New York - The Novel

he was just turning to leave when Mrs. Master appeared behind the maid and, seeing him there, motioned him to come in. He stepped from the bright sunlight into the shadowy space of the hall.
    “Good morning, Mr. O’Donnell,” she said. “I’m afraid Mary’s away.”
    “I knew they were going,” he said, “but I didn’t know they’d already left.”
    Mrs. Master wasn’t the kind of woman he liked. A privileged evangelical,a fervent abolitionist, a damned Republican. When ninety-two society ladies had got up a committee to improve the city’s sanitation, he hadn’t been surprised to learn that she was one of them. Perhaps they did some good. He didn’t much care.
    But she’d been a good friend to Mary. And that was the only thing he needed to know.
    “I have the address where they’re staying,” she offered. “Is there anything I can do?”
    “No, I don’t believe so.” He paused a moment. “The reason I called, Mrs. Master, is that I think there’s going to be trouble.”
    “Oh. What kind of trouble, Mr. O’Donnell?”
    “Trouble in the streets. I hope I’m wrong, but I wanted to tell her to be careful. You and Mr. Master, too,” he added.
    “Oh,” she said again. His vision had adjusted to the shadow of the hall, and now he noticed that she was looking unusually pale. Her eyes were red, too, as if she’d been crying. “If you happen to see my husband,” she said, “please be sure to tell him. In fact …” she seemed to hesitate, and he saw a little look of desperation in her eyes—“just so I know he’s safe, you might ask him to come home.”

    The St. Nicholas Hotel was huge. Its white marble facade dominated the whole block between Broome and Spring Street on Broadway’s west side. Six stories high, six hundred rooms. Luxury on a huge scale. Well-heeled tourists crowded in there, and their New York friends were glad to meet them in its paneled halls, where you could take tea under frescoed ceilings and gaslight chandeliers.
    So if a New York gentleman happened to visit one of the guests, no one was likely to notice. And Frank Master had been in the St. Nicholas Hotel since Saturday afternoon.
    The guest he was visiting also resided in the city. Her name was Lily de Chantal. At least, that was her name nowadays. When she was born thirty-three years ago in Trenton, New Jersey, it had been Ethel Cook. But the professional name she had chosen, when she’d still had hopes of being a soloist, was so pleasing to her and all those who met her, that she never bothered to use her old name at all now, if she could help it.
    Some successful lady singers had big bodies to go with their big voices, and maybe Lily’s voice wasn’t quite big enough to propel her into the firstrank of singers, but her body was certainly a very pretty package indeed. Her speaking voice was quiet, but she had trained herself to speak with an actor’s precision; so that, if her accent wasn’t French, you certainly wouldn’t have guessed—except for moments of private laughter, or passion—that she came from Trenton. You really couldn’t have said where she came from.
    Lily de Chantal had only had five significant lovers in her life. She had chosen each of them in the hope that they might further her career. The first, and best, choice had been an impresario, the next a conductor, and the other three were rich men of business. Of those, the first two had been significant patrons of the opera. Frank Master went to the opera, but that was all, and perhaps her choice of him indicated that she had recognized the need to look for other insurance policies now.
    But while she was yours, it had to be said, she gave you her entire attention, which was well worth having. Besides that, she was always amusing, often tender, and sometimes vulnerable. All her ex-lovers were her friends. If only her voice had been a little better, she’d have had everything she wanted.
    Frank Master wasn’t really her lover yet. Though he didn’t quite know it, he was still on trial. She found him intelligent, kindly, somewhat ignorant of opera, but maybe improvable.
    It wasn’t surprising that Frank Master should have met Lily de Chantal at the opera. Ever since the city’s opera had been set up as a going concern the century before—by Mozart’s librettist, no less—it had been a big thing in New York. Operas had been performed in numerous theaters, and not only for the rich elite. When Jenny Lind had sung for a huge