O'hara's Choice - Leon Uris [57]
The Sheldon Jollys were a family of tattered aristocrats who had fled Georgia after the Civil War, settled in Baltimore, and were able to get in, just on the fringe of proper circles.
The melody of the Old South flowed from Sheldon Jolly’s mouth, as did the scent of bourbon. As a lawyer he served a useful role in the movement of funds of questionable origin and cargoes of goods that had circumvented customs taxation. Whatever a man had to do to live a proper life, he did. By God, he even elbowed his way into a number of clubs, to find kindling for his fires.
Norbert Jolly, Sheldon’s son of eighteen, had gathered enough ne’er-do-well charm to get in under the wire with less demanding young ladies. He was prevailed upon to become Emily’s escort.
Emily and Norbert, in tails slightly tattered, were among the last to enter the cotillion ballroom. A pair of Pinkertons and their wives watched their every breath while Horace Kerr looked over his shoulder to make certain that Jolly did not make any unwonted efforts to show himself as a pretender to the throne.
They caught Emily’s burst of hysteria and confusion in time to whisk her out of the ballroom and save Horace public humiliation.
Emily Blanton Kerr lost whatever she had been hanging on to and woke up in a netherworld and was placed in quasi exile in the cold north wing of Inverness.
After Horace’s visit to Emily’s quarters, Daisy came to their upstairs parlor with a drink long and strong enough to take the enamel off his teeth. He sipped and he sighed. He had tried to see Emily every fortnight, more or less, but knew going to the north wing and coming out of it would fill him with futile sorrow. He never wished Emily dead, of course.
“How was it today?” Daisy asked perfunctorily.
“Emily is trying to get up for a birthday party. She doesn’t realize that it is her own birthday. She’ll be thirty-two years old.”
“We can have a family gathering,” Daisy said. “Some of her cousins will come as well as her uncles.”
“That’s about all they’re good for,” he mumbled.
Horace stood and walked to the large bay window, from which he could see the stables. He was certain he saw Amanda and held a pair of field glasses to his eyes. There she was with that bloody Marine! Horace would never get used to the men’s-cut riding britches that Amanda had had tailored for herself. No sidesaddle rider, she. There was a magnificent new Arabian stallion being broken in the ring. Huh, she’d be riding him in short order.
Actually Horace got a kick out of it when Amanda invited a young man to ride with her, then scared the hell out of him. She was a wild rider. Well, what the hell . . . what the hell.
“What the hell,” he said, “Amanda is riding old Banjo and she’s putting that O’Hara person on Miss Godiva. Those two nags only have three good legs between them.”
“Perhaps they are just in for a pleasant canter, my dear. Doesn’t always have to be a cavalry charge, you know.”
“And maybe she doesn’t want to bruise O’Hara’s pride with a real horse.” He grunted, then grunted again. In addition to her riding britches, Amanda wore a floaty silk blouse with the top button open. Hardly a proper habit.
“Men’s britches,” he said, setting the glasses down.
“I wish I could have ridden that way.”
“Why? Sidesaddle is perfectly lovely.”
“Well, Horace, the britches could well tickle her fancy!”
“Daisy, bite your tongue.” He walked away, then snatched up the little pillow Emily had given him. “Where the hell did Emily get this garish thing? Chesapeake Park with a hoochie-koochie dancer.”
“Amanda gave it to her. She sees her sister every few days. I’m certain her Marine beau won it for her at the amusement park.”
“Her beau! I’ll beau him!” He sighed massively. “You said at breakfast there was something we had to talk about.”
“It will hold,” Daisy teased deliberately. “You are quite upset now.”
“Don’t do that!” he demanded.
“Thad Vanderbilt has accepted Clara Lustgarten’s invitation to the Constitution.”
“What! That German cow! What the hell