Heiress (7 page)

“I’m not cold yet. I’ll be in presently.”

Her maid, Amelia, waited in the warming house with hot tea and a warming blanket, along with Delphine Wilson and Elizabeth Fish. They’d conspired the outing during dance class yesterday, while in the arms of the boys from Dodsworth’s Dancing Academy. Lizzie and Del had already ordered their trousseaus and the jaunt to the skating rink served more as a way to compare notes. In six months, they might not be talking to each other as they competed in the social arena for the right catch.

Alistair skated off, and Jinx closed her eyes, spreading out her arms, letting the wind caress her face, drinking in the fresh air. Finally, she would step into her life, the one she’d whittled herself to fit. With Esme’s marriage to Foster Worth, doors would open to Jinx. She would be included in the parties of the Vanderbilts and the rest of high society.

Even if Esme despised her role. Thankfully, she hadn’t fought her engagement, but retreated instead into her chamber or spending endless hours at the piano, filling the music salon with Chopin or Mozart. Mother had to drag her to her fittings for her gown, and Jinx had taken over the planning of Esme’s wedding in Newport, an activity she seemed born to.

She helped Mother plan the transformation of the ballroom of Seacrest, their Newport cottage, into a lush and exotic garden—from palm fronds to lilies, to roses that would hang in cascades from the chandeliers. She convinced her mother to employ a sixty-piece orchestra and had already begun working with the chef on the perfect menu of terrapin and squid.

It ignited in her the resolution that someday, she would be the doyenne who watched the “buds” through her lorgnette and determined their suitability. She would be the one to set society’s standards. She would create the perfect world and never again wonder where she belonged.

“Look out!”

She opened her eyes a second too late to stop herself from plowing into the tall bulk of a skater, his hands open to catch her. She slammed into him and then, in an inglorious moment, tumbled them onto the ice. “Oh!”

She landed hard on her knee, her hands slamming into his chest.

His arms curled around her to cushion her, but she collapsed onto him, gray dots before her eyes as the confines of her corset sealed off her breath.

“Are you okay?” He pushed her off him, setting her on the ice.

She fought to catch her breath. “I…think so.” Or, perhaps she wasn’t, because as she looked up… “Foster?”

He smiled, and in that moment, something curled inside her. Warmth, perhaps—she felt her face heat as he climbed to his feet then reached down and hooked his arm under her body.

She held onto his arms as he swooped her to her feet. “Thank you.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

She still had a grip on his greatcoat and fought for her composure. But he had amazing eyes—gray, yet flecked with green and the ability to whisk the words from her chest. And her legs hadn’t recovered, it seemed, as he smiled down at her. “Hello, Jinx. It’s been awhile.”

She smiled. So, he remembered the days when his family would visit hers, at Newport. But then, she’d been about ten-years-old to his sixteen.

“I never did know, why do they call you Jinx?”

“My real name is Jacqueline, but my father started calling me Jinx when I was young. It stuck.” Lately, though, she’d begun to wonder if he hadn’t meant it as a term of endearment, but rather an epitaph to her unfortunate birth.

“I like Jacqueline better.”

Oh.

He held out his arm. “Just until you get your feet under you.”

She slipped hers through and he pushed off.

“I know I should have been by to see Esme, and of course renew my acquaintance with you and your family earlier. After the engagement, I had to return to London and then Paris to secure the spring line of clothing for our stores.”

“I’ve never been to Paris, although my father did suggest a trip there for Esme’s trousseau.”

“I didn’t know she was going to Paris. Then again, she doesn’t talk to me.” He had his hand on hers, over her glove, warming it. “I fear I have offended her.”

Why did Esme have to trouble everyone with her moods? “She is fine. Simply busy with the wedding. And, she can be rather…bookish.”

“I remember her sitting beneath the oaks on your estate, lost in a book while we played croquet.”

“You remember our croquet game?”

“I remember you cheating for the win.”

“I didn’t cheat!” She glanced up at him and found his smile. “You are simply a miserable croquet player. You stole my ball and flung it into the surf!”

“That was my brother, Benny, if I recall.” He winked at her. “He was always the sore loser. You remember him—he’s just about your age.”

“Of course.” She remembered him as the boy who mocked her for her freckles right after he’d thrown her croquet ball into the surf. “Is he still at West Point?”

Foster laughed. “No, sadly, he couldn’t quite manage the military. Father sent him to Paris before he fell ill. Bennett is managing our shipping there, if that’s what you want to call it.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say as he continued to skate with her, cupping his hand over hers.

“I’m afraid Father extended too long a leash to Bennett. He’ll be back before the season at Newport, most likely, looking for a fresh advance on his allowance. Oh, I shouldn’t have said that.” He winced, shook his head, found her eyes again. “Family.”

“Indeed.”

“I hope that after Esme and I are wed, such a term will be met with endearment between our people.”

He had long strides, but she suspected he shortened them for her as he directed her around the pond. She spotted Amelia standing outside, her cloak blowing around her, waiting for Jinx’s arrival. She ignored her.

To be seen on the arm of Foster Worth, her future brother-in-law, couldn’t hurt her prospects for next season.

Although, for a moment, she’d forgotten about her debut and simply hung onto Foster. He hadn’t exactly let her go, either.

“We’re not going to Paris, by the way.”

“Oh. Very good. After the social season ends, I would like to call on your family more often, and it would be ever so pleasant to have someone there with whom I could have a conversation, and who, perhaps, enjoys mine?”

He glanced at her, and for a second, she thought she recognized a flash of question on his face. He enjoyed her conversation?

“Esme, I’m sure, will be delighted to see you.”

He looked away, and the wind threatened to steal her hat. “Esme and I shared few words even when we were children. It was with you I laughed.”

She didn’t know why, but his words stirred deep inside her.

“Esme has her charms.”

“I think you and I both know the nature of my betrothal to Esme. I do not beguile myself to believe it is more than simply a mutual advantageous agreement.” He slowed then and turned to skate backwards, now holding her hand. “It is left to me to find friendship elsewhere.”

She stared at him, and had he not had her hand, she might have stopped skating. “I—I should go to the warming house. Amelia is waiting for me.”

“Are you cold? My sleigh is waiting. I have a buffalo robe, and the weather is beautiful for a ride.”

A ride.

With Foster Worth.

“I have not yet been presented into society. I need to return home, practice my quadrille. I cannot get the form of the hobbyhorse steps.”

“I could help you. Perhaps you need a partner?”

He still had her hand and she stared at it now. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Say that my marriage to your sister won’t extinguish the spark of friendship between us. Indeed, I can admit that I look forward to seeing your smile even more than Esme’s, heaven help me. And I will ensure, dear sister-in-law, that you will have the most advantageous match in society that I can manage.”

He had stopped and they stood in the center of the ice. Alistair swished past them, chasing Lizzie, who waved at her.

“I am cold.”

“My sleigh awaits. I promise to deliver you home warm and safe. It is the least I can do after knocking you over.”

“I think it was I who knocked you over, sir.”

He again slipped her hand into the crook of his arm as he led her toward his sleigh. “Indeed.”

* * * * *

Certainly she could learn to love Foster. Jinx obviously did. Esme watched her laugh at Foster’s comments, hiding giggles behind her hand as he regaled the family—no, Jinx—with stories of catastrophes down at the shipyard. Esme picked at the boiled lamb’s head her mother had decided to serve for dinner, trying to act informal. Never mind the shimmer of the crystal chandeliers above the table that cast a prism of light upon the gilded chairs, turning the spray of roses and orchids to gems. Hickory logs crackled in the hearth, as if the Price family took dinner every night in the dining room, a pastoral dinner.

Esme wished herself into the music salon, at her piano, or secreted away in her room watching spring bloom across Central Park, scribbling her thoughts—forbidden as they were—into the only journal her father hadn’t confiscated from her room. He’d tossed her books, her magazines, her writings, one by one into the fire, oblivious to her pleading.

She’d stopped begging after he’d thrown in her copies of her articles, folded and secured in a scrapbook. She’d watched wordlessly as the fire blackened the leather book, curled the pages, and soured the room with the acrid odor of cow flesh incinerated.

Even her copy of the
Chronicle
disappeared from her morning tray. She’d discovered the announcement of her engagement through Jinx, who recited it word-for-word while Esme tried to close her ears.

While Jinx’s world brightened with her oncoming debut, Esme’s only seemed to darken. Never mind that she hadn’t seen nor heard from Oliver. He once made a habit of stopping by the servant’s quarter to inquire after his father, their butler, especially on Sundays. But although she’d asked, discreetly, about his attendance, no, Pierce Stewart hadn’t seen his son in months.

An absence that should probably stop gnawing at her, especially with her fiancé seated at the dinner table.

“Have you heard anything of a grain shovelers’ strike brewing in Buffalo, Mr. Price?”

Foster had initially given a feeble attempt to engage Esme in conversation, stopping by often for tea or to invite her for a stroll in the park. But it was Jinx’s witty spirit that had filled the silence during the ride home from church he’d given them last Sunday.

Not that Esme minded.

Her father ate in silence.

Foster finished off his lamb’s head. “We had men stop by the shipping yard talking about heading up to work as strikebreakers.”

“Why would they strike?” Her mother asked. “Aren’t they well cared for?”

Foster wiped his mouth with his napkin, his gaze darting to her father, then back to her mother. “Depends on how you look at it. The brewery set up the workers’ food and lodging at the local saloon, and the charges are taken out of their paychecks. But the workers claim the saloons are owned by the brewery bosses and they end up getting cheated.”

Esme put down her fork. “What about their families?”

Foster looked at her, surprise in his expression. “Most of the men are single, just like the men we have working for us down at the docks. We provide their lodging, their food. I hope they don’t get any ideas from the unions up north.”

“But shouldn’t they have a right to spend their paycheck where they choose?”

“Esme, don’t be contrary. This is men’s talk.” Phoebe motioned for a server to take Esme’s plate of uneaten food.

“But Mother, have you seen those saloons? The families live in tiny, unventilated rooms. Children die of dysentery and cholera. It’s filthy, unchristian conditions and—”

“That’s enough, Esme,” Father snapped from the end of the table.

Foster stared at her, unblinking, as if he’d never heard her speak before.

“Mother, isn’t it time for the May Day baskets to go to the Children’s Home Society?” Jinx allowed her server to remove her plate. He replaced it with a custard.

“Indeed, Jinx. Perhaps you and your sister will join me this week for the presentation?”

Esme didn’t know what took possession of her mouth, but, “Don’t forget to invite Father’s pressmen. You would hate to have the gift diminished by lack of fanfare.”

“Esme!”

“I feel unwell, may I please be excused?”

“No,” her father said. He turned to Foster. “I apologize for my daughter’s tongue.”

But Foster was watching Jinx as she ate her custard, a strange expression on his face. Amusement perhaps, or…

Was Foster in love with her sister?

Her stomach tightened as she looked from Jinx to Foster, at the way they stole glances.

Jinx. What had she done?

“Why don’t you men retire to the drawing room for your port? We will join you presently.” Phoebe signaled to the butler to follow the men to the drawing room and attend to their conversation.

Foster caught Esme’s eyes, nothing of a smile in his expression as he pushed away from the table.

The maid closed the doors behind them and her mother waited one beat before, “Are you trying to cause him to retract his offer of marriage?”

“In my wildest dreams.”

“Hush your tongue. Yes, you may be excused.” Her mother threw her napkin to the table then rose and strode from the room.

Jinx finished off her custard. She licked her spoon, put it back in the dish. “I know I shouldn’t finish my meal, not with my trousseau already ordered, but I just love our chef’s custard—”

“What are you doing, Jinx?”

Jinx looked up at her. “Eating?”

“Don’t be quaint. Foster looks at you like
you
are custard. You laugh at his jokes—”

“He’s funny, Esme. You could get to know him more, you know. That’s why he’s here. You would like him. He’s educated and well-mannered. And handsome.”

“He’s arrogant.”

“He’s a millionaire. He has a right. Besides, he’s just like Father. I thought you adored Father.”

Esme pushed her dish away. “He isn’t Father.” She didn’t know what to think about her father. With her declaration at the newspaper, they’d lost all rapport. He seemed a stranger to her.