Chapter Twenty
I wake the next morning feeling wretched, as memories come back to me like a wave.
The private elevator, the soaring tower, the champagne, the naked golden goddess dancing on top of the world.
My mind lingers over the dinner spread and Stanny telling me about art and Paris—promising to take me there.
I felt as though I already was on top of the world.
Then what did I do to offend Stanny? Stanny, who has always been so generous and gentle. I groan as I rise from bed, forcing myself to dress and move through my toilette before Mamma senses my worry.
She’s ordered in a delicious spread for breakfast, and I join her at the table.
I have little appetite, but Mamma would surely notice if I were to skip the meal, so I’m helping myself to a hot roll when she asks, “How was your evening? You went for dinner after your performance? With Mr. Pierce? I swear, that man was sent to us from heaven.”
I take a sip of coffee, attempting to keep my face even, but Mamma arcs an eyebrow. “How was it?”
“Fine,” I answer, holding the coffee cup in front of my mouth like a shield.
“Just fine?”
“It was nice, Mamma.” I try to offer a smile, but I can feel my features wobble. Don’t cry, I tell myself. But already I’ve revealed too much.
Mamma slowly dabs the corner of her mouth with her fine-pressed-linen napkin. When she speaks next her words are quiet but sharp as arrows. “Florence, has something happened?”
I sit back in my chair, slowly lowering my cup into its saucer.
For some reason, I don’t feel I can tell Mamma much of anything about the previous evening.
Not the first part of it—the tower, the pair of us alone up there.
Stanny asking me to open my lips as he placed the chocolate-covered fruit into my mouth.
The champagne. Nor his sudden anger with me.
She’ll erupt into hysterics, chiding me that I must not offend our patron!
I must not lose his friendship! She won’t end up back in a boardinghouse!
I don’t want that either. No, I am well aware of the fragility of our current comfort—even without Mamma’s reminders.
I am determined to set this right with Stanny, whatever it is that I have done wrong.
So I reassure Mamma that our evening together was nice, and she settles down, picking up her coffee once more and taking a long, slow sip.
“Well, then, if everything between the two of you is hunky-dory, I think I’ll ask him about next season’s wardrobe. It is time to start shopping, and if we wish to send to London or Paris for new spring gowns, these things take time.”
I’ve lost my appetite. I’m not certain that today is the day to press Stanny to make arrangements for us to visit the modiste and run up a bill on his account for a pricy order.
Nevertheless, I keep quiet, wandering over to my piano and attempting to practice, but feeling shiftless and agitated.
And an hour later, when there’s a knock at the front door to our suite, I feel as though my stomach holds a hard stone, because I know it will be him, and I don’t know how this visit will go.
But it’s not Stanny at our door. It’s the hotel concierge, delivering a parcel. “A gift for Miss Talbot.”
Mamma beams as a tuxedoed footman enters bearing the massive profusion of fresh flowers that Stanny sends each morning.
“Lilies today. Oh, how lovely!” she exclaims, breathing in their perfume.
But then there is another heavy parcel placed before me on the piano, and I thank the gentleman as I quickly untie the ribbon.
It’s a pile of weighty leather books. I glance at each spine: Milton, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dickens.
A note on Stanny’s familiar stationery says only: “For the cultivation of your mind.” Well, then.
I don’t suppose he’s too terribly vexed with me.
I allow my smile to spread as wide as Mamma’s.
When Stanny does call on us an hour later, he sweeps into our salon as he always does, and I feel a great relief to see his friendly demeanor. All, it would seem, is forgiven between us. I’m still confused, but I no longer feel sick with dread.
It’s over tea that Mamma brings up the topic of shopping.
To my surprise—and delight—Stanny quickly agrees that we should order new dresses on his account, as though we were merely asking him to pass the plate of cookies.
“You must order from Paris,” he says, taking a bite of a petit four.
“And someday soon, when Evelyn can take a break from her show, I should like to bring you both to Paris myself, to shop in person at the House of Worth.”
Mamma’s cheeks flush, and I stare down into my teacup, biting my lip to stanch a wide grin. It’s a peace offering, and I know it; he still wishes to show me Paris.
“But before Paris, my dear Mrs. Talbot, I was thinking that another trip, one less far-flung, is in order for you in the more immediate future. And well past overdue.”
Mamma’s eyebrows lift in a questioning expression, and Stanny goes on, “Your young son, how does he do at Chester Academy?”
Mamma’s smile slips. She looks down at the table and answers, “Kit does very well.” And it’s the truth. We know from his letters that Kit is in good health. The boy loves school, just as I’m sure I would have.
But Mamma misses him fiercely. As do I. “You look melancholy,” Stanny says, eyeing Mamma with a probing, sympathetic expression.
“Oh, well…” she says.
“A very understandable maternal longing to see your dear boy?” Stanny ventures.
“Well, yes. Of course I miss him.”
Stanny presses his hands on the table and leans toward Mamma. “Would you allow me to remedy that?”
“How…do you mean?”
“Later this month is Thanksgiving,” Stanny says. “He’ll have a break from his studies, I presume?”
“Yes,” Mamma says, her tone tenuous. “The plan is for him to stay with a cousin of mine near Pittsburgh.”
Stanny offers a decisive shake of his head.
“I would love to arrange a splendid reunion for you and your boy. I’ll make accommodations for you to travel first-class by Pullman to Philadelphia.
I’ll arrange for your Kit to join you there.
I’ll book you a suite at the Rittenhouse.
The two of you can visit, dine, shop, tour the city together.
By the end of the week, you will have enjoyed his company, and he’ll be ready to return to school, refreshed by a visit from his dear mother. ”
“It sounds lovely….” Mamma’s tone is bright but unbelieving. “Only, how could I ever afford such a reunion?”
“You need not worry about a single detail, least of all the expense,” Stanny says. “Leave it with me.”
Mamma grips her teacup in her fingers, throwing a look toward me. “But Florence, er, Evelyn could never leave New York for a week, not during Thanksgiving. It’s one of the busiest weeks of the year for the theaters.”
“No, she can’t,” Stanny agrees. “You are correct in that. Evelyn will need to carry on with her work, as her company depends on her.”
Mamma is looking at Stanny as the pair of them speak about me. “I could never leave her alone.”
“Alone?” Stanny leans back in his chair, wearing an expression on his face as though he’s been unfairly slighted. “My dear Mrs. Talbot, she will not be alone. Your darling girl will be in good hands. I would never let any harm come to her.”
Mamma throws me a questioning glance, and I can see how badly she yearns to accept Stanny’s offer—how much she aches for this reunion, albeit brief, with Kit. We haven’t seen him since Mamma enrolled him at Chester, since the cost of a trip would have been forbiddingly high.
“Come now, Mrs. Talbot,” Stanny coaxes. “I dare say you might relish the opportunity to return to Philadelphia…under your newly changed circumstances?” He arcs an eyebrow. “A victory tour of sorts, eh? Perhaps you might even pop into a few of the stores that you once dreamed of visiting?”
Stanny is smiling, and now Mamma is, too. And then she does something unusual; she asks me how I feel.
The honest truth is I could turn green with envy; I wish to see Kit every bit as badly as Mamma does.
But I do realize that what they’ve both said is true: the company is expecting me to perform, and we’ve been warned that Thanksgiving is one of the busiest times of the year for Broadway.
So I answer, “I will be fine.” And it’s true enough—I’m here in a hotel, not that ramshackle boardinghouse.
I’ll have food to eat and work to keep me busy.
If I get lonely I can ask Penny to spend the night with me, and I have no doubt she’d be thrilled to do so.
Besides, a reprieve of a few days from Mamma’s presence wouldn’t be so terrible.
Mamma appears almost ready to accept Stanny’s outrageously generous offer, but he helps to seal her decision: “You deserve this, my dear Mrs. Talbot. I want you to worry about nothing. It’s all in my hands.”
Mamma looks as though she could weep as she says, “I swear, you are sent to us from heaven.” With one quick, appreciative nod, her consent is given.
Stanny smiles at Mamma before throwing me a wink, answering: “Evelyn knows I think heaven is a bit boring.”
—
As November turns dark and gray, and the week of Mamma’s trip approaches, she sees to her packing and grows increasingly nervous about the idea of leaving me.
“Perhaps I ought to stay,” she says on the eve of her departure.
But I know how much she longs for this, and Kit does, as well.
As jealous as I feel at their imminent reunion, I don’t wish for them to miss out on their visit.
And in truth, I’ve been looking forward to a week to myself, free of Mamma’s fretting.
“I’ll be fine,” I reassure her.
She sighs, folding a rose-colored scarf into her valise. Then, perhaps more to herself than to me, she says, “Mr. Pierce has promised he will be your chaperone around town in my absence.”
You never even chaperone me around town when you are here, I think.
“You promise me you won’t go out with anyone but Mr. Pierce?”
“For the one hundredth time, Mamma, I promise.”
“And you’ll obey him?”
“Yes.”
“You do promise?”
“I promise, Mamma.”
“Good. Then you listen to Mr. Pierce, and you do as he says.” She turns back to her packing. “I swear that man is our guardian angel. I don’t like to think where we’d be right now if not for him. It seems there’s nothing he won’t do for us. And I’d do just about anything to keep his friendship.”