“Of course. I’m sure Robert would enjoy it as well.” Any opportunity to impress his employer.
“Good.” He rose. “My carriage will call for you at six.”
When he reached for his hat and looked ready to leave, Honor rose and said, “About the Graham divorce case…”
He paused expectantly.
“I realize that Gordon Graham is your friend, and I hope you won’t hold it against me or my husband that I’m representing his wife.”
LaRouche rested his head against the back of his chair. “Your husband came to me today and said the same thing.”
If Robert had been standing there, Honor would have strangled him. “He shouldn’t have done that. For him to discuss my case with you could be construed as a conflict of interest.”
LaRouche shrugged. “Who you represent is your own business, ma’am. It’s not my place to interfere unless you attack me or mine personally, and I told your husband as much.”
So that was why he had come here, to reassure her. He must have known she would worry about jeopardizing Robert’s position if she took this case. Honor let out the breath she had been holding. “I’m relieved to hear that.”
A troubled frown marred his brow, and he shook his head sadly. “I had heard that the Grahams were having difficulties, but when they came to Coppermine for the weekend, I could see it for myself.” He fell into a reflective silence for a moment. Then he said, “That Genevra used to be a little ball of fire, always laughing, full of life. Damn shame she’s changed. Now she just shakes like a calf being stalked by a cougar.”
Honor made no comment.
He stroked his mustache. “I never thought of Gordon as particularly terrifying.”
An image of Gordon Graham’s towering, powerful frame, his leonine presence, and his dark eyes glittering with disapproval flashed through Honor’s mind. She could well understand his wife’s terror.
LaRouche shook his head. “A wife shouldn’t have to fear her husband.”
“I quite agree.”
He picked up his hat, nodded, and smiled. “Six o’clock, then?”
Honor smiled back. “Six o’clock.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it.” Then he bade her good day and left.
Attending an occasional concert with Aunt Theo in Boston hadn’t prepared Honor for an evening at the Metropolitan Opera. Bostonians attended concerts to listen to the music; New Yorkers attended the opera to see and be seen.
Seated between Nevada LaRouche—who had stunned Honor by not bringing a guest to make their little party a foursome—and her husband in Damon Delancy’s box, located in the exclusive Diamond Horseshoe, Honor had a front-row seat for both performances—the one on stage and the one in the audience.
The female members of society’s elite Four Hundred, seated in nearby boxes, all wore lavish, thousand-dollar Worth gowns that most Bostonian women would have eschewed as too vulgar and ostentatious. The moment they sat down, they whipped out their opera glasses and swept the audience like searchlights seeking social transgressions. More than once Honor saw lips tighten in envy or widen into smiles of malicious satisfaction. More than once Honor felt herself the subject of their intense scrutiny.
She placed her hand on Robert’s and leaned closer so he could hear her above the din. “I feel like a sparrow among peacocks.”
She wore her favorite four-year-old summer gown of Nile green silk, which had not been made by Worth, and the emerald earbobs. No king’s ransom of diamonds or even pearls graced her neck, just her locket.
Robert brought her fingers to his sensuous lips. “You’re still the most beautiful woman here tonight,” he whispered, “and someday you will wear diamonds.”
To Honor’s left, Nevada LaRouche shifted in his seat.
Honor smiled at her husband. Now that the Graham divorce case didn’t threaten Robert’s standing with his new employer, harmony had returned to their marriage.
Just as the curtain rose on the stage set of Lucia di Lammermoor’s Ravenswood Castle, a park of rocky woods with a lake painted on the backdrop, Honor glanced over several boxes to her left and froze.
Gordon Graham sat glaring at her, the malevolence in his eyes reaching across the space that separated them to send an icy chill running down Honor’s spine.
“What’s wrong?” Nevada LaRouche whispered.
How does he always know? she wondered in astonishment. Did he feel the air stir when she shivered or stiffened? Did he hear the subtle change when her breathing quickened?
On the stage below, a group of guards searched the castle grounds, but the operagoers’ conversations didn’t cease and the opera glasses continued their blatant spying. Even the opera itself could not deter the noisy upper crust from visiting each other’s boxes, much to the chagrin of the true music lovers in the audience, who would often look up and glare.
Honor leaned over and placed her lips close to his ear. “Gordon Graham is here.”
“Where? He doesn’t go to the opera as a rule.”
“Well, he’s here now, in the third box to our left.”
“Must be somebody’s guest.” LaRouche turned his head. When he found Graham, he nodded slightly in acknowledgment and turned back to Honor. “He won’t bother you.”
Honor wished she could share his confidence as she gave her full attention to the opera.
All through La Morelli’s first-act performance, Honor felt Graham’s cold, hateful gaze crawling like a slug down her hair, her cheek, her shoulders, her breasts. Her fingers itched to brush it away, but she kept her eyes focused on the stage and didn’t give him the satisfaction. Finally Graham looked away.
Five minutes later the rear door to the box opened, and Nevada LaRouche rose to face their visitor. “Evening, Gordon. I didn’t expect to see you here. Something I can do for you?”
Honor turned in her seat, and Robert also rose.
Graham entered the box, his glittering, baleful stare focused on Honor. “What have you done with my wife and son?” he said in a voice just loud and furious enough to cause the heads in neighboring boxes to turn in blatant curiosity.
“If you have anything to say to me, Mr. Graham,” she said coolly, “you can speak through your attorney.”
Graham’s face turned purple with rage, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. The moment he took a threatening step toward Honor, Robert stepped in front of his wife, and Nevada LaRouche neatly blocked Graham.
“I don’t recall inviting you to join us, Gordon,” he said.
“Do you know what she’s trying to do?” Graham roared. “She’s trying to take my wife and son away from me.”
“This isn’t the place to discuss it,” LaRouche replied.
Graham looked from Honor and Robert back to LaRouche. “So that’s it. You’re on her side. And you call yourself my friend. You two-faced son of a bitch! Delancy never would’ve sold me down the river.”
“Delancy isn’t here, and I don’t take kindly to anyone threatening my guests.”
Graham pointed a warning finger at Honor. “You’re going to regret this.” Then he turned on his heel and stormed out of the box, slamming the door behind him so loud that even some of the singers on stage heard the noise and looked up in irritation, their concentration broken.
LaRouche turned, noticed that people in the adjacent boxes were staring, and said, “Show’s over, folks,” before resuming his seat next to Honor, who spent the remainder of the evening counting the seconds until the interminable opera ended.
Later, seated across from Nevada LaRouche in his carriage, Honor said, “I’m afraid I’ve cost you a friendship.”
Robert cast an accusatory glance at her, followed by an apologetic one to his employer. “I warned my wife something like this might happen if she took the case.”
LaRouche stroked his mustache. “I’ve got to hand it to Gordon, though.”
Honor understood at once. “You think that little confrontation was a show of his own, don’t you?”
LaRouche nodded. “He made damn sure a lot of people heard him tonight.”
Robert said, “He’s gathering support.”
“Looks like it to me.”
Honor asked, “What do you think he’ll do next?”
“Tell some overeager newspaper reporter his side of the story.”
Honor swore softly under her breath. “Just what we need, a society divorce scandal.”
Robert looked at her. “This is going to get dirty, and I don’t think you’re up to it.”
“I’ve never been one to run away from a fight. You know that.”
“In case you didn’t notice, Graham threatened you tonight.”
Honor gave him an annoyed look. “I think his bark is worse than his bite.”
The remote look returned to LaRouche’s eyes. “Don’t underestimate Gordon. Any man is capable of violence if pushed hard enough.”
Honor said nothing, wondering if he was talking about Gordon Graham or himself.
Several days later Honor arrived at her office building to find John Townsend lying in wait for her in the lobby.
When she wished the photographer a good morning, he replied, “You’ve got a surprise waiting for you upstairs, my beauty.”
Honor paused, her foot on the barrier step. “Oh, dear. What kind of surprise?”
The man practically licked his chops. “Several surprises actually. From the
World,
the
Sun,
the
Herald,
and probably the
Sleepy Hollow Snorer.”
Honor groaned and rolled her eyes. “Newspaper reporters.”
“The same, your loveliness.”
She took a deep breath to steel herself and started up the stairs. “I may as well get this over with.”
Upstairs, she found the faithful Elroy braced against the office’s outer door while a pack of newspaper reporters held up the corridor’s walls. The moment Elroy saw her, he said, “Here’s Mrs. Davis now.”
Before Honor had a chance to take another step, the reporters swarmed around her, pencils poised over their notepads.
She kept on walking. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said with her brightest smile. “Dare I hope that you’re here to write about women lawyers?”
“Never knew there were any,” one muttered.
“There most certainly are,” Honor replied. “I have a law degree from Boston University and passed the New York State bar examination, so I’m just as qualified to practice as my male colleagues.” She didn’t add that she had fewer opportunities.
Another added, “I’ll write about lady lawyers if they’re all as pretty as you!”
One young man at Honor’s left elbow didn’t crack a smile at his colleagues’ sallies. “Liam Flynn of the
Sun.
We’re here about the Graham divorce case.”
Honor stopped and faced them. “As I’m sure you know from the court calendar, Genevra Graham has filed for a divorce from her husband, Gordon, and I am representing her.”
“On what grounds?” Flynn asked.
“You know very well there is only one ground for divorce in this state.”
“Adultery,” someone said.
Flynn said, “Who’s the adulterer, Graham or his wife?”
“I’m sure you gentlemen are bright enough to figure that out for yourselves.”
Another reporter said, “Jensen from the
World.
Graham claims he’s innocent, that he dearly loves his wife and wants her and his son back.”
Flynn added, “He claims you’re hiding them somewhere.”
Honor held her tongue. “Mr. Graham may say whatever he likes. The truth will come out in court. That’s all I’m going to say on the matter, gentlemen, so if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to work.”
Mutterings of protest rose around her, but Elroy managed to usher her through the office door. “You heard the lady,” he told the reporters. “She has nothing more to say.”
When the footsteps died away, Elroy stepped into the outer office and closed the door behind him. “Damned pack of jackals.”
Honor couldn’t stop shaking. She suddenly knew what a fish must feel like when surrounded by hungry sharks. She breathed a sigh of relief. “They’re a sly bunch, aren’t they?”
And so was Gordon Graham. LaRouche had been right when he warned her not to underestimate him.
“I wonder what they’ll say about you?” Elroy said.
She smiled dryly. “We’ll soon find out.”
Honor found out when she went home at the end of the day.
Robert greeted her at the door with a kiss on the cheek and the afternoon edition of the
Sun.
“There’s an article about you on the front page.”
Honor didn’t even bother taking off her hat. She read “First Woman Lawyer in City” as she walked into the parlor. “How droll,” she said to Robert. “They’ve put an article about me right next to one about a sea serpent sighted in Long Island Sound. I suppose a female lawyer is considered as odd as a sea serpent.”
“You know people are fools,” Robert muttered.
“Quite.” Honor sat down on the sofa and continued reading, though soon her cheeks were flaming and she threw down the paper in disgust. “This whole article is about my looks, not my qualifications to practice law! Listen to this: ‘Mrs. Honor Davis, a tall beauty with raven-black hair and captivating black eyes—’”