Gramercy Park

“My thanks, Mr. Buchan, for seeing me so quickly, and especially on a Saturday evening. I hope that your good wife will forgive me for taking you away from your dinner guests.”

“Signore, you must know that the appearance of Mario Alfieri on our doorstep has raised Mrs. Buchan and me to new heights in the estimation of our guests. But besides that, did you really think we would turn you away? Especially when you come bearing the news that Miss Adler has agreed to become your wife?”

The lawyer nods thoughtfully, regarding his guest. “I am delighted for you, of course, signore, but I must also admit to you that I am amazed. Dumbfounded, in fact, would be a far more fitting word.”

“Why?” Alfieri says. “Do you still doubt my intentions?”

“No, not your intentions. You have offered the young woman honorable marriage, and have informed your attorney of it. You would hardly have done either if your intentions were less than worthy.”

“But still you do not approve.” Alfieri’s gaze is frank. “May I ask why?”

Buchan spreads his hands. “It is not a matter of either approval or disapproval. You are a grown man with much experience of women—”

“And Miss Adler is a very young woman. Is that what disturbs you?”

“Not precisely, signore. After all, we are not discussing the young lady’s ruin and abandonment—”

“I have never been guilty of that, Mr. Buchan. With any woman.”

“I never said you have. But now you wish to marry.”

Alfieri says: “You make it sound as if I have taken leave of my senses. Well, in a way I have. I am in love, Mr. Buchan. Is that so difficult to believe of me?”

Buchan’s voice softens. “No, of course not. But you have met the young lady a total of—what? Three times now? You have enjoyed each other’s company for some eight hours. Is that sufficient to determine a lifetime’s happiness together? I do not speak of her judgment—at nineteen, the capacity for judgment has not yet had time to develop. But what of yours, signore? Certainly you are old enough, and you appear to know what you are doing … but do you? Or could it be that, finding yourself in a new land holding no memories for you, with no affiliations … experiencing a freedom you have not known in many years … could it be that this has led you to see Miss Adler as a young damsel in distress?”

Alfieri smiles. “Whom only I can save? You think I have cast myself in the role of the knight from a far-off land, Mr. Buchan, who rides onto the scene to rescue the little princess from her tower and carry her away?”

“It is a flattering role, signore.”

“Very true. But I am not delirious, or living in a fantasy, or spinning dreams, and this is neither an illusion, nor an infatuation. I have fallen in love. Why? Each man has his own reasons for loving whom he does, reasons that would make no sense to another. All you need to know, Mr. Buchan, is that I have asked Miss Adler to be my wife and she has agreed. I regret, of course, that it has all happened too quickly for your entire satisfaction, but I desperately need your help if I am to marry her … there is not much time!”

The lawyer smiles and holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender, reaches for the brandy on the table beside him and fills the two glasses. He hands one to Alfieri, then touches his own glass to the tenor’s—“Mrs. Buchan and I wish you joy!”—and drinks.

Alfieri drinks too. “My thanks to you both. As to the necessity for speed,” he says, “for that you must blame Mr. Chadwick. He has left me no time for a traditional courtship and engagement.”

“You do know that you’ll be making a bad enemy, don’t you? He will not take kindly—a colossal understatement, I fear—to your stealing Miss Adler out from under his nose, just as he was about to carry her away.”

“And should I be afraid, Mr. Buchan? Next year at this time I will be preparing to return to Europe. He can do nothing to me, so long as he cannot steal her back, or have her taken away from me … by having the marriage annulled, say, because she is underage, and did not receive his consent.”

Buchan rises to refill Alfieri’s glass. “I suppose there is no doubt of your intention to consummate the marriage rather quickly? Yes, well, once she is your wife, in fact as well as in law, no court would consider undoing it, regardless of the lack of Mr. Chadwick’s consent. You have nothing to fear on that score. But let us discuss the question of the wedding itself,” he says, returning to his seat and refilling his own glass. “Have you decided how it is to be done? Who, for instance, will perform the ceremony?” He hesitates, then says bluntly: “You are Roman Catholic, are you not?”

Alfieri laughs. “I am from Italy, Mr. Buchan, am I not? Italy is rich in many things, but not, I am afraid, in Lutherans and Baptists.”

“But does it not pose a problem for you that Miss Adler is”—he hesitates again—“not Catholic?”

“Perhaps I am not so good a Catholic as you believe, Mr. Buchan. Miss Adler and I have discussed this matter—briefly, to be sure—and how we marry is of small importance to me. What is certain is that with less than two weeks remaining before I am to lose her to Mr. Chadwick, we must move quickly. There is no time for her to take instruction in my religion … even if she were so inclined, which I do not know.”

“Then the ceremony will be a civil one?”

“If you will be so good as to provide us with a justice of the peace, or some other such dignitary.”

Buchan cocks his head thoughtfully. “And will your church recognize a civil marriage to someone of another faith?”

“No, Mr. Buchan, it will not. In the eyes of my church I will not be married at all. But I am not so concerned with the eyes of my church as I am with the laws of your country. So long as she is married to me legally and Mr. Chadwick cannot take her from me, I am content.” He smiles again. “And as for the state of my immortal soul … that is a matter for my confessor, not my lawyer. Do not let it disturb you.”

Buchan says: “She means that much to you?”

“Yes,” Alfieri answers. “That much.”

Buchan leans over to stir the fire, blinking in the strong light. “Then it must be done quickly and it must be done in absolute secrecy.” He looks up at Alfieri. “But discretion is vital, as I am sure you realize. What of Slade’s servants? You will need their assistance, of course, but can they be trusted not to inform Mr. Chadwick of your plans?”

Alfieri says: “Oh, yes, I am sure of it. I spoke with them both, you see, before I came here this evening. Not surprisingly, I discovered that they are not especially devoted to Mr. Chadwick … something to do, I believe, with his pleasant manner when he addresses them. I assured them both that Miss Adler—Signora Alfieri that is to be—would be grateful for their services in her new home … she is very shy, and too many new faces around her would make her uneasy. In return, I have been given to understand that both the maid, who has already served as Miss Adler’s ladies’ maid in a small way, and the footman, will be perfectly content to follow their little mistress to her new home—and would sooner have their tongues cut out than give away her secret.”

“But can you be certain?”

“They are faithful to their late master’s memory, Mr. Buchan, and greatly attached to his ward. And with promised positions at half again their current wages waiting for them in my house, in addition to the opportunity to escape from Mr. Chadwick once and for all …” Alfieri smiles. “Oh, yes, I think we can trust them. And with the inclusion of Gennarino—my valet—such a staff should prove an excellent size for a newlywed household.”

“Signore, you take my breath away. Are you always this meticulous and well-prepared?”

“Well, it does not pay to take chances, does it? Not with what really matters.” He pauses, grows serious, and seems suddenly hesitant to speak. “That is why I would ask … although I know it is a great imposition … still, might I ask if you would undertake to help me in yet one more way?”

“Name it,” the lawyer says.

“Actually, it would be for my young lady.” The tenor picks his words with care. “She is all alone, Mr. Buchan. She has no friends or family to assist her through this time, no one to help her prepare. Most especially, she has no one to confide in … no mamma with whom she can share her hopes and fears, as brides must surely need to do … no one to tell her”—he gestures slightly—“what happens to a young wife on her wedding night.” He pauses again. “I was wondering … and I know it is a great deal to ask … if your good wife would consent to be such a friend to her. When you introduced us just now, and I saw that Mrs. Buchan has such a sweet face, I knew that Clara would not be frightened of her, and I thought … perhaps … if it would not be too much …”

Buchan’s voice is gentle. “Signore, consider it done. I would not normally speak for my wife in her absence, but I know that in this our opinions will agree. Frankly, she will be touched, as I am, that you thought well enough of us both to ask.”

Alfieri leans back and smiles in pure relief. “Thank you, Mr. Buchan—and your wife too. There is such a great deal to do in so very little time, but with your help I know we will manage it.”

“And after the wedding? You will want to go away, of course, on a honeymoon. Have you any idea where?”

“Here again I must rely on your kindness, Mr. Buchan. I have only been ten days in your city. I was thinking of somewhere quiet, in the countryside. Clara has been ill; she needs sunshine and fresh air, but it must not be too far away—the strain of a lengthy journey would be too much for her. Do you know of such a place?”

“I know of a place, signore, but it is very humble. Just a small farm, about two hours north of the city by train, outside a pretty little town called Hudson. The owner is a former client of mine: a widow with two daughters, who takes in guests to supplement her income. Mrs. Buchan and I have stayed there, and I can vouch for its excellence. The house is large—clean and very quiet—and the food is superb: Mrs. Noonan is a marvelous cook. Still, you may wish for something more imposing, such as a hotel … although many of them may already be filled for the summer …”

“No, no hotels. Above all I want my privacy, and a great deal of quiet for Clara. The place you speak of sounds ideal.”

“Then I will make the arrangements. I know the family well; Mrs. Noonan and her daughters are very discreet. No one here will know where you have gone, and no one there will say who you are. But of what date are we speaking? For the wedding, I mean?”

“Wednesday, the sixth of June. Mr. Chadwick has told Clara that he will come for her on the eighth, and I want to be far away with her by then.”

“Which gives us exactly”—Buchan does the mental calculation—“eleven days until your wedding.” He melts abruptly into a broad, complicitous smile, shaking his head. “My God, who would have thought it? The notorious Mario Alfieri marrying Henry Slade’s disinherited ward exactly a fortnight after their first meeting. You know, signore, that this will stand New York on its ear, don’t you? And I cannot imagine what all of Europe will think when the news finally reaches them!” He laughs out loud. “I fear that many who go to the opera, come the fall, will be going to do more than just hear you sing. Everyone will want to see what Mario Alfieri looks like as a married man!”

“But it is his pretty young wife who is worth looking at, Mr. Buchan, not Mario Alfieri. Still, if it will make them happy, they are free to stare at me as much as they like … and I promise you, I will not allow Mr. Grau to raise the price of the tickets …”

Chapter Nine

AM I LATE?” Dyckman says, flushed with hurrying.

“No, sir.” It is Peters who answers, the late Mr. Slade’s footman. “The other gentlemen have just arrived.” He takes the young man’s hat and gloves. “Go right upstairs, sir; they are waiting for you. You do remember the way?”

Dyckman remembers the way. In the last ten days he has developed a nodding acquaintance with this great house; he has known it, however, only in its state of perpetual dusk, and is not prepared for the vast change which this morning has brought. His eyes widen with amazement as he crosses the entrance hall and mounts the stairs.

Light everywhere. Every curtain has been pulled back, every shade raised, every window flung wide, every door opened. From one side of the house to the other, from front to back and top to bottom, the gentle air of June wafts through the rooms, fluttering the pale muslin that still shrouds the furniture, and blowing away the darkness. What is left of it lingers in the high-ceilinged halls and on the alabaster staircase that runs up the center of the house, but it is a muted darkness now: a silvery, soft, underwater darkness that pools in corners and grows shallower until it disappears as it nears doors and windows open to the sun. Staring about him, Dyckman is reminded of a cathedral on Easter morning, and makes his way to the music room—stripped of its net and muslin shrouds, and restored now to its gleaming blue and gold glory—in a suddenly exalted mood.

Alfieri and Buchan are waiting for him with a third man, bespectacled and bearded; a man whom Dyckman does not know, and who is introduced to him as Mr. Wheeler. Alfieri is pale but very composed, and the hand that grips Dyckman’s is both warm and steady.

“The train tickets?” he says.

“I have them here, Mario,” the young man replies, patting his breast pocket.

“And the baggage?”

“Is at the station, waiting for you to arrive.”

“Then there remains nothing to do.” Alfieri rests his hands on his friend’s shoulders. “Except to thank you.”

Dyckman flushes. “There is nothing to thank me for. I have done very little. Besides,” he smiles, “the thanks should be mine. I will be invited everywhere on the strength of this story, Mario; you know I will.”

Alfieri laughs and bows to Dyckman with an elegant flourish. “Then may you have as much joy in telling it as I have in presenting it to you.”

Buchan looks at his watch and nods to the tenor. “Ten o’clock, signore. We should start.”

“Will you go upstairs, Stafford,” Alfieri asks, “and tell the ladies that we are ready?”

When Dyckman returns, Alfieri has joined Messrs. Buchan and Wheeler by the mantelpiece. Wheeler stands behind a small table upon which are a book and two small glasses, one containing wine, the other empty.

Dyckman nods. “They’re coming.”

Buchan presses the tenor’s hand and walks to the door to wait.

Three servants—the two belonging to this house and Alfieri’s own valet—slip quietly into the room and stand a little distance away. The room falls silent, and in the stillness the rustling of skirts is heard in the passage. A fair-haired woman of middle age appears in the doorway; leaning on her arm is a very small, very young woman—hardly more than a girl—in a dove-gray gown. The young woman’s hair is covered by a soft lace veil that falls to her shoulders, and she carries a nosegay of three white roses.

Relinquishing the arm of the older woman, and never raising her eyes from the floor, the young woman takes the arm Buchan offers to her. He walks her slowly toward the little group formed by Alfieri, Dyckman, and Wheeler, but before they have covered half the distance, Alfieri comes forward and holds out his hand to her; and she looks up, for the first time, to see him smile.

At the sight of her face, an old verse of Spanish poetry, learned for practical reasons in the days of his own wooing, and for decades unremembered, springs unbidden into Buchan’s mind: “So pale she is with love, my sweet child, I think that never will the rose return to her cheek …” As Buchan falls back, the tenor folds the young woman’s arm under his own, and together they walk to where Dyckman and Wheeler wait.

Wheeler clasps his hands and looks at each of them; then clears his throat lightly, and says: “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together in the sight of this assembly …”

The wine is shared, the lovely words spoken. Alfieri’s voice is low and clear in the responses, Clara’s very faint. Buchan gives the bride away; no one steps forward to declare any impediment, or to state why this man and this woman should not be joined together. Dyckman produces the ring, which he hands to the justice, who hands it to Alfieri, who slips it onto Clara’s finger …

And it is done. So quickly that it seems a dream, Mario Alfieri and Clara Adler are pronounced man and wife.

The justice reminds the groom needlessly: “You may kiss the bride.”

“No,” Alfieri says, “not yet.” And before the perplexed eyes of the assembly he takes the empty glass from the table where it has stood during the ceremony, unused and unnoticed, wraps it in his handkerchief, places it on the floor, and brings his foot down hard upon it, smashing it to bits. Dyckman and the justice merely stare at each other, dumb, as do the servants and even Mr. and Mrs. Buchan—for the fair-haired woman is none other than the attorney’s wife—and each may be forgiven for thinking, understandably, in the face of such bizarre behavior, that perhaps the sudden strain of long-deferred matrimony has proved too much for the tenor.

But the little bride watches with enormous eyes and her hands pressed to her mouth, looking as if she will faint, and when Alfieri has crushed the glass beneath his foot she rises on tiptoe to fling her arms about his neck. And now, it seems, there is no more reason to wait: cupping her face between his hands, Alfieri takes heed at last of the justice’s reminder and kisses his wife, so long and so deeply that the assembled guests use the time to slip silently away.

AFTER THAT KISS it is all a blur for Clara: the wedding breakfast, which she gets through somehow, managing to speak normally, and taste what is placed before her, and raise her glass to her lips, all as if she were really there when she is not; the toasts to the happy couple, which she hears as strings of words that she forgets before they have been completely uttered; even the last, poignant farewell to the dear, familiar rooms, which she utters silently as, numbed and unresisting, she allows herself to be changed into traveling clothes for the wedding trip which will be the beginning—and the end—of her marriage.

He has broken the glass. When he had asked her, so tenderly, if she minded being married outside her faith, she had confided—with no thought that he would ever take her words to heart—that she would miss only that ancient custom, because it had always seemed to her to seal the wedding vows before God and to mark the actual instant of marriage … and, therefore, if it was not done, no real marriage had taken place.

And he has done it; he has broken the glass for her sake: not merely to humor her foolishness, in his infinite kindness, but to assure her, as no words ever could, that they are truly married, before God. And his reward for such kindness? Very soon, now, he will know what she is … and what she is not … and how much pain she might have spared him, if she had only been decent, and brave.

And she had wanted to be; she had meant to be, truly. The mad rapture of the day he proposed had lessened, day by day, and fear had grown in its place … because when she was not in his lap with her head on his shoulder, when he was not kissing her—then she could think again, clearly, and understand that she owed him the truth. And each day she had meant to tell him … except that she could not, because she knew what the truth would do. Just one more day, she had begged herself each day; just one more. And now it is too late, and the thought of his hurt leaves her numb with grief … but her remorse will do neither of them any good. He will leave her, once he knows, sickened both by her and her silence—and in two short weeks he has become her light and her air and the blood in her veins—and she will die when he goes away.

And that is only fair. That is right, that is good; that is just as it should be. That will finish what had started so long ago, when a part of her died in the tiny room above the carriage barn while the sun crawled across the cracked plaster wall …

The floor creaks behind her and she raises her face from her hands.

“Little love,” Alfieri says, slipping his arms around her and pressing a kiss on the top of her head, “our guests are all gone and it is time we were gone too. Have you said your farewells to this house?”

“Yes, Mario.”

“I wish that I could have saved it for you, sposa, but I had to choose between you and the house … and I had to have you. And in any case, you could not have stayed. One way or the other, it seems, your fate was to leave this place.” He strokes her hair. “Are you glad to be leaving with me?”

“Yes, Mario.”

He knows her well in two weeks. Seating himself on the sofa, he turns her around and pulls her to him, smiling and frowning. “What is it, dear heart? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Something, I think. Won’t you tell me?”

Coward from the start; coward still. She has not lived these two weeks in silence, only to tell him now and see the loathing in his eyes. She will be his wife first, for just one day. “Nothing. Only nerves.”

“Truly? There is nothing else?”

Paler than ever, she says: “What else could there be?”

He shrugs and busies himself straightening the brooch at her throat. “I do not know. I thought—perhaps—you might be frightened because everything has changed so quickly …”

She stares at him.

“Are you frightened, little girl?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “Are you?”

“I?” He raises her chin. “Terrified. I have never been anyone’s husband before.”

Her laugh is like a sob. “Mario, listen …” But he puts his finger to her lips.

“Dear heart, this is so new for both of us. I must unlearn forty years of bad habits in order to be fit for my new wife, and you must learn that, in all things, I am for you. We must learn to be patient with each other, yes? Both the learning and the unlearning will take time.” He kisses her forehead. “And now the carriage is here to take us to the station. You would not wish to miss the train?”

Rising, he takes an envelope from his pocket and places it on the mantelpiece, leaning it upright against the wall beneath her portrait.

“What is that?”

“Nothing. A letter.”

“To whom?”

“To Mr. Chadwick. I think it only right that he learn from me what has happened to you.”

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