by Tom Murphy
She heard his rich laughter even before she entered the parlor, a deep polished sound that seemed to vibrate through the whole house with quick hot waves of enjoyment. Lily would never understand how she knew it was Dickinson’s voice, but at that moment she would have bet her life on it.
And she would have won.
Suddenly she was standing alone at the entrance of the main parlor.
There were only two other women in the room: Polly, sitting at the piano, playing and singing a new bawdy ballad, and Sophie, regal in black satin embroidered all over with jet, a glass of champagne in one hand and a man’s hand in the other. Sophie’s quick button eyes roved the big room even as they smiled at her guests. It was only a matter of seconds before she saw Lily hesitating at the door.
“But here she is now, my blooming Lily!”
There were five men in the room, all richly dressed. Five heads turned to stare at the new arrival in frank curiosity. Lily blushed, tried to smile, and only half-succeeded. Sophie sensed the girl’s embarrassment and walked smoothly to her side and took her hand.
“Just smile, dear, that’s all!” The words came out in a barely audible hiss through Sophie’s fixed smile. Lily had never seen Sophie in her public role before. She found herself being propelled toward the small knot of men, and felt their eyes on her with an almost physical impact. Then the miracle happened. Lily found herself smiling. If she was going to actually die, she might as well make a good show of it!
“Mrs. Lily Malone, may I present Mr. Stanford Dickinson, Mr. Hector Coit, Mr. Sean Donahue, Mr. Bobby Leyland?”
Lily nodded, smiled, blushed in response to their chorus of “Charmed,” “Delighted,” “How do you do.” Only Dickinson remained silent, watching her with bright dark eyes.
At last, after a second’s pause that seemed to last a week, he spoke. “Hello, Lily,” he said, “and welcome to San Francisco.”
She accepted a glass of champagne and lifted it in a salutation before she sipped. Lily’s eyes met the eyes of Stanford Dickinson over the rim of her crystal wineglass. He’s not bad at all. Quite handsome, in an outdoors kind of way, a fine figure of a man is Stanny D.
Dickinson, she decided, must be nearly forty, quite middle-aged by Lily’s standards, but well-preserved at that. Tall he was, and with broad shoulders that hinted at a sporting kind of life. He was square-built, but nothing fat, solid as a tree, with a ruddy complexion, dark brown hair worn in big sideburns, but beardless, and dancing dark eyes and a mouth that seemed eager to laugh. A man, obviously, who enjoyed life to the hilt, and who should not? And nobody’s fool, either, from what Sophie had told her of the Dickinson fortune, made by this very man, not inherited. Smooth he is, too, she thought, as Dickinson quickly cut her off from the other men and eased her into a corner at the far side of the big room from the piano. Very smooth indeed.
“Do I frighten you, Lily?”
“Oh, no, sir! It’s just that, well, you see, this is my first night here, working, I mean.”
“And, naturally, you are frightened. Sophie said you might be. You don’t have to be frightened of me, Lily.”
“Oh, Mr. Dickinson, I’m not. Truly.” Even as she said the words, Lily cursed herself for a liar.
“Stanford is my name, Lily.”
“Stanford, then. ’Tis a fine name. I never knew anyone called Stanford before.”
“Nor I. It’s my grandfather’s name, so I guess I’m stuck with it.”
Lily noticed that his glass was empty. “Would you be having more wine, Stanford?”
“Thank you.”
She went to the ice bucket and came back with the bottle, all the time desperate to think of some amusing thing to say, something to make him laugh. Lily had never been a teller of jokes, though, and she could think of none now, not if her life depended on it. She poured his wine and returned the bottle to its silver bucket. At least, down here, there was music to fill the silences, and other people talking. Whatever would happen when they were alone?
Stanford Dickinson himself came to Lily’s rescue.
“I must,” he began, “tell you a thing that happened on the way over here this evening…”
His words continued, a complicated story about his horse, a drunken Chinese, and a member of the vigilante police. It was far from being the funniest story Lily had ever heard, but it was quite funny enough, and soon she found herself laughing naturally. It was then, beaming, that he suggested they go upstairs for some supper.
He offered her his beautifully tailored arm, and she took it, feeling the strength in him, and the assurance. Lily smiled and held her head high. Sophie’s eyes were on her, speculating. And well might she worry, thought Lily, quelling a tremor of fear, for here she’s been kind enough to introduce me to this fine gentleman, and who’s to say if I’ll please him? With every stair they mounted, Lily’s apprehensions mounted, too. Suppose he expects me to do things I don’t know about? Or can’t do, or wouldn’t? Suppose he has unspeakable tastes? Lily had heard about unspeakable tastes, but she wasn’t quite positive what they were. She gritted her teeth and remembered Sophie’s advice: “Make him feel important, make him feel this is the best time you have ever had.” But how? There was the terrible, unanswerable question. How?
Lily opened the door of her room, wondering if it would still be there. He followed her inside and closed the door softly behind them. She could tell from the smooth way he did this that the gesture must be the result of long practice. There was more champagne in a silver ice bucket on the table, and a silver tray containing small cheese-filled pastries to nibble on. A fire had been lit in the little iron stove that nestled against the far wall, deep black iron trimmed with brass so highly polished it shone like gold. He tasted one of the crisp pastries.
“Signor Cucci,” he said, “never fails. Along with the loveliest girls in town, our Sophie has snagged the city’s best chef.”
“The food is delicious, isn’t it? Shall I ring?”
Lily took his silence for affirmation and pulled the embroidered bell pull. Stanford Dickinson busied himself with the fresh bottle of wine. He extracted the cork with only the softest hissing sound, filled two glasses, and handed one to Lily.
“Cheers, Lily.”
“Cheers, yourself.”
He sat down on the settee near the stove and stretched out his long legs. For a moment there was silence, and only the noise of the stove’s fire interrupted them, its crackling and rushing of air making a miniature storm in the quiet bedroom. Lily cringed inwardly, wanting to shine, wanting to be witty and charming, unable to think of a single thing to say. He’ll hate me for sure, she thought. He’ll think I’m the village idiot. He won’t pay, he’ll say he’s been cheated, and he’ll be right!
Desperate, she asked, “Have you ever been to Budapest?”
Somehow he found that funny. “No,” he replied, laughing the deep, rich, far-reaching laugh she had heard from the stairs, “I can’t say I have.”
“Why do you find that funny?”
“I find almost everything funny, Lily. Everything, that is, that I don’t find sad.”
“I was reading about Budapest.”
“Good for you. That’s more reading than I’ve done lately. And what did you learn?”
Lily had to laugh at herself then. “Nary a thing. Between looking words up in the dictionary, so many of them I didn’t know, you see, and being nervous about this night, and reading the same sentence over and over again, I got no further than half a page into the story.”
“But you tried, and that’s what matters.”
“Tomorrow I will try harder.”
“I’m sure you will, Lily.”
There was a soft knock on the door, and Lily opened it. The maid carried a large tray that held all their supper. A simple, light supper it was, by Dickinson’s request, just turtle broth followed by lobsters, asparagus, and rice, and a little chocolate gâteau for dessert.
During supper he spoke most of the time,
and told Lily colorful tales of San Francisco, of the early days when there was just a city of tents here and no law to speak of, of Mexican bandits and claim jumpers and convicts shipped in from Australia by the boatload.
“We’re a temple of civilization now by comparison, Lily, believe me, even if most of our streets are paved with mud and horse manure instead of the widely advertised gold.”
“San Francisco will be a grand place one day, it’ll be New York all over again, but more beautiful, for the land is more beautiful, don’t you agree?”
“I sure do, Lily, but not everyone does.”
“Then they surely are fools, for the views from the hills fair take my breath away.”
“Ah!” he said, smiling. “If eyes so fair to look at can also see beauty elsewhere, you are blessed indeed, Lily Malone.”
He told her a bit about his business, which involved land, land and timber, one feeding the other, for his timber built the houses on his land. And now he was building kilns, for bricks were much in fashion, and the burgeoning city needed more than the clippers could carry as ballast. It was fascinating to Lily, and she made no attempt to disguise her interest. The thirst for knowledge had been growing in her ever since she set foot in the Wallingford mansion and discovered how very much there was to learn. Stanford Dickinson was obviously able and willing to help her learn, and she was grateful for that.
“Nobody makes lobster Fra Diavolo like Cucci.” Stanford refilled her champagne glass, and his own. This would be her third glass of wine, more than she’d ever drunk at one time in all her life. What wicked ways you’re learning, my girl, best you watch yourself, or who knows where you’ll end?
“What,” she asked, “does ‘Fra Diavolo’ mean?”
“It is a kind of joke, meaning ‘Brother Devil,’ as though the devil joined an order of monks.”
“He’s come to the right house, that’s for sure.”
He laughed again, and Lily smiled at the success of her little joke.
They finished the entrée, and Lily cut the small chocolate cake.
He took one bite, put down his fork, and leaned back in the delicate chair that threatened to crack under the bulk of him. He lifted his half-full wineglass and sipped slowly, thoughtfully. The candle fluttered in reaction to some unfelt breeze.
“Sophie,” said Dickinson, “was absolutely right when she told me you are special.”
Lily could think of no clever reply, so she blushed and kept silent. He smiled and put down his glass and stood up.
Gently he reached for her hand, bent and kissed it like a courtier in some old engraving, then lifted her easily as a feather to her feet. In the same gentle motion Stanford Dickinson drew her close and kissed Lily full on the lips. Already his hands were busy with the buttons and ribbons of her gown. She smiled, not knowing what else to do, and helped him as best she could.
He kept repeating her name, and kissing her, and soon they were together on the soft feather bed, flesh against flesh, his desire filling the darkness, his need for her sweeping them both along on the swift hot riptide of passion. His was a gentle violence, a soft destruction: he smiled in the darkness and held her as a drowning man might grasp at driftwood.
Finally they lay exhausted.
He said nothing. Lily wondered, terrified, if he had been pleased.
They lay for an unmeasured time, very close, and Lily feared to move, that she might displease him. When she heard her name, Lily had to think where it came from, so soft were his whispered words.
“Lily,” he said, so low it might have been the distant sea breaking upon the sand, “Lily, Lily, Lily…” And he moved then, kissing her shoulder, her neck, stroking her, and his passion came surging back then, stronger, wilder than ever.
This time, when they finished, he left her. He stood beside her bed, bent to kiss her, said nothing.
“Did I do something wrong?” The fear was like a flame in the night.
“Wrong?” His laugh was muted, for it was very late. “No, my dearest Lily, you did nothing wrong at all, except perhaps come into my life too late. But rest now, Lily Malone. We’ll talk later on.” He kissed her again and was gone. When, she wondered, drifting off to sleep at last, would “later on” be?
Lily slept late and woke to find six brass El Dorado twenty-five-dollar tokens neatly stacked on top of a hundred-dollar gold piece. She rubbed her eyes, not believing what she saw. She had heard about tips, and tips were hers to keep. But this? A hundred dollars on top of one-fifty?
She thought of last night, of Stanford Dickinson and what a bad bargain his wife had made, to treat him so meanly he was forced out to Sophie’s. Lily thought of Kate, too, and how she might well be risking hellfire and damnation to keep the child in comfort. Yet, whatever the world might think or say about such transactions as last night’s, there was a basic honesty in it: a simple sale and a simple payment. And judging by the tip, the customer had been satisfied.
Lily got up and put the gold piece in her reticule. She’d exchange the tokens for half their value later on. She knew that all her customers couldn’t be as fine and as gentle as Dickinson. Still and all, the first dreaded hurdle was over. She had knowingly sinned and been paid for it. God hadn’t struck her dead, and if the angels were weeping for her, Lily could not hear them. Kate was out in the valley, well fed and cared for, and in this one night Lily had earned enough to secure that care for three whole months!
The room danced with morning sunlight. Lily walked up to the big mirror and studied her reflection critically. “You,” she whispered to the mirror, and smiled a faint, faintly bitter smile, “are a whore.”
Then she rang for her breakfast.
27
Brooks felt the weight of the small blue leather jeweler’s box as he surreptitiously slid his hand into his evening-coat pocket and drew it slowly out.
He looked at Caroline, sitting across the small round dining table they set up in the library for one of their increasingly rare dinners alone. Light from twin silver candlesticks bathed her creamy skin in a most seductive glow. The simple burgundy gown was cut low, low enough for Brooks to be glad they were alone, although if Caroline wore a thing, one could be perfectly sure it was the coming style. As always when he looked at his wife, Brooks forgot whatever might have been troubling him during the day, or even five minutes ago.
He reached out and took her hand in his, and put the box in it. “Happy anniversary, my darling.”
Her eyes flashed. She opened it. She let out a child’s sigh of wonderment and held the glittering gift up to the nearest candle. One large ruby pendant, framed by small pearls and smaller rubies, dangling from a rope of twisted gold. She jumped up from the table and kissed him.
“Oh, my darlin’ thoughtful Brooks! You know I just love and adore rubies.”
Quickly, with deft fingers, she clasped it around her neck. It set off the burgundy gown to perfection, gleaming with dark, mysterious lights against her flawless skin, the stone dancing with unexpected fires. Just like Caroline herself, Brooks thought with a slightly ironic smile, mysterious, with unexpected fires.
“Rubies,” he said softly, “become you, my dear.”
She bent over and kissed him. “Love becomes me, Mr. Chaffee. That is why I sometimes get impatient when you stay downtown with your old ledgers and debentures and things.”
“That,” he said, laughing, refilling her wineglass and his own, “is where the rubies come from. I’m glad we have this evening together, Caroline: it seems, lately, I’m forever sharing you with a crowd.”
“But,” she said with a parody of a small child’s pout, “it is perfectly dandy for me to share you with all your old stuffy banker friends?”
But then she smiled, and when Caroline smiled at Brooks, he could feel the icebergs melting in the faraway sea. She went on, her passion building: “It just drives me crazy, the time we’re wasting, when there’s fun to be had, when the world’s on fire, and who knows—”
“The
world may be smoldering, darling, but it isn’t quite yet on fire.”
“Wait. Just wait till we have your Mr. Honest Abe Lincoln in the White House, then see what happens, what’s on fire!”
Brooks looked at her patiently, understanding her concern. They had this discussion several times a week, and they both knew there was no real answer to it, for the events that threatened to grind one-half of the Union against the other were far, far beyond their control—or anyone else’s control either, for all of that. And Brooks didn’t want to talk about war in the abstract. He wanted to express his love for her, and in very physical terms, and right now. He laughed and went to her.
“The biggest fire I know about my love, is right here in this room.”
She came to his arms and he clasped her tightly, kissed her soft mouth, and felt the ruby pendant burning into his chest. He slid an arm around her and lifted her in one smooth surge of desire. Brooks carried Caroline through the sleeping household and up the stairs. And the night dissolved in loving.
Lily sat tall in the sleek green landau and enjoyed the day for what it was: one of her better days. The fresh air delighted her after the perfumed confines of the El Dorado, and she loved the feel of the sun on her face and the wind rushing by, and just to watch the perfectly matched bays was a joy, for they trotted with such pride and pleasure it seemed they knew this was the finest and fastest new carriage in town, and who owned it. Lily turned to her companion and tried to make herself heard over the wind and the sound of the horses’ brisk hooves.
“If they do build the coast road to San Mateo, it’ll cut an hour from the trip both ways. I could see Kate nearly every day, then.”
Stanford Dickinson nodded, adjusted the cigar in his mouth, and replied, “They’ll build it, Lily-o, or all my information’s worthless. How old’s the child now?”
