by Sydney Avey
What was the occasion that brought her to the tea room on a Thursday? Loneliness and boredom: conditions not of circumstances but of the soul, she was coming to realize. The miner’s wife looked to be neither lonely nor bored. How did Madame Cyrette manage to migrate from a shack in Montana, to a shop in Idaho, to a life of leisure in Southern California? Nellie had to know.
R
It turned out that Madame Cyrette’s view of a fashionable neighborhood was Venice of America. Developed a decade before by Abbott Kinney, the area struggled to live up to Kinney’s vision of an art and cultural center. Ornate Venetian style buildings vied with an amusement pier that featured lowbrow entertainment, and the Philistines were winning the competition. No matter, when Nellie stepped out of a lift and onto lush green carpet in a hallway smelling of fresh beeswax, she concluded that Madame Cyrette likely never set foot on the pier.
The warm glow from the mahogany wood wainscot played well with the rich cream-colored wallpaper adorned with sketches of French courtiers frolicking in the woods. Nellie found her way to a tall door encased in ornately carved trim. She tapped a brass door knocker. A maid opened the door and stepped aside, allowing Nellie to enter. Nellie spoke a few words of greeting and offered her card to the expressionless young woman, who glanced at it quickly and beckoned Nellie to follow her.
Without a word, the maid ushered Nellie into a tastefully appointed room, where the exquisitely robed lady had arranged herself on a velveteen divan, prepared to serve tea against a decor that was a symphony of rich brown hues.
Nellie chose a tapestry-patterned Louis XV armchair to settle into and murmured thanks to the silent domestic who served her lavender tea and slightly stale lemon shortbread cookies.
“Thank you, Maria, you may leave us now. Go do the shopping, why don’t you.” As soon as she heard the front door close, Mrs. McGregory launched into the story of her transformation into Madame Cyrette.
“When the lease was up on my little shop, the landlord and I were unable to come to a new agreement. I felt it would be uncharitable of me not to give my husband a second chance, so I returned to Montana. Good people had contributed to a fund for injured miners, and it appeared that we might be able to purchase a new house. It seemed that he had pulled himself out of his alcoholic abyss, but to my sorrow, his sobriety proved short-lived.” Her eyes filled. Teardrops formed on her long, dark lashes. They glittered in the morning sunlight that streamed in through the window. She drew a handkerchief from the pocket of her Chinese kimono and touched the corner of her eye, drawing the moisture without removing the Vaseline that made her lashes shine.
“Mrs. Scott, I’ve left him for good to his boisterous friends, his whiskey, and his coarse ways. I did the right thing, wouldn’t you say?”
The crumpled face of the damaged man floated before Nellie. “I … suppose.” Her voice trailed off. The older she got, the less she liked being asked to rubber-stamp the actions of others.
Madame lifted her teacup to her lips in such a way that Nellie could not help but notice the large diamond ring that now replaced the thin gold band. “I moved to San Francisco to learn dress design and then I moved here, where I have found great success.”
“Evidently.” Nellie smiled. “How did you manage that?”
Madame’s face froze and then defrosted as quickly as Nellie imagined she had dispelled thoughts of her suffering husband. “I had a benefactor, shall we say, and leave it at that?”
Steps in the hall alerted them that the maid had returned from her errands. When she entered the room with a fresh teapot, Nellie declined and began to rise from her chair, but her hostess implored her to stay.
“It’s not often I have the company of another woman who understands the rigor it takes to do what we have done, Mrs. Scott.”
Nellie raised her eyebrow. “And what is that?”
“We have achieved independence and career success, wouldn’t you say? Of course, the hard work is over and done for me.” She shooed the maid out of the room. Reaching into her lavish robe, she pulled forth a money belt from its hiding place around her waist. She emptied the contents onto a heavy gold charger that sat on the low table beside the silver tea set. Sparkling gems, clear and white, spilled into the dish. Next, she retrieved from deep within her bosom a chamois-skin bag she wore, filled with sapphire stones.
“I keep these darlings close to my skin, my dear Mrs. Scott.” She flushed with pleasure. “I love them more than anything in the world.”
A tap at the door drew the maid from the kitchen. Madame Cyrette scooped up her darlings and sent them back into hiding just as Maria brought her mistress an embossed card and set it down on a silver card tray in plain view. Mr. Arthur Clarke, Realtor, the card read. Madam dismissed Maria with a nod and then turned to Nellie. Touching her bosom with one hand, she raised the other hand to her mouth and placed the tip of her forefinger to her lips. Shhh shush. Was there more to this subterfuge than the story madam was telling?
“Ah, Madame Cyrette, so good to”— a good-looking young man swept into the room with the proprietary air of a tomcat—“see you.” The warmth drained from his eyes when he spotted Nellie. Recovering quickly, he caught up madam’s hand and pressed his lips to her fingers. When he raised his eyes to appraise Nellie, she tucked her hands under her skirt and gave him a curt nod.
The maid returned with refreshments for the new guest. She locked eyes with the young man. Then she drew up a chair for him next to her mistress. Mr. Clarke took the seat, crossing his legs in the way of men who feel at home in their surroundings. Nellie, who guessed this was not the benefactor, watched as he worked himself into a fever over the wonderful values in real estate and the fortunes women were making. Her hostess hung on every word, placing her hand over her heart now and then. Whether it was a gesture of wonderment at the gentleman’s wisdom or an unconscious check on the safety of the little bag nestled between her breasts, Nellie did not know.
After Mr. Clarke had excused himself, Madame Cyrette confessed what Nellie already knew. She had never revealed the details of her former life to her new friends. The discordance between the miner’s wife Nellie had met several years ago, and the redolent Jezebel who now sat before her made Nellie’s head hurt. Again, she made signs of leaving, but Madame Cyrette leaned across the tea table and laid her hand on Nellie’s arm. “Arthur is such a wonderful companion. He takes me to dinners at the San Gabriel Mission. We go for walks on the beach and dances at the Ambassador Hotel.” She continued to restrain Nellie. “He drives a little red roadster, and we tour the streets where the movie stars have their beautiful homes.”
Nellie’s impatience grew. She extricated herself from the grip her hostess had on her arm and made her excuses, more firmly this time. The maid was quickly on hand with Nellie’s coat.
As she made her way back to her utilitarian hotel room, where court reports in need of transcription piled up on the writing desk that doubled as a bedside table, she puzzled over the twists and turns life takes. In truth, Mrs. McGregory had risen from circumstances meaner than any she had experienced, yet Nellie saw no life of leisure ahead for herself. Would she be happy in Madame Cyrette’s present situation? She shuddered at the thought and resolved never again to allow curiosity to tempt her to play the voyeur.
R
In the months that followed, Nellie often thought about Venice of America’s doyenne. When had the comfort from sorrow the woman sought in dreams of a better of life and the diversion of creative work turned into a steely-eyed love of money? Nellie searched her own heart for traces of avarice and burned with shame when she recalled arguments with John over bettering their circumstances. It wasn’t about money, she told her heart. It must not have been about independence or career success either. She had a good measure of both, and still, she was dissatisfied. What, then?
Nellie chanced to be at the court reporter’s table on the day Jack McGregory made an appearance to petition the court. Nellie did not recognize the miner u
ntil he began to tell his story in a boozy Irish brogue. Careful to keep her fingers moving on her stenotype machine, she looked up at the petitioner. His hair was combed, his clothes were clean, and he was missing a hand.
“You have come to town to identify the body of your wife, Marianne McGregory, also known as Madame Cyrette?” The judge spoke kindly.
The miner stood before the judge and removed his hat. “Yes, sir. It were she.”
“And you wish to take her back and bury her in Montana, even though she was not living with you as your wife?”
The miner dropped his head and shuffled his feet a bit. “Yes, sir. She were the mother of my only child. I don’t want her put in a pauper’s grave. She should lie beside her child.”
The judge set his elbows on the bench and rested his chin on his folded hands. “The lady in question was hardly a pauper, but it is true. Due to the circumstances of her death, and the fact that her fortune has not been recovered, it is likely she is headed for potters field.”
The judge handed a file to the bailiff. “I am referring to Exhibit A.” He looked at Nellie. “Please prepare this newspaper article to be entered into the testimony.”
The bailiff handed the file to Nellie.
“Mr. McGregory, I am going to grant your petition. You are a man of honor, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I don’t see many honorable men in my courtroom. My condolences on the loss of the mother of your child.”
Nellie thought about going forward to offer her condolences as well, and then she thought better of it. She did not want to answer any questions concerning what she knew about Madame Cyrette. Let him remember her as he chose.
When the judge adjourned the court session for the day, Nellie gathered her things and retired to a corner of a small courthouse office where she could transcribe her notes. She set up her desk and reread the newspaper clipping in the evidence folder.
Body Identified, Maid, Local Realtor Sought
VENICE, CA--The mutilated, stripped body of a middle-aged woman found on a lonely stretch of arroyo outside the city last week has been identified as Mrs. Jack McGregory, formerly of Copper Butte, Montana. Known locally as Madame Cyrette, the former shopkeeper lived in elegant rooms in a Venice of America apartment that was reported to have been looted of all valuables.
A maid who was in the employ of Mrs. McGregory has also been reported missing. Police have an APB out for Maria Hernandez as well as Mrs. McGregory’s close companion, local Realtor Arthur Clarke, who disappeared about the same time as Miss Hernandez.
The miner buried his wife on the bleak, black hillside of Copper Butte, alongside the baby boy she “loved more than life.” Her surrogate “darlings” were never recovered. The Realtor and the maid were never found.
13 - Love’s Broken Dreams
13
Love’s Broken Dreams
Nellie often pondered the miner’s wife’s fate—Mrs. McGregory, grieving mother and put-upon wife; Mrs. McGregory, aspiring fashion designer and failed shopkeeper; Madame Cyrette, self-invented socialite undone by a scheming flatterer. At what point had her life taken a turn that sent her hurtling to the grave? Life is like working the mines, Nellie wrote in her journal. We labor in the dark, never knowing how close we may have come to tapping gold or triggering disaster. Only God knows.
“Only God knows,” her mother used to say when Nellie asked questions Amanda did not care to answer. Surely to dream about employing one’s talent to rise above a bad situation was not unworthy of God’s blessing. But if broken dreams are not God’s way of derailing us from the tracks to hell, might they be His way to test our mettle for the journey ahead? Nellie shook that thought from her head. Before she could acknowledge that she did not believe in such an interfering God, her thoughts jumped the rails. It came to her that it was not fashion design Mrs. McGregory had failed at, it was love.
A deep sadness wrapped soft fingers around her heart. She had always supposed that her dreams were born of a hunger similar to Mrs. McGregory’s, not for bodily sustenance, but for nourishment that satisfied a curious mind and fed an adventurous soul. In truth, she was living that dream, but at its core, it was cold comfort. When had she stopped believing in love? She knew exactly when.
R
Kansas, 1878
When Nellie was sixteen, Eustace made good on his promise to visit Kansas. The elegant young man arrived by train with no entourage or fanfare. Nellie accompanied her father and oldest brother to the train stop, putting a calculated distance between herself and the two men as they stood waiting beside the tracks.
At the sound of the distant whistle, her heart beat wildly against the steel stays of her corset. Clanging and clattering filled her ears. She didn’t hear her brother’s admonishment to stand back from the tracks. Everything on the ground receded from her awareness until the train came into view. The tug of a stranger’s fingers on the sleeve of her dress caused her step back, throwing her off balance.
The train pulled into the station and settled on the tracks like an overlarge person sinking into a chair, weary from exertion. Nellie raised herself on tiptoe so she could see above the heads of those who crowded in front of her. Disembarking passengers were greeted with handshakes or embraces.
Did she get the date wrong? Did he miss the train? Nellie stared at the recessed doorway. There he was! A slight gentleman carrying one piece of luggage stepped lightly from the train and made straight for the men. He introduced himself and shook hands, first with her father and then her brother. Nellie waited quietly, shifting from one foot to the other while the men exchanged pleasantries. She strained her ears to catch his words. Surely he was aware of her presence. Finally, her father pointed in her direction, and Eustace turned to stare blankly into the small group of people who were rapidly dispersing around her.
Dressed in her Sunday best, Nellie pulled herself up to her full height of five foot two inches, raised her chin ever so slightly, and composed her lips in a practiced smile—warm but not too wide, welcoming but not immodest. The young man’s face lit up. He bounded over to her and chucked her under the chin!
“You must be Nellie.” He flashed his perfect white teeth in a grin appropriate for artless children or cute puppies.
How dare he! Even John didn’t treat her like a child. Nellie took a step back and extended her hand. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Carver.”
The young man bowed his head, brought his lips together, and brushed them lightly over the back of her hand. He raised apologetic eyes to hers. “Please, call me Eustace.”
“And you may call me Nellie.” She allowed her hand to rest briefly in his before pulling away.
Back at the ranch, Nellie’s father quickly exhausted the topics of conversation he was prepared to discuss with gentry and excused himself to attend to fence repair. Her mother settled their guest in the spare room and then left it to Nellie to entertain the gentleman in the parlor. Buck up, buttercup, he’ll come around, Nellie told herself, and she began her campaign to win his affection.
While her mother worked her garden in the mornings and devoted herself to a women’s club literacy project during the afternoons, Nellie and Eustace sat on the front porch watching the road, talking about the suffrage movement—he was for it—and the demise of the thirty-cent coin—he was against it. When the heat of the day drove them inside, they read to each other and played cards.
On the third day of his visit, Eustace reached into his pocket. “I almost forgot, Nellie; I have something for you.” He handed her an elongated velvet box.
Good things come in small packages, her mother often told her. Her head buzzed with delicious anticipation. Of course, it wasn’t a ring, but in her imagination, she could feel his gentle hands fix the clasp of a promise necklace around her neck. She lifted opened the box.
It took every ounce of will she had to hold back the tears that wanted to come. In her chest, a burning ball of lead settled where once her heart had beaten. Widen
ing her eyes, she forced a smile. “I love”—she rolled the slim tool between her fingers and the palm of her hand, feeling the weight and smoothness of it—“the pen. Thank you, Eustace.”
That night, Nellie unpinned the hair she had so carefully arranged on top of her head. The next morning, she drew her hair back in a braid, looped it low on her neck, and fastened it in place. At breakfast, she asked her mother to purchase a bottle of India ink when she went to town.
R
Nellie began to observe Eustace, making notes in her journal about amusing mistakes he made trying to adapt himself to his new surroundings. Dressed in a Norfolk suit more appropriate to a round of golf, he asked John about hunting conditions in Kansas.
“I am most interested in a recently relocated herd of elk I have read about,” he told the ranch foreman, who gave a surly grunt in reply but saddled a horse for Eustace nevertheless. Eustace proved to be an excellent horseman. They didn’t find elk, but at the interloper’s insistence, John took him to visit Helen. After that, Eustace did not require so much of Nellie’s company.
Nellie set her thoughts to paper.
Dear Diary,
Eustace is the most elegant man I can imagine. As hard as I have tried, he fails to notice that I have the wit and winsomeness a man of his stature requires in a companion. He spends all his time with a girl who has not eyes to see what manner of man stands before her. I will give him credit for his compassion for poor Helen. If I were a good Christian, I would have to confess a querulous spirit over his attentions to the mite. It is not in my nature to be so grouchy, but there it is.
It was not until many months after Eustace returned to the East that Nellie learned the young man had set himself the task of making a new life possible for Helen. It was all the buzz at church. He had enrolled her in a school for the blind near his home and sent her a train ticket.
