Parlor Games (44 page)

“We have also produced checks written to Miss Shaver. Miss Shaver endorsed and cashed these checks. She contends the checks were not loans, but she cannot recall what they were for. All in all, the defense has clearly demonstrated that Miss Shaver herself received payments and gifts from the Baroness and that she absolved my
client of any debts she may have incurred. This is a nuisance suit, designed to embarrass the Baroness into turning over a very large sum of money. Thus, a dismissal is not only legally defensible, but well substantiated at this point. I move for immediate dismissal of the case of Miss Frank Gray Shaver versus Baroness May de Vries.”

My confidence soared. Mr. Powers had brilliantly articulated the essence of our case. I couldn’t help glancing at Daisy, and there, mirrored on her alert face, was the same buoyant optimism I felt.

The judge turned his attention to Frank’s attorney. “Mr. Sawyer?”

“This motion is premature, at the very least, Your Honor. The defense hasn’t brought a single witness, and I’ve had no opportunity to cross-examine anybody about this purported release or the checks. The court would be remiss to decide the case on the basis of evidence produced but not carefully examined.

“I might add that the defense has completely ignored, in its cross-examinations, the many instances of deceit, manipulation, and downright trickery on the part of the Baroness and her underlings, ploys she used again and again over the years to part Miss Shaver from her money. This is no minor dispute—over $106,000 is at stake here—and dismissal of a case for such a large claim on the basis of a few documents of uncertain origin is nothing short of unfair. I appeal to the court to allow the trial to proceed so that the evidence as a whole may be considered by the jury.”

Judge Flanagan pressed back against his chair, straightening himself to statuesque dignity. “Mr. Sawyer, Mr. Powers, I find insufficient reason to dismiss the case at this time.”

My rising hopes plummeted like a balloon crashing to earth. What more did the judge require besides a document, properly signed, absolving any and all indebtedness? At the close of the day’s testimony, I retreated from the courtroom knowing the case now rested on my attorney’s shoulders—as well as on the witnesses he would call on my behalf. And we had yet to resolve the matter of whether I myself would take the stand.

AN AGREEABLE ARRANGEMENT
LONDON—1905–1907

N
o sooner had Dr. Whidbey, Daisy, and I disembarked in Liverpool and boarded the train for London than Ernest apprised us of his intention to purchase a home not far from London—a certain Bray Lodge, on the banks of the Thames. “A stately place,” he said. “Mrs. Brown-Potter lives there, but since the divorce, she’s selling.”

Of course I’d heard about the famous actress’s marital problems. “Is the divorce final?”

“Yes. But she still goes by ‘Mrs.’—I suppose because it’s been her stage name so long.”

Daisy picked this moment to lean across the aisle of our compartment and inform us, “I’ll be in the dining car.”

“Goodness,” I said, knowing she’d soon request more money for her food expenses, “I swear you spend more time there than in your bed.”

“At least you know where to find me.”

Ernest chuckled at her jest—on occasion, Daisy had complained of difficulties locating me on ship—but I said nothing, not wanting to encourage her cheekiness.

With a spry step, she left the compartment.

I glanced at the grassy knolls of Liverpool’s outskirts. I couldn’t help but wonder what this purchase portended for any future Ernest might envision for us. I turned back to him. “How far along is the sale?”

“My agent says it could go through in a matter of days.” He reached out and cupped his hand over mine. “Why don’t I secure a
room for you and Daisy at the Carlton so we can celebrate when it’s settled?”

Just as I suspected—he wasn’t ready to bid me good-bye anytime soon.

I’d never before stayed at the Carlton Hotel. It was quite grand—and conveniently located at Haymarket and Pall Mall, close to the National Gallery, where I spent many a leisurely afternoon over the two weeks it took Ernest to conduct his business.

One May day, he announced he could finally lay claim to Bray Lodge. He insisted on running out and purchasing the best Laurent-Perrier he could find to mark the occasion.

A few hours later, he phoned my room. “Come, the champagne is chilled.”

I changed into my lavender evening dress and joined him in his suite. He extracted the bottle from an ice bucket and removed its foil and metal capping. Whisking a napkin from the table he’d set for us, he covered the bottle and twisted its top. At the thwump of the cork, he unveiled the bottle, like a magician producing a rabbit. “Champagne, my dear?”

“How can I resist?” I casually held up my glass, hiding my surprise. Ernest had never before addressed me as “dear.” Although our relations had taken a romantic turn at sea, his expressions had never been effusive. He was either only modestly taken with me or supremely sure of himself. Judging by his generosity toward me, which extended to hotel rooms for Daisy and me, fine dinners, and a set of pearl earrings, it was the latter. In any event, his manner—that of one who readily takes command and assumes without avowal that his affections are reciprocated—encouraged me to sally forth with him and enjoy the simple pleasures of drink, dinner, and desire, free from worries about entanglement.

“It’s quite a lovely home,” he said, pouring for both of us. “With four bedrooms, a drawing room, even a billiards room.”

I delicately fingered my glass. “And of course the requisite servants.”

“And a small gas stove, well-appointed kitchen, and scullery for them.”

“A most complete household.”

“I’m even going to have a telephone installed.”

“How very modern.”

We raised our glasses, and I said, “May you be quite happy there.”

Lifting the glass to my mouth, I sipped. Infinitesimal bubbles burst on the fleshy underside of my upper lip. The liquid’s creamy smoothness coated my tongue, as refreshing as a strained, slightly honeyed lemonade. I beamed at Ernest and raised my glass for a second quaff, as did he. The drink’s effervescence permeated the roof of my mouth and shot the sensation of lightness to the very tip of my head.

“Ah, wonderful champagne.” Ernest played his fingertips against the glass stem, as if it were a flute, and smiled at me. “I would love to have you come and reside at Bray Lodge. You’d have your own room. Daisy could be upper servant. I’d see to all the household expenses.”

“Why, Ernest, I had no idea you entertained such an arrangement.”

“Why not? We make a splendid pair. In the afternoons, when you’re not shopping, you like to read or study art, and I have my newspapers to read. In the evenings, you can do as you wish, as will I, though I would insist we enjoy some of our lovely dinners together. What do you say?”

On my word, it was the most peculiar proposition ever put to me. Not that I’d never been invited to take up residence with a man before, but that the proposal should be presented so coolly, in such a business-like manner. Still, it suited me—the promise of security when my own financial resources were finite, as well as some measure of freedom near a city I loved.

I tipped my glass toward him. “I say yes. Your terms are altogether agreeable.”

Bray Lodge is in the town of Maidenhead on the Thames, some twenty miles from London. Ernest and I introduced ourselves there as Dr. and Mrs. Whidbey: It simply proved more expedient than bothering with explanations that would have failed the test of salutary acceptance. Heavens, the two of us being American was challenge enough for the townspeople.

Of course, this arrangement was not without its complications.
After all, I had many friends in London, friends who knew full well that the Baron and I were not divorced. But Ernest, though happy to attend local gatherings with me, had little interest in accompanying me to London, and for once I did not mind going to the opera and playhouses without a regular male escort. The fact is, although Ernest’s penchant for spouting facts and figures amused our neighbors, I did not consider it proper fodder for more cultivated conversation.

Fortunately, Ernest objected not in the least to my frequent London outings, though he unfailingly quizzed me about my companions. To squelch what appeared to be a touch of possessiveness, I led him to believe I represented myself as Mrs. Whidbey while out and about in London, which seemed to satisfy him. Besides, he managed to entertain himself quite well at a gentlemen’s club in London, the Portland Club at St. James’s Square, where he spent several evenings each week. After years of being cooped up with Rudolph, I found this arrangement most congenial. Another woman might have wondered what went on at a gentlemen’s club, but I was pleased he had a pastime that did not place demands on me. When I asked him how he amused himself at the club, he readily explained, “At cards, my dear. That’s what the club is all about.”

Thus, I gladly endured the minor inconvenience of representing myself as his wife around Maidenhead. And Bray Lodge, though not extravagantly large, was sufficiently commodious for my purposes, with a closet large enough to accommodate the new gowns I had designed in London.

By the end of summer, I’d settled in nicely, though one thing perplexed me. From all appearances, Ernest lived far more comfortably on ten thousand dollars per annum than anyone but Houdini could have managed. On a late-August day, after he’d purchased an emerald pendant necklace for me and a 1905 Calthorpe automobile for himself, I invited Daisy for a stroll.

Ernest sat reading in the drawing room, in the only chair with any masculine flair, a stiff-armed leather affair with a matching ottoman. “Ernest, it’s such a lovely day. I believe I’ll take a walk.”

He barely looked up from his newspaper. “A little warm, don’t you think?”

“There’s always a breeze along River Road.”

“Do you mind if I don’t go?”

“Not at all. I’ll invite Daisy.”

Once out of earshot of the house’s wide-open windows, I said to Daisy, “How do you suppose he could afford a Calthorpe?”

“Maybe he’s come into an inheritance.”

“There’s nothing to suggest that.”

“All he told that Mr. Simon on the ship is that he has ten thousand dollars from his ex-wife.”

I tilted my wide-brimmed hat to block the sun. “He rarely discusses money with me.”

“But he has mentioned it?”

“Only in roundabout ways.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, ‘You don’t ever need to worry about money,’ or ‘I intend to treat you like the Baroness you are.’ ”

“Do you think it has anything to do with his club?”

“I suppose he could be gambling, but that usually leads to losing large sums, not winning them.”

Daisy raised her eyebrows. “I could try to find out where the money’s coming from.”

I stopped and gripped her arm. “Don’t you dare upset the apple cart. Do you hear me?”

She studied her feet. “Yes, ma’am.”