by Tamara Allen
“Violet means to.”
“Does she?” The shift in subject caught Charlie off-guard and he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to encourage it. He tossed the notebook onto the armchair and knelt at the hearth to light a fire. “In a few years?”
“I think she has an earlier date in mind,” Will said with a dry laugh. “She hopes her father will make a wedding gift of it. I’ll admit I’m not keen on the idea.”
“If you expect to take her abroad on an editor’s pay—”
“I don’t.” Will picked up the notebook, settling in the armchair. “Charlie, do you think…” He slumped back. “Am I being so unreasonable?”
“About what? A trip abroad that’ll put you in debt one way or another?”
Will smiled faintly. “Mr. Chapin’s offered me a position. He’s offered us the use of his house here in town. He’d likely fund a trip abroad. I think Violet can talk him into anything.”
Charlie brushed the ash off his hands and stood. “It must drive her mad that she can’t talk you ’round as easily.”
Will absently tapped a pencil against the cover of the notebook. “I don’t know that I’m being fair. Can I ask her to give up the life she’s accustomed to when I won’t give up mine? I might find I like working for a steamship magnate, after all.”
“Maybe she can talk you ’round as easily.” Charlie handed him the papers. “Here. Edit. I’ll write up the Alford copy.”
Will seemed to wake, lifting a puzzled gaze. “I thought you were going out this evening.”
“I’d rather finish these columns and turn them in.” Preferably before Will decided to hand in his resignation. “Besides, I can’t stay out all night if we’ve an engagement tomorrow.”
“Oh. I’ll go back to my room, then—”
“May as well stay here.” Charlie dropped into the chair opposite. “No point in wasting the coal,” he added cheerfully.
The puzzlement lingered, though Will was smiling. “All right. If you can bear up under the sight,” he said, wagging the pencil.
“It won’t be easy,” Charlie retorted. But it would be worth it.
Chapter Eleven
Will woke with the awareness that he wasn’t in his own bed, nor even out of his clothes. In the early sunlight slanting across the blanket, Charlie lay beside him, atop the coverlet and still dressed, too. They’d worked till twelve, writing and revising three columns—and when they should have gone to bed, another possible column’s worth came to Charlie, and Will had remained to help him with the details.
The last thing Will recalled was sitting side by side on the bed, going through one last edit. He’d fallen asleep first, judging by the blanket Charlie had thrown over him; and Charlie, it seemed, had finished the editing.
Will eased the copy from under Charlie’s arm, and rescued the pencil half-buried beneath the pillow. “Charlie?”
That won him an affirmative murmur clearly intended to forestall any further inquiry. Will leaned closer. “Charlie, it’s after eight.”
Charlie sighed. “Mantel clock?”
“Yes.”
“It’s stopped.”
So it had. Will fished out his pocket watch. “Heavens, it’s after nine. And we’ve got to turn in a column before the concert—”
“Plenty of time.” Charlie shifted nearer, and eyes still closed, got a handful of Will’s shirtsleeve. “Stay till it warms up.”
“That won’t be till March.” Will squirmed loose, albeit with some reluctance. He was comfortable, and sleepy yet—and Charlie’s nearness made him all the warmer. He did like Charlie. He couldn’t go on denying it. But fancying Charlie that way… No. The time for risks like that had passed. He was no longer a lonely student at boarding school. He stood on the brink of marriage. He had a precarious new job to worry about. And he knew what such indiscretions led to.
“Charlie…”
“Hmm?” Charlie, still half-asleep, gave the quilt a pat. “Stay till March.”
Will broke into a laugh. “And here I thought you weren’t paying attention.” Slipping out of Charlie’s reach, he rose and gathered the scattered papers. By the time he headed downstairs for breakfast, Charlie had taken up residence in the bath, and Will could hear the chorus of an old drinking song resounding on the tiles. But Charlie was downstairs, and with barely a bite of breakfast, ready to leave at ten. They took advantage of a quiet office to type up the columns and had only just finished when Mr. Holloway made an appearance.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” He looked around the city department at the handful of reporters huddled sleepily over their desks. “There’s a ground-breaking today for the new library in Orange…” He paused, waiting for the collective groan to end. “Who’s for it? You’ll have a chance to nap on the drive up.”
That appeared to give the assignment no greater shine. Mr. Holloway’s gaze moved from desk to desk, narrowing. Charlie had huddled down so far behind his typewriter, Will could see only the crown of wind-mussed curls. The other reporters cowered in mutual terror, waiting for the blade to drop.
“Mr. Kohlbeck.”
The assignment sheet fluttered to Charlie’s desk and he stared at it, then at Mr. Holloway as if ready to protest; but no protest came and Will knew he was reluctant to jeopardize Mr. Holloway’s current good opinion of him.
Standing, Will moved to his side. “Mr. Holloway, I beg your pardon…” He lowered his voice, though he knew every ear in the room was pricked. “We’ve had an invitation to a concert that will be ripe with possibilities for more columns and I don’t know that I can manage it quite as well on my own. If you’d allow—”
“More columns, you say?” Mr. Holloway glanced at the copy in Will’s hand. “What do you have for me?”
“Four finished.” Charlie lurched to his feet, yanking the paper from the typewriter. ‘So far.”
“Not bad.” Satisfaction vied with curiosity in the gaze Mr. Holloway settled on Will. “It seems as though you boys have fixed on a way to work together. By all means, take Mr. Kohlbeck with you to the concert… It’s not by any chance that one at the Music Hall? With the pianist all the ladies are pining over?”
“The very one, sir.”
“Know anything about music, Mr. Nesmith?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you want a piece on the concert?” Charlie asked.
“If Mr. Nesmith cares to try his hand at it.” Mr. Holloway eyed Charlie with some amusement. “If I’m ever keen on a piece about Bowery dance halls, I’ll leave that one to you.” When he turned in search of another hapless soul to doom to the cold, rainy drive to Jersey, Will leaned toward Charlie.
“Sing in the office as well, do you?”
Charlie, to Will’s astonishment, blushed. “I may hum a little, now and then. It helps me think.”
“You might expand your repertoire. There’s a good deal of musical entertainment to be had outside the Bowery. Much of it far superior.”
“Said by a man who’s seen no more of the Bowery than can be viewed from a streetcar.”
“I won’t argue with you. Mr. Paderewski will prove my point.”
“If I’m to sit through that, it seems only fair you should have a taste of what you’re missing.”
Will couldn’t hold back a laugh. “I don’t know if the Bowery would be the best place for us to be seen, under the circumstances.”
“So when the balls are over and you’re back in rags?”
“Then I’ll be a married man.”
“All the more reason to go.”
“Violet might never speak to me again.”
Charlie appeared ready with an opinion on that, but Will was spared by Mert Palmer, who stalked past with the assignment sheet clutched in his hand and simmering annoyance—directed at Charlie—in his eyes. Once Mert was out the door, Charlie’s half-hearted sympathy gave way to unholy glee in a twinkling. “I think I’m coming to like this Paderewski fellow.”
Luncheon was a swift affair of sandwiche
s and coffee on the way home to dress. Even so, it was after two o’clock when they stepped out of the cab at Seventh Avenue and into the mad press of humanity swarming the Hall’s grand lobby. The noise was as bad as the crush, everyone in attendance bright and smiling with excitement. Rose appeared out of the crowd and rushed toward Will, clutching his hand in her eagerness. “I was so worried you wouldn’t arrive in time. We’ve been here for ages.” She glanced at Charlie, seeming to hesitate before plunging in again. “Did Mr. Doolan come home safely last night? It was so terribly dark and he was so kind to see us to our door. I know he went right back out to aid all the other lost souls…”
Charlie grinned. “Don’t worry for Archie. He likes nothing better than rescuing lost souls.”
“Oh, I’m so glad—” Rose seemed suddenly aware of how her enthusiasm might be interpreted and she smiled bashfully at Will. “Come, have a glass of champagne, won’t you?”
As she pulled him along, Rose chattered away and Will didn’t interrupt, though he could hardly hear a word in the clamor around them. Charlie plucked at the back of his coat in an apparent effort to slow him down, but Rose was an unstoppable force, leaving Will no choice but to turn and catch Charlie by the wrist to keep from losing him. Charlie seemed to have no objection to that, and they found Rose’s parents just before the crowd began to move into the recital hall.
Mr. Mayhew led the way to the first row of the dress circle, there seating himself between the ladies and leaving Will the chair beside Rose. If Mrs. Mayhew did not seem entirely at ease with it, she only gave her daughter an admonishing glance at the start of the performance, and Will a politely expectant smile. Charlie leaned over and whispered in Will’s ear. “Restrain yourself, Smitty, or she’ll toss you right over the rail.”
“If she does, you may trust I’ll take you with me.”
A stout, elderly gentleman appeared on the stage and did nothing more than open the piano before making as casual an exit. All the same, a hush fell over the audience and a number of them leaned forward in their seats. Paderewski emerged, a slender, pale figure with the audacious crown of red-gold hair to which no newspaper likeness had done justice.
The applause was swift and thunderous. The gentleman’s expression remained solemn, but Will sensed he was altogether pleased by the welcome. He went to the piano and settled himself as if he were merely practicing at home. What began in fine form with Beethoven, Schubert, and Mendelssohn bloomed into emotional, lyrical magic with Brahms and Chopin. Thunderous notes and tender washed over an enraptured crowd, and Will sat as spellbound while Mr. Paderewski laid bare the soul of every composition, finding an expression more romantic—more human—than any he’d heard before. Charlie seemed to have become as willing a prisoner, still and silent, the awe in his face like an infant’s struck by the first notes of a mother’s song. It wasn’t the first sign of a vulnerable and tender heart Will had seen in Charlie, and he liked it. More than he ought to.
After several encores, Mr. Paderewski’s farewell left the crowd reluctantly waking to the world, a process that involved quite the number of admiring exclamations and an occasional dab of a handkerchief.
Rose’s sigh was wistful. “Isn’t he the most darling man?”
Will refrained from rather too fulsome agreement, but he couldn’t deny that Mr. Paderewski was gifted. Charlie blew out a breath and dropped back against the seat cushion. “Not bad.”
Mr. Mayhew chuckled. “Certainly worth the time we’ll have finding our way out to the sidewalk. But the carriage should be waiting. Will you come to an early supper?”
Charlie hesitated, looking to Will, and Will, uncomfortably aware they’d already taken considerable advantage of their generous hosts, still could not say no to Rose’s beseeching look. Inwardly vowing it would be the last time, he accepted the invitation and agreed to meet them on the corner, should they become separated.
It was inevitable in such a crowd, and only by dint of Charlie’s grip on his coat tail did Will keep from losing him, too. No one seemed in too particular a rush to leave, and some who’d bumped into acquaintances had stopped to talk, creating small dams of humanity around which others had to push to get past. With the doors finally in sight, Will heard someone cheerily call his name and he groaned in remembrance. “Mrs. Glasspoole.” He turned glumly to Charlie. “Did you meet her at the Worthams’ party?”
Charlie looked as glum. “I can safely say everyone met her at the Worthams’ party. That woman’s voice carries like none I’ve ever heard.”
Will had found her endearingly open-hearted and effusive in the first ten minutes of their introduction—and more than a little exasperating ever after. A robust, handsome woman of middle years, good-humored and perpetually crowned with a tiara the queen might envy, Etta Glasspoole was blessed with a voice that might well be heard from one end of Broadway to the other. She was as much a fixture in society as Ward McAllister had once been; and she seemed fond of mentioning that she’d planned more parties in a season than Ward McAllister in his wildest dreams.
She had a way of talking that absolved her listeners of any responsibility in regard to their end of the conversation—and yet her rather innocent, motherly interest could make one feel wanted, all the same. Will had liked her, but after that first meeting, had been careful to stay away, afraid of what she’d uncover with her persistence.
But in the midst of the crowd in the lobby of the music hall, he had nowhere to escape. He caught Charlie by the arm. “Pretend we didn’t hear. Where’s the gentlemen’s washroom? Can we…” He trailed off as Charlie looked only more grave. “No?”
“There’s an overwrought tiara heading our way.”
Mrs. Glasspoole’s tactic for moving swiftly through the crowd consisted of throwing bright greetings in every direction as she went. People seemed too startled to do more than step out of her way. She was upon Will with a more definitive greeting in the form of a gloved hand poised for an affectionate moment on his shoulder. “My dear, I’m so sorry I missed seeing you at Miss Mayhew’s luncheon. I so wanted to tell you something—something quite exciting! Good evening, Mr. Kohlbeck.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Glasspoole.” Charlie appeared to be finding it an effort to suppress his amusement. Will made no attempt to suppress it for him, but poured all his attention into making a quick end of the conversation.
“I should like to hear something exciting,” he prompted, and Charlie’s lips pursed with redoubled effort.
Mrs. Glasspoole clasped her hands together in delight. “Well, it’s just this. I was in attendance at Mr. Dunbar’s grand ball two nights ago and I had the marvelous fortune to run into a gentleman just in town from Chicago—a gentleman by the name of Reuben Nesmith!”
If that served to quell Charlie’s amusement, Will couldn’t say. He was too occupied with the sudden lack of air in his lungs. “I beg your pardon?”
“Reuben Nesmith. A first cousin of Mr. Jonathan Nesmith, I believe he said.” Mrs. Glasspoole beamed. “How fun! I can tell by your face you had no idea he was coming to town.”
Will smiled as if he were finding it as thoroughly fun. “No idea at all.”
She leaned toward him, eyes sparkling with further mischief. “I saw him not five minutes ago—”
“Here?” Will gasped.
“Right here,” Mrs. Glasspoole said triumphantly. “So just stay put and I’ll bring him straightaway.” She patted the hand he had unwittingly pressed to his aching chest. “Don’t wander off, my dear!”
With that, she was gone, leaving him neatly trapped. “Charlie, what are we going to do?”
“Now don’t panic.” Charlie sounded a little short of breath, himself. “You’ve only got to smile and nod. He can do all the talking.”
“Smile and nod? And if he inquires directly about my connection to the rest of the Nesmith clan?”
Charlie stared at him a long minute. “Oh, hell.”
“Can we just leave?”
“Well, it wouldn
’t do my reputation any harm, but yours will suffer.” Charlie’s hand came firmly around his arm. “Smitty, you’re dead white. Take a deep breath before you faint…” He stopped abruptly and the smile that broke across his face filled Will with deepening dread.
“I’m not going to faint—”
“Oh, yes, you are. We’ve already made up the story that your health’s fragile. No one will suspect a thing more. Faint and I’ll get you out.”
“Charlie, respectable people don’t faint in Carnegie Hall.”
“So you’ll have the distinction of being the first. And don’t take too long about it. If she goes shouting for this Reuben fellow, she’ll find him faster than we can get out of here.”
That did promise far greater public humiliation than being hauled half-conscious into the street. Still, the prospect made him unbearably anxious. “Are you sure you can catch me?”
Charlie appeared to be warming up to the idea far too readily. “I’ve got you. But don’t faint dead away. I’m not sure I can carry you to a cab.”
“But—the Mayhews. How will they know?”
“You don’t think everyone will be talking about this till well past bedtime?”
“Oh, God.” Will gave the possibility of simply fleeing the hall a last, desperate consideration. The talk after that would not be in his favor. Charlie was right. “Just…” Will bit back a groan. “This is madness.”
“You can do it.”
“Not convincingly.” But the sympathy alongside the incorrigible good humor in Charlie’s eyes was encouragement enough. Will drew a breath, still so shaken he thought he might well faint, and made a show of putting his hand to his brow and swaying ever so slightly.
Charlie’s hand was at his elbow. “Mr. Nesmith?”
His voice, raised in concern, no doubt drew some attention—and Will didn’t dare wait another moment, afraid someone else might step up in an attempt to help. Praying Charlie wouldn’t drop him, he closed his eyes and gave himself up to the part. A pair of strong arms broke his fall and the gasp in his ear was all too convincing, as if Charlie wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t fainted. They were swiftly surrounded by alarmed onlookers, voices hushed and solicitous. Charlie was quick to reassure them, even making light of it as he maneuvered Will toward the doors. Will kept his head bowed, eyes closed, and stumbled along, grateful at the moment for the perfect aplomb with which Charlie could tell a lie.
