Paula Cohen - Gramercy Park

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.