean you’re admitting error?” teased Mr. Worth. “Mark this down, Jerry. A red-letter day.”
“I certainly will,” said Jerry, none too happy.
Connor ignored them both. “Cornelius Van Horn’s been able to make that place the envy of any Continental hotel. The Banff Springs is drawing clientele from all over the world—and doin’ it in the middle of the wilderness, I might add. Makin’ the wilderness itself an attraction from what I hear, the town not having much to speak of as yet. Chargin’ three dollars and fifty cents a room per day—and gettin’ it, too.” Jerry and Mr. Worth exchanged glances. “At those prices they must have something to offer. Same idea with Flagler in Florida. Florida’d be just the place for you and Maggie, Jerome.” Connor smiled at Jerry. Jerry glared back. “The perfect place for you to investigate.”
“I don’t know if I could persuade Isabel to a trip to San Francisco,” Mr. Worth went on innocently. “Her biases are so strongly European. Mediterranean, to be precise. Then again, she is the adventurous type. She may surprise me.”
“Then the three of us have chosen the far corners of the continent. If we can persuade Calloway, Gage, and Monroe to pursue three other places, we should have an excellent feel for what we’re after.”
Decorum Page 32