“Between you and me and the lamppost, I’m not even sure about the vote.”
“Votes for women!” Montezuma called; there’d been suffrage marches in Washington Square Park in recent years, and he’d picked up the chant. All he had to hear was the word “vote.”
“Heresy,” Tommy said, looking closely at me.
“I know the vote is what would make us real citizens, but some of us can’t manage to get work to feed ourselves—or do it safely in these dresses. What good is being a citizen if you aren’t even able to take care of yourself and your family?”
Tommy shook his head. “You are pretty pessimistic tonight.”
“Discouraged, I guess, thinking about poor Frances. She tried so hard to become something else, only to end up dead, thanks to a beauty treatment.”
“Not just a beauty treatment, if you’ve been telling it right. A sickness with food, and using a very dangerous emetic.”
“Well.”
“Don’t overstate it, Heller. If she was using the medicine, she was already risking her life. She may not have thought the consequences through, but she wasn’t a poor innocent.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s an insult to her to deny her that much.” Tommy shrugged. “Even if she thought she was better than us—”
“You felt the disdain, too?”
“At least once. It didn’t make sense until we knew where she came from. Of course, she wasn’t going to take anything, no matter how well meant, from a couple of jumped-up Lower East Siders.”
“Even if they were paying her salary.”
“Especially, then.” He gave me a significant glance. “Nobody particularly likes criticism, and one way to discount it is to discount the people giving it.”
“True enough.”
“Looking down on us was probably the only power she had.”
“Like Juliet.”
He sighed. “I am incredibly sick of Juliet. There is no way we are touring with Capuleti next time.”
“Never.”
“Good.” Tommy looked down at his book. “I could get used to the Wars of the Roses.”
“Plenty of intrigue, blood and scandal.”
“Not like our boring civilized time.” He laughed at that. “Although, if I must choose between warring armies coming up my street and a little boredom, I’ll take boredom.”
“Very true.” I held up a plate of Marie Antoinette’s silver wedding gown, with panniers so wide she had to go through doors sideways. “See what I mean about the way clothes restrict the woman?”
“Well, you’d have a point if we still made you wear that.”
“Miss, I think you should see this.” Rosa walked into the drawing room. She was carrying the Illustrated News, one of her beloved yellow sheets. If she’d asked my opinion, I would have suggested the Beacon for reading to improve her English. Rosa’s family came from Italy when she was just a babe in arms, and they still spoke Italian at home. But admittedly, the reputable paper wasn’t nearly as much fun, and what really mattered was that she was reading.
“What is it?” I asked, putting my book down.
“I don’t think you’re going to like this.” She handed me the paper, folded to the gossip column “The Lorgnette.”
As a singer of some standing, I did occasionally find my various comings and goings chronicled there. But Rosa was right, this one was different:
Has someone touched our boyish diva’s girlish heart? Miss Ella Shane has been seen walking out with a tall, dark gentleman with an unmistakable English accent. Surely, we cannot allow a foreigner to scoop up yet another of our treasures. “The Lorgnette” calls on all patriotic bachelors to do their part to keep our diva where she belongs!
“Argh.” I tossed the paper to Tommy. “Thanks for showing me, Rosa. You know there’s nothing to it.”
She giggled. “Well, almost nothing.”
Tommy chuckled. “I suppose we should brace for the invasion of the bachelors.” He cracked his knuckles. “I do need to keep in form.”
We all laughed, which was precisely what such foolishness deserved. Rosa took her paper back and scooted off, nearly mowing down Mrs. G as she stuck her head in the drawing room. The cook just laughed.
“Dinner is ready,” she announced. “I’m leaving coffee and some nice gooseberry tarts if the Abramovitzes and their sweet little boy come by.”
“Thanks, Mrs. G.”
“A pleasure. You two are too quiet when you’re alone. You need someone to liven you up.”
We laughed.
“And really your wild friends aren’t so bad. Even those hellion sports reporters are just good boys at heart.”
“Thanks,” Tommy said. “I’ll tell Yardley that.”
“Don’t you dare! He’ll come sniffing around for cookies more than he already does.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, that nice Mr. Dare is welcome anytime.”
We looked curiously at her for a moment, but she didn’t offer anything more than that as she swept out. She shared a small flat with a couple of nearly grown children within a reasonable walk. Rosa lived with her parents and five sibs, also not far away. Many people in the neighborhood still have servants living in the attics . . . but the top of our house is my studio, and it all feels too, well, subservient to me, anyway. They do very good work for us, we pay them well above the going rate in the neighborhood, and it’s much fairer and more comfortable for everyone.
I know a lot of people who grew up as Tommy and I did would probably relish having their own servants to order around, but that’s just not how either of us is made.
After saying good night to Rosa, I settled Montezuma upstairs; it was heading for his bedtime, anyhow, and while parrots are very pretty and interesting creatures, they do not mix well with small children. Tommy and I took our time wandering into the dining room and settling into the meal, both of us bringing our books as we often did when alone together. Dinner turned out to be a tasty chicken pie, simple and delicious. We’d had the traditional fish, of course, last night; no Catholic in the City would eat meat on Friday, even after Lent.
The meal was happily demolished, the dishes rinsed and stacked (not necessary, of course, but anyone who can feel comfortable leaving a mess for another person to start her day is not anyone I want to know). We’d returned to the drawing room and our books when the doorbell rang.
* * *
Louis and Anna would have been treat enough, but they had indeed brought the Morsel, who seemed to be in a surprisingly sunshiny mood for a three-year-old at nearly eight p.m.
“Shabbat Shalom,” I said. “Did you have a good Havdalah?”
Anna laughed. “We went to Louis’s mother’s to end the Sabbath. It’s always crazy. More than this place when the Boston sports writers are in town.”
Tommy grinned. “Nothing’s as bad as that.”
“Hey, Mr. Champ!” the Morsel said, walking up to Tommy and putting his arms up.
Tommy knows his place. He scooped up little Morris for a piggyback ride. Since Toms is far and away the tallest and largest person the Morsel has ever met, he’s always pressed into service. I suspect it’s also because if you’re going to ride around on top of the world, you want to do it on the back of someone who makes you feel absolutely safe and comfortable—and that would certainly be Tommy.
I got Louis and Anna settled, then poured coffee, making sure to leave tarts for Tommy and his driver.
“So we are madly researching for The Princes in the Tower,” I said, nodding to Tommy’s book. “Marie and I are both very excited.”
Both beamed and Louis nodded. “We’re looking toward a fall premiere, right?”
“Yes. I think you and I work on the score on the Western tour, and Marie and her teacher work back here. We’ll be ready long before the fall, but it’s good to start early.”
He nodded gravely.
“And we can’t wait, of course.” I took a sip of coffee. “Anna, your l
yrics are amazing. Of course, you’ll be properly credited.”
The two looked at each other. “Can we do that?” she asked.
“Should we?” he questioned her.
“Why not?” I shook my head. “She wrote it. Of course, she would be listed as lyricist.”
I looked at the two of them for a moment, worried that this would somehow change the balance between them. I really hoped Louis was not one of those men who figured whatever his wife did was simply for his greater glory, and she didn’t deserve acknowledgment of her own. Even in our more enlightened age, and even among basically good men, there are far too many who . . .
And he wasn’t one. He took both of Anna’s hands. “Abramovitz and Abramovitz.”
She grinned right back. “Perfect.”
“Baby pie!” the Morsel proclaimed, grabbing his tart with one of his chubby little starfish hands.
“That’s one way to put it.” Tommy straightened his hair and tie as he sat down with us. “Are we talking about The Princes in the Tower?”
“Yes. Lots of rehearsal and preparations.”
Tommy drank his coffee thoughtfully. “And logistics. We’ll be able to sell out a good-sized theater, so I’ll get to work on that right now. Probably want to think about a little publicity. You and Marie should do a carte de visite like that painting of the princes.”
I sighed. Posing for publicity photographs is one of my least favorite activities. I can’t move and sing like I do in the role, so I have to stand there, looking somehow . . . interesting. Horrid.
“It’s for the show. I know you hate being put on display, but you have to do it, Heller.”
“I know. But I don’t have to like it.”
“I’ll make you two the loveliest black velvet doublets and hose, and you won’t mind at all,” Anna assured me. “You know you’ll be just beautiful together.”
“Well, there’s that,” I admitted. It would be a lovely picture, if we could survive the posing for it.
We spent the next half hour or so happily planning the show, with the Morsel occasionally horning in, until Louis and Anna decided it was really far too long past his bedtime.
As they walked out, Anna scooping up her boy and rubbing his back as he dozed on her shoulder, I thought about poor Frances again. She had surely fit Marie’s model of a woman who’d chosen not to marry and barely noticed children, including sweet little Morrie.
But as I shook off that sad thought, I realized that Louis might know better than Henry Gosling about her teacher.
“Do you know if Violette was working with anyone?”
“Yes. Desiree LaFontaine.”
“I didn’t know she was teaching.” LaFontaine had been, if not exactly a rival of Lentini’s, which implies someone on the same level, certainly a contemporary with no love lost.
“I don’t think a lot of people do. But she takes on, as they like to say, a few promising students.”
“Ah?”
“Ones who can pay, of course.”
“Right.”
“I wouldn’t have recommended her,” Louis said, his eyes serious behind his glasses. “I accompanied LaFontaine a few times, and she’s not a kind person. Not good for a young singer.”
“Would she have pushed her into repertoire she wasn’t ready for?”
“I honestly don’t know. Why?”
“She had some pretty difficult music in her trunk.”
Louis’s brows drew together. “She was sounding a little raspy in her top register in those last few weeks, at least in vocalization.”
“Really?”
“Yes. She didn’t have a cold, so I didn’t know what it was. Pushing her voice into something she wasn’t ready for would do that.”
“You’re right.” I nodded. “I guess I will have to talk to Desiree LaFontaine.”
Louis’s mouth twisted. “Hope you can find something better to do first.”
Chapter 21
Shall We Dance?
Sunday morning found Tommy and me at Mass at Holy Innocents. One of the things I truly love about our neighborhood, and New York in general, is that while almost everyone knows who we are, nobody says anything at such times. I do my part by wearing a plain black silk dress and simple veil, to fit in with all the other respectable, but not rich, Irish ladies at the service. However, there’s no doubt that my fellow parishioners are following an unspoken agreement. For my good neighbors, and many other New Yorkers, the famous are only famous when doing whatever it is they are famous for.
This Sunday was especially nice, since Aunt Ellen and the two youngest cousins joined us for Mass. They live in a very nice little brownstone a short walk away, and actually in a different parish, but Aunt Ellen still likes to come over and check on her oldest chicks on occasion. The last two cousins at home, both girls, are ten and twelve now, and she was taking them uptown to one of the museums for most of the day. We don’t see each other every day anymore, of course, but Aunt Ellen is still very important to Tommy and me. Going to Mass with her had that good old home-days feeling.
On the way out, she hugged us both, reminded me to watch out for the troublesome tall, dark man from her dream, then made us promise to come over for tea soon. It wasn’t a request. After a few minutes of happy family chatter, I slipped away from her and Tommy to light a candle for my father.
I have only Aunt Ellen’s and my mother’s memories of him, and the vague idea that he probably looked a bit like a redheaded Tommy, but Mama always described him as a good man. He was loving and protective, to the last, when he ordered her to keep me, a weeks-old baby, as far from him as she could, lest I catch the typhoid that killed him. As I’ve been known to do, I reminded God that He brought them together, and He’d best let them stay that way in the next world.
Outside, Aunt Ellen had taken the girls off on their improving mission, and Father Michael and Tommy were standing on the steps, chatting with a few neighborhood children and their mothers. I joined in for a few happy sentences about the spring weather and when we might see lilacs. Then Tommy and I took the long way home through the park, soaking up a little sunshine, and, amazingly, not meeting anyone we knew, or who knew us. The fact that most of our friends would still have been asleep (for any number of reasons, not all questionable!) probably had something to do with it.
That afternoon, I had an unavoidable engagement. Appearing socially is part of a diva’s job, but I’ve never been entirely comfortable with it, and certainly not with singing for my sandwiches at “little musicale tea dances.” Society matrons are fond of holding these torture sessions in hopes of impressing each other with their good taste and—more to the point—social importance. But for the performers, it’s awful; we’re neither truly guests nor servants, and we must be on better-than-best behavior at every second. Horrid for anyone, but especially for a naturally shy girl who had to learn her fancy manners long after everyone else had. I was sewing piecework and scrubbing floors when Mrs. Corbyn and her ilk were starting dance and deportment lessons, after all.
So I prettied up with about as much enthusiasm as Anne Boleyn on that May morning when she was waiting for the warden to lead her to the scaffold. Probably less, since by that point Anne was ready to be a martyr. Not me, by a long shot.
“You don’t have to go to Mrs. Corbyn’s tea dance if you don’t want to,” Tommy assured me as I fussed with my hair at the foyer mirror.
I sighed. “You could come with me.”
“Not on your tintype, Heller. I don’t go to those dainty society things.”
“More like open season for patronesses and stage-door Lotharios,” I said irritably. “I’ll have to sing something I hate, listen to the august ladies hold forth on their love of opera while looking down on me, and then dance with sweaty-palmed swells with nothing good on their minds.”
Tommy scowled. “Maybe you should skip the dancing.”
“Maybe you should come and glare at them.”
“Sorry.” He picked up his co
at. “I promised Father Michael I’d go to dinner with one of the parish families this afternoon.”
“Why did you agree?”
“He doesn’t want to be the main dish at the Scaramuccis’ Sunday meal. And who can blame him?”
It was true. The female Scaramuccis are the sweetest ladies you will ever meet, and terrific cooks, too. The male Scaramuccis are just as sweet, but at a significantly higher volume, and the entire family around a table can be intimidating. Father Michael, God love him, is a bit shy in crowds, as am I, and will bring Tommy along for moral support when he can.
“At least you’ll be helping someone.” I pulled the open neckline of my lavender taffeta frock a fraction higher. “I’ll just be trying to stop Grover Duquesne from helping himself.”
“I don’t like that man.”
“Neither do I. Hopefully, I can get away without a waltz. Rosa couldn’t get the sweat stain off the waist of the last dress I wore for one of these things.”
“Nasty.”
“And then some. You boxers at least get to wear sports clothes for battle.”
My hansom cab pulled up. Tommy handed me my wrap and looked down at me, quite sternly.
“Watch yourself, all right?”
“Always.”
* * *
It was an amazingly short ride for such a jump in social prominence. The Corbyns have yet to escape to the toniest precincts on the edge of Central Park, staying in their older manse near the Ladies’ Mile. That did not mean it was a simple cottage; taking up most of a block, it was a pile of expensive stone, three stories high, with two turrets, a columned portico and any number of embellishments whose names were not covered in my two years at the City primary school.
Mrs. Aline Corbyn, like most members of the Four Hundred, fancied herself a patron of the arts. She and her fellows each held these little musicale tea dances a few times a year, and competed to invite the best talent. I could have spent most of my afternoons singing in drawing rooms. Early in my career, I had, but as a star of my current stature, I was much choosier. Still, because it’s very important to maintain goodwill with people who consider themselves great cultural leaders, I sang at each of the main hostesses’ salons about once a year, even if it was rather a lot to give away.
A Fatal Finale Page 15
