Tryst of Fate

A late 19th century tale

Part 1: The Gentleman’s Directory

Darby plucked a piece of lint from the lapel of his waist coat, the New York Tribune propped across his face.

Would you happen to have “it” Milton?  Seated in sartorial splendor, Halston Darby shifted his gaze sideways towards his friend. Clearing his throat, darting back to the article he pretended to be reading.

Jonathan Milton leaned forward, his bowler hat revealing a thick moustache and a surreptitious smile. It’s right here, patting his breast pocket. Milton’s smile turned into a smirk, For Chirssakes Darby, they sell it on the newsstands on the West side, but you wouldn’t want to be caught dead buying one would you Darby?

Acquainted since their freshman year at the University, Darby and Milton struck a user-friendly relationship. They addressed each other in private by their surnames, out of earshot from society and all its rules.

“The Gentleman’s Directory,” was an accoutrement fine men ought not possess.  The blue, palm sized, linen-bound book, whispered loudly in a hedonist’s ear, luring seekers of clandestine dalliances into the deepest recesses of a city that never slept; cloaking intrepid desires and nocturnal explorations.   

The coveted guide was referred to in hushed tones among New York’s inner circles; privy to men only, in bath houses, smoking rooms, and private clubs.  Perhaps to marshal impending threats to the preservation of reputation and name, one took it upon himself to gain access to such tempestuous literature. Henceforth, self-proclaimed guardians of morals, arrogantly puffing cigars called for this controversial handbook to be banned, but not without first, conducting an audit to validate its rumored decadence.

It was hardly a surprise that not a finger was ever lifted to prohibit the circulation of its sinister pages of penned debauchery: lists of brothels, Madames of Manhattan, annotations et al. The directory was a delightfully wicked resource for addresses, contacts, and secret codes in New York City, that gentlemen dare not entertain openly. 

Likely to be written by the devil himself, it made Central Park strolls, steamboat excursions or afternoon tea with high society ladies seem very bland by comparison, indeed.

Darby dropped the newspapers and uncrossed his legs, his elegant disdain revealing a petulant child in a candy shop.   

My, Darby.  Do you still have a need for this?  Milton chided his friend. 

Weren’t you smitten at the dance last night?  You and the lovely Miss Morgan? Swept in a romantic, moonlit stroll by the lake… Do tell, Darby! You have never fancied anyone seriously, at least since I’ve met you, ‘the’ most eligible bachelor of the upper East side…

Could she be the one?

Darby tethered his eagerness over the directory and the lady he had just met. I was simply awed at the deft of your skill, Milt.  You are a sleuthhound! As for the lovely Miss Morgan, Darby said her name like it was pure gold, his eyes lit up as he gazed longingly once more at the gazebo across the pond, where they had stolen away the night before, She was charming was she not? She has won my heart and I swear, she will be Mrs. Darby by the end of Autumn!

Milton looked at his friend and shook his head. I have other stakes at hand. I wager you will be engaged before the summer is over.   If you are to pursue the lady of your dreams, I’d be much obliged to locate her address, her hosts in the city, as she is clearly not from these parts… Shall I arrange for a second meeting?   Would you like that? 

Darby was lost in thoughts, absolutely enamored by the handsome Miss Morgan whom he met at the Grand Pavilion, alongside the serene lake, ending the evening in the latticed gazebo, her laughter, a whistling brook, flowing into bright conversation that enthralled him with her intellect, her breadth of knowledge, her fiery wit, surely a self-possessed woman of magnetic presence, elevating him…

Her lips were pale rosebuds about to bloom, her scent was lovely, and each whiff, an angel’s breath. Sweet Lilac, she said her fragrance was. 

Did she say she was the guest of Lillie Langtry visiting from London? Darby realized he had not even probed into her family history as he customarily did. Details of her family and origin seemed like skipping stones in a pond, and she, a magical sprite flitting about with - a bit o’ this and a bit o’ that, of them and they, trifle pleasantries that got in the way, and Darby chuckled at the thought.

Milton rolled his eyes, and stood up, leaving the Gentleman’s Directory on the garden chair.  He waved Darby goodbye, and pointed his gloved hand towards the book.  Easy on the hot springs ol’ chap, winking, then burst into laughter as he sauntered towards the Saratoga race tracks, crossing the vast lawn of white fenced fields, with horses grazing…Picking up his pace, he hurried to the tracks, as the harness racing was about to begin and he had yet to place his bets.

Saratoga Springs in upstate New York was a summer playground for its wealthy East siders, a town of weekend get-aways known for its healing sulfur pools, endless gaiety, inexorable gossip and notorious horserace gambling.

Darby realized Milton had been long gone.  He quickly snatched the directory from Milton’s garden chair, slipping it in his waistcoat pocket as he walked briskly back to his cottage. 

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Part II: Twenty-Five Houston Street

Arrangements were made, meticulously so, with utmost discretion.  

The Directory was incredible; scribbled notes on its margins, shockingly blunt commentaries, no doubt of the devil in the details.

It happened to be the Ides of March and the aroma of desire hung heavy in the midsummer night’s air. He brushed off the Shakespearean lore and swaggered up a stately brownstone apartment with a half-moon arch, stained glass window above a heavy black door.  The wrought iron gas lamps flickered, auspiciously.

The Directory was explicit: “Tap the knocker twice and wait.  Patiently!”

As he waited, he stared at the star-lit sky and remembered the Grand Pavilion in Saratoga Springs: the evening stroll as she wrapped her arm affectionately around his, the placid lake, a silent witness to their romantic interlude that night…

Darby was about to knock a third time when the door opened slightly.  Halston? Halston D. calling? A butler appeared. 

The petulant Darby in the candy store resurfaced.  A gnawing, insatiable hunger suddenly gripped him, reminding him of why he was in such a place.

Into the lair he stepped…

The foyer, had Italian frescoes painted above its dome ceiling.  The immaculately white freesias in an exquisite vase atop a round, ivory in-laid mahogany table exuded elegance he was oddly most accustomed to. It was the entryway of a life of privilege and aristocracy, of every household he’s ever known. 

He was led to the parlor which was dimly lit by the fireplace, gilded scones on the wainscot oak walls. The butler motioned to a crystal carafe of whiskey on the corner. “Wait here Sir,” in a disinterested, nonintrusive tone.

A burgundy upholstered loveseat, oriental jars, curio objects, life-sized marble sculpture, European oil paintings, high ceilings and heavily brocaded windows that let in no light, and polished parquet floors. Typical interiors of elite homes, Darby felt right at home.

The thrill and lure of such a moment was intoxicating and he banished thoughts of Miss Morgan as soon as he crossed the threshold into this den of assignation.  He felt it a betrayal of sorts to his newfound love, the future Mrs. Darby. 

There were muffled voices in the next room.  He walked towards the double doors and as he drew closer, he noticed the doors left an inch-width crack, he peered in…

Darby saw the hearth, a crackling fire casting silhouettes that danced on the coffered ceiling.  He now could make out voices. A woman’s laughter pealed across the room like water over boulders.  He leaned closer…

He caught a glimpse of the gentleman seated leisurely on a chintz chaise by the window, his face, shrouded in darkness.

On the couch across, was a woman, whose back was towards Darby. He could only discern her unraveled tresses, cascading over alabaster shoulders upon which hung a languid, silky oriental robe.

The man spoke, and it was a voice all too familiar, one he had known since his freshman year…Darby could not contain himself as he swung the door wide open and burst into the room.

Why if it isn’t sleuthound Milt, you ol’ bastard! Darby broke all rules of discretion instructed by the Gentleman’s Directory and barged in rudely.

Darby noticed Milton’s smug face, a victorious look after winning a huge bet at the races. He twiddled the tip of his moustache, his gaze fixed at the comely prize across him.

Darby stepped out of the shadows to face the seated couple, hoping to introduce himself to the Madame.

The woman’s shapely figure, illumined by the glow of the fire, an Aphrodite on earth, slowly turned her head. Her eyes were dead pools of stillness, placid, like Lake Saratoga at night. Her lips were scarlet roses in full bloom, and her fragrance was redolent, Lilac it was, filling the room, dizzying.