Gramercy Park. Paula Cohen

laid down when he died, leaving you—need I say it?—with nothing, I need not go into, for I know that you know them all too well. Just think, dear girl, of where you might be right now, had I not kept this roof to shelter you.”

      Clara bows her head. Months of constant reminders of what might have been have not accustomed her to her utter indebtedness to this man, or blunted the horror of what, without his continued goodwill, might yet still be.

      The wretchedness that awaits her without his help almost stops her heart. She has no friends, she has no home, no income, no livelihood, no accomplishments. She owns nothing but the contents of her wardrobe, not even the furnishings of her two rooms. Work she would welcome, but to do what? She has neither skill nor strength enough to be a maid or a shop girl, nor sufficient education to be a governess. And who would hire her, after all, to care for their innocent children? As for references …

      She stares blindly out the window. The streets are always there, waiting for her. She wipes her eyes with the heels of both hands, but the tears—always there, too, just behind her eyes—continue to well up steadily and quietly, dropping to land, like pearls, on the black lace of her bodice.

      As before, Chadwick watches her, unmoved and unmoving.

      “I am sorry to distress you, my dear,” he says, “but although it is true that, as I said, I dislike mentioning the matter, it will perhaps be necessary to remind you, from time to time, of your position. I hope that I will not have to do it often; nothing would cause me greater pain.”

      Clara, unable to speak as yet, nods her head.

      “What does that mean, my dear? Does that mean that we understand each other?”

      “Yes.”

      “I cannot hear you, my dear.”

      “Yes. We understand each other.”

      “Say it again, please, so that I may be certain of what I think I heard.”

      “We understand each other.”

      “We understand each other … Uncle Chadwick,” he says.

      “We understand each other.” She swallows her tears. “Uncle Chadwick.”

      “Good. Then tell me, dear child,” he says, bringing his face close to hers, “just how long you intended to wait before telling me of your visitor of two days ago. Or were you never going to tell me at all?”

      She shrinks back in her chair, the tears still spilling down her cheeks.

      “I did not … I did not think … that it mattered.”

      “Did you not? Or did you merely think that I would never know? Oh, no, my dear,” he says, “don’t turn your head away. If that was your innocent thought, let me make one thing perfectly clear to you, so that we need have no misunderstandings, ever again. Everything about you matters to me. Everything you think, everything you do … everything that happens to you is of the utmost concern to me.” He smiles. “Because I care for you.”

      He leans back expansively. “You are wondering just how I know, of course. I should let you believe that I can read your mind and hear your thoughts, that I am a magician—but you half believe that already. No, the explanation is much simpler than that: your visitor, himself, told me of his visit during the course of a delightful conversation we had the evening before last. You see, he was the guest of honor at Mrs. Astor’s gala.”

      Clara stares at him, uncomprehending.

      “What, my dear! Do you not even know the identity of the man you entertained so charmingly? He is only the finest singer in the world. But perhaps the two of you spent so much time speaking of your concerns about your future that he had no time to tell you of himself.” He waves his hand. “Never mind. Whatever you discussed, you certainly impressed him most favorably.”

      And yesterday’s visit? Does Chadwick know of that too? What if he does, and she remains silent? But what if he does not, and she confesses that her caller has been here, not once, but twice? Which will make him angrier? What should she say? Panicked, almost sick with fear, she stammers: “He … he stayed such a short while. We had tea. He asked me a little about myself—”

      “And you wisely told him even less, I’m sure …”

      “—and he told me a little of his family. That was all, truly! We never spoke of what he does.” Not even last evening, when she had asked him. No doubt he had seen no point in telling her. How stupid he must think her, she realizes with sudden shame—how pitifully ignorant; no wonder he had laughed at the question—and even in the midst of her fear her tears well up again at the thought that she had repaid his many kindnesses with such offense.

      “How very self-effacing of him,” Chadwick says.

      “But I should have known,” she whispers, only partly to Chadwick. “I heard him singing.”

      “Did you indeed? Then you have been the recipient of a singular honor, my dear! How fortunate that Mrs. Astor was unaware of it. The good lady would doubtless have had a seizure had she known that someone else had been the first to hear the great Alfieri sing in America, especially after trying so hard to cajole him into it at her party, and failing so abysmally. But getting back to your singer, did you know that he wishes to buy this house? Ah, so you did speak of something other than his family.”

      She wipes her eyes, her dread of imminent discovery beginning to ebb. “He likes this house.”

      “So it would appear,” Chadwick says dryly. “It seems to contain everything he wants. Nevertheless, I wish that he had held his tongue. I had wanted the news I have for you to come as a surprise.”

      “News?” she whispers.

      “About the impending change in your life.”

      She feels the trap closing around her, wants to run, to fly screaming into the street, away from what awaits her … and sits silent, instead, for there is nowhere to go, after all, and in any case it is no more than she deserves. Who will remember her when she is locked away? Oh, Mr. Alfieri … will he think of her sometime? She will never know … but at least he will be here when she is gone … he, and not some faceless stranger, treading the halls that were once her home. He had liked her a little, had made her smile, and his tales had opened a window for her onto another world, a world of happy people living happy lives. No matter that she will never be one of them … she aches with love for him, and always will. “When does he want me to leave?”

      “He? Want you to leave?” Chadwick corrects her. “Oh, no, my child, that is my decision. He wants you to stay! He feels that this house is large enough to accommodate you both. He even asked me if I would permit you to remain—with a female companion, of course, as a chaperone.” He allows just enough time for disbelief, gratitude, and an almost pathetic joy to flicker across her face before saying, with a short laugh: “You don’t believe that I would consider it for even one moment, do you?

      “For one thing,” he says, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his ample middle, as if discoursing upon a fine point of law, “the man has the manners of a peasant, and I would be remiss in my duty if I were to permit you to stay under the same roof with him. When I questioned him, civilly enough, as to whether he knew what this property was worth, he found it necessary to boast of his houses in London and Paris and Florence. He then had the effrontery to suggest that you should come with the house, as though you were some part of the furnishings. ‘Just as it was during its owner’s lifetime,’ was the phrase he used, I believe.”

      “He seemed so very kind and polite,” she whispers.

      “You doubtless have charms that I lack, my dear. But you weren’t there during my conversation with the man, were you? No, I fear that our sweet singer of songs has started off on the”—he smiles appreciatively at his bon mot—“wrong key, with me. For that reason alone I would not permit you to stay in this house with him, even if he hired fifty chaperones.

      “And speaking