Deep as the Rivers (Santa Fe Trilogy) (2 page)

* * * *

   
Olivia St. Etienne reclined against the plush maroon velvet upholstery of the carriage, listening to its wheels roll rhythmically along the dirt roads of the capital toward the Phelps mansion, which was located several miles south of the city high on the Potomac bluffs. Uncle Emory’s voice droned on about all the eligible men who would be at the Phelps ball, ticking off their property holdings, social connections, political influence, even now and again mentioning whether or not they were young or possessed all of their teeth.

   
“I say, my dear, are you attending me?” Emory Wescott asked with a hint of irritation roughening his voice.

   
“Certainly, Uncle,” she replied dutifully even though she was not and he was not really her uncle, but rather her guardian, a wealthy patron who had befriended her parents.

   
“I was explaining that Royal Burton will be at the Phelps gathering tonight. He’s one of the wealthiest merchants in Boston, a good solid Federalist. And he’s just past his year’s mourning for his dear wife, Credelia. A fine figure of a man.”

   
“I shall endeavor to be most gracious to Mr. Burton, Uncle,” Olivia said, smoothing the folds of her new emerald silk gown.

   
Emory snorted roughly. “Gracious, is it? And that’s all—cool and gracious and damned off-putting. You have the most accursedly proper way of handling yourself—a hoyden at the racetrack, but all the proper lady when you’re around suitors.”

   
“I don’t mean to be ungrateful, Uncle Emory. You know how much I appreciate your taking me in when my parents died. I don’t know what I should’ve done if not for you.”

   
“But you don’t choose to wed any of the eligibles I present to you—even the cream of the nation’s capital here.”

   
“Is that why you insisted I accompany you to Washington again?” Some imp made her add, “Or was it perhaps because of the big race at The Elms this weekend?”

   
“No use trying to change the subject at hand. Gypsy Lady will win with or without you,” Emory said snappishly as the curricle pulled into the circular driveway of the Phelps mansion.

   
Rayburn Phelps was the richest planter in Virginia. If his neighbors had suffered under the late trade embargo, he apparently was quite unaffected by any financial reverses. It was rumored in some circles in Washington that he had secret ties to the British and was able to smuggle his contraband cotton under the protection of the Royal Navy. Olivia had always wondered if her guardian and Phelps had any business dealings, but she did not know. In fact, she knew very little about how Emory Wescott made his money, other than by wagering on horses, which although lucrative, could hardly account for his considerable fortune.

   
A servant assisted Emory down from the curricle and he adjusted his satin waistcoat over his thickening middle as Olivia alighted. With a thatch of iron gray hair and a meticulously barbered beard, he was an imposing figure of a man. But his most arresting feature was the chilly gray gaze with which he assessed people. Turning it on Olivia, he inspected her with a swift glance of approval before he offered his arm. They strolled sedately across the flagstone walk and ascended the impressive marble steps to the huge front porch with twenty-foot-tall wooden pillars dwarfing its occupants.

   
“You’ll be receiving a good deal of attention tonight—not only from Royal Burton. Look around, fill up your dance card and evaluate all the eligible men in the room. I daresay one I’d approve should take your fancy.”

   
“I shall dance every dance and flirt outrageously, Uncle Emory,” Olivia said, trying to generate some enthusiasm although she felt none.

   
“See that you dance. As to the flirting, have a care for your reputation,” he intoned sternly.

   
Emory Wescott wanted her married off. She hated being a burden to a busy man who had spent his life traveling the length and breadth of North America pursuing his interests without the encumbrance of a young female of marriageable age. But she could not bear the thought of marrying someone simply to escape the unpleasant circumstances under which she presently lived.

   
Marriage should be for love and laughter, for the joyous companionship her parents had shared, not merely a soulless financial arrangement. But her guardian had been generous in spite of his brusque, chilly manner, outfitting her as handsomely as any pampered debutante in Philadelphia or Boston. She had tried to repay that generosity by working with his horses. However, his dearest wish was to arrange an advantageous match with a man who was not only wealthy but politically influential.

   
General Phelps, who still clung to his old army rank a generation after retirement, stood with his tall gaunt wife, Maude, at the head of the receiving line. Olivia and her guardian stepped into the ballroom after giving their cloaks to servants in the front foyer. The room, like all of the house, reflected the Phelps’ love of formal display. Two huge crystal chandeliers filled with hundreds of fine spermaceti candles illuminated its vast proportions. The puncheon floor, made of ash and waxed to a brilliant luster, reflected and magnified the light.

   
An orchestra composed of slaves played Mozart from a raised dais in the back of the room and various other household slaves scurried through the crowd of laughing guests, serving delicate pastries along with wine and spirits. Rows of shield-backed chairs were placed at discreet intervals along the walls and in the alcoves screened by huge Egyptian urns filled with palms and ornamental trees.

   
Olivia and Emory wended their way through the receiving line making polite conversation with their host and hostess and various other acquaintances among the guests. It has been Olivia’s observation that Emory Wescott had many acquaintances but no friends. She had often wondered how the spartan New Englander and her profligate French father had ever become so close. Perhaps that unusual bond explained why he had undertaken her guardianship.

   
As soon as they stepped onto the ballroom’s polished floor Royal Burton materialized out of the crowd. “I say, Emory, is this the enchanting young ward you spoke of?” he inquired in a nasal New England twang that grated on Olivia’s ears.

   
Used to the graceful cadence of her native French and the lilt of Italian that she had grown up with, Olivia found aristocratic British English and the modulated smoothness of Virginia Tidewater accents to be pleasant. But the harsh speech of Kaintucks and Yankees was decidedly the opposite. Burton looked as unprepossessing as his accent. He was cadaverously thin with a shallow pockmarked face. She supposed he did have his own teeth and a fine head of heavy light brown hair, neatly clubbed with a black satin ribbon.

   
She smiled and curtsied as her guardian performed introductions. Just then the orchestra struck up a sweeping waltz and Burton took her hand, drawing her onto the floor. He was a surprisingly graceful dancer in spite of his gangly appearance, but he held her closer than was appropriate and his breath reeked of whiskey when he leaned down to speak.

   
“You were born in France, Mademoiselle St. Etienne. Yet you have scarcely a trace of the accent.”

   
“My parents became émigrés as soon as the revolution began.” She omitted the small detail of their elopement and her mother’s disinheritance. “I grew up traveling from country to country. Much of my childhood was spent in various Italian states, then England. We came to America when I was fourteen, so you see, learning foreign languages has become second nature to me.”

   
He chuckled. “Quite an experienced traveler for one of such tender years. You spoke of parents yet Emory Wescott is your guardian.”

   
She suspected he was probing in the hope of gaining an admission about how much she owed her guardian. “My parents were killed when the carriage they were riding in overturned. I was left completely alone in the world but for my father’s friend Monsieur Wescott.”

   
“And you are most suitably grateful for his kindness, are you not?” he purred.

   
She stiffened and would have frozen in midstep but the music ended. “My feelings for Uncle Emory do not concern you, Monsieur Burton,” she said frostily, making a slight curtsy and spinning away in the press of the crowd.

   
The blackmailing old cur!
She did not care if he were as rich as the Emperor Napoleon. He was manipulative and sly and his breath reeked. She would not be bought like some piece of merchandise to be an old man’s trophy. Surely there was someone young and handsome, filled with charm and laughter who could win her heart as
Péré
had won
Maman’s
. She vowed to begin her search in earnest tonight before her guardian forced the issue with someone as unpleasant as Royal Burton.
If only I could trust my own judgment.

   
She had adored her frivolous, thrill-seeking parents and they in turn had quite outrageously indulged her. Olivia knew her mother had perhaps chosen unwisely in Julian St. Etienne. Indeed, when they arrived in New Orleans, her own brother Charles had turned them away, just as the rest of her family in France had done when they wed. Although Olivia’s father was a gambler and a wastrel, he was sunny and charming, utterly devoted to his two
belles filles
as he called them. Their life had been one of feast or famine, high living one week, sneaking out of a hotel’s back door the next when
Péré’s
luck at the gaming tables deserted him.

   
Olivia had loved the adventure. She would probably be smitten with someone just as unsuitable and reckless as her father. Perhaps that was why she had resisted the idea of marriage thus far. She looked around the room, quickly inventorying the young men who returned her perusal with favor. Olivia had never wanted for male attention since she turned fourteen. She smiled at a towheaded young naval officer who blushed furiously as he returned her gaze.

* * * *

   
Samuel Shelby was in a foul humor as he handed his cloak to the butler and strode across the foyer. He detested Rayburn Phelps almost as much as he loathed the endless rounds of glittering social events that every politically ambitious man in the capital had to attend. And every woman. Tish adored the whirl of parties. Tonight she was no doubt dancing and flirting at Senator Downey’s ball, escorted by her lapdog Richard.

   
Samuel was at the Phelps' gala to meet Don Luis de Onís y Gonzalez, the man the Spanish government in exile had appointed ambassador to the United States three years earlier. Onís had indicated to Shelby that his government might be amenable to financing a filibustering expedition in Louisiana Territory. Since the Spanish loyalists were decidedly short of cash at present, it was Samuel’s job to learn if British sterling stood behind the offer. Also to get the names of any agents who were engaged in subverting American territorial interests on the frontier.

   
His eyes searched the room, looking for the Spaniard’s slim imperious figure, always resplendent in satin cutaway coat and old-fashioned knee breeches and hose. Just as they alighted on Onís, they skimmed past a flash of brilliant fire red, a woman’s hair. Intrigued in spite of his preoccupation, Samuel found himself returning to study the lady in the exquisite gown of emerald silk.

   
It was cut in the latest fashion, high-waisted with a low, rounded neckline that revealed the slight swell of creamy breasts and gentle undulation of slim hips and long legs. The soft whispery sheerness of the fabric emphasized her slender figure to perfection. She was tall for a female, a bit out of fashion in an era that prized flamboyant voluptuousness—but the flaming glow of that heavy hair was flamboyant enough in itself. Again, not the fashionable thing. Dark hair like Dolley’s was all the rage now or his wife’s fair blondness. But that striking mane glowed beneath the chandeliers like living flame, wild and vibrant in contrast to the deep richness of her dark green dress. She drew admiring glances from men and envious glares from women around the room as her musical laughter floated on the warm air, soft as a serenade.

   
Samuel observed her from the side, wondering if she would turn around so that he might see her face more fully. In profile, it was intriguing. She had a piquant nose and high cheekbones. Arched dark red eyebrows rose above deep-set eyes with thick lashes. Her chin was pugnaciously stubborn. All in all, she was unconventionally enchanting. Just as he struggled to break contact and wend his way on to the Spanish ambassador, she looked up.

   
Olivia had spent the past hour dancing until her head whirled with dizziness and her feet ached in the pointy toed satin slippers. When she cried off any further exertions no less than half a dozen men brought her champagne from the refreshment tables. She bantered flirtatiously with them trying vainly to have fun and forget her guardian’s desire to marry her off to some stodgy older man. But her coterie of youthful admirers with their puppy dog adoration quickly grew tiresome just as it always had in the past. She felt bored and restless, needing—no expecting—something to happen, although she had not the slightest idea what.