Blue Waltz (9 page)

And sure enough it did.

"What has happened?" Hastings stood in the doorway breathing heavily, his gray hair falling forward. "What's wrong?"

Belle looked at him in the mirror, her porcelain features creased. "Is this dress out of fashion, Hastings?"

"What?"

"The dress, Hastings. Is it outdated?"

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Neville Hastings glanced from his employer to Rose then to Maeve, with a look that said as clearly as words that he couldn't believe what he was hearing. But to his credit, he merely smoothed back his hair, studied the gown, then said, "Yes, madam, hopelessly outdated."

Belle scoffed at this and studied herself. Screwing up her lips, she debated. In the end, she simply tilted her head and shrugged. "It's timeless, not hopeless. Yes, I have on a timeless gown that will never be out of fashion because of its sheer beauty." She nodded her head, convinced.

Rose, Maeve, and Hastings glanced at each other, clearly unconvinced.

"Missy?" Maeve began hesitantly. "Ya know, the gown is a mite short in the front."

"I want my shoes to show."

"Well, yes, and no doubt they do, but . . ."

"What now, Maeve?"

"I was thinking, that if you took away some of the petticoats . . ."

At this, Hastings, if possible, snapped to greater attention, cleared his throat, turned on his heel, and headed for the door. "If you'll excuse me, I have things that need attending to."

The women watched him go.

"Poor man," Maeve said fondly. "Obviously isn't used to a household full of women."

"Might not be used to women," Rose interjected, "but it'd be obvious to a blind man that he'd like to get used to you, Maeve."

The older woman blushed, waving her hand in the air as if slapping the words away.

Belle looked on with interest, the dress for the moment forgotten. "Maeve? You and Hastings?"

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"There is not a lick of truth to that, Mistress Belle. What would that fine man want with a little nugget like me? Oh, no, I'd never be so bold as to have my eye on the butler. I'm a cook, yes I am, and I know my place."

Belle glanced at Rose, then back at Maeve. "You may be a nugget, but a nugget of gold, and while you might not have your eye on Hastings, the more I think about it, I believe Rose is right. Hastings must have his eye on you. Why else would our perfectly proper butler help you in the kitchen?"

"Do you think—" Maeve said quickly, too quickly for her liking it seemed, for she immediately washed her face clean of emotion and added, "Nonsense. The two of you are talking nonsense. And as I was saying before such nonsense was spewed forth, if ya didn't have on all those petticoats, the front of the gown would just barely touch the floor ... as it should."

Belle and Rose exchanged a knowing glance before Belle smiled, then leaned forward and studied her shoes.

Rose smiled as well, then tapped her finger to her lips as she returned her attention to the matter at hand. "Maeve is right, Miss Belle. The dress would look even lovelier if it was a bit longer."

"Hmmm. Do you think?"

"Yes," the two women replied in unison.

Belle considered her reflection in the mirror. "Maybe you're right," she said with reluctant nod of her head. "And I suppose the petticoats don't really matter so much."

But whether their mistress was reluctant or not, Maeve and Rose took charge in an instant, and in only an instant more they had removed three of the four petticoats. The result brought a slight, crooked smile to Belle's lips.

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After Maeve left Rose to work on Belle's hair, she found Hastings waiting at the top of the stairs.

"How did it go?" he asked.

Maeve shrugged her shoulders. "Without all those silly petticoats she looks fine enough."

"God love her," he muttered with a shake of his head.

"She's a strange one, that's God's own truth," Maeve said as they took the stairs to the lower floor. "But it's hard not to love her like she was me own daughter."

Hesitating, Hastings turned back and glanced at the door which led to Belle's room, his normally stern brow lined with emotion. Then, without ever uttering a word, he turned back and continued on his way, though a fond, almost reluctant, smile curved on his lips.

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Carriages lined the length of Commonwealth Avenue nearly as far as the eye could see. Broughams, five-glassed landaus, clarences, light rockaways, even a hired hack mixed in here and there, all waiting patiently to deliver their passengers to the palatial entrance of the Elden Abbots' French Victorian mansion—all for a seated, intimate dinner of eighty. And no one, it seemed, had thought to walk to the festivities no matter how beautiful the night had proved to be. No one, that is, but Belle, who walked the distance as easy as you please and was standing in the foyer in front of a liveried footman before the long line of conveyances had managed to cut itself in half.

For all her excitement, Belle was slightly nervous. Joy mixed with trepidation. She couldn't help but notice that, just as Maeve and Rose had predicted, she was dressed differently than everyone around her. But what did it matter if she was different from everyone else, she

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quickly reasoned. She didn't care what people thought about her. She didn't.

A liveried footman gained her attention by asking her name.

"Belle Braxton?" the footman repeated, scanning his list. "Would that be Mrs. Hershal Braxton?"

The name surprised her. Belle inhaled sharply and she nearly pressed her eyes closed. She wondered if it wasn't too late to turn around and return home. How long had it been since she thought of herself as Mrs. Hershal Braxton?

"Madam? Are you, or are you not Mrs. Hershal Braxton?"

She cleared her mind and looked him straight in the eye. "That is my name, yes," she replied, handing over the cape which Hastings had so discreetly, and without question, retrieved from the Bulfinch House.

Thankfully, the line moved slowly, for she was swept up a long, curved flight of stairs built of hard, slick marble. She clutched a bannister made from the same white marble until she reached the top of the grand stairway and was introduced to the host and hostess for the evening.

"Mrs. Braxton," Louisa Abbot enthused.

The woman spoke a little loudly, Belle was inclined to think, especially considering the muted tones in which everyone else spoke.

"How good of you to join us for our little gathering," the woman added.

Little? It was all Belle could do not to glance incredulously down the long line of guests still waiting to be received.

"Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Abbot."

"Louisa. Please, call me Louisa."

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"All right," Belle replied. "And you must call me Belle."

"Splendid, how simply splendid. I know we are going to be marvelous friends."

Belle looked at her, startled. "How can you tell?"

Louisa's radiant smile faltered and she looked confused, but then she giggled. "A sense of humor! How divine. Have you met my husband Elden, yet? Of course you haven't."

Belle was duly introduced then swept along into an ornately appointed drawing room without ever receiving her answer. Would they be friends? She thought she might like that.

The guests stood about, talking and laughing, in small groups or intimate couples. The men all looked the same in black pants, waistcoat and jacket, with white ties, shirts and gloves—crisp and clean, elegant. But the women, in contrast, were bedecked within an inch of their lives in more ruffles and bows and jewels than Belle could imagine. She wasn't altogether certain how a single one of them had made it up the stairs.

Still, no one spoke to Belle, though several glanced over at her curiously. But Belle was content to stand alone and take in the scene that was proving to be more interesting than she had imagined.

Minutes passed, however, and somehow, someone learned her name. "That's Belle Braxton," the person whispered to first one person then another. And before too long everyone in the room knew that the Widow Braxton had made her first social appearance of the season.

"How do you think Louisa got her here?" a short woman asked.

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"No one has been able to get her to accept a single invitation since she arrived."

"No one has been able to get her out of that house."

The women laughed.

"I wonder if the rumors are true?"

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Stephen and Adam took the steps to the Abbots' Commonwealth Avenue home. They were the last guests to arrive, and by the time they reached the top of the stairs the drawing room was full. Elden had already stepped away from his wife and was mingling with the guests. Louisa had just begun to turn away herself when she saw them.

"Stephen," she gushed. "How wonderful that you made it." She squeezed Stephen's hand before she leaned over and kissed the air on either side of Adam's head. "Adam, you scamp. You grow more handsome every day. The woman who lands you will be a lucky woman indeed. In fact, I believe it's time I made it a point to match you up with just the right woman."

Adam's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I'm not certain 'lucky' is the word, Louisa. And don't put yourself out on my account."

"Adam doesn't have problems finding the women, Louisa," Stephen interjected as he scanned the crowd. "He simply loses interest in them once he has them."

Louisa twittered her laughter. But then she sobered and leaned forward conspiratorially. "Your neighbor is here."

Adam's eyes narrowed in question. "Neighbor?"

"Yes, the Widow Braxton."

"Really?" Adam said, surprised.

"Yes, really. And everyone is talking about her."

"What are they saying?" Adam asked.

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"Well, nothing that hasn't gone around already. But from all accounts she has a great deal of money."

"That I already know," Adam added dryly.

"Oh yes, we heard about that unfortunate little incident with the house."

"Yes," Stephen added, still looking over the crowd, "haven't we all."

"Thank you, dear brother, for your ever inspiring contribution to this conversation. But tell me, Louisa, where does the woman's money come from?"

Stephen stood by, listening with half an ear.

"Well," Louisa began, "it is said that her husband, a good puritan man from Wrenville, had a fortune. Inherited. Timber money, I believe. All of which she apparently received upon his death."

Adam whistled softly. "So it's true."

Louisa giggled again. "Widowed or not, you should consider marrying her, Adam!"

"At least you'd get your house back," Stephen added, his tone dry.

Adam clenched his teeth.

"Now, now, let's not get into a huff," Louisa said, placing her hand on Adam's forearm. "I know how the two of you can be. I never should have started it. It's just that she really is perfectly marriageable. She's beautiful, rich, and has a good name. She's a Landford, you know."

"A Landford?"

"Yes, Adam, on her maternal side." Louisa leaned closer. "It's said that her mother ran off with the groundskeeper. Never heard his name, and of course it was ages ago, but I remember something going on over at the Landfords'. But I was younger than the Landford girl. And it was kept quite hush-hush."

"Really," Adam said, his face lighting up with a devil-

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ish smile. "The widow has plenty of money and, thankfully, a fine old name, making it easy to disregard the fact that her mother ran off with a gardener, and her husband is from a rural farm town."

"Adam! She's a Landford. What do you expect me to do?" Louisa asked uncomfortably. "If you weren't such a dear friend, I'd think I was being insulted."

Adam draped his arm around her shoulders. "Louisa, I would never insult you. Besides, I don't blame you for inviting the Widow Braxton." He laughed. "What with all the industrial and banking money going to New York and new buildings needed to house museums and more money needed to keep up the old ones, most everyone here would be willing to disregard the fact that the woman's good name is tarnished and her husband probably couldn't spell society much less move within it."

"You forget, Adam," Stephen said, surprising them both, for they had practically forgotten he was there, "Boston society is made up, not of blue bloods who brought their coats of arms across the ocean, or even purebred pilgrims as we are wont to believe, but of hardworking, moneymaking merchant adventurers who carved out a place for themselves on this shore." He looked back at his brother and his hostess with a devilish smile. "We are nothing more than descendants of . . . pirates, so to speak."

"Stephen!" Louisa exclaimed, scandalized.

Stephen offered her a charming smile. "You know it's true. Have you forgotten that not-so-long-ago episode involving the illustrious Miss Mary Baker Eddy?"

"The founder of the Christian Scientists?" Adam asked.

"Yes, the very same."

Louisa looked on uncertainly.

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"She awarded herself a Scottish crest—"

"As was the trend of the time," Louisa interjected, conveniently remembering that detail.

"Of course, but unlike the rest of the good souls who were assuming coats of arms as they saw fit, hers was scraped off her doorway by the very clan who truly bore the right to it—after they had sailed all the way from Scotland to do it."

Louisa muttered and Adam laughed out loud.

"Stephen," Adam admonished, looking at his brother in amused surprise, "you're making our hostess uncomfortable."

"My apologies. I was simply making a point. The Widow Braxton has every bit as much right to society as we do." Though as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Stephen could hardly believe what he was saying. Not that it wasn't true. But what did he care what people thought of the woman—a woman, in fact, whom he planned to divest of her house. Legally, of course. Certainly he would never simply dump her out in the streets. No, he was going to have Nathan nullify the contract then find the woman another home. There were plenty of houses in the Back Bay that he was certain people would be willing to sell. And if he had to, he'd build her one himself on a new parcel of land.