Читать книгу Gramercy Park - Paula Cohen - Страница 13

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 …”

“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.