Paula Cohen - Gramercy Park

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.”

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 …”