Parlor Games A Novel

DR. ERNEST WHIDBEY



ON THE ATLANTIC—APRIL 1905



As the ship cut through choppy gray-green seas, Daisy and I buttoned up our coats and explored the promenade deck. On the starboard side we approached a gentleman who cut a sturdy figure in a white waistcoat, sleek black lounge coat, and cuffed trousers. Each of his long steps lifted with a slight bounce, lending a hint of daring to his measured strut. He’d tucked a packet of newspapers under his arm and, judging by their roughly folded sheets, had made meticulous study of them. As we converged, he tipped his pewter-gray homburg to us and I noticed how his thick, mahogany-brown mustache accentuated broad cheekbones and bushy eyebrows.

“What an interesting-looking man,” I said to Daisy.

“Shall I see what I can learn about him?”

“No, he’s probably a dull face-in-a-newspaper sort.”

We managed only a few strides before Daisy said, “You should be considering your finances.”

“My finances are quite healthy at the moment.”

“You never plan ahead.”

“At least let me enjoy the crossing.” I looped my arm in Daisy’s. “There’s something quite adventurous about being at sea, betwixt places, completely free to do as one pleases.”

Daisy sighed, “If you say so.”

“I do. And I enjoy the intrigue of all these strangers mingling, the thrill of letting events unfold as they may.” As we rounded the bow, a nippy mist buffeted my face. I inhaled deeply. “Even the chilly air is invigorating.”



I retired to my stateroom for the rest of the afternoon to read Tom Jones and luxuriate in the room’s plush carpet, satinwood paneling, and velvet curtains. When thirst and hunger got the better of me, I called on Daisy to help me dress for dinner.

“I believe I’ll go for a grand entrance this evening,” I said, pointing to my dulcet-orange gown with its fashionable pigeon breast and broad sash.

Daisy had absented herself the whole afternoon, determined to hobnob on deck. Removing my gown from its hanger, she said. “I exchanged a few words with that gentleman we passed earlier.”

I slipped out of my day dress. “Let me guess.… He’s in banking or finances.”

She chuckled. “No, no. Merely a doctor.”

“Ah, well. Life wouldn’t be nearly as exciting if I were always right.”

Upon entering the lounge, I spotted this same gentleman standing near the bar, but I paid him no mind. I breezed by a few full tables and selected a small one against the wall. No sooner had I seated myself than the gentleman approached.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, bowing. “Dr. Ernest Whidbey.”

“Dr. Whidbey,” I said, reaching out my hand. “I am Baroness May de Vries.”

He clapped both his hands around mine. “Honored to meet you, Baroness. May I buy you a cocktail, or perhaps a glass of champagne?”

“Champagne would be lovely.”

He intercepted a waiter and placed our order.

“I had a delightful time chatting with your companion earlier,” he said, seating himself.

“She’s a delight to me as well. And what are the chances we would meet again after such a fleeting encounter today?”

“Not all that bad. First-class capacity is six hundred, though I’m told all the staterooms are occupied.”

“The very reason I chose this ship. The rooms are luxurious, aren’t they?” I studied the broad structure of his handsome face. There was something both civilized and quizzical in the uneven slant of his brow and the way one eye closed to a near squint while the other remained open and alert.

“And roomy, too. They’ve made good use of the boat’s six-hundred-twenty-two-foot length.” He tugged his shirtsleeves down from under his jacket sleeves, revealing immaculately starched white cuffs. “This happens to be the first ship outfitted with a permanent radio connection to shore stations.”

“You have quite a mind for numbers and facts, Dr. Whidbey. I assume you are a physician?”

“I’m a professor of ophthalmology and otology—an eyes-and-ears man.”

“A professor,” I said, taking up my glass of champagne. “Then your capacity for retention must serve you well.”

He cocked his head in reluctant assent. “I suppose it does. In the classroom, at least.”

“Are you on holiday or business?”

“A bit of both. I’m on leave from the University of Minnesota.”

How quaint, I thought—a lowly professor—though I did wonder how he managed to dress so regally. This evening he sported a midnight-blue tailcoat, bronze-colored waistcoat, white silk bow tie, and wing-collared shirt. Maybe he had inherited or married well and, with monetary matters conveniently settled, found himself free to pursue his medical interests. He might well be a learned man of integrity who also chose to enjoy what was possibly a modest fortune. Daisy would probably urge me to seek a more promising match, but I found myself falling easily into the company of this educated and unassuming man of approximately my own years. With him I felt no need to posture or worry about business machinations. So when he asked, “May I escort you to the dining saloon?” I readily assented.



We made a compatible threesome—Ernest, Daisy, and I. Once or twice Daisy sought him out for her afternoon stroll; the three of us regularly lunched together; and Ernest and I took to dining in the ship’s impressive Italian-style dining saloon, relaxing under its three-story-high skylight dome in the midst of Spanish-mahogany walls carved with pilasters and inlaid with ivory. Ah, such luxury. There is nothing quite like a transatlantic crossing to help one forget the worries of the world.

Meantime, unbeknownst to me, Daisy had been gathering intelligence. Over breakfast two days from port, she informed me, “Ernest told Mr. Simon that he has an antenuptial agreement with his former wife. As long as he doesn’t remarry, he collects ten thousand dollars a year. What do you think of that?”

Daisy had yet to take up her coffee cup. “I’d say you’re quite excited about it.”

“Don’t you see? He’s not free to marry, either.”

“My word, Daisy. Who’s thinking of marriage?”

“That’s the beauty of it. No one.”

Of course I understood the ramifications of Ernest’s circumstances, which fortunately resembled mine, at least insofar as remarriage was concerned. But I wasn’t as quick as Daisy to make the leap to any liaison. After all, his steady attentions and efficient command of daily arrangements afforded me the leisure of merely drifting along and reveling in his generosity, free from any complications. If only it had stayed that way.





THE TRIAL



THE PROPER WAY TO CONDUCT A TRIAL



MENOMINEE—JANUARY 29, 1917



Monday morning found us back for week two of the trial, with me in my heather-green tweed suit—the very thing a reputable businesswoman might wear to court—and poor Judge Flanagan drumming his fingers on the table. He’d hoped to conclude the trial in a week, but as Frank’s days on the stand multiplied, he should have surmised that was out of the question.

My attorney launched the day by calling Frank back to the stand, intent on demonstrating that she had prevaricated on the matter of accepting loans from me. Mr. Powers approached the witness box, brandishing a folded paper. “Miss Shaver, earlier you explained that you gave the Baroness shares of Westinghouse stock valued at about thirty-six thousand dollars, expecting to be reimbursed.”

“That’s correct.”

“And this occurred in London, in early 1913.”

“Yes.”

Powers unfolded the paper and handed it to Frank. “Would you please review this memorandum?”

Frank’s eyes darted over the paper with the ever-increasing speed of a runaway car. She jerked her head upright and glared at me.

Powers said, “Is that your handwriting?”

“It appears to be.”

“Would you please read the document?”

“It reads, ‘As security for a loan of two thousand eight hundred pounds provided to me by May de Vries, I hereby submit two hundred shares of Westinghouse stock, to be held until such time as the loan is repaid.’ ”

“And it is signed by you, is it not?”

“Yes, but I’ve never seen this document.”

“Did you borrow two thousand eight hundred pounds from the Baroness in London?”

“No, I did not.”

“Then how do you explain this document?”

“I have no idea where it came from.”

“You did not provide two hundred shares of Westinghouse stock as loan security?”

“No, the suggestion that I borrowed money from May is absurd.”

“So you deny borrowing two thousand eight hundred pounds from the Baroness?”

“Objection, argumentative,” came the predictable complaint from Frank’s attorney, and “Sustained,” the routine refrain from Judge Flanagan.

With that, my attorney concluded his cross-examination. Frank’s attorney, Sawyer, then sought to undo the damage to her reliability via his redirect, during which time Frank parroted various versions of her contention that she had neither borrowed money from me nor signed any document naming stock as surety.

At the conclusion of the morning’s testimony, Judge Flanagan ordered a shortening of the luncheon recess, requesting everyone’s prompt return at one-fifteen: “This isn’t the only case on the docket, nor should it be taking so much of the court’s time.”

Upon my return, I found Frank and her attorney seated side by side at the plaintiff’s bench, their heads bent together in somber exchange. I detected the aura of desperation about their manner, which surprised me not at all after my attorney had chipped away at Frank’s credibility on the matter of borrowing from me.

Once the judge had called the court to order, Sawyer rose. “Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”

Judge Flanagan, no doubt sensing another obstruction to his design of moving the trial forward, intoned, “If you insist.”

A whispering campaign ensued. I only caught a tiny snippet—something about a fake document—before the judge invited my attorney to join the conference. The whispers increased to hushed barks, until the judge finally splayed his hands to quiet the rival attorneys and announced, “Gentlemen, this is not a conversation to be had in hearing of the jury. I will have the jury leave.”

Out they marched, a few of them visibly huffing with impatience, or perhaps frustration. They no doubt shared my sentiment: It was high time to put an end to this ridiculous trial. Behind me, I discerned an abrupt buzzing among the onlookers, who no doubt hoped for some saucy surprise.

“Very well, Mr. Sawyer,” said Judge Flanagan. “You may argue your request.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Sawyer kept his back to me and addressed the judge, but I could hear the pleading in his voice. “When Dr. Whidbey brought suit against the Baroness in London, she used tactics just like the ones she’s using here. That’s why it’s relevant.”

Judge Flanagan folded his hands, obviously trying to bring patience to bear. “What tactics are you referring to?”

“Deceitful ones. Such as twisting claims and producing papers no one had seen before.”

“And how is that material to this case?”

“It shows that the Baroness was willing to use deceit to fight charges against her. Just as she’s doing here.”

“And do any of the documents in that case bear directly on the specifics of this case?”

“Not directly. But the defendant’s unscrupulous actions are much the same.”

Powers stepped in. “This is prejudicial, Your Honor.”

“Just a minute here.” Flanagan waved Powers off. “Mr. Sawyer, have you explained the full rationale for your request?”

As Sawyer twisted around and glanced at Frank, I noticed his usually sallow complexion had tinted to an excited pink.

“To summarize,” he began, “the charges in the Whidbey case are quite similar to the ones brought here. They show the Baroness has repeatedly wheedled money out of her friends and … ahem … companions. But that’s not the main reason for bringing in this evidence. It’ll show she stops at nothing to dodge justice. She’ll lie. She’ll introduce false documents. She’ll produce witnesses to do her bidding. And that, Your Honor, is why I humbly request to introduce facts from the Whidbey case.”

Clutching a hand over my heart, I shot Frank an open-mouthed I-can-hardly-believe-what-I’m-hearing look. I’d told her about my troubles with Whidbey, and she had obviously divulged these confidences to her attorney. I’d not, in fact, falsified any documents in that case. Rather, Whidbey’s scurrilous claims required that I fight back and use any and all means to extricate myself from his vicious, unrelenting grip. It had taken years to escape him, and now my own survival strategies might be turned against me. The blood retreated from my extremities. I dropped my head and closed my eyes to still the whirring of my mind.

I heard the judge’s voice. “Mr. Powers, I imagine you have something to say?”

“I most certainly do, Your Honor. But first I’d like to consult with my client. May I have some time to do that?”

“Here we go again,” said Flanagan, rolling his eyes. “Yes, but please be brief.”

Mr. Powers seated himself beside me. I summoned the courage to carry on with my defense. I had previously mentioned the Whidbey case to him, though I certainly hadn’t anticipated its playing any role in this trial. During our ten-minute talk, Mr. Powers zeroed in on the key aspects of the case—after all, he is a fine attorney—and then he rose to approach the judge and Mr. Sawyer.

“Your Honor,” he said and, after bowing to Mr. Sawyer, “my esteemed colleague, I maintain that the Whidbey case has no bearing whatsoever on the one before us. The plaintiffs do not know each other. These are quite separate matters, full continents apart. Although there are newspaper reports of this trial, the case was settled out of court, and thus no definitive ruling was made on either the merits of the case or the nature of the evidence. We have only informal information—hearsay, if you will—to discuss here. Any allegations about my client’s attempts to defend herself are merely that—allegations—to which no respectable court would give serious consideration. My colleague is only trying to delay the proceedings by bringing up altogether irrelevant matters. We have plenty of evidence before us on which to decide this case. The plaintiff is attempting to impugn the reputation of my client. It is not an honorable way to conduct a civil case.”

Sawyer pointed his sharp chin at Powers. “Why, you …”

“Mr. Powers,” said the judge, “I will decide the proper way to conduct this trial.”

My attorney clasped his hands over his waist and shuffled back a tiny step. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Sawyer, do you have any rebuttal?”

Sawyer’s bow legs tautened as he leaned toward the judge. “I say that the pattern of behavior shown by the defendant is relevant here. The charges are strikingly similar. The defense’s flimflamming tactics as well. And testimony on this matter can reveal the defendant’s character.”

“Yes, well,” said the judge, scratching the back of his neck, “the character of the defendant is not on trial here, her actions are. And we cannot assume that actions of the past, which we have no definitive way of determining, reflect on current actions. I deny the request to introduce evidence from the Whidbey case.”

Sawyer tossed his head with swaggering dispatch, as if to imply P. T. Barnum himself had minted some outrageous new hoax.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Mr. Powers.

“Don’t thank me; it’s a matter of legal judgment.”

Powers nodded deeply, then asked, “May I make my motion now?”

“Yes, do get on with it.”

My attorney rolled back on his heels and fanned his hands out. “Of course, Your Honor. At this time, I move for dismissal of the case. I have introduced a release from debt, which the plaintiff admits to having signed in 1915. Although Miss Shaver claims she had insufficient knowledge of the document’s contents, this is a straightforward document, readily understandable to a person without the slightest legal training.

“My admirable colleague has produced no testimony demonstrating the least reason to disbelieve this document. The plaintiff has merely said she was ill at the time of signing. But again, I submit that any person of ordinary capacities would understand full well that it is prudent to read agreements before signing them and that, once signed, such documents are binding.

“We have also produced checks written to Miss Shaver. Miss Shaver endorsed and cashed these checks. She contends the checks were not loans, but she cannot recall what they were for. All in all, the defense has clearly demonstrated that Miss Shaver herself received payments and gifts from the Baroness and that she absolved my client of any debts she may have incurred. This is a nuisance suit, designed to embarrass the Baroness into turning over a very large sum of money. Thus, a dismissal is not only legally defensible, but well substantiated at this point. I move for immediate dismissal of the case of Miss Frank Gray Shaver versus Baroness May de Vries.”

My confidence soared. Mr. Powers had brilliantly articulated the essence of our case. I couldn’t help glancing at Daisy, and there, mirrored on her alert face, was the same buoyant optimism I felt.

The judge turned his attention to Frank’s attorney. “Mr. Sawyer?”

“This motion is premature, at the very least, Your Honor. The defense hasn’t brought a single witness, and I’ve had no opportunity to cross-examine anybody about this purported release or the checks. The court would be remiss to decide the case on the basis of evidence produced but not carefully examined.

“I might add that the defense has completely ignored, in its cross-examinations, the many instances of deceit, manipulation, and downright trickery on the part of the Baroness and her underlings, ploys she used again and again over the years to part Miss Shaver from her money. This is no minor dispute—over $106,000 is at stake here—and dismissal of a case for such a large claim on the basis of a few documents of uncertain origin is nothing short of unfair. I appeal to the court to allow the trial to proceed so that the evidence as a whole may be considered by the jury.”

Judge Flanagan pressed back against his chair, straightening himself to statuesque dignity. “Mr. Sawyer, Mr. Powers, I find insufficient reason to dismiss the case at this time.”

My rising hopes plummeted like a balloon crashing to earth. What more did the judge require besides a document, properly signed, absolving any and all indebtedness? At the close of the day’s testimony, I retreated from the courtroom knowing the case now rested on my attorney’s shoulders—as well as on the witnesses he would call on my behalf. And we had yet to resolve the matter of whether I myself would take the stand.





AN AGREEABLE ARRANGEMENT



LONDON—1905–1907



No sooner had Dr. Whidbey, Daisy, and I disembarked in Liverpool and boarded the train for London than Ernest apprised us of his intention to purchase a home not far from London—a certain Bray Lodge, on the banks of the Thames. “A stately place,” he said. “Mrs. Brown-Potter lives there, but since the divorce, she’s selling.”

Of course I’d heard about the famous actress’s marital problems. “Is the divorce final?”

“Yes. But she still goes by ‘Mrs.’—I suppose because it’s been her stage name so long.”

Daisy picked this moment to lean across the aisle of our compartment and inform us, “I’ll be in the dining car.”

“Goodness,” I said, knowing she’d soon request more money for her food expenses, “I swear you spend more time there than in your bed.”

“At least you know where to find me.”

Ernest chuckled at her jest—on occasion, Daisy had complained of difficulties locating me on ship—but I said nothing, not wanting to encourage her cheekiness.

With a spry step, she left the compartment.

I glanced at the grassy knolls of Liverpool’s outskirts. I couldn’t help but wonder what this purchase portended for any future Ernest might envision for us. I turned back to him. “How far along is the sale?”

“My agent says it could go through in a matter of days.” He reached out and cupped his hand over mine. “Why don’t I secure a room for you and Daisy at the Carlton so we can celebrate when it’s settled?”

Just as I suspected—he wasn’t ready to bid me good-bye anytime soon.



I’d never before stayed at the Carlton Hotel. It was quite grand—and conveniently located at Haymarket and Pall Mall, close to the National Gallery, where I spent many a leisurely afternoon over the two weeks it took Ernest to conduct his business.

One May day, he announced he could finally lay claim to Bray Lodge. He insisted on running out and purchasing the best Laurent-Perrier he could find to mark the occasion.

A few hours later, he phoned my room. “Come, the champagne is chilled.”

I changed into my lavender evening dress and joined him in his suite. He extracted the bottle from an ice bucket and removed its foil and metal capping. Whisking a napkin from the table he’d set for us, he covered the bottle and twisted its top. At the thwump of the cork, he unveiled the bottle, like a magician producing a rabbit. “Champagne, my dear?”

“How can I resist?” I casually held up my glass, hiding my surprise. Ernest had never before addressed me as “dear.” Although our relations had taken a romantic turn at sea, his expressions had never been effusive. He was either only modestly taken with me or supremely sure of himself. Judging by his generosity toward me, which extended to hotel rooms for Daisy and me, fine dinners, and a set of pearl earrings, it was the latter. In any event, his manner—that of one who readily takes command and assumes without avowal that his affections are reciprocated—encouraged me to sally forth with him and enjoy the simple pleasures of drink, dinner, and desire, free from worries about entanglement.

“It’s quite a lovely home,” he said, pouring for both of us. “With four bedrooms, a drawing room, even a billiards room.”

I delicately fingered my glass. “And of course the requisite servants.”

“And a small gas stove, well-appointed kitchen, and scullery for them.”

“A most complete household.”

“I’m even going to have a telephone installed.”

“How very modern.”

We raised our glasses, and I said, “May you be quite happy there.”

Lifting the glass to my mouth, I sipped. Infinitesimal bubbles burst on the fleshy underside of my upper lip. The liquid’s creamy smoothness coated my tongue, as refreshing as a strained, slightly honeyed lemonade. I beamed at Ernest and raised my glass for a second quaff, as did he. The drink’s effervescence permeated the roof of my mouth and shot the sensation of lightness to the very tip of my head.

“Ah, wonderful champagne.” Ernest played his fingertips against the glass stem, as if it were a flute, and smiled at me. “I would love to have you come and reside at Bray Lodge. You’d have your own room. Daisy could be upper servant. I’d see to all the household expenses.”

“Why, Ernest, I had no idea you entertained such an arrangement.”

“Why not? We make a splendid pair. In the afternoons, when you’re not shopping, you like to read or study art, and I have my newspapers to read. In the evenings, you can do as you wish, as will I, though I would insist we enjoy some of our lovely dinners together. What do you say?”

On my word, it was the most peculiar proposition ever put to me. Not that I’d never been invited to take up residence with a man before, but that the proposal should be presented so coolly, in such a business-like manner. Still, it suited me—the promise of security when my own financial resources were finite, as well as some measure of freedom near a city I loved.

I tipped my glass toward him. “I say yes. Your terms are altogether agreeable.”



Bray Lodge is in the town of Maidenhead on the Thames, some twenty miles from London. Ernest and I introduced ourselves there as Dr. and Mrs. Whidbey: It simply proved more expedient than bothering with explanations that would have failed the test of salutary acceptance. Heavens, the two of us being American was challenge enough for the townspeople.

Of course, this arrangement was not without its complications. After all, I had many friends in London, friends who knew full well that the Baron and I were not divorced. But Ernest, though happy to attend local gatherings with me, had little interest in accompanying me to London, and for once I did not mind going to the opera and playhouses without a regular male escort. The fact is, although Ernest’s penchant for spouting facts and figures amused our neighbors, I did not consider it proper fodder for more cultivated conversation.

Fortunately, Ernest objected not in the least to my frequent London outings, though he unfailingly quizzed me about my companions. To squelch what appeared to be a touch of possessiveness, I led him to believe I represented myself as Mrs. Whidbey while out and about in London, which seemed to satisfy him. Besides, he managed to entertain himself quite well at a gentlemen’s club in London, the Portland Club at St. James’s Square, where he spent several evenings each week. After years of being cooped up with Rudolph, I found this arrangement most congenial. Another woman might have wondered what went on at a gentlemen’s club, but I was pleased he had a pastime that did not place demands on me. When I asked him how he amused himself at the club, he readily explained, “At cards, my dear. That’s what the club is all about.”

Thus, I gladly endured the minor inconvenience of representing myself as his wife around Maidenhead. And Bray Lodge, though not extravagantly large, was sufficiently commodious for my purposes, with a closet large enough to accommodate the new gowns I had designed in London.

By the end of summer, I’d settled in nicely, though one thing perplexed me. From all appearances, Ernest lived far more comfortably on ten thousand dollars per annum than anyone but Houdini could have managed. On a late-August day, after he’d purchased an emerald pendant necklace for me and a 1905 Calthorpe automobile for himself, I invited Daisy for a stroll.

Ernest sat reading in the drawing room, in the only chair with any masculine flair, a stiff-armed leather affair with a matching ottoman. “Ernest, it’s such a lovely day. I believe I’ll take a walk.”

He barely looked up from his newspaper. “A little warm, don’t you think?”

“There’s always a breeze along River Road.”

“Do you mind if I don’t go?”

“Not at all. I’ll invite Daisy.”

Once out of earshot of the house’s wide-open windows, I said to Daisy, “How do you suppose he could afford a Calthorpe?”

“Maybe he’s come into an inheritance.”

“There’s nothing to suggest that.”

“All he told that Mr. Simon on the ship is that he has ten thousand dollars from his ex-wife.”

I tilted my wide-brimmed hat to block the sun. “He rarely discusses money with me.”

“But he has mentioned it?”

“Only in roundabout ways.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, ‘You don’t ever need to worry about money,’ or ‘I intend to treat you like the Baroness you are.’ ”

“Do you think it has anything to do with his club?”

“I suppose he could be gambling, but that usually leads to losing large sums, not winning them.”

Daisy raised her eyebrows. “I could try to find out where the money’s coming from.”

I stopped and gripped her arm. “Don’t you dare upset the apple cart. Do you hear me?”

She studied her feet. “Yes, ma’am.”



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I found the key in a hidden compartment.”

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

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

“Will you brush my hair first?”

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

Daisy came up behind me and unpinned my hair.

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

“Heavens, no.”

I eyed her in the mirror. “Well?”

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

“That’s not much of a discovery.”

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

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

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

“What kind of money?”

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

“Certainly. I love a good game.”

“You should find excellent sport there.”

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

“Will he be bringing his wife?”

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