She found Ben in his office. She visited him there as infrequently as possible because the room oppressed her with its dead, staring animals and cruel-looking weapons, displayed as proudly as fine art. Already he was on the telephone, booming into it to some underling about stock quotations and market shares and what he wanted bought and sold first thing in the morning. He looked tired. He needed a haircut, and his dark eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue or harassment. The blunt fingers drummed monotonously on the desk while he spoke. She was thinking how much she hated his hands when he hung up abruptly and looked at her. “Well?”
“I’d like to speak to you about Tasha.”
“Who is she?”
“I’d like her to stay with us for a while, Ben. She’s had a misfortune, an—accident, and she needs our help.”
“Who is she, I said?”
“She’s someone I’ve known for quite a while. She’s not employed right now, but I’ve spoken to Mr. Lockhart—he’s a very fashionable couturier on Fifth Avenue, everyone goes either to him or to Worth’s—and although he doesn’t need anyone right now, he says in a month or two—”
“She’s one of your goddamn immigrants, isn’t she?” he exclaimed wonderingly. “Well, I’ll be goddamned.”
“She’s foreign, yes—”
“I want her out of here.”
“But why?” Her hands behind her back balled into fists. “She has no place to go. She’s not hurting anyone here—”
“It doesn’t look right, having a foreigner staying with us. She’s probably even Jewish. Is she?”
“I have no idea, I never—”
“Well, I want her out. Give her some money if you have to, but get rid of her.”
She fought to keep her voice calm. “Listen to me, no one even knows she’s here—it’s not as if she makes social calls with me. She needs a place to rest for a while, a safe harbor until—”
“I don’t have time for this,” he warned, coarse fingers drumming again.
“She’s an aristocrat.” He looked up sharply, and even though there was suspicion in his eyes, she knew her impulsive comment was inspired. “She comes from old European royalty; her father was a count.” No point in mentioning her mother was a gypsy and never married the count. If the count even existed. She could see Ben wavering, and it almost made her laugh. But her contempt for him was too strong for laughter.
“Aristocrat? Blue blood, ha. Yeah, but what kind of blue blood, blue Jewish blood?”
She shrugged. “Blue Rumanian blood.”
“Rumanian.” He reached for a sheaf of papers and spread them out in front of him. “Leave me alone. I’ll think about it when I get time.”
She stayed where she was. She supposed she had won, but she felt little elation. Once it had exhilarated her to defeat him in petty domestic battles, but anger was the only pure emotion he evoked in her anymore. “Michael’s stomachache is better,” she said softly. “In case you were worried about him.”
“I told you on the ’phone it was nothing.”
“That’s right, you did. Well. I’ll let you get back to your work.” She walked out, feeling his cold eyes on her. At least now he was angry too. That was something.
Seven
“HERE, MCKIE, HAVE A DRINK.”
“Thanks.” He almost added, “I can use it,” but that might have tipped Cochrane to the fact that he’d found the second tour of this pretentious, relentless, overbearing domestic museum of a house even more oppressive than the first. And this time he’d had to listen to a long, self-important story about every Egyptian water bottle, Japanese vase, Thuringian cup, and cloisonné paperweight in sight. Constance had ooh’d and ah’d incessantly, but she was good at social subterfuge, and Alex looked forward to hearing later what she really thought of the place. The Donovans, Harry and Lucille, were simply floored; they’d run out of superlatives early, suffering the bulk of the tour in silent and apparently genuine awe.
Now that they were all back in the “crimson drawing room,” as Ben called it—Alex thought of it as the “bullfighting room” because of the blood-red leather walls and the Mexican saddlecloth draperies—he wanted to know where the hell Mrs. Cochrane was. He could understand if she’d had the good sense to absent herself at tour time; no sane person could hold that against her. But he’d thought about her every day for two weeks, and now he wanted to see her. Badly. Wanted it so much, in fact, that he hadn’t yet taken the simple expedient of asking Cochrane where she was, because to do so might give too much away. That was extraordinary in itself, considering that he was a past master at counterfeiting innocence for the benefit of potentially suspicious husbands and lovers.
“So, McKie, how’s everything going up in Newport?”
“Things are going well, Ben. We’ve worked out a delivery schedule for the materials and equipment that we can live with, and the contractor’s all set for a June start. I’ve set up a base of operations in—”
“I want a June third groundbreaking.”
“June third? Well, I’m—”
“That’s a Saturday. I’m throwing a party, every swell in Newport’s invited, and it’s on the third. Doesn’t matter if you’re ready or not, we can just stick a shovel in the ground for the ceremony. The party’ll be at that Casino place afterward.”
The ceremony? “I see. Well, that shouldn’t be a pr—”
“You’ll be there, of course, and Ogden says he’s going to try to make it. He damn well should try, shouldn’t he? It’ll be good advertising for his company, and I told him so.”
Alex nodded, imagining his employer’s reaction to being told that Draper, Snow and Ogden needed Ben Cochrane’s “advertising.” “Yes, I can be there. It sounds like—”
“Say, Harry, what’s this about you guys voting to send inspectors into the slaughterhouses to check up on kosher killing? What the hell is that?”
Alex gritted his teeth and clenched the glass in his hand harder as Cochrane turned his back on him and walked over to where Donovan was sitting with his fat wife. Donovan was a city alderman; rumor whispered he was comfortably nestled in Cochrane’s pocket, as well as those of a lot of other New York real estate moguls. “Ben, we had no choice, the butchers on the East Side—”
“What do you mean, no choice? That’s the Jews’ job, the rabbis take care of that. They’re strict, too, you wouldn’t believe the rules they’ve got.” His voice got louder, signaling he wanted Constance and Mrs. Donovan to stop talking and listen. “They call it shechitah, the way they do it, and the guy who does it is the shochet. He sticks a knife into the steer’s throat and it bleeds to death. But if he doesn’t do it exactly right, say if he tears loose the windpipe or the gullet, or even if the knife has a little knick in it, the rabbi who’s sitting there watching everything says it’s not kosher and they throw away the whole animal. Then it’s only fit for us Gentiles.”
“But there were complaints, Ben,” Donovan protested, “people were saying the meat wasn’t always kosher even though—”
“Well, Jesus, Harry, who the hell cares? Do you think a Jew sitting down to a nice Porterhouse steak knows whether the steer bled to death or got his skull smashed in? It’s just another example of the government trying to horn in on the natural conduct of business. Let the buyer beware, that’s what this country’s—Well, well, look who decided to show up.”
“Hello. I’m awfully sorry to be late, you must think I’m terribly rude. My son didn’t want to have his bath tonight. Mrs. Donovan, so good to see you again, and Mr. Donovan. You must be Mrs. Cheyney. How do you do. I’m Sara Cochrane.”
Alex set his glass down and moved toward her, some instinct making him want to put himself between her and Cochrane. Christ, she was beautiful, slim and elegant, fashionably chic in a gown of midnight blue silk, her bright hair swept up in some neo-Greek style he’d never seen before. But there was tension in her face as she smiled and greeted her guests, the kind of strain that had been absent two weeks ago when he’d ha
d her to himself. A dozen times he’d thought of calling her on some trumped-up pretext, but he never had. Had she thought of him, too? It was impossible to tell; her expression held nothing but cool friendliness as she gave him her hand and said his name.
Her husband handed her a glass of sherry, demanding to know, in what was for him a discreet tone of voice, what the hell had kept her. She murmured something Ben didn’t like and Alex couldn’t hear, then moved away to talk to the ladies.
Leaning against the overwrought marble mantel, pretending he was listening to Cochrane and Donovan discuss utility investments, Alex contemplated the interesting spectacle of Constance and Sara together. What a contrast they made, one dark and one fair; one earthy, the other elegant. Coarse and refined. No, that wasn’t really fair; Constance was not coarse. At least, not in comparison with any other woman. He hadn’t wanted to bring her tonight, but when she’d discovered he meant to spend his first evening in town without her after a two-week separation, she’d made things so unpleasant that he’d had no choice.
He couldn’t have said exactly why he hadn’t wanted her along. She was a perfectly presentable dinner guest, after all—young, attractive, respectable. She’d been left exceedingly well off by the late Mr. Cheyney, a trial lawyer who had dropped dead in the New York Court of Appeals during closing arguments. His wife had been too much for him, Alex always theorized, not completely in jest. Hell, she’d seduced him not two hours ago—sent the maid out and had her way with him on the brocade sofa in her drawing room. She’d missed him, she said. She was a noisy, athletic bed partner, hot and responsive and uncomplicated. Everything a man could want.
Sara laughed at something Constance said then, and the unself-conscious sound pulled at him and made him smile. He wanted her very much, wanted to solve the mystery of her. With other women, he accomplished that by taking them to bed. But with Sara, he sensed that might not do it—the mystery might remain unexplained afterward. Still, a man had to start somewhere. What would she be like? Cool and quiet? Quiet—yes, perhaps, but he did not think she would be cool.
She turned around, and he followed her smiling gaze to the doorway, where Michael stood, wearing pajamas and a plaid nightrobe, hand-in-hand with the formidable Mrs. Drum.
“Darling, come in and say good night to everyone.”
The boy advanced shyly, heading straight for his mother. There were admiring exclamations from everyone, which increased his embarrassment; when he reached Sara he ducked his golden head and hung onto her hand. She whispered something and he pulled himself together. Constance wanted to know how old he was. He told her in bashful, gentlemanly accents, calling her “Mrs. Cheyney” when his mother prompted him. Mrs. Donovan said she had a boy at home almost his age, he would have to come over and play with him sometime. He thanked her politely, his serious face indicating that he would take the suggestion under advisement.
He shook hands with the men next. When Alex’s turn came, he reached into his pocket and handed Michael the Indian arrowhead he’d picked up on the site in Newport and wrapped in a piece of drawing paper. As the boy gazed down, bemused, at the rough piece of flint, Alex caught the clean smell of soap and sun-dried flannel, and had a most unexpected urge to put his arms around Michael and give him a hug. Instead he explained what the gift was, to the child’s highly gratifying amazement and delight. They were speculating on the age of the artifact and the tribe it might have come from when Cochrane interrupted with brusque, senseless severity that it was past Michael’s bedtime and he wanted him upstairs now.
Alex’s eyes flew to Sara’s, surprising a quickly hidden look of distress. Instantly obedient, Michael spun around and ran to his father. Cochrane put his beefy arms around him in a bear hug that looked more like a punishment than a demonstration of affection. Alex looked away, reaching for his drink and pushing back dark, long-ago memories best left buried.
Michael went away with Mrs. Drum, and soon after Sara stood up and announced that dinner was ready. Alex put his glass down and moved toward Constance, but Cochrane beat him to her, offering his arm with a fatuous smile and leading her out of the room. The Donovans followed. Sara waited beside the door with her hands clasped together, smiling tensely.
More than anything, he wanted to make the smile real. He said, “I almost called you. A number of times.”
Her gray-blue eyes softened, and he came closer. But then she asked, “Why?”
Three or four answers sprang to mind. All of them would change everything, alter for good the fragile friendship they were sharing. Tentative as it was, he found he didn’t want to risk losing it. “I wondered how your friend is, and if the police found out anything.”
“Ah.” She turned aside before he could discover if the new look in her eyes was disappointment. The girl named Tasha was still living in the house, she told him, recovering slowly; she hoped to find her a job soon, sewing clothes for a New York couturier. The police had discovered nothing and had no clues.
He said something sympathetic. Then, “Have you been all right? I thought you might be looking a little tired.”
“Oh no,” she said quickly, “I’m quite all right. How did you find Newport?”
“A bit empty yet. Ben tells me you’ll be spending most of the summer there.”
“With Michael, yes. We’re looking forward to it.”
He studied her tense cheeks, the strain in the fine blue-white skin around her eyes. He didn’t believe she was looking forward to it, nor that she was quite all right. But they didn’t have the sort of relationship that would have allowed him to challenge her.
As if she sensed his skepticism but had no resources to deal with it, she turned aside, murmuring about dinner and the other guests, and slipped through the door. Following, he took her arm in a gentle clasp. They moved down the hall together without saying anything more.
Dinner was skillfully prepared, beautifully served, and as strained a meal as Alex had ever sat through. Later that night Constance would tell him how pleasant she’d found the evening—an amazing reaction until he considered that he was beginning to perceive things that went on in the Cochrane household through Sara’s eyes and ears. He sat in uncharacteristic silence throughout most of the meal, but he watched and listened, and against his will he learned.
Bennet Cochrane was a bully. He’d known that for months, but tonight he discovered that he was also dangerous. He wasn’t the callous, blunt-spoken ruffian Alex had taken him for—or not only that. There was method in his cruelty and finesse in his insults, and he was capable of surprising subtlety. He could also be charming to women, a quality Alex had not expected and found disquieting to watch. Although no one was exempt, Sara was the target of his rawest malice—but even that was disguised. Instead of addressing her directly, he spoke generally of “the English” as stupid and supercilious, a snobbish, cold, incompetent breed who used rank to get what brains and ability got “over here.” And he had a knack for drawing people into these veiled attacks as accomplices; Alex listened in astonishment when the Donovan woman agreed with him and even offered a recent example of pomposity in an Englishman of her acquaintance. It was as if Sara’s heritage was unknown to them, or they’d all suddenly developed amnesia.
But Cochrane saved his sharpest barbs for his victims’ poorest-defended vulnerabilities, and in Sara’s case that meant her work with foreigners and new immigrants. There was no talk of “Jews, Micks, and Eyetalians” tonight; instead the focus was on the economic harm these unnamed ethnic groups were perpetrating on “real Americans”—anyone born in the United States, presumably. Jobs were being lost, neighborhoods degraded; the very spirit that made this country great was being tainted by the corrupt influence of foreign blood. Because he was a forceful, bullish speaker and because he was powerful and filthy rich, people agreed with him. He managed to make ethnic hatred sound patriotic. Even Constance was nodding when he talked about the systematic destruction by “aliens” of everything that had once made lower Manhattan l
ivable and attractive.
Sara somehow managed a taut, smiling civility through most of it. Alex’s newly sharpened senses witnessed nuances of self-restraint that impressed and dismayed him, and churned up an absurd desire in him to rescue her. But even her rigid control faltered when Harry Donovan took up the complaint, seconding Ben and deriding the recommendations of something called the “Tenement House Committee Report.”
“But surely,” she remonstrated with disarming gentleness, “no one could quarrel with a study that finds tenement house living conditions in need of improvement.”
“Maybe,” Donovan conceded, “but this report goes way too far.” He looked to Ben for approval, and got it in a series of deep nods. “You fix things up for these people, Mrs. Cochrane, they just wreck them again. Believe me, I’ve seen it happen over and over.” He was a burly, fair-haired man with pink cheeks and pale eyes. His wife’s brother owned a number of laundries, a growing number since Donovan had been elected alderman and—a coincidence, surely—his brother-in-law had become the recipient of so many city contracts for laundry service.
“But we’re not talking about luxuries,” Sara pursued, “we’re talking about things such as light and air. I’m sure you don’t oppose a recommendation that new tenements occupy no more than seventy percent of an interior lot. Or better fire safety measures for existing buildings, or more drinking fountains and public lavatories. Simple, basic human necessities—”
“You can’t build a profitable building on less than seventy percent of a lot,” her husband snapped. She started to disagree, but he talked over her. “Anyway, where does it say honest taxpayers have a duty to provide these so-called basic necessities to people nobody asked to come here anyway? Who provided me with ‘basic necessities’ when I didn’t have a nickel to my name? Nobody, and that’s how it’s supposed to be. If you can’t make a living in this country on your own, the way the rest of us did it, through hard work, competition, and free enterprise, then you damn well ought to go back where you came from.”