by Tamara Allen
Funny, how it hurt like the very devil to realize it.
Charlie set the tea cup gingerly on the tray and got to his feet. Will was not going to be happy to learn he was obliged to step out for an encore on Friday; but better the opera than Mrs. Glasspoole’s party. Charlie had suffered through an opera or two in the past and he wasn’t looking forward to another one. He took consolation in the possibility there might be one or two more columns in it. For that, he’d even sit through Wagner again.
All was quiet upstairs and Charlie thought Will might have really gone to bed. His door stood ajar as if he’d been trying to catch the conversation going on in the parlor. That was a strategy in vain, Charlie knew; although it might have been rather more successful where Mrs. Glasspoole was concerned. A peek through the doorway revealed that Will wasn’t abed, but he might as well be. He’d drifted off in the armchair, a book overturned on his knee, and he was frowning in his sleep… No doubt dreaming of what other trouble Charlie might get him into.
Smiling at the notion, Charlie came in and bent to take the book, but that gentle effort woke Will. A cloudy and confused gaze met his. “Is she gone?”
“Everyone’s gone.” Charlie drew up the ottoman and sat. “We have a bit of a complication—”
“Complication?” Will laid aside the book and sat forward, confusion giving way to familiar worry. “Are we found out?”
“No, but we’re invited out and I don’t believe we can say no.”
“Invited out?” The hazel gaze sharpened on him. “You’re not going to tell me you’ve accepted an invitation from Reuben Nesmith? If so, you may consider yourself quite discharged as my private secretary.”
Charlie broke into a laugh. “You’d have a time, replacing me—”
“Charlie.”
“Take a deep breath, Smitty. It’s all right. Mrs. Glasspoole did invite us to her party this Friday, but—hear me out—Caroline came to our rescue with an invitation to the opera.”
Will blinked. “She… Really?” He sat back. “You and me?”
“And Rose. She was just here.” Charlie couldn’t suppress a smile. “And Archie.” Will’s bewilderment returned and Charlie took pity on him. “You haven’t noticed the way Rose and Archie have—ah, noticed each other?”
Will couldn’t seem to summon the energy to make sense of that news. He slumped farther back, closed his eyes, and exhaled a tired laugh. Never did a fellow seem more in need of a distraction… And Charlie knew just the thing. “What do you say to some supper?”
Will settled a somber gaze on him, one that slowly gave way to the gentlest of good-humored reproach. “Thank you, but I’m in no frame of mind for a noisy beer hall—”
“Not what I was thinking. There’s a cafe on West 35th, near the paper. Very French. A garden, orchestra… You’d like it.”
“We can’t go any place we may be recognized. Not when I’m supposed to be too ill to go out.”
“It’s not exactly Delmonico’s…” Charlie paused at Will’s shake of the head. “All right, then. The coffee wagon the Church Temperance Society parked on the square?”
Will groaned, but Charlie heard the humor beneath. Aiming higher, he tried again. “There’s an excellent chop house not far down Broadway. I’ve never seen an Astor or Vanderbilt there.” He fully expected Will to decline that, too, but after a considering moment, Will nodded.
“We may be overdressed for it,” he noted dryly as he rose.
Charlie laughed. “We’ll start a new fashion for eating houses.”
“Imagine the fashion we might have started at the Temperance Society coffee wagon.” Will shrugged off his dress coat. “Let us be less conspicuous. I’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes.”
The restaurant, at that hour, was not unbearably noisy yet, and Charlie was further glad for for the wood fire burning in the grate at a most desirable distance from their table. Once under the benevolent influences of steak, potatoes, and beer, Will seemed a good deal less anxious. Charlie found his own state of mind improved; though he’d admit the truer influence was Will, smiling as he kept up his end of a meandering but lively conversation. Charlie took care to step around the subject of Reuben Nesmith, but Will’s thoughts were clearly full of concern for the week ahead. He said scarcely a word about it, but Charlie could read as much in his increasing quiet. Charlie wondered whether it might do any good to remind him why he’d undertaken the assignment in the first place.
“Have you set a date for the wedding?”
The abrupt turn in the conversation woke a wariness Charlie hadn’t see in a while. Will sat forward in his chair, folding his hands on the table. “We haven’t yet—”
“But it’s in June, isn’t it?”
“That depends.”
“On whether you regain your senses?”
Will’s finely honed reproach lost some of its power in the twitch of his lips. “When I’ve put enough by, we’ll be better prepared to settle on a date.”
“You haven’t officially asked her yet?”
Will drew his hands back to his lap. “Not officially.”
Charlie cocked his head to one side. “Shouldn’t you? If she tires of waiting, she may get clean away.”
Will looked grave. “If she changes her mind, I won’t hold her to any promise.”
“Suppose you change your mind?”
“There’s no danger of that.”
“No?” Charlie was starting to regret switching subjects, but a certain curiosity plagued him. “How long have you two known each other?”
“Well, let’s see…” Will sat back, brows knit. “My father had interviewed her father for a story—”
“Hold a minute. Your father was a newspaper reporter?”
“For a while when I was very young. You needn’t laugh. He was quite good at it. He interviewed Mr. Chapin and they became friends. My parents were invited to dinners at their house in St. George, and once when I was home for the summer, they brought me to a weekend party. I was seventeen and Violet fifteen.”
“Rather a long time courting,” Charlie said.
“We were friends for the better part of ten years. It’s been only in the last year we’ve contemplated the idea of marriage.”
That seemed altogether peculiar to Charlie’s way of thinking. “Were you the last man standing?”
“Don’t be silly. Violet and I are suited to each other. We rarely quarrel, but when we do, we’ve the sense to talk it over so there’s no lingering discontent.”
“How pleasant.”
Will appeared unruffled by the sarcasm. “There are a good many marriages that aren’t pleasant, so I hardly think that’s something to sniff at.”
Charlie looked at him in amazement. “That’s all you want?”
“This isn’t a dime novel love affair, Charlie.”
“Is it any kind of love affair?”
Will sighed. “You and I have had different notions about a number of things—”
“You don’t think falling in love is fairly straightforward?”
“How many times have you been in love?”
For the life of him, he couldn’t answer. He’d been in love—he’d thought—but the sense of something wildly blooming inside him, something that made him want to confess it, no matter how much it might horrify Will—he didn’t remember feeling that before. He’d bedded some fellows and pined in silence for others, but he’d been careful and smart, no matter the regret that might follow; so he could make neither head nor tail of the reckless desire to be utterly stupid over Will.
Whether he was falling in love or just losing his mind… It might be up for debate.
“Charlie?”
Charlie drew a slow breath, trying to ease the ache in his throat. “There’s more to it than gauging the frequency of your quarrels.”
“So…” Will folded his arms. “I must wander about like a lovesick boy, giddy one minute and anxious the next, afraid to say a word to Violet for fear of sounding lik
e a fool?”
Charlie shifted in the chair and dropped his attention to the remains of his supper. “Something like that.”
“You’ll have to forgive me.” Will sounded amused. “It’s just not in my nature.”
Wishing devoutly it wasn’t in his own, Charlie let the subject turn to practical matters. “About tomorrow…” He shook his head. “We may have a few more callers, so you’ll have to confine yourself upstairs for a while. I’ll tell them the same thing I told Mrs. Glasspoole. That’ll give you the better part of a week to recover before you have to make an appearance again. Plenty of time to decide what you want to do.”
“Yes.” Will looked glum. “We’ll have to see how it falls out. Right now, I’ll just be glad for a few restful days at the paper.”
They could be said to be restful, after Sunday brought a stream of well-wishers and more invitations—all of which Charlie regretfully declined. Good news arrived in the form of Reuben Nesmith’s departure for Chicago, but Will seemed as reluctant as ever to make a decision about continuing. Charlie fell back into the routine at the paper, leaning hard on the familiar pleasure of chasing down a story—although he found himself spending a little more time on editing before turning the copy over to Will.
On Tuesday, he slipped into the bookseller’s for a small, second-hand dictionary and hid it away in a drawer to spare himself the inevitable needling from Mert and the rest. As the week progressed, he looked forward to coming back into the city department to lounge on Will’s desk while Will pencilled through his work. He could not give up arguing on behalf of his copy, sometimes indulging in it just for the enjoyment of sparking Will’s keenest exasperation. Charlie had to admit he liked the battles he didn’t win almost as much as those he did.
By Friday, Will seemed restored to his former equilibrium and presented himself at Charlie’s door promptly at five, impeccably attired from head to toe. Charlie, still wrestling with his collar, gave it up to catch a long look at Will in the mirror. “Your hair wants mussing.”
Will’s brows drew together. “I beg your pardon?”
Charlie laughed. “You didn’t learn anything from Mr. Paderewski, did you? The girls are more likely to fancy you if you look as though you won’t be domesticated.” He reached toward Will’s conquered curls, and Will neatly caught his wrist.
“Don’t you dare. I had a devil of a time with it and I can’t start again. Besides, I’ve had quite enough of girls fancying me—” He broke off abruptly and took a seat. “Miss Donnett and Archie are already downstairs, so…”
“I know.” Charlie tugged the tie more or less into place and turned around. “All right?”
Will eyed him dourly. “Your hair wants combing.”
Charlie knew better, but smoothed his hair anyway. “Not too dashing now, is it? I wouldn’t like to show up either of you fellows.”
Will’s smile seemed reluctant at first, only to bloom as if he couldn’t help himself. “I won’t mind when you do.” He rose. “Don’t be much longer or we’ll have no supper.” He went out, mentioning something about an umbrella, but Charlie, his head in the wardrobe as he hunted for his coat, paid it no mind until he was climbing into the carriage alongside Will and noticed the threatening clouds in the distance. But Will had an umbrella and could no doubt be cajoled into sharing it.
Though not as crowded as Carnegie the week before, the Metropolitan Opera House had its share of waiting carriages, enough to keep the small army of doormen, umbrellas in hand, occupied. Disembarking at the covered entrance reserved for boxholders was a vanity-inducing exercise and Charlie was tempted to put on airs as he escorted Caroline inside. She kept him from it by chattering gaily away about attending the performances at the old Academy of Music with her father, and how he’d wanted nothing to do with the new opera house until she’d finally coaxed him to go and he’d subsequently fallen in love with the place. He’d paid dearly for the box, Charlie imagined, and Caroline paid as dearly to keep it. Charlie had always been of the conviction Caroline would sooner lose her house than her opera box.
And for someone who adored opera, it might well be worth it, he mused as they reached the box and he saw the immense stage below, at a most magnificent vantage point. Once the ladies were settled at the front, Archie in the seat behind Rose, Charlie stepped back to let Will have the chair with the better view. Will hesitated. “Are you sure? If you haven’t been before, I shouldn’t like you to miss anything.”
“I don’t think I’ll miss anything.” He waved Will into the chair and took a seat behind him. “Quite the perch, isn’t it? Makes a fellow dizzy to look up.” He glanced at the programme Caroline had passed back to Will. “Lohengrin? Say, isn’t that Wagner?”
Will gave him a curious smile. “Have you seen it?”
“I’ve seen Wagner.”
“Ah. Well, this may suit you even if you don’t care for Wagner.” He handed Charlie the programme and Charlie paged through it without much enthusiasm. The most interesting part, really, was the listing of the names of every boxholder in the house. He fell into looking about, putting names to faces, and was amused to find he wasn’t the only nosy soul in the boxes. While the gentlemen were for the most part engaged in conversations, the ladies appeared to be taking strict note of what everyone else was wearing—at least judging by the manner in which they fondled their own laces and jewels in seeming concern for their adequacy.
That, Charlie found more entertaining than the racket that shortly commenced on the stage; though after a while, despite his lack of German, the racket became somewhat more absorbing. When he grew tired of it, he let his gaze wander again, finding more intrigue in the comings and goings from the boxes and the only half-suppressed chatter. He’d seen a notice posted that discouraged boxholders from conversation, apparently due to the number of complaints from people in the stalls, but the chatter went on. Only a few of the ladies, Rose and Caroline included, sat in rapturous silence with their attention below. Archie seemed as engaged, though his gaze wandered, too—mostly in Rose’s direction, Charlie noted. As for Will…
Charlie was tempted to lean forward and whisper something perfectly indecent in Will’s ear, just to see if he’d hear it. Instead he settled back and kept his eyes on Will, finding more pleasure in that than the drama below. Even so, he was so sleepy-eyed by the finish of the thing, he could only smile agreeably when Will elicited his opinion of it.
A bitterly cold night greeted them at the doors and Charlie was cheered at the thought of going home to a warm bed. It roused him into a more wakeful state when Rose suddenly drew his attention to Lord Belcourt, standing in the company of three young women and an elderly couple. “Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore,” Rose said. “And their daughters. I wonder how ever they came to meet Lord Belcourt? They so rarely attend parties.”
Charlie shook his head. “They need only attend one. From what I’ve seen, Belcourt attends all of them.”
“Shall we go over?” Archie asked.
Neither Rose nor Will seemed enthusiastic at the prospect, but they had no chance to object before Belcourt caught sight of them and came promptly up the sidewalk, his little entourage trailing after. “Good evening, gentlemen! And Miss Mayhew, it’s splendid to find you here tonight. The opera—quite enthralling! I hope you found it so…” His inquiring gaze lit on Archie. “I beg your pardon. Have we met?”
Will introduced Archie, which encouraged Belcourt to make his own introductions. The Whitmore girls seemed wary of Rose, no doubt because of the gossip going ’round, but their parents were kindly if quiet, leaving the telling of their meeting to Belcourt. Carriages came slowly along the curb and departed at an even slower pace because a number of their owners had decided to wait indoors. Charlie could hardly blame them. About to propose that was where they should wait, he found himself more than sufficiently warmed by sharp alarm at the sight of a familiar figure hastening in their direction.
Charlie seized hold of Will and pulled him aside. “I’ve got to
go—”
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“Jake Garber. He’s a Sun reporter and not a friend. Don’t talk to him, whatever you do.” Charlie looked into Will’s anxious gaze and mustered an encouraging grin. “I’ll see you at home.”
Before Will could argue, Charlie slipped into the crowd. It was tempting to glance back, but he resisted it. He’d beaten Garber to a major story just six months ago and he entertained no fond notions that Garber had forgiven or forgotten. Garber was probably hungry for an interview with Belcourt, despite being beaten again by the Herald, and he’d certainly relish the idea of humiliating Charlie in the bargain. Charlie couldn’t believe his sheer luck in avoiding that danger; but he’d left Will vulnerable to Garber’s sly tactics and he’d be worrying about that until he got home.
And that, it appeared, would take a while. He hadn’t the money for a cab, nor even a nickel for the streetcar. He’d spent the last of it at supper. Ruefully he turned up his collar, buttoning his coat, and started down Broadway, trying to stay out of the wind. Though it was only a little over a mile back to the house, it was a long mile as the night deepened and the cold with it. He didn’t think it was cold enough to snow; and he found out for certain when it began to rain.
Losing the lingering hope that Caroline’s carriage might pass near enough for Will to spot him, he picked up his pace, determined to reach the house before he was soaked to the skin. By the time he passed the park, stinging drops had dampened hair and clothes quite thoroughly, and his lungs ached from the cold, forcing him to slow down.
He wasn’t slowed for long. Home was in view and it was a wonderful sight. Rainwater already appeared to be turning to ice on the house steps as he ran up and let himself in to a comparatively warm hall. He went upstairs to his room, to discover on his desk a short article on the opera that Will must have written on the ride home. Will had scrawled across the top of the page, “If you’d care to edit, suggestions welcome.”
