Good Night, Mr. Holmes (11 page)

“Lillie Langtry has already used black,” I reminded her, “and black is your best color, although that may seem a contradiction in terms.”

“Never mind,” her voice would sing out.

I could have intruded into her bedchamber during the days that followed and satisfied my curiosity, but was too proud to display it. On Friday she produced her plainest black bombazine gown, now accoutered with fresh white collar and cuffs, and held it against me.

“Most fetching in a sober-sided, Puritan sort of way,” she pronounced, and vanished again.

Sunday afternoon came round. I donned her adulterated gown along with a martyred air that came more readily and waited for Irene to reveal herself.

A rustle from her bedchamber made me turn. She emerged, clad from head to toe in white silk, but not the opposite of black, not pure and simple white. No, this gown had been festooned like a wedding cake in layers of tulle, lace and paste stones until Irene’s figure glimmered like an opal.

“I believe,” she said modestly as she accepted my gawking tribute, “that we must hire a hansom. I will let you off early. Remember, 27 Cheyne Walk. Do not be surprised by anything I might do, and when you see me, you must not recognize me.”

“I will not—and do not,” I commented rather acidly, and thus began my brief employment as a domestic servant.

Cheyne Walk was a fashionable street extending behind the Thames Embankment, valued for the river view it offered residents.

I walked to No. 27, having been duly put afoot several doors away, and went to the tradesmen’s entrance, as behooved a servant. Here, much to my surprise, I was greeted as if a guest and a welcome one at that.

“I’ve come to pour,” I announced to the harried cook garnishing platters of tidbits.

“You must be Huxleigh, the parson’s daughter!” she hallooed as though hailing the Second Coming. “Saints be praised! Mrs. Stoker will be relieved to see you.”

“I don’t know how my arrival can relieve our distinguished hostess,” I began modestly.

‘Tut, tut,” the buxom cook hushed me. “Amy!” she called to a maid. “Tell the Missus that Miss Huxleigh’s here, and in good time, too. What a jewel,” she concluded, pinching my cheeks until they burned.

A pretty, rather cool-mannered woman rustled in shortly after, her taffeta train sweeping the kitchen stones.

“You’ve come to pour—Miss Huxleigh, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank God! Is there anything you require?” she asked, her pale hands wringing prettily with all their rings a-winking.

“Only a seat and the proper equipment.”

The lady laughed. “You must think us mad. But the maid who poured last Sunday cast a cupful of hot tea over Mr. Whistler’s hand. Such an uproar! Think what symphonies in pigment have not been fashioned this week because of it. Come, I’ll show you the table.”

She pivoted sharply so her train would properly follow and led me upstairs into a handsome drawing room where an even handsomer silver service stood guard over snowy linen and a regiment of empty cups and saucers.

“Irene—Miss Adler, that is—explained that you have the steadiest hand in London, having poured for a Shropshire parson, and we do know how clumsy country gentry can be.” Mrs. Stoker beamed happily while I ensconced myself behind the white linen and assumed my most competent demeanor. “Is there anything you require, my dear?”

“Nothing at all, save that the samovar be kept filled and hot.”

“Oh, the maid can manage
that.
It’s the handling of the china and its contents that are needed.”

She pivoted and fluttered off as a towering, red-bearded gentleman paused in the archway, leaving me to regard an empty room.

It was not to remain so. As the clock struck three guests began to arrive. I had never seen such an assortment in my life. Each seemed to have stepped from some garish theatrical poster. I sat among these milling strangers, dispensing tea as I had been taught, my only words a dulcet “Milk?”... a tart “Lemon?” ... and a simpering “Sugar?”

Ladies in languishing Aesthetic dress, their polonaises edged in key-design embroidery and their hair banded by golden fillets, slouched past, redolent of the glories that were Greece. Sunflowers and lilies, the favored flowers of the Aesthetic movement, decorated many gowns. I even spied a green carnation in one gentleman’s lapel and began to regard the towering Redbeard, in conventional dress for all his larger-than-life size, as a bulwark of conventionality.

It became a game to pick out famous figures from their cartoon versions in
Punch:
the dapper little man in cutaway coat and monocle, a lightning strike of white streaking his thick black hair—the very Mr. James McNeill Whistler whose hand had suffered from the ministrations of my predecessor.

I trembled inwardly as he approached my post. “Tea, sir?” I inquired.

The small hands, so delicate for a man’s, twitched. “If you can pour it into a cup instead of a cupped hand, my good woman,” he shrilled in an American accent.

This I managed, even while searching the crowd for the one familiar figure I had expected—Irene’s. Where was she? Surely she was not asking our cabman to drive endlessly along the river?

“My earnest congratulations,” Mr. Whistler remarked in Prussic acid tones as he gazed into the limpidity of his unadorned tea. He eyed the cup. “Blue china. Florence has improved her taste since last week—in both receptacle and tea mistress.”

With that terse praise he moved on. A flurry near the archway caused a universal pause. A woman had arrived, but it was not Irene. I could only see thick, flowing hair and languid hands. Gentlemen buzzed around her like bees at a honey hive. I stared beyond them, wondering what awful eventuality had occasioned Irene’s absence.

“You pour with the liquid rhythm of a villanelle,” said a deep, musical voice at my elbow. My elbow! I looked down to find a large young man half-reclining on the carpet, gazing up at me like a spaniel through wings of long brown hair.

“I beg your pardon?” said I.

“And well you should for wasting the poetry of your pouring on this callow mob. You should pour only for a chosen, appreciative few.”

“Indeed.” As a parson’s daughter I had found that word an adequate response to almost any situation.

“Quite right to keep your own counsel, prim nymph of the afternoon libation, as utterly, utterly cool as a marble chessboard, mute as concealed pain.”

“Would you like a cup of tea, is that it?”

Long pale hands fanned into ten eloquently separate fingers—an overblown flower losing its petals. Everything about my admirer drooped—his shoulder-length hair, his soft velvet tie, the green carnation in his lapel and most of all, his expression.

“I seek ambrosia,” he whispered.

“I am very sorry. I’m not serving any of that. Perhaps the punch table—”

“Cruel sprite of ancient rites. I withdraw, but my admiration remains.”

With that the odd young man rose—which took some time as he, like Redbeard, towered over six feet when standing—and ebbed into the murmuring clusters.

Another hush. This time the woman who entered the room was she whom I expected—Irene, calla-lily grand in her white gown. She was accompanied by a man I had never seen. I blinked and almost spilled a drop of tea.

“So sorry, Mr.”—I looked up and suddenly knew Red-beard’s identity—Abraham Stoker, the great actor Henry Living’s manager, properly known as “Bram.” “Mr. Stoker.”

Our host was watching Irene with as much puzzlement as myself and ambled off to survey her at close hand. Soon she had commanded her own swarm of humming gentlemen—Mr. Whistler, whose shrill voice made up for his short stature in asserting his presence, Mr. Stoker, the melancholy young poet and a half-dozen others.

Her escort, an unremarkable man who apparently did not mind being supplanted, presented himself at my station. “All is well?” he hissed as I served him weak tea with two slices of lemon, as requested.

“Of course.”

“She said I was to keep an eye on you.”

“Who are you?” I asked. I knew who “she” was.

“Pinkerton,” he whispered, then winked and withdrew with his teacup.

I don’t know why I was to have an eye kept on me, for all eyes were on Irene. Her ringing voice announced her progress as she sailed from group to group around the long room.

“Oh, this fashion for Aesthetics has its attractions, chiefly in its practitioners,” she would say with a nod to all the oddly attired gentlemen. “And Mr. Tiffany was telling me only the other day of his preference for the ingeniously set semi-precious stone over the too-flagrant appeal of emeralds, sapphires, rubies and diamonds.”

“So true,” said he who had admired the perfection of my pouring. “Precious gems offer only four colors, but semiprecious stones rainbow the world. Art is not to be found in crude cost, but in effect and emotion.”

“We know
your
too-too opinions, Oscar! What of the lady’s?” someone gibed.

I sat appalled. Every word that Irene had uttered was truth—seen through a wavy glass. Heads had inclined wisely around her while she quoted Mr. Tiffany as if he were a close friend, as if she were intimate with the wearing of jewels.

“I myself remain hopelessly partial to the gaudy appeal of fine stones, like diamonds,” she spoke again, no doubt as honestly if misleadingly.

“Why not?” a gentleman quipped. “They bring out the fire of your eyes.”

“Her eyes are crystals of seared topaz whose fire is to be most found in the hearts of her ardent admirers,” another wit riposted.

Irene dodged these fulsome compliments and surfaced in the center of another group, always probing for news of diamonds. Her weapon was our scant half-hour with the American king of jewels.

“Mr. Tiffany was telling me of a magnificent corsage his artisans are readying for a future Paris Exposition,” she whispered to the ladies. One in particular bowed her head to better hear the news, and in that cut-steel profile I recognized at last the infamous Lillie Langtry.

“Oh!” complained the young woman beside me whose white gloves had been baptized by a few tea drops as my eye fixed upon the Jersey Lily. So does idle curiosity lead to a downfall.

I mopped the mess up with a napkin and listened for more news of this mythical diamond corsage, for Mr. Tiffany had not breathed a word of it to either of us.

“A corsage?” Lillie Langtry repeated in her clear voice. “That does not sound a worthy centerpiece for a major exhibition.”

“Not a simple shoulder corsage, my dear, but a lace-work of two thousand diamonds swagged from shoulder to bosom to the opposite hip, thus,” Irene explained, gesturing appropriately to her figure and thus drawing the gentlemen again.

The women sighed and gasped.

“There will be large diamond rosettes at shoulder, center bosom and hip,” Irene added. “Of course such a piece will be years in the making. A pity that the fashion for diamonds is spent. Mr. Tiffany wastes his time.”

“Perhaps not,” put in a portly gentleman who drank a cerise punch that echoed his choleric features. “There was talk years ago of a singular diamond belt, all matched stones falling to the floor in several strings, like a waterfall.”

“Now that would be an Aesthetic application of a
bourgeois
stone,” the young poet declared, “tied into a belt to secure a lady’s Grecian draperies or a snood to hold her flowing hair.”

“A thing of myth, no doubt, Oscar,” jeered Mr. Whistler, “as is Tiffany’s corsage. I’ll believe such fabulous artifacts when I see them—and when I do, I’ll grind them to powder and use them in my paints. The cool simplicity of Japanese blue-ware outshines the brightest French-cut stones.”

“Was it French, do you think, Mr. Whistler? That belt?” Irene put in quickly.

“I don’t know what the deuce it was, Miss Adler, or even
that
it was. Nor do I care.”

“Norton did,” the florid-faced man put in. “Great fancier of diamonds. Said there was a fortune in them. Now the Dutch own them all and half of South Africa as well, and we pay a pretty price for such vices as diamonds.”

“Norton?” Irene inquired brightly.

“Must be dead by now,” the gentleman rambled. “Old Norton. Wife had all the money, you know. One of Sheridan’s granddaughters—three dazzlers with flashing dark eyes and wit to go with. Wrote verse and novels, you know. Left her husband, too—litigious barrister, no damn good, rotter through and through, but that’s another story. She didn’t have much for diamonds, but her novels made a pretty penny to buy paste with—until old Norton took it all in a lawsuit.”

‘Tell us more of Mr. Tiffany’s fabulous corsage,” a woman begged.

“I must not,” Irene said quickly. “It is a secret. I have said too much already.”

“Why is it that tales of rare jewels are always secrets?” drawled a pallid young man with lank flaxen hair.

“That is what makes them so rare,” put in the poet.

Everyone laughed and the conversation turned. Irene remained abstracted, perhaps wondering how to divert the talk to her purpose again. But the stream of chitchat babbled on, interrupted only by the rougher rapids of witty venom from Mr. Whistler or the languid poet.