A Fatal First Night

by Kathleen Marple Kalb

  Preston smiled, not so much at the wish, but at the sweetness of she who offered it. “No reason to think they weren’t.”

  I sipped my tea and left them to their smiles for a moment, before carefully pulling the conversation back. “At any rate, Albert claims he hadn’t seen Florian since his sister’s death—until he saw him dying on his dressing-room floor.”

  “I don’t know about that, but the timing is at least possible.” Preston took a tart. “Florian stayed with the Spiders after the killing, and he was good enough that someone with the team found him an off-season job there.”

  “So why was he back here?”

  “Broke an ankle early this past season. Came home because he had nowhere else to go.”

  “Sad.” I said it, but Mrs. G and I nodded together.

  “Losing his wife was tragic,” Preston agreed. “But having to remake your life is simply a setback. He would have had to find something other than baseball eventually, after all. I’m told he was working on new pianos with his father and becoming very good at the craft. He would have been all right.”

  “If he had lived.” Mrs. G sighed.

  We were all silent for a moment, drinking our tea. I could not let Preston and Mrs. G’s happy evening end on this dire note, so I finally, firmly, changed subject.

  “Tell me more about the polar bears.”

  “Oh, they’re truly amazing.” She smiled. “Ten feet tall and pure white. Ferocious too. They eat men, you know.”

  I grinned. “I will get that book at the library for certain.”

  “She should tell you about the penguins,” Preston put in.

  “Such adorable birds. Three or four feet tall, if you can imagine. Black and white—and they waddle.”

  Preston leaned back in his chair, happily watching Mrs. G.

  They’re really well matched, I thought.

  After a few more stanzas of travel stories, I picked up my tea. “I’m quite exhausted. Thank you for coming over to start the baking, Mrs. G. I’m sure Mr. Dare will be happy to see you home.”

  He gave me a tiny scowl but nodded. “Have a good night.”

  “You too.”

  I did not observe that they were almost certainly having a far better night than me. It would absolutely not have been fair.

  Chapter 20

  In Which We Duel the Duke and a Few Assorted Demons

  The next day, Gil appeared about halfway through my fencing lesson, claiming he needed a bit of practice to stay sharp. Something in the way he said it suggested there was more to it than that, but I was not displeased to trade Monsieur du Bois for a more appealing opponent.

  “Alba gu Bràth!” Montezuma called, then got a friendly “Love the birdie” in response.

  The comte handed his foil to Gil with a sniff and a glare and leaned against the piano to observe and scowl. Montezuma decided this was a good time to lighten the mood with a drinking song, fortunately one of the less offensive ones in his repertoire.

  Gil and I were both smiling as we stepped into position.

  “En garde.” I tapped my foil on his. “I’m glad you decided to visit me instead of seeking out Mrs. Van Vleet.”

  He laughed outright, damn him. “I’m sorry?”

  “Well, you certainly seemed fascinated by the lady in the dressing room last night.”

  “Shane, are you jealous?” He easily fended off my attack.

  “No more jealous than you are about Mr. Bridgewater’s visits.” Since it was really all I had, and not much at that, I just threw it at him, I admit in hopes of getting a response of some kind.

  “Which Mr. Bridgewater?” Parry.

  “The senior, of course.” I launched a new attack, hoping to make him work a little harder.

  “Cabot Bridgewater?” He blocked the strike easily and held his ground with a confident smile. “You cannot be unaware that he’s a confirmed bachelor.”

  “He is unmarried, yes.”

  Gil shook his head and launched an attack of his own, clearly thinking about what to say next. “Shane, he’s not unmarried the way Mr. Dare is unmarried.”

  Block. Thrust. “What?”

  “He’s unmarried like your cousin is unmarried.”

  I almost dropped my foil, but his discomfort at saying it balanced out my error and left us pretty well even.

  “Well . . .” I launched a new attack. “In any case, I would never look at Mr. Bridgewater with such interest in your presence.”

  “It wasn’t that kind of interest.”

  “What kind was it?” Thrust.

  Parry. “This is part of what I can’t tell you.”

  “I see.”

  “Surely you can trust me for a while. I promise to explain all as soon as I can.”

  For several very long seconds, there was only the sound of steel on steel. I didn’t like this one little bit. But since he had framed it as a matter of trust, I had no choice. “Very well.”

  “You won’t be sorry, Shane.”

  I backed him toward a corner. “I’m sorry already.”

  “I do owe you an apology in one area.”

  “What’s that?” I launched a new attack.

  “I still haven’t looked at the autopsy report in the dressing-room stabbing.” He faltered a bit, and I pushed him back. “I really will get to it.”

  “Please do.” I allowed a little coldness to creep into my voice as I blocked a strike.

  “On another topic, would you happen to know why Connor Coughlan felt the need to see me?”

  “What?” I lost my advantage as I thought through all the possibilities, none good.

  “He just happened by as I was walking in the park a few days ago.”

  “Connor doesn’t just happen by.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “Tommy and I will discourage him from contacting you again.”

  “There’s no cause for concern.”

  “No?”

  Gil chuckled. “I am not supposed to tell you this, because it was a conversation among men.”

  I remembered Connor’s assessing glance in the dressing room. I had a strong inkling of what was coming next. “Just tell me he didn’t order you to marry me.”

  He almost missed the block. “Close enough. He allowed as how you’d look lovely in a tiara.”

  “Of course he did.”

  “I gather you did not put him up to this.”

  My turn to almost miss. “Indeed not.”

  “I didn’t really think so. But apparently, your Mr. Coughlan has decided that I am an appropriate match for you, and he is doing what he can to speed the course of true love.”

  I shook my head as I started a new attack. “Of course he has. Connor thinks I should be properly settled, and there’s not much more proper or settled than being a duke’s wife.”

  “Well, I assured him that my intentions are honorable, but that I also respect your right to sing, and we have a bit to work out.”

  “To which he said?”

  Gil laughed and colored a little. “In much less delicate terms, he said I should marry you and have a wee one or two, and you won’t miss the stage a bit.”

  “Typical male answer. Give a woman a baby, and she won’t want anything else.”

  “I didn’t agree with him, Shane.”

  “I didn’t think you did.” I smiled and pressed my attack. “You’re one of the good ones.”

  “Thank you kindly.” His eyes were close on my face. “It’s not that you don’t want children . . .”

  “I’ve come to the conclusion that I do.” It says a great deal about me that the admission was easier with a sword in my hand.

  He almost missed the block, then managed a carefully casual reply. “Wee Joseph has had his effect.”

  “But I’m like Marie. I’m a woman and an artist. Not one or the other.”

  “I’m not certain Mr. Coughlan understands that concept.”

  “Just tell me you didn’t try to explain it to him.”


  “Not at all. I assured him that I was doing my level best to win you, and we left it at that.”

  “Excellent answer for your safety,” I said, backing him into a corner. “Whatever the truth.”

  “Perhaps we take this discussion up again after the run?” he offered, trying one more attack.

  “An excellent idea.” I fended it off easily. “I’m not giving you a draw. I win.”

  “Not just the duel, Shane.”

  We bowed. He took my hand and kissed it, then held it for a long moment after.

  “You know, don’t you, that I have no interest in Mrs. Van Vleet’s company?” he said, eyes steady on my face, fingers twining with mine.

  “You know Mr. Bridgewater is a good friend and no more.”

  We might have stayed thus for days if the comte hadn’t broken in with a growl. “Monsieur le Duc, do we have to have that discussion again?”

  Gil sighed. “Monsieur le Comte, someday, it is going to give me great pleasure to tell you to mind your own business.”

  “And it will give me great pleasure to congratulate you on your happy news when that day comes.”

  Despite all the serious currents swirling in the air, I couldn’t suppress a smile at the two of them, real aristocrat and fake, glaring furiously at each other.

  “Fine figure of a man!” Montezuma contributed, clearly throwing his support to the British Empire.

  I glared at the bird and bowed to the alleged Frenchman. “Thank you for an excellent lesson, Monsieur le Comte.”

  “I’ll teach you a lesson!” Montezuma produced a perfect imitation of a sports writer, likely Yardley, who’d shooed him away from his whisky.

  I had no doubt it was only a matter of time before Montezuma shared some of the other things the sports writers had taught him, including words I am not supposed to know. I motioned to the gentlemen. “Shall we leave Montezuma to his contemplation?”

  As we walked down the stairs, Gil straightened his waistcoat, and the last button came off as he did. “Drat.”

  I held out my hand. “Give it to me. I’m still capable of a little mending.”

  I bowed the comte out and motioned Gil into the parlor.

  Sophia was already there, dusting the whatnot, so there was no concern about chaperonage. Gil handed me the waistcoat and put his jacket on without it, a nod to the proprieties that would have made me smile at any other time. I pulled the mending box from its drawer, set it on the table, and picked out the materials, with the sick little twist in the pit of my stomach I have every time I take up a needle.

  Mostly, I leave mending to Rosa, but once in a great while, I’ll sew on a button for Tommy or myself, usually only if it drops off in my hand. I can’t do needlework without remembering those last days with my mother, each one finding her thinner, paler, and sicker, coughing harder and longer, her eyes becoming wider and more anguished. It was so cold, and I was so scared. And the only thing I could do to help was pick up the piecework.

  I should not have offered to sew on the button for Gil. I knew that by the time I had threaded the needle. I didn’t look at him as I sat down on the settee and quickly set to work. It would take only a few seconds, and then it would be done—

  Of course I stabbed my finger on the third stitch.

  I winced and muttered something unladylike as my eyes filled and the shivering started.

  “Shane? What’s wrong?” Gil’s voice was sharp with genuine concern.

  I shook my head and put my stuck finger to my mouth for a second, turning away from him.

  “I’m sorry. I should not have let you do this.” He sat down beside me, tossing the waistcoat away, and took my free hand. “You told me once that you did piecework as a child.”

  I was stunned that he remembered an offhand mention intended to explain my facility with a seam ripper months ago. I turned back to him and nodded.

  “Do you want to tell me more?” His voice was gentle, and his hand warm on mine.

  “Not much to tell.” I took a breath and tried to stop my shivering. “The last winter. She was dying a little every day, and all I could do to help was sew.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “The two of you were alone?”

  I nodded and looked down at my lap. I was afraid I’d see pity or worse in his eyes. In his world, things like this happened only in the works of Mr. Dickens.

  “How old were you?”

  “Eight.” As I forced out the syllable, a couple of tears spilled over. There was actually a good bit more to the story, but I knew I could not tell it now. He might not even believe me.

  There’s a reason the illness that killed her is called consumption. It devours a person from within, one racking cough at a time, until nothing is left. The last winter, Mama was fading every day, and we both knew. But neither of us would admit it.

  She didn’t want me to be frightened. I didn’t want to add to her suffering.

  At the end, even on the rare days when we could afford a fire in our little stove, she could not really get warm. She never complained, and neither did I, even when we had only one meal of bread a day, because I didn’t want to hurt her by asking for more. When we huddled together in the blankets that passed for a bed at night, all I felt were loose clothes and bones—but it didn’t matter, because it was still my mother’s embrace, and even as an eight-year-old, I understood that I would not feel it much longer.

  The last week or so, I lied and told her the public school was closed for some American winter holiday, because I wanted to be home with her. As best I know, it’s the only real lie I’ve ever told. She almost certainly knew the truth, and the simple fact that she allowed me to stay home from school should have been a sign of very serious trouble.

  But I did not recognize it. I was just grateful that she let me stay by her side. All I could do to protect her was sit with her and take up the piecework when she let me. I believed, with my child’s mind, that if I just watched over her, I could keep her safe.

  In the early darkness of winter, when there was no longer light to work, she would tell me stories. Of the beautiful redheaded Irishman she met at Immigration. Of the day they met once again on a Lower East Side street. And of the day they ran off to marry, knowing full well that it would cost them their families, their friends, and their faith. All worth it, she would say, because they were bashert—meant to be together.

  Then she would spin her dreams for me. Usually vague, rosy things. How I could do anything, become anything: a teacher, a social worker—even a ballet dancer—if I worked hard enough. Mama didn’t know much about ballet, only that dancers were beautiful and adored.

  What she wanted for me.

  That last night, as we drifted off to sleep, she kissed the top of my head and told me she loved me. I do not remember saying the words back to her, but I tell myself I did.

  The next morning, my teacher, concerned that I had missed more than a week of class, stopped by our room. Miss Wolff found me curled up beside Mama, hoping she would awaken when the sun came out. She would never wake up again.

  I wasn’t frightened at first, because she looked really happy for the first time I could remember.

  My teacher scooped me up and took me to the school wrapped in a blanket. I carried a bundle containing my mother’s candlesticks and the few scraps of clothing we hadn’t been wearing. I spent that day in the teachers’ office, drinking hot sweet tea, my first taste of sugar since a stray bit of Christmas candy months before, eating bread with the shocking treat of butter, and waiting to see if I would be sent to the orphanage.

  I knew it was probably where I belonged, because I didn’t have anyone anymore.

  The nice ladies who fed me, fussed over me, and told me my mother had gone to heaven also told me it was all right to cry if I wanted to, that I did not have to be brave for them. I knew they were wrong. I had to be brave for myself now, because nobody else would be.

  I didn’t know I was safe
until late that afternoon, when Aunt Ellen swept into the office, saying that Frank’s girl wasn’t going to any orphanage. Until that moment I hadn’t known that she existed, never mind that I’d been named for her or that my mother had sent her a last, desperate letter.

  She took me home, and she and Uncle Fred made a place for me in their already large and struggling family. I spent the rest of that winter sleeping in the warmest spot by her stove, because, as she told the cousins, “the poor little creature hasn’t been warm for months.” I made sure nobody saw me cry for my mother after the funeral, because it didn’t seem grateful.

  I could not trust Gil with this yet, if ever.

  “A cold, frightened little girl stitching for her life,” Gil said quietly, his faint Northern accent suddenly more pronounced. He leaned closer and wiped away one of the tears, and as I gazed back at him, I saw something like admiration. And affection. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  I took a breath and tried to regain my composure. “Everyone has losses and difficulties.”

  I couldn’t quite steady my voice or stop the shivering, and he put his arms around me then, an innocent, protective gesture, like something Tommy would do. I leaned on his shoulder for a moment, glad for the comfort and reassurance, even if it was almost certainly a violation of propriety. His arms were warm and strong, and I could just faintly hear his heartbeat.

  “It’s all right. You’re safe now.” He stroked my hair, whispering something that sounded Scottish Gaelic.

  Safe indeed. I’d never felt so protected and cared for in my life. Cherished, I think, is the word.

  After a stanza or two, I managed to stop shivering and control my breathing. I carefully moved away, though I could cheerfully have stayed in his embrace. “I’m sorry.”

  “No cause for apology.” He smiled a little. “But I never want to see you take up a needle again.”

  “You won’t.” I picked up the waistcoat, tied off the thread, and handed it to him. “It’ll hold until you can get it to a valet.”

  Gil nodded and stood, quickly donned the garment, and briskly buttoned it, not looking back at me until his jacket was on and he was once again appropriately dressed. “Thank you. I’m sorry it was so difficult.”

  “You couldn’t know.”