Fortune's fools (2 page)

"Oh, Master Tristram. I did not realize you had returned. Could I bring you something to eat or drink?" asked Barton.

"No, thank you, Barton. I must go out again," he replied, rising and picking up the stack of papers. He straightened it and tied it with a string. "I will probably not be back for supper, either."

"Very good, sir."

Tristram tucked the money purse into his coat pocket and said good-bye before leaving the large, messy office.

"Mr. Darby, a moment, please," said the man behind the desk, patting the stack of papers in front of him. "What name do you wish to use?"

"The title is there. Sir Milton s Triumph."

"No, I meant as the author, you may wish to use a different name from your own. Most of the gentry don't want anyone knowing they write novels and such. Some just put down 'A Lady of Quality' or simply 'A Gentleman.'"

"I really hadn't considered." Tristram hesitated only a moment.

Recalling how much trouble his drawings had caused when they were published last Season, he certainly did not wish to have another such scandal attached to the Darby name.

"Yes, I think you are right, Mr. Rider. Very well, I shall use the name Richard Poorman. How is that?"

The publisher scratched his head, but he nodded and wrote the name on the first page of Tristram's manuscript. Then he rose and offered his hand to the young gentleman, who took it and shook it once firmly.

"I think Mr. Poorman is going to prove very popular and very profitable for us both, young man."

"I only hope you are right, Mr. Rider. Good day."

"Good day, sir"

Whistling, Tristram left the office and made his way to the door. Drawing all those broadsides the spring before had been profitable, but hardly enough to repair the family fortunes. This book, however, if it did as well as Mr. Rider thought it would, should make it possible for him and his brothers to live a little more comfortably. It wouldn't pay off his father's debts to the Marquess of Cravenwell, but it would be a start.

And perhaps, if this one was popular, he could write another one, and another...

Tristram grinned, tipping his hat to a passing matron. His step jaunty, he proceeded to the coffee house across the street to celebrate the sale of his first novel. He would not tell Max, not yet. He would wait until the book was printed and see how it sold. Perhaps ... careful, he cautioned himself. He did not want to live on daydreams the way his father always had. The next turn of the card was always going to be the big winner for his father. No, Tristram had no desire to be like him. He would keep his feet firmly planted on the ground.

"Mary Katherine O'Connor! Come here this instant! And don't think ye kin be hidin' from me, me fine girl!"

The still handsome Kieran O'Connor bounded up the stairs like a man of twenty and threw open his daughter's door.

Feigning surprise, Kate O'Connor exclaimed, "Papa! You should knock before entering a lady's chamber!"

"None of your fine airs wi' me, Mary Kate," he said.

Kate smiled. Things were not so bad if her father was already calling her Mary Kate. Soon, it would be only Kate again, and his temper would be cooled completely.

"Papa, what has happened? It is not Mama, is it?"

"Not... o' course not. Your dear mother is fine, like I told you she would be. A mere case of the sniffles. She'll be right as rain in no time and ready to take you to all the balls and such you can handle."

He scowled at the glimmer of amusement in her green eyes and wagged a finger at her, scolding, "None o' your tricks, do you hear? I came up here to tell you what's what. I know you've been out on that stallion, tearing through the streets, making a spectacle o' yourself. You'll send your sainted mother back to her sickbed, you will, if you don't leave behind your hoydenish ways."

"But, Papa, Thunderlight has to have exercise."

"And what do you think I pay Bobby O'Hara for, if not to ride the horses? And not like some sort of banshee."

"Papa, I do not ride like a banshee, though how you could know how they ride, I'm certain I don't know. Have you ever seen a banshee?" She calculated that this last question was enough to make her father forget everything else, and she smiled inwardly when he took the bait.

"A man doesn't have to have seen something, to know that it exists. And don't think they don't exist, because they do. Your mother..."

"Kieran, dearest, what is all this clamor about?"

"Mama," said Kate, hurrying to the doorway where her invalid mother was swaying delicately. She led her into the room and saw her seated in front of the fire before ringing for tea.

"Anne, you shouldn't be up and about yet," said her husband, kneeling by her side and patting her hand.

"Nonsense. I am fine, Kieran, and so the doctor told you this morning. Now, what is all this noise about?"

"Nothing, my love, nothing at all."

"You know me and Papa, Mama. We love to squabble, but we did not mean to disturb you," said Kate, bringing a shawl and placing it around her mother's narrow shoulders. She then sat down on the footstool, folding her long legs beneath her. Her mother smiled at her and patted her daughter's red curls.

"What have you been doing this morning, my love, that has your father in such a state?"

"Nothing." Kate blushed and grimaced. "Well, not much. I just went for a ride in the park."

"On that black devil," muttered her father.

"He is not a devil," said Kate, her green eyes sparking with defiance and indignation.

"Kieran, can Kate handle him?"

"You know she can," said Kieran O'Connor, his chest swelling with pride. "Our Kate can handle anything on four legs, but that is not the point. She should not be racing through the park, no matter how early in the morning she rides."

"Your father is right, Kate, and you know it, don't you?"

"Yes, Mama," she replied.

"Good. Then it shan't happen again?"

"No, Mama."

"Good. You know, Kate, I do believe I am feeling

strong enough to accompany you to the shops this afternoon. You have your first fitting with the seamstress, do you not?"

"That would be wonderful," said Kate, her green eyes meeting her father's. "Are you sure you are well enough?"

"Yes, dear. It's only right that your mother should go with you on such a momentous occasion. Besides, I may run into some old acquaintances, and that will mean more invitations, more balls, and more suitors for you to choose from."

"I... yes, Mama."

Anne O'Connor rose with the help of her daughter and husband. Leaning heavily on his arm, she allowed him to lead her to the door where she paused.

"Can you be ready in an hour, my Kate?"

"Yes, Mama. I'll be ready."

The door closed on her parents, and Kate rushed to the bed, flinging herself down on it, her face buried in the pillow while the sobs racked her body.

It was unspoken, the knowledge that her mother would never fully recover her health. It was always there, looming over everyone in the household, that Mrs. O'Connor might not recover this time, from this miscarriage.

When she had discovered that her mother was once more with child, she had raged at her father, calling him a beast and worse. Her mother's quiet reprimand had taken the wind out of her sails. Love, she insisted softly, had a mind of its own, and the baby was simply a result of their love—for each other and for her. How, her mother had whispered, could she not hope for another child like her beloved Kate?

It had ended like the others. Her mother had lost the baby just before coming to London for her daughter's

first Season. The experience had weakened her further, and she had yet to recover. The London physician had confided to Kate and her father that Mrs. O'Connor would likely never be the same, that the weakness might never leave her. Her mother, however, had called the physician a quack and assured them that she would be fine in time.

Kate sat up and dried her tears. After bathing her face in the cool water on the nightstand, she began removing her riding habit. Her mother wanted her to have a Season in London, just as she had done before meeting her Irish rogue of a husband. She was certain her long-legged, full-figured Kate would be a great success.

Gazing candidly at her wild red curls and freckled nose, Kate doubted she would take London by storm. To her own critical eyes, she looked too much like her father, and she was more accustomed to the stable than the drawing room. But for her Mama, she would endure anything.

Making a moue at her image, she turned away and donned her dark red gown with its matching spencer trimmed in gold braid. She loved the gown, which fitted her well and suited her coloring. With a final glance in the glass, she left the room, walking down the short corridor to her mother's room to help her down the stairs.

"Your papa ordered the carriage, did he not, Miss Kate?" asked Dolly, her mother's faithful maid.

"Yes, it is waiting at the front door. Is that cloak warm enough, Mama? We do not want you to get a chill."

"Certainly not," said the maid.

"I am fine," insisted Mrs. O'Connor, smiling at them and shaking her head. "Each of you give me an arm on the stairs, and we will manage admirably."

"Yes, Mama," said Kate.

"Yes, madam," said Dolly.

When they were finally settled in the small landaulet, Kate breathed a sigh of relief. The coachman sent the horses down the street, traveling at a sedate pace.

"Papa says you are to have everything I deem necessary," said Mrs. O'Connor.

"Surely we have already ordered everything that is necessary," said Kate.

"No, we have only begun, my dear. A lady must have a different gown for every major ball."

"How silly!" said Kate.

"Well, that is an exaggeration, perhaps. But if you wear the same gown, you must do something different. A different shawl, new ribbons, perhaps another flounce."

"Mama, I know you and Papa ..."

"Sh, Kate. We have been through it all before. If you had chosen one of the young gentlemen at home, that would have been fine. You know I would have loved having you close by. But none of them would do, as anyone with two thoughts to rub together could see. I mean, can you imagine, in your wildest dreams, being Mrs. Peter Abernathy?"

The three of them giggled, as they always did when Mrs. O'Connor said this. Peter Abernathy was a handsome young man, but he could barely count to ten.

"To give the boy credit, madam," said the maid, with the easy familiarity of an old family retainer, "he was smart enough to recognize what a gem our girl is."

"Quite right, Dolly. I should not malign the boy so," said Mrs. O'Connor.

Kate smiled as her mother and the maid laughed again. It was so good to hear her mother's laughter—it

was pure and bright, like the water in a crystal clear brook. She studied her mother's face, watching for signs of fatigue. Her mother turned to gaze at her, giving her a reassuring wink.

"Here we are, Mrs. River's shop. When we have finished with our fitting, dear, let's go to Gunter's for an ice."

"That would be wonderful," said Kate, hopping down and reaching back to help the maid descend. Together, they steadied her mother as she climbed down.

Two hours later, they had no thoughts of ices from Gunter's. There was that familiar tightness around her mother's eyes and mouth, and Kate insisted that she was too exhausted to go another step. The coachman turned the carriage toward their small house just off Berkley Square.

It was a modest residence, rented for the autumn Season. It suited their needs, having just enough room for the family and their few servants. Kate and Dolly helped Mrs. O'Connor to her room and saw her settled in the big bed. Her cheeks were the color of the white sheets, and Dolly declared that she would fetch a restorative.

"No, Dolly. That is not necessary. I only need to rest. I will be fine by dinner. Wake me when it is time to dress again."

"Very good, madam," said the maid, putting a finger to her lips as she led the way out of the room.

In the corridor, Kate motioned for the maid to follow her, and they went into her bedroom.

"She looks so very tired," said Kate, pitching her bonnet on the bed and peeling off her gloves. Dolly picked up the discarded items, checked them for loose ribbons or buttons, and then put them away.

"She'll be fine, miss. Your mother will come about.

Just you wait and see. And when you start going to all those balls, she'll be right there with you." The maid returned to her young mistress's side and patted her head.

Kate managed a slight smile and said, "Sit down, Dolly, and tell me again about Mama's Season."

"Oh, miss, I've got a thousand things to do .. . oh, very well. Your mother was the prettiest belle of the Season, she was. She was tall and slender, like a reed. All the men were writing poems to her and making up the most dreadful songs."

"Did she receive flowers every day?"

"At least four or five bouquets every single day. And then there was that one day when among the bouquets there was a single daisy tied with a bright blue ribbon."

"From Papa," said Kate, who knew the story as well as the maid, but never tired of hearing about her mother and father's fairy-tale romance.

"Yes, and when your papa saw her wearing that ribbon that night, he knew she had chosen him. He was grinning from ear to ear, and your grandmama—rest her soul—she was fit to be tied. She tried to reason with your mama, but she would hear not a word against your papa. Your grandmama vowed she would not receive a penny of her dowry, but they refused to be swayed."

Kate sighed, marveling that her wealthy mother had chosen her penniless father over all her other suitors. That was how love was supposed to be, but she doubted that she would ever find such love. Perhaps she was too practical.

"I wonder what Papa will do if my choice displeases him," said Kate.

Dolly rose and grinned down at her mistress. "He will probably take the whip to him—and to you, too. Now stand up and let me help you out of that gown. I do