Decorum

by Kaaren Christopherson

  “I won’t insult you by asking how you are,” Francesca began. “I came to see if you’d like to have some lunch with me in my suite,” she said, taking Connor’s last offer as a cue. “No doubt that sounds like utter gall to you, but there it is.”

  “I don’t think I cou . . .” Blanche began, looking at the floor.

  “Don’t be silly. Neither of us should be alone and both of us should eat. We needn’t say anything to each other if we don’t feel like it. Besides, it causes gossip to drink alone.”

  “I’m afraid I’m already ahead of you,” said Blanche, nodding toward the decanter and glass on a side table.

  “I didn’t mean you,” said Francesca. “I meant me. Let’s get something to eat.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Flagrantly Indecorous

  If you are walking with a woman in the country—ascending a mountain or strolling by a bank of a river—and your companion being fatigued, should choose to sit upon the ground, on no account allow yourself to do the same, but remain rigorously standing. To do otherwise would be flagrantly indecorous and she would probably resent it as the greatest insult.

  —Decorum, page 127

  The brilliant late morning sunshine flooded the Bow Valley in a golden glow. Wildflowers tossed in the light breeze as if turning each side to luxuriate in the strong rays. The crystalline river bubbled and rushed and surged through its rocky trough.

  To distract herself, Blanche bent her energies to her work and had persuaded Sándor Király to walk with her down to the town. How a man with such a small frame could achieve such long strides she attributed to the hiking and climbing that dominated his waking hours. He strode out about a half a pace ahead of her and, to her great annoyance, carried on their conversation over his shoulder.

  “Why won’t you let me record your exploits here in Banff?” she asked, trying to control her exasperation. “I’m sure my readers in New York would adore learning about mountaineering.”

  A story—better yet a series—on exploration of any kind would go far in stemming the flood of telegrams from New York demanding a story with guts. With exploration and the conquest of unknown parts the current rage, Sándor Krisztián Filip Király seemed heaven-sent. Though he loved to talk about climbing with those who shared his passion, she was doubtful whether his patience could withstand the pumping for minutiae her stories would require. With scenery aplenty to fill in the blank spaces of her mountaineering knowledge she might captivate an ordinary reader’s attention, but scenery soon would wear thin with her editor. Hitherto Király’s conversations with her had been less than enthusiastic—though whether from her lack of knowledge, her true lack of interest, or the fact that she was a woman, she could not tell. He always seemed to taunt her—no, not taunt her. He challenged her, as if he knew what fears lay behind her defenses and was happy to use a walking stick or an ice axe to batter them down.

  “You would become so well-known to all of New York society,” offered Blanche.

  “I have been to New York and have seen your ‘society’. I am already well-known where it is important to me. I can get into the papers without your help if I want to.”

  “Well, pardon me,” said Blanche, offended. “It may not matter to you, sir, but did it ever occur to you that there may be some people who, for whatever reason, are unable to share in adventure except by reading about it? That is one of the many things the New York World promises its readers.”

  She was casting her journalistic bread upon a frozen lake. She could almost predict where his remarks were headed and she did not like it.

  “Yes, I read about your Nellie Bly,” he said, “a very resourceful woman.”

  She’s not my Nellie Bly, thought Blanche. Blanche, however, had shown no scruple in using Nellie Bly’s example to hammer home her argument with the World’s editor to give her a job. What could boost the World’s sales more effectively than to have another enterprising woman to ferret out stories in the wilds of the Canadian Rockies? Even as the words left her mouth she hadn’t a clue what those stories might be, but she had confidence that inspiration would strike once she got there.

  The editor, Julius Chambers, had been dubious. Other women had proposed a variety of stunts and expeditions—staged at the paper’s expense, of course—and had been promptly dismissed. Blanche’s notoriety had gotten his attention. The Ryder murder? Intimately acquainted with the killer himself? Already possessed entrée into society? Traveled widely? Lived in South America? Though her qualifications shot her to the top of the list of female candidates—and the paper was hardly squeamish about scandal—Chambers was not sure that even Blanche’s publicity was of a type that would help the World. Why not let her write under her maiden name? she suggested. By the time a reader might equate Blanche Wilson with Blanche Alvarado, she would have brought home the goods and the additional publicity would do her no harm. The ability to persuade, seduce, bully, and brazen her way through the last ten years were qualifications she preferred not to catalogue in his presence, but she used them all, short of seduction. Blanche had herself a job on condition that she could produce a story that would make Nellie Bly but a distant memory.

  “Are you not as resourceful as she?” asked Sándor.

  Another challenge.

  “Certainly I am,” said Blanche. “I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t.”

  “Good, then perhaps you should come along.”

  “Come along? You mean with you? Up the mountain?”

  “Yes,” was his matter-of-fact reply. “What could be better than a first-hand account of a female reporter who has climbed the Canadian Rockies?”

  For a moment, Blanche’s resolve failed her as she gazed at the peaks that surrounded the Bow Valley. Very well. If he would push her, she would push back.

  “Rockies—plural?” she asked.

  Blanche took three steps to Király’s two and faced him, halting him before her.

  “Are you expecting to climb your way to Vancouver?”

  “Perhaps,” he said, standing at ease and casually holding his walking stick at both ends. “However, it is not my reputation that is in question here.”

  “I beg your par—”

  “How can you claim to write about mountain climbing when all you’ve done is view them from a safe distance? Do you think I will sit on top of a peak and write down for you everything I see—every bird or wildflower or bit of lichen that sticks to a bit of rock, knowing you are sitting by a warm fire at the Springs while I do all the work?”

  “When I came to Banff I expected to write about society,” said Blanche, her indignation rising, “not the exploits of some arrogant Hungarian adventurer.”

  “Then perhaps you should stick to society. You will have no further need of me.” He went around her and proceeded along the path.

  “You have proved one thing already,” he called over his shoulder.

  “And what might that be?” Blanche called to his back.

  “That you are afraid of a little discomfort, of being on horseback day after day—in any weather—and perhaps fishing for your dinner or shooting it and preparing it on the spot.”

  Afraid? What gall even to suggest it. Blanche silenced the retort on her lips. No, it wasn’t fear, only a sickening distaste. The prospect of unending days on the trail conjured up ghosts she thought were long since laid to rest. The interminable weeks of struggle over the Argentine plateaus and into the mountains, through wilderness as beautiful and unforgiving as any on earth, and privations, cold, and hunger reared up before her like a ghastly specter. She had survived the humiliation of her husband’s suicide and ruin and her flight from creditors in lawless country, entering remote village after remote village, bartering away her few possessions for bread, risking starvation on days when hunting for game failed, depending on her few friends to form the tenuous lifeline over South America. Even when she reached the relative safety of New Orleans, what she had to do to keep herself alive was sooner forgotten.


  How could she tell Király all this—that in her own way she had probably covered more of the earth’s map in her escape than he ever had in all his adventures? More than once she thought she might die of exposure and she had eaten things that Sándor Király probably couldn’t look at. Was it any wonder that she should prefer the warmth and luxury of the Banff Springs Hotel, drinking champagne, and rubbing shoulders with all manner of society? How could she explain what it had cost her to transform herself from a fugitive into the refined, womanly image she thought would be the making of her? She thought of the toilette case in her room, full of the unguents of deception, and what she might revert to on the trail without them. In traveling through the mountains with Király she risked reliving the most painful episode of her life.

  Blanche came to herself and was aware of Király’s scrutiny. No doubt her silence had arrested his attention as much as her words. He had stopped and turned and was again at his ease, but he was watching her.

  O’Casey had warned her often that she was not good at hiding her thoughts and feelings. She hoped that she had caught herself in time to erase whatever veil of pain her eyes might reveal. She looked at the mountains again and tried to assume an aspect of calm. When she looked back at Király, she felt as if the whole of her character and experience had been laid bare. His look startled her until she realized that in it was no judgment—no reprimand as O’Casey would have shown her—only knowing.

  “If you are afraid of what you will look like in the morning,” he said as if to divert her attention from her own true thoughts, “no doubt you will have heavier concerns than these. I don’t look so good myself, if that gives you any comfort—and I am—how do you call it?—grouchy, and not fit to speak to until I’ve had my coffee. If you should forget this, I should certainly remind you with my grouchy-making.”

  He crossed the few feet of ground that separated them and smiled and considered her for a moment.

  “You are not afraid of grouchy men, I think,” he said more softly, but still with the edge of challenge in his voice. “I can assure you that though I may be grouchy, I am conscious that others are not to blame for my grouchiness. I simply find the mornings to be a more contemplative time and am apt to resent any intrusion into the quiet inner sanctum. I realize other persons are not so and enjoy the vigor of the morning and can be quite loud about it. Even in the mountains, however, I try to observe the decorum of a gentleman, though you understand there will be times when our safety may depend on my judgment or that of my guides not being contradicted. No, in truth, I think there is not very much you would be afraid of.

  “I will make the New York World a proposal that may perhaps help them to forget their Nellie Bly for a moment,” he said, his tone changing to business.

  Blanche threw another barricade of protest before him, however easily he might see that it was made of straw.

  “Oh, yes? And will you be looking for backing from the World?”

  “Not at all. I’m perfectly capable of backing my proposal, though you yourself will need clothing and equipment for which you may wish to acquire from your paper the necessary funds. No, I’m not here to make money off your newspaper.”

  “That will be a refreshing change for them,” said Blanche, finding it an effort to restrain her sarcasm.

  “I propose for you a big story,” he continued, and with both hands sketched the gesture of a headline. “Seven Peaks in Seven Weeks. Of course, I would have to consult my guides to ensure that such a feat is possible and something you could accomplish with us.”

  The title’s force lit a flame of excitement in Blanche that nearly made her gasp, the type of stunt that certainly might capture Chambers’s attention. That you could accomplish with us was the part of which Blanche was less sure. Yet Király was right—it was the very part that gave the whole enterprise veracity. His own adventures might sell papers, but to have the World’s female reporter accomplishing these feats herself was as good as a guarantee. Her cheeks felt warm and her breathing stepped up a little faster.

  “A large consideration is the travel time between our targets,” he continued. “If we could begin locally here near the hotel, even beginning with this little Tunnel Mountain”—he pointed to what looked like a comparative bump on the landscape—“and perhaps Terrace Mountain here”—he gestured with his walking stick toward the much larger peak that faced the Springs—“they would help you get used to scrambling and to using equipment. It will take careful preparation. We shall have to consult Hector’s and Palliser’s writings and good local guides and maps. Whatever we do we must be able to accomplish it with good credibility for you and your paper—and of course for us. It will serve none of us if you don’t succeed.”

  Blanche could hardly take it in—“succeed.” Success was a word from an alien vocabulary whose meaning had been barred to her. Success belonged to a land where other people traveled, a destination for which she held no ticket. Until now the only significant variable in the equation of success was represented by the bank balance of the man to whom she was tied. Never had she thought of success in terms of liberty from such men, that success might be redefined on her own terms. Yet this man, this arrogant and irritating man for whom the word success was as commonplace as a table or a teacup had used the word and equated it with her. Moreover, he was willing to teach her the language and lead her into this strange new land himself. His confidence frightened her in a way that had nothing to do with mountains. The hope it awakened in her left her breathless.

  “We should certainly consider many of the well-known peaks that the public may recognize—Cascade Mountain perhaps, if we save this for August and the clearer weather. Castle Mountain would be a challenge for you, but not out of the question if we ascended from the back side on the northeastern slopes. Of course there are still many unnamed mountains, but they don’t have to have a name to include them on our itinerary.”

  “You’re assuming I’ll agree, then?” she said, playing for time to collect her thoughts.

  “Indeed you must make up your mind soon or we lose any advantage of the summer months. Shall we say by dinnertime tomorrow night you will give me your answer?”

  “My editor will have to agree.”

  “Of course, but your own agreement is of the first importance. Once you yourself are ‘sold,’ shall we say, upon the idea, it should be very easy to convince your editor. I’m sure you can be very persuasive when it suits you.” The voice was serious but the eyes were almost playful.

  “Tell me,” Blanche said. She paused and put one hand on her hip, mimicking his easy posture. “You wouldn’t be looking for an unnamed peak to christen as ‘Mount Király,’ would you? I suppose it is a possibility that would give the expedition even more cachet—scaling new mountains, fording new rivers, letting the public in on it, that sort of thing.”

  “You may be amazed to learn, Mrs. Wilson, that this object never occurred to me. I do not deny its appeal. However, there is another alternative that may be even more appealing to your readers than ‘Mount Király.’ ”

  “And what might that be? I’m prepared to have you amaze me.”

  “I was thinking perhaps of ‘Mount Blanche.’ ”

  July 2, 1891

  New York, New York

  My dear Francesca,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I think about you often and hope that you are finding Banff to be the haven you had hoped it would be.

  I wish I could have spared you the sad tidings of my telegram. I wanted to tell you myself at the earliest possible moment. I feared that committing this awful intelligence to a letter first, as would have been most proper, would allow time for you to find out by other means.

  I cannot tell you how Edmund’s last hours were spent, except that the authorities allowed his wife to visit him at the last, so he was not completely alone, as you may be wondering. Further than that, I cannot say. I have saved the newspaper accounts since your departure, but chose not to send them without
consulting you. I would be obliged if you would tell me what you want me to do with them.

  No doubt you will have noticed by the return address that I have removed myself from the 57th Street house and at present am residing at my club. Since the recent sad business, life at home has become very difficult. After a long and painful interval, my wife and I have come to acceptable terms but will take no legal action at present, and leave all avenues open. She remains at the house, should you wish to communicate with her.

  I have decided to take advantage of Connor’s proposed plan that the investors visit some of the newer resort hotels and will use this opportunity to put distance between New York and myself. I am sure you will at once be surprised and sympathetic. I will shortly be leaving for the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island in Michigan. I have decided to go alone and will rely on the hotel’s services for what I may need rather than encumber myself with servants. I shall leave in three days and do not plan to return until early autumn, which I understand is spectacular in that part of the country.

  I have just reread the above. I am sorry not to have more cheerful news. I fear I do not have it in me to write very much at present. I will, however, send you a line from Mackinac after I am settled in.

  Please take care of yourself.

  Sincerely yours,

  W. T. Jerry Jerome

  Francesca read the letter aloud to Esther and Vinnie, who had joined her for a late breakfast in her suite. The day began cold and wet, postponing morning exercise in anticipation of the afternoon sunshine that usually followed. The small fireside table where the ladies sat perusing the early post had been laden with porridge, ham, eggs, and toast.

  “I can’t say I’m surprised,” said Esther, looking up from her own letters, her pince-nez in one hand. “About Jerry, of course.” She replaced the pince-nez and resumed reading.