THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT Anisette. Francis hadn’t been lying about that. And it honestly wasn’t the money.
Francis had considered himself quite a ladies’ man in Dublin, but he had never gotten involved in anything serious. He was young and in the years before he got tossed into Mountjoy he’d had flash clothes and money in his pockets. He was known around some of the best brothels in the city—clever and kind to the ladies, and willing to spend what he had. His line of work also brought him in contact with well-to-do women who needed him to fetch items they couldn’t acquire in Dublin—books, yes, but also luxuries like perfume and silks that were heavily taxed through the normal channels. Their thanks for his prompt attention sometimes went beyond an extra pound or two as gratuity.
But he didn’t have any experience that made sense of the way Anisette worked at him. On the ship and at Bingham Castle, he had felt an impulse that he could only describe as protective. He had been warm, enthusiastic, and quick to gainsay those who seemed keen to prick the glossy soap bubble that surrounded her. But that was no more than being polite, wasn’t it? He thought again of her appearance at his stateroom door; she seemed completely without guile. She really was concerned about his brother. She really did want to wish him a good night (Mrs. Walter hadn’t even bothered with pretense, which bespoke an honesty all its own). But since Anisette’s performance on the violin and the way he had looked straight at her, wild-eyed, and she had looked straight back, he couldn’t get her out of his head.
Perhaps the Angus disguise was starting to affect his brain. Francis wasn’t the type to fall for some doe-eyed ingenue, but maybe Sir Angus was exactly that type. And the more time he spent with Anisette, the farther he fell.
He was probably violating half a dozen rules of etiquette but he sent a card to the Binghams early Wednesday morning asking if Anisette would perhaps be available for a walk sometime after lunch. What he could not say in the note was that he had gone to bed last night thinking of the particular shade of red in her cheeks when she raised the bow from the body of the violin. Or that the first person he’d thought of when he woke that morning was her. Of course he couldn’t write any of this, but neither could he believe that he was even thinking it. When had he become such a moony romantic? Half of him—his more cynical side—wanted to see Anisette in order to bring her off the pedestal she had occupied since Monday night. Reality would surely remind him of all the ways that she was just another girl. Lying in bed the night before, he had told himself that jail was the culprit. In Dublin, he had become accustomed to the tender affection of female company, and to have it taken away for so long had made him desperate. His brief encounter with Mrs. Walter had been the uncorking of a bottle that had been shaken for a year and a half. And Peggy was easy enough to explain: ripe and blond and game for anything. Hadn’t she been the one who insisted on dancing and on calling his bluff about the Plaza? This attraction to Anisette—as if mere attraction described the space she was taking up in his crowded brain—must have been some pent-up desire, but for what, exactly? Security? Affection? Attention? It was like a toxin in his veins. The strong wine of desire having turned to vinegar from being bottled up so long. But whatever it was, Francis just wanted to see her.
He received a card by messenger less than two hours later: Miss Bingham would enjoy the pleasure of Sir Angus’s company. Could he meet her at the Central Park carousel at, say, one o’clock?
He could, of course. And he would bring Michael, too. After the visit to the doctor the day before, Michael had slept through the afternoon. When Michael woke in the evening, he looked ready to take on the world. He dressed himself smartly and the two brothers sought out a steak house where the cuts of beef hung over the edge of the plate. The dinner was splendid, but within minutes of their return to the Plaza, Michael was fast asleep and Francis was off to meet Martin. He had to admit that he’d enjoyed his night out with Martin far more than he had expected. Though the Dempseys had frayed the ties that once bound them, there was something to this business of having brothers that had, in a matter of days, wound them back together again.
ANISETTE STOOD IN front of the carousel, watching the horses leap and circle. The jaunty notes of the calliope burbled all around her, punctuated by the shouts of children. She loved the carousel, the feeling of speed and freedom as it spun, and the music, so bright and full of cheer, rising into the trees. As a girl, she had begged her nannies to take her to the carousel. Félicité had always protested. She hated the carousel, hated the wooden horses who wouldn’t tack left or right no matter how hard the rider pressed. Anisette thought this was funny, because her sister was such a great lover of horses now. Well, maybe lover was the wrong word. She spent all of her time at the farm in Connecticut in the paddock, jumping and circling. Urging the horses over the bars, speaking to them in a clipped voice that got them to prance and pivot. Did she love the horses, though? She did not baby them, did not coddle them with soft playful tones—but people had different ways of showing love. And maybe Félicité wasn’t good at love. Period.