A-Splendid-Ruin(29)

“Well.” She took a deep breath. “Don’t let it trouble you too much. She’s far away now in dreamland, where she likes best to be. Nothing can touch her there.”





The next morning, as Goldie and I promenaded the paths circling the trimmed lawns of Union Square, the St. Francis Hotel looming just beyond, my cousin grabbed my arm and jerked me behind the pedestal of the statue of Winged Victory. Silently, she nodded toward a couple also walking—my uncle, and his mistress, Alma Dennehy.

They were arm in arm, her hatted head nearly resting on his shoulder. A cloud of smoke—his cigar, hers—enveloped them. They were so very public. I wondered why they were not the topic of every conversation. It seemed such a scandal. “Why does he never write about them?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Bandersnitch.”

“He will soon enough,” Goldie’s voice dragged with resignation.

“How long has it been going on?”

“Her late husband introduced Papa to Abe Ruef. That was three or four years ago. But this”—a shrug—“who knows really? Perhaps a few months? All I know is that he’s been squiring her about in public lately and he doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks.”

“He might care if it’s in the Bulletin.”

“He hates the Bulletin. And anyway, she has Mr. Ruef’s ear. Papa’s been lavishing money on her too—is she wearing any new jewelry? Can you see?”

“How would I know if it were new?”

Goldie sighed.

“Are you certain Aunt Florence doesn’t know?” I asked. “This isn’t—it couldn’t be the reason for her headaches?”

Goldie studied me as if I’d just said something surprising. “Her headaches?”

“Perhaps she discovered it, and the strain . . . you know.”

“Ah.” Goldie considered. “Yes, perhaps. How clever of you to think of it, May. Perhaps that explains everything.”

My cousin looked satisfied, and I was pleased that I’d provided an answer to at least one mystery, though I wondered that Goldie hadn’t thought of this herself—it seemed such an obvious conclusion. Nor did the idea seem to pain her as it did me. But then, I was troubled and disconsolate over my visit with my aunt yesterday, and that made it easy to look for someone else to blame.

We waited until my uncle and his mistress walked from the park, and then another five minutes to be certain before Goldie let us emerge from behind Winged Victory. When we returned home some hours later, I went to the garden with my pencils and sketchbook in its worn leather case, hoping to forget my uncle and Mrs. Dennehy, as well as my own guilt, and find solace.

But in drawing, I was out of practice, and the garden was no refuge; like the rest of the house, it was both overcrowded and strangely deserted. The white stone path meandered through rose-filled parterres guarded by platoons of statues. Against one of the many bas-relief-decorated walls, a fountain of nymphs poured water from large urns. There was no peace for the eye, but at least there was no confining roof, and the bright October sky stretched blue and far above.

When I saw my uncle approaching, I tensed, thinking not only of how I’d seen him this morning, arm in arm with his mistress, but also knowing why he’d searched me out. I’d had all night to think of what excuse I could make for my encounter with Aunt Florence, and I had none. I’d been warned. I’d allowed my curiosity to get the best of me. I would be lucky if he didn’t ask me to leave.

“There you are.” Intimidatingly perfect, as usual. He gestured to the bench. “Do you mind?”

“Please.” I moved to give him room.

He craned his neck to look at the open pages. “Goldie said you liked to draw. She was right. You’re quite good. May I?” He reached for the book, and, unable to find a graceful way to refuse, I handed it to him. He gave the sketches honest attention. “Perhaps I should let you design my building, given how much trouble I’ve had getting the architect I want.”

I blinked in surprise. “You’re joking, of course.”

He sighed. “You’ve a good eye. Though I would insist on more angels.”

“You seem to have a special fondness for them.”

“I’ve been blessed,” he said simply, giving me the book again. “I like to pay tribute to the Lord when I can.”

There might be better ways than buying grosses of porcelain cupids. Wisely, I kept that to myself. While we went to church every Sunday, my uncle spent more time socializing than listening to the sermon. In fact, it was all I could do not to think of all the ways my uncle was not paying tribute to the Lord. “Who is the architect?”

“Ellis Farge—ah, I see you’ve heard of him?”

“He was at the Cliff House the other day. Goldie pointed him out.” I remembered, too, Thomas’s quiet comment about no one refusing Sullivan Building. It seemed someone had after all.

“He was? How odd. He’s been a bit of a recluse lately, I understand. Commissioning him would be quite a coup, but he’s been tiresome—ah, but that’s nothing to do with you, my dear.” He sighed. There was a wealth of disappointment in the sound. “There was something else I wanted to speak to you about. I understand there was a situation with Flossie yesterday.”