Duchess for a Day

by Nan Ryan

  She wondered if Fox would understand if he learned the truth. She felt certain that he would. If she had judged him correctly, he would likely be amused by the ruse. What she knew for sure was that he was a kind man with whom she had already shared more personal secrets about herself than with anyone other than Claire.

  But she could not unmask Claire.

  She had no choice but to continue playing her part until the end, which was coming very soon. And when it did, she would have to leave without ever having leveled with Fox. Why did that bother her?

  Olivia pushed her plate away and leaned back in her chair as she and Fox fell into a companionable silence. She looked out into the gardens and watched Claire stroll along the walkways that crisscrossed through the manicured shrubbery.

  “Is something bothering the duchess?” asked Fox.

  “Oh, no, I don’t think so,” Olivia replied, knowing better. She turned to look at him. “I suppose she misses Hank and can’t wait until he returns.” She tried to sound casual when she said, “I wonder why Hank went into the city today.”

  Fox shrugged. “No idea. He offered no explanation and I didn’t ask for one.”

  “No. No, of course not. It was foolish of me to…” her words trailed away.

  Astute, Fox leaned up to the table and said, “Olivia, Hank and the duchess know exactly what they are doing. They aren’t children. Nor are they innocents. They are both sophisticated adults, are they not?” Olivia nodded. Fox continued, “They are having a pleasurable summertime affair and it is not the first for either of them. Nor will it be the last.” He smiled and added, “I’ve seen Hank walk away from some of the most beautiful women in America. And it’s well-known that the duchess has grown tired of and discarded many a handsome European admirer.”

  “Yes, of course she has,” lied Olivia.

  “Well, there you have it. No need for you to fret. The two are well suited. They are having a wonderful time, which both know will not last. Neither cares. Each will go on to someone else. So let’s not worry about them.”

  Finally Olivia smiled. “You’re right. I’m being silly.” She shook her head as if to clear it, then asked, “May I tempt you with some dessert? I saw the cook dipping fresh strawberries in melted chocolate.”

  Twenty-Nine

  “Stop! Stop right here,” Hank said as his hired carriage turned the corner of Madison Avenue onto East Thirty-Fourth Street.

  Hank jumped out before the wheels had fully stopped turning. He saw a shabbily dressed young couple making their slow way down the sidewalk in need of immediate help. A sandy-haired, worried-looking man and a very pregnant brunette young woman.

  The man was supporting the woman, his arm was around her waist, her head on his shoulder. He was half dragging, half carrying her, his frowning face wet with perspiration. The young woman, obviously in labor, was grimacing in pain, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Hank hurried to the pair, giving the man a questioning look. The youth said, “We heard there’s a hospital somewhere on this street.”

  “Yes, yes there is,” Hank confirmed. “Four blocks on down. I’ll drive you there.”

  “A friend told us the hospital would let us in even though we have no money.”

  “I guarantee it,” said Hank. He scooped up the suffering woman and rushed to the carriage, calling over his shoulder to the young man, “Get in. Get in. We must hurry!” The man didn’t argue.

  “Mercy Hospital,” Hank called to the driver, carefully settling the woman onto the plush leather seat. Nodding for the worried-looking man to slide in beside her, Hank said in a low, soothing voice, addressing them both, “It’s going to be all right. Everything will be fine.” He patted the crying woman’s hand. “You’ll be with a physician in less than five minutes.”

  The woman couldn’t speak, could only nod her thanks before her eyes rolled back in her head as another wrenching pain tore through her body. She held her belly and bit her lips to keep from screaming.

  When the carriage rolled to a stop before the big red hospital at East Thirty-Fourth and First Avenue, Hank leaped out and ran on ahead while the man helped his wife inside. Hank shouted for help and the staff immediately swung into action. A couple of white-coated orderlies came running. They were carrying a stretcher.

  “We’ll take over now,” they said to the husband, carefully lifting the grimacing woman onto the stretcher and whisking her away.

  The young man followed halfway down the corridor. Then he stopped, released a breath and turned back. Hands thrust into his pockets, he began to pace the corridor.

  “She’s in a great deal of distress,” Hank was down the hall, buttonholing one of the physicians, the white-haired Dr. Clive McLoughlin. “Doctor, you must get to her right away. She’s very young and this is likely her first child.”

  “I’ll deliver the baby,” Dr. McLoughlin said, recognizing Hank. “But afterward, we’ll have to put the mother out in the hall. We have no choice.”

  Suddenly recalling that he had passed several occupied stretchers as he’d run down the hall in search of the doctor, Hank frowned. “You mean there’s not a single room vacant?”

  “Not a one,” said Dr. McLoughlin. “Every bed is full. We’ve been turning away women unless it’s an emergency, as with the one you just brought in.” Dr. McLoughlin shrugged tired shoulders and said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I better get into the delivery room.”

  “Yes, go on, go on. The poor woman needs you.”

  Hank walked back down the corridor. He frowned now as he again passed the patients who were forced to lie out in the corridor on stretchers. He felt for them. No privacy, no peace and quiet.

  But he smiled when he looked up to see the worried man pacing nervously.

  “She’s with the doc now,” he told him.

  “Thank God,” he said, relief flooding his face.

  Hank took his arm and guided him into the waiting room. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

  Hank walked back out into the corridor and went directly to the hospital administrator’s office for the appointment he’d been on the way to keep when he’d seen the young couple.

  Hank told Davis Vance, the administrator, that he had seen firsthand what needed to be done. Davis Vance only nodded.

  “The problem will be fixed,” Hank assured Vance.

  The two talked for a few minutes and Hank left the grateful Davis Vance with a handshake and a promise.

  When he exited the administrator’s office, he saw that the prospective father was again pacing nervously in the corridor.

  He joined him and said, “She’s in good hands. Dr. McLoughlin, one of Mercy’s finest physicians, is with her and everything is going to be fine. In no time at all your child will arrive.”

  Hank’s relaxed manner and air of confidence rubbed off on the young man. He released a sigh of relief, put out his hand, and introduced himself, “Spivey, sir. Louis Spivey.”

  “Hank Cassidy. Call me Hank.”

  “Hank, how can I ever thank you?”

  Hank shrugged wide shoulders, shook the shorter man’s hand and smiled. “No thanks necessary. All I did was give you a ride.”

  “You got us here in a hurry. Then you immediately got my wife a doctor.” Louis Spivey continued to shake Hank’s hand. “You helped us more than you’ll ever know, sir, and I’m very grateful.”

  As they shook they heard, from somewhere down the hall, the squall of a newborn baby. A white-uniformed nurse stuck her head out into the hall and motioned to Louis. Hank and the younger man laughed and patted each other on the back.

  “Congratulations, Dad,” Hank said. “Now, go see your wife and child.”

  Eyes flashing with happiness, young Louis Spivey said, “Hank, I’m going to name my baby after you.”

  Hank threw back his head and laughed. “Then I sure hope it’s a boy.”

  Lord Wardley Nardees was puffing and wheezing from the heat when he stepped into Tiffany & Co.
on Fifth Avenue.

  The baron was warmly greeted and immediately directed into a small private room. There he sank down into a comfortable chair before a mahogany table. He withdrew a handkerchief from inside his breast pocket and wiped his shiny face.

  A little man with a pencil-thin mustache and thinning hair immediately brought in several velvet-lined trays filled with glittering jewels. On the table before Lord Nardees, the trusted employee spread out the trays.

  The lord immediately dipped a pudgy hand into an array of diamond jewelry. He lifted sparkling chokers and bracelets and let them spill through his stubby fingers while he grinned wickedly.

  He dropped the diamonds back into the tray, then ran his hands caressively over the mounds of precious stones. The employee stood beside the table, hands clasped behind him, watching as the wealthy client smiled and licked his fleshy lips and touched and toyed with the jewels in a manner that was somehow obscene.

  “Ahhh,” murmured Lord Nardees, his thumb rubbing back and forth atop a huge square-cut emerald. “Mmm,” he wheezed as he drew a diamond bracelet across the back of his hand.

  When he’d spent more than an hour fondling each valuable piece, the Tiffany’s employee picked up a beautiful ruby-and-diamond necklace and suggested, “This, Lord Nardees, is an exquisite creation and one I’m sure Lady Nardees would love to receive.”

  The lord looked up, suddenly remembering that he was not alone. He realized as well that his presence at Tiffany’s would likely be known around the city by nightfall.

  “Yes,” he said, “I’ll take the ruby-and-diamond necklace. It will indeed look lovely around my wife’s neck.” He smiled, and then as an afterthought, said, “Perhaps this little diamond choker as well.”

  “Very good, Sir. Shall I wrap them together or separately.”

  “Wrap the ruby and diamond piece. I’ll just put the other in my pocket.”

  Thirty

  The sun was high and hot when Hank climbed the steps of a stately brownstone on Lexington Avenue. Inside, on the building’s first floor, were the law offices of Brock, Bailey and Miller. The respected eastern firm had handled Hank’s New York affairs for the last ten years and kept in close contact with Hank’s Nevada attorney.

  “Hank Cassidy, good to see you! Good to see you,” said the smiling Barry Brock, hurrying out of his office to greet one of his most valued clients. “Enjoying your stay at the Springs this summer?”

  “More than ever before,” Hank answered truthfully.

  Barry slapped the taller man on the back and laughed. “I don’t doubt it. Fast horses and beautiful women. Who could ask for anything more?”

  “Not me.”

  Barry ushered Hank into his richly paneled office and indicated a tall-backed leather chair. Hank plucked at the creases in his navy linen trousers and sat down. Brock circled the massive desk and took his chair facing Hank.

  He leaned up, laced his hands atop the desk, and said, “What can I do for you today, Hank?”

  Hank took a slim brown cigar from inside his suit jacket. “Do you mind?”

  “Certainly not,” said Brock. “Light up, my friend.” Brock swiveled his chair around and indicated the row of heavy cut crystal decanters resting on a low bookcase directly behind his desk. “May I offer you a drink?”

  Hank puffed on the cigar, inhaled deeply, and drew the smoke down into his lungs. He slowly released it and said, “A shot of bourbon would be fine.”

  “Good choice. I’ll join you,” said Brock. He rose and unstoppered one of the decanters.

  He handed a shot glass across to Hank. “Whom shall we toast?”

  “Charmaine,” Hank said, lifting his glass.

  Brock smiled and nodded. “Charmaine,” he echoed.

  Hank, liking the sound of her name, tossed the liquor down in one long swallow.

  “Another?” offered Brock.

  “No, thanks. I’ve a busy afternoon.” Hank again drew on his cigar, then said, “Barry, I’ve just come from Mercy.”

  The lawyer nodded. His client was referring to the Mercy Maternity Hospital on East Thirty-Fourth. Hank was the hospital’s sole benefactor. He’d had it built eight years ago, and had, since its doors opened, paid for its daily operation. During that time, hundreds of penniless young women had delivered healthy babies there. None had been asked to pay for their care or the services of their physicians.

  “I think it’s time we add a new wing,” Hank said.

  Barry frowned and shook his head. He had never understood why Hank had chosen a maternity hospital as his favored charity. It made little sense to him. Hank had no wife, had never had a child. It seemed odd that a single man would take such an interest in the fate of young pregnant women.

  Hank had never told Brock that his mother, Maureen Ryan Cassidy, had died giving birth to him. He never mentioned it to anyone. But he never forgot it. And he always wondered if they hadn’t been so poor, if his father could have afforded a physician to assist in the difficult birth, would his mother’s life have been spared?

  Hank hoped that building a maternity hospital that offered free medical care to those most in need would help save the lives of poor young women like his mother.

  “Let’s expand Mercy Maternity,” Hank instructed his attorney. “Add a wing to accommodate at least another fifty beds.”

  “Fifty beds? That’s going to cost a lot of money, Hank.”

  “I have a lot of money, Barry.”

  “I know, I know, but…look, I don’t understand you. New York is not your home. You rarely even visit the city. You’ve spent very few nights in your Madison Avenue mansion. Why not help out the hospital in Virginia City? I’m sure they could use some capital.”

  “Can’t do that,” Hank said.

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Virginia City is a small town. Everyone knows everyone.”

  “So?”

  “If I gave the Virginia City hospital five bucks, I’d be hearing about it before the sun set.”

  The lawyer again shook his head. “You could set it up the way we’ve done here. Have a proviso inserted in the legal instrument that the donor’s name shall be kept strictly confidential.”

  Hank laughed. “There are no secrets in Virginia City. My Nevada attorney, bless him, is one of the biggest gossips in town. Now draw up the papers for me to sign. I’ve another appointment I must keep.”

  Fox Connor, thanking both Claire and Olivia for inviting him to lunch, left the estate around 2:00 p.m.

  After Olivia saw him to the front door, she returned to the back veranda and Claire. She sat down in the glider beside her. After a few moments of silence, she said softly, “You want to talk about it?”

  Claire looked up. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do. Something’s bothering you and I think I know what it is.” Claire said nothing. Olivia stated the obvious, “You’re falling in love with Hank Cassidy.”

  “No, I…I…” Claire closed her eyes, opened them. “Why deny it? I am. Yes, I’m falling in love with a man to whom I mean nothing more than a meaningless summertime fling.” She smiled sadly, looked at Olivia, and said, “Go ahead, say it. Tell me I’m the most foolish woman you’ve ever known.”

  “Not at all, child.” Olivia said, “When it comes to love, we can all be quite foolish.”

  Claire frowned and idly twisted the golden chain around her neck. “I should never have supposed that I could behave the wanton and not pay the price. I’m ashamed of myself, Olivia. I was not raised to…to…My mother taught me better—she would be very disappointed in me.”

  “Would she?” Olivia said softly. “You might be surprised.”

  Claire was puzzled by the statement.

  Olivia reached out and gently touched Claire’s medallion, the 24-karat-gold profile of a beautiful woman in bas-relief against the mother-of-pearl disk. Unbidden, unwanted tears sprang to Olivia’s eyes.

  Stunned, Claire said, “Dear Olivia. Dearest friend. Wh
at is it?” She took the older woman’s hand.

  It had something to do with the medallion. She had caught Olivia staring at it before, as if it held some dark secret. Claire said, as gently as possible, “You have knowledge of me—something I do not know. Something you’ve never told me.”

  Their eyes met. Olivia said barely above a whisper, “Child, this likeness, this medallion.” She paused, drew a slow breath and her voice broke when she said, “I was sworn to secrecy long years ago.”

  Claire’s eyes widened with interest. She leaned over and embraced her friend. Patting Olivia’s slender back, she whispered, “Now’s the time, old girl. Our masquerade is nearly over. Tell me. Tell me all.”

  And Olivia began to do just that, the whole story pouring out while Claire clung to every word.

  “In 1844, the Old Queen had been on the throne for several years. Bad times, hard times. Dickens tales, so cherished by the commoners who knew how to read, were happy fairy tales to those of us who experienced and endured.

  “Starvation. Disease. No hope. But we, my old Mum, Willie Sutton and I, we were saved just when all seemed lost. Mum with consumption and me so frail you could read the London Times right through me. Weak…near death. Then comes a knock on the door.

  “A tall, well-dressed man. He says, ‘Willie Sutton? Mrs. Willie Sutton? Is she here?’

  “Too weak to even deceive creditors, I said, ‘And what if she is?’

  “The tall gentleman doffed his hat and said, ‘Tell her Nigel Bruce wants to talk to her.’

  “‘And who might Nigel Bruce be?’ I asked.

  “‘Her son,’ he said.

  “And so we were saved.

  “Seduced and abandoned at fifteen, my mother had her baby, a boy, taken by the authorities and put up for adoption. Archibald Bruce and his barren wife Joan, in service to Lord Ledet, adopted the child. Young Nigel was loved and doted on. Old Lord Ledet had no sons and liking Nigel, saw to it he had a decent education.