The Solitary Envoy (2 page)

But she was her father’s daughter. Everyone said so.

“Child, your father is not due back until this afternoon at the earliest.” She regarded her only daughter with a worried expression. “You really mustn’t let yourself be disappointed if he is delayed. You know—” “What time are we expected to join Mrs. Simmons?”

“Eleven o’clock, as you well know. And please don’t interrupt.” Despite having birthed four children, two of whom were lost in infancy, Mildred Langston was still a most attractive woman. She held herself erect, dressed well, and was known far and wide as a hostess of considerable standing. Politicians and merchants alike vied for the chance to be a part of her social set. “Your father will do everything in his power to be here for your birthday celebration. But times being what they are, you must understand if he is delayed.”

Erica lifted her chin, as she had often seen her mother do when confronted with something she did not care to accept. But the act did not help. Erica could not bear the thought of Father not being home, today of all days. She tried but could not completely erase the tremor from her voice. “But he
promised
.”

“He promised to
try
.”

“But he’s been gone almost a month!”

“As I know all too well.” A trace of her mother’s own apparent worry showed through. “I have not heard from him in eight days now. And you know it is his custom to write me three times a week.”

“Surely nothing—”

“No, everything is fine. While at tea yesterday at the Mooreheads’, I met a banker from Philadelphia. He traveled on the same coach as your father five days ago and said he was in fine fettle. No, it is just …”

“Just what?” Erica encouraged.

Mildred crossed her arms. “Just that we must wait and see. Now please turn around.”

Erica sighed and did as she was told.

“Who did your hair?”

Erica reached up to the collection of decorative hairpins, fearing that something had come undone. Her hair was dark and so thick she could hardly run a comb through it. Others called it luxurious, but Erica considered it a bother and kept it long only because her mother insisted. It was always threatening to tumble down, no matter how carefully she pinned it.

But today everything felt in its proper place. “I did, Mama.”

“It is quite … remarkable.”

“It’s called the French weave. I saw it in one of the journals from Paris.” She turned back around and caught sight of her mother’s face. “Whatever is the matter?”

Her mother’s normal reserve seemed shaken. “You are growing up.”

“I’m seventeen, Mama.” That very day, in fact.

“Of course you are. But saying the words and accepting the fact with my own eyes are two entirely different matters.” She smiled then. Mildred Langston’s smiles were rare events, which was a great pity. They were luminous, transforming her features and making her look more like an older sister than a mother. “You are every bit as lovely as they say, daughter.”

“As who says?”

“Never you mind. I won’t have your head swollen with coffeehouse chatter. Now give your aging mother a hug.”

Erica let herself be enveloped by her mother’s arms. For some reason the closeness left her feeling sad, perhaps even a little frightened. “You’re not old, Mama.”

“If I am to have a daughter finishing her seventeenth year and every inch an adult, I most certainly am that. Possibly even ancient. But enough of that. Have you had your breakfast?”

“Not yet. I was just on my way down.”

“Well, you’d best hurry along then. We can’t be late—” Mildred was interrupted by a great thumping sound that became louder with each passing moment. “What on earth is that?”

Erica followed her mother back through Carter’s office and into her father’s chamber. The rear entrance, the one that led down the passage to the main warehouse, was shoved open. In came her brother and a warehouse worker, carrying something heavy between them.

“Top of the morning to you both!” Reginald Langston was tall for his age of fifteen and a half, with his father’s build and personality both. Reggie greeted the entire world with one great smile. “Where do we drop this?”

Erica saw what it was they carried, and her hand flew up to her mouth. She could not speak.

“Quick now, else I’ll just heave it through the window!” Erica forced herself forward. The light played across the surface of her brother’s burden like oil upon gold. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Reggie laughed heartily. “Brazilian rosewood. Father ordered it up special. Been sitting down in the warehouse for months, stowed back behind a pile of jute where not even my nosy sister could spy it.”

“Father had this built for me?”

“Fashioned by the finest cabinetmaker in all Washington. He called it his signature piece, whatever that means. Quick now, my grip is slipping.”

“Let’s see … how about over there, by the far window.” Turning around meant seeing her mother’s disapproval. Erica was only too well aware that Mildred was not at peace with this particular development. But her father had prevailed, and Erica hoped the discussions were behind them. Seeing her mother now, with a frown creasing her forehead, she steeled herself for more objections.

But her mother only turned and said, “Five minutes, Erica. No more. Then I want you downstairs in the kitchen with a bowl of hot porridge.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“We can’t be late. Especially not today.” She turned and left the room.

Reggie said nothing more until the two had deposited the desk beneath the tall window. “Sorry. I didn’t know she was here.”

Erica ran her hand over the surface as the warehouse worker turned and left. “It is most exquisite.”

“It’s called a secretary. French in design. A woman’s writing desk.” Reggie took a rag out of his rear pocket and gave it a quick rub. “Father made me promise to bring it up personally if he wasn’t back in time.”

Erica hugged him tightly but could not take her eyes off the desk. “You are the best brother in the whole world.”

“Certainly, but you’re the odd one. Never knew anybody could be so excited over a place to work.”

“I’m thrilled, Reggie, as you well know.”

“Yes, I do know.” Reggie was far from being a lazy young man. When not in school he worked long hours in the family warehouses. “And I am glad of it. You know I’ve no head for this kind of thing.”

“Neither does Father. But he does well enough.”

“Aye, but I don’t have to, do I?” He gave her a friendly push. “I’ve got you to do it all for me.”

“No, you don’t. You have to learn all this yourself. How else …” Then she caught his smile and knew he was jesting. She turned back to the desk. “Isn’t it the most glorious thing you’ve ever seen?”

“It’s just a desk, sister. But I’m glad you’re pleased.” He hugged her. “Happy birthday.”

But Reggie was wrong. It wasn’t just a desk. It was a future. “Thank you, Reggie. Thank you so very much.”

“Erica!”

“Coming, Mother!” She hurried downstairs to the kitchen.

Mildred Langston considered Erica’s fascination with business an unfitting preoccupation for a young lady and put up with it only at her husband’s insistence. Erica knew this and did her best to be a proper young lady in polite society—which today meant having a boring old tea with boring old Mrs. Simmons. And on her birthday, of all days.

But today she would sit through it and smile politely and pretend to be interested in the latest gossip. Because starting that very week, she was moving from the tiny table in the upstairs parlor to her own desk in her father’s office, where she would watch and learn and be involved.

Father had to be home for her birthday banquet that evening. He
had
to.

Chapter 2

Every time Erica passed the fireplace, she paused to look at the ticking mantel clock. The sun had just set and the lamplighters were making their rounds. Her father said traveling at night was a recipe for disaster and forbade his wife to go anywhere without one of the housemen traveling ahead and another riding upon the carriage’s rear station. Sometimes his natural caution was exasperating.

“Miss Erica, I have searched for you everywhere.”

She fastened on her most winning smile, but not for the young man. She knew her mother was watching.

Horace Cutter came from one of Washington’s finest families. His father was a merchant and a builder; his mother vied with Mildred for the premier ranks of Washington society. The Cutters were also landowners, with an estate just east of Harpers Ferry. “Horace, what a strange thing for you to say. I have been glued to this very spot all evening.”

Mildred Langston liked the idea of having Horace within her family. But she took her Christian morals very seriously, and not even the prospect of such an advantageous match would make her lie. And the truth was, Horace was a man uncomfortable within his own skin. Mildred described him as “a man of uneven countenance.”

Now Horace blushed under the power of Erica’s smile. He pulled at his collar and tugged at one earlobe … and there was quite a lot of ear to tug upon. He had reddish hair and a freckled complexion, and though he was twenty-two, he looked sixteen.

And he was hopelessly in love with Erica Langston.

Not even the most fashionably cut evening wear could hide the way his larynx protruded. “I was hoping to ask you to dance,” he said.

Erica’s peal of laughter drew smiles from most of those within the parlor. Only her mother did not share in the gaiety, and she frowned her daughter a warning. Which was why Erica allowed her hand to rest upon Horace’s arm, as though they shared a delicious jest. “You dear sweet man, we are here to dine and not to dance.”

“But it is your birthday. Surely you will have music.”

“Music, of course. But it will be Miss Adelaide singing while I accompany her on the pianoforte.”

Horace looked so disappointed at the news she had no choice but to add, “Had there been dancing, I assure you I would have looked forward most eagerly to our moment upon the floor.”

While Horace stammered over his reply, Erica glanced out the parlor’s front window. The street remained dark and empty. Had she been alone, she would have stamped her foot in vexation. As it was, the only sign of her distress was the loss of her smile.

With the room’s light behind her, Erica’s reflection in the window was almost as clear as it would have been in a mirror. Her height was accented by the graceful posture she had inherited from her mother. In fact, almost everything about her physical form was her mother’s. Her long brown hair was just one shade off black. Her eyes were also dark and somewhat slanted at the edges. “Frenchified” was how one male admirer described them, to Erica’s secret delight.

She still wore the dress she had donned that morning, the one her father had imported from Paris. It was canary yellow, fashioned from Chinese silk, with ivory trim and tiny whalebone buttons that ran all the way from hem to neckline. In the flickering light they glowed like the pearls wound about her neck. The French had designed an entire wardrobe based on the idea that modern ladies were far too busy to change between afternoon tea and evening dinner parties. “Modern daywear” was how the illustrated journals described such outfits. Her mother called the concept utter nonsense. For Erica, something both French and modern suited her wonderfully.

“I fear I have lost you yet again, Miss Erica.”

She forced her attention away from the window. “Forgive me, Master Horace. I was just hoping my father would still arrive in time to join us.”

“It is well known that Mr. Langston doesn’t travel at night.”

“But it is my birthday!” Erica turned her back so that she did not have to endure her mother’s frown. “I know that sounds petty. But I so wished to have him here.”

“You two are very close,” Horace said. “It is an admirable quality, I suppose. Yet my father—” He hesitated.

“No, go on.”

“I do not mean to be indiscreet.”

“What you have started you must complete.” It was one of Father’s favorite expressions.

Horace blushed again. “My father merely expressed concern over how much you are involved in your family’s affairs.”

“Your father wishes I were more ladylike, is that it?”

“He did not say that.”

“No, but that is what he meant.” Erica remained standing with her back to the room and the other guests. “Ever since your father’s heart began troubling him, you have shouldered much of the family business. How old were you at the time?”

“Nineteen. But I am a man, Miss Erica.”

“Yes, I am well aware of that convenience.” Disappointment over her father’s absence caused her to speak more plainly than before. “For three years now I have kept the family ledgers.”

“You?”

“None other. My handwriting is the most precise in Washington. Those are Father’s very words. I can do sums more swiftly than Carter, who has been in my father’s service for centuries, or so it seems. What is more, I do them in my head. We walk through the warehouses together, my father and I, and I keep track of the figures as we go and give them back to my father whenever he wishes.”

Horace clearly had no measuring point against which to gauge this news. “But, Miss Erica—”

“Permit me to finish. For my birthday, he has given me my very own writing desk in his private office. I am to help Carter with Father’s correspondence and aid in preparing manifests. That is all we have spoken of with my mother, who is already opposed to this venture. What she does not know is that my father wants me in his office because he is preparing me. I am to observe him at work, in private and in meetings. Do you understand what I am saying, Horace? He is giving me the chance to arrange shipments of my own.”

Giving voice to the thoughts and desires she had carried so long in her heart left her unable to remain still. Erica reached out a hand a second time, only now it was in entreaty. “Horace Cutter, do you truly wish to pay suit to me?”

He looked down at the hand gripping his arm. “More than anything in this world.”

“Then offer me my heart’s longing. Accept that I wish to become a woman of affairs. Agree to let me be a merchant in my own right. The manager of—”