Authors: Dan Simmons
The Hays obviously had given James the gift of beauty on either side—Helen Julia Hay to his right and Nannie Lodge to his left.
Nannie Lodge sitting between Henry James and John Hay was lovely in the usual Gilded Age ways—slim, fair, wasp-waisted, with lovely hands and a sweet disposition—but the most outstanding aspect of the 43-year-old aging beauty were her eyes . . . eyes which Holmes’s friend Watson would have immediately described as “bewitching” and which Margaret Chanler described in writing as “the color of the sky when stars begin to twinkle.”
No such poetic phrases entered Holmes’s mind on Sunday, April 2, 1893, as he paused a second to study those eyes—Nannie was turned to her left toward John Hay and was not aware of the detective’s brief but intense appraisal—so he filed away the odd, soft intensity of Mrs. Cabot Lodge’s eye color and was reminded of it years later only when his new friend, the painter John Singer Sargent, lamented never having had the chance to paint Nannie Lodge, saying, “I had such an unqualified regard for her that the odds were in favor of my succeeding in getting something of that kindness and intelligence of her expression and the unforgettable blue of her eyes.”
Perhaps.
Beyond Nannie Lodge and the smiling, laughing John Hay, at the corner of the table near Mr. Adams, was the true beauty at the table—Lizzie Cameron.
The doleful-looking Senator Cameron’s wife was, according to Henry James’s whisper as they walked to the Hays’ home that evening, the loveliest and most-sought-after woman in all of Washington society. In his cool, distant way, Sherlock Holmes saw why at once. Lizzie Cameron’s dress was simultaneously the simplest and most daring of any of the perfectly dressed women’s at the table. Her shoulders were bare and white. Her arms were long, perfectly white, and ended in long-fingered hands that looked as though they’d been designed by God to caress men’s faces and hair. She had a long neck unadorned by jewelry or cloth bands and a sharply oval face. Lizzie’s hair this night was gathered up on both sides and rose in a bun in the back but looked impossibly natural.
She did not smile much, Holmes had already noted, and yet with those arching brows, deep, dark eyes, and perfectly shaped mouth, Elizabeth Sherman Cameron was that rarest object of her sex—a woman whose entire beauty could shine through when she was not smiling or even when she looked actively severe.
In the few minutes they’d been seated, Holmes had seen enough of the almost imperceptible glances, nearly invisible reactions to tell him that Henry Adams, at age 55 some 22 years older than Lizzie Cameron, was in love with her; that their host John Hay, without ever looking directly at his table partner to the left, said with his entire body’s balance and tension that he was madly in love with Lizzie Cameron.
Henry James, Holmes could see (and would have predicted), admired Lizzie’s beauty the way a cat might admire a bowl of milk it had no intention of sipping from. Henry Cabot Lodge took his wife’s friend’s beauty as a given of their station in life, young Del Hay had known Lizzie Cameron for most of his life and was obviously looking at her as one of his parents’ friends, and Theodore Roosevelt bestowed his giant, menacing grin upon her with a happily married man’s innocent benevolence. Senator James “Don” Cameron—who would be 60 in two months—looked as miserable as if he’d been actively cuckolded by all the scores and hundreds of men who had dreamt of achieving that blissful goal with the beautiful Lizzie Cameron.
Holmes felt—knew—that Lizzie Cameron teased, teased, tempted, and teased, but did not actually bestow her favors. Not on poor Adams who, Holmes would soon learn, had rushed 10,000 miles around the world from the South Seas to come to Lizzie’s beckoning telegram from Paris only to be shunned by her once he’d arrived. Not on poor John Hay, who—Holmes sensed at once—had yet to declare his physical love for the lady but who, after his inevitable rebuff, would join Henry Adams and a mist-shrouded legion of gray others who had been relegated to the role of “tame cat” in Lizzie Cameron’s life.
And Holmes also felt—knew—that Lizzie Cameron was a dangerous and treacherous person. Certainly, Holmes exempting himself and since neither Professor Moriarty nor Lucan Adler appeared to be present this evening, the most dangerous and treacherous person in the room.
The oysters arrived and the dinner officially began.
W
hile guests had been milling prior to this dinner, Henry James had stepped into the kitchen to say hello to Hay’s chef for this meal, a man named Charles Ranhofer who had served, for a while, as the personal chef for William Waldorf Astor—the richest man in America until he moved to England in 1891. Chef Ranhofer was preparing to publish a cookbook, which ran to more than 1,000 pages, called
The Epicurean
. It would sell more copies worldwide than any novel Henry James ever published.
James had first met Ranhofer when he was a guest at Lansdowne House, Astor’s rented London mansion, and often heard of the chef’s reputation at Delmonico’s restaurant on Fifth Avenue.
This evening, the famous chef was too busy filling Hay’s oversized kitchen and extended staff with commands, orders, and ultimatums to pause to chat, so James simply wished him well . . . but not before he caught a glimpse of Charles’s menu for the evening—
Menu
________________________
Huîtres en coquille Ruedesheimer
________________________
Potage tortue verte Amontillado
________________________
Caviare sur canapé Médoc
________________________
Homard à la Maryland Royal Charter
________________________
Ris de veau aux champignons
________________________
Selle de mouton
Pommes parisiennes Haricots verts
________________________
Suprème de volaille
________________________
Pâté de foie-gras, Bellevue [Illegible]
________________________
Sorbet à la romaine
Cigarettes
________________________
Teal duck, celery mayonnaise Clos de Vougeot
________________________
Fromage Duque Port Wine
________________________
Glacée à la napolitaine Château Lafite
Old Reserve Madeira
The “cigarettes” had been crossed out, which James wholly approved of, especially in mixed company, but also because it had become déclassé in most upper-class English and Continental meals to include smoking as a formal menu item.
* * *
The oysters were followed by soup, a light dish which James paid little attention to because of the conversation with the beautiful women on each side of him, then a fish course.
The first ten minutes of conversation were mostly taken up by questions—almost exclusively from the ladies at the table—to Sherlock Holmes. Was he really a consulting detective? What did a consulting detective do? Were his adventures as exciting as they read in
The Strand
and
Harper’s Weekly
?
“I can’t answer that last question, I fear,” said Holmes in his clipped, formal but friendly English accent. “It’s only been the last year or two that these so-called chronicles of my cases have been published by Dr. Watson, and I honestly haven’t had the time or opportunity to read any of them.”
“But they’re based on truth?” asked Helen Julia Hay.
“Quite possibly,” said Holmes. “But my friend Dr. Watson—and his editor and agent Mr. Doyle—are pledged to entertain the reader. And, in my experience, the hard truth and entertainment rarely co-exist peacefully.”
“But what about Silver Blaze?” asked Clara, her voice small but determined. “That case was true, was it not?”
“Who or what is Silver Blaze?” asked Holmes.
Clara grew a little flustered but managed—“The case . . . the name of the race horse that was stolen . . . that ran away . . . the story in last month’s
Harper’s Weekly
.”
“I confess that I’ve never heard of an English race horse named Silver Blaze, Mrs. Hay,” said Holmes.
“You see, Clara,” said John Hay. “I told you it was fiction. I lose a fortune at the track when I’m in England, and I’d never heard of a colt named ‘Silver Blaze’ either.”
Holmes smiled at that. “I did have a minor case involving a horse named Seabreeze in eighteen eighty-eight—he won the Oaks and St. Leger in that year—but his ‘disappearance’ amounted to little more than his wandering away one night. The neighboring farmer found him and I worked to the limits of my detecting ability to follow clear hoofprints in the mud to the neighboring farmer’s home.”
The group chuckled but Clara persisted. “So the trainer
wasn’t
found dead?” she asked.
“He was, actually,” said Holmes. “But it was a mere accident. The poor lad was taking Seabreeze for his evening walk, evidently had noticed some possible problem with the colt’s right rear hoof, had knelt behind the filly—never a good idea at the best of times—and lit a match in the failing light even before raising the hoof for inspection. Seabreeze kicked once, purely out of instinct, and the poor fellow’s head was . . .” Holmes glanced around the shining table at the shining faces. “That is, he died instantly of a head injury. But no foul play.”
“Silver Blaze was a colt in the story anyway,” said Clara Hay. “Not a filly.”
Everyone laughed with her.
Guided by both Hay’s and Henry Adams’s hosting expertise, the attention soon moved away from Holmes, and localized conversations quickly began to include entire ends of the table and then everyone. Twelve diners was close to the perfect number for intimate and audible table conversation, especially with such reticent conversationalists in the group as Henry Cabot Lodge, Don Cameron, and smiling, attentive, polite, but mostly quiet Del Hay.
James was reminded that Adams and Hay—and the late Clover—were neither too educated nor too proud to pun.
“Our poor Vito Pom Pom came home with an injured eye today,” said Nannie Lodge, speaking loudly to be heard by Helen Julia Hay on the other side of James so that everyone at the table heard her.
There was no lag in response.
“How dreadful,” said Henry Adams. “Now, I forget, Nannie . . . is Vito Pom Pom one of the servants or a relative?”
“Henry,”
sighed Mrs. Lodge. “You know perfectly well that Vito Pom Pom is our beloved Pomeranian.”
“
Your
beloved Pomeranian, my dear,” murmured Henry Cabot Lodge in disapproving bass tones that caused the crystal chandelier to tremble.
“How strange,” said John Hay. “And I had thought the new immigration acts had all but shut off the flow of Pomeranian refugees into this country. Tragic, tragic.”
Nannie Lodge frowned prettily at Hay sitting on her left.
“My diagnosis is that Vito Pom Pom is most likely suffering from a
cat
aract,” said Henry Adams.
“Most likely a
tom-cat
aract,” added Hay.
Those who allowed themselves to chuckle at such things—a group which certainly did not include Senator Lodge nor Senator Cameron, and to which Del Hay wasn’t sure to join or not—chuckled.
“It could have been much worse,” Henry James said softly. “Our friend Vito might have been completely
cur
tailed.”
There was the briefest of pauses and then more chuckles. Lizzie Cameron laughed out loud—a fresh, gay, unselfconscious laugh.
Then, with the happy irrelevance of youth, Helen Julia Hay said to the table at large—“Is everyone looking forward to going to the Chicago World’s Fair this summer? I know I am! Everything I’ve read about the White City says it’s perfectly marvelous!”
“It’s not precisely a World’s Fair, my dear,” said her father. “Chicago is hosting the World’s Columbian
Exposition
, commemorating the four hundredth anniversary of Columbus’s discovery of America.”
“But the Exposition is opening in eighteen ninety-
three
,” said Del.
Henry James opened his palms. “Columbus missed finding America by . . . what? . . . some two thousand miles between here and Trinidad?”
“Two thousand one hundred and seventy-three miles from where we sit right now,” said Henry Adams.
“So Columbus missed discovering America by two thousand one hundred and seventy-three miles,” continued James. “The Exposition missed the anniversary of this non-discovery by only one year. Our aim is improving.”
Hay turned to Adams. “You’re sure about that extra one hundred and seventy-three miles?”
“Quite certain,” said Adams with a small, mischievous, and rather charming smile.
“Did you know that when Columbus landed on Trinidad, the island was occupied by both Carib- and Arawak-speaking groups?” said Helen, her tone not one of satisfaction at knowing such trivia but, rather, of anticipation.
“What does one call a resident of Trinidad?” asked Lizzie Cameron. “A Trinidadian?” She’d used the short vowel sound for the “a”.
“ ‘Dadians’ for short,” said John Hay.
“Miss Hay was correct about the natives speaking only Carib and Arawak,” said Theodore Roosevelt, his voice seeming to boom even when he spoke in low tones. “But that was only after the Pomeranian invasion of the island in fourteen thirty-nine
A.D
.”
They were on their fourth of nine wines to go with this dinner and the laughter was flowing more easily now.
“Vito Pom Pom understands only Arawak?” said Nannie Lodge. “How distressing.”