Behind a Lady's Smile

by Jane Goodger

  Tillie’s expression became fierce. “I’ll tell you who that girl in the picture is. She’s a girl who isn’t going to ever wonder where her next meal is coming from or deal with some masher trying to take things he oughtn’t. She’ll have a warm house and a soft bed and a place to stay for the rest of her life. And that girl ain’t ever going to have to do something she doesn’t want to just to survive. That’s who that girl is.”

  The more Tillie said, the worse Genny felt. She knew she should be grateful, but she couldn’t tell Tillie the real reason she was feeling so low. Even she knew how foolish it would sound to tell Tillie she had fallen in love with Mitch. “I do have one question,” Genny said. “What’s a masher?”

  Tillie let out a gust of air and rolled her eyes as if everyone knew what a masher was. “A masher is a man who doesn’t show respect for a woman. I’ve had more than a nodding acquaintance with a few mashers. They’ll treat you like a queen, then steal kisses and sometimes more, but do you think you’ll get a ring afterward? No, ma’am, you won’t.”

  Genny straightened abruptly. That sounded a lot like Mitch. “So men aren’t supposed to kiss you unless you are engaged?”

  A slight blush touched Tillie’s cheek. “Well, it depends. I suppose it’s something you feel in your bones. But I can’t always trust my bones,” Tillie said, laughing. “Plus, there’re kisses and then there’re kisses, if you know what I mean.”

  “I haven’t any idea at all what you mean,” Genny said. “I’ve only kissed one man in my life.”

  Tillie’s jaw dropped. “You’re such an innocent,” she said. “But I suppose that’s to be expected. To be honest, I’ve never been kissed by a man who loves me.” Again, her cheeks turned pink. “But it can still be lovely.”

  “How do you know if a man loves you?”

  “He tells you, I suppose. You can’t go by how much he wants to kiss you or even if he gives you flowers. My mother told me one thing, though, and I never forgot it. Why would a man buy a cow if he gets the milk for free?” At Genny’s blank look, Tillie laughed. “You can’t let a man under your skirts unless you have a ring on your finger. If they want to do it, they’ve got to do it proper.”

  Genny knew what “doing it” meant and knew that what she felt when Mitch kissed her, or even looked at her, meant she wanted to “do it.”

  “Men are such odd creatures. We can’t understand them and they can’t understand us. It’s a wonder we get together and make babies.” Tillie stopped abruptly. “Hey, you, um, know about that, right?”

  Now it was Genny’s turn to blush. “I understand the mechanics of it. One tends to, living in the wilderness.”

  “Thank goodness, because I don’t think I’m up to a talk on the birds and the bees.”

  Genny laughed. “I’m glad you found me in here. I was feeling sorry for myself and I really oughtn’t. I know I should be grateful. I just have a tendency to wish things were different than they are. Sometimes I wish I was back in my cabin, but I know that I couldn’t survive there alone.”

  Tillie’s happy expression turned to worry. “Other than your grandparents, do you have anyone else in the world?”

  “An uncle, I believe. He was my mother’s older brother. I think he actually came to America looking for my parents when they first arrived but I don’t know if he found them.”

  “What about here? Anyone?”

  Genny shook her head. Of course, she’d realized she was alone in the world, but she hadn’t dwelt on it. When her father had died, she’d set her sights on finding her grandparents; there had been no other choice. Now, she realized having no other choice wasn’t a very comfortable feeling. “I don’t have anyone here except for Mitch and Madeline. And you.”

  “See? If you don’t go to England, what will you do?”

  Genny didn’t like the feeling of helplessness that came over her. She had no money, no relatives, no home. She couldn’t impose upon Madeline forever. She had no other choice but to go to England. “I could get a job,” she said uncertainly.

  “You could, but it’s awfully hard getting a job when you’re a female, unless you want to work in a factory. And I’ll tell you one thing, you don’t want to do that. It’ll kill you and you likely won’t even make enough money to pay a decent rent, never mind food.

  “I worked for a year in a textile factory. Some of those women, they’d been there for years and their lungs were so full of dust, they could hardly breathe. It does something to you, working so hard for nothing. And honestly, how silly would that be when you have rich relatives who could give you the world?”

  Genny, with no formal education and no skills, would likely be forced to work in such a place. Either that or work as a servant, and Genny just couldn’t picture that life. “You’re right, of course.”

  “Madeline is a lovely woman, but given her new occupation, I don’t think this would be such a good place to live for an innocent girl. You wouldn’t be innocent for long, that’s for sure. You can’t stay here and you can’t go back to your cabin, so looks like you’d best accept that England is the best place for you to be.”

  Genny nodded. “I was just being silly. England is my only option. And it’s a good one.”

  Tillie laughed. “Unless Mr. Campbell proposes to you. Ha!”

  Genny forced a laugh, because Tillie’s words had the oddest effect on her heart. It gave a little painful lurch that she recognized immediately as hope.

  That night at dinner, Madeline walked into the lavish dining room, spread her hands out wide and announced, “I have the most wonderful surprise. A reporter is coming over tomorrow to interview us all about Genny.”

  Her announcement was initially met with stunned silence. Mitch, whose mood had only darkened since he’d left abruptly earlier that day, calmly placed his fork and knife back on the table and the women—except for Madeline—watched him warily. “I think that isn’t the best of ideas, Mother.”

  “Oh, posh, it’s a wonderful idea. And by the time the story runs, you’ll both be long gone. Besides, it’s not as if the reporter is from the Times; he’s from the Herald.”

  Mitch hadn’t been able to look at Genny directly since he’d returned, but he looked at her now, taking in her pale complexion and the circles beneath her eyes. She still wore her simple dress and a long braid and it hurt to see her like that. He wished she was all fancied up because her finery reminded him what her life was going to be like when she was in England. Yet as beautiful as she was in her new gowns, he found he preferred her as she was now, a girl a man like him might be able to keep.

  He wondered if she was ill, and whether they should postpone their trip. He could always send a telegram to her grandparents explaining the delay. She was a shell of the girl who had walked miles with a cast on her leg. So many times he wanted to draw her into his arms, but as the old adage said, ‘If wishes were horses then beggars would ride.’ Holding her, kissing her, would only make saying good-bye all the harder—for both of them. He would do the right thing, even if it killed him, but he longed to kiss her, hold her, let her know that everything was going to be all right.

  But how could he do that when his gut told him that nothing would ever be right again?

  Genny took a small sip of the excellent burgundy, as if to give her courage to question Madeline’s plan. “I’m afraid I don’t understand why a newspaper article would be a good thing. I am sorry, Madeline, because you seem so pleased.”

  Madeline pursed her lips. “Fine,” she said, looking at each of them in turn. “It will help my career immensely.”

  “Mother, you cannot possibly be thinking of linking Miss Hayes to your business,” Mitch said, putting telling emphasis on business.

  “I’m not doing it to help my business, I’m doing it to help my career. Having Tillie here has made me miss the stage. I know I seem happy, but there’s something about being in front of all those people, hearing the applause. My soul is dying. And I’m not so old.”

 
Mitch sighed. “There’s a part, I take it?”

  Madeline closed her eyes and said, “Mrs. Rich in The Beau Defeated. Oh, I was meant for this role. It’s perfect for me, but I’ve been out of the limelight for so long, no one will even let me audition.”

  Mitch felt that old surge of protectiveness toward his mother. “They’ve denied you an audition?”

  Madeline looked slightly chagrined. “Not quite. Auditions don’t start until next week. But if this article appears in the Herald, I’ll be on everyone’s mind. The reporter can call me the great stage actress Madeline Campbell. Oh, it will be perfect. So, yes, my idea is completely selfish and I admit it.” She turned to Genny. “What do you think, dear?”

  Genny looked from Madeline to Tillie, skirting over Mitch.

  “No, Mother.”

  Genny lifted her chin. “If it will help your career, and as long as your business isn’t mentioned, I’m perfectly fine with a story.”

  Mitch could tell his mother was trying not to show too much triumph, but she wasn’t that good an actress. “Then it’s settled. Mr. Tish will be here tomorrow at the ungodly hour of eleven, so please, everyone, be ready. Genny, I want you to wear that darling violet day dress Madame Brunelle created for you. Tillie, have her ready, please. And I think it would be a good idea to get into character.” She ignored Mitch’s growl. “Eileen can bring us tea, of course, but you may be needed for something.”

  “Genny,” Mitch said, looking at her intently. She was concentrating on her food—a perfectly baked duck—and did not look up even when she answered him.

  “Yes?”

  Wonderful. He had hurt her this afternoon. He’d thought perhaps it had been his imagination that she hadn’t looked in his direction all evening. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

  She lifted her head and looked at him, her green eyes snapping. “Absolutely.” She turned toward Madeline, and her expression softened considerably. “What shall we talk about?”

  “My dear, your story is so exciting. A lost heiress, rescued by my son, foiling train robbers, taken in by me, traveling to England to meet your grandparents, the duke and duchess. It’s positively delicious. I wouldn’t be surprised if it inspires a play. And of course, I can play myself. The best part is, by the time the article appears, you’ll be long gone and won’t be hounded by the public.”

  “I suppose that will be your job, Mother?” Mitch asked dryly.

  “What?” Madeline asked, seemingly confused.

  “To be hounded by the public.”

  “Of course,” Madeline said, ignoring her son’s tone. “Who else to expound on the story but me? You’ll all be gone.”

  Mitch knew there was little he could do to stop his mother once she got something into her head. And frankly, if she was back on stage, perhaps she’d stop running a bordello. The realization that few other sons in the world would be glad to have their mother on stage was not lost on Mitch. If helping his mother to get this role would aid her career and not hurt Genny, how could he possibly argue?

  Tillie, who as Genny’s maid had no business at all sitting at the table with them, clapped her hands. “Oh, tomorrow will be a bit of a dress rehearsal. What could be more perfect?”

  Mitch stifled a groan, reminding himself that at one point in his life, this would have been a normal thing to say. “I do wish you would stop thinking of this as a performance, Tillie,” he said, knowing his words would fall on deaf ears.

  “That’s precisely what it is,” Madeline said. “All the world’s a stage; don’t ever forget it.”

  Robert Tish took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his brow. It was deathly hot in the city this day, the sun making the brick around him an oven. He wondered if he would literally cook should he remain on the streets too long. Robert had grown up in Rhode Island in a little fishing village called Galilee. As a boy, he’d spent his days fishing and clamming and generally being on the water. He’d never in his life experienced this sort of unending, dead heat. No breeze. No cool ocean air wafting over him. God, he hated New York, but if a man wanted to learn the newspaper business, if he wanted to be any kind of success at all, this was the place to do it. At least that’s what he’d told his father, who’d been rather angry when Robert had announced he didn’t want to grow old stinking of fish and brine, he wanted to go to the big city and write. Yes, that was grand news for his father and older brother to hear.

  How stupid could a man be? He was in the city, but working for one of the smaller newspapers and generally writing stuff that was mind-numbingly boring. City ordinances about taxis and the new rail system, endless meetings. So when his editor told him about some lost heiress who was supposedly living with an aging actress, he had not been particularly enthusiastic. Probably a bunch of bunk anyway, a stunt to increase public interest in some play.

  It was beneath him. He was the best writer on the paper and here he was heading to the Bowery to interview a supposed princess or something.

  Robert trudged up the stairs to number seventy-nine Houston Street, noting with slight interest how clean and fine the entrance was.

  The door opened wide and he set eyes on a middle-aged woman with auburn hair, smiling as if he was some sort of dignitary.

  “You must be Mr. Tish,” she said, sweeping an arm back to allow him to enter. “I am Madeline Campbell. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? I’ve been at the Niblo for years.”

  “I’m not much for plays,” he said, looking around the room, mildly surprised at the rich furnishings.

  “Let’s go into the main parlor, shall we?” She walked toward a large room where a maid was laying out some refreshments, and he prayed they had something cold to drink. If he had to drink another drop of tepid water, he just might die.

  He smiled when he saw a pitcher, sweating in the heat of the parlor, and obviously filled with something cold.

  “Lemonade? It’s the best in the city, I assure you. Eileen, please pour Mr. Tish a glass while I go fetch Miss Hayes and Mr. Campbell.” She turned to leave, then stopped in a way that seemed planned, almost as if he were part of a play. “Mr. Campbell is my son and the hero of our little story.”

  Story. He prayed it wasn’t just a story, that he wasn’t here simply to advance some aging actress’s career. He thanked the maid for the lemonade and took a small sip. Oh, heaven. It didn’t matter if the entire story was false and he was wasting his time, for he’d just had the best lemonade of his life.

  He was alone in the room only a short while before a man returned with Mrs. Campbell—a man who didn’t look all that pleased to be participating in the drama. Mr. Campbell looked at his watch then snapped it closed, sending the message that he was a busy man, too busy to be spending it talking with a reporter. Robert was a bit heartened by that; people tended to be less likely to speak to a reporter when they were talking about something that actually happened rather than making it up.

  “And here is Genevieve Hayes,” Madeline said, almost as if she were the narrator of a play introducing the main character.

  Robert tried not to let his jaw drop to his chest, but never in his life had he seen a woman quite as lovely as the one he was looking at. She smiled brilliantly at him, full of poise and grace as she walked toward him and extended one gloved hand.

  “I’m so pleased you could come today, Mr. Tish. I must admit I was a bit reticent about sharing my story. It’s such a personal thing. But I’ll be leaving tomorrow for England and Mrs. Campbell assures me the story won’t run in your newspaper until long after we’re gone. Is that correct?”

  Robert swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She smiled again and Mr. Campbell chuckled, as if he knew what was happening to Robert. He gave himself a mental shake, reminding himself why he was in the room, and pulled out his pencil and pad. When everyone was seated, Robert dropped onto a large ottoman, which was positioned so that he could see all three at once.

  “What would you like to know, Mr. Tish?” Miss Hayes ask
ed, her head tilted slightly in curiosity. She had the loveliest voice, her accent cultured and clearly British.

  “Why are you going to England? My editor gave me only the barest details, you see.”

  Miss Hayes looked at Mr. Campbell before saying, “It’s a long story. I do hope you have time.”

  Two hours later, the lemonade long forgotten and diluted by the last of the previous winter’s ice, Robert put his pencil down. He’d heard the story, he’d seen the letters from the Duke of Glastonbury, obviously authentic, and he had the best tale he’d ever heard, never mind had the privilege to write. They’d even shown him the telegram they’d received from the duke, expressing his happiness that he’d soon be seeing his granddaughter for the first time.

  And more amazing? He had actually read the account of the train robbery in the Times. Here he was, sitting in the same room as the woman who’d helped to foil the crime.

  “Do you have everything you need?” Mrs. Campbell asked, the smile on her face telling him that she knew what a wonderful story he had.

  “Yes, ma’am, I do. I want to thank you all for your time and for sharing your story with me.”

  “I’ll walk you to the door, shall I?” Madeline asked.

  Robert was nearly giddy. He could not believe what he had stumbled upon. Just as Mrs. Campbell was closing the door, she said to him, “I know this is a story about Miss Hayes, but if you could give me a prominent role, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  “I’ll certainly see what I can do, Mrs. Campbell. I know I wouldn’t have gotten this story without your help. I’ll make sure it’s clear I’m grateful.”

  She smiled, and it struck Robert at that moment that in her day, this woman would have been a rare beauty. “Thank you. I look forward to reading it.”

  Robert had a definite bounce in his step as he walked toward the corner where he could get a horse car. This story was going to make his career, and it was far too good to run in his tiny rag of a newspaper. To hell with the Herald. He was going to the Times with this one.