Decorum

by Kaaren Christopherson

  “From what I hear they’ve added a couple of railroads into the bargain,” added Ida. “I wouldn’t underestimate the influence they may have if you’re inclined to be charitable. Like most of us they’re a little baffled as to how to go about it.”

  “Anyone exotic?” inquired Esther.

  “As a matter of fact, yes, but I don’t see him here. He tends to take his meals in his suite. An Egyptian gentleman, a cousin of Ismail Pasha a couple of times removed. Educated at Oxford, not Paris. A very polished and refined gentleman. He’s here as part of his Grand Tour, having done Europe and North Africa already.”

  “How on earth did you get an interview with him?” asked Vinnie.

  “I would like to think it was my magnetic personality, but I think it was the novelty of an interview by a woman that piqued his interest,” admitted Blanche. “There’s a gentleman dining alone on the far side of the room.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Esther. “I see him nearly every night. He listens to the music after dinner and smokes a cigar. Occasionally I see him walk down to the town, but he’s always alone and seems not to join in any activities. Has he no companions?”

  “I happen to know he’s a former intimate of Virginie Oldoini—the countess of Castiglione, you know. But that was a very long time ago. He haunts the Springs nearly as she haunts Paris at night. I doubt very much that he’s here to make new friends.”

  “I noticed you in conversation with Sándor Király,” said Vinnie. “What made him condescend to an interview? My impression was that he had no time for such antics.” Blanche was grateful the subject had emerged so naturally.

  “I imagine he hasn’t been the easiest interview you’ve ever given,” said Ida. “He’s a cagy monkey and very hard to pin down.”

  “Yes,” said Francesca. “You’re lucky you were able to speak with him at all.”

  “I think he tests people to see if they can keep up with him,” said Ida. “The only thing that saves me from that kind of test is my gamey lower extremity, if you’ll excuse my mentioning it. Instead I put him through his paces in speaking English, but he seems good humored enough. Even so, he can’t be an easy man to be around for long.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Blanche, with a portentous pause, “I am quite likely to be around him for a considerable time.”

  Clearly she had captured the ladies’ attention, for they all stopped, exchanged looks, and then stared at her in silent chorus.

  “Sounds intriguing,” offered Francesca. “Are you at liberty to tell us?”

  “I suppose not,” Blanche said, “not really.”

  “Even more intriguing,” said Vinnie.

  “Oh come, Mrs. Wilson,” Francesca said in a more relaxed tone. “You don’t mean to invite us to dinner just to tease us, do you?”

  “No, of course not,” said Blanche. “Sandy Király has concocted a new expedition here in the Rockies and has invited me to cover it for the newspaper.”

  “Oh, Blanche—Mrs. Wilson—that’s wonderful,” cried Francesca.

  “Now, please,” said Blanche, holding up an arresting hand as similar exclamations of pleasure and excitement came forth. “I’ve wired my editor in New York and am waiting to receive confirmation from him.” A sudden qualm overtook Blanche. What if Chambers did not confirm? “Of course, he may not like Sandy’s project in the least,” she added.

  “Now you must tell us,” said Esther. “How are we to judge his likely reaction? Do we not represent your readership? If we think it is a good idea, how can it fail with him?”

  “If he balks, you can tell him we said so,” said Ida. “Out with it. What has Sandy talked you into?”

  A great weight lifted from Blanche’s being. Unwittingly, the ladies had helped to frame the subject in such a way that for the present these events lay beyond her control. Moreover, if Chambers turned her down the responsibility lay with him.

  “Sandy has proposed an adventure he is calling ‘Seven Peaks in Seven Weeks.’ He proposes to mount a small expedition to conquer seven peaks—and take me with him.”

  “Not climbing, too,” said Francesca.

  “Yes, climbing, too.”

  Again the ladies stopped and stared, this time with more caution.

  “What is your own opinion of the scheme?” asked Esther, in a tone that hinted some misgiving.

  “I must admit to a good deal of surprise when he suggested it. He said at once that many ladies of the best society in Europe have taken up mountaineering. He believes there are many peaks here suitable for a beginner—challenging certainly, but not impossible. He has also assured me that though he will certainly push me, he will not push me beyond my ability. I’m quite determined.”

  “Sandy may be keen on climbing,” said Ida, “but he’ll be equally keen on bringing you back in one piece.”

  “How many will you be?” asked Esther.

  “Two guides, a packer who will also cook for us, Sandy’s man János, who has been his companion on many such expeditions, Sandy, and me,” said Blanche.

  “All men. Goodness,” said Vinnie.

  “No apprehensions?” asked Francesca.

  “To be honest,” Blanche replied, a little more subdued and trying not to betray the full extent of her misgiving, “I have many. Can a woman who is more fit for an opera box or a ballroom accomplish such a feat?”

  “Have you promised Chambers that those seven peaks will be yours as well as Király’s?” asked Francesca.

  “Not as yet. One can only convey so much by telegram, which may be to my advantage.”

  “Seven weeks on an expedition in the Canadian Rockies may provide ample fodder for news, even if you only cover your companions’ conquests,” Esther offered.

  “Thank you for that,” said Blanche. “I do think my editor will hope for more—but yes, there will probably be many opportunities for stories besides teetering on the tops of mountains with a madman.”

  “What a wonderful opportunity,” said Francesca. “This could be the making of you, you know. You’ll never get this chance again. I’m confident that you will be able to make the best of whatever comes, and that you’ll come back to us safely to tell us all about it.”

  Francesca’s sincerity took Blanche aback. For a moment her eyes stung with the promise of tears, but Vinnie helped to check them.

  “I think a lecture at the Springs would be in order, don’t you?” Vinnie asked of the ladies. “Maybe even back in New York. Would the newspaper arrange such a lecture?”

  “Perhaps a joint lecture with you and Király,” said Esther.

  “If he can sit still long enough,” said Ida.

  “You see,” said Francesca. “We all know you can do it.”

  “You’ve packed me off for the hinterlands already,” said Blanche. “I haven’t even heard from my editor yet.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Ida. “Whichever way it goes, I think this calls for champagne.” She raised her hand. “Oh, waiter.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Leavetaking

  But when the time for departure has been finally fixed upon, no obstacles should be placed in the way of leave-taking. Help him in every possible way to depart, at the same time giving him a general invitation to renew the visit at some future period.

  —Decorum, page 90

  “Come in, my dear. I’ve ordered some tea.”

  Francesca had received the invitation from Ida West on a few minutes’ notice—tea in Ida’s suite at four o’clock. She had viewed the invitation with mild suspicion.

  “Would you rather have something stronger?” asked Ida. She went to a small side table. “Scotch whisky or I have a little cognac?”

  “Cognac, if you don’t mind.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  Ida poured the cognac into the glass, handed it to Francesca, and then poured herself a whiskey. She handed Francesca a napkin before sitting on the settee in front of the tea tray on which was arranged plates of tea sandwiches and cak
es. Francesca sat in the side chair opposite Ida.

  “I had to cultivate a taste for tea, you know,” said Ida, offering Francesca a small plate with one hand and the plate of tea sandwiches with the other. “Of coffee or tea, I prefer good strong coffee. D’you know how we used to make it?”

  Francesca shook her head.

  “Sunday we ground the coffee and threw a handful into the coffeepot and boiled it on the stove. Monday, we threw another handful into the pot and boiled it. Tuesday, another handful—and Wednesday and Thursday and so on through the week. On Saturday, we cleaned the pot.” Though boiled coffee was not unknown to Francesca, the thought made her wince. Ida chuckled to herself. “We made the best coffee you’ll ever have in your life. Even Connor would say so.”

  The two ladies had little in common but their acquaintance with Connor, which made frequent references to him inevitable. Francesca suspected that in spite of the small talk, Ida West had a reason for speaking to her privately, and that reason might be her favorite subject. Francesca ate her sandwich in silence and was not displeased with the restlessness her reticence seemed to produce in Ida West.

  “You’re not a very curious woman, are you, dear?” asked Ida bluntly.

  “On the contrary, my curiosity about some things can be insatiable,” Francesca laughed. “I have found, however, that it’s often more prudent to keep my curiosity to myself.” She ate the last bite of sandwich and helped herself to another.

  “Prudence and lack of curiosity can be very irritating virtues when a body has something to say,” said Ida wryly.

  “I suppose there’s no chance that my devastating lack of curiosity will dissuade you.”

  “Hardly,” said Ida, cutting a small piece of seed cake and offering it to Francesca on a fresh plate. “Do you want my advice? Never mind answering. You’re getting it.”

  Francesca took the plate, but said nothing.

  “Marry him,” said Ida firmly.

  “Did he send you as his emissary?” asked Francesca, trying to maintain her composure.

  “We do talk a good deal. He doesn’t confide in me, if that’s what you’re thinking. No, it’s as much what he doesn’t say about you as what he does say.”

  “Then why?” asked Francesca. She took the plate, broke off a piece of the cake, and ate with her fingers. “Why have you taken it upon yourself?”

  “Because he’s a good man.”

  Ida arranged a cushion, took the glass of whiskey from the table, and sat back.

  “I didn’t say he’s a perfect man,” she continued. “No man is—but he is a good man. What’s more, he knows he’s not perfect. Don’t let him bluff you. He wants molding and shaping whether he admits it or not. You could be the making of him, and he knows it.”

  “Bluff” had struck Francesca as her first impression of Connor. She had even used it to his face and he himself had not contested it. Was this a signal that her first impressions were to be relied upon? For the present she was too annoyed to concede anything.

  “I realize that I’m a comparative stranger to you,” said Francesca, her equilibrium restored. “Your interests naturally lie on his side, but I have interests as well. What, in your opinion, will marrying Connor make me—a better woman?”

  “Quite possibly,” said Ida, taking a sip of whiskey. “You underestimate him so dreadfully. At the very least he can help you get what you want, and the whole business could probably mold and shape the both of you for the better. The fact that you don’t need it is probably part of Connor’s attraction to you. It won’t be an obstacle to your life together.”

  Had Francesca not used a similar argument with Jerry when she told him about Connor and Banff? She stewed in silence and finished her cake.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Ida.

  “Love is the matter,” said Francesca, weary and angry at the same time. She took a large sip of cognac. “Or is love not in vogue this year? God knows I’ve seen enough loveless marriages. I had hoped I wouldn’t have a loveless marriage myself.”

  “Then don’t have one,” said Ida. “It depends on you as much as on him. Now, if you want flowers and candy and somebody who’ll salve your hurt feelings for you and protect you from the world, then indeed Connor O’Casey is not the man for you. If anything, he’ll make you face life, not help you run from it.”

  “There’s such a thing as being tired of life.”

  “You think he doesn’t know that, too? You think he doesn’t know the difference between running from life and needing rest from it? He doesn’t want a mother, he wants a wife,” Ida said with some impatience. “As for pampering, there’s a time and place for that, and don’t think there isn’t.” She stopped a moment and seemed to study Francesca.

  “You can’t make me believe that loveless marriages are the only marriages you’ve ever known,” she said. “Are they?”

  “Of course not,” said Francesca.

  How could they be, when the best marriage she had ever known was the marriage that brought forth her and her brother. Was she to be afraid of any marriage because of a few miserable examples? For nearly five years she had tried to reason herself either into or out of her fears until she no longer trusted herself to recognize what might truly make her happy.

  “Did you love your husband?” asked Francesca.

  “Walt?” Ida mused. “When I met Walter West neither one of us had a bean. He was a scrappy fella, though. I was scrappy, too, come to that.”

  Francesca recalled Connor’s word for herself—scrappy—and understood now where he got it. Not argumentative necessarily, not difficult, or looking to pick a fight. Knowing Ida gave the word a different, perhaps truer meaning—toughness, stamina, an ability to stand on one’s own two feet. In such a light the word was not as offensive as she had taken it when Connor first ascribed it to her. She almost liked it.

  “We got on well because we understood each other,” Ida continued. “We wanted the same things and weren’t afraid of work. It was a good time in many ways. We were equals. We had to be or we’d’ve died, simple as that. Making money almost made things harder. Life changed. Our jobs became different—his in business, mine more and more in family and home, something I wasn’t even sure I wanted. But we stuck with it. Turns out the children were the best part of us. No regrets there. Walter was good to me without assuming he knew how he should be good. I molded and shaped him, too, and it worked out fine for all of us.”

  “But did you love him?” asked Francesca, unwilling to give any ground.

  “Yes,” said Ida, “I grew to love Walter West very much.”

  A gray cloud passed across the sky as they sipped their drinks and curtained the room in shadow. A few drops of rain followed until a steady patter caused Ida to rise and close the window. She fetched her glass from the table and motioned to Francesca to hand hers to her to be refreshed. Instead Francesca rose, glass in hand, and followed her to the drinks stand and stood close by Ida as she poured more cognac and whiskey.

  “I don’t mean to pry or stir up bad memories,” Francesca began more calmly, “but—”

  “How did Walt die? And how was Connor involved?” asked Ida with her usual bluntness. “I expected you’d ask that sooner or later.”

  Francesca regained her seat across from the settee. Ida set her glass on the mantelshelf and stirred the fire to life. Francesca watched her as she put on another log—this solid, scrappy, self-reliant woman who, like herself, would not bother a servant to come and do a simple act she could just as easily perform, and do it without comment.

  “Walt and Connor met working in the mines more than twenty years ago. They became fast friends. The boys scraped together enough to stake their first silver claim and hire miners of their own.”

  Francesca smiled at Ida’s calling them “boys.” This put Connor in a new light, and Walter, too, if Ida would use such an endearing term. Connor and endearing terms seemed out of place. No, that wasn’t true, she thought. Had he not had the effront
ery—no, perhaps effrontery was too strong a word—the audacity, that was it—to call her Frankie?

  “They always had good relations with the men,” Ida continued. “Having been miners themselves, they tried to do right by them. As they prospered, the boys took on investors—men who’d already made their money and hadn’t set foot in a mine and weren’t about to.

  “Walt and Connor had a hell of a time with them—the investors, I mean. The boys knew how terrible and dangerous the conditions were. They spent a lot of time at the mine, keeping an eye on things, while the other investors built themselves fine homes in Leadville and Denver. The boys tried to keep up good relations and see that the miners were paid right—paid at all sometimes. When the investors came in the miners began to think that the boys had sold out. The miners had to blame somebody for their wretched conditions. Walt and Connor were the most visible because they were always there.

  “It came to a head one day when Prescott, the chief of the investors, came out to the Five Star with a posse of bodyguards. The miners hadn’t been paid in weeks, to the point where Walt and Connor were taking money out of their own cuts to keep them from getting too disgruntled—and discouraged. Those miners had families to support. Connor had seen Walt in the same fix, trying to support me when the mine owners wouldn’t ante up. Sometimes Connor’d go with nothing for our sakes. When the boys bought into the Five Star they vowed it would be different, but they were bucked up against a majority who didn’t want things to change, no matter how hard the boys tried to convince them. By the time Prescott arrived, everybody was too worked up to listen. The situation got out of hand and the miners rioted. Prescott’s men killed at least half a dozen miners before the miners killed him and his men—all of ’em. Then they took all that pent-up fury out on the boys and beat poor Walt to death. They murdered him.” Ida took a drink of whiskey. “They nearly murdered Connor, too. He was out cold, and broken in body, and had been left for dead.”