Wilful Impropriety (11 page)

Nussbaum nodded, but didn’t seem convinced. He thought for a long time.

“Peter . . .” he said softly. “Hundreds of people died in that storm. If he was responsible for it, as you claim . . .”

Oesterlische waved a hand.

“Some drunks on the Bowery died because they couldn’t find enough cardboard to crawl under. Hardly Marinus’s fault.”

Oesterlische stopped when he saw Nussbaum’s fist clenched at his side.

“Drunks. And children. And old women.” Nussbaum said. But he said nothing more, and Oesterlische quickly mortared over the awkward moment by pulling out his pocket watch and scrutinizing it closely.

“Well, well. Look at the time.” Oesterlische had a couple of hours before he had to get himself ready to attend the party at the Wildishes’. “What do you say I stand us to a round of drinks? I think we’ve earned them.”

To his surprise, Nussbaum refused his offer, tipped his hat stiffly, and hurried off into the milling crowds climbing onto a streetcar headed downtown. Oesterlische watched after his retreating form for a moment, eyes narrowed.

Now, what kind of bee had gotten into
his
bonnet?
Oesterlische wondered. Oh well. Never mind.

He had a party to get to.

•   •   •

Artemus Q. Wildish had made his money in mercantile stores and international shipping. He lived on 60th, in the newly fashionable uptown—even Oesterlische could remember when everything above 40th was nothing but mud lots and wandering goats. But now it was the playground of the wealthy, with cobblestoned roads and freshly planted trees, and huge concretions of white marble.

The specific context of his attendance at the Wildish party was as a dependable, acceptably bred spare man, one of the many eligible bachelors intended to balance out the superabundance of ineligible widows, antique grandmothers, and sharp-tongued maiden aunts. He was expected to be charming to such ladies, and take their arms when it was time to go in to dinner. Beyond that, his time was his own.

In his pocket, he had tucked a blue satin box with an enameled bonbonnière he’d purchased earlier in the week. He would look for an opportune moment to give it to Winifred Wildish. She would pay the gift hardly any notice, just as she hadn’t paid much attention to the other little presents he had brought her—chocolate drops, small volumes of poetry bound in kid, fragrant satin pomanders. They were gestures merely, each one a formal token of his continued suit. She would refuse to accept it at first, then would finally succumb with a smile and a distancing word. In a day or so, she would send him a thank-you note scented with perfume, and he’d send her a teasing little reply. It was pat as a contract negotiation. And why shouldn’t it be, when Winifred was old Wildish’s only daughter, and stood to inherit a $30 million fortune?

The negotiations had been in danger of floundering of late. The specifics of the Wildish Disaster were not particularly exotic. Over the past fortnight, Oesterlische had lost quite a large sum of
père
Wildish’s money as a result of unwise speculation in pork belly futures. But with an attractive new business opportunity to present to Artemus Q. Wildish, Oesterlische felt that he’d found a way to extricate himself from the Wildish Disaster—and indeed, radically transform it into the Oesterlische Triumph.

The hack brought him through the porte cochère and he climbed out, taking the low, broad front steps two at a time.

Masses of white roses and swags of silver bunting decorated the vast marble entry hall. Beyond, through the open doors, he could see that the ballroom was already crowded with dozens of beautifully dressed notables in silk and satin and lace. He breathed in the smell of money.

Winifred was nowhere to be seen, and after an hour of trading barbs with other spare males of similar circumstance and downing glasses of champagne liberated from passing waiters, he began to grow annoyed. He went out the side door for a private cigarette, and as he was pulling the silver case from his inside pocket, he was surprised to see Winifred bustling up the street. She was still in a simple afternoon dress and her cheeks were flushed with hurrying. She was being followed at a slight distance by two rather unseemly looking men in threadbare overcoats, their heads down and their hands jammed into their pockets. He was about to leap out into the street and tell the mashers to shove off when Winifred paused at the gate and turned back to them.

“Thank you, Mr. Lamb! Thank you, Mr. Gussy! Goodnight! Goodnight!”

The unseemly men stopped. Each one tipped his hat to her. Then they melted away into the dark street. Winifred hurried up the stairs toward the back door, jumping when she saw Oesterlische standing there.

“Mr. Oesterlische!”

“Late for your own party?” he said, as he helped her off with her overcoat and took her small purse. He looked up the street. “You know those thugs?”

“Oh, they aren’t thugs! That’s just Mr. Lamb and Mr. Gussy. I was down at the soup kitchen on Cherry Street handing out soup, and they walked me home. They often walk me home. They call it
watching my back
.”

Watching your bustle, more like
, Oesterlische thought with disapproval. But the discussion quickly left Mr. Lamb and Mr. Gussy as Winifred broke out in a flustered dither: “Oh, I can’t believe I’m so late! I’ve been running around all day, and everything’s started and I’m not even dressed!”

“There, there. It’s all right,” he said. He always adopted his most soothing manner with her, because she was always so much in need of it. Volunteering at soup kitchens and distributing double-eagles to widows with eighteen children and things like that gave her whole existence the frothy consistency of whipped cream. Such activities took her to the worst kinds of neighborhoods at all hours of the day and night, which made Oesterlische worry. Charity was all well and good, but he certainly hoped, over time, she could be enticed to perform her good works at a greater distance. And without unseemly looking men in shabby overcoats walking her home.

But he didn’t share these concerns with her. He carefully avoided chaffing her about anything that could possibly be a point of controversy. There’d be time enough for all that later.

“No one’s missed you yet, except me.” He gave her another winning smile.

She pressed his hand with hers before vanishing up the back stairs in a storm of small footsteps.

He found himself standing in the vestibule, feeling rather silly holding her coat and her gloves and her purse. He chuckled at the ridiculousness of it. He hung the coat on a nearby peg, dusting the snow from her gloves and tucking them in the pocket. He hung the purse on a different hook, and was suddenly struck by a clever inspiration.

He reached into his pocket and took out the blue satin box. With the small pencil that he carried around in his address book, he rubbed out the tedious inscription he had written and wrote “With fond regards from your coat-check boy.” Yes, that was rather clever. He opened her purse and tucked the present inside.

As he did, his fingers came across a rectangle of stiff poster-board. He could not help but draw it out for a look. He stared at it for a moment. It was a round-trip train ticket to Boston, canceled two days ago . . . Tuesday.

What an odd coincidence
, Oesterlische thought, remembering his own magical trip to Boston with Nussbaum. That had been on Tuesday as well.

He stared at the ticket, brow wrinkling. Why on earth would she have gone to
Boston
? Shopping? But who shopped in
Boston
? Visiting friends? But who had friends in
Boston
?

The strangeness of the coincidence firmed a resolution that had been building in Oesterlische since he’d parted from Nussbaum earlier in the day. He had already decided he was going to go pay Marinus a private follow-up visit. He wanted to make sure the warlock was keeping detailed notes, for one thing. Oesterlische didn’t want to be left flat should Nussbaum’s worrying persnickitude induce him to take his scroll and go home. This strange new Boston connection was worth talking over, too.

Hearing people coming toward the door, Oesterlische swiftly tucked the ticket back down in her purse, along with the blue satin box. He closed it up, left to hang there for her to find. He was already composing the teasing little reply he’d send her when she sent him her thank-you note.

•   •   •

Winifred came down a half-hour later, wearing a dress of gray silk tissue, draped up in the back with a spray of pink satin roses. She hadn’t done much with her hair, Oesterlische noticed, but what she’d forgone in coiffure she’d made up for with jewelry—a high diamond choker, dangling earrings, and a massive hair clip. The effect was dazzling. Oesterlische watched her glitter all the way down the stairs.

It took her a while, but finally she made it through the crowd to where Oesterlische stood casually discussing Wordsworth with some superannuated pastor. After Winifred had given them both a polite greeting, Oesterlische turned his back on the little pastor, drawing Winifred to one side. He had better things to talk about than Wordsworth, now that he had a better partner.

“Thank you for helping me,” she said to him, in a low voice. “You’re right, nobody missed me.”

“Except me,” he reminded her. “How could I possibly enjoy myself without you? Like a faithful dog, sitting on the stoop, waiting for his mistress’s return . . .”

“Oh, nonsense,” she said. “You were out to have a smoke.”

“Well, perhaps I
was
going to have a smoke while I pined miserably for you,” Oesterlische said, in a somewhat hurt tone. “But it was only to soothe my longing and despair.”

“Longing and despair?” Winifred’s voice was soft, and she turned her eyes down in a very maidenly fashion. She even blushed. “For me?”

Oesterlische seized his opportunity. Making his voice very low and serious, he said: “Every moment I am parted from you is one I pass in agony.” He let these words hang, which was a risky move given that the party around them was bustling and swirling and the resonant effect of them was likely to be lost. But they did not seem to be lost on Winifred. She blushed deeper. He calculated his chances, decided that they’d never be better than at that exact moment.

“I love you, Winifred,” he said, clasping her hand. “Be my wife.”

Winifred pulled her hand away, pressed it to her hot cheek.

“Oh, Peter!” She looked up at him, her eyes moist and pleading. “If only you knew how happy those words make me . . .” she paused, looked away. “But . . . my father is so terribly angry at you. He says you’ve lost him a lot of money, and that he can’t forgive you for it. He’ll never consent, never!”

“He’ll consent,” Oesterlische smiled down at her. He touched a finger to the side of his nose. “I’ve got a new business opportunity for him. It will make him millions.”

Winifred’s lower lip trembled. Hope kindled in her eyes, but then, just as quickly, she stifled it.

“No,” she said. “I daren’t dream of the joy that could be ours. He won’t give you any more money. I’d bet my life on it.”

“Oh, so you want to
bet
, do you?” Oesterlische said. Silly girl, she knew he could never pass up a wager. Oesterlische lifted his chin. “Your father’ll give me not a penny less than $25,000. If I win, you marry me.”

“Make it $50,000,” Winifred returned, with the quickness of a Bowery card sharp. Oesterlische’s eyes widened. He must have looked a little unsure of such a large raise, because Winifred’s face became soft and pleading again.

“You
can
get $50,000 . . . can’t you?”

“Well . . .” Oesterlische lifted his chin. “Of course I can! Just watch me! It’s as good as done!”

“And then I’ll be yours,” Winifred said, in a low, thrilling voice. “
All
yours.”

Oesterlische was so taken by this dazzling concept that he hardly noticed Artemus Q. Wildish standing behind him until the older man tapped him heavily on the shoulder.

“Young man!” Artemus Q. Wildish’s voice boomed in Oesterlische’s ear, making him wince. “Step into my office.”

•   •   •

“You’ve lost me a lot of money.”

Artemus Q. Wildish’s voice was stern and disapproving. It almost ruined the pleasure Oesterlische felt at being in Wildish’s den. Wildish’s den was a wonderful, masculine place, wall papered in bookshelves with acres of expensively bound books. Everything smelled of leather and hound dog and brandy. There was a roaring, welcoming fire in the hearth. Oesterlische felt quite certain that if he were to own such a den, he would never leave it, even to fetch spendthrift young brokers with designs on his daughter in by the ear.

Wildish went to a humidor and withdrew a pair of fat, fragrant Cuban cigars and handed one to Oesterlische. The old man went through all the fussy motions of cigar smoking—clipping the end and piercing it, rolling it between his fingers contemplatively, sniffing it.

“You’ve lost me $10,000, to be precise.” Wildish lit the cigar, looking at Oesterlische through the flame. “And I want to know what you intend to do about it.”

“I intend to hit you up for another $100,000,” Oesterlische said, letting his cigar rest between his fingers, unfiddled with. The older man’s eyes widened as he waved out the match and puffed out a mouthful of smoke.