Decorum

by Kaaren Christopherson

  Francesca was thunderstruck. For all her living in New York and her experience of desperate people in the tenements and the settlement house, she could hardly comprehend that kind of desperation. She felt terrified and desolate. Her imagination conjured up her life of the last nine months had Connor O’Casey not been there to challenge everything she hoped for and believed in. The expectations of the Jeromes and the Worths and all New York society became puny and insignificant and Edmund Tracey and Nell Ryder receded into a kind of moral oblivion. She felt herself breathing harder and a flush creeping over her cheeks. The last barrier was crumbling.

  “Afterward, I brought Connor to Denver with me. It was a mercy for me to look after him and keep myself occupied. It took him six months to recover. I think the whole thing scared the liver out of him, if you’ll excuse my mentioning it. Once he was on his feet, he came out fighting. You should have seen him. He didn’t know how, but he was going to find a way to make something of himself. Not just money. That wasn’t the same as making something of his life.”

  The patter against the window became more intermittent and clouds began to lift. A few tentative shafts of sunlight began to illuminate the room. Francesca turned and stood before the fire. Taking the poker from its stand, she jabbed it into the logs and released a new flame. When she again sat across from Ida, Francesca found her looking at her, dry-eyed and determined.

  “Marry him, Francesca,” said Ida with finality. “I’ve known Connor O’Casey for twenty years. You won’t find a truer partner anywhere. He understands when the work has to be done to make something the way you want it to be. He’ll work at his marriage with you. Oh, sure, there may be times when you and he don’t like it very much—or each other very much, come to that. But he’s never been a shirker and he knows when the work may be the only thing that gets you through. He knows a good thing and he sees that in you.” Ida fixed a scolding eye on Francesca. “If you refuse him, I’ll mark you down as the most foolish woman I’ve ever known.” Ida left Francesca, still and silent, to stare at the tea service, the only movement the occasional sip of whiskey.

  Francesca had not credited Connor with deep feelings, or with a deep sense of honor and fairness that she herself shared. When she sought him out to tell him about Tracey, it was to unburden herself to a human being who she thought could deflect a troublesome emotion and be done with it. Had she so misjudged him? Could anything allow even a particle of love to grow up between them? What of the spark, that part of life she so wanted? What of romance? She had grown comfortable with her assessment of Connor. Now Ida West had fomented anarchy in Francesca’s orderly emotions. She came to herself and realized she could not sit in Ida’s room to work out what it meant.

  “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. West,” said Francesca, rising. “I must go. Thank you for the enlightening conversation.” As she reached the door, she turned back, thinking to forestall future outbreaks, and added, “I trust we needn’t repeat this topic in the future.”

  “Just remember,” said Ida, calling after her. “He likes his coffee good and strong.”

  The glowing remnants of a northern summer dusk mingled with thin rays of golden dawn behind Terrace Mountain. Shadows moved in the great portico of the Banff Springs Hotel. Camping supplies, food stores, climbing equipment, and hunting weapons lay in ever-diminishing heaps on the pavement as the packers secured them to the horses. Király’s man, János, went from horse to horse, taking final inventory, ensuring nothing was missed, checking straps and buckles, ropes and knots. Blanche and Sándor Király, heads bent over a map that shone in the lamplight, reviewed the first day’s route with the two guides—a smooth-faced young man of the Stony nation and a middle-aged Swiss whose experience was carved deeply in a weathered face.

  Blanche, unaccustomed to early nights and early mornings, had slept fitfully, caught in the anticipation of adventure and the fear that she had forgotten something. Between the ceaseless mental recitations of the contents of every saddlebag and haversack, she recalled with pleasure Chambers’s enthusiastic telegram and the many well wishes she received at the expedition’s champagne reception. How odd to return to her room to find it bare of all but her most essential possessions and to lay the electric-blue silk of evening next to the woolens ready for morning. The long hours of light and the short spate of semidarkness taunted her from behind drawn curtains. The knock at the door at four o’clock had startled her until she realized that her spirit had been ready long before.

  Now, in the portico of the Springs, Blanche felt unusually alive to the voices of the men, to her breath in the cold air that mimicked the smoke from the men’s pipes, to the warmth of her body cocooned in layers flannel and wool, to the prickle of her cold fingers around a hot mug of strong coffee.

  The canvas-shrouded heap on the pavement was gone. Three hotel bellmen, well used to the predawn demands of life in Banff, emerged with flasks of fresh coffee, packs of the first day’s meals, and full canteens of water.

  Blanche broke away from the men and walked to a point where she could overlook the Bow Valley one last time from a safe vantage. She studied every river bend, every ridge, every curve of tree line like the scalloped edging on a dress that finally gave way to a gray-and-purple sheen like silk and finally to a mantle of snow. How different was this departure from the one that had catapulted her across the plateaus and mountains so many years ago, the one that faded from memory with each passing year. As she faced the Canadian Rockies and the adventure that lay ahead, none of it seemed real nor did the part she would soon play.

  An old irony struck her—how many times had she encountered beauty in her life that had brought with it only hardship and danger? But what had been the greater danger, beauty or man? For a moment she thought of the human element with disdain and found relief in the notion that for seven weeks beauty, danger, and the peccadilloes of the human element might be more clear-cut. She thought of how far she’d come in spite of her own failings, or maybe because of them, and wondered what Blanche Wilson she might encounter in the mountains. The crunch of boots brought her back to herself. She turned.

  “It’s nearly time, Blanche,” said Sándor. “Are you ready?”

  She flung the last cold drops of coffee from her cup into the shrubbery and followed him back to the horses. As János and the guides began to mount, three figures walked toward them from the hotel—Francesca in a woolen skirt and cardigan, a shawl thrown over her shoulders, her nighttime braid pinned into a thick coil; Ida in her tweeds; Connor in woolens with a hastily tied muffler over his collarless shirt.

  “I’ve been lying awake all night thinking about you,” said Francesca. “We could hardly let you escape without seeing you off properly. I see we’ve caught you just in time.”

  Blanche was glad Francesca had not intimated the evening before that she would make this effort, lest she forget her promise, and was gratified by the unexpected kindness.

  “Is one of those large leather bags full of paper and pencils?” Ida asked.

  “Nearly so,” said Blanche, laughing. “Though I was admonished to pack light.”

  “This may be a first, Király,” said Connor. “If you can manage to get any lady to pack light, your expedition will have made a major contribution to mankind.”

  “Never!” jeered Blanche and Francesca together.

  “Ladies always know how to pack for the occasion, do they not, Mrs. Wilson?” said Francesca.

  “Indeed, always,” answered Blanche. “Though I confess that packing for this occasion has been an education.”

  “That should be of great interest to your readers,” said Ida. “It should give your ladies back East a whole new notion of what’s essential to meet any occasion.”

  “He’s allowed me a minimum of creature comforts,” said Blanche. “I shall be quite the wild woman.”

  “Yes, but I’ve put the notebooks in oilskin,” said Sándor with good humor. “The notebooks will be precious commodities, you know, and must be pr
otected at all costs—not only now when they are empty, of course, but most assuredly when they are full.”

  “You’ve got quite an entourage, Király,” said Connor, prompting Sándor to take him and Ida on a brief tour up and down the train, explaining the provisions as he went and leaving Blanche and Francesca to themselves.

  “I hardly recognized you,” said Francesca, pointing to the wide-brimmed hat that framed Blanche’s face in a halo of drab wool felt. “It suits you.”

  “Does it?” said Blanche. “Sandy insisted on something serviceable—and it isn’t the last thing he’s insisted on. But there, I’m afraid I’ll shock you.”

  “Shock me? Why?”

  “He was appalled at my first attempt at mountaineering and blamed my ‘impractical and unnecessary modesty,’ as he calls it, in wearing a traveling suit. It was all I had for the purpose, much to his chagrin. On the second attempt he had the unspeakable gall to produce a pair of plus fours and puttees, which I patently refused, arguing that skirts and petticoats are much warmer. Unfortunately, I soon regretted it, to his immense satisfaction, and have now added a set of men’s woolen all-in-ones.”

  Francesca laughed.

  “So we have struck a bargain,” Blanche continued. “I ride, camp, and hike properly and warmly attired in a skirt. On days we actually climb I subject myself to the humiliation of men’s clothes.”

  “You poor thing. At least you won’t be anywhere where women or other men will see you. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to try on men’s clothes,” Francesca mused, a confession that surprised Blanche. “They may not be ladylike, but they must be no end comfortable. I suspect men would be apoplectic with shock and indignation, but women—who knows? A good many of our sex might welcome it.”

  Blanche had not pegged Francesca for a rebel and thought with some amusement that Connor’s hands might be fuller than he suspected.

  “Nonetheless, the man’s hat suits you,” said Francesca. “You may start a new fashion—in more than one respect.”

  Then Francesca’s light-hearted manner changed. Her eye met Blanche’s with a look that gave her words significance.

  “You will no doubt learn that a great many things suit you that you never would have realized without this opportunity.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that,” said Blanche with some hesitation, “for better or worse.”

  “You think it won’t be better?” asked Francesca. “To be given the chance to learn it is a great thing. I’m confident it can be nothing less.”

  “Meaning that anything is better than hopeless?” asked Blanche with an edge of sarcasm, then immediately regretted her tone.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Francesca, calling her to account. “You’re far from hopeless.”

  “So, you think I’m redeemable?” asked Blanche, trying to keep her tone light and looking away from Francesca’s discerning eye. It was a serious question and one for which Blanche was surprised to discover she needed an answer, though she was loath to admit it, even to herself. Francesca seemed to sense what lay beneath.

  “Redeemable? Of course, you are. You always have been. I think you know you are. I’ll wager you’ll be a different person when you return.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that, too,” said Blanche, somewhat discomfited. No one had ever cut so close to the bone.

  “And is he redeemable?” she asked, looking at Connor as he and Ida and Sándor spoke with the guides.

  “Connor?” Francesca asked, following Blanche’s gaze. “You may be happy to know that according to the man himself, he’s counting on it.”

  “Yes, he would be,” said Blanche.

  Francesca looked at Blanche with a start.

  “You believe that?”

  “That may be the truest thing about him,” said Blanche. “It may be why he’s right for you and not for me. I can see that now. I couldn’t then—or I didn’t want to.”

  They stood together awkwardly. Then Francesca reached up and unclasped a fine chain from the back of her neck.

  “Take this with you,” she said as she pulled the knotted scarf from Blanche’s neck and secured the golden chain with the garnet pendant. “It belonged to my mother. I want you to have it—a talisman against injury, and to remind you of those who are thinking of you every day.”

  The gift startled Blanche. She looked at the garnet and was about to protest with words she was sure Francesca would instantly see through.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking refuge in formula. “That’s very kind of you.”

  Before Francesca could reply, Sándor, Ida, and Connor came up to them.

  “We must delay no longer, Blanche,” Sándor said and turned to shake hands with Connor. “Good-bye, O’Casey, my dear fellow. Perhaps I shall book an extended stay at your new hotel when I return. Ida, my dear, bonne chance.” He turned and kissed her on both cheeks.

  “Bless you, Sandy,” she said. “Take good care of yourself—and this lady here.”

  “I will do my best,” he replied. He took Francesca’s hand and kissed it.

  “Miss Lund, it has been a pleasure. I hope to see you again as well.”

  “I hope so, too—Sandy,” said Francesca.

  As Király and Blanche made for their horses, Connor laid his hand on Blanche’s arm, arresting her step. This was one encounter she had hoped to avoid, but now that it had come, she found her courage rising.

  “Blanche,” he said, “I know the time for speeches is long past. I want you to know that I wish you the best of everything—truly. No one can be gladder than I to see you finding your way.”

  He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then extended his hand toward her. When she took it, he clasped his other hand over hers.

  “Good luck, Blanche.”

  For a fraction of a moment, words caught in her throat, but she regained herself.

  “Thank you, Connor,” she said. “Take care of yourself, won’t you?”

  He merely smiled and stepped back. Francesca came forward and, with her hands on Blanche’s shoulders, kissed her cheeks.

  “God bless you, dear Blanche, and Godspeed.”

  “You think he’ll find me, there in the mountains?”

  “He never lost you.” Francesca released her. “Good-bye, Blanche.”

  Like a bird whose cage had been unexpectedly left open, Blanche was released. With something like joy she mounted her horse and she and Király took their places at the front of the train with the Swiss guide with whom Sándor chatted away in German. The guide from the Stony nation and the packer urged on the pack horses as János kept order bringing up the rear. With calls of farewell, they pulled out from the portico and made their way to the gravel path that led to Banff town.

  As they made their descent, Blanche turned to look behind her and saw the three move down the path behind them, following the train to watch until the bend in the path cut them off from sight. She turned face forward and put her mind to her task as Király drew her into conversation with the guide or pointed out some detail or instruction. When she looked back again, they were gone. Of course they would be going in for breakfast, she thought, and she chided herself for the disappointment she felt. The sun was clearing the mountains when they came to the place where they would catch the last good view of the Banff Springs Hotel. Király raised his hand to draw them to a stop.

  “One last look at this magnificent place for seven weeks, my dear Blanche,” he said as he turned in his saddle and looked toward the Springs. “Who is that waving up there on the terrace?”

  Sure enough, in the distance a fleck of white inscribed a wide arc over a tiny figure. Francesca, it seemed, had made her way to the terrace, the solitary sentinel on watch. Blanche took the long scarf from her neck and held the ends together in one hand and waved it over her head. The little figure stopped a moment, then waved the answering semaphore. Király raised his hat and waved it as the rest of the party followed suit.

  “It must be your friend,” Sánd
or said, as the party returned to the business at hand.

  “Yes,” said Blanche, tapping the horse’s side with her heel. “It is my friend.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Exceptions

  The mode in which the avowal of love should be made, must of course, depend upon circumstances. It would be impossible to indicate the style in which the matter should be told. . . . Let it, however, be taken as a rule that an interview is best; but let it be remembered that all rules have exceptions.

  —Decorum, page 185

  The suite door opened and shut again.

  “Jamie! It’s about time you got back. Bring me my dressing gown, would you?”

  Connor sat relaxing in the claw-footed tub, nearly shoulder high in steaming water, his arms resting on the tub’s edges, a folded newspaper in one hand, a whiskey glass in the other with a cigar notched between two fingers. He was shielded behind the half-drawn curtain of the shower-bath. The door to the adjoining bedroom was closed. The marble washbasin and porcelain commode stood against the wall across from the bathtub. Freestanding near the foot of the tub was a cheval mirror and between it and the tub, a small stool, bearing the whiskey bottle, a cigar cutter, and a box of matches.

  “Jamie!” Connor bellowed. “What about that dressing gown?”

  Blast the man, he thought. Jamie was taking an unconscionable long time for the simple act of fetching a robe.

  A hesitating step approached from the bedroom, unlike Jamie’s quick, businesslike gait, accompanied by an unmistakable rustling of fine fabrics. A soft rap upon the bathroom door followed.

  “Which one do you want—the dark blue silk or the jacquard flannel that looks like a blanket?” said a soft mezzo voice through the door.

  For a moment, Connor was nonplussed—but only for a moment. The situation was not oft-repeated, for he considered himself a modest man, but that a woman should catch him at any point on the continuum of dress or undress did not faze him. That the woman should be Francesca—ah, that was a different thing. The possibilities presented themselves in wide array through his imagination. He smiled.