“I should have suspected.” He studied me for a few long seconds. “But of course you would not discuss your early life unless forced to do so.”
“No.”
“Too painful, and I’d guess you don’t want people feeling sorry for you.”
“Perceptive as always, Barrister.”
“Anyone with sense would just admire you, Shane.” He gazed down at me with what looked like awe. “You truly are the bravest person I know.”
I noted that he said “person,” not “woman,” and just accepted it. “It’s not brave to do the only thing you can.”
“The ability to see only one way forward is courageous in itself.”
“I’m told that sometimes life closes all the doors except the right one.” As I said it, I remembered Preston once telling me not to close the door on the right man.
“That’s a way to put it.”
As I stood and carefully rearranged myself into the appropriate demeanor, I remembered that whispered Scottish Gaelic and wondered. “What did you call me?”
“What?”
“You said something in Gaelic. I think it was an endearment.”
He looked a bit abashed. “It was. Mo chridhe. Essentially ‘sweetheart,’ just a little more so.”
I smiled. “Rather nice.”
“Well, perhaps I’ll use it on a happier occasion one of these days.”
The gleam in his eyes left no doubt as to what sort of happier occasion he had in mind, and I realized at that moment that I’d been in his arms and held his hands, and that even now I was at close proximity to him, and there’d been none of the weird electricity that usually crackled between us. Just comfort and safety, nothing else.
“Perhaps,” I agreed.
He took my hand. “Is this the one you injured?”
“Yes.”
And suddenly, while the comfort and safety were still there, the electricity came roaring back. I caught my breath as he turned my hand over and ran his fingers gently over mine.
“Well,” he said carefully, a trace of a naughty smile playing about his mouth. “Perhaps I should kiss it and make it better.”
“Perhaps you should.”
He was pulling my hand to his lips when the front door slammed.
We broke apart, both guiltily clasping our hands behind our backs, as Tommy blew into the parlor, closely trailed by Father Michael, as they continued some minor argument at full volume. Sophia, who had apparently observed the entire scene, quickly returned to her dusting, with a telltale blush of her own. Poor dear, what will she expect when she’s old enough for a courtship?
Tommy stopped when he saw us, and his eyes immediately took in the mending box and focused coldly on Gil. “She doesn’t sew.”
“She never will again, if I have any say,” Gil replied, calmly meeting the glare.
“I offered to sew on a button,” I explained quickly. “I shouldn’t have.”
“Really, Heller.” Tommy shook his head at me and then looked to Gil. “You know?”
“I know enough.”
“All right.” Tommy took a long glance at me, then returned his attention to Gil. “I keep telling her to spare herself.”
Father Michael shook his head at the two of them. “When have you ever known Miss Ella to spare herself?”
“Too true.” Gil nodded to the boys and turned to me. “Walk me to the door?”
“Certainly.” I offered a reassuring smile, hoping all of this was behind us, at least right now.
In the foyer, Gil picked up a flat wrapped parcel of suspiciously familiar size and shape from the small occasional table. “I saw this at the bookseller’s near the theater and thought of you.”
I burst out laughing. “Wait one moment.”
He gave me a puzzled and almost hurt look but did as he was bid while I went back to the parlor and picked up an identical parcel from the shelf where I’d left it. I held it up as I walked back into the foyer, and said: “I thought of you at the bookshop.”
The puzzled expression gave way to a grin as we exchanged the books. “Surely you’re not reading my mind now.”
“I do not believe in the second sight,” I said firmly. “I do believe that science has not yet explained all the workings of the mind.”
“And perhaps people sometimes share a connection and similar thoughts.”
“Perhaps.” I busied myself opening the parcel rather than meeting his intense gaze.
“Volcanoes of the World.” We spoke in unison and gave in to a laugh likewise.
“Oh, you two are a pair!” Father Michael stood in the doorway, of course laughing, too. “Look, Tom. They bought each other the same book!”
“Mother’s going to love this,” Tommy teased. “Who’s the one with the second sight now?”
“Just admirable taste in literature,” Gil put in, trying for ducal demeanor even though he was blushing as badly as I was. “Simply an improving book.”
“Improving,” Tommy said with a wicked smile. “So that’s what we’re calling it.”
Chapter 21
Calisthenics, Mental and Otherwise
Back on the women’s beat for the moment, Hetty found herself forced to investigate the new vogue for ladies’ calisthenics and dragged me into attending on Monday. Better, she’d managed to dragoon our friend Dr. Edith Silver into trying the class, as well, in hopes of getting her professional insight on the alleged health benefits of same.
We were also planning to investigate the health benefits of Mrs. G’s meringues afterward, since she was trying out a new recipe ahead of the end-of-run reception on Thursday. And using up egg whites again. I was quite certain now that there was some connection to Preston’s favored lemon-curd tarts, though I, of course, said nothing.
MRS. HELVETICA’S HEALTH STUDIO FOR LADIES read the sign on the door of the brick building near Waverly Place, and we dutifully trooped upstairs to find out what Mrs. Helene Helvetica, expert in women’s health and vitality, might have to teach us. Her pamphlet, which we had scanned earlier, promised a class to awaken our inner energies and help us “flourish in our femininity.” It also claimed she’d served by appointment at several European courts (unnamed) and provided private instruction to many ladies of important position.
I had sung at a European court or two over the years and had never heard of Mrs. Helene Helvetica, but I saw no need to point that out, at least for now. Especially since I was really curious about how I was going to awaken my inner energies.
Whatever inner energies I had seemed to respond well to a good cup of coffee, but who knew?
“So what, exactly, are the inner energies, Dr. Silver?” Hetty asked as we ventured up the narrow stairwell.
Duly accredited doctors of medicine do not snicker, so we will assume Dr. Silver was merely sniffling a bit from the damp. “Sadly, they weren’t covered in anatomy and physiology. I’m guessing they reside somewhere on one of those old phrenology skulls.”
“Well,” I said as we reached the door, “I can hardly wait to find out about flourishing in my femininity.”
Hetty shot us both a mild glare. “Behave now. We’ll have a lovely snipe session over coffee later.”
The doctor and I nodded together. We were there to support Hetty, after all.
“Lead on, Macduff,” I said.
A plump and blasé matron awaited us at a rococo pink enamel desk in an office reminiscent of a boudoir in a Watteau painting. I wasn’t sure what the point was of the Louis XVI allusion, other than over-the-top femininity, but I did dearly hope that at some point they would let me eat cake.
We maintained our facades of appropriate curiosity and interest as Madame Cleary—pronounced Cle-ray here, but probably Clear-ee in any other part of the City—handed us what she called our vêtements, and led us to the chambre de préparation.
“If you laugh, I’ll rip your hair out with my bare hands,” Hetty hissed at me as I did my best not to react to the pretend français.
Dr. Silver gave us a glance she’d probably perfected on her fourteen-year-old daughter and that excellent young lady’s unruly friends. “Let us maintain an open mind, ladies.”
We nodded meekly, and I bit back a smart comment about ouverting my mind. I concentrated rather on the fact that the vêtements were clearly properly scrubbed between awakenings of the inner energies, so I didn’t need to worry about any residue of the previous incumbent’s flourishing femininity. Heureusement.
Several other ladies were preparing in the chambre, to gauge by the feet sticking out under the pink floral curtains in the warren of cubicles, and we repaired to our own spaces to change into whatever Mrs. Helene Helvetica considered appropriate attire for awakening the inner energies. I did not expect anything as comfortable as my fencing breeches and old shirts.
Comfort, I supposed, was not really an issue as long as one managed not to look at oneself or, worse, see the expressions on the faces of one’s friends. The little suits with split skirts Hetty and I wear for our velocipede rides are generally called sports costumes, of course, but these really were costumes: full navy-blue cotton bloomers topped by navy-and-white middy blouses, the ensemble crowned by the final insult, giant white mobcaps finished with comically expansive navy-blue bows.
Quelle horreur!
“Well, so much for professional respect,” Dr. Silver said, straightening her mobcap. It appeared that her open mind had not survived the closing of the bow on the cap.
“We’re here now,” I observed, looking gloomily down at my blouse and bloomers as I realized they were made for a much shorter and wider female. Anyone hoping for a glimpse of my dainty ankle would actually get most of my calf. So much for modesty.
“It’s all women here, Ella. Nobody will be looking at your legs.” Hetty, poor thing, had gotten even a worse fit than me and was drowning in a costume that pooled at her ankles. “I’m not sure I still have them.”
Dr. Silver, whose costume was almost a perfect fit, if every bit as silly as ours, permitted herself a small smile. “Thank goodness you didn’t bring a photographer, Hetty.”
“How true. I may come back later for a picture of a class.”
“Without us.” I said it, but Dr. Silver joined and magnified my basilisk glare.
“Entirely without you. Let’s just see what Mrs. Helvetica has to teach us.” Hetty nodded toward the door marked LE STUDIO.
“Ladies! Ladies!” Mme. Cleary appeared at that exact moment, clapping her hands. “Time for class.”
“Back of the room.” Dr. Silver grabbed Hetty and me and firmly steered us to a hopefully obscure corner of the studio, which was just the same sort of large, light room as my own rehearsal space, without Montezuma and with a rack of large pink hoops and a bar of equally pink scarves.
Mrs. Helene Helvetica was ensconced at the front of the room, in a similar costume to ours, only properly fitted and pink, where ours were navy. She was not slim and, from her posture, might even have been wearing stays, which made me wonder exactly what manner of athletic activity we were going to accomplish here. A few fat blond curls escaped her mobcap, softening her face and covering any frown lines that might have marred her alabaster brow. Her eyes were blue and friendly, at least until they lighted on our little group.
It probably wasn’t recognition, but it was definite calculation, as she studied us with far more care than we deserved.
“Did you arrange this with the studio?” Dr. Silver asked.
“Yes.”
“She doesn’t look like she wants the attention,” I observed.
“Oh, she does. Madame Cle-ray practically drooled over the idea.” Hetty shook her head. “I told her we would participate like ordinary students, and I’d interview Mrs. Helvetica a day later.”
“Ah. She’s sizing us up, then.” I understood the look now. A good duelist likes to know what she’s up against.
“Well, bright, shiny faces, girls,” Hetty said. “We don’t want to give anything away.”
“Just so,” Dr. Silver agreed.
“Into formation, ladies,” Mrs. Helvetica called in a carefully cultured voice. She nodded to us. “Our new students may follow along from the back. We don’t want anyone to feel conspicuous.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or annoyed. Either way, the three of us settled into our spaces the same way as the others.
Mrs. Helvetica nodded to Mme. Cleary at the piano. “Let us begin.”
A thunderous major chord, the standard musical exclamation point.
“Breathe, ladies! Let us awaken our inner energies!” And so commenced an hour of breathing, arm swinging, and the occasional deep knee bend. It was neither especially strenuous nor especially challenging, though I suppose if you were used to sitting in a room and doing embroidery, it would have been a relief to move about a bit. For active women like us, it was rather dull.
Except for Mrs. Helvetica’s patter, which was truly extraordinary. She urged us to nourish our energies, flourish in our femininity, and become one with our higher selves.
It was amazing, though probably not in the way our esteemed instructor intended.
Soon enough, thankfully, we took our higher selves back to Washington Square to nourish them with the promised meringues, which Mrs. G had seen fit to sandwich together with orange marmalade, as well as good coffee.
“So, Doctor, what did you think?” Hetty asked after we’d stopped giggling and helped ourselves to refreshments.
“It’s quite silly,” she admitted after taking a small, thoughtful sip, “but not especially harmful. I suppose it might encourage women to seek out physical culture, which is definitely a good thing, so overall, I’m not concerned.”
“Really?” Hetty’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Really. We’re all quite active, of course, but something like this, silly as it is, might be the encouragement women need to get moving and start tending to themselves. Not a bad thing.”
“Makes sense to me.” I had taken only one meringue, since I still had a while to button that sleek velvet doublet. “Every woman isn’t going to be comfortable just hopping on a velocipede and taking off.”
“Exactly. And anything that encourages women to understand and care for their bodies is a good thing. So, even though Mrs. Helvetica makes us want to giggle, she’s not doing any harm.”
Hetty scowled. “I was hoping for a good exposé . . .”
“Not here, sorry.” The doctor contemplated for a moment. “But surely there’s more with the Van Vleet matter. Somewhere out there is the person who stabbed her husband fourteen times.”
“Not you, too,” Hetty grumbled.
The doctor smiled. “Not at all. I know women can and do kill all the time, and unlike quite literally every man I know, I have no trouble accepting that she’d do it in such a bloody way.”
“But?” I asked before sipping my coffee.
“But there was no reason for her to kill him like that. If she had wanted him dead, she’d have quietly poisoned him. There are still plenty of poisons that are hard to trace, despite all our modern science.”
Hetty took another meringue, probably as consolation. “That does make sense.”
“I rather liked the Frenchman, I admit,” I put in, to electrified glances. “As a suspect!”
They laughed.
“I did, too,” Dr. Silver agreed. “And most definitely only as a suspect. Certainly, we agree, the aggrieved lover might decide to end matters in blood. But . . .”
We waited.
“Again, it makes more sense to do something like poison, which might be taken as an illness or accident. Ferocious attacks like that happen in the heat of the moment or in the street.”
“Perhaps Hosmer told Lescaut to stay away, and violence ensued.” Hetty nibbled on her meringue.
“Perhaps.” Dr. Silver took another meringue, too. “But the extreme violence reminded me more of a street fight. I’ve patched up any number of neighborhood miscreants who’ve en
ded up on the bad end of such things.”
I nodded.
Hetty put down her cookie. “Hmmm. Hosmer was in financial straits a few months before his demise. And then he suddenly wasn’t.”
We looked at each other. As New Yorkers aware of the shadier parts of town, we knew what that likely meant.
“There are any number of ways to get money. It does not have to be something evil or dangerous.” Dr. Silver’s eyes narrowed as she carefully placed her cup on her saucer.
“True,” I agreed. “And it’s possible that someone of his status had something of value to sell or pawn.”
Hetty returned both of our gazes coolly. “But we all know it was far more likely to be some kind of shady loan.”
“Which opens up a world of ugly possibilities.” I picked up my coffee cup again, to distract myself from grabbing another meringue.
“It surely does.” Dr. Silver shook her head.
Hetty, however, smiled brightly and popped the last of her meringue in her mouth. “I can work with this.”
Both the doctor and I started to remonstrate.
“I’m not going chasing gangsters, silly. A lot of the sports writers like to bet. And if you have a bookmaker . . .”
I nodded. “You have to have a moneylender.”
“And it’s probably not my aunt Myriam.” Dr. Silver chuckled.
“Exactly.” Hetty nodded.
I reached for a meringue and stopped myself, to smiles from the others. “Well, as exciting a motivation as illicit love may be, money will kill you every time.”
The doctor nodded to Hetty. “And if anyone knows about scrounging for money, it’s the boys in the news office.”
“So true.” Hetty smiled and held out her coffee cup. “Here’s to a new lead.”
I refilled all our cups.
“And to mental calisthenics, instead of Mrs. Helvetica’s,” Dr. Silver said as we toasted.
Chapter 22
A Morning Walk
Tuesday morning found me walking out with Gil, in my best purple coat lavishly trimmed with nutria fur and the new broad-brimmed violet velvet hat topped with a satin bow, plumes, and a sparkly pin, not to mention wasting half an hour fussing with an elaborate hairstyle from one of the fashion books, only to decide on my usual soft knot. Walking out, like attending an improving lecture or the opera, can be something of a public announcement of courtship, a fact that had clearly not escaped either of us, since Gil appeared at the appointed hour, looking as if he’d spent a bit of extra time on his appearance, as well. The dead giveaway was the dark blue tie that set off his eyes; I’d never seen him wear anything but various shades of gray.
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