Decorum

Observe your own feelings when you happen to be the guest of a person who, though he may be very much your friend, and really glad to see you, seems not to know what to do either with you or himself; and again, when in the house of another you feel as much at ease as in your own. Mark the difference, more easily felt than described, between the manner of the two, and deduce therefrom a lesson for your own improvement.

—Decorum, page 87

Cue balls clacked and scudded across the green baize. Glass-shaded lamps pooled their light over the tables. The dark woodwork deflected the low conversation as the players calculated their next shots.

Now at ten o’clock, the gentlemen stood, some with pool cues shouldered, to the nightly strains of “God Save the Queen” that echoed through the hotel. The sun dipped behind the mountains, leaving its rose and orange beams to mock the twilight with the promise of an early dawn. The temperate June air freshened the basement billiard room and carried off the sweet-and-sour cigar smoke. A manservant entered and closed the windows to a healthful crack and stirred the fire in the hearth.

Gentlemen were reduced to shirtsleeves, their tailcoats arrayed on hooks like ravens roosting in a tree. They bent over their cue sticks, an errant cigar stub poised between their teeth or held by two fingers with the cue resting in the crook of the thumb. A few men watched on the fringes, whiskey glasses and cigars in hand. Billiards afforded the chance to be seen mixing, to acquire nodding acquaintances, and having weeded out the social nuisances, to seek introductions.

“Sporting man?” asked Sándor Király of Connor, as the former shot the cue ball toward its target.

A cordial dinner with Király and Ida West had acquainted Connor with the Hungarian well enough to suggest billiards after coffee. Connor had as yet been unable to fulfill his pledge to Blanche, but hoped that with a friendly game and a drink or two an opportunity might suggest itself.

“Depends,” Connor replied, picking up the cube from the rail and chalking his cue stick. “I s’ppose you could say I was a gaming man rather than a sporting one.”

“Is there a distinction?” asked Sándor.

“A fine one, perhaps, for those who enjoy both,” said Connor. “One implies strategy. The other implies strength. I grant you that they do often occur together.”

“Ah, but there, do we not also venture into the realm of ingenuity and education?” asked an elderly gentleman bending to his cue stick.

The two men had offered a place in their game for this stranger—a minor English nobleman who had not been introduced nor introduced himself and who seemed in no hurry to discover who his companions might be. Connor wondered how this gentleman would react if Ida West were set upon him and how shocked Esther Gray would be.

“And luck perhaps,” said Connor.

“But a man has to be ready when the opportunity—luck if you like—presents itself,” retorted the gentleman and then made his shot. He took up his cigar from the rail and drew on it. “Was it not the philosopher Seneca who said that luck is simply where opportunity and preparation meet? A man can spend his whole life preparing for the one moment when he realizes what he’s done and what he’s worked towards and what it all means, and finally is ready to seize the opportunity that is placed before him.”

“That’s very true, sir,” said Connor. “Many years of backbreaking work go into many a lucky break. The trouble is many men today want the lucky break without doing the work beforehand.” Connor paused to take his shot.

“Still, as you say, the two principles so often meet together,” said Sándor. “Climbing and mountaineering certainly rely on strength, especially when one has misread twenty centimeters of cliff in front of one. Ideally, though, a more accurate reading—and a convenient cleft or outcropping—can make actual strength a less formidable consideration. Leverage, when properly applied, can be more important.”

“Ah,” said the elderly gentleman, standing as the designated ball dropped into the pocket. “Leverage is an important consideration, especially when applied strategically, if I may say so. Leverage requires one to know the precise nature of one’s own strength and to use it to best advantage.”

“Exactly, very well put, sir,” continued Sándor. “In fact, when one considers the importance of leverage, I believe, if trained properly, ladies may even become good climbers.”

“Hmph,” grumbled the elderly gentleman. “I can believe anything of ladies these days.”

“I can think of one or two who might try it,” said Connor, smiling to himself.

“Exactly,” said Sándor. “One sees many ladies here in Banff taking long hikes and being guided over rough terrain, even mountaineering in a small way. In Europe, many ladies of beauty and accomplishment have a taste for vigorous exercise in the mountain air—and of course an appreciation for the beauty of their surroundings. Their only real encumbrance in moving from hiking to serious mountaineering is their clothing.”

“What would you do, sir,” asked the old gentleman, “put ’em in jodhpurs or plus fours and hobnailed boots? Gaiters, too, I suppose. Damned silly business for ladies, if you ask me.”

“Why not?” said Sándor with a smile. “They wear the hobnails already and the plus fours would not bother me, especially if it is safer for them, rather than to become entangled in long skirts. I should prefer them in plus fours if it prevented the need for carrying them down a mountain with a broken ankle or scraping them off the bottom of a ravine where there is no sign of civilization. God knows we men run the risk enough even with the proper attire and gear. Yes, I should much prefer the ladies to climb in plus fours.”

“Damned progressive way of thinking, sir,” complained the gentleman. “Popular with the ladies, are you? Women are always wanting some damned thing or other, even if they know it’s not good for ’em.”

“Who is to tell them what is good for them, if not themselves?” asked Sándor with a grin. “You, sir?”

“It’d be an improvement,” muttered the gentleman.

Ah yes, thought Connor. Logic, leverage, and knowing what was in one’s own best interest. If only women understood a good thing when presented to them in a forthright, logical fashion. If only Frankie could accept what was so plainly reasonable from his point of view—the unimpeachable logic of a match with himself. He tried to picture her in plus fours and hobnail boots but found it an effort. He was a little dismayed that the effort was not so great when applied to Blanche.

“Maybe instinct is a better word than strategy,” Connor offered with a chuckle.

“What do you find so amusing about instinct, sir?” asked Sándor. “It is a vital ingredient in so many of men’s pursuits.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Only I can hear certain ladies chide me that what might be called ‘instinct,’ so revered in men, is called ‘intuition’ and reviled in women. They, poor females, generally receive precious little credit for intuition, while we, poor mutts, rely on instinct when we have precious little else.”

“Well said, sir,” Sándor replied.

“Utter bosh,” the elderly man said, addressing Connor. “You must be popular with the ladies, too.”

“I only wish it were so, sir,” said Connor.

“Speaking of ladies and their pursuits,” said the gentleman as he replaced his cigar on the rail and prepared his shot, “has anyone had any dealings with this lady reporter?”

Grateful that the subject had introduced itself, Connor nonetheless was cautious. Such an introduction might lead anywhere and might well turn from opportunity to disaster.

“What makes you ask?” Connor ventured.

“Has she been making herself a nuisance?” asked Sándor.

“As a matter of fact,” said the gentleman. Connor held his breath. “No. I shouldn’t say she was a nuisance—exactly. Damned if I can catch her eye half the time.”

Connor smiled and shot a look at Sándor, who returned it with amusement.

“Thought I might be able to help, don’t you know. Offer her introductions, that sort of thing. Seems determined to do it all on her own—like so many of these damned females who don’t want a man to give them a helping hand. Think they can do it without proper introduction these days. They’ll soon find out.”

“I’m acquainted with her,” said Connor. “Certainly she’s a determined lady and wants to get on and make a good job of this reporting, but I think you’ll find, sir, that she would welcome any introductions you might offer.” If this gentleman offers her anything else, Blanche can take care of herself, he thought.

“If she has any sense of decorum,” said Sándor, “she may be somewhat reluctant because no one has introduced her to you.”

“I can assure you,” said Connor, “she is keenly aware of social boundaries and would hardly sacrifice her professional reputation by barging in where she isn’t wanted. If I can help in any way, sir, I would be happy to effect an introduction myself.”

“Damned fine-looking woman,” said the gentleman as he bent to his cue, took his shot, and stood straight. “And who might you be, sir, if I may ask?”

Connor introduced himself and proceeded to recite a catalogue of reasons the gentleman should consider him an appropriate go-between. Had he not promised Blanche assistance, the man’s cross-questioning might have rankled him. Instead he regarded the man as Blanche’s avenging angel and bore the interrogation with more patience than was normally his wont. By the time the examination was over, the gentleman had consented to allow Mr. O’Casey the honor of presenting him to Mrs. Wilson. The question was, how to transfer this evident enthusiasm for Mrs. Wilson from the Englishman to Sándor Király.

“You understand,” said the gentleman, “I abhor publicity. Shocking business, generally speaking.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” said Sándor. “Reporters are so often such low people, scrounging for crumbs from which they make a soufflé to feed the public—all air and no substance.”

“On the other hand,” said the gentleman, backpedaling vigorously but with perfect dignity, “one can be overly scrupulous in these matters. Seeing one’s name in the papers on occasion—under the right circumstances, of course—does no harm.”

“I can assure you, Mrs. Wilson is a well-educated, knowledgeable sort of lady,” said Connor. “I believe she has relations in Italy and has lived and traveled abroad a good deal. I think I can safely say that she would conduct an intelligent interview.” More than that, Connor dared not promise.

“What about you, Király?” Connor continued. “Why don’t you let me introduce you?”

“I can hardly imagine a lady reporter, however knowledgeable, would find climbing and outdoorsmanship the least bit interesting. Besides, if I want publicity I can generally find it on my own—or, I should say, it generally finds me.”

“Ah. So all this liberal talk of ladies and their interests and abilities is just that—all talk, eh?” jibed the gentleman. “Can’t actually stick it when it comes to the point, eh?”

“Not at all, sir—” Sándor began, a little defensively.

“Wouldn’t actually take a woman out on that mountaineering of yours, eh?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I really cannot tolerate—”

“Wouldn’t care to have a small wager? That is, if she’s as good a reporter as O’Casey here makes out.”

At the word wager the billiard room stood still. The players brought their cues to rest as their attention migrated from their own tables to Connor’s.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Sándor. He looked as if this sudden scrutiny were an inconvenience to maintaining his normal cool reserve.

“I’m intrigued,” said Connor, as nonchalantly as he could manage. Until this moment, he thought he knew Blanche well, particularly where men were concerned. In fact, he realized he had no idea how she would react when a roomful of gentlemen of “the right sort” were fixed upon her or what her wishes would be. It surprised—and to some extent comforted—him that his instinct was to protect her as he would want to protect any woman from attentions that might prove a nuisance. On the other hand, he thought, this was Blanche, a woman who knew well men’s intentions and whose new profession would bring her all manner of attention that she would have to manage herself. In fact, she might regard his solicitude as interference. Women could be so difficult.

“Just what do you propose, sir?” asked Connor, trying not to jump two steps ahead when only one was required.

“Now, now, don’t interfere, O’Casey,” said the gentleman, as if reading Connor’s thoughts. “I’ll bet you any sum you like, Király, that if you let O’Casey here introduce this Mrs. Wilson to you, you can’t get her to report on more than your trifling social interests rather than your sporting interests.”

“I have no particular social interests worth reporting,” said Sándor, preparing to take his shot. “So there is no point in introducing me.”

“Precisely my point,” persisted the gentleman. “Your lack of social interests forces the issue, don’t you know. It’s the sporting interests or nothing, don’t you see.”

“What do you think of my chances, O’Casey?” asked Sándor.

“I can’t say for certain that she wouldn’t try the social angle first, especially if that’s what her paper has sent her here to report,” said Connor, trying to leave Blanche a sufficiently wide opening. “Mrs. Wilson certainly knows her own mind, however, and I wouldn’t put it past her if she were to come round to your way of thinking. I think it’s a fair bet.”

“There, you see,” said the gentleman in triumph. “So what will it be? What will you consider sporting?”

The Hungarian frowned at Connor and considered for a moment.

“If I win, you shall outfit my next expedition. I can provide you with a rough sum for two guides, my man, a packer, horses, gear, and possibly one or two other persons.”

“Sounds fair,” said the gentleman. “And when I win, you must come for two months and stay with me at my house in London and must make the rounds of every ball, banquet, and social event the season has on offer.”

The room was still. All eyes moved from Sándor to the gentleman to Connor and back again.

“You will make the introductions,” said Sándor to Connor, “purely as a disinterested party, of course.”

“Of course,” said Connor, relieved at being accorded no greater role.

Finally, Sándor stretched across the table and offered his hand.

“Done,” he said as their hands clasped.

“And done,” said the gentleman.

Francesca had avoided all company since breakfast, when the telegram arrived, and had not even taken Vinnie and Esther into her confidence. The better part of the morning was gone before she realized that all her energy had been expended in private tears while Blanche knew nothing. She summoned strength to scribble the note and ring for a boy. He had not come back. He must have found her. Blotchy redness looked back at Francesca in the mirror, but she bathed her face and arranged her hair.

Francesca and Blanche had been saved the angst and embarrassment of direct confrontation and had negotiated public meetings with civility. Their common past held them together in a vise grip while it slashed an enormous chasm between them. Yet Francesca had never really known Blanche. Since Edmund Tracey’s arrest, everyone had been anxious that they should never meet until the law’s proceedings had reached their dismal end. Judging by the newspapers’ near beatification of Francesca, she could only assume that their sensationalist portrayal of Blanche was equally fantastic. In spite of all they shared—or perhaps because of it—Francesca felt compassion toward Blanche while being sensible that compassion can easily humiliate and render best intentions pitiable.

Blanche arrived at the appointed time. Her brisk knock at the door seemed impatient, eager to be done with whatever it might be. Francesca let May answer. Blanche watched as the maid left the suite on some errand, a signal that this interview would indeed be private. Her eyes betrayed a touch of amusement as she relaxed into an easy stance.

“Mrs. Wilson,” said Francesca. “Won’t you sit down?”

Francesca gestured toward the settee. Blanche glanced around a room void of hospitality. The civility of tea had seemed somehow out of place, and stronger refreshment, were it needed, was well within reach.

“Thank you.”

Blanche took a thousand years to cross the room and a hundred more to sit down. She fumbled in her pocket and pulled from it a small gold cigarette case, opened it, and offered it to Francesca.

“No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

“Pity,” said Blanche as she drew out a cigarette. She looked around for a lighter.

“Allow me,” said Francesca, retrieving matches from the mantelshelf. She drew one out, struck it, and held it while Blanche put the cigarette to her lips and leaned forward to light it. She drew heavily and threw her head back. A jet of smoke shot from the corner of her lips and over her shoulder.

“I’ll come to the point, if I may,” said Francesca.

Blanche considered Francesca before she answered, and then said, “By all means.”

“I’m so sorry there is no easier way to do this.” Francesca returned to the mantelshelf, took a telegram that was leaning against a little porcelain vase of mountain wildflowers, and stood for a moment, holding it and looking at Blanche.

“This came this morning from New York.” She held the telegram toward Blanche. “I wanted you to know as soon as possible. I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else. I’m sorry I couldn’t think of a better way.”

Blanche took the telegram and stared at the addressee, as if the gift of penetrating sight could burn her vision through the paper and draw out its contents without opening it. She dropped her hand that held the unopened telegram to her lap.

“I have yet to communicate the contents to anyone else. I’ll leave you alone. Please take as much time as you need. It’s no trouble.”

As she opened the door, she glanced back long enough to see Blanche’s face drain of color as she turned her gaze from Francesca to the telegram.

Connor was having coffee on the terrace with Mrs. West when a hotel messenger interrupted them and handed him a note summoning him at once to meet Francesca in a private parlor. Never in their communications had Francesca used the word urgently. He excused himself to Ida. As he crossed the lobby he glimpsed Francesca and quickened his step so that he followed her into the parlor almost before she could shut the door.

“Thank you for coming,” she said in a low voice.

The look of her frightened him. He thought he had seen all her moods—anger, despondency, grace, and calm—though somewhere in the back of his mind he could not recall a hearty laugh. He chided himself for thinking of laughter when she looked so pale and was clearly in some perturbation of spirit. Maybe the extreme made him think of laughter. Now that he was seeing her extreme grief, he hoped that laughter was not far off.

“What’s happened?” he replied without ceremony. “Have you been crying?”

Her eyes pleaded with his for a moment, then she looked away.

“Edmund’s gone.”

Before he could think what to say, her knees gave way and she crumpled against him. As she gave a little cry, he pulled her to her feet and guided her to the settee, where he set her down and himself next to her and held her. He leaned against the back and felt her whole weight rest against him. Her frame contracted with every sob.

Her crying gave him time to think. So, why him? Why was she not alone in her room, or pouring out her feelings to Vinnie or Esther? Perhaps it was not sympathy she sought. Sympathy could be damnable. That she could be so thoughtless as to choose him at this particular crisis only drove home to him her distress. Francesca would be mortified to think she had caused anyone discomfort. Besides, if they were to have any kind of life together, he should wish that she could come to him for any reason. He may not have chosen this one, but he acknowledged that in choosing Francesca he was relinquishing his right to choose for what reason she might come to him. Her grief was the issue, not its cause. If detachment and not sympathy was what she needed, he would supply it.

Preoccupied with these thoughts, he hardly noticed when her sobs subsided and her breathing had become calm. She lay against him, her ear to his chest, her hair brushing his face. His deep sigh seemed to bring her to herself and she sat up and without looking at him blotted her face with the thick folded handkerchief he offered her. He waited.

“Jerry sent a telegram this morning—it arrived at breakfast time.” She blew her nose. “I’m sorry to be making such a fuss.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “What did it say?”

“Something about ‘No appeal. Auburn business concluded. Letter to follow. I’m sorry.’ Auburn was where it was to take place.”

“Have you told anyone else?”

“Only Blanche.”

“Blanche?” He frowned. “Oh, yes. Of course. Blanche had to be told.”

“I was afraid one of her New York connections might tell her in some ghastly way. I wanted her to have some privacy at least. She’s in my room now—or was. I left her there with the telegram and came to find you. Are you sorry I did?”

“That you told Blanche? Or that you found me?” He sat forward, took her hand, held it briefly, and with a squeeze he let it go. “Never mind, I’m glad of both.”

He sensed that she was not finished. He waited for her to signal in some way that their interview was over.

“Connor, I’m sorry about this—all of it.”

“All of what?”

“I feel as if I’m the cause of so much unhappiness—”

“Nonsense.”

“No, please listen. Please understand that it isn’t just regret over Edmund.” She gazed at her own hands and worked the handkerchief between them. “It’s that all this unhappiness, all this desperation was so unnecessary, so wasteful. I’m as culpable as anyone. I go over and over in my head how I might have said or done something differently, how I might have chosen a path that might have had a different outcome.”

She paused. He wanted to speak, but checked himself and watched her face. She swallowed hard and he thought another torrent might be coming, but she was calm.

“I also think about what you said about having no regrets. I don’t know if I can do that. At least not now, not for a while. I don’t want regret to haunt me, to follow me into whatever decisions I should make in the future, Connor. But I’d be lying to you if I said that I expect the future to be easy, that I could simply show regret the door.”

When she finally looked up into his face, he realized how greatly he had been caught off guard. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Connor?”

Though he had never known her eyes to be anything but frank and open, they now bore through him as if to grasp some part of his being and hold it firmly. It dawned on him that in holding him thus, he was glimpsing what a life of commitment to her would mean. At its heart this was not about Edmund Tracey at all. She was not simply asking him to be honest with her, but to be honest with himself.

“Deceit and selfishness have wrought all this misery. Until deceit and selfishness are shown the door, regret can’t follow—and forgiveness can’t enter. Do you understand?”

He took his time and let himself feel her uncomfortable scrutiny.

“Yes, Frankie, I believe I’m beginning to.”

Francesca sighed and sat up straight. She reached a hand up to her hair and felt for hairpins and combs, more from habit than necessity, he thought.

“I’d better go and find Blanche,” she said.

“She may not want to see you.”

“Then I’ll let her tell me. I’d rather let her know that she doesn’t have to be alone if she doesn’t want to be.”

“Do as you wish,” he said. “I must go and find Ida. She’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.”

Connor stood and offered his hand to help her to her feet.

“I’ll treat this confidentially, of course,” he said as they made for the door.

“I doubt that Mrs. West will have heard about Edmund in any case.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Connor. “It’s surprising what she manages to glean along the way. She’s not a busybody but she does like to know things.”

“I leave that to your discretion,” said Francesca.

“Will you come to luncheon with us?” he asked in a tone that suggested he expected a negative.

She hesitated. “I think not, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” he said. “I’m glad you sent for me. Truly. I hope you know I’m at your disposal at any time.”

“Yes, I do know that. Thank you.”

Blanche had indeed left Francesca’s suite. The telegram was on the settee. May was at work in the bedchamber. A fire was burning in the grate. Francesca took the telegram, tossed it into the fire, and watched the letters of the script turn deep black and then glow white against the graying paper before it broke into ashes and died. She shuddered.

She undertook a modest toilette and changed her blouse before she sought out Blanche and tried to think what she would say upon finding her. An automaton in Francesca’s form walked down three corridors before she came to Blanche’s room and knocked on the door. A reluctant step approached, then seemed to turn and walk away.

“Blanche,” said Francesca through the door. “Blanche, please. It’s Francesca.”

The steps came back and the door opened a hand’s breadth.

“Please, Blanche, let me in for just a moment. Then I’ll leave you alone if you want.”

Blanche said nothing, but opened the door wide and stepped aside to let Francesca pass, but she stayed planted at the door and left it ajar, her hand still on the knob. Francesca saw her own grief mirrored in Blanche’s face.

“I won’t insult you by asking how you are,” Francesca began. “I came to see if you’d like to have some lunch with me in my suite,” she said, taking Connor’s last offer as a cue. “No doubt that sounds like utter gall to you, but there it is.”

“I don’t think I cou . . .” Blanche began, looking at the floor.

“Don’t be silly. Neither of us should be alone and both of us should eat. We needn’t say anything to each other if we don’t feel like it. Besides, it causes gossip to drink alone.”

“I’m afraid I’m already ahead of you,” said Blanche, nodding toward the decanter and glass on a side table.

“I didn’t mean you,” said Francesca. “I meant me. Let’s get something to eat.”