A Deadly Affection (15 page)

I stifled a sigh of relief. “When?”

“I'm leaving town tomorrow, but I'll be back Thursday morning. I'll talk to her then.”

“Fine. I'll meet you there. What time?”

He turned to look back at me. “I'll talk to her alone.”

“Oh, I don't know if that would be wise… She's been through a terrible ordeal. It would be better if I were there.”

“I don't intend to harass her.”

“I know, but she's never even met you. She trusts me. If I urge her to speak openly with you, she will.”

“All right,” he said grudgingly. “Be at the Centre Street entrance at ten a.m.”

I nodded. “Centre Street.”

“And don't be late.” He looped his muffler around his neck.

“Just one more thing,” I said, hoping I wasn't pushing my luck. “Could you recommend a good lawyer with experience in these sorts of cases? Eliza's going to need one.”

He considered a moment. “Abe Hummel would have been her best bet. But unfortunately, he's no longer available.”

“Hummel? Isn't that the lawyer who was just convicted for paying a witness to lie?”

“You disapprove?”

“I'd prefer to engage someone reputable.”

“There are two kinds of lawyers in this town,” he said curtly. “Those who know the law, and those who know the judges. From what I've heard so far, your patient's going to need the second kind.”

Although I supposed he knew what he was talking about, I didn't like the idea of putting Eliza's fate in the hands of some shifty pettifogger. “But can a person like that be trusted?”

“Trusted to get the job done,” he shot back. “Before Hummel was disbarred, he and his partner managed to get more accused murderers released from the Tombs than all the other lawyers combined.”

“All right, you've convinced me,” I said hastily. “But since Attorney Hummel has, in fact, been disbarred, is there someone else you could suggest?”

“Try Bernie Harlan,” he said. “He's more discreet but just as friendly with the criminal court judges. I know both Hoffman and Barnard have been eating at his trough. His office is on Broadway, near Leonard. You can tell him I sent you.”

“Thank you. I'll contact him immediately.”

“Save your thanks. I'm not doing this for you.” He pulled a calling card from a fine leather case and, with a malevolent glance toward the drawing room, tossed it on the console tray. “Something for your father to remember me by,” he said, before stalking out the door.

• • •

“Ow.” Though I was already corseted so tightly I could hardly breathe, I tried to suck in my belly another fraction of an inch to avoid the pin Henri's assistant had just lodged in my spangled stomacher.

Henri slapped the back of the man's head, muttering something I'd never heard in French class.

“Genna, do stop fidgeting,” said my mother. “You're only making things more difficult.”

The fitting had not being going well. My racing thoughts seemed to be connected by invisible strings to my limbs, making it impossible to stand still. I was desperate to have it over with so I could get to the medical library and read up on Huntington's chorea and assure myself that Eliza's mind was not impaired by disease. But the more I shifted and slumped, the more repinning and adjusting I had to endure.

Henri pinched in the seams on either side of the diamond-shaped stomacher. “Just a little more here, I think, to show off your naturally slender waist.”

A muffled groan escaped me.

“Why don't we break for tea?” asked Mama, shooting me a warning glance. “Henri, you must be famished.”

Allowing that he was, Henri dabbed his shining forehead with a handkerchief and sank gratefully into the chair beside my mother's dressing table. Mama crossed to the annunciator box to call down to the kitchen, while Henri's assistants lifted my unhemmed skirts so that I could shuffle over to the settee. I perched stiff as a bisque doll on the settee's edge, afraid to lean forward for fear I'd either be stabbed by a pin or black out from lack of oxygen.

I forced myself to relax. Maybe I couldn't make time move any faster, but I could at least try to wring from it some useful information, to narrow the search for Dr. Hauptfuhrer's real killer. Monsieur Henri, dressmaker to society, was, after all, a mother lode of gossip, and for the moment, he was all mine.

Mary arrived with cookies and tea, and Mama commenced to pour. She was passing a cup to Monsieur Henri when her gaze was arrested by something at the door. “Hugh, dear, will you be joining us for tea?”

“No, thank you,” my father said from the doorway. “I was just looking in.” He nodded awkwardly to Henri and disappeared.

“Well, monsieur,” Mama continued smoothly, offering a cookie to our guest, “I imagine you've been very busy this week.”

He shrugged. “It is the season, madame, is it not? And unfortunately, there are only so many hours in the day.” He selected a jam-brushed cake, took a bite, and nodded in approval.

“Such is the price of perfection,” I reminded him.

“So true,” he said, taking a sip of his tea.

“After all, you could hardly expect Olivia Fiske or Tessie Spencer or anyone with a speck of pride to commission someone else for such an important event,” I added, hoping I wasn't laying it on too thickly.

His eyes narrowed, regarding me with new appreciation. “Exactly as you say, mademoiselle.”

Taking a cup of tea from Mama, I continued wistfully, “I still remember that extraordinary gown you made for Emily Backhouse for the Vanderbilts' costume ball. The Russian peasant dress with the ruby belt. It quite outshone anything from Worth or Pacquin.”

“A triumph,” he recollected, growing misty eyed.

“I can hardly wait to see what you've done for her this time,” I added, lifting my cup to my lips.

His cheeks drooped. “Unfortunately, I was not given the opportunity to repeat that success for Mademoiselle Backhouse.”

“No!” I dropped my cup back onto its saucer with a dainty clatter. “I can't believe it. She hasn't abandoned you! But wherever would she go?” I raised my fingertips to my mouth. “Not to Mrs. Moorehouse! Her dresses are superb, I'll admit—so very up-to-the-minute. I just loved that blue Liberty silk she did for Caroline Pease. But still, one would expect Emily to show more loyalty!”

Poor Henri had turned such an awful purplish color that if I hadn't known better, I'd have thought he was choking on his madeleine. “I can assure you that Mademoiselle Backhouse would never go elsewhere,” he said, “given a choice.”

“Ah, I see! You meant you were too busy to take her on. Poor thing, she must have been crestfallen. One knows it can happen, but somehow, one is never quite prepared. To be let down by the one person you trust to show you to your best advantage…” I shook my head.

“Mademoiselle misconstrues,” he said stiffly. “I would never turn away a loyal customer. The family of the lady in question is…indisposed to purchase a gown at this time.”

I leaned forward, ignoring the pressure the bone stays of my bodice exerted on my ribs. “It's true, then, about their financial reversals?”

He tipped his head. “So it would seem, mademoiselle. Something I would not have believed myself—and would never have repeated—were it not for the matter of a rather large, outstanding bill.”

So it was as bad as people said. Thomas Backhouse couldn't even afford to buy his daughter a new dress.

“Of course, as loyal past clients, I would normally be happy to extend them credit, but with Mrs. Backhouse in such ill health, I must presume that as funds become available, they will be diverted to her care.”

“Mrs. Backhouse is ill?” I asked.

“Oh yes, the family is quite distraught. The financial pressures, I fear, have taken their toll.”

Well, this was something, I thought; if Mrs. Backhouse had needed costly medical treatments that her husband couldn't afford, the likelihood that he might resort to blackmailing Dr. Hauptfuhrer seemed even greater.

“I'm sure they'll be back on their feet in no time,” my mother murmured with her characteristic disregard for reality, putting an end to what I'm sure she considered an unseemly topic.

I sat back, effectively cut off at the pass. I decided to try another front. “But you did design Olivia's dress,” I said to Henri. “I can't wait to see what you came up with. Of course, I wouldn't dream of asking for details, but could you, perhaps, give us just a hint?”

“You mustn't tease monsieur,” said my mother. “You know he can't tell you.”

The dressmaker smiled coyly. “I can say only this: Mademoiselle Fiske will shine as brightly as the North Star among a firmament of heavenly bodies.”

“How lovely,” I said with a sigh. “And will the Earl fall helplessly in love with her, do you think?”

He glanced at my mother, pursing his lips, and studiously stirred his tea.

“I'm sure he'll be enchanted,” my mother answered for him.

Henri sniffed and continued to stir his tea.

I eyed him uneasily. A rash of the so-called dollar princesses had been leaving their storybook marriages in recent years, citing cruel treatment, spendthrift spouses, or just the excruciating boredom of titled life as their reason. Although I knew Olivia's match was a calculated one, I had hoped it would offer something better—a chance, at least, for companionship and affection.

“He does care for her, doesn't he?” I persisted.

He shrugged. “I couldn't say, mademoiselle. I am only a dressmaker.”

My foot tapped involuntarily on the floorboards; I didn't have all day. “But, monsieur, that isn't true!” I coaxed. “You know the haut monde as well as anyone. I would trust your opinion absolutely.”

I watched the struggle play over his face. A certain amount of gossip was to be tolerated, even expected, of a society dressmaker. But one had to tread carefully; if one stepped on the hand that fed one, one might find oneself on the next steamer back to France.

“No doubt the Earl appreciates the advantages the match will afford,” he said at last.

“I understand he's quite reliable,” added Mama. “Not one of those gadabouts you hear of so often. And if any of our girls would make him a capable countess, it's Olivia. I'm sure he'll come to love her in time.”

Henri hesitated, weak in the face of an opportunity to display inside knowledge. “Perhaps,” he said, placing his cup and saucer on his knee, “that would be too much to expect.”

“Too much to expect?” I repeated, wondering at his choice of words. “You don't mean he's a homosexual?”

“No, no, quite the opposite.”

“There isn't another woman?”

His eyebrows rose as he took a sip of his tea.

“The Earl is in love with someone else?”

One shoulder rose in a delicate shrug.

“Then why doesn't he marry her?”

“Apparently,” said Henri, putting down his spoon, “the lady in question is already married. But she has been his mistress for years.”

“What does he want with Olivia, then?” I protested.

Henri glanced at my mother, who answered, “I expect he wants a child, dear. An heir.”

I stared from one to the other in disgust, wondering if Olivia knew she was being delivered to the Earl as a breeder. It was one thing to trade prestige for money; at least such an arrangement did not preclude the possibility of respect and affection. But to enter into a marriage while publicly flaunting a mistress, for the sole purpose of carrying on the family name… “Why couldn't the old goat at least pick a European girl, who'd understand such things?”

“Because he needs American money to rebuild his castle walls,” Henri patiently explained.

“And Olivia's parents are content with this arrangement?”

Again, he shrugged. “The Earl needs money to maintain his estates, and Madame Fiske needs the Earl to give her daughter a title. Apparently, the arrangement suits.”

“Hugh,” said my mother, “do either come or go.”

Turning toward the door, I saw that my father was hovering again on the threshold.

“I just wanted a word with Genevieve,” he said. “When she's done.”

“That may be a while,” said Mama. “Would you like to speak with her now?”

“No, no, it can wait. Carry on.” He bobbed his head once more to Henri and vanished from sight.

It didn't take an Edison to guess what he wanted to talk about. In the last several hours, I had become a fugitive from the law, been told that Eliza might be suffering dementia, and learned that Joy/Olivia was about to marry a man who didn't—and probably never would—love her. I didn't think I was up to hearing my father's thoughts on my renewed relations with Simon Shaw as well.

As the fitting resumed, my mind returned uneasily to the letter Simon had shown me. Dr. Hauptfuhrer's suspicions had to be wrong. If Eliza was in even the earliest stages of dementia, the prosecution was sure to argue that it had somehow prompted her to kill the doctor. And they didn't even know what I did: that she'd had a real reason for hating him, a reason that had festered for years and could have provided the spark to ignite an increasingly agitated mind.

I felt a sudden flash of anger on Eliza's behalf. What if she had, in fact, killed the doctor in a moment of unpremeditated violence, triggered by a desperate craving to be united with her daughter? Wasn't there yet some argument to be made on her behalf? I thought of the millionaire Harry Thaw, about to stand trial for the murder of his wife's old lover, Stanford White. I'd read that Thaw's lawyers were expecting to win his acquittal by arguing he'd been in the grip of a temporary, “natural” rage when he shot White dead, induced by the violation of his “sacred” spousal relationship. This, even though Thaw had known about the lover for years before he pulled the trigger. Other men had been acquitted on similar grounds. I remembered in particular a U.S. congressman from New York who was not only absolved of murdering his wife's lover, but widely praised for ensuring the man couldn't seduce other Washington wives, as well. His spousal relationship was deemed so sacred that its breach justified murder—despite the fact that the congressman had traveled to England with a prostitute during his wife's pregnancy, and even presented his whore to the Queen.