Gil would not really have handed her over to Connor, I thought, but there was no way for her to know that. Even with his opposition to capital punishment, he would prefer the law to the lawless.
“Your man was doing right by his friend.” Connor turned to me. “Sometimes, that’s a very hard job.”
I looked to Gil, who merely nodded. Things I can’t ask about, perhaps.
Then Connor very carefully took my hand and planted a small, surprisingly gentle kiss on it. “I should go now. You remember, though. I owe you my life, so whatever you need, whenever you need it, no matter what, you call on me.”
That, coming from the scourge of Five Points, was very powerful, indeed. It was a marker I hoped I would never need, but knew I would be very glad of, if I did.
I nodded gravely.
He gave Gil one more hard look, as required for any good gangster, nodded to the rest of the ensemble, and walked out.
“Do we want to know what will happen to Eamon?” Yardley finally broke the silence.
“You’re not really foolish enough to ask that?” Tommy shook his head. “He signed his death warrant when he put hands on Connor, and even he has to know that by now. He’ll be found dead in his cell, one way or another, before the week is out.”
“God have mercy on him.” From Father Michael, it was a prayer.
“He took one life for no reason other than his own selfish need for glory,” Marie said sharply. “Then he tried to ruin two innocent men and finally would have killed twice again if Ella hadn’t stopped him. I’m not going to spend much time praying for him.”
Paul gazed at his wife, who suddenly looked rather like an avenging angel. “All true, if rather harsh.”
“Murder is harsh business.” She took a generous sip of her brandy. “And I’m glad we’re done with it.”
“Well, I suppose that answers it all.” Preston’s tone suggested he was ready to close the matter.
“Not quite all, Pres.” Tommy nodded to him and motioned to the spread of baked goods. “I wonder if there might be something you wish to tell us?”
Preston Dare, dean of the gentleman writers’ corps and man of the world, actually blushed and glared at Toms. “Generally, one doesn’t make announcements until the banns are posted.”
Father Michael smiled and looked down at his whisky.
“The banns?” Yardley asked. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Generally, one does tell intimates as soon as one’s suit is accepted,” Gil said, joining in, his eyes sparkling like Tommy’s.
“And one shouldn’t play games one isn’t ready to have turned on oneself, Barrister.” Preston gave Gil a hard look.
“Well, all right,” I said, taking up my cake plate again. “If you don’t want to rejoice in happy news with the people who love you most . . .” I cut my eyes to Marie and Hetty. “I’ll just content myself with my opera torte.”
The others followed my example and prepared to busy themselves with their various treats.
“Oh, fine. If you truly must know.” Preston put his hands up in surrender. “She said yes. A wedding in the New Year.”
If you think our sportsmen cheer loudly for their teams, you may well imagine how loudly they cheer for a friend’s happiness. There were handshakes, hugs, and glasses raised; and the evening, which had started in such tension, dissolved into a sweet, old-fashioned happy ending.
Every good melodrama ends with a wedding, or at least the promise of one, doesn’t it?
Chapter 33
Do We Understand Each Other?
Soon enough, there was only one piece of opera torte left, and drawn by the mystical force of layers and icing, Tommy and I both ended up standing at the pedestal.
“Split it with you, Heller.”
I laughed, took up the server, and very precisely divided the piece into two thin halves.
“My last cake for a while, Toms. I have to stay trim for London.”
“Ah, London. We may soon have another engagement to celebrate.”
I looked sharply at him.
“He’s already asked my blessing, Heller. I gave it gladly—and told him it’s up to you.”
“You did?” I put down the cake. “But you and I have such a happy life.”
“We still will. With an addition, or two, to the cast.”
“I know Marie does it, but I’m not sure I can. And I’m not leaving you.”
Tommy patted my arm. “As long as you sing, and you still will, you’ll need a manager, and the two of you will need somewhere to live in New York. Our floors have always been far enough apart for privacy. And there’s room for more, when there’s more.”
“You’ve thought this through.”
He smiled. “And perhaps I’ll work on a few of my own projects at times you’re in London with him. Cabot has some excellent new ideas to encourage poor children to stay in school longer.”
“Cabot is a good friend.”
“That he is.”
I sensed something there, but I knew it was entirely the wrong moment to say anything about it. “You think I can trust Gil?”
“Sooner or later, we all have to trust somebody.” Tommy shrugged. “Who better than a man who’s willing to die at your feet onstage?”
I smiled at that. Tommy once again knew my thoughts.
My cousin’s eyes held mine, loving and serious. “You don’t have to say yes tonight, Heller. Just don’t say no.”
“You don’t think . . . ?”
“I don’t know.” He took a breath. “I told him he’d do better to wait until London and give you time to think it all through.”
“Sensible advice.” Nobody knows me better than Toms, of course, and the fact that he had not only given Gil his blessing but had also told him how best to go about pressing his suit was the fullest endorsement possible.
“But he may or may not take it.” He rested his hand on my arm again for a moment. “See what happens.”
I nodded, remembering Marie telling me that men don’t ask again. And her wild run to Paul’s rooms. I did not think I was the woman for that. “Just don’t say no.”
“Exactly.”
I walked back to my chaise, to find Gil still in the side chair, staring into his nearly empty glass of whisky, not even feigning a minimal interest in Marie, Hetty, and Paul’s speculation on the accuracy of the winter weather predictions from The Old Farmer’s Almanac.
“Walk me to the door?” he asked with a surprisingly tentative note in his voice.
“Certainly.” I just barely noticed Marie and Hetty exchanging glances and Tommy smiling behind me. That last, though, might easily have been because I’d left him the cake.
Gil and I stood in the foyer for a moment, just taking each other in.
“You would not really have handed her over to Connor.” I had to clear the worst first.
A very cold gleam came into his eyes. “I surely would have.”
I shrank back a bit. What was this man?
“There’s something you don’t know, Shane.”
“All right.”
“Charles had a child. A little boy with an impish smile, like my younger son.”
“He did?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the rest.
“He got very sick soon after the marriage, and if he hadn’t been sent to boarding school on the good offices of his mother’s family . . .”
“She poisoned him first.”
“Just so.” Gil’s jaw tightened. “Didn’t want to share the money, one suspects. But he escaped.”
“Well, if she harmed a child, I’d give her to Connor’s gang myself.”
“I thought perhaps. So you’ll forgive me that?”
“Nothing to forgive.”
Once again, we stood there assessing each other.
Finally, he smiled a little. “Thank you for trusting me to settle the matter.”
“Surely no more than any good friend would do.”
“Most women would’ve spent
the past few weeks asking pointed little questions and making acid remarks at odd times. Or, at the very least, would run screaming into the night after this evening’s revelations. You just left the matter to me.”
“You framed it as a test of trust. I decided to give you a chance.”
He nodded. “So I have proven worthy?”
I smiled. “I had no doubt.”
“Ah.”
“Marie tells me it took her a very long time to believe Paul when he said he wouldn’t stand in the way of her singing. And one way she learned to trust him was by watching and seeing him do what he said he would.”
“So you are learning to trust me.”
“I am.”
“And if I tell you that I will find a way for you to keep singing in any future life we might have . . .”
“Well, I’ll have to believe you.”
Gil very carefully took my hand, and as usual, the electricity crackled between us. “It may take some time to resolve all of this.”
“Nothing worth winning is easy.”
“So American, sweetheart.” He pulled my hand to his lips. “One must work very hard for all good things.”
“But true.”
“Sometimes, though, life gives a gift.” His eyes held mine. “And perhaps one should just say, ‘Yes, thank you.’ ”
“If one can.”
For a moment, we watched each other, unsure what to do next, no way to settle the balance between us. Despite Tommy’s optimistic plans, marriage is marriage, and once you’re a man’s property, there are no guarantees. There was simply no good solution here that would not cost me more than I was willing or able to risk. And yet.
Bashert. Meant . . . but meant to give up my vocation and my happy life? I had obligations and options that my mother had never dreamed of. Walk away from all of that for the sake of a man, even this man? Not a possibility.
“But it’s more than you and me,” I said finally.
“I know. And I give you my word, I will find a way. We will.”
I nodded. I might actually be able to believe him. At least right then, as he held my hand and gazed at me with that expression that made me feel like something sacred, or precious.
“Then perhaps we leave this at an understanding.”
“An understanding,” I repeated slowly.
“I have no need or desire to pursue anyone else, and you’ve given me no indication that you are doing so . . .”
“No.” The whisper was all I could manage.
He took my other hand and just studied me for a couple of breaths, with a faint smile. “Then, while we are not yet in any place to formalize our connection, we agree that in the future, we will settle the terms to do so.”
I found a voice. “I can live with that.”
“So can I, at least until you bring The Princes to London.”
“All right, then.”
We stood there, silent again, holding hands, the attraction between us practically charging the air.
Finally, Gil let go one of my hands and lightly traced the line of my face. “I am told that while physical expressions of affection are absolutely and rightly forbidden for couples who are not yet engaged, Americans have been known to be a bit less doctrinaire when the situation warrants.”
“Possibly.” I swallowed an inappropriate giggle at the word doctrinaire, one of Montezuma’s favorites. Presumably, I would not need crustacean or fortissimo.
“I have heard, for example, that when one’s beau is in peril or facing a long voyage, even a respectable lady might be persuaded to grant him a farewell kiss.”
“She might,” I allowed, because I wanted that kiss every bit as much as he did. “As long as he understood that it was no reflection on her virtue.”
“Of course not. A lady may send her swain to sea with a happy memory without giving the impression that she is anything other than virtuous.”
“If we’re quite clear on that.”
“We surely are.” Gil just gazed at me for a second, his eyes almost frighteningly intense. “I would never ask you to anticipate the pleasures of our marriage bed.”
For a moment, I was absolutely speechless. It wasn’t the shocking bluntness or even the cool assumption that we would one day wed. It was the thought of what pleasures there might be in that marriage bed.
“For now, mo chridhe,” he said finally, leaning a little closer, “just that farewell kiss.”
“Just that.”
In my memory, our first—my only—kiss was a blur, an indistinct whirlwind of passion and sensation. This was entirely different, and not just because he was taking the lead. Slow, careful, as much promise as embrace. And I had no doubt he was making sure to give me much to think about during our next weeks apart.
Much indeed. He pulled me closer, his arms tightening around me, as I responded to the kiss. The closeness, the spark between us, the absolute pleasure of it, came as a surprise and shock. Good heavens, how do married women maintain focus on anything at all if they’re doing this with their men every day? It was the first time in my life that I understood how young girls might lose their heads and get drawn into trouble.
Gil, though, was no cad. Before I found myself entirely swept away, he pulled back carefully and gently, and rested his forehead on mine for a moment, breathless himself.
“We may wish to work out those terms with some speed, Shane.”
“No argument.”
He nodded and stepped back, then took my hands and kissed one, then the other. “Till The Princes comes to London.”
“Till London,” I managed as he slowly let go and turned to leave.
I leaned on the bannister, trying to cultivate a casual air as he took the last steps across the floor, hoping it wasn’t obvious that my knees were wobbling.
At the door, he turned. “You do know that I love you.”
“I love you.”
As the words hung between us, we stared at each other. He had spoken deliberately, but I had not, and I had utterly no idea what to do. The violation of propriety was enough of a shock, but the dawning realization of what we’d just done with those few words was far more. The Rubicon crossed. Whatever happened now, there was no going back.
Bashert. I still didn’t know what it would cost me, or us, but I could no longer deny it, at least to myself. Even if I wasn’t going to say the word to him. I’d said quite enough already.
Gil broke the silence, with his hand on the knob. “That is all the understanding we need, then.”
“Yes.” It felt almost like a vow.
Long after the door closed, I was still standing there, electrified and staring after him, when I heard the first voice.
“So? Do I need to pour you some whisky?”
Marie stood in the drawing-room doorway, chuckling.
“Do I need to post the banns?” Father Michael added.
“Do I need to have a word?” Preston and Toms asked in unintended unison.
“Stop. All of you.” I let go of the bannister and took a breath, sorting myself out. “You don’t need to do anything. We’ll worry about it when we get to London.”
Epilogue
For the Festival of Lights
Several weeks later, near the end of Hanukkah, a slim parcel arrived from Britain. Inside, a small cream morocco-bound edition of John Donne’s love poems and a note.
My Dear Shane,
While Joshua tells me that the Jewish Festival of Lights is in no way as significant a holiday to him as the yuletide is to Christians, I am also given to understand that it is an excellent time for a small token of esteem. Perhaps we can enjoy these poems together in London.
In the meantime, I content myself with imagining you in the light of your candles, your eyes outshining the flames, the glow illuminating your lovely face and hands as you light them one by one. I look forward to kissing those hands again one day soon.
Most affectionately and kindly yours,
G
Though
I was a bit discomfited by the lack of a “Love” at the end of the letter, I decided that being a reserved British aristocrat, he might be letting the good Reverend Donne say it for him. And I did recognize the closing as one John Adams used with Abigail. Nonetheless, I took up my pen to write a letter of thanks, determined not to give away too much.
Many thanks for a perfect and timely gift. I have always been exceedingly fond of Donne. Perhaps you will read it to me when I come to London. I find myself missing the sound of your voice and looking forward to hearing it again.
Yours, as always,
S
Donne or no Donne, there was still far too much to settle between us for me to believe a happy ending was within easy reach.
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