Heiress (12 page)

Bette looked up at Esme. “Isn’t this what you want?”

Esme flattened the collar out in her hand. “I…yes. But…what if it…” She leaned down, held Bette’s hands. Not soft like her own, they had strength to them that Esme held onto. “I want to be happy. To do something powerful with my life. To…receive God’s blessings. But I—I don’t want to live in poverty.”

Oh, she hated the truth, so bare and raw. She turned away from it, staring at her warm fire.

Bette cupped Esme’s hands in hers. “What makes you think that poverty isn’t God’s blessing, also?”

“How could it be a blessing to watch your children die, living hand-to-mouth?” She slid her hands out of Bette’s.

Bette folded her hands. “Ma’am. Is it possible that God is giving you exactly what you want? You just don’t know how yet. Trust Him.”

Trust Him.

Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.

She got up and Bette retrieved her cloak then picked up her valise.

Esme watched her. “What will I do without you?”

Bette smiled. “You will learn to tie your own shoes.” She met Esme’s eyes, a smile on her lips.

“Indeed,” Esme said and reached out for her valise.

She took the back stairway, as her mother instructed, and found a Victorian waiting for her at the servant’s entrance. Giving Oliver’s address to the footman, she climbed in, settled back in the shadows, her bag at her feet.

Bette stood at the window, her gaze on her as Esme pulled away.

A fresh breath upon the city caused her to draw her cloak around her. She clutched her reticule in both hands, the dog collar inside. The pearls and diamonds would be enough for her and Oliver to purchase an apartment, perhaps not on Fifth Avenue, but in Chelsea. They wouldn’t have to live in the tenements.

Perhaps God had blessed her way already.

The smell of fire, probably from the coal furnaces and wood boxes in the slums beyond Fifth Avenue, scented the air. Storm water pooled in the streets, splashed up on the wheels. She could taste Oliver’s smile as she let her circumstances flood through her.

Indeed, she would be happy. Blessed.

She drank in the sudden, wild sense of freedom as they cut past Penn Station. Maybe he’d find a job at a paper.

Maybe she’d even write too.

They traveled toward Hell’s Kitchen and she watched the city darken. No more gaslights, no more trees laden with buds dripping onto the fresh grass. No more houses, their ornate windows peering onto the cobbled streets.

Alleyways like tunnels gaped at her, homeless men squatting under makeshift shelters made of crates, the sputter of fire flickering at the depths. The rain turned the streets to clay, scoured up a smell of waste.

She fisted the cloak tight. Perhaps she would ask her driver to wait while she found Oliver. And then—where would she spend the night? She hadn’t thought far enough to consider her lodgings. Her mother didn’t expect her to stay with Oliver, did she?

She glanced at the valise. What, indeed, did her mother believe about her?

Wait. What, in fact, did her mother intend to tell Father? She drew in a quick breath, leaned forward to tell the drive to turn around—she’d return home, get her father’s blessing, or at least his forgiveness—

Light bathed the street before her. She heard shouting, screams, the breaking of glass.

A roar.

She leaned out the window as a stream of sparks swirled beside her carriage.

“What is it?”

“Fire, ma’am. One of the tenement buildings.” Her driver stopped the carriage. “The street is filled with people. They seem to have abandoned the building.”

As they neared, she got a view of firefighters in long coats pumping water out to hoses and spraying from horse-drawn steamers onto—

No. She reached for the door handle. Stumbled out onto the muddy street. Didn’t even bother to hike up her skirt—just stumbled to the edge of the crowd, the heat burning her face as smoke poured out the windows at the top of Oliver’s building. Flames licked like tongues around his dormer window, black smoke pouring from the ones below it. From the front door, a man, his face sooted, stumbled out, holding a little girl in his arms.

“Oliver!” She pressed forward, searching for him in the crowd, past firemen, women clutching their children, saggy-jawed men in suspenders and derbies reeking of alcohol, others in cotton shirts bearing the build of workingmen. A broad-chested man in a great coat and top hat, someone who could have been from her side of town except for his rickety-rack nose, stepped in front of her. “Whoa there, missy, you’re going to get hurt.”

She pushed against him, her eyes on the roil of flames as they burst out a lower-story window. “Oliver!”

“He’s dead.”

The voice, spoken loud enough to cut through the roar of the flames, the screams, stilled her. She whirled around.

The redhead—what was her name? Colleen. She held herself with her arms crossed, her hair long and tangled, her face puffy. “He was in his room when the lightning struck the house.”

“How do you know?”

“I had just left him. He told me…” Colleen’s face tightened, something frenetic in her eyes. Then her hand came out, up as if to slap Esme. Esme recoiled as Colleen made a fist, held it to her breast.

“You wouldn’t have been happy,” she said then pressed her lips together, her body shaking. “He wouldn’t have been enough for you.”

Esme stared at her, everything stilling, turning numb.

“But to me, he was the world.” Colleen cupped her hands to her mouth, shook her head. “Go home, Miss Price. You don’t belong here.”

The words shook Esme through, winding down her body, seeping into her bones.

Dead.

She stared at the inferno. Glass exploded and the crowd gasped, screamed. She bore it without moving, even when the spray from the fire hose slicked her skin, turned her dress soggy. The mud seeped into her shoes as the night fell around her, shrouding her, only the glow of the fire upon her skin.

He couldn’t be dead. She refused to believe it.

She wrapped her arms around herself. She’d stay until she knew. Until—

A great roar shook her as the house caved in, the skeletal frame charred, flames rising up to the blackened heavens.

He could be out taking crime photographs. Which meant he’d turn them in tomorrow…at the
Chronicle.

You’re an amazing writer, Esme. Prove to him that you can write—better than any man in his city department.

His voice found her behind the growl of the fire, his words calm and solid. She gritted her jaw, swallowing back her tears.

He won’t care.

Make him care.

Her gaze landed on a group of three, a man holding a child, coughing, a woman stoically watching the destruction. Another man held his head, his eyes glassy. Firemen wet the houses nearby, the mist like the steam from the underworld as it floated into the night.

To me, he was the world.

This had been Oliver’s world. The one he’d tried to capture, to not only survive in, but redeem.

“Ma’am, we should go.” Her driver—she looked at him, saw that he couldn’t be any older than Oliver, the hint of shadow on his skin, his eyes darting to the crowd around them.

She watched the fire begin to die, the embers like eyes, blinking through the night.

“Take me to my father’s paper. Take me to the
Chronicle.”

* * * * *

“You never told me you had a yacht.”

Jinx held onto Foster’s shoulders as he lifted her out of his landau and onto the pier.

“It’s a recent acquisition. For our wedding trip to Europe.”

Their wedding trip. She glanced at him, trying to read his face. He seemed unfazed by the substitution of a different bride, almost as if her father had suggested she might be a racehorse, one that could accomplish the derby as well as the first. Foster had entered the drawing room after meeting with her father in his study and taken her hand. Then he bent before her and slipped the ring he’d presented to Esme onto her finger. She’d watched him for any hint of a twinkle in his eyes, but when he looked at her, she saw nothing. No charm, no smile, not even triumph.

Perhaps, he, like she, didn’t want to betray an untoward jubilation.

He did, however, squeeze her hand, just enough to calm the battle inside.

Surely, he loved her. After all, he stood before the judge and committed himself to be true to her, to care for her, in sickness and health, for richer or poor.

Hopefully, for richer. “Europe?”

“You said Esme wasn’t going to visit Paris, so I thought…” He lifted a shoulder as he held out his hand to help her up the gangplank.

She rather wished he’d sweep her into his arms, carry her across the proverbial threshold. But perhaps he wanted to wait until they had privacy.

He did help her manage her way over the deck, sweeping up the train to her wedding dress—or rather, her debutante costume. But it felt like a wedding dress, the way the guests had admired her attire. She’d eaten nearly nothing at the dinner, and now, at midnight, hunger clawed at her insides.

But she had nothing of food on her mind.

“It’s a beautiful ship.” Three-masted, with a steamer pipe in the center, she gauged it nearly two hundred feet long. An observation lounge spanned the center of the deck. She peeked inside, noticed padded chairs, long windows that overlooked the ocean.

The yacht listed gently, a delicate memory of today’s storm, and overhead, diamonds of light sparkled in the scrubbed sky. The slightest tinge of smoke seasoned the air, caught in the breezes of New York harbor.

“Our salon is downstairs.” He cupped her elbow and escorted her down the mahogany stairs. Rooms off the main gangway opened to porthole windows, most with a fireplace and maple wainscoting, overstuffed gold and green chairs.

He led her to the end of the boat, to the room at the bow. Porthole windows like eyes peered over the ocean. He turned on the tiffany chandelier, the gold thread in the seafoam green damask wallpaper sparkling like an undersea chamber. And at the far end of the room, a carved walnut canopied bed, its linens fresh and tufted.

On top lay a box, wrapped in bright paper.

“You got me a wedding gift?”

She glanced up at him and he nodded, his smile tight.

“I’ll change, but…” She turned. “You’ll have to unbutton my dress.”

She had hoped for something gentler as he worked her buttons free. She held the dress to herself then scooped up the box, glancing over her shoulder as she headed to the dressing room. “I’ll be right back.”

But he had moved to the fireplace, as if to start a fire. Well, it did seem chilly, and…

She shut the door to the dressing room, leaned against it, and tried to swallow the webbing in her chest, the dark thread that wound through her.

She’d rescued them all, hadn’t she? Her father walked her down the stairs, into the drawing room, gave her hand in marriage to Foster, and for a moment, her hand on his arm, she’d felt safe. Protected. Wanted.

Blessed.

She stepped out of the dress and, not knowing what to do, laid it out on the carpeted floor. Then, she unhooked her corset, letting her body breathe.

Finally, she opened the box.

Inside, wrapped in brown paper, she discovered a two-piece lingerie suit. White cotton, with lace across the bottom of the drawers, and pink ribbon sewn into the edge of the corset bodice, which hooked in the front. Eyelet lace trimmed the neck and sleeves. She pulled it out, ran her fingers across the fabric.

Tears filmed her eyes. What a kind gesture from her husband. She reached up to take down her hair, missing Amelia’s ministrations. She should have insisted her maid travel with her. Perhaps she could request her in the morning, before they left port. Her hair fell, and she finger-combed it out, gathering up the rats, setting them with the tiara her mother had presented to her next to her dress.

She stepped into the drawers, tied them at the waist. They seemed longer than normal, bagging nearly to her ankles. Then she pulled on the bodice, hooking it in front. It pulled against her chest, bagged at her waist. Still, she felt oddly pretty, despite the shiver that ran up her bare feet.

Good thing Foster had built a fire.

She smoothed the fabric over her stomach then looked at herself in the mirror. She seemed older, just in the few hours since she’d become a married woman. Her eyes wiser, her body more womanly.

She fashioned a smile, her lips puckered, then opened the door.

Foster stood with his back to her, one hand braced over the mantle, a poker in hand, staring at the flames.

“It’s beautiful, Foster,” she said softly.

He turned.

His eyes contained no warmth of the man she’d thought she knew, as if he’d been far away and yanked back too soon. He let his gaze scour over her. “Indeed. It was made for Esme.”

Esme. Of course it was. Jinx pressed her hands to arms, rubbing away the gooseflesh. She looked down, wishing suddenly she could change back into her debutante dress, wishing that the flimsy fabric didn’t make her feel naked.

She turned toward the dressing room, not sure—

Foster caught her, wrapping his hands around the tops of her arms. His hands were warm, almost sweaty. He leaned down, and as she drew in a breath, staring at her reflection in the mirror, he brushed her hair aside and pressed a kiss at the base of her neck.

Then met her eyes in the mirror.

There was the smile, the one she’d fallen for. Something full of mischief, of charm. She caught his hands on her arms, wove her fingers into his grip. “We’ll have the perfect life, won’t we, Foster?”

He gave a low chuckle and turned her to face him. He cupped his hand beneath her chin and raised her face to meet his.

As he moved in to take her lips, he stopped a moment to meet her eyes, his so gray, like the smoldering sky right before dawn. “Yes, Jinx. Absolutely perfect. I promise.”

* * * * *

Her father had a magnificent view of New York from his office, the way the sun gilded the cobblestones, the statue on the roof tolling the early morning hour. Here, seated in his leather chair, hands on the armrests, Esme could see why people feared him.