Her Defiant Heart (14 page)

Stephen Bennington lowered his newspaper as his father entered the dining room. He looked over the top edge, saw the grim set of his father's mouth, and wished he had never stole a glance in the first place. In Stephen's opinion breakfast was meant to set the mood for the day; therefore, one should make it pleasant. His sigh was inaudible as he briskly snapped the paper, folded it in quarters, and laid it beside his plate.

"The biscuits are especially good this morning," he said as his father helped himself to the food set out on the sideboard.

The senior Bennington's acknowledgment was something between a snort and a grunt. He spooned scrambled eggs onto his plate, speared a few strips of crisp, blackened bacon, and took two biscuits. When he approached the table, the maid who had fluttered in with a fresh pot of coffee held out his chair for him. She poured a cup for her employer and added a good measure to Stephen's, then removed herself from the room quickly, pulling the pocket doors closed behind her.

With an angry flourish, William Bennington opened his linen napkin. He smoothed it across his lap and shot his son a sour look. "Where were you last night?" The question was not so much an inquiry as it was the beginning of an interrogation. It was the senior Bennington's way to never ask a question when he could make a demand.

Stephen was too familiar with his father's manner to take offense or even be much bothered by it. He returned his father's glower with a slight smile. "I informed you days ago that I had plans for last evening," he said coolly.

Though father and son were possessed of decidedly different temperaments, there could be no doubt, even among the most casual of observers, that these two men were related. When they stared at one another from opposite ends of the table, as they were doing now, the physical similarities were striking. The Benningtons shared sharp angular features that were by turns aristocratic and predatory. The strong jaws were softened only marginally by large side-whiskers. William had a meticulously groomed beard and mustache while Stephen sported a mustache alone. Both men had thick heads of pale ash-blond hair, though William's hairline showed signs of receding and some strands of hair were more
gray than ash. On their feet, William and Stephen stood shoulder to shoulder, lithe, handsomely featured men with a natural grace that invariably captured a woman's eye.

William's manner of dress was rather more conservative than his son's. He preferred formal cuts and somber tones, which he believed lent him dignity and forcefulness. Stephen was more likely to wear the colorful clothes of his generation: checked trousers, coupled with a short, loose sports coat and a jaunty bowler. William was often seen coming or going from his office at the bank. Stephen was more likely to be spied taking part in a daring coach race down the center of Broadway.

A score of years separated father and son. At twenty-five Stephen still lapsed into moments of profound immaturity and petulance. At forty-five William did not always shoulder responsibility well. Somewhat to his regret, William realized that in the case of his only offspring the apple had not fallen far from the tree.

William's cobalt eyes snapped at his son. "I would have thought you had sense enough to change your plans. I don't think you truly understand what we are up against. Things are not going to stay the same no matter that we might wish it otherwise. Caroline's death has changed everything."

"I don't see that my presence at the bank mattered one way or the other."

William jabbed at his eggs with his fork. "Then it's high time you began to see. You were Caroline's fiancé, for God's sake. Don't you think the board found your absence conspicuous? After all, this was the first meeting since her death."

"Didn't you tell them I was too grief-stricken to attend?" Stephen lifted his coffee cup and sipped slowly, watching his father over the gold leaf rim. "The meeting was ceremonial, wasn't it? Dedicating Caroline's portrait or some such? Their reasoning escapes me entirely. It's not as if she had anything to do with the bank. Her great-grandfather founded the blasted institution. What Caroline knew about finance was strictly confined to accounts payable. She died owing A. T. Stewart's thousands of dollars, and that was only one of the places she set up credit after her return from Europe. Left to her own devices, she would have owed city merchants more than a half million dollars by spring. If that's what the members of the board want to pay tribute to, then let them. I don't have to sanction it with my presence."

"My," William said, raising both eyebrows, "this is something new. Principles, perhaps?"

Stephen mirrored his father's skeptical expression exactly. "I think you know the answer to that."

"Then it's sour grapes." William picked up a biscuit, sliced it, and smeared it with sweet cream butter. "That money should have been yours."

"Ours," Stephen corrected, lowering his cup and leveling a significant, knowing look at his father. Stephen pushed away from the table and stood, slipping the paper under his arm. He went to his father and touched him lightly on the shoulder. "Don't worry. Caroline Van Dyke was not the only heiress in the country, or in New York for that matter. I'll find someone to take her place."

"The sooner the better, Stephen. There are rumblings at the bank about changes being proposed. I would not like to find myself on the outside looking in. I don't believe you would relish that position either. Money would give us control and secure my place as president. The terms Charles Van Dyke set forth in his will would be less significant to us. Keep that in mind."

Stephen offered a small smile. "I will, Father. I am meeting a young woman this morning for a ride in Central Park."

"The same woman whose bed you warmed last night?"

"Hardly." He paused at the door. "Last evening was strictly pleasure. This morning is business. You taught me how important it is to keep the two separate."

William watched his son go and hoped Stephen knew what he was doing. His son did not seem to understand there were a number of significant loose ends. William raised his pocket watch and glanced at the time. He pressed his lips together. He was due to meet with one loose end in less than thirty minutes. Applying himself to his breakfast as if it were the last meal of a condemned man, William Bennington finished eating just as his visitor was admitted to the entrance hall.

He looked up when Reilly, house butler of some twenty years, opened the dining room doors with his usual officious air. "Yes?" asked William. "What is it, Reilly?" As if he didn't know.

"Dr. Morgan is here to see you."

Had William been less concerned about the interview, he might have noticed the hint of curiosity in the butler's dark eyes and the faint insolence in the lift of his chin. "Very well. Show him to the library. I'll see him there."

* * *

Christian Marshall's coolly colored eyes fastened on the door as soon as he heard the handle being twisted. He felt a measure of disappointment when he saw it was Scott. "Oh, it's you."

"Apparently you were expecting someone else." Scott dropped his bag on the floor and locked the door. His brief, knowing smile vanished by the time he faced Christian again. "Miss Holland, maybe?"

"Not likely," Christian said, and because it was so obvious a lie, he felt the need to support it with further denial. "She's made my life a pure misery. Why would I want to see her?"

"I'm sure I don't know." Scott looked around the room. Mrs. Brandywine had warned him there had been some changes, but he was still a little taken aback by what he saw. He could hardly believe Christian had permitted so many alterations. He whistled softly, at once amused and bemused.

"You think it's funny?" Christian asked, sitting up in bed. He tossed his copy
of the
New York Ledger
on the nearby table. The magazine slid across the polished surface and skidded to a halt at the edge. "If I have to be incarcerated in my own room, then I may as well find some pleasure in the surroundings."

"I was here not two days ago," Scott said. "Everything's different." The draperies, canopy, and counterpane had all been replaced. The heavy hunter-green velvet had been exchanged for lighter fabrics in ivory tones. The walls seemed brighter now and the fireplace drew one's attention with its collection of pipes and colorful tins of tobacco. A divan and an antique rocker had been placed on the large, braided rug in front of the hearth, forming a surprisingly inviting sitting area. The dark walnut woodwork contrasted suitably with the room instead of being part of the dark and somber whole. "How did she accomplish so much in so little time?"

"Who?"

"Miss Holland, of course. How did she do it?"

Christian crossed his legs at the ankle and folded his arms across his chest. "Except for tearing down the old, perfectly suitable drapes, damaging my walls, knocking over my furniture, and finally polishing my floor with her very fine backside, Miss Holland did not have a damn thing to do with it. Mrs. Brandywine made the suggestions, and I agreed to them. There was a small army of people in here doing the work, cleaning and buffing and hanging and whatnot, and Jenny Holland was not one of them." When Scott merely stared at him, Christian was compelled to add, "Thank God, I say. There were generals in the Union army who were not as whip-handed."

"Which is why it took us four years to lay Ol' Dixie down," Scott said dryly.

Christian snorted as his mouth curled derisively.

Scott walked over to the fireplace and examined the pipes and tins. "I didn't know you smoked a pipe."

"I don't. They were Braden's."

That surprised Scott. He was not aware that Christian kept many personal reminders of his family in places where he would have to confront them daily. Scott had been all through Marshall House, and he had never seen this collection. "He was the eldest, wasn't he?" Casually he picked up a meerschaum pipe and studied it. The craftsmanship of the bowl was detailed and exquisite. From the teeth marks on the end, Scott imagined it was a favorite.

"Yes," Christian said. "The eldest." Unbidden, the thought came to him that Braden was also the first to die. It always came to him that way. Braden's death overshadowed his memories of Braden's life. "Mrs. Brandywine found them in the attic. I didn't even know they were there. Mother probably had them put away after Braden was killed."

Scott replaced the pipe. "Bull Run, wasn't it?"

Christian nodded. "The first battle."

Turning away from the mantel, Scott approached the bed. The last thing he wanted was for Christian's thoughts to linger in the past. Christian would not want it either, but drink was how he cured that curse. It was not Scott's treatment of choice. He put his leather bag on the table and opened it up, withdrawing his stethoscope. "How are you feeling?"

"Rather like an idiot."

"Not precisely what I meant, but it'll do." He made Christian lean forward and listened to his breathing, then checked his heart and took a pulse. "You've been dry... what? Four days?"

"It's been five and you know it."

"I thought you probably had been counting."

"Not because I want a drink," Christian said in clipped tones. "Because I want out of this room."

"Temper... temper."

"Temper be
damned.
" He slapped Scott's hand away from his wrist. "My pulse is fine. My heart is fine. My lungs are fine. My muscles, however, are pudding, and my brain is turning to oatmeal. I don't need a drink. I need to get out of here."

"And do what?" Scott asked pleasantly.

"What do you mean?"

"Precisely what I said." Scott put the stethoscope away, shut the bag, and went to the rocker. He turned it so it faced the bed and sat down. "What is it you intend to do with your freedom?"

"There's business at
the
Chronicle
which requires my attention."

"But you hate going there. You've said so often enough."

"So? There are responsibilities I can't entirely avoid. Not if I don't want to bury the paper."

"I thought that was exactly what you wanted. Isn't that what you told me not so long ago?"

Christian's lean fingers raked his hair impatiently. "What I said was that I didn't want to be the publisher. I also said I had as little to do with its running as possible. But I never said I wanted to bury the paper. Too many people depend on it for their livelihood as well as for fish wrap."

Scott chuckled. "Susan says the
Herald
is better for fish. Except for the personal columns, it stinks already."

Christian did not smile. "Listen, Scott. I never meant to imply that I wanted the paper to go under. I just don't have an interest emulating Greeley at the
Tribune
or Bennet at the
Herald
or even Raymond over at the
Times.
The
Chronicle
carried the stamp of my father and my brothers. It still does. There are people managing it now who make certain that happens. I couldn't do that. When it came to editorializing, I rarely shared the
Chronicle'
s view. That hasn't changed. The staffers suffer my presence in the building twice a week because it's necessary to get certain things done. I sign papers they put in front of me, ask a few questions, question a few answers, and generally encourage their efforts. They give the paper its prestige, not me. I am merely the only surviving son of the founder." He drew in a calming breath and let it out slowly. "Now that that's settled, why not let me get on with what I need to do?"