Parlor Games A Novel

AN IMMORAL CONSIDERATION



LONDON—1910



Shortly after nine on the morning of February 14, 1910, a sharp knock sounded at our hotel door. I sprang from my bed, reached for my house robe, and rushed out of the suite’s bedroom. Daisy, who had already risen, looked up at me from the couch, her expression etched with concern. My God, I wondered, could it be Ernest? I whispered to her, “Ask who’s calling.”

She nodded and approached the door. “Who is it, please?”

“Constable Barrett. With some papers for May de Vries.”

I shook my head.

Daisy spoke through the door. “My lady is not available to receive visitors.”

“I’ll wait. I’m instructed to hand some papers to her.”

Daisy and I bustled to the bedroom and closed the door behind us.

I plopped down on the bed. “What in the world could this be about?”

“Maybe Ernest is with the constable.”

“I doubt it. He couldn’t very well strangle me in front of an officer.”

I took my leisure dressing, for I doubted the “papers” brought good news and I wanted time to consider the possibilities. “I suppose, once Ernest got past his ranting,” I said to Daisy, “he hatched some elaborate plot to corner me.”

In fact, I almost hoped the matter did involve Ernest—and not my recent trip to Alsace. Or some sinister trap set by Reed Dougherty. An hour later, I opened the door to find Constable Barrett reposed against the wall.

He snapped to attention and turned to face me. “May de Vries, please.”

“I am she.”

“Oh … in that case”—he fumbled through a leather bag and extracted an oversized envelope—“this is for you, ma’am. You must sign for it.”

I did the officer’s bidding and joined Daisy on the couch. Opening the envelope, I pulled out a two-page document and skimmed it: “Dr. Ernest Whidbey … sues for repayment.”

“My God,” I said, snapping my head up. “He’s suing me.”

I clapped my eyes to the document again: “… black pearl brooch … valued at £4,217 … by order of court … appear before King’s Bench Division … March 24, 1910.”

Gaping at the page, I exclaimed, “For over twenty thousand dollars.”

“What gall,” said Daisy.

I threw the papers on the coffee table. “He’ll not get the brooch back, or the money.”



I strode into court on the designated date, with Daisy at my side. We navigated the maze of wooden compartments in the windowless chamber, Daisy to the adjacent witnesses’ room and me to a seat beside my solicitor, Henry Brewster. Mr. Brewster was reputed to be a tough-minded counsel; he certainly looked the part, with his severe, overhanging brow and stern demeanor. During our preparatory meetings, I found his manner diligent and no-nonsense. He’d been thorough in gathering background and subsequently suggested we levy a counterclaim—for the roughly fourteen thousand dollars I had lent Ernest to gamble in Monte Carlo, as well as fifteen thousand dollars for damages to my reputation. As Mr. Brewster explained, a civil suit is like a chess game: Strategy and cunning are everything. And, after all, I had been ill-used by Ernest, kept under his roof against my wishes after he’d promised marriage. (If my marriage to Rudolph came up, I could easily explain that Rudolph had drawn up the divorce papers and stood ready to sign.)

The jurors trudged in and seated themselves in the box to the side of the courtroom, and the judge entered and stepped up to his pedestal seat. I felt Ernest glaring at me, but I held myself still and trained my eyes on the judge.

After a flurry of preliminaries and jury instructions, Judge Darling invited Ernest’s solicitor, Mr. Ainsworth, to present his case.

Mr. Ainsworth eased off his chair and arranged the flows of his black robe. The judge and solicitors looked quite ridiculous in their long robes, silly bobbed wigs, and white Pilgrim-style ties. And Ainsworth, a short elderly man with a head too large for his narrow-shouldered frame, looked especially so, preening and strutting in the manner of a child who’d finally discovered a way to fend off his bully tormentors.

He began, “M’lord and members of the jury, Dr. Ernest Whidbey’s claim is very simple. He seeks to recover the loan he extended to the Baroness May de Vries, a loan she requested for the purchase of an expensive brooch. You see, Dr. Whidbey and the defendant resided together for roughly five years. During that time, the kind doctor paid all household as well as traveling expenses. After these years of support, the defendant suddenly and inexplicably fled the household, taking this brooch with her, leaving no address, and failing to repay the loan. As for her counterclaim, the requests are ludicrous, a mere attempt to skirt the issue before us. While the Baroness did loan Dr. Whidbey funds to gamble, she did so of her own initiative, requesting that he gamble on her behalf. Nor does the damages claim make any sense under the circumstances. Dr. Whidbey invited her to reside at Bray Lodge, she willingly agreed, and, furthermore, she was free to leave at any time.

“I now call Dr. Ernest Whidbey to the witness stand.”

For the next few hours, I suffered through Ernest’s laments: “I purchased the black-pearl brooch expressly at the Baroness’s request.” … “Why, yes, she even picked it up from the jeweler.” … “She told me on several occasions that she found our living arrangement very agreeable.” … “I was completely shocked by her sudden departure.”

My solicitor, however, nicely countered these pronouncements by calling me to testify about Ernest’s assurances of marriage.

“Yes,” I explained. “It was my understanding we were to wed. Although he claimed that his former wife made that difficult.”

After establishing that Ernest had, all along, showered me with his favors, including some very fine pieces of jewelry, my attorney asked, “Do you believe an immoral consideration entered into his reason for these purchases?”

I lowered my eyes to my lap. “Yes.”

“And how would you characterize that expectation?”

“That I reside with him as if we were married.”

“Which you did for almost five years?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever wish to quit this immoral arrangement?”

“Yes, the last few years.”

“What prevented you?”

“He physically threatened me. I feared for my safety.”

But of course Mr. Ainsworth insisted on cross-examining me.

I held up quite well until he launched a surprise attack.

“Baroness, do you know a man by the name of Basil Zaharoff?”

“Yes.”

“What is the nature of your relationship with him?”

“I consider him an acquaintance.”

“Do you, my lady, entertain all acquaintances through the night?”

Stunned, I clapped a hand to my breast.

My solicitor shot to his feet. “Objection, m’lord. Mr. Ainsworth is damning by insinuation.”

Judge Darling gazed down upon Ainsworth. “Sustained. Please reframe the question, Mr. Ainsworth.”

“Yes, m’lord,” he said. Turning to me, he asked, “Did you travel to the Continent from the seventh to the thirteenth of January?”

“Yes.”

“Did you meet Mr. Zaharoff there?”

“No, I did not.”

“Why did you leave London that week?”

“To visit the church my father was baptized in.”

“Where is this?”

“In Nancy, Alsace.”

Ainsworth scratched his forehead. “What prompted you to do this in the middle of the winter?”

“Christmas always makes me sentimental. And it was the first time I felt free to travel there.”

“This trip had nothing to do with Mr. Zaharoff?”

I huffed with impatience. “I have said I did not meet Mr. Zaharoff on this trip.”

“Do you deny a romantic involvement with Mr. Zaharoff?”

I squared my shoulders. “Yes, I do.”

Ainsworth further inquired into dates that I had purportedly spent in Mr. Zaharoff’s company in Monte Carlo and London, but I held my own and fended off his charges. And when Daisy ascended to the witness box, she corroborated my report. Still, at the close of the session, Daisy and I immediately retired to the lounge at the Shaftesbury, where I drank three sherries to calm my rattled nerves.