Parlor Games: A Novel Part 22

We seated ourselves side by side on plush velvet seats, and he offered and arranged a wool warming blanket over my lap. "You must forgive me for burdening you with my insistence all these weeks."

"You are a man who is not easily deterred."

"You are a woman who is not easily forgotten," he said, his words thick with a Dutch accent. He lifted a corner of his mustache into a half smile. "I only hope you will let me prove that I can be a pleasing companion."

We drove along Shaftesbury Street, beneath ornate green lamppost spires and past theatergoers in their formal wear. I snuggled my hands together under the blanket. "I would love to hear about your family."

"My father is deceased. Mother lives at our property in Dalfsen, with my two sisters."

"Your sisters aren't married?"

"The elder, Miriam, is widowed. She lost her husband in a terrible boating accident."

I tilted my head. "How tragic."

The Baron leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. "She is managing. Mother keeps her busy a.s.sisting with the property."

Wondering if a man of his age still answered to his mother, I inquired, "Your mother's property?"

"The family's actually, though it is in my name."

"And the other sister?"

"Cornelia is only twenty. A very lively girl. She loves to ride horses."

The Baron asked after my family as well, and I told him about Papa's success in the restaurant business and how, after his untimely death, our family had retreated to northern Michigan's bountiful forests and sandy lakesh.o.r.es. As our carriage horse trudged through London's streets, past countless chimneys puffing smoke into the dusky night sky, we settled into a lively exchange about the contrasts between life in America, London, and Holland. I might have said that London's fogginess reminded me of San Francisco, or that j.a.pan's sublime temples outshone England's blocky churches, but I had resolved to make no allusions to the unfortunate chapters of my earlier life.

Dinner was pleasant enough, and though my appraisal of the Baron softened after our evening together, my initial reservations stood. He put great stock in himself, his property, and his sport as a shooter, all of which did nothing to disabuse me of my first impression about his abiding self-importance. Still, I consented to dine with him again, though I begged a busy schedule and pushed the date out two weeks hence. Meantime, to a.s.suage Daisy's concerns about our finances and to stretch my bank account until fortunes changed, I moved us out of our suite into a cozy but tastefully furnished flat on Piccadilly.

Over the spring and early summer months, the Baron persevered in his attentions, insisting each time we parted that I consent to another meeting. Though he took me to the finest restaurants, toured me through the British Museum and Kew Gardens, and proved generous in his gifts not only to me but to Daisy as well, I did not find my heart moved by him.

Then, one July morning, while Daisy and I prepared to go marketing, we were surprised by an urgent rapping. Daisy hastened to the door, and when she opened it I heard the Baron's voice.

"Miss Emmett," he asked, "is Miss Dugas in?"

After twisting around to question me with her eyes, Daisy said, "Yes, she is."

The Baron stood in the doorway, leaning first to one side and then the other, trying to see around Daisy. Upon catching my eye, he said, "May, I must speak with you. Will you invite me in?"

I'd been sitting on the sofa, composing a shopping list. I hated that he was seeing me in a simple yellow day dress, but he seemed to take no note of it. I put down my pen and paper. "Yes, of course."

Daisy stepped aside, allowing him to enter, and said, "I'll just excuse myself."

Daisy shut the door behind her, and a flush-faced Rudolph hurried in and sat down beside me on the sofa. "I am sorry to barge in on you. Please forgive me."

By this time alarm was rising in me. Might Dougherty have tracked me down? Would he dare to sully my reputation yet again? "What is it, Rudolph?"

Rudolph bent forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and nesting his face in his hands. "My baby sister, Cornelia. She has been killed in a riding accident."

I reached out and cupped my hand over his trembling shoulder. The depth of his sorrow washed over me, like the sun's rays on springtime ice. I tightened my grip, hoping the tenderness enlivening me might soothe him. "Oh, Rudolph, I'm so sorry."

He crumpled onto my lap and sobbed.

Less than a month later, Rudolph invited me to dinner at the first restaurant we had dined at in London-Wiltons. This time, however, the dining room was empty, except for one table in the middle of the room. A host of tall-stemmed candelabras graced the perimeter of the stucco-walled room, bathing it in a golden light. I hardly noticed our waiter, so un.o.btrusive was he. Over the next two hours, our gla.s.ses brimmed with claret, a squash soup prompted reminiscences of our first dinner in this very room, and plates of pheasant, Brussels sprouts, and slivered carrots appeared as if by magic.

After dinner, as I sipped my cream-laden coffee, Rudolph rose from his chair and stood by my side. He reached for my hands, brought them to his lips for a kiss, and formed them into a bowl. Dropping to a knee, he reached into his vest pocket and extracted a velvet pouch. He untied its drawstring and tugged it open.

Spilling pearls-thirty-five, I later counted-into my cupped palms, he said, "You are to me the most precious pearl. Never will I find one more perfect than you."

The pearls, warm to the touch, shimmered in the candles' halcyon glow. I lifted my eyes to Rudolph's. They, too, sparkled, but with the dew of ardor.

He placed his hands around mine. "Marry me, my darling."

THE TRIAL.

LOANS AND CHECKS.

MENOMINEE-JANUARY 26, 1917

My attorney began his afternoon examination of Frank by hammering away at her credibility on the matter of loans.

As Powers strolled casually toward the witness box, he asked, "Miss Shaver, did you ever try to borrow money from the Baroness?"

Frank frowned. "No, I did not."

"Did you, on the occasion of boarding a train to Chicago in December of 1913, ask the Baroness for money in the presence of her a.s.sistant, Miss Daisy Emmett?"

"No, that can't be."

"Why not?"

"Whenever we got on the train, Daisy headed straight for the dining car."

At this, the ladies in the courtroom found cause for merriment. I turned and sought out Daisy, who was sitting among the onlookers. She shot me a look of consternation, which faded when I myself smiled in amus.e.m.e.nt.

Mr. Powers swished a hand over his jaw. "Miss Shaver, do you recall celebrating your birthday with the Baroness on Valentine's Day of 1915 at the Windsor Hotel in Montreal?"

"That I do recall."

"Did you invite Miss Emmett to this party?"

"Yes, at May's request."

"Did you, at one point, open your purse and exclaim that you had no money?"

"No."

"Did you try to borrow money from Miss Emmett to pay for the party?"

"No."

"You deny trying to borrow money from Miss Emmett in Montreal?"

"Objection," said Sawyer. "My client answered his question."

"Sustained," said Flanagan.

Powers smoothed his palms together. "Did you ask the Baroness to give you the money to cover the hotel costs for the party?"

"Absolutely not."

Such bold, outright denials! I glanced at Daisy. She looked the way I felt-as if a horse had kicked me in the belly. Both of us, with dropped jaws, shook our heads to signal to anybody who might look our way how outraged we were by Frank's lies.

"Let me be clear, Miss Shaver. You never borrowed or attempted to borrow money from the Baroness?"

With a firm dip of her head, Frank said, "That's correct."

Powers again returned to the defendant's table, grabbed an envelope, pulled several papers from it, and advanced on the witness box. "Can you identify these items, Miss Shaver?"

Frank shuffled through a half dozen or so sheets. "They're checks made out to me from May's account."

"And did you endorse these checks?"

Frank flipped the checks over and examined each one. "Yes."

"And do they total roughly three thousand dollars?"

"Are you asking me to perform arithmetic?"

The sarcasm did not escape me, or the rest of the courtroom, though my tolerance for Frank's witticisms was wearing thin.

"Yes, Miss Shaver," said Powers, "if you would please."

Frank took her time thumbing through the checks. "Yes, about that."

"Do you still contend you never borrowed money from the Baroness?"

"Yes."

"Objection," said Sawyer. "Counsel is badgering."

Judge Flanagan knotted the lapel of his robe in his hand. "Mr. Powers, I will instruct you again to conduct your questioning without being argumentative or repet.i.tious. I will release you from your duties if you do not obey this court."

"Yes, Your Honor." Powers took a deep breath and turned to Frank. "Miss Shaver, can you explain the meaning of these checks?"

"They're for expenses."

"If they're for expenses, why are they made out to you?"

"Because I generally paid our expenses."

"What expenses were they for?"

"Could be for almost anything."

"You can remember every dollar the Baroness borrowed from you, every dollar you spent on her, but you cannot remember what these checks were for?"

"No."

"If you don't know what expenses these checks were intended to cover, how can you say they were not loans?"

"Because I did not borrow money from May. She borrowed money from me."

"You have not answered my question, Miss Shaver. Can you prove these were not loans-yes or no?"

"No, I just know they're not."

After a brief recess-and before Sawyer could attempt to repair Frank's tarnished credibility during his redirect examination-my attorney dished out another unpleasant surprise.

"Miss Shaver, do you know a Mr. Wayne Schroeder of Chicago?"

"Yes, he's an electrician who worked on my office."

"Did you discuss this lawsuit with him?"

"He asked about it after he read something in the newspaper."

"Do you recall the conversation?"

"Generally."

"Can you recount it for us?"