Just as well; I was preoccupied by the thought of poor Frances, so far from home and trying to get a foothold in an uncertain new world. I admit I had not had a lot of sympathy for her at the time. Quite honestly, I have little tolerance for show-offs and I likely would not have hired her if I had known how bad it was. But she was just a girl, in her first big role, and trying desperately to be the woman she wanted to be, not the woman she’d been told she should be.
I could understand that. And perhaps if she’d felt able to confide in me . . .
Not, as I’d told Saint Aubyn, that she would have. And not, considering her background, that she’d have believed much of anything a self-made and self-educated Lower East Sider would have had to offer, in any case. I remembered the disdainful look she gave me more than once when I tried to offer some useful advice, and my irritation. Still, I was the adult. I should have seen the struggling girl, not just the annoying upstart.
I also should have seen the person who almost shoved me into the path of a grocery wagon.
By the time I realized what was happening, I was already off balance, and halfway off the curb. All of that swashbuckling has its uses, though. I managed to catch myself on a lamppost and just barely avoided the hooves. The muddy wheel, though, came close enough to brush the hem of my skirt, and I banged one ankle on the curb.
“Miss!” A gentleman offered me a hand. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I stepped back onto the sidewalk and straightened my hat, biting back a most unladylike curse at the pain in my ankle. “Thank you kindly.”
He bowed. “A pleasure to help a lady. What happened?”
“I don’t know. One moment I was in the crowd at the corner, and the next . . .” I remembered what felt almost like a shove, but in a crush, contact is not necessarily deliberate. “Did you see anything?”
“All I saw was the people moving forward and you stumbling.” My helper, a distinguished-looking fellow of a certain age, gave me a hard look. “Should we call the police?”
“Certainly not. It was just an accident. Part of city life.”
“All right.”
“Thank you for your help.”
“A chance to assist a pretty lady is a much happier part of city life.” He smiled and tipped his bowler. “Good day.”
“Good day.”
Chapter 5
In Which the Priest Stays to Dinner
When I returned from the library, thankfully little the worse for wear, and fortified with a new biography of poor Anne Boleyn, a fascinating illustrated volume on court dress at Versailles, and a promising-looking novel, though I usually find fiction disappointing, I heard voices in the drawing room.
I walked in, to see Tommy and a man in a cassock sitting at the checkerboard and arguing amiably. They looked like opposite sides of the same coin, both very large, with strong Irish features. Tommy had curly, dark auburn hair, and wore a neat, light gray tweed suit; the priest was in black, a few strands of his blond hair spilling over his face as he studied the board.
“Gentlemen, I can hear you in the street,” I said teasingly, placing my book bag on the occasional table.
“Well, if he’d just king me—” Tommy started.
“And if he’d just play by the rules,” his companion cut in.
“‘King me’!” called Montezuma from his perch on a bookshelf. He was also very fond of Father Michael.
“Argue all you like, boys, just don’t scare the neighbors,” I told them loftily, taking out the book on Anne Boleyn and walking toward the chaise. “Good to see you, Father Michael. I hope you’re staying for dinner.”
“Good to see you, too, Miss Ella. Tom already invited me, and Mrs. Grazich is in a flurry.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Mrs. G, also a devout Catholic, takes very seriously the idea of having the priest to dinner. Since Father Michael Riley is a close friend of ours, it happens frequently, but it is never routine for her. We sometimes joke that we invite the good father over in order to get a decent meal, but, of course, Mrs. G is incapable of cooking a bad one.
Tommy helps Father Michael with some of the older boys in the Holy Innocents Parish School when he’s in town—somehow, the Champ telling them to do their homework carries a lot more weight than their teachers—and Father Michael often comes over to visit.
Tommy still goes to Mass as regularly as he can, and I often attend as well. Sometimes we go with Aunt Ellen and the youngest cousins, and enjoy the happy family moment. That’s far more important to me than any religious celebration.
Toms is practically the only one who sees me light candles in my mother’s small pewter sticks every Friday night, more in memory of her than in honor of the God she worshiped. I don’t see the point in choosing one over the other. God made me and knows who and what I am, and He’ll sort it out when the time comes.
In the meantime, Father Michael is wonderful company, in the best Irish tradition, and smart and open-minded, besides. So he’s always welcome at the town house.
Needless to say, I was not going to mention my misadventure at the curb, lest I bring down the full force of Irish male protectiveness upon my head. The less of that, the better, thank you.
While the boys finished their game, I called to Montezuma, and he flew over to rest on my finger.
“Love the birdie,” I said, stroking his silky head.
“ ‘Love the birdie,’ ” he chuckled back.
I started for the studio, since we did not need Montezuma providing commentary at the table, or throwing in on either side of Tommy and the father’s latest play-argument.
“Sing with birdie,” he demanded.
Montezuma loves to vocalize with me, so I just lightly sang a few scales and he followed along as we climbed the stairs. It reminded me of the first time I’d met him. After our initial tour brought in more money than we’d imagined possible, we’d bought the place from an old importer. He was retiring to live with his daughter, and she had absolutely refused to take “that horrid bird.”
The old man had warned me that Montezuma took a long time to warm up to strangers. So I wasn’t expecting much when I walked into the attic. A screech from the rafters had greeted me, and a scraggly-looking ball of green feathers glared down at me.
“Hello, birdie,” I’d said, putting down a bowl of the seeds we’d been told he favored. “Nice to meet you.”
Montezuma had made a horrible noise and stayed where he was. I decided I had nothing to lose by trying to charm him, so I started singing, just a gentle Irish lullaby I’d sung to my little cousins years ago. After a few stanzas, the bird started singing along, and after another chorus, he flew down from his perch. I held out my hand and he landed there. I stroked his scruffy feathers, and after I finished the lullaby, I said, “Love the birdie,” over and over, to reassure him.
Eventually he hopped down and went to eat, and when Tommy came up to see how the introductions were proceeding, we were friends for life. He’d met Tommy during the sale talks, and like all small, vulnerable creatures, he trusted Tommy immediately.
Now, smiling at the memory, I got Montezuma settled with seeds and carrots, made sure there were no mud marks from my brush with the grocery wagon, and went to join the other humans at the table.
Mrs. G was clearly feeling spring-y that night. Dinner was salmon, new potatoes and peas, with a fluffy chocolate mousse for dessert. It was all probably a little too dainty for the boys, who are happiest demolishing a nice beef stew or some such, but I was delighted.
Tommy and I had much information to share from our respective busy days, but first we had to bring Father Michael up to date. He was intrigued by the advent of the Wicked Duke, amused by Toms’s account of the duel and quite saddened by the fate of Lady Frances.
“So it was ruled accidental,” the priest said, looking down at his plate.
“Yes,” I said. “But it’s hard to imagine it was anything other than—”
“Leave her t
o God, then, Miss Ella.”
“What do you mean?”
“It gives your man, the duke, no comfort to know that she drank that poison.”
“No.”
“And you won’t find any answers that help him or the rest of her family.”
“Probably not.”
“Then probably best to just leave it and ask no more. If the coroner was kind enough to leave the door open for an accident, we should, too.”
“I would like to do just that. I don’t think Gilbert Saint Aubyn can.”
“It is terribly hard for a family.” Father Michael nodded. “I guess what I would say to both of you is that you should be kind, and look to giving her family comfort, however you can.”
“We can’t change the outcome,” I said. “They already know the worst.”
“Which is why the best you can do is gently urge them to remember her as she was and be grateful for the time they had with her.”
Tommy nodded ruefully. “You’ve seen this before, Father.”
“Sadly, quite a lot.” He thought about it. “It might also be good for him to know that she was doing well in her work, and that she was very gifted.”
I nodded. “That we can do.”
“Leave out the part about showing off, Heller.”
“Probably.” I took a sip of my mineral water. “All right, what did you learn from Henry?”
“Just what you thought. He wasn’t able to verify the credits in Canada and Chicago.”
“So she just appeared out of nowhere.”
“Basically. Henry didn’t mind . . . much.” Tommy shrugged. “He hates lying as much as we do, but there’s lying and then there’s stretching the truth to get an audition. She was very good, and he was negotiating a contract for the next season in Philadelphia. Four roles, all good ones, and a real start.”
“She knew that?”
“Absolutely. He said she was thrilled, and looking forward to it.”
“As she should have been. If she did well there, she would have been properly launched.” Better than that, I thought. Probably within a season of a New York debut.
“Which makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Father Michael asked, looking closely at me.
“Not just me.” I put down my fork, my appetite ebbing in the face of such serious matters. “I suspect it will raise more questions than it answers.”
“It’s too late to leave well enough alone, isn’t it?” the priest asked.
“I think it was too late the moment Gilbert Saint Aubyn walked into our house,” Tommy observed. “He doesn’t seem the sort of man to give up or accept a comforting lie.”
“What sort of man is he?”
“Well”—Tommy grinned at me—“for that, you should probably ask Heller.”
“So?” Father Michael’s brown eyes twinkled. “That sort of man?”
“He is a fine figure of a man,” I admitted. “He is also a British aristocrat who will soon be an ocean away.”
“But,” said the priest as he took another portion of potatoes, “he’s on our side of the pond at the moment.”
Chapter 6
A Night with the Ink-Stained Wretches
After Father Michael headed home to the Holy Innocents Rectory, Tommy and I decided we needed an evening outing, mostly for social reasons, though it was entirely possible that we might glean a little useful information, too.
Well after the late-spring sunset, I loaded up a basket with Mrs. G’s hermits, and we walked over to the Beacon ’s news office, where several good friends would be happy to see us, and probably, in all honesty, happier for the cookies. There was no rush; it was a morning paper, and there’d be no point in turning up early, since our friends probably would not be there. But we didn’t want to go in too late; in the last hours before the presses roll, friendship falls before the demands of the editor and typesetter. Late evening, before it was really nighttime, was the sweet spot.
As I pinned on my hat, a darling midnight-blue velvet broad-brim with a big bow, and grabbed my coat, also midnight blue, Tommy checked himself in the hall mirror, too. Like me, he’s painfully proper as to dress—our shared legacy of growing up struggling and poor—and he made sure the brim of his dark gray trilby was at precisely the right angle.
I picked up the basket and took Tommy’s arm as we stepped out. Considering where we were going, several crucial blocks away from our comfortable neighborhood, it wasn’t a matter of form, but security. Almost no one would dare to dice with someone as large and dangerous-looking as Tommy, or the lady on his arm, no matter how prosperous we appear. Any of the various ruffians who didn’t recognize Tommy as the retired champ, and surprisingly many did—he’s a hero in certain circles—would take one look and seek easier pickings.
The Beacon’s office was in full swing when we arrived. Tommy has known several of the sports writers for years, and I became friends with one of the other reporters after we worked on a settlement house benefit, so we’re usually welcome, especially since we always bring treats, and are smart enough to disappear if it’s a busy news night.
The first person I saw was Yardley Stern, the Beacon’s top sports writer and a good friend of Tommy’s. I suspect he also has a very mild crush on me, but he’s never acted on it, so we can pretend it does not exist, which I vastly prefer. He looked up from his typewriter and smiled. “The Champ and the Diva.”
I waved the basket. “And Mrs. G’s hermits.”
Yardley’s brown eyes lit up. He’s a grown man, of course, but he has a scrawny, half-starved look like a tenement kid, even though he actually had an almost-comfortable upbringing. These days, the hungry look probably comes from too much coffee and not enough sleep, but he does sometimes forget to eat when he’s busy. Tommy and I have been known to drag him home on occasion to let Mrs. G do her magic. “Why don’t I just take these?”
“Best not be hoarding, Yardley.” My friend Hetty MacNaughten appeared behind him. She looked tired, too, with circles under her eyes visible even behind her wire-rimmed glasses, and several strands of her red hair straggling out of its knot. There was an ink stain on the cuff of her plain white shirtwaist, and the bow of her little black tie was undone, clear signs that she was in the midst of battle.
“There’s plenty for everyone,” I said with a sharp look at Yardley.
He lifted the lid of the basket and offered it to Hetty with a bow. “First dibs for the lovely lady.”
“Thank you, kind sir.” She took the cookie with a wry little glare. The two of them sometimes fight like cats and dogs, especially when he treats her like a woman and not just another reporter. It’s not really his fault; Yardley’s mother, like most, taught him to treat ladies with respect, but not how to treat them as colleagues.
Yardley took his own cookie and then put the basket out on a shelf by the mailboxes, the spot for dainties to share. “Hey, boys,” he called to his fellow writers, “the Champ and his coz brought cookies!”
At least at the sports desk, I’m just the cousin. I assumed that the music critic might see it the other way. I didn’t see anyone else I wanted to greet among the boys; their editor, Preston Dare, is a close friend and informal uncle to both Tommy and me, but he was nowhere in evidence. Probably covering a boxing match, though Toms would observe that it’s just as likely he might be chasing barmaids or shopgirls. Preston would never discuss such things with me. However, I have never seen him treat a woman with anything less than absolute respect, so the barmaids, if barmaids there were, were no doubt in safe company.
Hetty took my arm and pulled me toward her little corner. She’s one of only two women reporters, and spends most of her time doing ladylike features for the “women’s page.” She’d really like to be covering Tammany Hall, or the latest juicy murder, but like most of the rest of the world, newspaper editors have a particular idea of what women can and cannot do. And there’s no such thing as a trouser diva in news, so she can’t even dress up and swing a sword once in a while.
>
“So what is it today, Mrs. Astor’s latest costume ball?”
She scowled. “So much worse. The new spring hats.”
“Ugh.”
“Ugh, indeed. However, I have also convinced Morrison to let me do a feature on lady baseball fans a week from Saturday.”
“So you’ll be able to go out in the yard with Yardley?” I asked impishly.
She smacked me with yesterday’s edition as I laughed. “Never mind that. I’m also going to work in an account of the game, so Morrison can see that I can write sports.”
“Good for you.” I smiled.
“And, yes, Yardley has agreed to escort me.”
“Good for you both.”
Hetty gave me a dirty look over her glasses. “You wouldn’t like me matchmaking for you.”
“You know I’m not matchmaking.” I put my hands up. “I just like watching you two argue.”
“Probably need to find someone for you to argue with.”
“I get plenty of arguing with Tommy,” I reminded her. “And I’m not in town long enough for anything else.”
“True enough. You’re doing the big settlement house benefit in a couple weeks, though, right?”
“Of course. Marie and I are putting on the Balcony Scene.” Marie de l’Artois, my closest friend in the opera world, does not tour because she won’t leave her children, but she’s the best Juliet (other than Lentini) there is.
“Excellent. So she’s back to singing?”
“She was vocalizing three days after Joseph was born, but didn’t want to appear in public until she trimmed down a bit. It’s apparently harder to get back into shape after the third one.”
Hetty looked significantly at me over her glasses. “You told her to go see Dr. Silver?”
“I didn’t have to. She asked me. All taken care of.”
My doctor, Edith Silver, very quietly helps married ladies limit their families. Hetty and I, and a number of other progressive-minded women, do what we can to support her. For me, that mostly means slipping an extra check in with payment for my occasional visits for throat trouble. We’ve all seen women we loved worn out—and sometimes dead—from too much childbearing. While none of us are willing to make a public matter of it, we’re glad to help where we can.
A Fatal Finale Page 4
