by Laura Parker
“I suppose there is no harm in this.” Eduardo shrugged. “In any case, there are other delightful diversions about.”
At his words an uneasy silence settled over the table, and Eduardo silently begged Philadelphia’s pardon.
When the hand was finished and he’d deliberately lost again, he threw down his cards in disgust. “Is there no more interesting sport in town? I’m weary of so small a distraction.”
“There’s Morrissey’s Club House,” Howells suggested and then reddened like a beet.
“I have heard of this place,” Eduardo answered. “Why do we not adjourn there?”
Beecham grinned a little foolishly. “With the wife and all along, well, it’s not the sort of place Mae would approve of.”
Eduardo’s arched brows winged upward. “Why should your wife have a say in your habits?”
“The main floor is open to the public, with faro and roulette as well as cards and dice,” Spaulding offered with a curious look at Eduardo.
“The rooms above?” Eduardo questioned.
“They are private, open only to a few.”
Eduardo’s peevish expression brightened. “That is where the real gaming goes on? Where a man may bet a sum that sets his blood pounding? I must go there.”
“I’d be careful if I was you, Mr. Milazzo,” Beecham said. “There’s a rakish element that hangs out there, undesirable types. A man can have his pockets fleeced before he knows what it’s all about.”
Eduardo smiled. “I thrive in this element, Mr. Beecham. This”—he indicated the table—”is a tea party for me.
“Well now,” Beecham began, uncertain whether or not he should be insulted, “if we’re too tame for your tastes, I think we might excuse you.”
Eduardo regretted insulting the genuinely nice man but, he thought philosophically, it was all a part of the game. He rose from his seat and reached for the money he’d laid out to bet with. “I regret I must leave you fine gentlemen. It has been a most engaging afternoon.”
To everyone’s surprise, Spaulding also rose to his feet. “If you would like, Mr. Milazzo, I should be pleased to recommend you to Mr. Morrissey myself.”
Eduardo turned to him. “This is possible? Now?”
Spaulding nodded. “Would you care to accompany me to the Club House?”
“But certainly!” Exultant, Eduardo picked up his glass and drained it before turning to Beecham. “This Kentucky bourbon, sir, is the finest thing about America. My felicitations to your distiller. I shall buy a quantity of it to take home with me.”
Beecham disliked the young aristocrat’s brass and his distinctly un-American attitude about wives. But, a man who complimented Bluegrass whiskey couldn’t be all bad, he decided, and rose to his feet to offer his hand.
“It’s been a pleasure, sir, having you at our—little tea party. Come back if it suits you. Otherwise, Mae and I hope to see you at the opera tonight.”
“Ah yes. It is expected, is it not? My wife has spoken most insistently to me on the matter. I suppose I will allow her this, if she is up to it. Good day to you, gentlemen.”
“I don’t envy his wife the trouble of him,” Beecham said later to his wife. “Pretty little thing, as I recall, but much too meek to tame a young buck like that. Wonder why she married him? Couldn’t have been a love match. He doesn’t seem to remember he’s married half the time. I’d be obliged if you’d take her under your wing a bit, Mae. Left on her own day after day, and so far from home, she must be lonesome.”
Beecham’s suspicions weren’t far from the truth. Philadelphia paced the rectangle of carpeting in her bedroom, feeling lonely and dejected. When she’d agreed to the idea of playing the part of an invalid bride she hadn’t expected to be left so completely on her own. She better understood Eduardo’s complaints about the role of Akbar, in which he spent a great deal of time waiting to be called on. She hadn’t made a single acquaintance, had no one to talk to during the day, not even Eduardo.
He left early, came in late, and smelled often of the brewery. Last night he’d smelled suspiciously of a woman’s floral scent. She’d been so angry and hurt that she’d pretended to be ill, and when he offered to sleep in the adjacent bedroom, she agreed. But now that she had had a chance to think it over, she sensed that this tactic was the wrong one to pursue.
She made a sharp military-like ninety-degree turn at the rug’s edge and paused, facing the picture of misery she made in the mirror hanging on the wall in front of her. She had come to Saratoga with the hope that it would draw them even closer together but the experience was driving them apart. While he went abroad in the world, she remained shut in. He was handsome and spending money freely; she shouldn’t be surprised that women were interested in him, especially if his wife were nowhere to be seen.
“I can change that at least!” she said to her reflection. Why should she sit around and languish while he helped himself to any and all of the delights of Saratoga? The resort was filled with invalids seeking the curative powers of the natural spring waters. She wasn’t his lackey. She was free to go about as she wished. She would go out.
She marched over to her closet and withdrew one of the prettiest dresses. It was a promenade costume of cream faille with an overdress of white striped India silk, trimmed in white lace and red ribbons. It was cheery and cool and would do wonders for her mood. She stripped off her dressing gown and stepped into the dress, thankful that it buttoned up the front so that she wouldn’t have to waste time calling in a maid. When it was fastened she pinned the white fichu about her neck with a sprig of artificial red roses and then went to the mirror to rearrange her hair.
She peered first at the temples to be certain that the roots were not beginning to show. Each morning Eduardo applied lemon juice to her hair before she went to sit in the morning light that angled across the little private balcony of their suite. Satisfied with the color, she brushed and arranged her golden curls, pinning them back from her face. She needed a hat.
She found the perfect one in the third box she opened. It was a only a bit of fluff, a chip hat with a turned-up brim filled in with red roses and with two creme feathers curling forward in front. Her spirits rose tenfold as she pinned it in place before the mirror. She looked quite pretty, she decided. Eduardo Tavares would have to notice her now. In fact, she intended for all of Saratoga to know that Signor Milazzo had a wife, a very pretty and young wife. In afterthought, she clipped on the diamond pendant earrings and a narrow bracelet of diamonds and emeralds that Eduardo had given her to wear. Red foulard parasol in hand, she marched out the door.
Her pulse beat a little quickly as she crossed the famous interior garden flanked by three sides of the large U-shaped hotel. The grounds were impeccably kept, the neat borders of pinks and geraniums and hydrangeas in colorful contrast to the deep green lawn. She smiled as she passed guests sitting in the shade of the trees and knew their eyes followed her. She was a stranger in a place where strangers always elicited comment.
When she reached the grand lobby with its red-and-white checkered marble floor she realized that she didn’t know exactly where she should go. She paused a moment, looking to the right where she saw four walnut staircases fading to the other wings and floors of the vast hotel. Behind them, she glimpsed what appeared to be small private dining rooms. To the right she saw the world-famous Great Public Dining Hall where she had yet to eat a meal with Eduardo, but it wasn’t time to eat. She didn’t particularly want to, in any case. She wanted fresh air and sunshine, activity.
“May I be of service, madame?”
Philadelphia turned to the man who addressed her. Her first impression was one of looking up into the frigid eyes of death. His deep-set eyes were like crystal, nearly colorless but emitting bright shards of refracted light as a broken mirror might. The next impression was one of danger. Those pale hooded eyes surrounded by black lashes were set in a face that was both brutal in its strength of brow and jaw, and arres
ting in the frank sensuality of his thin-lipped mouth.
He smiled, and she knew he’d read her thoughts as clearly as if she had spoken them. He offered her his arm. “Allow me.”
“No!” She backed away. “I—I’m waiting for someone. My husband.”
Those crystalline eyes swept over her, and she felt every inch of her weighed, assessed, and discarded as unimportant. “Your husband has my admiration and envy.”
She knew he didn’t mean it, there was too much mockery in his tone for sincerity, yet she couldn’t fathom any reason for his open hostility toward her. “If you will excuse me.” She began to turn away but he caught her elbow in a grip so hard and unyielding that she stopped herself before she was forced to resist him.
“You don’t look like a whore. Who are you?” The question was spoken so quietly that she knew no one else heard it though a few of those passing by gave them curious looks.
“I am Signora Milazzo,” she answered, truly frightened now. “Oh! Here comes my husband,” she improvised out of fear. Turning away, she lifted a hand in greeting to the phantom just created. “Over here!” she called and felt herself released from the vicious grasp. When she turned back to elaborate on her lie she saw to her astonishment that the man had completely disappeared. Warily, she scanned the room but she didn’t see him anywhere, which was a feat she thought, considering that he was quite tall and dressed all in black. Gone. Vanished.
Though the foyer was warm and sunlit and packed with people, she felt a shiver consume her. He’d been like a nightmare visitation in the midst of a bright afternoon. She walked briskly through the entrance onto the famed veranda of the hotel. The afternoon sunshine struck sharply upon her chilled face and her hands were shaking so badly that she laced them tightly and held them to her middle.
The man had suggested that she was a whore. Why on earth would he think she was that sort of woman? She was dressed very properly and strictly in the best of taste. He must be mad. Yes, that was it. Only a madman would accost a lady in the middle of a hotel lobby and question her decency.
Yet she couldn’t shake the impression that he had known whom he addressed. The look in his eyes, so chillingly contemptuous and with no more consideration than he’d give a passing dog on the street, had distantly judged her with something less than curiosity but with more venom. Irritation, yes that was it! He’d looked at her as though she were some minor annoyance to be gotten rid of. If she’d been an insect, she knew he would have flattened her with the palm of his hand.
She looked about for an empty wicker chair among the dozens that lined the veranda and took the nearest one. Her knees were shaking now and she felt nearly as ill as the character she was portraying. As soon as she had steadied her nerves, she would go back to her rooms.
“Mrs. Milazzo! Yoo-hoo! Mrs. Milazzo!”
Philadelphia whipped her head about at the sound of her name to find a middle-age couple approaching. She saw their friendly looks falter and realized that she must have turned on them a look of trepidation. She stood up abruptly. “Mrs. Beecham, yes? And Mr. Beecham.” She extended her hand to the older woman. “I am most sorry. I’m afraid you startled me.”
“I can see that, dear,” Mrs. Beecham answered and gave her husband a speaking glance. “Is your husband not with you?”
Philadelphia smiled. “No. But I was so weary of lying about in my room that I decided to take a little walk myself.” She looked out at the line of carriages parading down the tree-lined avenue. “Alas, I didn’t know where to go once I came this far. So much noise. So many people.”
“It is a crush if you’re not used to it,” Mr. Beecham agreed and indicated her chair. “Sit down, my dear. Your husband is most anxious for your health. Can’t have him finding us taxing you beyond your strength.”
“I feel fine,” Philadelphia answered, “but I will sit if you will join me.”
“We’d be delighted, wouldn’t we, Mae?”
“Of course, Mr. Beecham. Delighted.” While Mr. Beecham went in search of another chair, the two ladies sat down and began to chat. When he returned a few minutes later, followed by a young black boy carrying a wicker rocking chair, he found the ladies deep in conversation. For the next three-quarters of an hour he sat and smoked one of his favorite cigars and rocked and watched the world go by.
Occasionally something the young Mrs. Milazzo said caught his attention. For instance, he learned that she had attended an English girls’ boarding school and that explained why her accent was slight compared to her husband’s. She also said that her mother was Italian and her father English and that she’d met her husband in Italy where her father was in the foreign service. He frowned as he listened to her speak with obvious love of her young husband. Married less than three months, she hadn’t yet begun to find fault with the young rascal.
“Well, she will,” he muttered under his breath. She was so pretty that he found himself wondering if she were a “little thick in the head,” as the expression went. Why else would she think that there was nothing wrong with being left alone day after day while her spouse cut a swath through Saratoga that most bachelors would envy? He’d heard the rumors. If one wanted to know what was going on in the resort, one had only to sit on the veranda a while. Thick or not, it was a damned shame the girl was not being seen in the right places. The more he looked at her, the more he became convinced that she was just about the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.
“You and your husband are attending the opera this evening, I hope,” he said when both ladies took a breath at the same moment.
Philadelphia favored him with a smile that he wished his eldest daughter possessed. “I do most thoroughly hope so, Signor Beecham, but my husband has not yet given his permission.”
He made a sound that was a reasonable facsimile of a snort and said, “Why, we spoke of it not two hours ago. I said to him the both of you, and Mae and me would make a foursome of it.” He nodded at his wife.
“Oh yes, let’s,” Mae Beecham seconded. “We’ll dine in the public hall. Have you done so before?”
Philadelphia shook her head. “No, but it sounds very nice. If Vittorio agrees, I would love to accept.”
Mr. Beecham rose to his feet, an old warrior but a cunning one. If the little bride wanted to attend the opera, the least he could do was make certain that her errant husband escorted her. “I just remembered an appointment.”
Mae frowned up at her husband. “What sort of appointment, Oran?”
“Business,” he answered with a meaningful frown at his wife. “You might like to stay with Mrs. Milazzo and talk about what to wear, that sort of thing. I’ll be back in half an hour and I wouldn’t be surprised, Mrs. Milazzo, if your husband doesn’t return soon after.”
Philadelphia smiled at him but said nothing. Eduardo hadn’t returned before midnight since the first evening. “Thank you, both, but I think I am a little weary and should go in now. I’ll send you a message if we are able to join you at, say, seven o’clock?”
“Seven it is,” Mr. Beecham rejoined heartily. When Philadelphia had disappeared into the lobby he turned to his wife. “What did I tell you, Mae?”
Mae Beecham nodded sagely. “The girl’s in love, all right, and it’s equally obvious that the young scalawag doesn’t appreciate her. Poor dear. I hope none of our girls is foolish enough to fall in love until after she’s married.”
Oran Beecham pinched his wife’s arm. “Are you telling me something I didn’t know?”
She looked up at him and blushed like a schoolgirl. “Don’t go trying to get around me, Oran. You weren’t an extravagantly handsome young foreigner with more money than sense. You worked for a living, that settles a man. I had a sharp eye out for what I was getting, even if I was in love.”
“Just so you were,” Oran answered, and squeezed his wife’s arm more gently. “Now I’ve an errand to run.”
“You’re going to fetch Mr. Milazzo?”
“I am.”
Philadelphia stared at the small French mantel clock as it chimed a quarter past the hour of seven. Eduardo hadn’t returned. She should have known he wouldn’t. She had dressed for nothing.
She took a sweeping turn about the parlor room of her suite in an evening gown of rich corded green silk. The bustle, accented by a huge flat green bow with ends trailing to the floor swayed gently in time to her step while the flounces of her train swished softly over the carpet. She had had to pay a maid to dress her and the expense annoyed her. Had Eduardo arrived in time, he might have laced and fastened her up. But here she stood, in an off-the-shoulder gown whose deep neckline was wreathed in fake jasmine flowers and rose leaves with no place to go.
The sound of the door latch made her forget for a moment just how angry she was when she turned and saw Eduardo enter the room. Without a word, he crossed the room and embraced her, one arm sliding about her waist to draw her in while the other reached up and slid fingers into her hair at her nape. He kissed her ear gently, murmuring apologies in Portuguese.
For a moment, Philadelphia allowed herself only the feeling of unexpected pleasure that came each time he touched her. It wasn’t that the pleasure was unexpected, it was the intensity of the moment, the unchecked recklessness that she’d not yet come to accept as normal. And then she felt his hand at her waist beginning to work the fastenings. “What are you doing?”
“I want you naked,” he said with just a hint of thickness.
She sprang back from him, the unexpected joy replaced by her former annoyance. “You’re drunk!”
He smiled at her, his dimple seductively tucked into the side of his cheek. “Just a little, menina. I’ve found something else American I like, besides you. Kentucky bourbon. You must try it.”
She shook her head in disapproval. “I thought you were without at least one masculine fault.”
Eduardo grinned, then frowned as he rethought the matter. “What masculine faults? I don’t have any faults.”