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“You were daydreaming. Was it a pleasant dream?”
“It was nothing. Only …” She colors again. “Nothing.”
“As you wish, my dear. I hope my tales did not overexcite you. Rest is what you need, now, and quiet. Waltzing can be arranged when you are well, if that is what you wish.”
But not in the arms that had held her in her dream just now. She can see him still, standing in the doorway with the candle lighting his face, but she is what she is, and he would run from her if he knew the truth …
“Come,” Chadwick says jovially, “let us speak of something else. Let us speak of you.” He drains his teacup and pushes it from him. “Well? And how have you passed your time since I saw you last?”
“Very quietly.”
“Of course you have, my dear. As you always do, in fact.”
“Yes.” She avoids meeting his eyes.
“A life as constant as the North Star, as retired as a nun’s. Never any change, never any new sights, never any company other than my own.”
“No.” The untouched food on her plate seems suddenly to take on new fascination for her, and she pushes at it with her fork.
“My poor child. How you must long, at times, for some company. The hours must pass slowly for you, with no diversions.”
“Margaret keeps me company. And I have my needlework.”
“But Margaret is only a maid, and she has her chores to do. And needlework engages the fingers, not the brain, leaving one a great deal of time to think.”
He pauses.
“Tell me, my dear, do you still worry about your future? I have told you that you have nothing to fear. I will care for you, come what may.”
Clara’s fork clatters into her plate. “I am very grateful to you.”
“I am certain of it. And yet I do not do this for the sake of your gratitude; I do it because to do anything less would be inconceivable. It is not merely a matter of Christian duty. You know, don’t you, that in the years since my good friend Henry brought you here you have become … dear to me.”
“Yes.” The word is a whisper.
“And I had hoped that, over time, you might have been growing fond of me too.”
“I am … fond of you.”
“Are you, my dear? Thank you. You make me very happy by saying so. I think your dear guardian would be pleased as well. He was, after all, my closest friend. Nevertheless, I have noticed”—he is thoughtful—“that since his death you have ceased to address me as you used to. ‘Uncle Chadwick,’ you were wont to call me, once upon a time. ‘Uncle Chadwick,’ you would say, ‘would you care for more tea?’ Or ‘Uncle Chadwick, won’t you stay to dinner?’” He repeats the words—“Uncle Chadwick … Uncle Chadwick …”—drawing them out, admiring the sound of them. “I must confess that, as a man with no family ties, I had never been called ‘uncle’ by anyone until you began to do so. It was such a pretty habit, my dear; I quite enjoyed it. Why do you no longer call me that?”
When she makes no reply he probes further. “Have we become strangers to one another?”
“No. Not strangers.” He can barely hear her.
“I am glad of that too, my dear. Please understand that I want neither your gratitude nor the approbation of the world for what I have done. Kindness, as we know, is its own reward, and I dislike even mentioning the matter. And what the consequences would have been—to you, child—had there been no one to step in and shoulder the burdens that my poor friend, your guardian, laid down when he died, leaving you—need I say it?—with nothing, I need not go into, for I know that you know them all too well. Just think, dear girl, of where you might be right now, had I not kept this roof to shelter you.”
Clara bows her head. Months of constant reminders of what might have been have not accustomed her to her utter indebtedness to this man, or blunted the horror of what, without his continued goodwill, might yet still be.
The wretchedness that awaits her without his help almost stops her heart. She has no friends, she has no home, no income, no livelihood, no accomplishments. She owns nothing but the contents of her wardrobe, not even the furnishings of her two rooms. Work she would welcome, but to do what? She has neither skill nor strength enough to be a maid or a shop girl, nor sufficient education to be a governess. And who would hire her, after all, to care for their innocent children? As for references …
She stares blindly out the window. The streets are always there, waiting for her. She wipes her eyes with the heels of both hands, but the tears—always there, too, just behind her eyes—continue to well up steadily and quietly, dropping to land, like pearls, on the black lace of her bodice.
As before, Chadwick watches her, unmoved and unmoving.
“I am sorry to distress you, my dear,” he says, “but although it is true that, as I said, I dislike mentioning the matter, it will perhaps be necessary to remind you, from time to time, of your position. I hope that I will not have to do it often; nothing would cause me greater pain.”
Clara, unable to speak as yet, nods her head.
“What does that mean, my dear? Does that mean that we understand each other?”
“Yes.”
“I cannot hear you, my dear.”
“Yes. We understand each other.”
“Say it again, please, so that I may be certain of what I think I heard.”
“We understand each other.”
“We understand each other … Uncle Chadwick,” he says.
“We understand each other.” She swallows her tears. “Uncle Chadwick.”
“Good. Then tell me, dear child,” he says, bringing his face close to hers, “just how long you intended to wait before telling me of your visitor of two days ago. Or were you never going to tell me at all?”
She shrinks back in her chair, the tears still spilling down her cheeks.
“I did not … I did not think … that it mattered.”
“Did you not? Or did you merely think that I would never know? Oh, no, my dear,” he says, “don’t turn your head away. If that was your innocent thought, let me make one thing perfectly clear to you, so that we need have no misunderstandings, ever again. Everything about you matters to me. Everything you think, everything you do … everything that happens to you is of the utmost concern to me.” He smiles. “Because I care for you.”
He leans back expansively. “You are wondering just how I know, of course. I should let you believe that I can read your mind and hear your thoughts, that I am a magician—but you half believe that already. No, the explanation is much simpler than that: your visitor, himself, told me of his visit during the course of a delightful conversation we had the evening before last. You see, he was the guest of honor at Mrs. Astor’s gala.”
Clara stares at him, uncomprehending.
“What, my dear! Do you not even know the identity of the man you entertained so charmingly? He is only the finest singer in the world. But perhaps the two of you spent so much time speaking of your concerns about your future that he had no time to tell you of himself.” He waves his hand. “Never mind. Whatever you discussed, you certainly impressed him most favorably.”
And yesterday’s visit? Does Chadwick know of that too? What if he does, and she remains silent? But what if he does not, and she confesses that her caller has been here, not once, but twice? Which will make him angrier? What should she say? Panicked, almost sick with fear, she stammers: “He … he stayed such a short while. We had tea. He asked me a little about myself—”
“And you wisely told him even less, I’m sure …”
“—and he told me a little of his family. That was all, truly! We never spoke of what he does.” Not even last evening, when she had asked him. No doubt he had seen no point in telling her. How stupid he must think her, she realizes with sudden shame—how pitifully ignorant; no wonder he had laughed at the question—and even in the midst of her fear her tears well up again at the thought that she had repaid his many kindnesses with such offense.
“How very self-effacing of him,” Chadwick says.
“But I should have known,” she whispers, only partly to Chadwick. “I heard him singing.”
“Did you indeed? Then you have been the recipient of a singular honor, my dear! How fortunate that Mrs. Astor was unaware of it. The good lady would doubtless have had a seizure had she known that someone else had been the first to hear the great Alfieri sing in America, especially after trying so hard to cajole him into it at her party, and failing so abysmally. But getting back to your singer, did you know that he wishes to buy this house? Ah, so you did speak of something other than his family.”
She wipes her eyes, her dread of imminent discovery beginning to ebb. “He likes this house.”
“So it would appear,” Chadwick says dryly. “It seems to contain everything he wants. Nevertheless, I wish that he had held his tongue. I had wanted the news I have for you to come as a surprise.”
“News?” she whispers.
“About the impending change in your life.”
She feels the trap closing around her, wants to run, to fly screaming into the street, away from what awaits her … and sits silent, instead, for there is nowhere to go, after all, and in any case it is no more than she deserves. Who will remember her when she is locked away? Oh, Mr. Alfieri … will he think of her sometime? She will never know … but at least he will be here when she is gone … he, and not some faceless stranger, treading the halls that were once her home. He had liked her a little, had made her smile, and his tales had opened a window for her onto another world, a world of happy people living happy lives. No matter that she will never be one of them … she aches with love for him, and always will. “When does he want me to leave?”
“He? Want you to leave?” Chadwick corrects her. “Oh, no, my child, that is my decision. He wants you to stay! He feels that this house is large enough to accommodate you both. He even asked me if I would permit you to remain—with a female companion, of course, as a chaperone.” He allows just enough time for disbelief, gratitude, and an almost pathetic joy to flicker across her face before saying, with a short laugh: “You don’t believe that I would consider it for even one moment, do you?
“For one thing,” he says, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his ample middle, as if discoursing upon a fine point of law, “the man has the manners of a peasant, and I would be remiss in my duty if I were to permit you to stay under the same roof with him. When I questioned him, civilly enough, as to whether he knew what this property was worth, he found it necessary to boast of his houses in London and Paris and Florence. He then had the effrontery to suggest that you should come with the house, as though you were some part of the furnishings. ‘Just as it was during its owner’s lifetime,’ was the phrase he used, I believe.”
“He seemed so very kind and polite,” she whispers.
“You doubtless have charms that I lack, my dear. But you weren’t there during my conversation with the man, were you? No, I fear that our sweet singer of songs has started off on the”—he smiles appreciatively at his bon mot—“wrong key, with me. For that reason alone I would not permit you to stay in this house with him, even if he hired fifty chaperones.
“And speaking of chaperones,” he says, “I am reminded that he is as celebrated for his lechery as he is for his voice.” His eyes gleam behind his spectacles. “Oh, my child, you cannot begin to imagine the stories I have heard of his women. Such things are not for your ears, of course, but surely you will agree that, in light of past events”—Chadwick smiles—“even with a chaperone it would be most unwise to put you in temptation’s way.”
He leans close, lowering his voice confidingly. “And yet even if those things were not of concern to me, I have still another reason for not letting you stay here. What reason? Why, my child, surely you’ve guessed? You must have realized that once you were well enough to leave this place your home would be with me? Signor Alfieri’s desire for this house and my plans for you have coincided beautifully.”
She is suffocating, dying. Swiftly, now, the walls are moving in—now a shutter slamming shut, now a door locking fast. She is going to be sick …
“I see that happiness has made you pale,” he says to her white face. “And you should be happy. Who is more suitable to be your new guardian than your late guardian’s dearest friend and counselor, after all? Who would know—who could know—better than I what he wanted for you? And I am certain the court will see it that way too, my dear. The petition to have you made my ward is already filed, and I expect a favorable decision within a fortnight. And while my house is not so grand as this, it is more than adequate for the two of us. There I will be able to watch over you, and see that you grow well again, and strong. You must believe me, dear child, when I say that your health is the most important thing in the world to me.”
Rising to stand behind her chair, he lays his heavy hands on her shoulders, letting the thumb of one hand stroke her neck.
“You see now how much I care for you, don’t you, my dear?” He bends low to murmur it, his breath against her cheek. “How happy we will be with a single roof to shelter us! Nearness fosters tenderness, you know. And you will call me ‘Uncle’ again, and someday, perhaps … well, we must wait and see what the future will bring.”
She closes her eyes. “Please … please, Uncle Chadwick, I am so grateful … but, please … I would rather stay here.”
“I am certain of it.” His lips move against her ear; his hands tighten on her shoulders, holding her still. “And I don’t care.”
Letting his hands fall from her, he rings for a servant, then lights a cigar, idly following the blue smoke as it curls into the air.
“Clear the table, Margaret,” he says when the maid appears. “I’ll be leaving in a moment. And see that your uncle waits for me in the hall; I need to speak with him and I don’t intend to hunt him down all over the house, as I had to do last time. Should he not be there when I come down, he needn’t stay on the premises after today.”
The maid curtsies and vanishes to convey the message, and Chadwick turns back to Clara, sitting dumb and motionless.
“And now, child,” he says, bending over her, “it is time for me to go. Your singer’s attorney will be waiting in my office to discuss the purchase of this house. I would not wish to keep him waiting … not too long, at any rate. And as for your singer, I will ask his attorney to give him your farewell. I do not think you will be seeing him again.”
Always he kisses her upon arriving and departing—it is his custom—and today is no different, except that here, too, there is a change of venue. Seizing her face between his hands, he kisses her mouth roughly, prolonging the pressure when she recoils and tries to pull away.
“Two weeks from today,” he says, stroking her cheek, “you will come to live with me. Didn’t I promise always to take care of you? You see how I have kept my word. Even now your room is being prepared … a pretty bower just for you, my child … and so very near to mine. What need have we for chaperones, you and I? It does my heart good, you know, to think how relieved you must be, now that you have nothing more to fear.”
The maid, coming in with a tray a few minutes later to clear away the dishes, finds Clara curled in her window seat, sucking in great breaths of fresh air from the garden.
“It’s his big cigars, miss,” the maid volunteers as she scrapes and stacks the plates. “They do stink, don’t they? The smoke stays in the curtains for days …” She looks up from her tray. “Why, Miss Clara, it must’ve took you awful bad—your eyes are watering dreadfully!”
Clara, her head against the window frame, sees no reason to contradict her.
Chapter Eight (#ulink_3e893add-fb75-597d-af56-34c4193a0627)
THE NEWS OF CLARA ADLER’S imminent removal from Gramercy Park will cause hardly a ripple among those members of New York society who had followed the course of her illness with such devotion. For one thing, anyone capable of doing so has abandoned the city for summer quarters, leaving only a handful of the elect behind to marvel at the idea of Chadwick—who loathes domestic encumbrance in every form, and enjoys no one’s company so much as his own—suddenly assuming familial responsibility in the form of a ward.
For another, the girl herself, since being reduced to the status of a penniless dependent, has ceased to be of any interest other than as a lingering oddity, and has come to be viewed in the same light as any other exotic creature housed by a wealthy owner to prove his eclecticism and the depth of his purse. One may expatiate upon a potential heiress at great length and in vast detail; one does not, however, spend any time at all discussing a pet monkey or a tame peacock unless the beast has done something untoward, such as savaging one of the servants; and unless Miss Adler turns upon Chadwick’s household in a similar fashion (the chances of which seem relatively improbable), the public’s fascination with her is not likely to be rekindled any time soon.
Outside of Clara herself, then, there are only three persons in the world to whom it matters that she is soon to disappear beneath Chadwick’s roof: Daniel Buchan, who, despite his expectation of just such an outcome, finds Chadwick’s intransigence galling in the extreme; Stafford Dyckman, who is concerned because Alfieri is, and also because his chivalrous young soul is roused at the rather romantic notion of a maiden in distress; and Mario Alfieri himself.
But the problem is more simple and direct for Alfieri than it is for either Buchan or Dyckman. Her loneliness calls to him, stirring something that has lain silent for years.
There had been a young woman, once, about Clara’s age. How long ago? Before the world changed, before he had become “the nightingale.” Her eyes had not been trusting—she had known too many beds before coming to his, and too much betrayal—but she had clung to him the same way, out of need, and he had loved her …
He is young no longer and the world has changed, and Clara is young enough be his child; he has met her only twice. But when she clings to his hands the old years are come again, and all the lost joy with them, and he is a better man, a gentler man … a kinder, more worthy man … and the thought of losing her is like Lazarus, dying a second time; he will not be raised from the dead again. God has given him his last chance.
The knowledge, therefore, that she will soon be beyond his reach—for there is not the faintest breath of hope that Chadwick will allow him to call upon her—has him staring into nothingness for most of the night after Buchan tells him the news, restlessly pacing from room to room, and rising early the next morning. Three o’clock is the appointed time for his return to Gramercy Park, and the hours between are all but unendurable.
The precious sophisticates of his world, the ones who know too much and care too little, how they would laugh at him! He has slept badly, and awakened in a jangle of raw nerves—he who can nightly face the close attention of a thousand pairs of eyes and ears with as little anxiety as another feels crossing the street—because of a young woman who does not know who he is, but says “I like you very much” with her heart in her eyes.
He fills the empty time by walking, even though the day is wet, first to St. Stephen’s for Mass, then to Stafford Dyckman’s club for an hour or two of absentminded conversation and a luncheon remarkable chiefly for the level of Alfieri’s distraction. Shortly before three o’clock, he bids Dyckman an impatient farewell and walks through a misty spring rain to Gramercy Park.
She is in her own sitting room today, curled into a corner of the sofa. Of the improvement Chadwick had seen in her appearance yesterday, nothing at all remains. Her head comes up blindly at the sound of Alfieri’s knock and the opening door, her eyes so swollen that he doubts she can see him at all, until she stretches out her hands to him. He is at her side in another moment, her cold fingers covered by his warm hands.
“Are you ill, little girl?” He says it into her hair because she has buried her face in his shoulder to hide her red and aching eyes.
“I thought you wouldn’t come back.”
“I promised you I would.”
“He said I would never see you again.” Her voice is muffled against him.
“Who told you this?”
“Mr. Chadwick.”
“Madonna, it will take much more than Mr. Chadwick to keep me from you.”
“He told me …”
“What did he tell you?” he says with great gentleness, and waits to hear what he already knows: that she is soon to be living in the lawyer’s house.
“He told me who you are,” she whispers.
A chasm opens up beneath Alfieri’s feet. “Ah, did he?” he says, closing his eyes in sudden pain.
“I am sorry I didn’t know. I am very stupid.” Her voice trembles. “Don’t be angry with me.”
