Gramercy Park. Paula Cohen

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       Chapter Seven

      FOR THE PAST TWENTY YEARS, every Tuesday and Friday, Thaddeus Chadwick has taken his midday meal in the dining room of the house in Gramercy Park. It is his custom. Chadwick is a man of regular habits, and even though his erstwhile host is now no more, his custom it remains. Clearly, then, if an occurrence as momentous as the death of a beloved friend need cause no alteration in the established routine of a man of regular habits, it logically follows that mere illness, barring the threat of contagion, would certainly not be grounds for so much as a moment’s deviation. And so, even during the blackest weeks of Clara’s affliction, Chadwick had continued his punctual arrivals at half past eleven twice each week, whereupon he would confer with the doctor, gaze briefly at the patient, and then descend to the dining room, there to partake of a leisurely, and very full, luncheon.

      And yet, for all his immutability, Chadwick has made one very recent modification. With Clara convalescent and able to take her meals at table once more, the attorney, unbidden, has changed the venue of his noon meals from the solitary splendor of the dining room to the more homely comforts of the girl’s sitting room. Luncheon is now served, every Tuesday and Friday at precisely twelve noon, at the very same table where she had heard her future read in a cup of tea.

      The question of whether Clara is pleased with this new arrangement has never been raised, as Chadwick had not found it necessary to consult with her before making it, doubtless assuming that since his meals would be more enjoyable if taken with her, it could only follow that hers would be more enjoyable if taken with him. Let it only be said, therefore, that she acquiesces in this as she does in all things.

      Nevertheless, both as meals and as occasions for social intercourse, the success of these times together has, until today, been most emphatically one-sided: Clara eats almost nothing and generally says even less than she eats, leaving her companion to fill both himself and the silence. But today, with the remains of his usual hearty meal spread before him, Chadwick’s conversation is full of Mrs. Astor’s grand end-of-season gala, held the night before last. Chadwick’s eye is good—none better at noticing things that others overlook—and his powers of description excellent; and although he has somehow neglected to mention the gala’s raison d’être and the presence of its guest of honor, Clara listens raptly for once, seeing it all in her mind’s eye.

      “It must have been wonderful,” she murmurs.

      “Wonderful? My dear child! What jewels, what food, what music! Such a pity that you could not have been there to see for yourself. But then”—he reaches over and pats her hand, which she quietly withdraws into her lap—“you are not the giddy, thoughtless type of creature who delights in such frivolous pleasures. You are more sedate, more modestly womanly. Yours are the small joys of quiet evenings in your own cozy bower, with your books and your needlework, are they not? Why, I have always known you to be such a solemn little creature that I believe the very idea of frivolity bores you.”

      “No,” she says dreamily. “Once, when I was very young, I watched two older cousins dress for a ball. It was so magical to me, like Cinderella come true, and I thought of the gown I would wear to a ball one day … and how I would waltz, and waltz, and waltz, until the sun came up …”

      For all her illness and her shorn hair and her strange, solitary existence, for all that she belongs nowhere … she is still a young girl like any other; she had had dreams, once, of a gown like a froth of pearls and moonlight; had pictured herself, light as a bubble, the shining magnet of all eyes.

      Chadwick watches her while she is far away, lost in the pretty dream. Not himself being prey to visions of pearls and moonlight, his passionless gaze misses no sign of her recent illness: the restless fingers folding and unfolding the napkin in her lap, the tiny, nervous twitch of a muscle at the corner of her eye … and yet her color is definitely better today, and she looks less drawn and exhausted. She starts suddenly, and flushes under his close gaze, catching herself.

      “My dear, is something wrong?” he says, but it is another moment before she answers him.

      “No … no, nothing,” she replies in confusion, her head bowed, her hand at her throat. “I did not mean to startle you. I … I was only …”

      “You were daydreaming. Was it a pleasant dream?”

      “It was nothing. Only …” She colors again. “Nothing.”

      “As СКАЧАТЬ