Parlor Games (45 page)

But Daisy had a way of biding her time and springing surprises on me long after I’d forgotten such discussions. So I should have known she would snoop around sooner or later. Three days before our first Christmas in Maidenhead, Ernest and I attended an afternoon reception at the home of an elderly couple three houses away. In the late afternoon, on our way home, a downpour caught us off guard, and we scurried under the kissing gate and into the house through the servants’ entryway.

As we shed our wet coats and removed our soaking shoes, Daisy greeted us. “I hope you won’t mind. I gave all the servants the rest of the day off.”

I merely clucked, knowing full well she’d hatched some scheme.

Ernest straightened himself up. “But we’ll want dinner later.”

“Oh, I’ll see to that.” She turned to me. “Would you like me to help you out of those wet clothes?”

She escorted me up to my boudoir, closed the door behind us, and stood with her back against it, grinning in that mischievous way of hers.

“And what exactly are you so puffed up about?” I asked, sitting at my vanity and rolling down my damp stockings.

She hushed her voice. “I had a good long look in Ernest’s desk drawers.”

I matched her volume. “But doesn’t he keep them locked?”

“I found the key in a hidden compartment.”

I heard Ernest’s footfalls on the stairs and planted a finger to my lips.

Daisy came closer and asked, in her usual voice, “Should I put out the blue gown?”

“Will you brush my hair first?”

Ernest’s steps reached the top of the stairs and receded down the hallway.

Daisy came up behind me and unpinned my hair.

I opened my vanity drawer so she could place the pins in their velvet box and asked, “You haven’t taken anything from his drawers, have you?”

“Heavens, no.”

I eyed her in the mirror. “Well?”

“He keeps a metal box in the bottom right drawer. He must carry the key, because I couldn’t find it. But it’s quite lightweight. Can’t hold anything heavier than paper or bills.”

“That’s not much of a discovery.”

“No, but the ledger is.” She let my hair spill over her hands, arranged it behind my shoulders, and took up my brush. “It’s filled with dates showing cash in and cash out. He takes out money whenever he goes to his club and puts it back in afterward. And it’s nearly always more than he’s taken out.”

“Why, the sly devil.” I rapped my fingers on the vanity. “He
is
gambling.”

Daisy brushed the tips of my hair. “And winning.”

“What kind of money?”

“Oh, he rarely goes out with less than a hundred pounds, and he usually comes back with two to four times that much.”

“Times three or four days a week. Impressive returns.”

Daisy gathered my hair in her left hand and lifted the brush to it. “Would you have ever pegged him for a card sharp?”

“Who’d suspect a professor?” I shrugged. “I suppose that’s part of his ruse.”

Ernest must have continued his winning ways, for we lived handsomely and he never denied my requests, whether for new furnishings, a case of Burgundy, or a shipment of Russian caviar. As the fall of 1906 approached, he received inquiries from his dean at the University of Minnesota about when they might expect his return. In response, he tendered his resignation. I asked if he intended to take up an appointment here, and he laughed. “Why should I bother?”

In February of 1907, as we sat at the breakfast table gazing out on drizzly skies, he nonchalantly turned to me. “What would you say to a sailboat trip to southern France?”

“France? I love France.” Rudolph had taken me to Paris only once, though I’d begged to go back.

“We could go to Nice. And Monte Carlo.”

“Monte Carlo?” Now he’d piqued my interest. “Might you play some cards?”

“Certainly. I love a good game.”

“You should find excellent sport there.”

“A fellow from the club has invited us. An older gentleman. Victor Case.”

“Will he be bringing his wife?”

“He’s recently widowed. I imagine he’s looking for a little diversion.”

FLIRTING WITH DANGER
THE MEDITERRANEAN—MARCH 1907–MARCH 1908

W
e sailed for the Mediterranean in mid-March, the three of us and two crew. Choppy waters made for an uncomfortable passage, but once we traversed the Straits of Gibraltar the weather turned mild. I rejoiced when we put in at the beautiful port of Nice, with the sparkling sea a deep azure at the horizon and, near its sun-soaked shores, milky turquoise and tepid to the touch—even this early in the spring.

After docking in the harbor, we abandoned our sailboat for the beachside Hotel Westminster. I would have liked to stay at the Excelsior Hotel Regina, where Queen Victoria herself used to vacation, but I did not press my case, since both Ernest and Victor preferred the Westminster: “It’ll be easier to check on the boat from here,” said Victor; and Ernest agreed, “And to sail over to Monaco whenever we wish.”

After two days in Nice, we sailed for Monaco and checked in at the Hôtel Métropole. No sooner had we unpacked than Ernest dashed off to play the tables at the Casino Monte Carlo. Not wishing to languish in a hotel room, I imposed on Mr. Case to join me in exploring our new environs. He met me in the grand foyer of the casino, and we meandered among its pillars of green, brick-red, and soft yellow marble on our way to the gambling lounge.

The gambling room, as large as a dance hall, held some sixteen comfortably spaced tables. Soothing pastoral paintings inset on oval surfaces decorated its walls. A glass dome forty to fifty feet in diameter hung over the room, edged by a roof of soft greens and gold-leafed décor. Eight crystal chandeliers circled the glass dome, and candelabra sconces lined the walls, all creating a glowing, inviting
light—just enough to reveal the numbers on cards and the colors of chips, but not so much as to strain the eyes. Everything conspired to keep one comfortable at the tables: the bar at the entranceway, the muted beige and turquoise of the carpet, and the tasteful though tempered décor. As Victor and I strolled the room’s perimeter, I soaked up the atmosphere—the echo of chips falling on green velvet; the oh-so-serious demeanor of those gathered around the tables; the smoky haze hanging over the scene; and the dealers, all very dapper and stiff-backed.

One dealer in particular, at Ernest’s table, attracted my interest. He was an olive-complexioned man who wore his midnight-black hair brushed smoothly back. His eyes were also dark, and I wondered if he might hail from southern Italy or someplace where people’s complexions were naturally darker. He sported the shadow of a beard, as if he’d been unable to shave close enough to keep the whiskers at bay. I played at catching his eye, and whenever I did, he quickly looked away. It was an innocent enough game. Until Ernest, perhaps noticing the dealer’s distraction, turned and discovered the cause of it—me. He frowned, and that put an end to the little flirtation.

Victor and I spent only ten minutes in the gambling room before we retreated to our rooms to rest up for dinner. That evening, Ernest, Victor, and I dined at Le Train Bleu, the restaurant adjacent to the gambling lounge. Through the dining room’s glass windows, spaced at intervals along the partition wall, we could see the players yet not disrupt their concentration with the jangle of our silverware or the murmur of our voices.

“You must tell us all about your time at the tables,” said Victor, clasping his hands over his belly like an apprentice awaiting instruction.

Ernest relaxed in his chair, one arm planted with authority on its arm. “They asked me to leave after two hours.”

Victor pitched his head back. “They did?”

“Yes. But I spoke with the manager and returned within minutes.”

I reached for Ernest’s hand. “Why ever did they ask you to leave?”

“Probably because they couldn’t believe I won the equivalent of thirty-five hundred pounds honestly.”

“But that’s incredible,” said Victor. “At what?”

“Chemin de fer.”

“They outright accused you of cheating?” I asked.

“Insinuated as much.”

Victor shook his head. “But how did you do it?”

“I have a system, and I’ll return tomorrow, and the next day as well.”

Within one week, Ernest had amassed the equivalent of thirty-seven thousand dollars, at which point the manager of the casino begged him to accept a free week of lodging and local tours if only he would abandon the tables. After I pleaded with him to quit while he was ahead, he accepted the manager’s offer—probably more to appease the manager than me—and we spent a grand week touring Èze, Antibes, Cannes, the hilltop village Mougins, the Gorges du Verdon, three excellent vineyards, and the Maison Molinard’s perfume factory in Grasse (where I discovered my now signature perfume, Jasmin).

Ernest purchased my favorite “souvenir” late in the trip at a jeweler’s shop in Monte Carlo.

As I leaned over the glass case, I gripped Ernest’s arm. “Look at that fetching brooch.”

“Hmm,” he said, “a bit plain, don’t you think?”

It was not the least bit plain, but I imagined Ernest was posturing because of the steep price, which the piece clearly warranted. Its platinum webs reached out from a large pearl to link an array of different-sized diamonds, like the full moon in a star-studded sky.

“Ah, madame, monsieur,” said the jeweler, “I have been considering an embellishment for this piece. Come, I will show you.”

He stooped to withdraw the brooch from under the glass and, with a wave of his finger, motioned us to follow him to the end of the case. He put on a pair of white gloves, buffed the brooch, and positioned it in the center of his palm. Pulling out a drawer, he curled his hand to block our view and pinched his fingers around an object. With a flourish, he unveiled the mysterious object—a black pearl. “This, you see, will make an even more, ah—how do you say it?—striking centerpiece.”

“Yes,” I said thoughtfully, squeezing Ernest’s arm. “I like the effect.”

Ernest took my hint and casually entered into a bargaining
exchange with the jeweler. When all was said and done, he’d bought it, at a cost of about sixteen thousand dollars.

“Bien,”
said the jeweler. “The piece will be ready Friday afternoon. Will you sign, please?”

Ernest opened his palm in my direction. “You may sign, my dear.”

I picked up the pen to hand to him. “No, won’t you?”

He waved me off. “If you sign, you can pick it up without me.”

With the
Kaiser Wilhelm
and
Lusitania
steaming across the Atlantic in five days, the trip to Monte Carlo seemed a mere lark. Ernest and I made it a twice-annual holiday destination, typically traveling by boat to Le Havre and then by train to Monaco. We never again sailed with Victor Case—since Ernest had had the temerity to suggest I’d flirted with him our whole journey—nor did we bring other traveling companions, which meant I was left alone for long hours while Ernest played the gambling tables.

So I took it upon myself to make friends. On our March 1908 trip, I happened upon the fascinating Mr. Basil Zaharoff. Although we had met and conversed on only one other occasion, this time we greeted each other like old friends, as so often happens with traveling acquaintances.