Parlor Games A Novel

LONDON AIRS



NEW YORK AND LONDON—1891–1892



I refused to leave New York without first paying tribute to Johnny. I enlisted Daisy’s brother to transport me and my miniature memorial to Trinity Church Cemetery on Riverside Drive. I obtained directions to Johnny’s grave from the groundskeeper and set out down the designated row of gravestones in my simple black dress and wide-brimmed hat and veil. As I caught sight of Johnny’s fresh grave, I clutched my belly—it chilled me to imagine his once-vital body lying there, inert in its coffin. The earth mounding before his marble headstone glistened under October’s misty sky, its newness a personal rebuke: You might have saved him.

Closing my eyes, I silently recited my last words to him: “My dear Johnny, forgive me for not honoring our love. You will always be my Romeo.” I opened my eyes to the quiet midday, to the place that would be Johnny’s home forever. A morning rain had moistened the tree trunks and fallen leaves, deepening their hues to burnt brown and rust. A piquant mushroom odor—of grass and loam and dying leaves—chafed at my nostrils.

“Dicky,” I said, calling the reluctant youngster to join me at the graveside. “You can unwrap the stone now.”

Dicky unfolded the burlap covering to reveal the simple memorial, a slender, foot-wide stone plaque on a solid base, and handed it to me. I placed it at the foot of Johnny’s grave, so that he might gaze down upon it, and walked to the head of the grave, where I could view its inscription:

TO MY JOHNNY, FOR WE WERE ONCE

A PAIR OF STAR-CROSS’D LOVERS.

Once I had completed my private remembrance ceremony, I couldn’t quit New York fast enough. It pained me to look at the tall buildings, walk through Central Park, or dine in any of its fine restaurants. All I could think was, Johnny might have eaten in this very place, Johnny must have gazed on these buildings, Johnny probably trod this street. I wanted to blame someone: Reed Dougherty for his unscrupulous, coldhearted pursuit of Johnny and me; Johnny’s father for hiring a Pinkerton to do what a family member could and should have done; and Johnny’s family for not giving us a chance. But what good did that do? Johnny was gone, and I’d had a hand, unknowing as it was, in his tragic end.

Never again, I vowed. Never would I permit myself to mix with a young man under the thumb of a reproving family. Never again would I risk wounding someone as decent and innocent as Johnny.

The path to my new life materialized quite clearly: I would slip into the respectable and cultured life I’d sought all along, and in doing so I would avoid giving Dougherty, or any of his ilk, leverage over me. Such was my frame of mind upon setting foot in London in November of 1891.



I wished for two things from London: to distract myself from the pain and sorrow of Johnny’s tragic death, and to insert myself into London’s high society. I hoped to satisfy both in the West End theater district, where I took a suite at the Shaftesbury Hotel for Daisy and myself. Soon enough, Daisy had researched the London theaters and discovered that the Royal English Opera House, which had closed after one run of Ivanhoe, was struggling to reopen. Convinced the venerably named establishment warranted my support, I offered modest sponsorship for its new production of André Messager’s opera La Basoche. After a run of the opera, the theater planned a grand party on closing night in January 1892. I was to attend with another donor, Alfred Cooper, the brother of the conductor, and his bachelor son.

“I suspect,” I told Daisy as I seated myself at my maple vanity and opened my jewelry case, “that Mr. Cooper is anxious to introduce me to his son.”

“Why shouldn’t he be?” asked Daisy, pulling out the necklace compartment. “Everyone wonders why you’ve not stepped out with any gentleman.”

The yellow-diamond necklace, I thought, would look lovely against my jade-green gown. I pointed to it. “By rights I should be wearing black. Except then I’d have to explain to everyone who I’m mourning.”

Daisy picked up the necklace, lowered it around my throat, and latched it. She folded her palms over my shoulders. “You can’t do anything about Johnny. You have to live your life.”

“If only I could convince my heart of that.”

Daisy closed the jewelry box. “You shouldn’t put off insuring your jewelry any longer.”

I centered the necklace’s middle diamond against my gown’s tufted bodice. “Why don’t you go to Lloyd’s tomorrow and look into that.”



When the lobby bell at the Royal English Opera House rang, Mr. Cooper and his son escorted me to our second-level box. The elder Mr. Cooper offered me the prize seat, the one with the best angle on the stage. I chatted with the younger Mr. Cooper and gazed out on the masses settling in the house’s layers of plum-colored chairs and gilded black boxes. The clattery fits and starts of the orchestra’s tuning wafted from the pit. The conductor took up his baton. As the audience hushed, I turned my attention to the stage, and my gaze passed over a box on the opposite side of the theater. A red-complexioned man—of middle age, I guessed—stared at me. Even as my glance met his, he continued in his steadfast enterprise. I shifted in my chair to optimize my view of the stage and waited for the curtain to rise, all the time noticing out of the corner of my eye that this man gazed steadily at me.

It was not unusual for me to be acquainted with the box holders, but I’d never seen this gentleman before. His perfectly knotted silk tie, satin-collared frock coat, and cross-over vest suggested either great wealth or dignitary status, even if his behavior indicated otherwise.

At intermission, the Misters Cooper and I made our way to the Stalls Bar. As I sipped champagne with my companions, a bald gentleman approached our party and addressed me. “Pardon me, Miss Dugas,” he said in an accent as thick as the Black Forest, “I am the secretary to Baron de Vries, and he wishes to make your acquaintance.”

I studied him. Yes, just as I thought. He’d been sitting next to the man whose eyes had bored through me all of Act One. I glanced at the elder Mr. Cooper, whose expression had turned quizzical, and then back at this man. “Please tell the Baron that I am occupied with my own acquaintances at present.”

That should have put an end to the Baron’s rude comportment, but the next morning a message arrived at my hotel room: “Dear Miss Dugas, As we have not been introduced, I hope you will forgive the presumption, but I humbly request your company for dinner tonight, or any other evening this week. You may send word to me at Claridge’s. Yours, Baron Rudolph de Vries.”

“This man is exasperating,” I told Daisy over breakfast.

“He’s a baron. And probably altogether respectable.”

“He’s impudent.”

“He’s taken with you. At least let me find out more about him.”

Over the next month, the Baron persisted in sending two or three messages a week, sometimes including flowers, which likely commanded dear prices during London’s dreary February. Would I, he begged, accompany him to the opening of Oscar Wilde’s play Lady Windermere’s Fan? Might I like to attend a lecture on Egyptian antiquities at the British Museum? All the while, Daisy continued to press me to accept his invitation.

“He’s criminally wealthy,” she said, arranging the fresh bouquet of tulips he’d had delivered. “He’s a medaled sportsman. Why not give him a chance?”

“I don’t care for him.”

“Because he’s not Johnny?”

“He does suffer by comparison.”

“You can’t replace Johnny.”

“Then because he’s arrogant and insolent.”

“You’ve never exchanged a word with him. How can you know that?”

I scampered to her side and shook his note under her eyes. “ ‘Miss Dugas, I am determined to meet you.’ Who is he to impose himself like this?”

“He’s his own man. You said you wanted an independent man.”

“Independent, yes. A fool, no.”

“You’re the one being foolish.” Daisy threw her hand out in an arc, directing my attention around the suite. “How are you going to pay for this when your bank account runs dry?”

“Something will come up. It always has before.”

Daisy slapped a hand to her hip. “You’re testing my loyalty. I have a mother depending on me. I can’t manage without pay.”

Never before had Daisy sounded such a note of alarm. Although I had grown accustomed to trusting that each day would take care of itself, Daisy’s life had not been so blessed. And I had brought her here all the way from New York. I looked into her teary eyes. “Very well, inform him that he may pick me up for dinner this Thursday at seven.”



As I descended the stairs at the Shaftesbury Hotel, I spotted the Baron in the lobby, standing erect beside a carved wood chair and dressed in a black Prince Albert coat and a black bow tie. With clipped step he marched up to me, reached for my hand, and bowed. “Miss Dugas, I cannot say what a great pleasure it is to meet you.”

As he rose from his bow, he raised my gloved hand to his lips and kissed it. Though he sported a thick, dun-brown mustache, a spot of thinning hair on top of his head revealed shiny pink skin. He held his long-waisted torso bent slightly forward, as if to make it easier for our eyes to meet, and he appeared taller—close to six feet—than I had guessed he was, with a trim figure not at all compromised by his middle-aged years. His olive-flecked hazel eyes played brightly against his reddish complexion, and a broad forehead dented and gave way to a nose that sloped sharply from a bump at its midpoint. We stood suspended for a moment on the hotel’s expansive burgundy-and-navy Persian carpet, beneath leaded-glass gasoliers, while he held my hand and gazed into my eyes.

“Yes, Baron,” said I. “We meet at last.”

“Please, do call me Rudolph.”

I nodded.

In a long step and swivel reminiscent of a military move, he came to my side and offered his arm. “Shall we go to dinner?”

With a graceful lift of his other arm, he put on his top hat. I pulled the folds of my pelisse together, and the Baron escorted me out of the hotel to a glass-windowed landaulet.

We seated ourselves side by side on plush velvet seats, and he offered and arranged a wool warming blanket over my lap. “You must forgive me for burdening you with my insistence all these weeks.”

“You are a man who is not easily deterred.”

“You are a woman who is not easily forgotten,” he said, his words thick with a Dutch accent. He lifted a corner of his mustache into a half smile. “I only hope you will let me prove that I can be a pleasing companion.”

We drove along Shaftesbury Street, beneath ornate green lamppost spires and past theatergoers in their formal wear. I snuggled my hands together under the blanket. “I would love to hear about your family.”

“My father is deceased. Mother lives at our property in Dalfsen, with my two sisters.”

“Your sisters aren’t married?”

“The elder, Miriam, is widowed. She lost her husband in a terrible boating accident.”

I tilted my head. “How tragic.”

The Baron leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. “She is managing. Mother keeps her busy assisting with the property.”

Wondering if a man of his age still answered to his mother, I inquired, “Your mother’s property?”

“The family’s actually, though it is in my name.”

“And the other sister?”

“Cornelia is only twenty. A very lively girl. She loves to ride horses.”

The Baron asked after my family as well, and I told him about Papa’s success in the restaurant business and how, after his untimely death, our family had retreated to northern Michigan’s bountiful forests and sandy lakeshores. As our carriage horse trudged through London’s streets, past countless chimneys puffing smoke into the dusky night sky, we settled into a lively exchange about the contrasts between life in America, London, and Holland. I might have said that London’s fogginess reminded me of San Francisco, or that Japan’s sublime temples outshone England’s blocky churches, but I had resolved to make no allusions to the unfortunate chapters of my earlier life.

Dinner was pleasant enough, and though my appraisal of the Baron softened after our evening together, my initial reservations stood. He put great stock in himself, his property, and his sport as a shooter, all of which did nothing to disabuse me of my first impression about his abiding self-importance. Still, I consented to dine with him again, though I begged a busy schedule and pushed the date out two weeks hence. Meantime, to assuage Daisy’s concerns about our finances and to stretch my bank account until fortunes changed, I moved us out of our suite into a cozy but tastefully furnished flat on Piccadilly.

Over the spring and early summer months, the Baron persevered in his attentions, insisting each time we parted that I consent to another meeting. Though he took me to the finest restaurants, toured me through the British Museum and Kew Gardens, and proved generous in his gifts not only to me but to Daisy as well, I did not find my heart moved by him.

Then, one July morning, while Daisy and I prepared to go marketing, we were surprised by an urgent rapping. Daisy hastened to the door, and when she opened it I heard the Baron’s voice.

“Miss Emmett,” he asked, “is Miss Dugas in?”

After twisting around to question me with her eyes, Daisy said,

“Yes, she is.”

The Baron stood in the doorway, leaning first to one side and then the other, trying to see around Daisy. Upon catching my eye, he said, “May, I must speak with you. Will you invite me in?”

I’d been sitting on the sofa, composing a shopping list. I hated that he was seeing me in a simple yellow day dress, but he seemed to take no note of it. I put down my pen and paper. “Yes, of course.”

Daisy stepped aside, allowing him to enter, and said, “I’ll just excuse myself.”

Daisy shut the door behind her, and a flush-faced Rudolph hurried in and sat down beside me on the sofa. “I am sorry to barge in on you. Please forgive me.”

By this time alarm was rising in me. Might Dougherty have tracked me down? Would he dare to sully my reputation yet again? “What is it, Rudolph?”

Rudolph bent forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and nesting his face in his hands. “My baby sister, Cornelia. She has been killed in a riding accident.”

I reached out and cupped my hand over his trembling shoulder. The depth of his sorrow washed over me, like the sun’s rays on springtime ice. I tightened my grip, hoping the tenderness enlivening me might soothe him. “Oh, Rudolph, I’m so sorry.”

He crumpled onto my lap and sobbed.



Less than a month later, Rudolph invited me to dinner at the first restaurant we had dined at in London—Wiltons. This time, however, the dining room was empty, except for one table in the middle of the room. A host of tall-stemmed candelabras graced the perimeter of the stucco-walled room, bathing it in a golden light. I hardly noticed our waiter, so unobtrusive was he. Over the next two hours, our glasses brimmed with claret, a squash soup prompted reminiscences of our first dinner in this very room, and plates of pheasant, Brussels sprouts, and slivered carrots appeared as if by magic.

After dinner, as I sipped my cream-laden coffee, Rudolph rose from his chair and stood by my side. He reached for my hands, brought them to his lips for a kiss, and formed them into a bowl. Dropping to a knee, he reached into his vest pocket and extracted a velvet pouch. He untied its drawstring and tugged it open.

Spilling pearls—thirty-five, I later counted—into my cupped palms, he said, “You are to me the most precious pearl. Never will I find one more perfect than you.”

The pearls, warm to the touch, shimmered in the candles’ halcyon glow. I lifted my eyes to Rudolph’s. They, too, sparkled, but with the dew of ardor.

He placed his hands around mine. “Marry me, my darling.”