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“He wants it, Daniel. I’ve never seen him like this before.”
“It may prove too dear even for him.”
Stafford shakes his head. “The price won’t matter.”
“Don’t be naïve; price always matters, even if only as a point of pride. On the other hand, what a thing costs is not always measured in money.”
“He will pay what he needs to buy the house.”
“But not if Miss Adler is not there, or so he has said. Therefore, what price do you assign to her? What is she worth?”
“All I can tell you,” Dyckman says as they make their way down the stairs, “is that for someone normally so reasonable, Mario becomes the most intractable human being once he has his heart set on something. Nothing sways him.”
“Ah, Stafford; I fear he has met his match in Mr. Chadwick. Well, this should prove an interesting contest. My esteemed colleague has evidently made up his mind that Miss Adler is not to be an issue in the sale of the house, and Signor Alfieri has his heart set on having her under his roof. Which of them will prove stronger in the long run, I wonder?”
Dyckman laughs, as they reach the sidewalk. “And what, pray tell, happens to the young woman caught between them?”
“She is pulled to pieces, of course,” Buchan replies, only half in jest, and taking Dyckman’s elbow, steers him into the rushing Manhattan river called Broadway.
Chapter Six (#ulink_eedc2f89-9e2e-59df-9fba-bc9513de920a)
HAD HE BEEN ASKED where he intended to go upon leaving Buchan’s office, Alfieri would have given no definite answer, but the vague response would not have been an evasion—nor would it have been a result of his discomfiture at Buchan’s hands, for he is far less discomfited than Dyckman believes. It would simply have been a true reflection of his state of mind, which seesaws between a soaring elation at being so completely unrecognized in this city that he can melt, unnoticed, into the madness of a Wall Street lunch hour, and a gnawing apprehension concerning the welfare of the child—for so he still considers her, despite Buchan’s denial—in the Slade house.
And yet the mere act of walking is the perfect answer to both moods, reinforcing his heady sense of liberty while diverting his mind. He begins, therefore, merely to walk, with no particular destination in mind; and because this simplest of all pleasures has been denied him for years, he studies everyone and everything in his impromptu journey—buildings, window displays, the dress, manners, speech, and gestures of his fellow pedestrians, the never-ending current of wagons, omnibuses, carts, and carriages jamming Broadway—with the greed of a starving man at a banquet and the smile of a discharged convict, causing more than one passing stranger to give him wide berth.
After a while, however, he settles upon a direction and bears northward at a leisurely pace, savoring his freedom, stopping here and there to enter a store and browse among the merchandise; even halting once on the crowded pavement to admire the sheer magnitude of the Post Office Building—a vast, layered wedding cake of a structure that dwarfs the simple, classical grace of City Hall immediately to its north—and to marvel at the swirling human stream, not the least specimen of which pays him any mind, unless it is to push impatiently past him as he slows the flow of traffic at this busiest of intersections.
His path up Broadway should lead him, eventually, right to the front door of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. It is a walk of slightly more than three miles, but he first takes a blissfully solitary midday meal in a dark little restaurant down a flight of steps, then simply loiters his way up the street. His frequent detours, his pauses, his brief excursions into this or that shop to inquire about some item in the window, or to make a small purchase to be sent on ahead—not out of any need, but solely for the pleasure of being at liberty to go into a shop like any other customer—take up the time, and it is nearly four o’clock when he reaches Union Square, where Broadway meets Fourteenth Street.
There, pleasantly tired, he seats himself on a bench and contemplates the final leg of his journey. In the last week, he has become sufficiently familiar with New York to be able to navigate its busiest streets more or less successfully. He knows, for instance, that to continue in a straight line up Broadway, which runs up the western side of Union Square, is to arrive at his hotel, now a mere nine blocks distant. But he also knows that to walk east, across the bottom of the square, and then one block further, is to come to Irving Place. And once on Irving Place, a left turn and six swift blocks will bring him to Gramercy Park.
Both wisdom and prudence dictate the former route and an uneventful arrival at his hotel. But his journey has left him quite drunk with forgotten spontaneity, and the amount of attention he has attracted on the street has almost convinced him that he has become invisible; and these facts, added to his still-lingering disquiet about the welfare of Miss Adler, and his sudden realization of her nearness, set up a siren song inside his head against which the sober claims of wisdom and prudence have small chance of being heard. Gramercy Park it is to be, if for no other reason than to put his concern to rest, once and for all, about his self-appointed protégée.
At least entering the Slade house poses no problem. The kindly disposed Mr. Upton, perhaps in gratitude for the sublime singing that he had been privileged to hear, had presented the front-door key to Alfieri when the two men parted yesterday; and whether the house agent’s key had been the culprit then, or whether the lock had merely grown rusty from disuse, the front door gives no trouble today.
Upton has also left the generator in working fettle, and a simple push of a button is all that is needed to banish the darkness of the great hall. But Alfieri is reluctant to trouble that darkness now, overcome by the sense that such a disturbance in the house’s hushed equilibrium—a rude thrusting of light into the echoing dusk—might break the enchantment and cause both the magical child and her chamber to shiver into nothingness before he can reach her. He steps into the hall, to be enveloped once more by its whispering welcome, and, leaving the twilight intact, climbs the stairs.
If some part of him had believed that he would find her in the music room again today—as if she were, in fact, a ghost, forever haunting that particular chamber—that part of him is disappointed, as is the part which looks for her in her own room. She is off again, on another wander, and the prospect of speedily locating someone so very small in a house of this size is not bright. But now that he has come this far, the thought of leaving without seeing her again is suddenly unbearable to him; and reasoning that it is still beyond her strength to reach, and return from, the ground floor, he begins his search on the floor immediately above.
His reasoning is sound. He finds her, after several tries, in a book-lined study in the north wing, not far from the music room, seated by the window, gazing out at Gramercy Park. An open book lies forgotten on the table before her; and as the door swings open she turns her head, startled. At the sight of Alfieri her colorless face becomes even paler, and she rises to her feet, clutching the edge of the table.
Everything about her is as he remembers it, even her astonishing eyes with their burden of grief. They rest on his face now with something between shock and wonder, rendering him, once more, momentarily dumb.
“Forgive me,” he says, slow to find words with the weight of her gaze upon him. “I have frightened you again. I seem forever destined to terrify you when we meet.”
“You came back,” is all she says.
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“I didn’t know. I thought—to see the house, maybe.” And with the acknowledgment that she may not, indeed, be the object of his visit, a pink flush creeps up her face.
But Alfieri shakes his head, unable to take his eyes from her. “I have seen the house. Piccina, it is you that I needed to see again. I was afraid that—perhaps—I had frightened you, telling you that I would buy it.”
“There’s no one I would rather it belonged to.”
“You are very kind. But if I have caused you any pain …”
“You mustn’t think that.”
“And yet—forgive me, again—but your eyes were not so swollen yesterday, I think. You have been crying.”
“Ah, that,” she says, looking away at last, her fingers fidgeting and twisting. “That’s nothing. I slept badly last night. I often sleep badly.”
He watches her hands tearing at themselves, wanting to take them in his own hands, to quiet them. “My dear,” he says, “if I have been the cause of any discomfort, or troubled you in any way, I humbly beg your pardon. I would not hurt you for the world.”
The pity in his eyes is almost more than she can bear.
“I’m so glad you came back,” she whispers.
“I too. We had such a good talk yesterday.”
“Oh, yes.”
“And I am in no hurry today. Are you? Then, if you would—and if I am not imposing upon your hospitality—and if you do not think me so terribly ill-mannered for inviting myself—perhaps we might have another cup of tea together?”
Pausing for rest halfway up the stairs, leaning on his arm, she looks up at him, hesitantly.
“Will you forgive me for something too?” she says.
“Forgive you?” He smiles down into her face. “What could you possibly have done that would need my forgiveness”
“I was very impolite yesterday.”
“Impolite, my dear? In what way?”
“It was only after you left that I remembered … I never even asked what it is you do, and what has brought you to New York …”
He throws his head back in a shout of laughter, then raises her hand and kisses it … and still she is not afraid of him, for all his strangeness.
She is not naïve, and knows the reason for his return: his remorse at displacing her … and easing her loneliness may help to both soften the blow and relieve whatever compunction he feels for being the cause. But it does not matter why he is here; nothing matters, so long as she can watch him and listen to him—and, when he is not looking, hold the hand he had kissed against her mouth, or press it to her cheek.
If she is not changed from yesterday, neither is her room; it waits today just as it did then—as if time stands still here—and she pours out the tea and listens, her elbows on the table and her head resting on her hand. He speaks today of his country and his family, elaborating upon stories he only touched upon yesterday, taking inspiration from her bright, mobile face, for Clara says little but is an eloquent listener, and her expressions mirror his, nuance for nuance.
Both seem, in fact, to be listening as much with eyes as with ears. The face she watches is happy, wistful, darkly alive with the memories he tells, and she thinks that he must be lonelier than he knows, here in this strange land, and never takes her eyes from him until the tea is long gone and both suddenly realize that blue dusk has crept through the windows, and it is hard to see the other’s face across the table.
He leans back in his chair, smiling at her in the gathering darkness. “I must seem,” he says, “the most egotistical, self-indulgent man on earth. You should have stopped me long ago.”
“I loved listening,” she says. “You made them all come alive. I feel as if I know them now … especially Fiorina. I like her very much.”
“The baby, yes. The two of you would get along well. She is only a little older than you.”
Clara lifts her chin, her smile gone. “I am not a baby,” she says, rising from her chair.
Alfieri rises with her, protesting: “Miss Adler, I meant no disparagement of your years …” But she does not answer. Instead she takes a box of matches from a side cupboard and goes from table to table in silence, lighting the numerous candles set about the room—ten, fifteen, twenty—until the pretty chamber glows and flickers like a magic cave.
Alfieri watches her move about. By the candlelight’s soft sorcery he sees her for the first time as she should be: all traces of illness erased; and her body—as she bends to kindle a cluster of tiny flames, or stands on tiptoe to touch her lit taper to another on a high shelf—is not the body of a child.
“If you promise to forgive me,” he says quietly, lost once more in some half-remembered enchantment, “I promise not to tease you again.”
She does not answer at first, and he is wondering what to do to make amends when she says: “You spoke so much of your brothers and sisters.” She does not look at him, all her attention centered on the candles. “You spoke of them, and their children, and your mother and father, but you never once mentioned your wife.”
“Did I not?” He smiles at her, watching her light the last of the candles on the mantelpiece beneath her portrait. “That is because I have no wife to mention.”
She says “Oh!” quite casually, crosses the room to place the matches back in their cupboard and turns toward him again, not quite looking at him.
“I must call Margaret,” she says, “to clear away the tea things and lay the table for dinner. I usually dine alone, but if you would like to stay …”
He shakes his head and she falls back a step, as if struck, nodding quickly. Gathering her skirts about her, she moves toward the bell rope that hangs beside the mantelpiece, but he reaches it before her and takes her outstretched hand.
“I cannot stay,” he says gently. “I promised to be somewhere else, never imagining …” Her head is down, her hand motionless in his. In the candlelight the curve of her cheek is achingly sweet. “I would stay if I could.”
She raises her eyes to his. “Would you come again?”
“Whenever I can. As often as I can. Tomorrow.”
“No.” She looks away, distressed. “Not tomorrow. There will be someone else here tomorrow.”
“Who?” he says abruptly, and the word is out before he realizes the arrogance of his question. Fool! What right has he to ask her whom she sees?
She does not seem to notice. “My guardian’s lawyer.”
“Mr. Chadwick?”
She raises her head again, wondering. “Do you know him?”
“Only by name,” he lies. “As the seller of this house.”
“Yes, of course,” she says. “He comes for luncheon twice each week.” Something in her voice makes him look at her more closely. “To see if I am mending.”
“He is a friend?”
“Of my guardian. But he has been very good to me since my guardian’s death,” she replies. “He has paid for the doctors, so many doctors, and allowed me to stay here.”
“Why would he not? This is your home.”
“Not any more.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper. “Not since my guardian died. Mr. Chadwick says that I’m here on the sufferance of the estate, and as executor he could put me out at any time, if he wished. But he lets me stay, though he needn’t. Someone else, someone not as kind or as generous, would have sent me to a charity hospital. Or an asylum.”
“Did he tell you all this?” Alfieri has gone very still. “Did he tell you this himself?”
“Everyone tells me. The doctors … even the servants. About how grateful I should be. And I am grateful.”
He draws her over to the sofa, sits down beside her still holding her hand, wanting to quiet her fears, to tell her of his plans to divide up the house between them, but he says nothing. If Chadwick refuses, as he is likely to do … if the plans come to naught …
“Madonna,” he says, “I will come back. The day after tomorrow, yes? And we will sit together, and have tea, and this time I will be quiet and listen while you tell me about yourself.”
Even by candlelight he can see the uneasiness creep into her eyes. “I have nothing to tell,” she says, and slips her hand from his. “Nothing. My family are all dead.”
“So you told me yesterday. But what of you?”
“I have nothing to tell.” The words flow from her like a litany, oft-repeated. “My family died when I was thirteen, I went to an orphanage, my guardian saw me there, he took me in.” She makes a little gesture with her hands. “He took me in because he was kind and I had no one … he was my last hope. And now he is dead too ….”
“Piccola,” he says, drawing her hands from her face, “there is nothing you need to say. We will sit quietly, you and I, and if we speak of anything at all it will be the weather, or the latest foolish fashions … have you seen the sleeves the ladies are wearing? They are called ‘leg-of-mutton,’ and indeed they look as if some poor sheep is missing an extremity …”
She laughs, wipes her eyes, folds her hands in her lap. Shamefaced, she says: “You are a guest. You don’t want to hear my troubles … I am sorry I bothered you with them.”
“There is no one whose troubles I would rather hear. I would help you with them if I could. Will you let me try?”
Her eyes lift to his—trusting, guileless—and his heart turns over. “You cannot help me,” she says. “But I would be so happy if you came to see me again. I like you very much.”
“The day after tomorrow. At three o’clock.”
He takes a candle with him to light his way out, but stops at the door and turns back.
“And madonna … do not make plans for dinner with anyone else.”
Chapter Seven (#ulink_40164997-119d-5154-a258-8080ad190080)
FOR THE PAST TWENTY YEARS, every Tuesday and Friday, Thaddeus Chadwick has taken his midday meal in the dining room of the house in Gramercy Park. It is his custom. Chadwick is a man of regular habits, and even though his erstwhile host is now no more, his custom it remains. Clearly, then, if an occurrence as momentous as the death of a beloved friend need cause no alteration in the established routine of a man of regular habits, it logically follows that mere illness, barring the threat of contagion, would certainly not be grounds for so much as a moment’s deviation. And so, even during the blackest weeks of Clara’s affliction, Chadwick had continued his punctual arrivals at half past eleven twice each week, whereupon he would confer with the doctor, gaze briefly at the patient, and then descend to the dining room, there to partake of a leisurely, and very full, luncheon.
And yet, for all his immutability, Chadwick has made one very recent modification. With Clara convalescent and able to take her meals at table once more, the attorney, unbidden, has changed the venue of his noon meals from the solitary splendor of the dining room to the more homely comforts of the girl’s sitting room. Luncheon is now served, every Tuesday and Friday at precisely twelve noon, at the very same table where she had heard her future read in a cup of tea.
The question of whether Clara is pleased with this new arrangement has never been raised, as Chadwick had not found it necessary to consult with her before making it, doubtless assuming that since his meals would be more enjoyable if taken with her, it could only follow that hers would be more enjoyable if taken with him. Let it only be said, therefore, that she acquiesces in this as she does in all things.
Nevertheless, both as meals and as occasions for social intercourse, the success of these times together has, until today, been most emphatically one-sided: Clara eats almost nothing and generally says even less than she eats, leaving her companion to fill both himself and the silence. But today, with the remains of his usual hearty meal spread before him, Chadwick’s conversation is full of Mrs. Astor’s grand end-of-season gala, held the night before last. Chadwick’s eye is good—none better at noticing things that others overlook—and his powers of description excellent; and although he has somehow neglected to mention the gala’s raison d’être and the presence of its guest of honor, Clara listens raptly for once, seeing it all in her mind’s eye.
“It must have been wonderful,” she murmurs.
“Wonderful? My dear child! What jewels, what food, what music! Such a pity that you could not have been there to see for yourself. But then”—he reaches over and pats her hand, which she quietly withdraws into her lap—“you are not the giddy, thoughtless type of creature who delights in such frivolous pleasures. You are more sedate, more modestly womanly. Yours are the small joys of quiet evenings in your own cozy bower, with your books and your needlework, are they not? Why, I have always known you to be such a solemn little creature that I believe the very idea of frivolity bores you.”
“No,” she says dreamily. “Once, when I was very young, I watched two older cousins dress for a ball. It was so magical to me, like Cinderella come true, and I thought of the gown I would wear to a ball one day … and how I would waltz, and waltz, and waltz, until the sun came up …”
For all her illness and her shorn hair and her strange, solitary existence, for all that she belongs nowhere … she is still a young girl like any other; she had had dreams, once, of a gown like a froth of pearls and moonlight; had pictured herself, light as a bubble, the shining magnet of all eyes.
Chadwick watches her while she is far away, lost in the pretty dream. Not himself being prey to visions of pearls and moonlight, his passionless gaze misses no sign of her recent illness: the restless fingers folding and unfolding the napkin in her lap, the tiny, nervous twitch of a muscle at the corner of her eye … and yet her color is definitely better today, and she looks less drawn and exhausted. She starts suddenly, and flushes under his close gaze, catching herself.
“My dear, is something wrong?” he says, but it is another moment before she answers him.
“No … no, nothing,” she replies in confusion, her head bowed, her hand at her throat. “I did not mean to startle you. I … I was only …”
