Chapter Fourteen

Walking through Central Park to the west side of the city was not something Emily habitually did. There was a different sort of people living there, a sort with which the Darling family did not mix, and Emily had no idea what she would find.

As she emerged from the cover of trees and delight of winding paths, she was surprised to see smart and well-kept buildings, clean streets, an air of prosperity. But as she walked farther from the park, the busier streets became more commercial, and the larger apartment buildings gave way to brownstone townhouses, family homes. Not as ornate as her own home, nor as well kept, the one she sought still looked reasonably appealing. Still, she was apprehensive, especially when the woman who answered the door was not, in Emily’s opinion, appealing at all.

Embarrassed, feeling she had made a great mistake in coming, Emily adjusted her hat slightly and avoided the other’s gaze. “I…I would like to speak with Miss Ethel Darton, please.”

She found her courage and faced the woman. There was no surprise as to what she found: lamp-blacked eyes, rouge and powder obvious as the woman leaned into the doorframe and blew smoke from a cigarette in a long ivory holder. She studied Emily carefully, heel to hat.

The woman’s bosom, which was barely covered by a silk dressing gown, heaved with a laugh. “I’m not taking on any more girls if that’s why you’re here.” The words puffed smoke in Emily’s face.

“No. No, I’m not here for a…a job. I’m here on a personal matter.” The question so stunned Emily, she almost stumbled down the steps.

The other woman fixed her robe tighter about her, flicking the ash off her cigarette in an expert maneuver. “Personal? The Post hasn’t sent you to interview me, has it? You don’t look like any reporter I’ve ever seen.”

“No, most certainly not. Are you Miss Darton, then?”

There was a sly sideways look as a reply.

“It concerns Daniel Saunders,” Emily went on staunchly.

“Daniel…?” The laughter that burst out of Ethel Darton could only be termed raucous. She cackled some more before gaining control, tugged the cigarette from its holder and stomped it out underfoot as she narrowed her eyes for a last survey of Emily. “Daniel Saunders. Daniel Saunders. Well, I’ll be. Are you his wife?”

“No. Oh, no, of course not. Otherwise, why would he have been seeking—”

Ethel laughed once more. “Listen, dearie, in this world, you never know who’s telling the truth.” She studied Emily once more and her own features softened. “You best come in for a minute. No use talking here on the stoop all day like a couple of old fishwives.”

Emily followed her inside, the dark of the hallway requiring a moment’s adjustment in her vision. Her hostess turned up the gaslight, and she was treated to a riot of reds and golds that made her think of paintings she had seen of a Chinese Bazaar. The room to which she was shown was only slightly less dramatic—fringed lampshades and swags and tails of velvet curtains, overstuffed furniture with anti-Makassars and, in the corner, an upright piano with piles of sheet music on its top. Ethel waved to one of the armchairs then yanked open a drawer on one of the tables, plucked out another cigarette and, stuffing it in her holder, grabbed a match from the drawer and struck it.

The flame heightened before Ethel shook it out. A long column of smoke from her rouged lips filled the air. “Daniel Saunders, eh? Well, well, well. You his sister or some relation? What?” She plonked herself into a chair opposite Emily.

“No, no, not at all. I…I believe he wrote to you that the tickets meant for you were delivered to someone else, someone who—”

Ethel threw her head back with more boisterous laughter. “You some relation to the woman then?”

“Relation? No. I am the woman. I’m Emily Darling. I’m the one who stole the tickets. You see—”

“Wait, wait just a second.” Ethel leaned forward now, a perplexed look crossing her brow. “You can’t be. That woman has to be in Wyoming. He wrote me. He said…Wait just a second, I’ll find the letter.”

“I came home, you see.” Emily spoke to the woman’s retreating rear.

The madam halted and turned, brows scrunched in puzzlement. “You mean you couldn’t stand Wyoming? You left him?”

“I left him because he loved you…or thought he did. That is, he loved the person he thought you were.”

Her contender—this Lillie Langtry pretender—stared at her, puffing on the end of her cigarette holder thoughtfully. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. He never loved me…or not, at least, after you arrived. He wrote and told me so.”

“No, you see…” Emily’s words dwindled into uncertainty as the other padded down the hall.

She sat solemnly trying to think this through, but nothing made sense anymore. Here to complete the puzzle, it appeared the puzzle had more pieces than she foresaw.

When Ethel returned, a letter held out in front of her, Emily stared at her blankly. “What?”

“Read it. Go on, read it for heaven’s sake.” The letter flapped in her extended hand.

“Read?” As if she were dreaming, she watched her hand stretch to take the letter, extract it from the envelope, the same type she had seen Daniel use. The handwriting was his even script, bold, manly. And the date was the morning after they had lain together, a date well embedded in Emily’s mind.

Dearest Ethel,

This letter is so very difficult to write, and it grieves me so to do, but I fear there is no other way. I have fallen in love, deeply in love, with the woman who took your place, and I now must ask to be released from my promise of marriage. I know we have corresponded these many months with the intention of you becoming my bride, and I know I have made that offer of marriage to you in good faith, but my heart is now so completely in the power of another woman, I dare not go on with any further plans. Emily is everything I ever wanted in a wife, and more, and I cannot possibly envisage life without her.

I know this will come hard to you but, as I look back over your letters, I truly believe this is for the best. I know sometime soon you will meet the man you really want, a man who can give you everything you deserve, a life you can easily abide. Truly, dearest Ethel, this is for the best for both of us.

Yours most sincerely,

Daniel Saunders

Stupefied, Emily sat back, the letter dangling from her hand. “He loves me,” she whispered.

“Good gracious, lady.” Ethel collapsed back into her chair and made a huge arc in the air with the cigarette and holder. “Why did you come back to New York?”

“He never said,” she responded in a small voice, her eyes beginning to sting with tears. “He never told me. He never told me he’d written or…or…that he…”

The more worldly woman harrumphed and flicked some ash. “They never do, the bastards. They never do. Until some crisis occurs and then, well, maybe they might say it. So, are you going to go back?”

Emily met the other’s glance, mouth open, mind blank. After a moment, she gathered herself and sat up in the chair. “Tell me one thing, Miss Darton, if you would. I’m afraid I’m most curious on this point. Why…why did you start the correspondence with him in the first place? Why send the photograph of Lillie Langtry and write all those letters?”

The notorious madam tilted her head considering the question and took a long drag on her cigarette. As she blew out the stream of smoke and rested her head back, she appeared, to Emily, to be going someplace else in her mind. Then she sat up again.

“Well, you know, kid, this friend of mine gave him my address at a time I was in a shitload of trouble here in New York.”

Emily flinched at the rude word as she caught the other’s gaze.

“It seemed like a trip to Wyoming might be a smart thing to do. After that, after the matter cleared, well, me and the girls just had a load of fun inventing things to say. I have a client who thought it a great joke, too—writing to some lonesome cowboy off in the middle of nowhere—and he helped with the writing—made sure it sounded right and all. You know how it is. A little joke. A jest. Fun! That actress’ photograph, and inventing a real lady’s day in New York. A little bit of fun. That’s all it was meant to be in the end. Fun.”