A Fatal Finale

by Kathleen Marple Kalb

  “Sorry, miss,” she said, pulling the smaller ones closer.

  “No, no. It was my fault.” I smiled reassuringly. “Are you going to buy a book?”

  Her clear hazel eyes dropped. “No, miss. Just looking.”

  “Ah. What’s your name?”

  “Alice. And this is Josie and May.” She indicated the other girls, dark-haired and light-eyed like her, probably six and four.

  “Nice to meet you all.” I bowed very seriously. “Do you go to school?”

  “Not anymore. Me ma does piecework and me da’s working on the railroad, so somebody’s got to watch the little ones.”

  I nodded. “Would your ma mind if I bought you a book, maybe once in a while?”

  Her eyes widened. “Um, I suppose . . . I don’t know, miss.”

  “All right, then, let’s go inside and talk to Mrs. Harrier and see what we can do.”

  Sometimes I love my life and the good it enables me to do. Twenty minutes later, Miss Alice Shay had a copy of Little Women and an agreement to get herself a new book whenever she finished one, with Mrs. Harrier sending the bills to me. On one condition: she had to read to the little girls and make sure they read, too, once they were old enough. And I had a smile to replace the chill from my visit to Desiree LaFontaine.

  It didn’t last, though. Coming out of the music store a few blocks after the bookseller’s was Arden Standish.

  “Miss Ella.” He greeted me with a bow and a smile, but once again, there was that weird tension, some of which was no doubt only in my mind—from my knowledge of his indiscretions.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Standish. Buying scores for Philadelphia?”

  “And beyond. I need to expand my repertoire. I’m sure you understand.”

  I managed a social smile. “I surely do. I am always looking to add new roles.”

  “We must all grow as artists.” His brownish eyes scanned my face closely as he clearly forced himself to stay and converse.

  “So we must.”

  “You have learned no more about poor Violette?”

  “No.” Not that I’m going to tell you, I mused silently.

  “Does the man you were walking out with have something to do with her?”

  Something in the tone of the question unnerved me more than a little, but I managed a cool and neutral laugh. I shook my head. “We were catching up on old acquaintances.”

  “Ah. It is a very small world.”

  “That, it is.” He didn’t believe me. But I didn’t believe he was asking casually, so we were even. “Good luck with your preparations for Philadelphia.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see you at the settlement house benefit this Saturday.”

  “Yes. That’s right,” I agreed.

  “My last New York engagement for a while.”

  “Philadelphia’s gain is our loss,” I offered.

  He smiled. I smiled. We bid each other good day, and, thankfully, it was over. I tried not to think of him, but of Alice Shay’s beaming face, and the way she hugged her new book, stroking the cover like it was the treasure of the world, which for her—and for me when I was that age—it absolutely was.

  Chapter 24

  No Dollar Princesses Wanted, Either

  After that Monday began in such eventful fashion, I was more than happy for a good hard fencing lesson to clear my head. That was precisely what Monsieur du Bois provided; he is probably the only opponent I have ever had who is unquestionably my superior. Although I did give him a worthy challenge that day. And then a pleasant surprise. Early in the afternoon, as I was seeing Monsieur out, the duke appeared at my door.

  The introductions did not go well. Monsieur, a small, mustachioed, dark-haired man who generally very proudly bills himself as “Le Comte du Bois,” took one look at His Grace and quickly scuttled off. He was no doubt worried that a real British aristocrat would have no trouble recognizing a fake French one. I smiled to myself as I guided my latest visitor into the parlor.

  “You do know that man is a count the way I am president of the United States.” Saint Aubyn seemed personally offended by the comte’s existence.

  “Are you quite sure?” I laughed. “I’m well aware that he’s actually Mr. Mark Woods from the Bronx. He’s also a marvelous fencing master, so he can call himself ‘Queen Victoria’ if it pleases him.”

  Saint Aubyn’s scowl softened into a smile. “No fool, you.”

  “You’re not the only astute observer around here, barrister. I grew up on the Lower East Side. If you couldn’t see a con coming, you didn’t last long.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “May I offer you coffee?”

  “Thank you, but no. I hadn’t intended to stay. I merely wanted to leave a note that I would be happy to meet your reporter friend at her convenience.”

  “Ah.”

  The weight of it hung between us for a moment. I knew this was a very serious matter for him, and I just hoped I was steering him in the right direction. I had no doubts about Hetty, but once the train leaves the station . . .

  “Thank you. I will send word to her.”

  He nodded. “I appreciate it.”

  “I have spoken with your cousin’s voice teacher.”

  “Oh?”

  I decided to spare him the worst of it. “It’s as we thought. She should not have been working on those pieces. Louis told me he was not practicing them with her, so she was working on them alone at some point. Very dangerous for the voice.”

  “And no one would have known?”

  I shrugged. “It’s of a piece with her, ah, eating problem, I’d imagine. Doing things she knew to be dangerous in secret.”

  Saint Aubyn absorbed that. “She really was quite troubled.”

  “I wish I’d known. I truly do.”

  “I don’t blame you, Miss Shane. If we, her family, didn’t detect the problem the first time, how could you?”

  “Well,” I said, taking a breath, “I should’ve twigged to the singing somehow. And that was career-threatening.”

  “That serious?”

  “We have to be so careful.” I shook my head. “Every day, I do my vocal exercises.”

  “Other exercises, too.” He smiled a little as he nodded at my outfit—today an old, well-washed white broadcloth puffy-sleeved shirt from a previous season’s Romeo and black serge breeches, my hair in a neat dancer’s knot.

  “Yes, that too.”

  Saint Aubyn looked at me with a gleam in his eyes. “Are you quite done with fencing for the day?”

  “Perhaps a rematch?”

  “I shouldn’t,” he admitted. “I am expected soon at Mrs. Corbyn’s. A tea I must not miss, she said, with people she wants me to meet.”

  I was quite sure he knew what that meant. “No doubt, there will be a few lovely dollar princesses and their equally charming mamas.”

  “When you put it like that . . .” Saint Aubyn shook his head. “You don’t really think—”

  “I don’t think anything. I only know that you are a duke and unmarried, and Aline Corbyn is a society hostess. Everything else is math, and I was never as good at ciphering as I was at reading.”

  He absorbed that, his face tightening. “I am not unaware of the whole American industry of title shopping.”

  “I have no way to know what Mrs. Corbyn is planning. And it would be unfair for me to suggest—”

  “Well, I have no intention of allowing anyone to throw insipid young ladies at my head in hopes of winning a coronet.”

  “You have to be polite to people like Mrs. Corbyn, though.”

  Saint Aubyn looked down at me with a wry smile. “You may have to be polite to Mrs. Corbyn, Miss Shane. I do not.”

  The smile widened into a cheeky grin, and he looked like a misbehaving little boy. “You know, Miss Shane, I could use some fencing practice, if you would do me the honor.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “I assume your cousin or other suitable chaperone is about some
where? I doubt the parrot would cover the forms.”

  I chuckled. “Montezuma would take issue with that, but Tommy’s in his study. We’ll pass by on the way up to the studio, so you can make appropriate greetings.”

  * * *

  “Winner and still champ-een!” Montezuma called out as Tommy led the way into the studio.

  Toms had decided that propriety required him to bring his biography of Richard III, research for The Princes in the Tower, and park himself in the chair in the corner. Or he just wanted to see the show. I wasn’t sure which, and didn’t especially care. Neither did Saint Aubyn, who took off his coat and jacket and draped them over the piano bench, then looked to me. I’d forgotten just how appealing he was in shirt and waistcoat, truly a fine figure of a man. Which would not prevent me from defeating him. I tossed him a foil.

  This time, he caught it as Montezuma crowed: “English stick!”

  Saint Aubyn shot the bird a glance and put the foil down. “I’m very sorry, Miss Shane, but this is quite enough.” He turned to Montezuma, holding his hand out. “Love the birdie.”

  Montezuma, the little wretch, flew right over to him.

  “Excellent.” He stroked the bird’s head. “Now, my fine green friend, repeat after me, ‘Alba gu bràth.’”

  “‘Alba gu bràth.’”

  Tommy and I exchanged glances, trying not to laugh as Saint Aubyn and the bird repeated the phrase a few more times, clearly starting a mutual-admiration society as well. Then he sent Montezuma back to his perch, turning to me with a truly wicked smile.

  “What have you just taught my bird to say?”

  “ ‘Scotland forever.’ In Gaelic. Of course.”

  “Of course.” I couldn’t help laughing as I handed him the foil. “Ready?”

  “Never more so.”

  “En garde,” I said, tapping my foil on his. “Think you can defeat me this time?”

  “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

  He was a little more in the game for this match, and perhaps I was a bit more distracted by his attractiveness. But it wasn’t enough to change the outcome. Much.

  We were both silent and quite concentrated at the beginning, Saint Aubyn once again having trouble adjusting to the idea of dueling a woman, particularly one so much more skilled than he. But he quickly started holding his own.

  “So you’d rather duel with me than find yourself a dainty dollar princess?” I asked as I backed him across the studio.

  “I’m not looking for a wife.” He managed to back me up a little. “At least not one who brings nothing but her bank account.”

  “It seems to work for many aristocrats.”

  “I’m not many aristocrats.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “What about you?” Thrust. Attack.

  Block. Parry. “Me?”

  His eyes gleamed above the swords. “You’d surely have a more comfortable life with a rich husband.”

  “Either you’re teasing or you weren’t listening when you talked to Marie. Husbands are usually more trouble than they’re worth.”

  “Depends on the husband, I should imagine.”

  “I doubt there’s the man living,” I started as I pressed my advantage, almost cornering him.

  “Who what?” he asked, backing out of the corner and now pressing his own attack.

  “Who could live with both me and the music.”

  “Some men might find it a pleasing challenge.”

  “Not for long. Men like their wives at their service.”

  “Do we, now?” Parry.

  “Don’t you?” Attack.

  “Not all of us. Some men actually enjoy taking care of their women instead of being tended by them.”

  “Oh.” I saw the look on his face and almost missed the parry.

  “Just an observation, Miss Shane.”

  We were at crossed swords in the middle of the studio then, eyes locked, waiting for the next move, nothing to do with the match at all.

  “Well, then. That looks like a draw to me, again,” Tommy called, breaking the moment.

  This time, he’d earned the draw.

  Saint Aubyn bowed to me. “Thank you, Miss Shane.”

  “Alba gu bràth!” Montezuma put in. “Fine figure of a man!”

  “My pleasure.” I glared at Montezuma over Saint Aubyn’s shoulder as he handed me the foil, but the bird just blinked back at me. “I hope you will not be too late for your tea.”

  “I find I am somewhat indisposed,” he said as he picked up his jacket from the piano bench. “And at any rate, I have to prepare for my talk with your friend.”

  I nodded, trying not to watch him too closely as he reassembled himself. Meanwhile, I brought my breathing back under control and silently prayed that my face wasn’t flushed utterly magenta from the fencing, and more.

  Tommy walked down the first flight of stairs with us, then nodded to me. “I’m sure you can manage to walk your guest out. Good to see you again, Your Grace.”

  They shook hands, and I had the sense of some genuine warmth and respect there. Only a fool would not like Tommy, but I was glad Tommy had decided to at least tolerate the duke.

  I did feel a bit guilty as I saw him to the door. “I do hope I didn’t ruin anything for you,” I said as we walked through the foyer. “There’s no shame in—”

  He stopped cold and very deliberately looked me in the eye. “Miss Shane, the only reason to marry is love.”

  “I quite agree.” I quickly continued to the next thought, lest I trap myself here. “But I have no way to know if Mrs. Corbyn really was throwing pretty misses at you, and if I caused you—”

  “No, you called it exactly right. A tea you must not miss, with some people I’d like you to meet, means only one thing from a society matron to an unmarried duke. I should have seen it coming. I’m in your debt, yet again.”

  “Not at all.”

  We walked out onto the step. I was glad for any chance to get some air, even if the sky was a bit threatening.

  He bowed. “Have a lovely afternoon, Miss Shane.”

  “And you.” I bowed as well. “Thank you for an excellent match.”

  “The pleasure was mine.”

  We stood on the step for a moment, looking at one another, some sort of current crackling around us. Perhaps it was just a storm on the way.

  “And what have we here?” a familiar voice called from the sidewalk.

  “Preston!” I turned. “Are you coming for tea?”

  “If Mrs. G will permit me.”

  “I think she’ll be able to find another cup.”

  Preston and the duke studied each other, and I was briefly reminded of how fighters size each other up at the start of a match. They, however, seemed to like what they saw. Or at least not want to punch each other immediately. I jumped in.

  “Gilbert Saint Aubyn, Duke of Leith, may I present Mr. Preston Dare, the sports editor of the Beacon, the dean of the writers’ corps and a dear friend and mentor to Tommy and me.”

  Saint Aubyn gave him a cordial nod. “Delighted to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” Behind the duke’s head, I mouthed, “Your Grace.”

  “Your Grace,” Preston added smoothly.

  They shook.

  “After such a glowing introduction . . .” Saint Aubyn smiled.

  “Ella is a little too kind to those she loves.” Preston beamed right back at him. “If you’re lucky, you’ll learn that in time.”

  “I shall hope for it.”

  They were silent for probably a full stanza, still quietly assessing each other under the cordiality. Preston finally spoke.

  “Not staying to tea?”

  “Sorry, no. I would enjoy discussing what you Americans consider sport at some later date.”

  “Baseball, my British friend, is highly overrated,” Preston observed.

  “So, too, cricket.”

  They laughed, and it was genuine and amiable.

  “All right, then. Next
time I shall stay.” Saint Aubyn nodded to us both. “If only to see how much Miss Shane knows about her American pastime.”

  “Just don’t say a word against her beloved Giants and you’ll be fine,” Preston assured him.

  He looked puzzled for a moment.

  “Baseball, Your Grace.”

  “Ah. Of course. Miss Shane and I have tended to confine our conversations about matters of sport to fencing.” He cut his eyes to me, with a trace of a smile.

  “I’d guess she’s better than you.”

  “She is, indeed. And I am honored when she’s willing to tolerate me as a sparring partner.”

  Preston grinned. “I bet you are.”

  I just stood there blushing, hoping that the conversation would soon be over.

  Saint Aubyn decided to be merciful. “I really must be going.”

  “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “For me as well. A good day to you.” The duke bowed to us both and walked off.

  Preston carefully waited till the duke was out of earshot; then he turned to me with a gleam in his eye. “Is that the one you don’t want to talk about?”

  “Yes, all right?” I shrugged, wishing the blush would dissipate.

  “Well, for a British toff, he seems decent enough.”

  “Don’t want to punch him in the nose?” I asked, mostly jokingly.

  “Not yet, anyway.” He smiled. “He looks at you like you can do no wrong. Give him a chance, kid.”

  “Preston.”

  “I’m not telling you to have Father Michael post the banns. I’m telling you not to slam the door in his face.”

  “Do you and Tommy compare notes on what to say to me?”

  He laughed, the big explosive guffaw that I love. “No. It’s just that we’re always right.”

  “Come in for tea. I’m sure Mrs. G will have something lovely for you.”

  “Mrs. G is lovely enough on her own.”

  I caught a whiff of something again, and looked sharply at Preston. “Has she won your heart with her hermits?”

  “Mrs. Grazich is a very pretty and kind lady, not to mention an amazing cook. It’s a shame she’s not baking those cookies for a houseful of adorable grandchildren instead of a bunch of hungry sports writers.”