GRAMERCY PARK

PAULA COHEN

Dedication

For my mother,

EDNA RAE GOLDMAN;

always loving, always loved, always with me

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Book I: Mario

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Book II: Clara

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Book III: Chadwick

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Book

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

BOOK I

Mario

Prologue

DEATH IS A GOOD TOPIC for conversation. The fascination with it seems ingrained in human beings, and there are few acts performed during the lives of most people that are so endlessly discussed, so lovingly dissected, as the act of leaving it. A natural modesty seals the lips of even the most talkative when procreation or birth are mentioned, and the intimate details of marriage, child-rearing, and family life are, at best, confided to one’s closest friends.

But death is different. The last, lingering illness and all of its symptoms are picked over with morbid glee; and the greater the suffering, the longer the illness, the uglier the end, the more the head-wagging preoccupation with it.

The passing, therefore, of an elderly gentleman, dying quietly in his bed, would normally elicit little discussion. It is a fact, however, that there is one topic upon which people love to dwell even more than death. That topic is money. Should the elderly gentleman have been rich, therefore, the heads would wag with no less vigor, but the solemn preoccupation would be with the size of the fortune, the way in which it was amassed, and (most important of all) how—and to whom—it would be bequeathed.

Such was the case in the passing of Henry Ogden Slade—financier, philanthropist, pillar of the community—in the late winter of 1894. Sixty-six at the time of his death, Slade had been known in many circles of New York society as an upright and God-fearing, though slightly

peculiar, man. That he was upright was proved by the exemplary lack of scandal surrounding his business dealings, all of which were large, lucrative, and accomplished with unusual ease and goodwill. That he was God-fearing was proved by his success. That he was peculiar was attested to by the presence in his house of a ward—a young woman taken in by Slade at the age of fifteen, and reared and educated, for the four years until his death, as his own daughter.

What made this rather ordinary situation unusual enough to earn Slade a reputation for peculiarity were three facts. Fact one: Henry Ogden Slade was a bachelor who had lived alone for more than forty years. Fact two: Clara (for that was the young ward’s name) was neither related to Slade nor the orphaned, penniless child of friends of his youth. Fact three: her father, reputedly still living and quite prosperous, was a German immigrant who was, also reputedly, of the Hebrew faith.

All this, of course, was enough to fuel sporadic fires of conversation for years within New York society, for yet another example of the man’s eccentricity was the extreme secrecy with which he shrouded his domestic affairs. Few people had ever actually met Clara, as Slade kept her carefully cloistered within his house at Gramercy Park; and those who had, mainly elderly men like himself, come to discuss weighty matters of business over dinner, were frankly unable to say much about the girl, other than that she was tiny, pretty (in a rather Semitic way—dark, and all eyes, with an air of melancholy), and had a positive genius for vanishing silently at the tread of strangers’ feet, and the sound of strangers’ voices.

Slade’s reasons for taking her in, therefore, remained a mystery. All that was definitely known was that he and the girl’s father, one Reuben Adler, had had financial dealings, and that in the summer of eighty-nine they had met at Adler’s home on the south Jersey shore, to discuss business away from the stupefying city heat. There he had been introduced to Clara. Three months later, shortly after her fifteenth birthday, Clara had moved permanently into Slade’s home.

Perhaps it was felt that the young Miss Adler would benefit from being in the great metropolis, where she could regularly attend the opera, ballet, concerts, and the theatre, and where she would have the opportunity to meet people from a wide spectrum of acceptable society. Perhaps Slade, who should have known better, neglected to tell both the girl and her family the brutal fact that her ancestry would bar her from the company of that acceptable society, regardless of the identity of her sponsor. Or perhaps he did tell her, at some later date, for society was never once disturbed by having to refuse the discreetly dropped suggestion that Slade’s ward desired an invitation to tea, or wished to pay a call. Instead, Clara had spent the four years with Slade in nearly total seclusion, and her appearances at the ballet or opera were memorable simply because they were so rare.

Like Halley’s comet, vast stretches of time seemed to pass between her being seen; unlike that heavenly apparition, however, Clara’s appearances followed no fixed schedule. It was their very unpredictability, in fact—and her forever downcast eyes, and the way she would cling to Slade’s arm as if terrified of being swept away and drowned in the glittering crowds—that caused the performances on the stage to be all but forgotten in the endless, whispered speculation about her.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” however, has become a proverb precisely because it is true. During those long stretches in which Slade’s box at the opera house sat empty, New York turned its collective mind to other, more immediate—if less exotic—matters, and the mystery of Miss Adler, and her reasons for being where she was, lay dormant.

Until that terrible night in February of 1894.

According to the information gleaned from the servants, Miss Adler had been awakened, in the small hours of the morning, by cries from the dying Slade’s room. She had rushed across the passageway and arrived just in time to see his eyes glaze over. Her screams had awakened the rest of the household, and a footman had been dispatched to summon the doctor.

One horror had followed another. The worst blizzard of a bad winter had delayed the doctor; and when he finally arrived, breathless and soaking wet, Slade had already been dead for close to an hour. There

was nothing to be done for the deceased but to close his eyes, fold his arms, and pull the sheet up over his face. The girl, however, had not left the dead man’s side since entering his room, but had sat holding his hand in her own. That hand had been warm when she had taken it; by the time the doctor pried it from her frantic fingers, it was growing cold and beginning to stiffen.

The combined strength of the doctor and the girl’s maid were needed to get her back to her own room. She had fought them wildly in her efforts to stay with her guardian, seemingly unwilling, or unable, to believe that he was truly dead. Even after they forced her to he down, and a sedative had been administered, she continued to cry. What had been most terrible, however, and a sure sign that her mind had become unbalanced, were the fits of laughter that had alternated with her tears. The doctor, being a prudent man, had stayed with her until she fell asleep, and had kept her heavily sedated for the next few days. He had also refused to allow her to attend the funeral.

Thus was New York cheated of seeing, up close and lacking the shield of her guardian’s protective arm, the little Jewess who was expected to inherit all of her guardian’s very great fortune.

So affected was she, in fact, by Slade’s passing, that the reading of the will had to be postponed for a full month, there being genuine concern about her health. It was not until late March, therefore, on a gray and chilly morning, that the lawyers, led by one Thaddeus Chadwick, Esq., the late Mr. Slade’s personal attorney and oldest friend, had appeared in Mr. Slade’s library to unseal and read his final intentions, and to announce to the waiting ears of New York the advent of an heiress—the city’s newest, and possibly one of the richest, if rumors about the size of the Slade estate were to be believed.

Clara entered the room last of all. Still six months shy of her twentieth birthday, she was not yet fully recovered from the shock of her guardian’s death, and her skin had an unhealthy, chalk-white pallor made even whiter by the severity of her black dress and dark hair. That within minutes she might be one of the world’s wealthiest women seemed incongruous, at best; there was simply nothing about her that could serve to explain Slade’s interest in her. Certainly, there was nothing

evident that morning, as she slipped quietly into her chair. She looked as plain and as ordinary as a shop girl, with her small, pinched face and nervous, nail-bitten hands. Only her enormous eyes, bright with unshed tears, lifted her from the realm of the commonplace.

Immediately after her arrival, the library doors were closed, shutting off the proceedings from the eyes of the servants who lingered nearby, finding more to do in the vicinity than could possibly be accounted for by their usual round of morning duties. For twenty minutes the only sound to reach their ears was the dry hum of Chadwick’s voice from behind the huge ebony doors. Then, suddenly, in the expectant hush there was another sound; a sound so out of place, so inappropriate in that house of mourning, that the hovering servants stared at one another, shocked, and one Irish housemaid, more devout than the rest, made the sign of the cross.

Laughter. Girlish laughter, which did not remain girlish long. Low at first, and musical, it rose swiftly, becoming high and strident: peal after sobbing peal of mirthless, helpless, hysterical laughter.

The heavy doors banged back; Chadwick and his colleagues, ashen-faced, hurried from the room. Within the library, tiny, shy, quiet Clara Adler sat and rocked, tears streaming down her face, laughing the laugh of a demented thing.

Once more a servant was sent flying for the doctor; once more the sedatives were administered. The lawyers went away shaking their heads, and the servants scattered to their separate duties, to whisper what they had seen and heard into the ears of fellow servants in other houses. By the next day all of New York knew that Slade’s ward had been struck down, and knew, too, what had caused it.

What many could not understand, however, was the laughter. Tears, perhaps, but never laughter. Clara Adler, taken in by Henry Ogden Slade at the tender age of fifteen, and reared and educated as his daughter for the four years until his death, had been dispossessed, utterly and completely. Her name had not even been mentioned in his will. It was as if she had never existed.

Still, there was nothing funny—nothing funny at all—about losing thirty million dollars.

DEATH IS A GOOD TOPIC for conversation, and never better than when money is involved. The last, lingering illness, and all of it torments, are picked over with morbid glee; and the greater the suffering—the younger the victim—the more the head-wagging preoccupation with it.

The passing, therefore, of a young and innocent girl would elicit much discussion, in voices hushed and solemn, about life’s vicissitudes and the sudden, inexplicable workings of Fate. Should the girl be one about whom hung an air of mystery, and who had not even the consolation of the Christian faith to sustain her in her final hours, the pious platitudes would rain thick and fast, reminding all that even in the midst of life we are in death.

So New York listened for word of the end of Clara Adler, struck down by brain fever at the age of nineteen, in the spring of 1894, the fever brought on by the twin shocks of the loss of her guardian and his estate. The hysteria with which she had greeted the news of the latter had been the onset of her illness. She was not expected to recover.

It was all very sad—and very satisfactory—and the city settled in, with melancholy anticipation, to await her passing. It was no more than what any truly well bred young woman would have done in her place; and certainly there was nothing else for her, with propriety, to do. The only problem, as the days became weeks and the weeks became months, was that she did not do it …

Chapter One

FROM FIFTH AVENUE, with its gleaming carriages and fine, new mansions, and its smell of money only lately won and not yet fully grasped by the minds of its makers, it is merely a healthy stretch of the leg to Gramercy Park.

There, enclosed on four sides by a high, iron fence, a small oasis beckons the passerby: a graceful green rectangle of shady paths and wide, low benches scattered beneath trees thick with years. It is an odd sight: nature penned in amid a forest of brick and stone, and the innocent stranger might be tempted to pass through the black-barred gate, to spend a quiet hour in contemplation of such a wonder. But the gate is locked, and only the privileged few who live on the borders of the little park possess the key that will open it.

Life appears to be sweet for these keepers of the keys of this tiny Eden, and drudgery is evidently not their daily portion. On warm summer afternoons, one can see nursemaids wheeling the infant lords and ladies of the great Republic along the dappled paths, and spy daintily clad children at play beneath the gaze of vigilant nannies.

But the vulgarly obvious wealth of Fifth Avenue is missing here; these houses, for the most part, are vestiges of an earlier day. Red brick and white stone, they stand side by side with not even a handbreadth of space between them, forming a solid square of dignity, and those who dwell within them have no need of pomp to proclaim their worth to casual passersby. Like their houses, their wealth and power were built in bygone days, and possessing them has become a part of the natural order of things, occasioning no more thought than, say, breathing or sleeping. They know what they have, and that is all that matters.

Near the southeastern corner of this demiparadise stands one house different from the rest. Built of drab red brick in a dull, square shape, its front door is the only one which does not face the park, but opens, instead, onto one of the small, cobbled streets that radiate from the green like the spokes of an angular wheel, as if to declare itself even less guilty of ostentation than its neighbors by virtue of its refusal to acknowledge the center of their common universe.

Somber and self-contained, with windows too narrow for the expanse of wall between them, it is a house which does not welcome: a massive, reclusive, indifferent pile of stone, which holds what it has within it, and takes no notice of anything else.

Of the two men approaching it from the direction of Fifth Avenue on this particular afternoon in late May, the house is wholly oblivious, although the many people enjoying the brilliant spring sunshine in and about the little park do not share this disregard.

The men present an interesting contrast in types, for one of them, a pale man of medium build and middle age, is outstanding only in that he is so very ordinary. His companion, however, seems to be the focus of every eye as he passes—women, particularly, seem to find him of uncommon interest—and this fascination could be laid to his height, which is well over six feet, or the exceptional breadth of his chest and shoulders, or even to the cut of his impeccable clothing. About forty years of age, black-eyed and swarthy, he is clean-shaven and well made, and he draws eyes like a magnet, seeming not so much unaware of the glances cast his way as accustomed to receiving them; a man very much at ease beneath the gaze of others.

“I am grateful for your time, Signor Alfieri,” the nondescript man says to his dark companion as they draw near to their destination. “I will waste none of it, for I know that you must have a great deal to do.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Upton”—Signor Alfieri’s heavily accented English fully corroborates his foreign looks and name—“for the first time in years I am completely free and have absolutely nothing to do, at least until the middle of July. Until then, my time is my own.”

“And will you be in New York until then?”

“Until then and after then. I must be in Philadelphia from mid-July to early October. After that I will return here.”

“For the opera season.”

“For the opera season,” the signore agrees, smiling.

“And you have been staying at the Fifth Avenue Hotel since your arrival?”

“A week ago, yes. Originally, I had thought to make the hotel my home while in New York.”

“A year is a long time to live in a hotel, signore.”

“Ah, you see, Mr. Upton? Mr. Grau agrees with you, which is why he sent you to me. And because it would not be right for me to refuse the kind suggestion of the general manager of the Metropolitan Opera House, I am here with you. Also, both Mr. Grau and I feel that my continued presence at the hotel might disturb the other guests—”

“Your consideration does you credit, signore.”

“—and I am absolutely confident that before long the other guests certainly would disturb me.” His smile is amiable. “That has a miserably ungrateful sound, does it not? Nevertheless, you can have no idea of what it is to be pursued everywhere by admirers who have heard you perform. I am afraid, Mr. Upton, that privacy has become a necessity for me.”

Being a house agent, Mr. Upton is both sympathetic and quick to take professional advantage of this opening. “You needn’t fear being disturbed here, sir, I assure you,” he says. “And as for disturbing others, such a thing would be quite impossible. The late Mr. Slade’s house is admirably well built and wonderfully spacious, with absolutely everything Mr. Grau said you would require. Most important, of course, is the music room, which contains a superb grand piano, and even a small eighteenth-century pipe organ, which Mr. Slade had brought over from Germany and built into the walls.

“In addition,” he says, counting on his gloved fingers, “there are a reception room, two drawing rooms, a library, a picture gallery, a ballroom, a conservatory, and a billiards room. The dining room seats twenty comfortably. And, of course, there are the ten bedrooms. The late Mr. Slade lived on quite a lavish scale in his younger days.”

Alfieri smiles. “So I see, Mr. Upton. But,” he says, gazing up at the long rows of curtained windows, “perhaps this house is somewhat … too spacious for my needs? Along with everything else Mr. Grau told you, he must also have told you that I am only an unmarried man, after all, traveling with only one servant. What on earth am I to do with two drawing rooms, a dining room that seats twenty—comfortably or not—and a ballroom?”

“Ah, but you must remember, signore, it was Mr. Grau who suggested that I show you this house. He feels that the music room will appeal to you particularly. And as for its being too spacious, the late Mr. Slade was unmarried too … although, quite frankly,” he adds confidentially, “I cannot ever recall hearing that he made much use of the public rooms in his later years.”

“Or of the ten bedrooms.”

“Or of the ten bedrooms,” Upton agrees. “Much of the house was shut up a great deal of the time,” he says, fitting the key into the lock and struggling with the stiff mechanism, “which accounts for the marvelous condition in which everything has been left.”

“Indeed. Was Mr. Slade a recluse, Mr. Upton?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, signore. I never had the honor of meeting him. It is known, however, that he kept more and more to himself as he grew older.”

“Indeed,” Alfieri says again. “Perhaps he, too, found people disturbing.”

“Perhaps, sir. Anything is possible.” Upton pulls the key from the lock, reads the paper label pasted on it, smiles apologetically, returns it to the lock and continues his efforts.

“And just when did Mr. Slade die, Mr. Upton?”

“Just this past winter, signore, very suddenly.”

“Had he no heirs? Was there no one to inherit this admirable house?”

The house agent is momentarily silent as he searches for the right words. “Mr. Slade died a bachelor, signore, and left no heirs.” He hesitates slightly. “He grew somewhat eccentric in his last years. There were a number of bequests, of course, most of them to charitable organizations, but the great bulk of his personal fortune, and this house, were left to his estate. His attorneys wish to keep the house intact and furnished as it was during his occupancy until such time as they see fit to sell it, which they are in no hurry do to. That is why it is available for lease. According to the executors, to keep a staff on to maintain an empty house would be a drain on Mr. Slade’s estate.”

“Really? Did he die impoverished?”

“Oh, very far from it, signore. But the executors, who have retained me to show the house, feel that it is not their place to spend Mr. Slade’s money if it can be avoided, even if it is for the upkeep of his own house. However, if they lease the house, the rental income will defray the cost of keeping it up.”

“That is very sensible, Mr. Upton. Now if only we can get in, so that I may see with my own eyes this house with ten bedrooms that one man inhabited.” The signore smiles. “You know, Mr. Upton, I fear you will never make a successful burglar.”

As if in answer to his words, there is a sudden click, and the key turns in the house agent’s hand. “Ah! That does it! Not a burglar!” he laughs. “That’s very good! Come in, Signor Alfieri, come in.”

The two men step through a vestibule into a cavernous entrance hall. Upton shuts the door behind them, leaving them momentarily blinded. What light there is comes from distant rooms, and is filtered through drawn curtains. Yet, even to eyes not adjusted to the sudden dark, the floor, walls, and ceiling, marble all, glisten in the dimness. Huge archways, flanked by onyx pillars, lead off left and right, and on the far side of a gleaming expanse of floor an alabaster staircase soars palely up, to disappear into the twilight.

Upton slides his hand along the wall until his fingers come into contact with a recessed button, which he pushes. The sound of a click in the darkness is the only response.

“Mr. Slade was one of the first to install an electrical system in his house,” he says, “but it has evidently been turned off for safety’s sake. Shall we move on? We can open the curtains in the other rooms.”

The house agent’s voice is low, out of respect for whatever lurks just beyond the borders of hearing in silent, shut-up houses, but even so it fills the air with rustling echoes. Alfieri follows him through the doorway on the left, into the first of the house’s two drawing rooms, a chamber so vast that its far end is barely visible in the half-light. The furniture, in muslin shrouds, looks humped and unnatural; what can be seen of it is in a style current twenty years ago. Upton pulls aside the heavy drapery, and colors—ivory woodwork limned in gold, dadoes and friezes of Pompeian red—leap from the walls, only to retreat again into shades of gray as the curtain falls back into place.

Two massive sliding doors lead from there into the library and the adjacent picture gallery. Upton pulls aside a crimson plush curtain, revealing walls covered in gold and green silk above ebony bookcases filled with rare volumes. A pair of slender marble columns frames the entrance to the picture gallery. The works of art are gone from their places; they rest, instead, on the floor, carefully swathed in muslin and ranged against the sides of the chamber. Lighter patches on the silk walls show where they were accustomed to hang.

“Would you care to see more, signore?”

The signore does not answer. He stands in the center of the darkened room, a vaguely distracted expression on his face, as if trying to recall something that remains just out of reach of his memory.

“Signore?”

Alfieri rouses. “Yes, I would care to see more, Mr. Upton, but some light to see it by would be most welcome.”

“Then allow me to leave you for a few moments to find the footman—I know he must be around somewhere. There is a private generator, and if he can turn it on we shall have the whole place as bright as day. Don’t wait for me, signore. Feel free to explore more of the house while I’m gone, if you’d like. I’ll find you, never fear.”

But fear is not what Alfieri feels. The great house holds no terrors for him, despite the darkness; there is a sense, instead, of something almost remembered, like an old, familiar melody, just beyond hearing, that he cannot place.

With Upton gone in search of the generator, Alfieri retraces his steps to the front hall. The music room has been on his mind since Upton’s first mention of it, and he is understandably eager to see it. Florentine by birth, the son of a physician, his great gift had become evident at the age of four, when, seating himself at the piano, he had played, flawlessly, three exercises from The Well-tempered Clavier, learned solely from listening to the efforts of his mother, a talented amateur who was accustomed to practice the piano while her little son amused himself with his toys in the corner of the parlor. His lessons had begun immediately, and, when he was old enough, singing in his church choir had augmented his other musical studies.

When he was fourteen his voice changed.

For no reason which, in later years, he is ever able to explain, except that this is the right way, he climbs the alabaster stairs to the floor above. The darkness here is almost total, for the walls are no longer pale marble, reflecting whatever faint light may exist, but smooth wood, or so his fingers tell him; and all the doors on either side of the broad landing are shut.

He has never been in this house before today. For that matter, until one week ago he has never been in this city, or on this continent. And yet he gropes his way directly to the second door on the left, and enters. This room, too, is enormous and very dim, its drapes drawn against the glory of the spring noon. But after the oppressive darkness he has just left, his eyes easily take in his surroundings.

The music room.

Here, again, the ubiquitous muslin shrouds the furniture, and the many-armed and -globed chandelier, swathed in netting, blooms downward from the high, coved ceiling like a monstrous wasps’ nest. The pale Aubusson carpet, however, still covers the floor, and deadens his footsteps as he crosses to the grand piano between the windows, dropping his hat on a table as he goes. He seats himself at the instrument, raises the cover of the keyboard, and plays a few exploratory chords. The piano’s keys are stiff, at first, and the sound tentative, as a voice would be that had not been used in a great while, but it mellows and grows full and sonorous as he continues to play.

After a few minutes, he begins to sing. “Una furtiva lagrima negl’occhi suoi spuntò …” Sweet and beautiful: Donizetti’s Nemorino, telling of his beloved, and the secret tear that spills from her eye …

Downstairs, at the back of the house, Upton stands by the generator, listening to the distant music, and he gapes, just a little. He is a house agent, not a poet, and not particularly gifted with words. He would not be able to describe the sound of the voice he is hearing if someone were to ask him. But others have described it for him.

It is honey, and cream, and gold. It is dark velvet and sunlight. It is incomparable. For as long as it lasts, Upton stands immobile, forgetting time, forgetting his work, forgetting everything but the sound of that voice. When it stops, finally, he stands dazed, and sighs as the everyday world settles around him once more; and as he bends to help the footman, there are tears in his eyes.

Chapter Two

ALFIERI KNOWS NOTHING of Upton’s tears, nor would he care greatly if he did. Twenty years of singing before audiences all across Europe have accustomed him to that phenomenon, and left him largely indifferent to the power he has to make men weep. Audiences themselves are of negligible importance; they provide an excuse for him to sing, and enable him to spend his life doing what he desires by rewarding him prodigiously well for it, but they are not the reason he sings.

They are, however, the reason he is here. Paris has named him “Le Rossignol,” the nightingale; London knows him as “the Lord of Song”; to all of Italy he is “Maestro Orfeo.” His fame has become such that walking unmolested in the street—any street, in any city in Europe which boasts an opera house, and in many which do not—has become a near impossibility for him. He has left Europe to regain, for a while at least, his own soul; and Upton’s tears, did he but know of them, would be of infinitely less moment to him than what he will have for dinner.

Rising at last from the piano, more satisfied with the sound of his voice than he has been in months, he flings the curtains wide, noting with approval that the room faces onto Gramercy Park itself. The trees dance in the May wind, beckoning and abundantly green, and he unfastens the latch on one of the tall French windows and pushes the double panes outward. The fresh air, rushing into the long shut-up room, smells the color of the leaves, and all but sparkles in its clarity.

He breathes it in deeply, hands resting on either side of the window, idly watching a couple walk arm in arm in the park while two small girls chase each other in and out of the trees, and he suddenly realizes that he is happy—truly happy—with the sheer, effervescent happiness of youth; happier, in this house, than he has been in years. The very walls seem to greet him kindly, and to embrace him, as if they have been waiting for him for a long, long time.

No one lies in wait for him here, just outside the door. No one clamors for him, clutches at him, prays to him, leaves gifts for him, or flowers, or notes. If he must be lonely—God!—then let him be alone. He has not known such relief as this, such lightness of heart, for twenty years. He can be solitary in this house, and happy, the vast walls around him forming an impenetrable shell. Until he returns to Europe, he will revel in this solitude, wallow in it, free of hangers-on, of the endless crush of people that surrounds him always: smiling, weeping, fawning; ready to sell themselves at a moment’s notice, to trade their husbands or wives, sons or daughters for the slightest hint of stature, power, influence, fame … eager to suck the very breath from his lungs, or the soul from his body if he will only let them …

The breeze blows, cooling his face again, carrying music with it from the other side of the park … the raucous, lighthearted sound of a hurdy-gurdy, drifting on the air. He listens … “Libiam’,” it pulses, “ne’ dolci fremiti, che suscita l’amore …” the brilliant brindisi in waltz time from La Traviata. “Let’s drink to love’s sweet tremors,” it says, “to those eyes that pierce the heart …”

Verdi, wafting in from a New York street … the melody a reply to his own music at the piano. He is not one to ignore omens: the welcoming house and its grateful solitude, the sense of remembering what he cannot possibly know, his discovery of the music room, the arias, statement and answer: it all means a successful stay in America. He needs to see no more … he and the house have clearly chosen each other, and his possession of it will begin, appropriately, here. With both hands he seizes the sheet which drapes the piano, snatches it off and tosses it to the floor, then moves on, stripping the cover from each chair and table in his progress around the room.

The open window does not illumine the farthest corners, which remain lost in shadow, but Alfieri does not even notice; his mind is too full of his newfound elation, and his own momentum carries him along with no slackening of pace until, turning to wrest the cover from an armchair backed against a distant wall, he stops with a quick intake of breath.

Something—someone—is curled within it.

Except for Upton, somewhere in the bowels of the house, he should be completely alone, and so for several heartbeats he only stares in disbelieving silence. The figure does not vanish from beneath his gaze; it merely huddles deeper into the cushions, moving Alfieri to confirm the evidence of his eyes. As he stretches out his hand to touch what he knows cannot be there, the figure puts its hand out to ward off his, and Alfieri finds himself grasping the fingers of …

A child. A little, pale, sad-eyed child clothed in black, more like the ghost of a child than a living one … except that its fingers are real, small and very cold, and the nails are ragged and bitten. The child raises its head—her head—and meets his eyes for one moment only, then looks away.

It is long enough.

Her face glimmers white in the gloom, and he can see the marks of illness plain upon it. A hint of freckles once dusted her cheeks; they have faded now, with the rest of her, and the blue hollows beneath her eyes look like old, old bruises. The eyes themselves, gray-green and very clear, are even older: windows onto some ancient, bottomless grief; haunting, in the face of a child.

His own joy of a moment ago is dwarfed by the magnitude of this pain. He covers her hand with his own, speechless in the presence of such sorrow, and raises it to his lips.

The shadowy room, the silent house, the young girl with her old eyes: there is a dreamlike quality to them all, as if Alfieri has stepped out of the stream of time into a moment which has been there always, waiting for him, and which he has always known would come. He will never entirely leave it again; for the rest of his life a part of him will be there still, in the dusky room, at the instant she raises her eyes, with his lips against her hand.

The moment passes; the child lowers her eyes, her hand slips from his; the spell is broken. Time takes up where it had left off: the wind stirs the curtains, the sound of a passing carriage rises from the street below. Nothing has happened at all, except that Alfieri’s life has changed forever, and that he knows it.

“Who are you?” he says, when he can speak again. “How did you come here?”

“I live here.” She speaks with her head down, and directs her words to the fingers clenched in her lap.

“Here? But this is an empty house.”

“It’s not empty. I live here.”

“With the furniture all covered over and no light? How do you live in this place? Are you alone?”

“Two of the servants have stayed on. There are candles for the evening.” Her words, almost inaudible, are disjointed and utterly incomprehensible to him. “Don’t look at me, please. Just let me go away again. This is the closed part of the house, and I mustn’t be found here. I was walking for my exercise, but I became tired and fell asleep. The music woke me.”

“You are not one of the servants. That is not possible.”

The wan cheeks flush an imperceptible pink as she draws herself up in the depths of the chair and lifts her chin for the first time. “This is my guardian’s house.”

“Truly? I was told that the owner of this house had died.”

The momentary bravado fades; she droops again and her small voice falters. “He did. But he was still my guardian.”

He looks at her bowed head. “My dear, I am so sorry. I was not thinking …” She does not move.

“What is your name?” he says gently.

“Clara. Clara Adler,” is the whispered reply.

“Then, Miss Adler, as there is no one to introduce us properly, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Mario Alfieri.”

“How do you do, Mr. Alfieri.”

“Well, thank you. Very well. And how do you do, Miss Adler?”

“Better,” she says. “I am better, now. I have been ill.” Her own words suddenly recall her to herself. “Oh, but you mustn’t look at me,” she says, shrinking further into her chair.

“Why?”

“My hair …” At her words he realizes, with a small jolt, that it has been cut pitifully close, like a boy’s. Unable to hide the disgrace of her shorn head with her hands, she covers her face, instead. “Please don’t look at me.”

“And if I told you,” he says, “that until this very minute, when you brought it to my attention, I had not noticed your hair, would you believe me?” He touches her sleeve. “I promise you it is true.”

“How can that be?” she says through her hands. “I am so ugly.”

“Not ugly. Never ugly. Only recovering from an illness. Your hair will grow back.”

“Not for years.”

He laughs. “Do you wish to know why I did not notice your hair? I was looking too much at your lovely eyes.”

She lowers her hands. Those eyes are spilling slow tears, which she wipes with the handkerchief he offers her. “I am sorry,” she says. “Please don’t think badly of me.”

“Badly? Of you?” He shakes his head. “You are still weak and you have had a shock, which is my fault. I do not wonder at those tears. Are you strong enough to return to … where do you live in this great house?”

“My rooms are on the next floor. I will be all right. I am stronger than I look.”

“The stairs will not be too much for you? Let me help you.”

He takes her hand again and helps her to rise. Her head, with its ragged, dark curls, reaches no higher than the middle of his chest.

“You needn’t,” she says. “I can get there by myself.”

“No gentleman,” he replies, “would ever permit a lady of his acquaintance to return home unescorted. Now that we have been introduced, I must see you safely home.”

They climb the stairs together, stopping every four or five steps to allow her to catch her breath and rest.

“You are so kind,” she says. “I hope it didn’t frighten you too much to find me there.”

“Oh, after the initial shock I bore up quite well. I must admit that, at the very first instant, I did think that I had stumbled upon a ghost—which would have been most interesting, for I do not believe in them—and for a few moments I thought that I would have to rethink all my most deeply held philosophies. But it is you who are truly brave. To wake and find a total stranger in your house, tearing the covers from the furniture? How I must have frightened you!”

“No,” she says. “I heard you singing. I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.”

When they reach their destination, Alfieri opens the door for her and stands aside to let her pass.

She hesitates, not knowing what etiquette might demand in such a situation. To remain alone with a stranger cannot be proper; but he has been so kind that, surely, it would be terribly rude simply to send him away. “Would you like to come in?” she says shyly. “Perhaps you would like a cup of tea?”

Alfieri loathes tea. A true son of his country, his beverage is coffee: thick, strong, and taken black.

“I would love a cup of tea,” he says.

HOME” CONSISTS of two rooms, a bedroom and a sitting room, facing south and east over the garden at the back of the huge house. The sitting room is a pleasant, airy chamber, with sunlight falling like water through curtains of lace, and its bright comforts seem touched with some kindly magic, permitting it alone to escape the dark spell which has plunged the rest of the house into profound sleep. Adding to the feeling of enchantment is a table before one window, set with covered dishes, a cup and saucer, a round blue teapot, and a small kettle which steams cheerfully above a spirit lamp, as if invisible hands had been there only moments before. While Clara busies herself with the tea things, taking for her own use a glass tumbler fetched from the table beside her bed, Alfieri examines his surroundings.

His eyes travel from the soft rugs on the floor to the books piled on the tables, to the hoop of half-finished embroidery lying on the window seat, to the mantelpiece, which is white marble carved with swags of roses. Upon it sits a vase filled with tulips and anemones, a fountain of bright reds, blues, and yellows; on the wall above hangs a portrait of a girl with long chestnut hair tumbling about her shoulders, looking like a flower herself in a pale blue gown. The artist, with masterly hand and eye, had captured his subject at a magical time—no longer a child, not quite a woman—and Alfieri stares at it, once more feeling something that he cannot explain … the tilt of the head, the slant of the eyes, the oddly knowing expression, smiling and infinitely sad … all achingly familiar—and then he is back, and realizing that the wan little creature now pouring out tea is the faded shadow of the portrait’s original.

“My guardian had me sit for it, two years ago,” Clara says, following his gaze. “I was very young then.”

“So I see. How young, if I might be permitted to ask?”

“Seventeen.”

“Why then you are very old now,” he says gravely, and is rewarded by one of her rare smiles.

“Sometimes I feel very old. I tire so quickly.”

“You must give it time.”

“It’s taking so long.”

“I know. But you will grow well and strong. If you do not believe me, I will show you.” He takes the teacup she has handed him and quickly drinks off its contents, leaving a small amount in the bottom. Swirling the remaining liquid around, he pours it out into his saucer and holds the empty cup out for her inspection.

She peers into it. “Do you read tea leaves?”

“I am famous for it. In my family I am the only one permitted to read them. It is a rule.”

“Whom do you read them for?”

“My brothers and sisters and their children.”

“Does what you read always come true?”

“Always.”

“What do you see there?”

He holds the cup to the light and rotates it between his hands. “I see a very beautiful young lady—radiant with health, and with long, chestnut hair—in a park. Not a little park, like the one outside here, but a big one, like the Bois de Boulogne, in Paris. See this?” He points to a smudge of tea leaves inside the cup.

“What is it?”

“A ship. And here are waves and seabirds.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means that you will grow well and strong, and travel across the sea.”

“You are very kind,” she says, looking away. “But I think not. Not I.”

“Miss Adler, do you doubt me? You do me an injustice. I have predicted it, and, as my family will tell you, my predictions are never wrong.”

“But …” She stops, puzzled by a new thought. “Mr. Alfieri, forgive me, but I fear you’ve made a mistake.”

“Never. Not with tea leaves. It cannot be done.”

“But that is your teacup. You would need to read my glass to tell my fortune, wouldn’t you? That was your own fortune you just read.”

Alfieri smiles gently and puts down the cup.

Chapter Three

LIKE JUNO ON MOUNT OLYMPUS, Mrs. William Backhouse Astor stands at the pinnacle of New York society. From her exalted vantage point, with its commanding views, Mrs. Astor single-handedly metes out the fate of those would-be immortals who everlastingly strive for a place on the holy mount. The self-appointed arbiter of worth in her rarefied universe, Mrs. Astor admits only the most deserving to the ranks of the blessed. In all such matters her power is absolute, and her word, law.

In consequence of such toilsome efforts to organize society into a finely measured hierarchy, and to elevate it to ever new levels of distinction, Mrs. Astor’s life had been measured not in days or weeks or months, but in cotillions and balls and levées. For twenty years, newcomers worthy of a foothold on the lower rungs of the celestial ladder might have been invited to an afternoon reception, one of the lesser observances in Mrs. Astor’s ritual; only for those in the preeminent ranks of the pantheon would there have been an invitation to one of her weekly dinner parties.

But alas for New York! The goddess’s consort is two years dead. While Mr. Astor lived, Mrs. Astor’s year would begin in the autumn, when the elite, after the summer’s diaspora, were gathered once more in the city; would build momentum through the fall and early winter with patriarchs’ balls, assembly balls, family circle dancing classes, Monday nights at the opera, and a hundred exquisite suppers at Delmonico’s; would whirl past Christmas and the New Year; and would achieve its culmination at her annual ball, held on the third Monday of each January—the single most sacred occasion of the social year. Since Mr. Astor’s translation to an even higher sphere, however, his widow has ceased to entertain. For two years, no events have breathed life into the great crimson and gold ballroom in Mrs. Astor’s Fifth Avenue mansion.

Until tonight.

Tonight is a supreme occasion, in every respect worthy of bringing society’s queen out of mourning: not merely an amusement, but a portent of glories to come … a ball to welcome Maestro Mario Alfieri, primo tenore assoluto, to New York. Moreover, it is a radical departure for the fastidious Mrs. Astor, an anomaly that in itself would be enough to bring society snapping to attention. Mrs. Astor has long held that artists of any ilk—painters, authors, actors, and the like—merit no recognition unless safely dead, and that meeting them risks both needless mental fatigue and the possibility of social contamination.

But Mario Alfieri is no ordinary artist. The reigning god of Europe’s opera stages for as long as Mrs. Astor has been the reigning goddess of New York society, he is still bettering his art, going from strength to strength, and triumph to triumph. What is more, he is said to be able to trace his ancestry back, in an unbroken line, for five hundred years, a feat that dazzles in a country where four generations of known ancestry constitute an aristocracy. Lastly, and providing the absolute gilding on the lily, is the fact that he dines regularly with the Prince of Wales. Alfieri is notorious, in fact, for having certain tastes in common with His Royal Highness that cannot be mentioned in polite society, and it is widely rumored that the two have been known, on numerous occasions, to cap their dinners with visits to certain private establishments where exquisite young women use astonishing skills to gratify quite other kinds of appetites.

True or not, it makes no difference. The entire Continent lies at the tenor’s feet, and those American aristocrats who have seen and heard him during seasons in London, Paris, and Milan have, for several years, been feverishly negotiating for the honor of humbling themselves before the tenor on their own soil.

And success is theirs at last. On the nineteenth of November, a little less than six months from tonight, Maestro Alfieri will make his debut at the Metropolitan Opera House and begin his conquest of yet another continent. To have ample time to prepare for this momentous occasion, he arrived here a week ago; and the reverence in which New York holds him can best be appreciated by realizing that Mrs. Astor had arranged to call upon him—in her own person—on the very next day, bearing an invitation to tonight’s gala.

Alfieri had been reluctant to attend at first, pleading the fatigue of his travels, but Mrs. Astor had, of course, carried the day … with the result that he is here, now, looking like a prince of darkness with a familiar in mauve and purple—which is Mrs. Astor herself—appended to his arm.

Magnificently arrayed, formidable in her majesty, Mrs. Astor stands in her traditional place beneath the celebrated life-sized portrait of herself by Carolus-Duran, bidding welcome to the long line of lesser divinities as they approach. Pearls and diamonds glitter, thick as the stars of heaven, across her antique lace bodice and down her long velvet train, and crowning her black pompadour is the fabulous diamond and amethyst starburst tiara that had once belonged to the Empress Eugénie.

But for all her splendor, Mrs. Astor is eclipsed tonight. It is upon the tall and smiling man at her side that all eyes instinctively fasten. His face has long been familiar to habitués of Europe’s greatest opera houses: the wide forehead, the brilliant black eyes and heavy brows, the prominent nose, the full lower hp. Familiar, too, is the way that, in smiling, the right corner of his mouth draws up, creasing his cheek with deep lines of mirth and almost shutting his right eye … as if the warmth of his smile, so like the sunlight of his native land, causes him to squint even as it brightens everything it touches.

Mrs. Astor, standing with her hands clasped about his arm, flutters in the light of that smile like a netted moth; and if Alfieri seems amused that she forgets her imperial dignity in his presence, it is a kindly amusement—such lapses happen all the time and he is used to them by now: one German princess even forgot herself so far as to kneel to him.

“You are most kind to a stranger in a strange land,” he says to those who crowd around him as the receiving line dissolves in the heat of the evening’s excitement. “Thank you for inviting me.” His voice is soft and very light, holding no hint of any hidden glory.

“The pleasure is New York’s, we assure you, maestro,” says one matron. “We only hope that you will enjoy your stay in our city, and come to think of it as home.”

“Madame, if all of its people are like you, I cannot fail to do that.”

It seems, in fact, that this night he cannot fail at anything. At the sight of him, New York goes slightly mad, its most exalted citizens jostling each other in their haste to be at his side, and he laughs as he shakes the hands of the gentlemen, and bends over the outstretched fingers of the ladies, and says charming and appropriate things to the glowing faces of both—such as how he remembers Mrs. Dobson from that reception in Rome two years ago, and hopes her daughter’s wedding had come off as planned; and how, yes, he does recall Mr. Martindale from that small supper party after the performance of Faust last fall in Paris, and trusts that his gout is much improved; and no, he has never had the pleasure before, but surely Mrs. Pennington must be a cousin, and not a very distant one, of the delightful Comtesse de la Mercier-Trouville, for the resemblance is certainly remarkable …

And the city surrenders.

Thaddeus Chadwick watches it go down from a vantage point on the far side of the ballroom. Three broad, shallow steps lead up and into the conservatory, and he stands on the topmost of these and observes the debacle through gleaming spectacles, a small, mild, Buddha-like smile on his face. He is a portly man, all jowls and chins, with sausage fingers encased in tight white gloves, and an odd, bobbing quality to all of his movements, for his thin legs and small feet seem not to support him so much as to anchor him to the ground, much as a string holds a child’s balloon.

“… most astonishingly handsome,” one substantial lady in blue silk and sapphires is saying as she passes by amid a knot of revelers, fresh from their introductions to the guest of honor. “And not vulgar in the least. I had expected him to be quite uncouth … and yet he seems a perfect gentleman, for all that he is such a notorious libertine …” And she gasps, turning bright pink at her own audacity.

Her companions laugh and murmur agreement, but a slender woman in dove-gray satin embroidered with pearls, replies: “Oh, no! My brother has written me from Florence. He says that the Alfieri family is most respectable. They can trace their line back to the fifteenth century, and are descended from the Medici.”

“The Medici?” Chadwick says, lifting a glass of wine from the tray of a passing footman. “What of them, Mrs. Hadcock? If it is true—and I very much doubt that it is—they hardly seem to have done him much good. Your great Maestro Alfieri is no better than Little Tommy Tupper. He, too, sings for his supper.”

It is the lady’s husband who takes up the challenge. “Perhaps you would call it supper, Chadwick, but then, attorneys doubtless set far richer tables than do bankers, which—alas!—is what I am. I rather think of what Maestro Alfieri sings for as a twelve-course banquet. With an excellent vintage at every plate.” Hadcock smiles faintly. “He earns twenty-five hundred dollars for each performance. A very rich supper,” he says, and eyes widen as jaws go slack.

Chadwick clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Details of finance before the ladies, Hadcock? How shocking!”

“Only when the boodle’s your own, old man,” says another member of the little group, turning to Hadcock. “Is that his price? For each performance?”

“That, and twenty-five percent of the gross over five thousand … every time he steps onstage.”

Another man does the calculations. “But that’s upward of five thousand dollars a night! For twenty performances … that’s one hundred thousand. You must be joking! Grau would never spend that kind of money … and even if he would, Morgan and the other shareholders would never stand for it!”

“He would and they have. In fact, Morgan and the others will hoist Grau on their shoulders. Grau knows what draws, and he’s willing to spend in order to get. Alfieri will bring money into the house as it’s never been brought before.”

“Where did you hear all this?”

“Beeson told me over luncheon at the club. Grau called him in during the negotiations; they needed his expertise in foreign currencies and rates of exchange. Alfieri is no one’s fool, by the way … he’s being paid in pounds sterling and the money is going directly to his account in London.”

“Beeson advised him, of course,” someone else says.

“So I thought,” says Hadcock. “But Beeson says not. He said it was one of Alfieri’s own stipulations. He also said that he wished his own people had as much business sense.”

“Quite a compliment, coming from Beeson,” says still another. “But the man must get advice from someone. He’s a singer, not a financier.”

Hadcock shakes his head. “Perhaps he does. But it appears that he handles all his business affairs himself, and just today Beeson told me that in the week Alfieri’s been here he’s made inquiries about some very sound investments.”

“Then perhaps he is descended from the Medici, after all,” murmurs Mrs. Hadcock.

For these, at least, of Mrs. Astor’s guests, it only remains to be seen if the tenor can make lame men walk and blind men see; there is plainly nothing else he cannot do.

Still talking amongst themselves about the prodigy they have just met, the little group moves on. Chadwick watches them go, slowly sipping his wine until, tiring of the noise and the heat, he retreats to the conservatory, to seat himself in the cool shadows and smoke a cigar amid the foliage. If he is surprised, halfway through his cigar, to have someone sit down quietly beside him, he gives no sign of it.

“Mr. Chadwick?”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Chadwick, I believe that you are the only man in New York tonight whom I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting. I am Mario Alfieri.”

“I know who you are, signore, even though I did not join the lines of those waiting to shake your hand. I am not easy in crowds.”

“On a warm night even I find them trying, Mr. Chadwick. There is no need to apologize.”

“Apologize? I’m not apologizing, signore; merely explaining.”

The tenor smiles in the darkness. “Then let me explain, as briefly as I can, why it is that I have sought you out. You are, in fact, the chief reason that I am here tonight, although I would hope that you would not say as much to Mrs. Astor. I understand from Mr. Upton that you were the late Mr. Slade’s attorney.”

“If this is business, Signor Alfieri, perhaps it will wait until tomorrow? You may not be particular about where you are when you break into song, but I make it a rule never to discuss business either after hours or away from my office.” He stands and bows shortly. “Allow me to retire so as not to disturb you.”

“I wish to buy Mr. Slade’s house, Mr. Chadwick.”

There is silence for several moments. “Did you say ‘buy,’ signore?”

“I did.”

“Strange. I was not aware that the property is for sale.”

“Nor am I. That, obviously, is why I am speaking with you now.”

“But you are aware that the house is available for lease. Did Mr. Upton tell you why?”

“He told me that you are in no hurry to sell it, but wish the money for its upkeep to come from somewhere other than Mr. Slade’s estate.”

“Mr. Upton does not have a massive intellect, Signor Alfieri, but he shows houses very well, and his memory is excellent. What he told you is perfectly true. What, then, makes you think that we are prepared to sell the house, at this time—to you or any other speculator?”

“Because the sale of the house—for cash—which I am prepared to pay, Mr. Chadwick—would both relieve you of the burden of responsibility for it and enrich Mr. Slade’s estate considerably. And surely a man as careful as yourself would welcome the opportunity to save time, as well as money.”

“You are being presumptuous, signore, which is unbecoming to a so-called gentleman. And have you any idea of what the property would fetch if it were for sale?”

“I have a vague idea, Mr. Chadwick. I saw the house today. I have a few properties in Europe—a town house in London, an apartment in Paris, a country place outside of Florence. I would wish to buy Mr. Slade’s house as it is, by the way. Completely intact,” he says pleasantly. “Just as it was during Mr. Slade’s lifetime.”

“As an investment?”

“As a place to live. I will be here for more than a year.”

“And what do you wish me to say to you, signore? Surely you do not expect me to quote you a price here and now?”

“Hardly that, Mr. Chadwick. I merely wish you to tell me if the house is for sale, and, if it is, whether or not you will see my attorney if I send him to you.”

There is another pause in the darkness; then: “I will see your attorney, Signor Alfieri.”

“Thank you. I am grateful to you.”

“I have not said that the house is for sale, signore. Merely that I will see your attorney.”

“But you have not said that it is not for sale, Mr. Chadwick, and I am an incurable optimist.”

“Then I will take my leave now,” Chadwick says, with another bow.

“Forgive me, Mr. Chadwick,” Alfieri says as the attorney turns to go. “There is one more thing I must ask you.”

“Yes? What is it?”

“I met Miss Adler today.”

There is a brief silence. “That is not a question, signore.”

“No, Mr. Chadwick, it is not.”

“Would you care to tell me the circumstances of your meeting?”

“Gladly. Miss Adler was feeling better than usual this morning, or so she told me. She thought that a walk, to build up her strength, would do her good. You know, of course, that she will not go outside—not even into the garden—for fear that someone will see her unfortunate hair. She decided, instead, to walk in what she calls the ‘shut-up’ part of the house. I fear that she is not so well as she tries to be, Mr. Chadwick. She became tired and could go no further, entered the music room and fell asleep. And that was where I found her.”

“You would make an excellent trial witness, signore. You are succinct and very clear. Did you speak with Miss Adler?”

“We had tea, Mr. Chadwick, and spoke, yes.”

“In her room?”

“In her sitting room.”

“Of course. And just what is it you wish to ask me about Miss Adler?”

“Just this: I am prepared to make over one whole wing of the house for her exclusive use, and to provide her with a staff and a companion—a duenna, or chaperone, if you will—so that she need not leave the home she is accustomed to. She told me that you have made arrangements to have her moved elsewhere once she is strong enough to leave. She is frightened, Mr. Chadwick, and very much alone, and she does not wish to go. She is not of age, and you are her late guardian’s attorney, and so I appeal to you. Will you permit me to do this?”

“Signor Alfieri, if your attorney comes to see me, and we find that the house is in fact for sale, and we discuss terms, and you are able, somehow, to meet those terms, and you buy the house, then you may do whatever it is you wish to do with it, including pulling it down around your ears. Miss Adler, however, is another matter entirely, which I have no intention of discussing with you, either now or in the future. I bid you good night, sir.”

Alfieri listens to Chadwick’s departing footsteps until they are lost against the distant sounds of a waltz coming from the ballroom beyond the conservatory. After several minutes, another figure disengages itself from the shadows and takes Chadwick’s vacated seat.

“Forgive my intrusion, Mario, but when I saw him leave and you did not follow …” Alfieri does not answer, and the speaker says quietly: “Is it that bad?”

Alfieri shakes his head. “I fear that Mr. Chadwick and I will never be friends, Stafford. He is not an agreeable man and I—stupidly—let him provoke me.” His tone is bitter. “You said your attorney was eloquent? He will have to be a perfect Cicero to win for me now.”

“You tried your best, Mario.”

“And failed.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, yes I do. He will not discuss the matter with me under any circumstances. That is what trying my best has led to—”

“Then let Buchan handle it. I have seen him win the most amazing battles. Leave it until tomorrow.”

“—I could cut my tongue out!”

“Mario, Buchan knows him. Let him deal with it.”

“He does not care that she is afraid. How could he not care? How could anyone be harsh with her? Such a small child, Stafford … such eyes. Did I tell you about her eyes?”

“All afternoon, Mario.”

Alfieri turns to his friend, his smile returning. “You think I have gone mad.”

“I think you have been struck by lightning, as they say in Italy. Are you in love with her?”

Alfieri’s laugh is incredulous. “I? In love with a child? My God, Stafford, are there not women enough in the world? You think that now I must start with little girls?”

“She’s not a child, Mario … I understand she’s nearly twenty.”

“An old lady, certainly! But only if one is your age, ragazzo.” Alfieri shakes his head again. “Stafford, you know my family. My youngest sister—the baby, Fiorina—will be twenty on her next birthday. When she was born I was twenty, and already singing leading roles. How could Miss Adler be anything more than a child to me? And a little child, at that … when I first saw her I thought she was fourteen and no more.”

“Then why this concern for her?”

Alfieri shrugs, his smile fading. “Can you see a child in pain, and not try to help it? Some can, maybe … Mr. Chadwick, perhaps. But I cannot. And then …” He stops, thinks, shakes his head again. “I tell you, Stafford, there is something about her. She is so like … and yet not …” He raises his hands, then lets them fall, helpless, to his sides.

“Let it go until tomorrow, Mario; wait and see what Buchan can accomplish. There is nothing more to be done, certainly not tonight. Besides, all of New York must be wondering where Mrs. Astor’s guest of honor has gone.”

“You are right, my friend,” the tenor says, as they make their way back to the ballroom. “At least I know that little Miss Adler is not in any distress now. Only musicians—and the very rich—turn night into day. At—what time is it?—two o’clock in the morning?—most of the world, and especially children, are in their beds and fast asleep.” He lifts two glasses from the tray of a passing waiter and hands one to his friend. “To our success, Stafford, and her sweet dreams.”

REST OF ANY KIND, whether of mind or of body, has always eluded Clara. She cannot remember a time when sleep has come easily for her; perhaps it never has. Even in childhood, in the many beds and the many rooms of the many houses in which she had passed her years—more than a visitor, less than a guest—sleep had been a stranger. What wonder, then, that now, in her forfeited bed, in the room that is no longer hers, in the house she will soon leave forever, it should continue to pass her by.

She has left her childhood very far behind her; but she lies now, in her warm bed, as she did then, under the thin blankets and the mended sheets, in the hot rooms or the drafty ones; lies awake and staring at the chink in the curtain where morning glimmers like a star, listening to the birds wake and call—such a lonely sound—in the twilight world outside.

What was it he had said that morning? “You deserve a better life.” She had thought so, once. “My dear child,” he had said. “Have you no family to return to? No one at all?”

“No one.”

“No parents? No brothers or sisters? No relations of any kind? All dead?”

“Yes,” she had said. “All dead.”

“Then where will you go? Has anyone told you?”

“No.”

“How can you bear not to know?”

“They will tell me when it is time.”

“Haven’t you asked?”

“No. It doesn’t matter.”

“My dear, if that doesn’t matter, then what does?”

“Nothing.”

He had looked at her so pityingly. He had been so kind. He will take the house—he had told her so—and she will move on once more.

It occurs to her, now, lying in the gray light, that he must think her mind unsound; must believe her despair to be both symptom and proof of madness.

Not so. Her mind has already passed through that shadowy realm, like a soul sinking into hell, and fallen out the other side. To go mad again would mean an ascent, an upward journey; but she has tumbled out of madness onto a plain of such pitiless clarity, and there is no escape.

Madness would be a relief. Madness, at least, being shadowy, had offered her places where she could hide. But it has all come back to her now, one death resurrecting another, grief reviving grief … and here, in this boundless desolation, the vision stretches endlessly: the past remembered clearly, the present lived clearly, the future—oh, not the future of his tea leaves—seen clearly.

What she has done is always with her now, as is what is left to her; and the two are joined inextricably, the one engendering the other, and both are linked through what she is. It is like being the point where two lines cross; like peering through the wrong ends of telescopes into remote distances on both sides of her life at once; like looking forward and backward together.

There is no forgiveness in either direction. No pity. No hope.

She wipes her eyes. Waking to the sound of his voice, she had thought, at first, that she had died, and for the moment she had felt such joy, knowing that her misery was over at last. And then she had opened her eyes and seen him, and he was his voice made flesh, dark and beautiful, and she was glad she was not dead … forgetting, as she watched and listened, that alive or dead is the same to her now. If she were different, if she were not who she is …

Never mind. He had been kind. He had kissed her hand and read her tea leaves. How could he know that there was nothing to see in them because she had ceased to be long ago?

If she were different, if she were not who she is …

Alone in the dawn, Clara curls herself up, and cries.

Chapter Four

THE GRAY LIGHT WARMS and turns to gold, the creatures of the night melt away like dew, and the pace of the city quickens with the progress of the new day. Clara sleeps at last in her sun-warmed room and, mercifully, does not dream.

Thaddeus Chadwick, although he had bidden Mrs. Astor adieu only shortly before dawn, rises at his usual hour, which is eight o’clock. Chadwick needs little sleep—an advantage, perhaps the only one, of advancing years—but even in his youth sleep had been a luxury he could forgo at need. Far more important to him is the orderly management of time. If Mrs. Astor’s life is measured in cotillions and balls and levées, Chadwick’s is measured in hours and minutes and seconds, each day being so finely calibrated that one can be certain of exactly where he is at any given moment, just by looking at a clock.

Nine o’clock finds him at his breakfast in the morning room. His house is one of a graceful row of houses fronting the north side of Washington Square, its red brick faded by time to a rosy hue, and the morning room, at the back, looks out onto his small garden, where the lately radiant dogwood trees are now losing the last of their pink and white blossoms.

This is his favorite room of the house: a sunny chamber filled with shining, dark furniture lit by the gleam of brass, the table laid with a snowy cloth and fine china. It is a room with a clear conscience, a room indicative of a healthy appetite and a good digestion, and it illustrates the guiding principle that informs every aspect of Chadwick’s existence: serenity. As a bachelor, he can shape his life to suit his wishes, and he does precisely that. No voice is ever raised in his presence; no untoward emotions ruffle his days or intrude upon his nights. He floats through life upon his small feet, his placid smile upon his lips, observing the world benignly, and the occasional furor—such as the sudden death of his friend Slade, or the equally sudden affliction of Slade’s little ward—falls into his life with no more effect than that of a pebble flung into a glassy lake: the ripples soon die away, leaving the water as tranquil as before.

Take, for instance, the unexpected approach of the tenor last night, with his ridiculous offer to buy the Slade house. He—Chadwick—had been irked at the time, it is true, but his annoyance was as much a reaction to the high-handed manner of the man who made it as it was to the proposition itself. Reflecting upon it quietly this morning, however, over his eggs and toast, it occurs to him that the Italian has done him a very great favor. The sale will do more than merely fill the coffers of the Slade estate to better than overflowing and relieve him of an unnecessary burden (as Alfieri had so astutely pointed out, to give the Italian devil his due); it will also provide him with the opportunity to bring to fruition a plan—a most important plan—which has merely been waiting for the right set of circumstances to occur before he could set it in motion.

And this is the time. He has not grown rich in the service of others by failing to know when the proverbial iron is hot enough to strike, and the tenor’s desire to own the Slade house has suddenly fired this particular metal to white heat. Chadwick is pleased, with himself as well as with events. Alfieri’s arrogance—and particularly his insolence in requesting the girl—is something he can easily put by … for now. It is important to maintain one’s mental balance, however, for the mind functions best when not clotted up with petty annoyances and ill humors; and besides, as the Italians themselves say, revenge is a dish that is best tasted cold.

But he is in no hurry. Nothing must disturb the routine—serenity, always serenity—and a glance at the clock tells him that he has the better part of an hour yet, before his scheduled arrival at his office. The documents needed to put his plan into effect are already prepared—they have been so for months—and are waiting to be filed with the courts; all that remains is for him to affix his signature.

With a small sigh of contentment, Chadwick folds back his newspaper, pours himself more coffee and, raising the cup to his lips, mentally salutes Alfieri. Because of the tenor, the greatest plum of his—or, indeed, anyone else’s—life is almost within his grasp. And if it takes a little time for his fist to close about it … well, what of that? Lighting his first cigar of the morning, he gazes out into the flower-decked garden, a happy man with all the time in the world.

The clock moves on, and noon finds Alfieri en route to his appointment with the attorney who will do battle on his behalf for the house of the late Mr. Slade. The morning has not been easy for him; he has had the curious sensation, since waking from a fitful sleep—and a brief one, as he, too, had left Mrs. Astor at dawn—that every passing minute poses some increasing threat to the solitary child in the great, empty house, and he keeps a preoccupied silence during the ride downtown.

He is accompanied by his friend of the previous evening, Stafford Dyckman, who has known the tenor long enough to recognize when speech will be unwelcome; long enough, indeed, to be quite comfortable in the complete absence of any conversation. He sits wordlessly beside Alfieri as their carriage threads its way through the noontime crush of lower Broadway, intruding only occasionally upon his friend’s thoughts to point out some feature of interest on the bustling New York pavements.

Their destination, the offices of Daniel Buchan, Esq., is very near Wall Street, and so close to the graveyard that surrounds Trinity Church that its second-floor windows look directly out onto the weathered, tilted stones of the green and quiet burial ground. Dyckman makes the introductions as the church’s chimes ring out a quarter past noon.

“Your view is quite beautiful, Mr. Buchan,” Alfieri says as he and the attorney shake hands, “but perhaps somewhat … suggestive for your clients?”

“Actually, Signor Alfieri, the view is for my improvement. I find it most helpful. On those occasions when I succeed for a client, this view helps me to maintain my sense of proportion. It serves the same function as the slave who would ride in the chariot with the hero during ancient Roman triumphs, whispering ‘Remember, you are mortal.’” He is as dark as Alfieri, but small and balding, and his brown eyes are bright and very shrewd.

“On the other hand,” he says, ushering his guests to their chairs, “on those occasions when I do happen to fail, I look out the window and take solace from the fact that, win or lose, we all come to the same end eventually.”

“A comforting sentiment, to be sure,” Alfieri says, smiling. “But as I am considering retaining your services, Mr. Buchan, I would be a great deal happier if you could assure me that the former occurs considerably more often than the latter.”

“Often enough to pay the rent,” the attorney replies with an answering smile. “Now, Mr. Dyckman has explained very briefly what it is that you wish to do, signore. Might I ask you to provide me with more detail?”

The matter is quickly explained.

“This is very intriguing. I know Mr. Chadwick well,” Buchan says, leaning back with his elbows on the arms of his chair and his fingertips pressed together, forming a steeple. “He and I have been on opposing sides many times over the years, and I know that he is not an easy man to sway. And yet you say that he seemed open to consideration?”

“Of the purchase of the house, yes.”

“But that is the important thing, surely?”

Alfieri shakes his head. “Important, yes. But not more important than the house’s current occupant. I do not wish to disturb her, or be the cause of her displacement.”

“And are you willing to make that a condition of the purchase?”

“Meaning do I wish you to tell Mr. Chadwick that if he insists upon moving the child I will retract my offer? If you feel that that will carry weight with him, by all means, Mr. Buchan, make that a condition.”

“And if he still insists, Signor Alfieri? If he calls your bluff? Will you then withdraw your offer?”

“Yes, Mr. Buchan, I will.”

“And yet you tell me that you want the house very much.”

“Very much. But not enough to cause a little invalid to be made homeless.”

Buchan sits up. “Signor Alfieri, there is one point upon which I must satisfy myself. I hope that you will not take offense if I touch upon a … well, a rather sensitive matter.”

“I am here seeking your assistance, Mr. Buchan. Ask me whatever you wish.”

“Thank you,” the lawyer says. “But perhaps Mr. Dyckman wishes his luncheon? It is unfortunate that we have to meet at such an awkward hour, but I see no reason to deny him his sustenance, signore, even though you and I may be here for some time, yet.”

Alfieri nods at the young man. “If Stafford wishes to leave, I certainly will not stop him. But I have nothing to hide from him, Mr. Buchan. We have known each other for years.”

“As you wish, of course. I will be blunt, then. Before I agree to represent you, I must be confident of your intentions in this matter. You see”—he hesitates, choosing his words judiciously—“your reputation for more than merely singing has preceded you across the ocean. The rumors of your, let us say, ‘expertise,’ signore, with the ladies have been making the rounds of every gentlemen’s club in this city for weeks.”

Alfieri says evenly: “And you wish to know if they are true, Mr. Buchan?”

“I wish to know if they have any bearing on your desire to have the late Mr. Slade’s ward remain in his house.”

Dyckman, silent until now, turns red to his ears and opens his mouth to speak, but a swift gesture from Alfieri checks him.

“My tastes do not run to children, Mr. Buchan, if that is your concern.”

“And Miss Adler is not a child, Signor Alfieri; she is a young woman, and therefore your tastes become very much my concern—especially as their catholicity has become a topic of general discussion.” He stops, shaking his head. “I am truly sorry, signore,” he continues more gently. “I do not enjoy treading on such delicate ground, nor do I wish to cause you undue embarrassment. But if I am to argue for Miss Adler to remain in your house, I must be absolutely certain that she will come to no harm.”

“She will come to no harm. I promise you that.” But Alfieri’s own words remind him of the unease that has plagued him all morning. Disturbed, he says quietly: “You say she is not a child, Mr. Buchan. But I have seen her, and I have spoken with her, and I tell you that I have known real children half her age who were better able to care for themselves than she is.”

“No doubt. But it is the duty of others to be responsible for her. That is frankly not your place.”

“Is it not?”

“No.” Buchan is firm. “Though you might wish to do it for the most unselfish of reasons, it could never appear other than highly improper. It is simply unacceptable, signore.”

“So much for our Lord’s teachings. Is it unacceptable to provide a haven for a bereaved child?”

“I repeat: she is not a child.”

“For a bereaved young woman, then. I would allow her to stay safely beneath her own roof, in her own familiar surroundings, with her own things about her. And you tell me this is wrong?”

“No. I tell you it would appear wrong. Consider those rumors about you. She would be compromised forever in the eyes of the world.”

“And what does it say for the world, Mr. Buchan, that it could read something indecent into the desire to do a kindness, or suspect the worst of a little invalid because she accepted it?”

Buchan says, almost sadly: “But that is the way of the world, signore. You know the world, perhaps better than most. Why do you deny what you know to be the truth?”

“Because”—Alfieri’s words are sharp, his face dark—“because the way of the world is paved with hypocrisy, Mr. Buchan, which we both know; and I find no virtue in celebrating that fact.”

Buchan leans toward him. “And do you speak of virtue, Signor Alfieri?”

Dyckman sucks in his breath. The tenor’s eyes widen and he half rises from his chair—only to sink back, looking at the attorney with a frown and a small, puzzled smile.

“Do you know, Mr. Buchan,” he says, after a pause, “I think you are trying to make me angry.”

“Why would I want to do that, signore?”

“Perhaps to hear me admit, in an unguarded moment, that I am Don Juan and Lothario and Casanova rolled into one, and that I plan the imminent seduction of little Miss Adler. Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Buchan; truly, I am. But she is so small, and so very much alone. Only a monster would take advantage of her; and I am many things, but I am not a monster. I do not prey on the defenseless.” He spreads his hands helplessly. “I do not know what else I can say to convince you, and you must decide for yourself, of course. But if you could find it in your conscience to help her, I would be very grateful.”

The two men regard each other in a silent appraisal that ends when Buchan’s face relaxes. He extends his hand to the tenor.

“Signore, I will be pleased to speak to Mr. Chadwick on your behalf.”

The relief is plain in Alfieri’s face. “Thank you, Mr. Buchan, so very much. You cannot imagine how pleased I am.”

“But you must not be too hopeful,” the lawyer cautions. “You must realize that the odds are not with us.”

“As I told Mr. Chadwick last night, I am an incurable optimist.”

“Then let us hope that your optimism is justified.”

“Amen to that.” Alfieri rises and walks to the window, where he stands gazing out at the brown bulk of Trinity Church across the narrow street. “I should like, by the way, to speak briefly of those rumors you mentioned, if you would care to listen.”

Buchan looks surprised. “There is no need for that now, surely? I brought them up only because—”

“I know why you brought them up. But I would rest easier in my mind if I thought that you understood. You see, Mr. Buchan, very simply put … women make themselves available to me. They do it in embarrassing numbers and with a regularity that astonishes even me. But do not be fooled, Mr. Buchan; I am not so irresistible as the numbers would seem to indicate, although I would not be honest if I said that I did not sometimes flatter myself on that score. Nevertheless, what most of the ladies are seeking is the carnal equivalent of an autograph; and while most delude themselves into believing that they are in love in order to justify what they do, their real desire is not for me—it is for the heady experience of being in the bed of someone world-famous.”

He turns and faces the lawyer. “What is wrong, Mr. Buchan? You look uncomfortable. Are you having second thoughts about me? I have not yet mentioned the ladies who give themselves to me because they believe me to be Faust, or Hoffmann, or Lohengrin, or Otello. You think I should turn away all those eager ladies, and practice abstinence for the sake of their poor souls? But they do not care a whit for their souls, and I am no fool, to refuse a gift freely given. However, lest you think that I am utterly without self-control, I must point out that I do not accept the favors of every woman who makes her interest known: for one thing, there would not be enough time in this life; and for another, since I can pick and choose, I limit myself to those who are the most attractive.”

“Are you certain you should be telling me this, signore?”

“You are my attorney now. My confidence is safe with you. And someone besides Stafford should know the truth. And, just perhaps, when you are next at your club you could put in a kind word for me, to counter all those rumors: poor Mario Alfieri—so many women, and not one of them but sees only her own reflection in his eyes.”

“Forgive me, signore,” Buchan says quietly. “But isn’t that what each of us sees in another’s eyes?”

Alfieri shakes his head, smiling. “We must speak of this further sometime, Mr. Buchan, at length, preferably over dinner. But now,” he says, going to the attorney and holding out his hand, “I will leave you to your work. I am still unknown here, and free to walk about the streets like anyone else. I must take advantage of that happiness while I can.”

“But the rest of our discussion?”

“All the rest I leave in your hands, Mr. Buchan. I trust you wholeheartedly. Stafford will stay and give you any further information you need. No, please do not get up, either of you. The day is lovely, and my time has so rarely been my own …”

The door closes behind him.

Chapter Five

A MOST UNUSUAL MAN, Stafford,” the attorney says.

Dyckman looks at Buchan reproachfully, breaking his silence at last. “And also very discomposed, just now. He is not accustomed to having his motives questioned, Daniel. In Europe he is treated like royalty—no one would dare to throw his behavior in his face like that!”

“He took it well enough.”

“As you said, he is a most unusual man. He is also a gentleman, in the old sense of the word. Was it necessary to bring up such matters?”

“Regrettably, yes. How else was I to get to know his nature on such short acquaintance?”

“You might have asked me.”

“Stafford.” Buchan looks at him mildly. “He is your friend. You are naturally biased in favor of the man, and while I trust your opinion, I needed to find out for myself what he is really like.”

“And your little test did that for you?”

“Admirably so, yes.

Buchan leans back in his chair, settling himself comfortably. “Tell me how you came to meet him. I’ve never heard the story.”

Dyckman relents finally, annoyance overwhelmed by memory. He is a pleasant-featured young man of twenty-eight, fair-haired, gray-eyed and tall, though not so tall as his friend Alfieri, and his smile now is tinged with embarrassment.

“It was during my first trip to Italy, just after college. Mario rescued me,” he says, flushing slightly, “from a rather elderly—and extremely tipsy—lady of the evening.”

To his credit, Buchan does not laugh. “Not an everyday predicament, to be sure. Would you care to share the full story with me?”

“On one condition, Daniel, and that is that you not tell my family. I’ve succeeded in keeping it from them all this time, and I have no intention of having them learn it now.”

“As shameful as all that?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. But Mother would be shocked beyond words, and even Father would find it less than amusing—the Dyckman name, you know. Truly a shame,” he says, with a grin, “because it really was very funny … although I was the last one to think so, at the time.

“I had only been in Italy for about three weeks, you see—this was in Milan—and I had developed the habit of walking about late at night, in order to take in as much of the atmosphere of the city as I could. On this particular night, right behind La Scala, the opera house, someone hooked an arm through mine, and there I was, with this creature hanging on to me.

“I was pathetically green, remember, and knew no Italian. I tried my best to extend my regrets, and tell her that I wasn’t interested, but she wasn’t having any of it. Finally, in sheer desperation—well, I pushed her away. It was far from gallant of me, I admit, but I simply didn’t know what else to do. At any rate, she stumbled, being none too steady on her feet. She didn’t fall, and nothing but her pride was injured, you understand—but that was more than enough. She began to scream—gathered quite a crowd.” Stafford laughs. “I had no idea of what she was saying, of course, and the people in the crowd were definitely less than helpful—some of them undoubtedly knew English, but didn’t want to spoil the fun—and when the guardia came I had visions of spending the night in jail, and having to send to the American consulate in the morning …”

His eyes narrow, smiling at the memory. “And then, suddenly, there was Mario. He had sung that night, and was just leaving the opera house, but he stopped to see what the commotion was about. I had no idea who he was, of course, but the crowd certainly did—it parted like the Red Sea to let him through, applauding madly all the while. He offered to translate, listened first to the woman, then to me, and had the whole thing sorted out in five minutes. It seems, by the way, that what my lady was announcing to the assembled populace of Milan was that I had enjoyed her services and then refused to pay.

“Mario paid her, of course, out of his own pocket … not to have done so would have meant that he knew she was lying, and Mario would never offend her that way.” Stafford is thoughtful. “Just as an aside, do you know what she did with the money? She kissed the bills, tucked them inside her bodice, just above her heart, and said that she would put them by her statue of the Blessed Virgin and never spend them because they had been given to her by il signore con la voce degli angeli, the man with the voice of the angels.”

The young man shrugs and smiles. “Mario never told me that, by the way. It was told to me later by someone else. All Mario said was that I was a menace to his country, and then he invited me to join him and a few friends for dinner the following evening. And that,” he says, “is the true story of how I met Mario Alfieri.”

Buchan nods. “You are very fond of him.”

“He is my dearest friend. He has been very good to me—and for no other reason than pure kindness. But that is Mario’s way.”

“What are his people like?”

“Very much like him; very generous, very open. His family is large, although not very, not by Italian standards. His mother died when he was small, and had no other children, but his father remarried when Mario was ten or so, and the present Signora Dottore Alfieri has more than filled the breach. He has a host of half brothers and sisters—four brothers, three sisters, to be exact—all very much younger than he, and a perfect army of little nieces and nephews.”

“Do you know them well?”

“I’ve met them all, at one time or another. I know some of them better than others.” Dyckman reddens slightly.

“Did you say, by the way, that he’s never been married?”

“I never said anything about it, but yes, it’s true. He’s never been married. Most people, of course, think it’s because he has no need to be … the plethora of ladies, you understand …”

The lawyer cocks his head and looks at Dyckman. “You don’t believe that.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why not? Do you know the real reason?”

“I have my theory, which may or may not be correct. We’ve certainly never discussed the matter.”

“And what is your theory?”

“Quite simply that he’s never met any woman he’s wanted to marry.”

The lawyer lifts an incredulous eyebrow. “Among so many?”

Dyckman shrugs. “We each have our own criteria. You said yourself that he’s an unusual man. Perhaps he’s looking for something very rare.”

“Which is what?”

Dyckman shrugs again. “Unless he finds it, we’ll never know.”

“Stafford,” Buchan says, leaning across his desk, “I am not the enemy, and your friend is a famous—I will not say infamous—man. Anything more you can tell me about him may help me in my dealings with Mr. Chadwick.”

“You still want to know about Mario’s women.”

“I want to know why a man extravagantly romantic enough to wish to buy a house for a young woman he never saw before yesterday should still be a bachelor. I simply refuse to believe that he could have escaped unscathed all these years. You say that you can tell me about him? All right, then”—he leans back in his chair—“tell me about him.”

“Well, would it surprise you to learn that he’s always had a penchant for the ladies? His stepmother …” Dyckman smiles at the memory. “His stepmother once told me that all her friends loved attending sewing circles and musicales and other such ladies’ meetings at her house because Mario would go from chair to chair, kissing the hand of each guest and telling her how lovely she looked.”

“Considering whom we’re speaking of, is that so remarkable?”

“Daniel,” Dyckman says. “He was twelve years old at the time.”

The lawyer laughs and cocks his head. “So this is not something he’s cultivated as he’s grown older.”

“Oh, no … it’s bred in the bone. He told me once that since he was thirteen he’s spent more time in the confessional, and on his knees, doing penance, than any three men he’s known … and I think he was only half joking. Mario likes women a great deal.”

“So do I, Stafford. But when I was thirteen I wanted nothing more than to go swimming with the boys in the summer, and watch the trains pulling into the station. That, I guess, is what makes the difference between Mario Alfieri and me.”

“That,” the young man grins, “and the fact that he can sing like a god.”

“The clear implication being that I do not.”

“I’ve heard that the minister asked if you would be kind enough to mouth the hymns,” Dyckman answers, “because you were throwing the organist off-key. By the way,” he says casually, “one of Mario’s sisters did tell me that once, years and years ago, he did want to marry.”

Buchan shifts in his chair. “Did he, indeed?”

“It was a very brief affair, very intense. Mario was wild about the girl. She was a year or two older than he … also a singer, apparently. She refused his offer of marriage … wanted her own career, and ran off with some German landgrave with a castle on the Rhine, several schlager scars, and a small private army, who promised to help her. Mario’s family were pleased that she was gone: he was just becoming famous, singing all over Italy, and had refused several plum roles because he would not be separated from her. He went half mad when she left him, and tried to get her back, but the landgrave wouldn’t let him near.” Dyckman is smiling no longer. “He never saw her again.”

“When was this?”

“About fifteen years ago. Fiorina—Mario’s youngest sister—was only five when it happened, and remembers nothing of it herself … but it’s still spoken of in the family from time to time.”

“Fiorina told you this?”

“Yes. She’s Mario’s favorite.” He stares down at his hands. “Mine too.”

Buchan’s lips twitch, but he chooses to ignore Stafford’s confession. “And the woman he wished to marry?”

“Fared badly, or so the family heard, although they tried to keep it from Mario. The landgrave did nothing to forward her career, nor had he ever intended to … that had been a ruse to get her into his bed, nothing more. He tired of her after about a year and passed her on to the captain of his guard, who kept her for several more months.” Dyckman lifts his shoulders. “After that she disappeared. I don’t know if Mario ever learned what became of her, or if he would care any longer, if he did. It was all a very long time ago.

“Once she was gone he threw himself into his singing, sang everywhere in Italy—all over Tuscany and Umbria, in Parma, Venice, Modena, Turin, Naples, Genoa, Bologna, Rome … everywhere. Began to make a name for himself in other cities, too—London, Paris, St. Petersburg. And then he met Verdi.

“Back in the early sixties, when Mario was a child, his father had been at the center of the Risorgimento in Florence. Leading local and sometimes national figures would meet at his house … the writer Manzoni and Verdi among them. Mario auditioned at La Scala in eighteen eighty, for the role of Alfredo in La Traviata. Verdi was at that audition. He’s a tough old bird, is Maestro Verdi, and he isn’t easily impressed, but he asked to meet Mario afterward. When they were introduced, and he found out that Mario was the son of his old comrade … well, it would have made no difference if he hadn’t had the voice, but between sounding like a god and being his father’s son …”

Dyckman smiles. “And the rest, as they say, is history.”

The chimes of Trinity Church ring out one o’clock, and Buchan rises from behind his desk. “Thank you,” he says, clapping the young man on the shoulder. “But that is enough history for one day. Will you join me for lunch? There’s a small restaurant nearby with an excellent cellar. I should like to hear what it’s like to be an American expatriate living in Europe.”

“Gladly. And I should like to know what you can tell me of Slade’s ward,” Dyckman says as he draws on his gloves. “Having been away for the past five years, I never even heard of her until yesterday. Who is she?”

“That, my dear young man, is a question to which many people would like the answer. I suspect, now that Henry Slade is dead, that only Thaddeus Chadwick really knows.”

“Is he likely to tell?”

Buchan snorts. “Thaddeus Chadwick does not give things away. There is a pretty price tag attached to everything he touches, even knowledge. Signor Alfieri will have to pay handsomely for that house if he really wants it.”

“He wants it, Daniel. I’ve never seen him like this before.”

“It may prove too dear even for him.”

Stafford shakes his head. “The price won’t matter.”

“Don’t be naïve; price always matters, even if only as a point of pride. On the other hand, what a thing costs is not always measured in money.”

“He will pay what he needs to buy the house.”

“But not if Miss Adler is not there, or so he has said. Therefore, what price do you assign to her? What is she worth?”

“All I can tell you,” Dyckman says as they make their way down the stairs, “is that for someone normally so reasonable, Mario becomes the most intractable human being once he has his heart set on something. Nothing sways him.”

“Ah, Stafford; I fear he has met his match in Mr. Chadwick. Well, this should prove an interesting contest. My esteemed colleague has evidently made up his mind that Miss Adler is not to be an issue in the sale of the house, and Signor Alfieri has his heart set on having her under his roof. Which of them will prove stronger in the long run, I wonder?”

Dyckman laughs, as they reach the sidewalk. “And what, pray tell, happens to the young woman caught between them?”

“She is pulled to pieces, of course,” Buchan replies, only half in jest, and taking Dyckman’s elbow, steers him into the rushing Manhattan river called Broadway.

Chapter Six

HAD HE BEEN ASKED where he intended to go upon leaving Buchan’s office, Alfieri would have given no definite answer, but the vague response would not have been an evasion—nor would it have been a result of his discomfiture at Buchan’s hands, for he is far less discomfited than Dyckman believes. It would simply have been a true reflection of his state of mind, which seesaws between a soaring elation at being so completely unrecognized in this city that he can melt, unnoticed, into the madness of a Wall Street lunch hour, and a gnawing apprehension concerning the welfare of the child—for so he still considers her, despite Buchan’s denial—in the Slade house.

And yet the mere act of walking is the perfect answer to both moods, reinforcing his heady sense of liberty while diverting his mind. He begins, therefore, merely to walk, with no particular destination in mind; and because this simplest of all pleasures has been denied him for years, he studies everyone and everything in his impromptu journey—buildings, window displays, the dress, manners, speech, and gestures of his fellow pedestrians, the never-ending current of wagons, omnibuses, carts, and carriages jamming Broadway—with the greed of a starving man at a banquet and the smile of a discharged convict, causing more than one passing stranger to give him wide berth.

After a while, however, he settles upon a direction and bears northward at a leisurely pace, savoring his freedom, stopping here and there to enter a store and browse among the merchandise; even halting once on the crowded pavement to admire the sheer magnitude of the Post Office Building—a vast, layered wedding cake of a structure that dwarfs the simple, classical grace of City Hall immediately to its north—and to marvel at the swirling human stream, not the least specimen of which pays him any mind, unless it is to push impatiently past him as he slows the flow of traffic at this busiest of intersections.

His path up Broadway should lead him, eventually, right to the front door of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. It is a walk of slightly more than three miles, but he first takes a blissfully solitary midday meal in a dark little restaurant down a flight of steps, then simply loiters his way up the street. His frequent detours, his pauses, his brief excursions into this or that shop to inquire about some item in the window, or to make a small purchase to be sent on ahead—not out of any need, but solely for the pleasure of being at liberty to go into a shop like any other customer—take up the time, and it is nearly four o’clock when he reaches Union Square, where Broadway meets Fourteenth Street.

There, pleasantly tired, he seats himself on a bench and contemplates the final leg of his journey. In the last week, he has become sufficiently familiar with New York to be able to navigate its busiest streets more or less successfully. He knows, for instance, that to continue in a straight line up Broadway, which runs up the western side of Union Square, is to arrive at his hotel, now a mere nine blocks distant. But he also knows that to walk east, across the bottom of the square, and then one block further, is to come to Irving Place. And once on Irving Place, a left turn and six swift blocks will bring him to Gramercy Park.

Both wisdom and prudence dictate the former route and an uneventful arrival at his hotel. But his journey has left him quite drunk with forgotten spontaneity, and the amount of attention he has attracted on the street has almost convinced him that he has become invisible; and these facts, added to his still-lingering disquiet about the welfare of Miss Adler, and his sudden realization of her nearness, set up a siren song inside his head against which the sober claims of wisdom and prudence have small chance of being heard. Gramercy Park it is to be, if for no other reason than to put his concern to rest, once and for all, about his self-appointed protégée.

At least entering the Slade house poses no problem. The kindly disposed Mr. Upton, perhaps in gratitude for the sublime singing that he had been privileged to hear, had presented the front-door key to Alfieri when the two men parted yesterday; and whether the house agent’s key had been the culprit then, or whether the lock had merely grown rusty from disuse, the front door gives no trouble today.

Upton has also left the generator in working fettle, and a simple push of a button is all that is needed to banish the darkness of the great hall. But Alfieri is reluctant to trouble that darkness now, overcome by the sense that such a disturbance in the house’s hushed equilibrium—a rude thrusting of light into the echoing dusk—might break the enchantment and cause both the magical child and her chamber to shiver into nothingness before he can reach her. He steps into the hall, to be enveloped once more by its whispering welcome, and, leaving the twilight intact, climbs the stairs.

If some part of him had believed that he would find her in the music room again today—as if she were, in fact, a ghost, forever haunting that particular chamber—that part of him is disappointed, as is the part which looks for her in her own room. She is off again, on another wander, and the prospect of speedily locating someone so very small in a house of this size is not bright. But now that he has come this far, the thought of leaving without seeing her again is suddenly unbearable to him; and reasoning that it is still beyond her strength to reach, and return from, the ground floor, he begins his search on the floor immediately above.

His reasoning is sound. He finds her, after several tries, in a book-lined study in the north wing, not far from the music room, seated by the window, gazing out at Gramercy Park. An open book lies forgotten on the table before her; and as the door swings open she turns her head, startled. At the sight of Alfieri her colorless face becomes even paler, and she rises to her feet, clutching the edge of the table.

Everything about her is as he remembers it, even her astonishing eyes with their burden of grief. They rest on his face now with something between shock and wonder, rendering him, once more, momentarily dumb.

“Forgive me,” he says, slow to find words with the weight of her gaze upon him. “I have frightened you again. I seem forever destined to terrify you when we meet.”

“You came back,” is all she says.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I didn’t know. I thought—to see the house, maybe.” And with the acknowledgment that she may not, indeed, be the object of his visit, a pink flush creeps up her face.

But Alfieri shakes his head, unable to take his eyes from her. “I have seen the house. Piccina, it is you that I needed to see again. I was afraid that—perhaps—I had frightened you, telling you that I would buy it.”

“There’s no one I would rather it belonged to.”

“You are very kind. But if I have caused you any pain …”

“You mustn’t think that.”

“And yet—forgive me, again—but your eyes were not so swollen yesterday, I think. You have been crying.”

“Ah, that,” she says, looking away at last, her fingers fidgeting and twisting. “That’s nothing. I slept badly last night. I often sleep badly.”

He watches her hands tearing at themselves, wanting to take them in his own hands, to quiet them. “My dear,” he says, “if I have been the cause of any discomfort, or troubled you in any way, I humbly beg your pardon. I would not hurt you for the world.”

The pity in his eyes is almost more than she can bear.

“I’m so glad you came back,” she whispers.

“I too. We had such a good talk yesterday.”

“Oh, yes.”

“And I am in no hurry today. Are you? Then, if you would—and if I am not imposing upon your hospitality—and if you do not think me so terribly ill-mannered for inviting myself—perhaps we might have another cup of tea together?”

Pausing for rest halfway up the stairs, leaning on his arm, she looks up at him, hesitantly.

“Will you forgive me for something too?” she says.

“Forgive you?” He smiles down into her face. “What could you possibly have done that would need my forgiveness”

“I was very impolite yesterday.”

“Impolite, my dear? In what way?”

“It was only after you left that I remembered … I never even asked what it is you do, and what has brought you to New York …”

He throws his head back in a shout of laughter, then raises her hand and kisses it … and still she is not afraid of him, for all his strangeness.

She is not naïve, and knows the reason for his return: his remorse at displacing her … and easing her loneliness may help to both soften the blow and relieve whatever compunction he feels for being the cause. But it does not matter why he is here; nothing matters, so long as she can watch him and listen to him—and, when he is not looking, hold the hand he had kissed against her mouth, or press it to her cheek.

If she is not changed from yesterday, neither is her room; it waits today just as it did then—as if time stands still here—and she pours out the tea and listens, her elbows on the table and her head resting on her hand. He speaks today of his country and his family, elaborating upon stories he only touched upon yesterday, taking inspiration from her bright, mobile face, for Clara says little but is an eloquent listener, and her expressions mirror his, nuance for nuance.

Both seem, in fact, to be listening as much with eyes as with ears. The face she watches is happy, wistful, darkly alive with the memories he tells, and she thinks that he must be lonelier than he knows, here in this strange land, and never takes her eyes from him until the tea is long gone and both suddenly realize that blue dusk has crept through the windows, and it is hard to see the other’s face across the table.

He leans back in his chair, smiling at her in the gathering darkness. “I must seem,” he says, “the most egotistical, self-indulgent man on earth. You should have stopped me long ago.”

“I loved listening,” she says. “You made them all come alive. I feel as if I know them now … especially Fiorina. I like her very much.”

“The baby, yes. The two of you would get along well. She is only a little older than you.”

Clara lifts her chin, her smile gone. “I am not a baby,” she says, rising from her chair.

Alfieri rises with her, protesting: “Miss Adler, I meant no disparagement of your years …” But she does not answer. Instead she takes a box of matches from a side cupboard and goes from table to table in silence, lighting the numerous candles set about the room—ten, fifteen, twenty—until the pretty chamber glows and flickers like a magic cave.

Alfieri watches her move about. By the candlelight’s soft sorcery he sees her for the first time as she should be: all traces of illness erased; and her body—as she bends to kindle a cluster of tiny flames, or stands on tiptoe to touch her lit taper to another on a high shelf—is not the body of a child.

“If you promise to forgive me,” he says quietly, lost once more in some half-remembered enchantment, “I promise not to tease you again.”

She does not answer at first, and he is wondering what to do to make amends when she says: “You spoke so much of your brothers and sisters.” She does not look at him, all her attention centered on the candles. “You spoke of them, and their children, and your mother and father, but you never once mentioned your wife.”

“Did I not?” He smiles at her, watching her light the last of the candles on the mantelpiece beneath her portrait. “That is because I have no wife to mention.”

She says “Oh!” quite casually, crosses the room to place the matches back in their cupboard and turns toward him again, not quite looking at him.

“I must call Margaret,” she says, “to clear away the tea things and lay the table for dinner. I usually dine alone, but if you would like to stay …”

He shakes his head and she falls back a step, as if struck, nodding quickly. Gathering her skirts about her, she moves toward the bell rope that hangs beside the mantelpiece, but he reaches it before her and takes her outstretched hand.

“I cannot stay,” he says gently. “I promised to be somewhere else, never imagining …” Her head is down, her hand motionless in his. In the candlelight the curve of her cheek is achingly sweet. “I would stay if I could.”

She raises her eyes to his. “Would you come again?”

“Whenever I can. As often as I can. Tomorrow.”

“No.” She looks away, distressed. “Not tomorrow. There will be someone else here tomorrow.”

“Who?” he says abruptly, and the word is out before he realizes the arrogance of his question. Fool! What right has he to ask her whom she sees?

She does not seem to notice. “My guardian’s lawyer.”

“Mr. Chadwick?”

She raises her head again, wondering. “Do you know him?”

“Only by name,” he lies. “As the seller of this house.”

“Yes, of course,” she says. “He comes for luncheon twice each week.” Something in her voice makes him look at her more closely. “To see if I am mending.”

“He is a friend?”

“Of my guardian. But he has been very good to me since my guardian’s death,” she replies. “He has paid for the doctors, so many doctors, and allowed me to stay here.”

“Why would he not? This is your home.”

“Not any more.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper. “Not since my guardian died. Mr. Chadwick says that I’m here on the sufferance of the estate, and as executor he could put me out at any time, if he wished. But he lets me stay, though he needn’t. Someone else, someone not as kind or as generous, would have sent me to a charity hospital. Or an asylum.”

“Did he tell you all this?” Alfieri has gone very still. “Did he tell you this himself?”

“Everyone tells me. The doctors … even the servants. About how grateful I should be. And I am grateful.”

He draws her over to the sofa, sits down beside her still holding her hand, wanting to quiet her fears, to tell her of his plans to divide up the house between them, but he says nothing. If Chadwick refuses, as he is likely to do … if the plans come to naught …

“Madonna,” he says, “I will come back. The day after tomorrow, yes? And we will sit together, and have tea, and this time I will be quiet and listen while you tell me about yourself.”

Even by candlelight he can see the uneasiness creep into her eyes. “I have nothing to tell,” she says, and slips her hand from his. “Nothing. My family are all dead.”

“So you told me yesterday. But what of you?”

“I have nothing to tell.” The words flow from her like a litany, oft-repeated. “My family died when I was thirteen, I went to an orphanage, my guardian saw me there, he took me in.” She makes a little gesture with her hands. “He took me in because he was kind and I had no one … he was my last hope. And now he is dead too ….”

“Piccola,” he says, drawing her hands from her face, “there is nothing you need to say. We will sit quietly, you and I, and if we speak of anything at all it will be the weather, or the latest foolish fashions … have you seen the sleeves the ladies are wearing? They are called ‘leg-of-mutton,’ and indeed they look as if some poor sheep is missing an extremity …”

She laughs, wipes her eyes, folds her hands in her lap. Shamefaced, she says: “You are a guest. You don’t want to hear my troubles … I am sorry I bothered you with them.”

“There is no one whose troubles I would rather hear. I would help you with them if I could. Will you let me try?”

Her eyes lift to his—trusting, guileless—and his heart turns over. “You cannot help me,” she says. “But I would be so happy if you came to see me again. I like you very much.”

“The day after tomorrow. At three o’clock.”

He takes a candle with him to light his way out, but stops at the door and turns back.

“And madonna … do not make plans for dinner with anyone else.”

Chapter Seven

FOR THE PAST TWENTY YEARS, every Tuesday and Friday, Thaddeus Chadwick has taken his midday meal in the dining room of the house in Gramercy Park. It is his custom. Chadwick is a man of regular habits, and even though his erstwhile host is now no more, his custom it remains. Clearly, then, if an occurrence as momentous as the death of a beloved friend need cause no alteration in the established routine of a man of regular habits, it logically follows that mere illness, barring the threat of contagion, would certainly not be grounds for so much as a moment’s deviation. And so, even during the blackest weeks of Clara’s affliction, Chadwick had continued his punctual arrivals at half past eleven twice each week, whereupon he would confer with the doctor, gaze briefly at the patient, and then descend to the dining room, there to partake of a leisurely, and very full, luncheon.

And yet, for all his immutability, Chadwick has made one very recent modification. With Clara convalescent and able to take her meals at table once more, the attorney, unbidden, has changed the venue of his noon meals from the solitary splendor of the dining room to the more homely comforts of the girl’s sitting room. Luncheon is now served, every Tuesday and Friday at precisely twelve noon, at the very same table where she had heard her future read in a cup of tea.

The question of whether Clara is pleased with this new arrangement has never been raised, as Chadwick had not found it necessary to consult with her before making it, doubtless assuming that since his meals would be more enjoyable if taken with her, it could only follow that hers would be more enjoyable if taken with him. Let it only be said, therefore, that she acquiesces in this as she does in all things.

Nevertheless, both as meals and as occasions for social intercourse, the success of these times together has, until today, been most emphatically one-sided: Clara eats almost nothing and generally says even less than she eats, leaving her companion to fill both himself and the silence. But today, with the remains of his usual hearty meal spread before him, Chadwick’s conversation is full of Mrs. Astor’s grand end-of-season gala, held the night before last. Chadwick’s eye is good—none better at noticing things that others overlook—and his powers of description excellent; and although he has somehow neglected to mention the gala’s raison d’être and the presence of its guest of honor, Clara listens raptly for once, seeing it all in her mind’s eye.

“It must have been wonderful,” she murmurs.

“Wonderful? My dear child! What jewels, what food, what music! Such a pity that you could not have been there to see for yourself. But then”—he reaches over and pats her hand, which she quietly withdraws into her lap—“you are not the giddy, thoughtless type of creature who delights in such frivolous pleasures. You are more sedate, more modestly womanly. Yours are the small joys of quiet evenings in your own cozy bower, with your books and your needlework, are they not? Why, I have always known you to be such a solemn little creature that I believe the very idea of frivolity bores you.”

“No,” she says dreamily. “Once, when I was very young, I watched two older cousins dress for a ball. It was so magical to me, like Cinderella come true, and I thought of the gown I would wear to a ball one day … and how I would waltz, and waltz, and waltz, until the sun came up …”

For all her illness and her shorn hair and her strange, solitary existence, for all that she belongs nowhere … she is still a young girl like any other; she had had dreams, once, of a gown like a froth of pearls and moonlight; had pictured herself, light as a bubble, the shining magnet of all eyes.

Chadwick watches her while she is far away, lost in the pretty dream. Not himself being prey to visions of pearls and moonlight, his passionless gaze misses no sign of her recent illness: the restless fingers folding and unfolding the napkin in her lap, the tiny, nervous twitch of a muscle at the corner of her eye … and yet her color is definitely better today, and she looks less drawn and exhausted. She starts suddenly, and flushes under his close gaze, catching herself.

“My dear, is something wrong?” he says, but it is another moment before she answers him.

“No … no, nothing,” she replies in confusion, her head bowed, her hand at her throat. “I did not mean to startle you. I … I was only …”

“You were daydreaming. Was it a pleasant dream?”

“It was nothing. Only …” She colors again. “Nothing.”

“As you wish, my dear. I hope my tales did not overexcite you. Rest is what you need, now, and quiet. Waltzing can be arranged when you are well, if that is what you wish.”

But not in the arms that had held her in her dream just now. She can see him still, standing in the doorway with the candle lighting his face, but she is what she is, and he would run from her if he knew the truth …

“Come,” Chadwick says jovially, “let us speak of something else. Let us speak of you.” He drains his teacup and pushes it from him. “Well? And how have you passed your time since I saw you last?”

“Very quietly.”

“Of course you have, my dear. As you always do, in fact.”

“Yes.” She avoids meeting his eyes.

“A life as constant as the North Star, as retired as a nun’s. Never any change, never any new sights, never any company other than my own.”

“No.” The untouched food on her plate seems suddenly to take on new fascination for her, and she pushes at it with her fork.

“My poor child. How you must long, at times, for some company. The hours must pass slowly for you, with no diversions.”

“Margaret keeps me company. And I have my needlework.”

“But Margaret is only a maid, and she has her chores to do. And needlework engages the fingers, not the brain, leaving one a great deal of time to think.”

He pauses.

“Tell me, my dear, do you still worry about your future? I have told you that you have nothing to fear. I will care for you, come what may.”

Clara’s fork clatters into her plate. “I am very grateful to you.”

“I am certain of it. And yet I do not do this for the sake of your gratitude; I do it because to do anything less would be inconceivable. It is not merely a matter of Christian duty. You know, don’t you, that in the years since my good friend Henry brought you here you have become … dear to me.”

“Yes.” The word is a whisper.

“And I had hoped that, over time, you might have been growing fond of me too.”

“I am … fond of you.”

“Are you, my dear? Thank you. You make me very happy by saying so. I think your dear guardian would be pleased as well. He was, after all, my closest friend. Nevertheless, I have noticed”—he is thoughtful—“that since his death you have ceased to address me as you used to. ‘Uncle Chadwick,’ you were wont to call me, once upon a time. ‘Uncle Chadwick,’ you would say, ‘would you care for more tea?’ Or ‘Uncle Chadwick, won’t you stay to dinner?’” He repeats the words—“Uncle Chadwick … Uncle Chadwick …”—drawing them out, admiring the sound of them. “I must confess that, as a man with no family ties, I had never been called ‘uncle’ by anyone until you began to do so. It was such a pretty habit, my dear; I quite enjoyed it. Why do you no longer call me that?”

When she makes no reply he probes further. “Have we become strangers to one another?”

“No. Not strangers.” He can barely hear her.

“I am glad of that too, my dear. Please understand that I want neither your gratitude nor the approbation of the world for what I have done. Kindness, as we know, is its own reward, and I dislike even mentioning the matter. And what the consequences would have been—to you, child—had there been no one to step in and shoulder the burdens that my poor friend, your guardian, laid down when he died, leaving you—need I say it?—with nothing, I need not go into, for I know that you know them all too well. Just think, dear girl, of where you might be right now, had I not kept this roof to shelter you.”

Clara bows her head. Months of constant reminders of what might have been have not accustomed her to her utter indebtedness to this man, or blunted the horror of what, without his continued goodwill, might yet still be.

The wretchedness that awaits her without his help almost stops her heart. She has no friends, she has no home, no income, no livelihood, no accomplishments. She owns nothing but the contents of her wardrobe, not even the furnishings of her two rooms. Work she would welcome, but to do what? She has neither skill nor strength enough to be a maid or a shop girl, nor sufficient education to be a governess. And who would hire her, after all, to care for their innocent children? As for references …

She stares blindly out the window. The streets are always there, waiting for her. She wipes her eyes with the heels of both hands, but the tears—always there, too, just behind her eyes—continue to well up steadily and quietly, dropping to land, like pearls, on the black lace of her bodice.

As before, Chadwick watches her, unmoved and unmoving.

“I am sorry to distress you, my dear,” he says, “but although it is true that, as I said, I dislike mentioning the matter, it will perhaps be necessary to remind you, from time to time, of your position. I hope that I will not have to do it often; nothing would cause me greater pain.”

Clara, unable to speak as yet, nods her head.

“What does that mean, my dear? Does that mean that we understand each other?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot hear you, my dear.”

“Yes. We understand each other.”

“Say it again, please, so that I may be certain of what I think I heard.”

“We understand each other.”

“We understand each other … Uncle Chadwick,” he says.

“We understand each other.” She swallows her tears. “Uncle Chadwick.”

“Good. Then tell me, dear child,” he says, bringing his face close to hers, “just how long you intended to wait before telling me of your visitor of two days ago. Or were you never going to tell me at all?”

She shrinks back in her chair, the tears still spilling down her cheeks.

“I did not … I did not think … that it mattered.”

“Did you not? Or did you merely think that I would never know? Oh, no, my dear,” he says, “don’t turn your head away. If that was your innocent thought, let me make one thing perfectly clear to you, so that we need have no misunderstandings, ever again. Everything about you matters to me. Everything you think, everything you do … everything that happens to you is of the utmost concern to me.” He smiles. “Because I care for you.”

He leans back expansively. “You are wondering just how I know, of course. I should let you believe that I can read your mind and hear your thoughts, that I am a magician—but you half believe that already. No, the explanation is much simpler than that: your visitor, himself, told me of his visit during the course of a delightful conversation we had the evening before last. You see, he was the guest of honor at Mrs. Astor’s gala.”

Clara stares at him, uncomprehending.

“What, my dear! Do you not even know the identity of the man you entertained so charmingly? He is only the finest singer in the world. But perhaps the two of you spent so much time speaking of your concerns about your future that he had no time to tell you of himself.” He waves his hand. “Never mind. Whatever you discussed, you certainly impressed him most favorably.”

And yesterday’s visit? Does Chadwick know of that too? What if he does, and she remains silent? But what if he does not, and she confesses that her caller has been here, not once, but twice? Which will make him angrier? What should she say? Panicked, almost sick with fear, she stammers: “He … he stayed such a short while. We had tea. He asked me a little about myself—”

“And you wisely told him even less, I’m sure …”

“—and he told me a little of his family. That was all, truly! We never spoke of what he does.” Not even last evening, when she had asked him. No doubt he had seen no point in telling her. How stupid he must think her, she realizes with sudden shame—how pitifully ignorant; no wonder he had laughed at the question—and even in the midst of her fear her tears well up again at the thought that she had repaid his many kindnesses with such offense.

“How very self-effacing of him,” Chadwick says.

“But I should have known,” she whispers, only partly to Chadwick. “I heard him singing.”

“Did you indeed? Then you have been the recipient of a singular honor, my dear! How fortunate that Mrs. Astor was unaware of it. The good lady would doubtless have had a seizure had she known that someone else had been the first to hear the great Alfieri sing in America, especially after trying so hard to cajole him into it at her party, and failing so abysmally. But getting back to your singer, did you know that he wishes to buy this house? Ah, so you did speak of something other than his family.”

She wipes her eyes, her dread of imminent discovery beginning to ebb. “He likes this house.”

“So it would appear,” Chadwick says dryly. “It seems to contain everything he wants. Nevertheless, I wish that he had held his tongue. I had wanted the news I have for you to come as a surprise.”

“News?” she whispers.

“About the impending change in your life.”

She feels the trap closing around her, wants to run, to fly screaming into the street, away from what awaits her … and sits silent, instead, for there is nowhere to go, after all, and in any case it is no more than she deserves. Who will remember her when she is locked away? Oh, Mr. Alfieri … will he think of her sometime? She will never know … but at least he will be here when she is gone … he, and not some faceless stranger, treading the halls that were once her home. He had liked her a little, had made her smile, and his tales had opened a window for her onto another world, a world of happy people living happy lives. No matter that she will never be one of them … she aches with love for him, and always will. “When does he want me to leave?”

“He? Want you to leave?” Chadwick corrects her. “Oh, no, my child, that is my decision. He wants you to stay! He feels that this house is large enough to accommodate you both. He even asked me if I would permit you to remain—with a female companion, of course, as a chaperone.” He allows just enough time for disbelief, gratitude, and an almost pathetic joy to flicker across her face before saying, with a short laugh: “You don’t believe that I would consider it for even one moment, do you?

“For one thing,” he says, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his ample middle, as if discoursing upon a fine point of law, “the man has the manners of a peasant, and I would be remiss in my duty if I were to permit you to stay under the same roof with him. When I questioned him, civilly enough, as to whether he knew what this property was worth, he found it necessary to boast of his houses in London and Paris and Florence. He then had the effrontery to suggest that you should come with the house, as though you were some part of the furnishings. ‘Just as it was during its owner’s lifetime,’ was the phrase he used, I believe.”

“He seemed so very kind and polite,” she whispers.

“You doubtless have charms that I lack, my dear. But you weren’t there during my conversation with the man, were you? No, I fear that our sweet singer of songs has started off on the”—he smiles appreciatively at his bon mot—“wrong key, with me. For that reason alone I would not permit you to stay in this house with him, even if he hired fifty chaperones.

“And speaking of chaperones,” he says, “I am reminded that he is as celebrated for his lechery as he is for his voice.” His eyes gleam behind his spectacles. “Oh, my child, you cannot begin to imagine the stories I have heard of his women. Such things are not for your ears, of course, but surely you will agree that, in light of past events”—Chadwick smiles—“even with a chaperone it would be most unwise to put you in temptation’s way.”

He leans close, lowering his voice confidingly. “And yet even if those things were not of concern to me, I have still another reason for not letting you stay here. What reason? Why, my child, surely you’ve guessed? You must have realized that once you were well enough to leave this place your home would be with me? Signor Alfieri’s desire for this house and my plans for you have coincided beautifully.”

She is suffocating, dying. Swiftly, now, the walls are moving in—now a shutter slamming shut, now a door locking fast. She is going to be sick …

“I see that happiness has made you pale,” he says to her white face. “And you should be happy. Who is more suitable to be your new guardian than your late guardian’s dearest friend and counselor, after all? Who would know—who could know—better than I what he wanted for you? And I am certain the court will see it that way too, my dear. The petition to have you made my ward is already filed, and I expect a favorable decision within a fortnight. And while my house is not so grand as this, it is more than adequate for the two of us. There I will be able to watch over you, and see that you grow well again, and strong. You must believe me, dear child, when I say that your health is the most important thing in the world to me.”

Rising to stand behind her chair, he lays his heavy hands on her shoulders, letting the thumb of one hand stroke her neck.

“You see now how much I care for you, don’t you, my dear?” He bends low to murmur it, his breath against her cheek. “How happy we will be with a single roof to shelter us! Nearness fosters tenderness, you know. And you will call me ‘Uncle’ again, and someday, perhaps … well, we must wait and see what the future will bring.”

She closes her eyes. “Please … please, Uncle Chadwick, I am so grateful … but, please … I would rather stay here.”

“I am certain of it.” His lips move against her ear; his hands tighten on her shoulders, holding her still. “And I don’t care.”

Letting his hands fall from her, he rings for a servant, then lights a cigar, idly following the blue smoke as it curls into the air.

“Clear the table, Margaret,” he says when the maid appears. “I’ll be leaving in a moment. And see that your uncle waits for me in the hall; I need to speak with him and I don’t intend to hunt him down all over the house, as I had to do last time. Should he not be there when I come down, he needn’t stay on the premises after today.”

The maid curtsies and vanishes to convey the message, and Chadwick turns back to Clara, sitting dumb and motionless.

“And now, child,” he says, bending over her, “it is time for me to go. Your singer’s attorney will be waiting in my office to discuss the purchase of this house. I would not wish to keep him waiting … not too long, at any rate. And as for your singer, I will ask his attorney to give him your farewell. I do not think you will be seeing him again.”

Always he kisses her upon arriving and departing—it is his custom—and today is no different, except that here, too, there is a change of venue. Seizing her face between his hands, he kisses her mouth roughly, prolonging the pressure when she recoils and tries to pull away.

“Two weeks from today,” he says, stroking her cheek, “you will come to live with me. Didn’t I promise always to take care of you? You see how I have kept my word. Even now your room is being prepared … a pretty bower just for you, my child … and so very near to mine. What need have we for chaperones, you and I? It does my heart good, you know, to think how relieved you must be, now that you have nothing more to fear.”

The maid, coming in with a tray a few minutes later to clear away the dishes, finds Clara curled in her window seat, sucking in great breaths of fresh air from the garden.

“It’s his big cigars, miss,” the maid volunteers as she scrapes and stacks the plates. “They do stink, don’t they? The smoke stays in the curtains for days …” She looks up from her tray. “Why, Miss Clara, it must’ve took you awful bad—your eyes are watering dreadfully!”

Clara, her head against the window frame, sees no reason to contradict her.

Chapter Eight

THE NEWS OF CLARA ADLER’S imminent removal from Gramercy Park will cause hardly a ripple among those members of New York society who had followed the course of her illness with such devotion. For one thing, anyone capable of doing so has abandoned the city for summer quarters, leaving only a handful of the elect behind to marvel at the idea of Chadwick—who loathes domestic encumbrance in every form, and enjoys no one’s company so much as his own—suddenly assuming familial responsibility in the form of a ward.

For another, the girl herself, since being reduced to the status of a penniless dependent, has ceased to be of any interest other than as a lingering oddity, and has come to be viewed in the same light as any other exotic creature housed by a wealthy owner to prove his eclecticism and the depth of his purse. One may expatiate upon a potential heiress at great length and in vast detail; one does not, however, spend any time at all discussing a pet monkey or a tame peacock unless the beast has done something untoward, such as savaging one of the servants; and unless Miss Adler turns upon Chadwick’s household in a similar fashion (the chances of which seem relatively improbable), the public’s fascination with her is not likely to be rekindled any time soon.

Outside of Clara herself, then, there are only three persons in the world to whom it matters that she is soon to disappear beneath Chadwick’s roof: Daniel Buchan, who, despite his expectation of just such an outcome, finds Chadwick’s intransigence galling in the extreme; Stafford Dyckman, who is concerned because Alfieri is, and also because his chivalrous young soul is roused at the rather romantic notion of a maiden in distress; and Mario Alfieri himself.

But the problem is more simple and direct for Alfieri than it is for either Buchan or Dyckman. Her loneliness calls to him, stirring something that has lain silent for years.

There had been a young woman, once, about Clara’s age. How long ago? Before the world changed, before he had become “the nightingale.” Her eyes had not been trusting—she had known too many beds before coming to his, and too much betrayal—but she had clung to him the same way, out of need, and he had loved her …

He is young no longer and the world has changed, and Clara is young enough be his child; he has met her only twice. But when she clings to his hands the old years are come again, and all the lost joy with them, and he is a better man, a gentler man … a kinder, more worthy man … and the thought of losing her is like Lazarus, dying a second time; he will not be raised from the dead again. God has given him his last chance.

The knowledge, therefore, that she will soon be beyond his reach—for there is not the faintest breath of hope that Chadwick will allow him to call upon her—has him staring into nothingness for most of the night after Buchan tells him the news, restlessly pacing from room to room, and rising early the next morning. Three o’clock is the appointed time for his return to Gramercy Park, and the hours between are all but unendurable.

The precious sophisticates of his world, the ones who know too much and care too little, how they would laugh at him! He has slept badly, and awakened in a jangle of raw nerves—he who can nightly face the close attention of a thousand pairs of eyes and ears with as little anxiety as another feels crossing the street—because of a young woman who does not know who he is, but says “I like you very much” with her heart in her eyes.

He fills the empty time by walking, even though the day is wet, first to St. Stephen’s for Mass, then to Stafford Dyckman’s club for an hour or two of absentminded conversation and a luncheon remarkable chiefly for the level of Alfieri’s distraction. Shortly before three o’clock, he bids Dyckman an impatient farewell and walks through a misty spring rain to Gramercy Park.

She is in her own sitting room today, curled into a corner of the sofa. Of the improvement Chadwick had seen in her appearance yesterday, nothing at all remains. Her head comes up blindly at the sound of Alfieri’s knock and the opening door, her eyes so swollen that he doubts she can see him at all, until she stretches out her hands to him. He is at her side in another moment, her cold fingers covered by his warm hands.

“Are you ill, little girl?” He says it into her hair because she has buried her face in his shoulder to hide her red and aching eyes.

“I thought you wouldn’t come back.”

“I promised you I would.”

“He said I would never see you again.” Her voice is muffled against him.

“Who told you this?”

“Mr. Chadwick.”

“Madonna, it will take much more than Mr. Chadwick to keep me from you.”

“He told me …”

“What did he tell you?” he says with great gentleness, and waits to hear what he already knows: that she is soon to be living in the lawyer’s house.

“He told me who you are,” she whispers.

A chasm opens up beneath Alfieri’s feet. “Ah, did he?” he says, closing his eyes in sudden pain.

“I am sorry I didn’t know. I am very stupid.” Her voice trembles. “Don’t be angry with me.”

“Bambina, is that what you think? That I would be angry because you did not know who I am?”

“I meant no offense.”

“And I took none. Is that why you cried, and made your lovely eyes all red?” He rests his lips against her hair, breathing in its fragrance. “Listen, dear heart, I am not angry with you. I was happy that you did not know.”

“Why?”

“The reason is not important now. Someday I will explain.” He takes her by the shoulders and holds her away from him. “Did Mr. Chadwick tell you nothing else?”

She droops beneath his hands, and her bowed head touches his shoulder again. “I must go with him.”

“Cara, tell me … do you want to?”

“No.” Close as he is, he must strain to hear her. “He frightens me.”

“Grazie a Dio,” he whispers. “That is all I needed to know.”

“He told me what you tried to do,” she says; “that you would let me stay here with you.”

“Would you prefer that?”

“Oh, yes, I would like to stay.” She raises her head and looks at him for the first time. “With you.”

Red nose, swollen eyes: Alfieri thinks that he has never seen anyone so beautiful. “Then stay with me.”

“He won’t let me.”

“He will have no choice. We will give him no choice.”

“How?”

“By making certain he can never take you away from me.”

“How?” she says again.

“By changing your name.”

She stares at him.

“Sì, your name, Miss Adler. Oh, my dear,” he laughs, seeing her bewilderment, “do you still not understand? I am asking you to marry me.”

She has forgotten how to breathe, and her eyes brim with sudden tears. “You would do that for me?”

“No, bambina—for me.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you know, little girl?” He looks at her with a puzzled smile and touches her face. “I’m in love with you.”

She smiles back tremulously, and shakes her head. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me. I’m not clever, or talented, or wonderful.” In her eyes is the deep sadness he had seen the day he found her, and a fear he does not understand. “I didn’t even know who you are. I would disappoint you.”

“I know what disappoints me. It is not you.”

“How do you know? Why are you so certain? What if you’re wrong?”

In answer he takes her face between his hands and kisses her, tasting her for the first time, and her mouth is young and sweet, and all the lost years have been found. When he lifts his head she lies against him, her heart beating wildly, fitting into the circle of his arms like a key in its lock: perfect, unfaultable, beyond all praise.

“Am I wrong?” he says.

She cannot think, she cannot reason, not here, pressed against him, warm and safe. Even before she had opened her eyes and seen him she had loved him, hearing his voice. What have right and wrong to do with it? What sane person would refuse such deliverance? Since yesterday she has been ill, sick in mind and body at the thought of what lies in store for her. This reprieve must have been sent for a reason, to give her another chance at life. She will tell him the truth, very soon, and he will not mind; he is in love with her. This is a miracle, a miracle … let me be worthy …

“I love you so much,” she whispers, “so much, so much, so much … and I will try so hard to be a good wife, and to make you proud. Be patient with me, please. I will learn as fast as I can.” She touches his mouth, still not quite certain that this miracle is real, that it has happened.

“Do you really love me?” she says.

THE RAIN FALLS in steady sheets, and the street lamps gleam twice over, their halos of light reflected off the wet and shimmering pavement. A small fire has been lit in Buchan’s study to take the dampness from the air. The lawyer and his guest face each other from either side of the hearth. On a small table at Buchan’s elbow are two glasses and a decanter of golden brandy that glows in the firelight like the longed-for sunlight of a happy future.

“My thanks, Mr. Buchan, for seeing me so quickly, and especially on a Saturday evening. I hope that your good wife will forgive me for taking you away from your dinner guests.”

“Signore, you must know that the appearance of Mario Alfieri on our doorstep has raised Mrs. Buchan and me to new heights in the estimation of our guests. But besides that, did you really think we would turn you away? Especially when you come bearing the news that Miss Adler has agreed to become your wife?”

The lawyer nods thoughtfully, regarding his guest. “I am delighted for you, of course, signore, but I must also admit to you that I am amazed. Dumbfounded, in fact, would be a far more fitting word.”

“Why?” Alfieri says. “Do you still doubt my intentions?”

“No, not your intentions. You have offered the young woman honorable marriage, and have informed your attorney of it. You would hardly have done either if your intentions were less than worthy.”

“But still you do not approve.” Alfieri’s gaze is frank. “May I ask why?”

Buchan spreads his hands. “It is not a matter of either approval or disapproval. You are a grown man with much experience of women—”

“And Miss Adler is a very young woman. Is that what disturbs you?”

“Not precisely, signore. After all, we are not discussing the young lady’s ruin and abandonment—”

“I have never been guilty of that, Mr. Buchan. With any woman.”

“I never said you have. But now you wish to marry.”

Alfieri says: “You make it sound as if I have taken leave of my senses. Well, in a way I have. I am in love, Mr. Buchan. Is that so difficult to believe of me?”

Buchan’s voice softens. “No, of course not. But you have met the young lady a total of—what? Three times now? You have enjoyed each other’s company for some eight hours. Is that sufficient to determine a lifetime’s happiness together? I do not speak of her judgment—at nineteen, the capacity for judgment has not yet had time to develop. But what of yours, signore? Certainly you are old enough, and you appear to know what you are doing … but do you? Or could it be that, finding yourself in a new land holding no memories for you, with no affiliations … experiencing a freedom you have not known in many years … could it be that this has led you to see Miss Adler as a young damsel in distress?”

Alfieri smiles. “Whom only I can save? You think I have cast myself in the role of the knight from a far-off land, Mr. Buchan, who rides onto the scene to rescue the little princess from her tower and carry her away?”

“It is a flattering role, signore.”

“Very true. But I am not delirious, or living in a fantasy, or spinning dreams, and this is neither an illusion, nor an infatuation. I have fallen in love. Why? Each man has his own reasons for loving whom he does, reasons that would make no sense to another. All you need to know, Mr. Buchan, is that I have asked Miss Adler to be my wife and she has agreed. I regret, of course, that it has all happened too quickly for your entire satisfaction, but I desperately need your help if I am to marry her … there is not much time!”

The lawyer smiles and holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender, reaches for the brandy on the table beside him and fills the two glasses. He hands one to Alfieri, then touches his own glass to the tenor’s—“Mrs. Buchan and I wish you joy!”—and drinks.

Alfieri drinks too. “My thanks to you both. As to the necessity for speed,” he says, “for that you must blame Mr. Chadwick. He has left me no time for a traditional courtship and engagement.”

“You do know that you’ll be making a bad enemy, don’t you? He will not take kindly—a colossal understatement, I fear—to your stealing Miss Adler out from under his nose, just as he was about to carry her away.”

“And should I be afraid, Mr. Buchan? Next year at this time I will be preparing to return to Europe. He can do nothing to me, so long as he cannot steal her back, or have her taken away from me … by having the marriage annulled, say, because she is underage, and did not receive his consent.”

Buchan rises to refill Alfieri’s glass. “I suppose there is no doubt of your intention to consummate the marriage rather quickly? Yes, well, once she is your wife, in fact as well as in law, no court would consider undoing it, regardless of the lack of Mr. Chadwick’s consent. You have nothing to fear on that score. But let us discuss the question of the wedding itself,” he says, returning to his seat and refilling his own glass. “Have you decided how it is to be done? Who, for instance, will perform the ceremony?” He hesitates, then says bluntly: “You are Roman Catholic, are you not?”

Alfieri laughs. “I am from Italy, Mr. Buchan, am I not? Italy is rich in many things, but not, I am afraid, in Lutherans and Baptists.”

“But does it not pose a problem for you that Miss Adler is”—he hesitates again—“not Catholic?”

“Perhaps I am not so good a Catholic as you believe, Mr. Buchan. Miss Adler and I have discussed this matter—briefly, to be sure—and how we marry is of small importance to me. What is certain is that with less than two weeks remaining before I am to lose her to Mr. Chadwick, we must move quickly. There is no time for her to take instruction in my religion … even if she were so inclined, which I do not know.”

“Then the ceremony will be a civil one?”

“If you will be so good as to provide us with a justice of the peace, or some other such dignitary.”

Buchan cocks his head thoughtfully. “And will your church recognize a civil marriage to someone of another faith?”

“No, Mr. Buchan, it will not. In the eyes of my church I will not be married at all. But I am not so concerned with the eyes of my church as I am with the laws of your country. So long as she is married to me legally and Mr. Chadwick cannot take her from me, I am content.” He smiles again. “And as for the state of my immortal soul … that is a matter for my confessor, not my lawyer. Do not let it disturb you.”

Buchan says: “She means that much to you?”

“Yes,” Alfieri answers. “That much.”

Buchan leans over to stir the fire, blinking in the strong light. “Then it must be done quickly and it must be done in absolute secrecy.” He looks up at Alfieri. “But discretion is vital, as I am sure you realize. What of Slade’s servants? You will need their assistance, of course, but can they be trusted not to inform Mr. Chadwick of your plans?”

Alfieri says: “Oh, yes, I am sure of it. I spoke with them both, you see, before I came here this evening. Not surprisingly, I discovered that they are not especially devoted to Mr. Chadwick … something to do, I believe, with his pleasant manner when he addresses them. I assured them both that Miss Adler—Signora Alfieri that is to be—would be grateful for their services in her new home … she is very shy, and too many new faces around her would make her uneasy. In return, I have been given to understand that both the maid, who has already served as Miss Adler’s ladies’ maid in a small way, and the footman, will be perfectly content to follow their little mistress to her new home—and would sooner have their tongues cut out than give away her secret.”

“But can you be certain?”

“They are faithful to their late master’s memory, Mr. Buchan, and greatly attached to his ward. And with promised positions at half again their current wages waiting for them in my house, in addition to the opportunity to escape from Mr. Chadwick once and for all …” Alfieri smiles. “Oh, yes, I think we can trust them. And with the inclusion of Gennarino—my valet—such a staff should prove an excellent size for a newlywed household.”

“Signore, you take my breath away. Are you always this meticulous and well-prepared?”

“Well, it does not pay to take chances, does it? Not with what really matters.” He pauses, grows serious, and seems suddenly hesitant to speak. “That is why I would ask … although I know it is a great imposition … still, might I ask if you would undertake to help me in yet one more way?”

“Name it,” the lawyer says.

“Actually, it would be for my young lady.” The tenor picks his words with care. “She is all alone, Mr. Buchan. She has no friends or family to assist her through this time, no one to help her prepare. Most especially, she has no one to confide in … no mamma with whom she can share her hopes and fears, as brides must surely need to do … no one to tell her”—he gestures slightly—“what happens to a young wife on her wedding night.” He pauses again. “I was wondering … and I know it is a great deal to ask … if your good wife would consent to be such a friend to her. When you introduced us just now, and I saw that Mrs. Buchan has such a sweet face, I knew that Clara would not be frightened of her, and I thought … perhaps … if it would not be too much …”

Buchan’s voice is gentle. “Signore, consider it done. I would not normally speak for my wife in her absence, but I know that in this our opinions will agree. Frankly, she will be touched, as I am, that you thought well enough of us both to ask.”

Alfieri leans back and smiles in pure relief. “Thank you, Mr. Buchan—and your wife too. There is such a great deal to do in so very little time, but with your help I know we will manage it.”

“And after the wedding? You will want to go away, of course, on a honeymoon. Have you any idea where?”

“Here again I must rely on your kindness, Mr. Buchan. I have only been ten days in your city. I was thinking of somewhere quiet, in the countryside. Clara has been ill; she needs sunshine and fresh air, but it must not be too far away—the strain of a lengthy journey would be too much for her. Do you know of such a place?”

“I know of a place, signore, but it is very humble. Just a small farm, about two hours north of the city by train, outside a pretty little town called Hudson. The owner is a former client of mine: a widow with two daughters, who takes in guests to supplement her income. Mrs. Buchan and I have stayed there, and I can vouch for its excellence. The house is large—clean and very quiet—and the food is superb: Mrs. Noonan is a marvelous cook. Still, you may wish for something more imposing, such as a hotel … although many of them may already be filled for the summer …”

“No, no hotels. Above all I want my privacy, and a great deal of quiet for Clara. The place you speak of sounds ideal.”

“Then I will make the arrangements. I know the family well; Mrs. Noonan and her daughters are very discreet. No one here will know where you have gone, and no one there will say who you are. But of what date are we speaking? For the wedding, I mean?”

“Wednesday, the sixth of June. Mr. Chadwick has told Clara that he will come for her on the eighth, and I want to be far away with her by then.”

“Which gives us exactly”—Buchan does the mental calculation—“eleven days until your wedding.” He melts abruptly into a broad, complicitous smile, shaking his head. “My God, who would have thought it? The notorious Mario Alfieri marrying Henry Slade’s disinherited ward exactly a fortnight after their first meeting. You know, signore, that this will stand New York on its ear, don’t you? And I cannot imagine what all of Europe will think when the news finally reaches them!” He laughs out loud. “I fear that many who go to the opera, come the fall, will be going to do more than just hear you sing. Everyone will want to see what Mario Alfieri looks like as a married man!”

“But it is his pretty young wife who is worth looking at, Mr. Buchan, not Mario Alfieri. Still, if it will make them happy, they are free to stare at me as much as they like … and I promise you, I will not allow Mr. Grau to raise the price of the tickets …”

Chapter Nine

AM I LATE?” Dyckman says, flushed with hurrying.

“No, sir.” It is Peters who answers, the late Mr. Slade’s footman. “The other gentlemen have just arrived.” He takes the young man’s hat and gloves. “Go right upstairs, sir; they are waiting for you. You do remember the way?”

Dyckman remembers the way. In the last ten days he has developed a nodding acquaintance with this great house; he has known it, however, only in its state of perpetual dusk, and is not prepared for the vast change which this morning has brought. His eyes widen with amazement as he crosses the entrance hall and mounts the stairs.

Light everywhere. Every curtain has been pulled back, every shade raised, every window flung wide, every door opened. From one side of the house to the other, from front to back and top to bottom, the gentle air of June wafts through the rooms, fluttering the pale muslin that still shrouds the furniture, and blowing away the darkness. What is left of it lingers in the high-ceilinged halls and on the alabaster staircase that runs up the center of the house, but it is a muted darkness now: a silvery, soft, underwater darkness that pools in corners and grows shallower until it disappears as it nears doors and windows open to the sun. Staring about him, Dyckman is reminded of a cathedral on Easter morning, and makes his way to the music room—stripped of its net and muslin shrouds, and restored now to its gleaming blue and gold glory—in a suddenly exalted mood.

Alfieri and Buchan are waiting for him with a third man, bespectacled and bearded; a man whom Dyckman does not know, and who is introduced to him as Mr. Wheeler. Alfieri is pale but very composed, and the hand that grips Dyckman’s is both warm and steady.

“The train tickets?” he says.

“I have them here, Mario,” the young man replies, patting his breast pocket.

“And the baggage?”

“Is at the station, waiting for you to arrive.”

“Then there remains nothing to do.” Alfieri rests his hands on his friend’s shoulders. “Except to thank you.”

Dyckman flushes. “There is nothing to thank me for. I have done very little. Besides,” he smiles, “the thanks should be mine. I will be invited everywhere on the strength of this story, Mario; you know I will.”

Alfieri laughs and bows to Dyckman with an elegant flourish. “Then may you have as much joy in telling it as I have in presenting it to you.”

Buchan looks at his watch and nods to the tenor. “Ten o’clock, signore. We should start.”

“Will you go upstairs, Stafford,” Alfieri asks, “and tell the ladies that we are ready?”

When Dyckman returns, Alfieri has joined Messrs. Buchan and Wheeler by the mantelpiece. Wheeler stands behind a small table upon which are a book and two small glasses, one containing wine, the other empty.

Dyckman nods. “They’re coming.”

Buchan presses the tenor’s hand and walks to the door to wait.

Three servants—the two belonging to this house and Alfieri’s own valet—slip quietly into the room and stand a little distance away. The room falls silent, and in the stillness the rustling of skirts is heard in the passage. A fair-haired woman of middle age appears in the doorway; leaning on her arm is a very small, very young woman—hardly more than a girl—in a dove-gray gown. The young woman’s hair is covered by a soft lace veil that falls to her shoulders, and she carries a nosegay of three white roses.

Relinquishing the arm of the older woman, and never raising her eyes from the floor, the young woman takes the arm Buchan offers to her. He walks her slowly toward the little group formed by Alfieri, Dyckman, and Wheeler, but before they have covered half the distance, Alfieri comes forward and holds out his hand to her; and she looks up, for the first time, to see him smile.

At the sight of her face, an old verse of Spanish poetry, learned for practical reasons in the days of his own wooing, and for decades unremembered, springs unbidden into Buchan’s mind: “So pale she is with love, my sweet child, I think that never will the rose return to her cheek …” As Buchan falls back, the tenor folds the young woman’s arm under his own, and together they walk to where Dyckman and Wheeler wait.

Wheeler clasps his hands and looks at each of them; then clears his throat lightly, and says: “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together in the sight of this assembly …”

The wine is shared, the lovely words spoken. Alfieri’s voice is low and clear in the responses, Clara’s very faint. Buchan gives the bride away; no one steps forward to declare any impediment, or to state why this man and this woman should not be joined together. Dyckman produces the ring, which he hands to the justice, who hands it to Alfieri, who slips it onto Clara’s finger …

And it is done. So quickly that it seems a dream, Mario Alfieri and Clara Adler are pronounced man and wife.

The justice reminds the groom needlessly: “You may kiss the bride.”

“No,” Alfieri says, “not yet.” And before the perplexed eyes of the assembly he takes the empty glass from the table where it has stood during the ceremony, unused and unnoticed, wraps it in his handkerchief, places it on the floor, and brings his foot down hard upon it, smashing it to bits. Dyckman and the justice merely stare at each other, dumb, as do the servants and even Mr. and Mrs. Buchan—for the fair-haired woman is none other than the attorney’s wife—and each may be forgiven for thinking, understandably, in the face of such bizarre behavior, that perhaps the sudden strain of long-deferred matrimony has proved too much for the tenor.

But the little bride watches with enormous eyes and her hands pressed to her mouth, looking as if she will faint, and when Alfieri has crushed the glass beneath his foot she rises on tiptoe to fling her arms about his neck. And now, it seems, there is no more reason to wait: cupping her face between his hands, Alfieri takes heed at last of the justice’s reminder and kisses his wife, so long and so deeply that the assembled guests use the time to slip silently away.

AFTER THAT KISS it is all a blur for Clara: the wedding breakfast, which she gets through somehow, managing to speak normally, and taste what is placed before her, and raise her glass to her lips, all as if she were really there when she is not; the toasts to the happy couple, which she hears as strings of words that she forgets before they have been completely uttered; even the last, poignant farewell to the dear, familiar rooms, which she utters silently as, numbed and unresisting, she allows herself to be changed into traveling clothes for the wedding trip which will be the beginning—and the end—of her marriage.

He has broken the glass. When he had asked her, so tenderly, if she minded being married outside her faith, she had confided—with no thought that he would ever take her words to heart—that she would miss only that ancient custom, because it had always seemed to her to seal the wedding vows before God and to mark the actual instant of marriage … and, therefore, if it was not done, no real marriage had taken place.

And he has done it; he has broken the glass for her sake: not merely to humor her foolishness, in his infinite kindness, but to assure her, as no words ever could, that they are truly married, before God. And his reward for such kindness? Very soon, now, he will know what she is … and what she is not … and how much pain she might have spared him, if she had only been decent, and brave.

And she had wanted to be; she had meant to be, truly. The mad rapture of the day he proposed had lessened, day by day, and fear had grown in its place … because when she was not in his lap with her head on his shoulder, when he was not kissing her—then she could think again, clearly, and understand that she owed him the truth. And each day she had meant to tell him … except that she could not, because she knew what the truth would do. Just one more day, she had begged herself each day; just one more. And now it is too late, and the thought of his hurt leaves her numb with grief … but her remorse will do neither of them any good. He will leave her, once he knows, sickened both by her and her silence—and in two short weeks he has become her light and her air and the blood in her veins—and she will die when he goes away.

And that is only fair. That is right, that is good; that is just as it should be. That will finish what had started so long ago, when a part of her died in the tiny room above the carriage barn while the sun crawled across the cracked plaster wall …

The floor creaks behind her and she raises her face from her hands.

“Little love,” Alfieri says, slipping his arms around her and pressing a kiss on the top of her head, “our guests are all gone and it is time we were gone too. Have you said your farewells to this house?”

“Yes, Mario.”

“I wish that I could have saved it for you, sposa, but I had to choose between you and the house … and I had to have you. And in any case, you could not have stayed. One way or the other, it seems, your fate was to leave this place.” He strokes her hair. “Are you glad to be leaving with me?”

“Yes, Mario.”

He knows her well in two weeks. Seating himself on the sofa, he turns her around and pulls her to him, smiling and frowning. “What is it, dear heart? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Something, I think. Won’t you tell me?”

Coward from the start; coward still. She has not lived these two weeks in silence, only to tell him now and see the loathing in his eyes. She will be his wife first, for just one day. “Nothing. Only nerves.”

“Truly? There is nothing else?”

Paler than ever, she says: “What else could there be?”

He shrugs and busies himself straightening the brooch at her throat. “I do not know. I thought—perhaps—you might be frightened because everything has changed so quickly …”

She stares at him.

“Are you frightened, little girl?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “Are you?”

“I?” He raises her chin. “Terrified. I have never been anyone’s husband before.”

Her laugh is like a sob. “Mario, listen …” But he puts his finger to her lips.

“Dear heart, this is so new for both of us. I must unlearn forty years of bad habits in order to be fit for my new wife, and you must learn that, in all things, I am for you. We must learn to be patient with each other, yes? Both the learning and the unlearning will take time.” He kisses her forehead. “And now the carriage is here to take us to the station. You would not wish to miss the train?”

Rising, he takes an envelope from his pocket and places it on the mantelpiece, leaning it upright against the wall beneath her portrait.

“What is that?”

“Nothing. A letter.”

“To whom?”

“To Mr. Chadwick. I think it only right that he learn from me what has happened to you.”

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