A Fatal Finale

by Kathleen Marple Kalb

  Like all society events, these follow a rigorously set pattern. First the talent sang, in rough order of importance; then there was some sort of dainty repast; and lastly there was a bit of dancing, which was almost an afterthought, thankfully. We’d all be done in time for the socially important folk to make their fancy dinners, or whatever one does at that end of the class spectrum. I was going to be at home with my book and a medicinal sherry. Or two.

  I usually ended up doing something from Capuleti and—bizarrely—“Ave Maria,” which I hated, because it reminded me of my strange place between faiths. I either felt like a hypocrite singing angelically of a Holy Mother, whom I wasn’t sure I believed in, or, far worse, found myself thinking of my own late mother. Not a happy event even before the Captain of Industry and his ilk started pawing me.

  The Corbyn tea dance musicale unfolded according to pattern, at least at first. We presented ourselves at the door of her palace, to be guided into a drawing room the size of a small theater, only cluttered with antiques and objets d’art, any one of which might have cost more than we’d earn in our careers. I suspected Aunt Ellen and the small cousins were probably in the presence of fewer expensive relics at the museum that afternoon.

  Once announced, we greeted the patronesses and their men, making careful conversation and accepting whatever condescension they heaped upon us with humor and grace. The young men pretended gallant flirtation with the ladies. We women did our best to ignore much less gallant glances and worse from the alleged gentlemen. Finally, and mercifully, it was time to sing.

  A couple of new singers, a baritone and a very light lyric soprano, performed familiar arias, quite competently, but without any flash of star quality, and I doubted I’d be hearing from them again. A rising dramatic soprano I knew slightly, Alicia Ricci, gave a brilliant rendition of “Suicidio!” from La Gioconda. Not my wheelhouse, but I was very impressed. And then it was my turn. Sure enough, after my Capuleti death aria, came the request for “Ave Maria,” this time from the elderly father of my hostess, so I couldn’t even demur.

  As often happens when I’m upset, I gave one of my best performances, but not without cost. It left me feeling unexpectedly weak and a little wobbly, wondering if I might plead a headache and slip away.

  I was sitting on a quite literally priceless silver-gilt chair from Versailles, sipping a cup of tea and trying to settle my stomach a few moments later, when Grover Duquesne appeared to ask for the first dance. I assented, only because the first dance was a mazurka, faster and less intimate than a waltz, and to get it over with. It may have been less intimate, but the Captain of Industry still got to put his pudgy little hands on mine. He pulled me close enough that I nearly strangled in the cloud of cologne water that surrounded him. It did nothing to improve my mood—or my nausea.

  As we spun around the floor, Mrs. Corbyn swept by in the arms of the baritone, clearly enjoying his attentions. Her necklace caught the light, and I couldn’t help thinking that it was noticeably more elaborate than poor Lady Frances’s piece. Nor was it especially unusual in that room, although most women had chosen large pearls, which when matched and sizeable are actually rarer and more expensive. A subtler way of flaunting one’s wealth, I supposed.

  I hoped they were using some of said wealth to help the less fortunate, but I had few illusions about that.

  As the Captain of Industry and I continued our little terpsichorean tug-of-war, I consoled myself with the thought that at least Teddy Bridgewater and his horrifying mother weren’t on hand. Most of the crowd was society types I saw occasionally under these circumstances, maintaining a polite acquaintanceship as required, but no one I would have called a friend. At the end of the “Ave Maria,” I’d seen a very tall man walking in, and standing in the shadows at the back of the cavernous drawing room. I hadn’t gotten a good look at him, not that he would have been anyone I knew or wanted to.

  As the mazurka ended, I bowed to the Captain of Industry and pulled away, hoping to escape quickly. But then the first bars of the waltz began. A gleam came into his eye. “Miss Shane, would you favor me . . .”

  Oh, good Lord. Must I . . . My stomach lurched, and I decided this was quite enough. I am very legitimately nauseated and I am going home. I started my excuses: “I’m sorry.”

  “My apologies, Mr. Duquesne, is it? Miss Shane promised me the first waltz.”

  I have never been so happy to see anyone in my life. There may have been a tall, dark man somewhere ready to bring me trouble, but Gilbert Saint Aubyn was saving me from it. His Grace, perfect in elegant black tie, bowed to Duquesne and then to me. I didn’t doubt that Mrs. Corbyn had sniffed out the presence of a duke in our fair city and dragooned him into the party somehow. But it didn’t really matter how it had happened. I was just glad it had.

  “Your Grace.” I smiled, doing my best to hide my absolute relief as I took his outstretched hand. Thankfully, this time there was none of that weird electrical reaction, though it still certainly felt nice.

  My previous partner did not take his demotion with grace.

  “Ah, well. Of course, you’ve got your duke now, don’t you?” Grover said, his nasty little eyes narrowing as he made calculations that were both wrong and offensive.

  Saint Aubyn wasn’t having any. “I’m not certain what you’re implying, Mr. Duquesne, but Miss Shane is a friend of my family, and any connection we may have is entirely honorable.”

  “Er, well,” Duquesne mumbled.

  “Not to mention none of your affair,” my defender continued, his eyes freezing the Captain of Industry where he stood, his voice taking on the supremely cold, steely tone that only a righteously angry British man can produce. “And I would strongly caution you against impugning the reputation of a lady.”

  A nasty red flush appeared under Grover’s collar as he backed away. “I had no intention . . .”

  Saint Aubyn smiled . . . terrifyingly. “Of course, you didn’t. We must have simply misunderstood each other.”

  “Of course, that’s it. Have a nice dance now.”

  “A pleasure seeing you again, Mr. Duquesne.”

  We Americans simply do not have enough centuries of civilization to pack so much loathing and menace into polite phrases. It may be why we generally settle things with fists and guns.

  Of course, my job as the duly defended lady was simply to allow my squire his waltz, so I happily complied as the duke swept me out onto the floor. He was not much better at dancing than fencing, but he would do. More than do.

  “Thank you,” I said as we settled into the dance. No surprise, my stomach had calmed right down once Grover and his vile cologne water were out of nasal range. “You have no idea.”

  “Isn’t your cousin supposed to protect you from wretches like that?”

  “Toms doesn’t appear at society dances. I rather wish I didn’t.” As he spun me around the floor, I noticed that while he, thankfully, didn’t go in for cologne water, there was a very, very faint scent of something clean and herbal. And appealing.

  “Understandably. And after you gave them such a lovely ‘Ave Maria,’ too.”

  “Well.” I tensed a little.

  “You do not enjoy singing that, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Your mother, or your faith, or both?”

  I just looked up at him; his cool blue eyes were close on my face, his expression surprisingly gentle.

  “I observe, Miss Shane. Remember, I trained as a barrister. Very little escapes my notice.”

  I had no idea what to say to that, so I simply concentrated on the dance, which was well worth it. The waltz was, as it always is, a lovely dance with a partner who is at least reasonably competent. The duke wasn’t the most graceful partner I’d ever had, but he held his own; more important, I didn’t mind him holding me. Instead of praying for the end of the dance, and the moment when I would no longer have to hold his hand, or feel his hand on my waist, I found myself praying it would not end. Oh, dear.

&n
bsp; “So I assume you are expecting a much happier time at the benefit this coming week.”

  “Yes.” I smiled at the careful subject change. “You’ve met Marie. She’s a joy to work with.”

  “She seems like a very happy lady, who shares her happiness with others.”

  “Exactly. It’s the best way to use the gift, I think.”

  He smiled. “You ladies do see it that way.”

  “It would be hard for us to see it any other way. Remember, the music saved us from the laundry or the factory. We have a duty to use it well.”

  “Would Frances have appeared at one of these lovely soirees?”

  “I’m not certain. She wasn’t well-known, but she might have, as a rising new talent. Perhaps our good hostess will know.”

  “I suppose I must dance with her at some point.” Saint Aubyn did not appear at all pleased by the prospect.

  “I’m sure she’ll happily tell you anything you’d like to know.”

  “No doubt. I shall beard that lion in her den later.”

  I stifled a chuckle at his beleaguered expression.

  “I know you read a great deal,” he said, firmly changing the subject as he watched me with what seemed like real curiosity. “I wonder if you have studied Japan at all?”

  “‘Japan’?” That’s an odd one, I thought.

  “Yes. I’ve never had the privilege of going there, but I understand that there are women who devote their lives to art.”

  “You aren’t talking about the geisha?” I asked. I’d read a travel article once, and while the author seemed to think the women were courtesans, I’d come away wondering if they might actually be more like me.

  Saint Aubyn nodded. “I should have known you’d read of them.”

  “Yes, but the travel author I read seemed to think they were, well, something else.”

  The pale blue eyes twinkled.

  “But I wondered if perhaps he’d gotten them wrong, the way Mr. Duquesne persistently gets me wrong.”

  “That, he does.”

  “Well,” I just kept going, “you’re probably aware of this, but ‘geisha’ actually means ‘art person,’ and they spend their lives singing and playing instruments and so on, and usually do not marry unless they retire.”

  “It no doubt struck a chord, so to speak.”

  “‘Struck a chord.’ ” We shared a smile at the pun. “I suppose I am an ‘art person.’ ”

  “And are you planning to devote your entire life to your art, like the geisha?”

  He studied me very seriously as the waltz reached its sweeping end. I was suddenly sharply aware of the warmth of his hand holding mine, and how close we were, even though he was very carefully observing the correct forms, not even attempting to draw me to him, as some men, notably Mr. Duquesne, have been known to do.

  “At the moment, the art is the only thing on offer.” I kept the reply light.

  “Ah. And if life were to send something else your way?”

  Tommy had said I should “stop slamming the door,” after I read Madame’s letter. “Then I would have to consider it, wouldn’t I?”

  Saint Aubyn smiled. “I should hope so.”

  And that was the end of the waltz. As we pulled apart, he held my hand for just an extra second, and there it was again, that damned electrical disturbance. We bowed to each other, very correctly, as if it hadn’t happened. He went on to the next dance with our hostess, who seemed to be watching us with considerable interest. I allowed the young baritone who’d partnered her to scoop me up, knowing that he really was hoping to charm me into offering advice and connections—none of which I intended to share, having heard him sing.

  After that, I found myself face-to-face with Mrs. Corbyn’s father, a truly sweet old gent without an ounce of his daughter’s pretension.

  “A dance, Miss Shane?”

  “Certainly, Mr.—”

  “MacLaren, Emmett MacLaren. I do not usually enjoy my daughter’s little soirees, but this one hasn’t been too awful.”

  I laughed as he led me to the floor for another waltz. He had to be close to seventy, and he was still quite a good dancer—graceful, careful and respectful.

  “Your ‘Ave Maria’ was absolutely angelic.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m sure you’re asked to sing it a great deal, but it was very kind of you. Today would have been my mother’s birthday, and even after all these years . . .”

  Well, that changes everything, poor man. I nodded. “One always misses a mother. I’m glad to offer some comfort.”

  “You are the one who grew up an orphan on the Lower East Side, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I replied very cautiously. This might go any number of directions, most unpleasant.

  “Well, you’ve done very well for yourself. One good thing about this coming new century is that people are much less interested in where and how you’re born . . . and much more in what you can do.”

  “Most days, I believe you’re right.” I nodded, hoping he would not ask what I believe on the other days.

  “If I were thirty years younger, Miss Shane, I’d be competing with that duke to court you.”

  I gave the appropriate laugh at the pleasantry—which was, I’m quite sure, all he wanted. “I doubt the duke is courting me.”

  “It is a much different world than the one I grew up in, Miss Shane. In a new century, surely a diva can look at a duke.”

  “Perhaps.” I shook my head.

  “And the duke should count himself lucky if she does.” MacLaren nodded firmly.

  We finished the dance in amiable small talk, and Emmett MacLaren went away with a happy smile and, hopefully, a little balm for the sadness of his mother’s birthday. It did at least make the discomfort of singing the song worth it. I made my good-byes soon after that, pleading a busy day of rehearsal on the morrow. The duke was nowhere in evidence; I guessed he’d already made his escape, and well done by him. I was just relieved to make mine.

  Chapter 22

  Consolation and Confusion with Uncle Preston

  After the trying tea dance, I did indeed manage to escape to the studio with a book and a medicinal sherry. A largish one, I will admit.

  We have a sizeable, soft and exceedingly comfortable chair, upholstered in modestly hideous mulberry-colored plush, in one corner of the studio. It’s often occupied by Tommy, when he sits in on rehearsal or practice sessions, and by me on nights like this, when I need to hide. I had very gratefully changed out of my fancy taffeta frock (and stays, ugh!) into a soft, warm and comfortable old violet cashmere housedress and had taken my hair down from the fancy Psyche knot into a more comfortable braid. I was wrapped up in an afghan against the chill of the big, empty room.

  As it turned out, I did well to hole up in my corner, since I’d barely finished two sips of sherry and a chapter of the book—still poor Anne Boleyn—when Montezuma squawked and I heard the commotion downstairs. The sports writers. I should have expected it; Tommy hadn’t had his fellows over in a while. A Sunday evening, when Mrs. Grazich was safely home, and there had been no baseball games, was just perfect.

  “Extra! Extra!” Montezuma crowed. On some earlier visit, Yardley had taught him the newsboys’ cry, and whenever he heard a lot of male voices and footsteps, he gave the warning.

  “It’s all right, sweetheart,” I said, looking up from my book. “Love the birdie.”

  Montezuma made a slightly annoyed ruffling noise and settled back to his perch and carrot.

  We really couldn’t hear much from all the way downstairs; I suppose I might have turned on the phonograph, but why bother? Montezuma and I were quite happy as we were. I was through another chapter, and about halfway into the sherry, when the bird squawked again.

  “Set the headline!”

  That meant only one thing: Preston Dare, who knocked on the door frame as I waved him in.

  Preston, the Beacon’s sports editor, is the dean of the writers. Or perhaps the ringle
ader. One of the other fellows, quite probably Yardley, had taught Montezuma to greet him that way, and Preston rather liked it. A tall, dapper gentleman heading for the golden years, he’s taken Tommy and, to some extent, me under his wing. He watches over us with an almost fatherly interest, and after all that had happened while he was following the Brooklyn Superbas on their march to victory, I was especially glad to see him.

  Tonight he was in a deep blue suit and red silk bow tie, with a red carnation in his lapel. His salt-and-pepper hair and mustache were perfectly trimmed, and his sharp gray eyes sparkly as usual. Also as usual, he looked a bit weary, but I was never entirely sure if it was lack of sleep or simply the world as he saw it.

  “I’m not interrupting your reading, am I?”

  “Not even a little. But I only brought the one glass of sherry upstairs.” I smiled, knowing that Preston would require libation.

  He held up his whisky glass. “Quite all right. Tommy has already made sure everyone is provided for.”

  “He would. Glad to see you back from the Superbas’ road trip.”

  “It is good to go away,” Preston reflected. “And much better to come home.”

  “Absolutely. How was it?”

  “Suffice it to say, I am glad for my home, and a sip of whisky among friends.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.”

  He nodded gravely. “We do not get sloppy like those wretched writers for the yellow sheets, but gentleman scribes do enjoy a wee dram.”

  “Lady singers do not scruple at a medicinal sherry.” I took a dainty sip of the same as he pulled the piano bench over and sat.

  “I hear you need it. Another of those lovely soirees on Fifth Avenue?”

  “We good little canaries must sing.”

  Preston laughed. “They usually don’t bother you so much.”

  “It wasn’t more horrid than any other one.” I sighed. “Tea with a generous serving of snobbery on the side.”