“Yes,” admitted Connor.
“But I don’t understand. She’d only be hurting herself,” said Vinnie. “Why draw attention to her own past by making trouble for Mr. O’Casey and for us?”
“She’s not a complete fool,” said Connor. “She is trying to distance herself from recent events. She’s taken on her maiden name and has styled herself Mrs. Blanche Wilson. I’ve no doubt that she’ll not scruple about doing what’ll suit her purposes.”
“She has nothing to lose,” said Francesca. “She couldn’t make things worse for herself than they are already.”
“You’ve done too much settlement work,” said Vinnie. “You’re always taking other people’s sides and seeing their points of view. You’re too good by half—and it’s very trying of you.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Miss Lawrence,” said Connor with a smirk.
“All right,” Esther interrupted, “enough of this. What are we to do about it?”
“I think we should help her,” said Francesca, and waited for the outbreak.
“You can’t possibly mean—” began Vinnie, suppressing her relish.
“I knew that’s where this was going,” retorted Connor.
“Wait just a moment and let me explain,” Francesca said, her voice firm. “I’m not suggesting that we become her bosom friends. On the other hand we can’t hope to avoid her, at least not without consequence. The Springs is like its own small town. Everybody will know everybody’s business. Though she may have achieved a certain notoriety, which may be acceptable to the World, she still can’t afford to become persona non grata. This may be enough to keep a certain pressure upon her.”
“I can’t understand why you should want to give legitimacy to this woman’s claims by giving in to her demands in such a way,” said Esther. “I don’t think we should be encouraging her in the least.”
“It’s not a matter of giving her legitimacy or encouragement. I simply don’t see how we can avoid her in so small a place as Banff. We may as well exert what control we can.”
“We could try to call her bluff and freeze her out,” said Vinnie. “She may give up and leave.”
“I don’t think it would turn a hair. She has something to prove, now that she’s with the World. I think that’s exactly what she’s prepared to meet.”
“I’m afraid I agree,” said Connor. “So, Frankie, you think we should brazen it out?”
Francesca’s speech was measured. “I suggest that we be civil, stay out of her way for the most part, lend a hand with the odd introduction. Perhaps we ladies can divert people’s attention from associating her too closely with you,” she said to him. “If she makes a nuisance of herself or engages in unacceptable behavior, the hotel will intervene and save us the trouble. As I said, I don’t wish her ill. I’m afraid with that we must all be content.”
“Let’s go outside,” said Blanche, notebook in hand, “so we can both smoke.”
Her reluctant quarry did his best not to show his displeasure at being collared for an interview. Connor usually welcomed the opportunity to talk about the Excelsior—the alleged topic of the afternoon. Not wishing to sabotage her chances at gaining interviews with others, he realized that a good public performance might aid in getting her off his hands.
“Sunshine or shade?” she asked.
“You have no parasol,” he said gallantly.
“I can sit with my back to the sun,” she replied. “It will feel good on such a cool day. Would you like drinks to be brought out?”
He motioned her to precede him out the door and onto the terrace. The great bowl of the Bow Valley swept out before them, where the Bow and the Spray sliced through the thick, spiky green spruce that lined the bowl’s bottom. The trees marched in legions up the sides of the mountains until stymied by the unrelenting, snowcapped sandstone and limestone peaks that sashayed around the bowl’s rim through an eternity of vista.
“No,” he said. “Thanks anyway. I’m happy to attend to the business at hand.” He thought better of it. “Would it look better for you—more congenial like?” he asked, his voice lowered. “We could have tea brought out—or a drink if you prefer.”
She looked at him in some surprise.
“As a matter of fact, it would look better. Thank you. A drink would be lovely.”
No sooner had they found seats where neither the hotel nor the mountain nor the terrace’s roof impeded the sunshine, when a waiter appeared and took their orders.
“So,” said Connor, offering his opened cigarette case to Blanche, “since you can write your article just as well without me, what did you really want to talk to me about?”
“I do need a favor, yes,” she said as she held the cigarette between her fingers and with her other hand searched in her bag and produced a little silver pencil set.
“Naturally,” said Connor as he drew out a small box of matches and struck one from which he lit her cigarette and his.
“Mr. O’Casey,” she said with overdone emphasis and in a voice raised just enough to make the conversation less than private, “my readers back in New York will be positively agog to learn of the progress of the Excelsior.”
“Thank you, Mrs. . . .” Connor hesitated, feigning a smile at her under the furtive glances of other guests who milled about the terrace.
“My maiden name, thanks,” said Blanche, smiling at him, her lips barely moving.
“And it is Mrs.?” he asked as he drew on his cigarette.
“Of course.” She pretended to make a note. “As to the hotel’s progress, would you care to comment?”
“Certainly, Mrs. Wilson,” Connor said aloud. “The investors in the Excelsior Hotel Company of New York are engaged in several activities aimed at bringing luxury apartment hotel accommodation to New York City. At present, we are in the midst of acquiring suitable premises in what we believe will become the very heart of social and cultural life.”
The drinks arrived. Connor gave his room number. Blanche’s pencil scratched across the page.
“So, the Excelsior is to cater to an exclusive clientele,” she said. “Not unlike here at the Banff Springs? And what brings you personally here to the Springs,” she asked through clenched teeth, “that’s fit for the New York press?”
“I’m sure the press won’t miss much with you about,” Connor said under his breath. “The investors have a little scheme on, as a matter of fact,” he said, recovering himself. “Each of us is visiting some of the best hotels we can find, all across the continent.”
“Ah, a spy mission,” said Blanche.
“Yes, if you like. We’re looking for inspiration, you might say. We aim to make the Excelsior a distinctively American hotel, but we’re going to the ends of the earth, quite literally, to find out what the people want, what appeals to the tastes of the elite clientele we aim to serve, as well as what’s new, what’s modern, what will make their stay a pleasant one—and of course, will make them want to come back when they’re in New York City.”
Connor flicked the cigarette ash across the valley, took a sip of whiskey, and considered her as she jotted her notes. She looked well enough, he thought—perhaps a little strained about the eyes, or was it his imagination? Her frame, even beneath the woolen jacket, might have been a little thinner, though she had always been slim. He knew from experience how well she could hide her feelings just as he knew how vehemently she could express them. That she should want to hide her feelings when they were no longer his business was understandable, but he could not help wondering whether she was really all right. Though he wanted no truck with Blanche, he was acutely aware that this God in whom Francesca had so much confidence had probably set Blanche there because she was in some measure unfinished business. When she looked up at him, her expression was of surprise, as if his face betrayed his thoughts.
“Now what’s this favor you want?” he asked.
“I’d like an introduction to my next big story, darling,” she said. “I want to meet Sánd
or Király. Have you met him yet?”
“I have, as a matter of fact,” he said. “Mrs. West introduced me. Have you met her? She could probably get you some useful introductions. She hasn’t the usual qualms about making people’s acquaintance, if she wants to know someone. Whatever you may have heard, she is tactful and a good friend, so I’d appreciate your playing fair with her.”
“Yes, that would be splendid,” said Blanche loudly, and scratched a few words on the pad. “I’d be happy to meet Mrs. West. I think I should prefer the introduction to Király to come from you, though.”
“Very well,” said Connor.
He hesitated again and then decided to put the question to her.
“Are you all right, Blanche?” he asked with voice lowered. “I mean, really? I know it must sound like damnable gall to you, but I do want to know.”
“Why, certainly, darling,” she said, her air flippant as she drew on her cigarette. “Who wouldn’t be when one has spent every last penny on coming to this godforsaken place to wait while one’s lover—who doesn’t want to see her—is sent to the gallows?”
Blanche tossed her head as if tossing back tears and took a sip of whiskey.
“Is this guilt speaking?” she asked, looking him in the eye, but with a subdued voice.
“What I did was beneath me,” he said, “or at least beneath what I thought I was. I’m sorry, Blanche. I’m no good at parting.”
“No one is,” said Blanche. “Parting is always inconvenient to somebody.”
Clearly, Blanche was shaken. She looked as if she wished she were anywhere other than the terrace of a busy hotel. Her handbag lay in her lap. She clutched it like a life preserver. Connor wished he could have handed her his handkerchief, supposing her reluctant to retrieve her own. Her voice caught.
“Look, let’s change the subject, shall we?”
“I am sorry,” he said again. “Of course, I’ll help you with introductions. If it’s Király you want, I’ll produce him for you—and Ida, too.”
CHAPTER 46
A Lesson for Your Own Improvement
Observe your own feelings when you happen to be the guest of a person who, though he may be very much your friend, and really glad to see you, seems not to know what to do either with you or himself; and again, when in the house of another you feel as much at ease as in your own. Mark the difference, more easily felt than described, between the manner of the two, and deduce therefrom a lesson for your own improvement.
—Decorum, page 87
Cue balls clacked and scudded across the green baize. Glass-shaded lamps pooled their light over the tables. The dark woodwork deflected the low conversation as the players calculated their next shots.
Now at ten o’clock, the gentlemen stood, some with pool cues shouldered, to the nightly strains of “God Save the Queen” that echoed through the hotel. The sun dipped behind the mountains, leaving its rose and orange beams to mock the twilight with the promise of an early dawn. The temperate June air freshened the basement billiard room and carried off the sweet-and-sour cigar smoke. A manservant entered and closed the windows to a healthful crack and stirred the fire in the hearth.
Gentlemen were reduced to shirtsleeves, their tailcoats arrayed on hooks like ravens roosting in a tree. They bent over their cue sticks, an errant cigar stub poised between their teeth or held by two fingers with the cue resting in the crook of the thumb. A few men watched on the fringes, whiskey glasses and cigars in hand. Billiards afforded the chance to be seen mixing, to acquire nodding acquaintances, and having weeded out the social nuisances, to seek introductions.
“Sporting man?” asked Sándor Király of Connor, as the former shot the cue ball toward its target.
A cordial dinner with Király and Ida West had acquainted Connor with the Hungarian well enough to suggest billiards after coffee. Connor had as yet been unable to fulfill his pledge to Blanche, but hoped that with a friendly game and a drink or two an opportunity might suggest itself.
“Depends,” Connor replied, picking up the cube from the rail and chalking his cue stick. “I s’ppose you could say I was a gaming man rather than a sporting one.”
“Is there a distinction?” asked Sándor.
“A fine one, perhaps, for those who enjoy both,” said Connor. “One implies strategy. The other implies strength. I grant you that they do often occur together.”
“Ah, but there, do we not also venture into the realm of ingenuity and education?” asked an elderly gentleman bending to his cue stick.
The two men had offered a place in their game for this stranger—a minor English nobleman who had not been introduced nor introduced himself and who seemed in no hurry to discover who his companions might be. Connor wondered how this gentleman would react if Ida West were set upon him and how shocked Esther Gray would be.
“And luck perhaps,” said Connor.
“But a man has to be ready when the opportunity—luck if you like—presents itself,” retorted the gentleman and then made his shot. He took up his cigar from the rail and drew on it. “Was it not the philosopher Seneca who said that luck is simply where opportunity and preparation meet? A man can spend his whole life preparing for the one moment when he realizes what he’s done and what he’s worked towards and what it all means, and finally is ready to seize the opportunity that is placed before him.”
“That’s very true, sir,” said Connor. “Many years of backbreaking work go into many a lucky break. The trouble is many men today want the lucky break without doing the work beforehand.” Connor paused to take his shot.
“Still, as you say, the two principles so often meet together,” said Sándor. “Climbing and mountaineering certainly rely on strength, especially when one has misread twenty centimeters of cliff in front of one. Ideally, though, a more accurate reading—and a convenient cleft or outcropping—can make actual strength a less formidable consideration. Leverage, when properly applied, can be more important.”
“Ah,” said the elderly gentleman, standing as the designated ball dropped into the pocket. “Leverage is an important consideration, especially when applied strategically, if I may say so. Leverage requires one to know the precise nature of one’s own strength and to use it to best advantage.”
“Exactly, very well put, sir,” continued Sándor. “In fact, when one considers the importance of leverage, I believe, if trained properly, ladies may even become good climbers.”
“Hmph,” grumbled the elderly gentleman. “I can believe anything of ladies these days.”
“I can think of one or two who might try it,” said Connor, smiling to himself.
“Exactly,” said Sándor. “One sees many ladies here in Banff taking long hikes and being guided over rough terrain, even mountaineering in a small way. In Europe, many ladies of beauty and accomplishment have a taste for vigorous exercise in the mountain air—and of course an appreciation for the beauty of their surroundings. Their only real encumbrance in moving from hiking to serious mountaineering is their clothing.”
“What would you do, sir,” asked the old gentleman, “put ’em in jodhpurs or plus fours and hobnailed boots? Gaiters, too, I suppose. Damned silly business for ladies, if you ask me.”
“Why not?” said Sándor with a smile. “They wear the hobnails already and the plus fours would not bother me, especially if it is safer for them, rather than to become entangled in long skirts. I should prefer them in plus fours if it prevented the need for carrying them down a mountain with a broken ankle or scraping them off the bottom of a ravine where there is no sign of civilization. God knows we men run the risk enough even with the proper attire and gear. Yes, I should much prefer the ladies to climb in plus fours.”
“Damned progressive way of thinking, sir,” complained the gentleman. “Popular with the ladies, are you? Women are always wanting some damned thing or other, even if they know it’s not good for ’em.”
“Who is to tell them what is good for them, if not themselves?” asked Sá
ndor with a grin. “You, sir?”
“It’d be an improvement,” muttered the gentleman.
Ah yes, thought Connor. Logic, leverage, and knowing what was in one’s own best interest. If only women understood a good thing when presented to them in a forthright, logical fashion. If only Frankie could accept what was so plainly reasonable from his point of view—the unimpeachable logic of a match with himself. He tried to picture her in plus fours and hobnail boots but found it an effort. He was a little dismayed that the effort was not so great when applied to Blanche.
“Maybe instinct is a better word than strategy,” Connor offered with a chuckle.
“What do you find so amusing about instinct, sir?” asked Sándor. “It is a vital ingredient in so many of men’s pursuits.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Only I can hear certain ladies chide me that what might be called ‘instinct,’ so revered in men, is called ‘intuition’ and reviled in women. They, poor females, generally receive precious little credit for intuition, while we, poor mutts, rely on instinct when we have precious little else.”
“Well said, sir,” Sándor replied.
“Utter bosh,” the elderly man said, addressing Connor. “You must be popular with the ladies, too.”
“I only wish it were so, sir,” said Connor.
“Speaking of ladies and their pursuits,” said the gentleman as he replaced his cigar on the rail and prepared his shot, “has anyone had any dealings with this lady reporter?”
Grateful that the subject had introduced itself, Connor nonetheless was cautious. Such an introduction might lead anywhere and might well turn from opportunity to disaster.
“What makes you ask?” Connor ventured.
“Has she been making herself a nuisance?” asked Sándor.
“As a matter of fact,” said the gentleman. Connor held his breath. “No. I shouldn’t say she was a nuisance—exactly. Damned if I can catch her eye half the time.”
Decorum Page 37