Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Hoffman is packed, the costumed crowd in the full swing of merrymaking as Penny and I saunter through the entrance from Broadway, giggling to ourselves as we step through the marble columns and take in the scene.
We’ve just wrapped up a show for a full house and managed a quick costume change ourselves.
Penny had the prop boy backstage transform her into a cluster of grapes, and she looks ridiculous beside me.
I’m sheathed in a simple robe of celadon, a prop snake wound around my shoulders, a gold diadem resting atop my hair.
“As a bunch of grapes, I feel it’s my bounden duty to drink many glasses of excellent champagne,” Penny practically shouts over the din of the hundreds of patrons and the string notes of the orchestra playing in the corner of the room.
“Did Cleopatra drink champagne?” I ask, noticing how many in this colorful crowd have turned their eyes toward us. It seems I can’t walk into a room these days without having that effect.
“I think Cleopatra was more the drinking arsenic sort of gal,” Penny responds.
“Shame.” I sigh. “Another beautiful gal meeting an ugly ending.”
“Not us. We’re going to enjoy this party. Now, back to that champagne.”
We giggle and link arms, making our way intrepidly toward the bar. It’s as we are shuffling through the close-packed bodies that I hear a velvety voice at my shoulder, the words quiet yet close. “A queen, of course.” I turn, startled. There is Mr. Thorne.
While I’m not surprised to see him, as the invitation to this evening’s costume party came from him, I am taken aback as I notice his garb.
He is dressed in a white Roman toga with a wreath of laurels resting atop his head.
“Why, Mr. Thorne, this is a surprise,” I say.
“You could be the Julius Caesar to my Cleopatra!”
But Mr. Thorne shakes his head. “No, Miss Talbot.”
I tip my head to the side.
He goes on, “Caesar abandoned Cleopatra. It was Mark Antony who won her and remained faithfully at her side, even till death.”
I lower my eyes with a bashful smile, taking a moment to collect myself.
Men flatter me all the time—but there is something so earnest, so ardent and direct about Mr. Thorne.
Penny gives my arm a gentle squeeze, and I turn to my friend to make introductions.
“Delighted to meet you,” Mr. Thorne says with an affable smile.
Then he turns his gaze back on me. “You both just finished a show?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Then you must be starving. Shall we have some supper? Please, I have everything arranged at my preferred table.” He gestures across the crowded room to an empty table that bears a placard marked “Reserved.” We gladly accept and follow him to the table, where he helps us both into our seats.
Before I have glanced at a menu, a legion of tuxedoed waiters appears as if summoned by magic, and a feast is spread before us.
Mr. Thorne, tipping his laurel-crowned head and very much looking the part of the distinguished Roman ruler of antiquity, names each plate: halibut, filet mignon, foie gras, almond cakes, mushroom croquettes, green beans with lemon and butter, creamed spinach, fresh bread still warm from the oven.
And several bottles of champagne chilling on ice. Penny gives her hearty approval.
Mr. Thorne sends the waiters away and fills two plates for me and my friend, then pours us each a flute of champagne. “We must eat and drink as the ancients did. What say you?” He winks and clinks his glass against mine. “The nectar of the gods.”
“Cheers to that,” Penny agrees.
“How was the performance this evening?” he asks, spreading his linen napkin across his lap and fixing his gaze on me.
“It went well,” I say, taking a bite of the filet.
“I am sorry I couldn’t be there.” I notice Mr. Thorne isn’t much interested in his own food, but he appears interested to speak with me.
“I am sailing for Paris in the morning, so I’ve been quite preoccupied.
It was either this or the show, and I felt this supper would give me a greater opportunity to visit with you. ”
This makes me feel warm, as does the delicious food and the few sips of champagne I’ve had. As I’m chewing my steak, Penny happily interjects, “Gee, Paris in the morning. Must be nice!”
“I’ve always wished to see Paris,” I say.
At this, Mr. Thorne turns from Penny toward me. “Have you, Miss Talbot?” he says, his voice thoughtful.
“Yes.”
Mr. Thorne folds his hands before him on the table, and when he speaks next, it’s as though it is just the pair of us in this packed and noisy room.
“It is a place you must see, to be sure. I wish you could come this time. I plan to give a smashing party—I have made arrangements to go up in a hot-air balloon and land on the Eiffel Tower, where I will have John Philip Sousa ready to serenade my guests. Are you familiar with the music of Mr. Sousa?”
“Of course I am.” Everyone knows his music. My mind spins from the descriptions of this adventure; it hardly seems real.
“I hope my French guests appreciate Mr. Sousa as we Americans do,” he adds. “One of my guests shall be Cléo. So I shall go from Cleopatra to Cléo.”
“Cléo?” I repeat, feeling a bit self-conscious about asking for clarification as Mr. Thorne clearly presumes I’m familiar with the name.
“Ah, yes, Mademoiselle Cléo.” He smiles kindly. “She’s like you—except in Paris. A ballerina.”
What is that unpleasant sensation I feel as Mr. Thorne utters these words—a twinge of jealousy? But then he goes on. “The King of Belgium has asked Cléo for her hand in marriage. Has any king asked to marry you?”
“No,” I reply, letting out a puff of air, entertained by how highly he thinks of me.
“Not yet,” he says, leaning his body toward mine. “You know, Miss Talbot, I meant what I said before. Mark Antony and Cleopatra. When I believe in something, I am loyal to the end.”
I stare at Mr. Thorne, my heart knocking against my ribs.
I don’t move. I don’t touch my food or my champagne, this nectar of the gods that he has arranged for me with such thoughtfulness and care.
I’m too busy digesting our brief but remarkable acquaintance.
To a girl who has been betrayed or abandoned by every man she’s ever loved, his words feel like nectar indeed.
But then he’s gone. The morning after the costume party at the Hoffman, Mr. Thorne sails for Paris, and he told me it would be at least a month before he returned.
“May I write to you while I’m away, Miss Talbot?” he asked as he escorted me and Penny into his waiting auto after supper, dispatching his chauffeur with orders to see each one of us safely home.
“You may, Mr. Thorne,” I’d replied, realizing that I wanted him to write. Not only because I wished to hear all of his colorful details from Paris but also because I wished to carry on this fledgling friendship.
His red roses keep coming, but now I have no desire to send them back. The daily arrival of these bouquets now fills me with a warm and pleasing glow, the reminder that this chivalrous and generous man is thinking of me, even as he travels the world.
Within a few days I am surprised to find that I miss Mr. Thorne. This gentleman whom I’ve only just begun to know. This realization crystallizes for me when Stan arrives at the door of the suite. I can barely stomach the thought of seeing him, but Mamma insists we allow him in.
It seems as though Stan also has Mr. Thorne on his mind. It catches me by surprise when he takes a seat opposite Mamma and me in the parlor and declares: “I hear you’ve been gadding around town with that Thorne character.”
I shift in my seat, looking down at my hands, toward the window, anywhere but at Stan. Trying to affect a mien of cool disinterest, but feeling a jangle of nerves, I sigh. “Stan, it’s really none of your concern.”
“It’s entirely my concern,” he retorts. He throws a look toward Mamma, then turns back to me. “There are all sorts of unsavory reports about him, Kitten.”
His use of the nickname feels like fingernails slicing my skin, and it’s all I can do to suppress a full grimace. Drawing in a slow breath, I take a moment. “There are always rumors.”
“Reports that he’s got some sleazy inclinations.”
That’s rich, coming from you. I don’t say it aloud, not with Mamma sitting beside me, but I hope that Stan can see the ire in the look I give him.
His eyebrows hitch together. “Girls in the Tenderloin, they talk. A man who looks an awful lot like your Mr. Thorne pays for their services. I won’t tell you more than that.”
“Preposterous,” I say, shaking my head and turning away. Stan sees the worst in others because he himself is made of the worst stuff. I say, “I saw how you treated Art.” He’ll do anything to keep me away from other men.
Then I add: “Mr. Thorne is so recognizable; if he were some sort of unsavory rake, everyone would know without a shred of a doubt. It’d be all over the papers.”
Stan’s voice is suggestive when he replies. “Unless he uses some of that eighty-thousand-a-year allowance to keep the reports quiet.”
I let out a puff of air. “There’s no such thing as keeping reporters quiet, and you know it.”
“Listen, Kitten, even if he’s not the monster of the Tenderloin, he’s a playboy. A cad.”
“Name-calling is beneath even you, Stanley Pierce.”
“Florence Evelyn!” Mamma rasps, her tone biting as she pipes up for the first time.
I can’t help but roll my eyes; I realize exactly what is going on.
Stan has money, to be sure, but Thorne has more than a royal.
And he’s a backer of Comstock, who is a daily barb in Stan’s side.
And on top of all of that, Mr. Thorne has gotten my attention.
Which means he is a threat, on every level, to Stanley Pierce.
I relish this moment of watching Stan squirm as he sees all of this as plainly as I do.
“You’re scared of him,” I say, a smile tugging on my lips.