Traces of Mercy (13 page)

“I didn’t ring it, Ellis,” Rand said, his eyes still on Mercy. She didn’t move, just stood there staring at Ellis.

“Is everything all right, sir?” Ellis asked.

“I … don’t know. Mercy?”

“I’m … fine. Sorry,” she stammered, averting her eyes from the butler. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Rand took her hand and tucked her arm through his. “Steady. The evening won’t be nearly as bad as you’re imagining.”

She nodded. “I’m fine now. Truly.”

“Everyone is in the drawing room, sir,” Ellis said.

Rand led her into a large, handsomely appointed room where eight people sat and chatted, though their faces swiveled at Rand and Mercy’s appearance. Mercy immediately realized she was woefully underdressed. Her high neckline and long sleeves were the antithesis of the other women’s elaborate gowns. She had a moment when she wondered if Mother Helena, in her separateness, would have been shocked by the amount of décolletage in the room.

Rand’s mother came forward with a smile. Ilene Prescott was effortlessly elegant, Mercy decided. One of those women others would compare themselves to and probably fail miserably in that comparison. Ilene stopped in front of them and presented her cheek to Rand, who gave it a perfunctory kiss. Ilene turned her attention to Mercy, and Mercy felt the woman’s veiled scrutiny as clear, alert eyes skimmed over her dress.

“You must be Mercy,” Ilene said. “Rand’s new friend he keeps talking about.”

“Yes, Mother. This is Mercy,” Rand said. “Mercy, may I present my mother, Ilene Prescott.”

“I am … pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Prescott,” Mercy said.

“Please. Call me Ilene. We don’t stand on ceremony here,” she said, glancing over her shoulder and gesturing to an older man who looked so much like Rand, Mercy had to do a double take. He was at their side in a moment.

“Charles, this is Rand’s guest Mercy,” Ilene said. “Mercy, my husband, Charles Prescott.”

“Welcome, Mercy. Happy to meet you,” Charles said, and Mercy was overcome by the thought that she knew exactly what Rand would look like in twenty years. “Rand has told us about your unique circumstance. Must be dreadful not knowing who you are or where you come from.”

The statement was so frank and forthright that it caught her off guard. “Um, well … yes. That’s a good word for it. Dreadful.”

“No need to get into all that right now,” Ilene said with a slight shade of reproach in her voice that Mercy knew was intended for Charles. “Come and meet our friends.”

By the end of the introductions, Mercy reminded herself again of everyone’s name. Frederick and Ava Klein were polar opposites of each other—Frederick, a serious stick-thin man with a timid little mustache, and Ava, a plump woman with a generous smile. On the other hand, Howard and Betsy Vaughn looked like bookends. Two halves to one whole, and Mercy wondered how two people could look so much alike and not be related by blood. Betsy raked her eyes coolly over Mercy, giving her the distinct feeling that the woman disliked her before she even opened her mouth. Leon and Anna Zimmerman were the oldest of the group and seemed to Mercy to be the least pretentious of the dinner guests. Leon pumped her hand enthusiastically (apparently he didn’t know etiquette any more than she did), and Anna leaned toward her with a wink. “No wonder you’re here on Rand’s arm, my dear. You are simply stunning.”

Mercy allowed a moment of hope to creep in. Maybe the evening wouldn’t be so taxing after all. And then the carefully built wall of confidence came crashing down around her as the woman from the pond breezed into the room as if she owned it.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

Cora swept across the drawing room toward them.

“Charles. Ilene,” Cora said, kissing Ilene on both cheeks. Mercy saw Rand’s jaw tighten. Then Cora turned to Betsy Vaughn. “Mother. I
do
love that gown on you.”

The chill Mercy had felt from Betsy Vaughn suddenly made sense. She was used to seeing her daughter on Rand’s arm, not some interloper.

Ilene made her way to Rand’s side. He gave her a long look and said quietly, “What is Cora doing here, Mother?”

“I am as surprised as you are, darling,” she replied in the same low voice.

Cora herself answered the question as she boldly approached Mercy. “I am sorry to show up uninvited, Ilene, but I need to make amends for the sake of my own conscience.”

“What the devil are you talking about, Cora?” Howard Vaughn demanded of his daughter.

“Mother mentioned that Mercy was going to be here, and I owe her a long-overdue apology,” Cora said. She turned to Mercy. “I just had to come and tell you in person how sorry I am about my rudeness the day we met.”

Mercy shook her head. “No need.”

“No, honestly, it was reprehensible of me to call attention to the state of your dress or intimate that you were immodest,” Cora said sweetly. “After all, if a woman doesn’t have her modesty in this day and age, then I ask you, what does she have?”

Mercy forced her mouth into a smile. “What indeed?”

“Do you forgive me?”

“Yes, of course.”

Cora smiled. “Wonderful. I feel so much better now. I can go home with a lighter step.”

“So you and Mercy know each other?” Ava Klein asked.

“No, they don’t,” Rand said.

“I met Mercy the same day that Rand did,” Cora said. “It’s a lovely story.”

“It’s time we all moved into the dining room,” Ilene announced. “Cora, will you stay and join us for dinner?”

Cora smiled prettily. “If you’re sure I’m not intruding.”

Ilene smiled and pulled a long velvet rope suspended by the fireplace. In seconds, Ellis appeared.

“There will be one more for dinner, Ellis. Please tell Marjorie that Miss Vaughn will be joining us,” Ilene said.

“Yes, Mrs. Prescott,” he said, then quickly took his leave.

As they started toward the dining room, Charles looked at Rand. “I managed to speak to Governor Fletcher today when he was in town.”

Rand raised his brows and stopped. “And the outcome?”

Cora came up beside Mercy and took her arm, leading her toward the dining room and away from Rand.

“Tell me, Mercy, what have you and Rand been up to today?” Cora asked.

“Up to?” Mercy asked, throwing a glance over her shoulder at Rand.

“Yes. A picnic? Shopping in town, maybe?” she asked.

“He picked me up, and we came straight here,” Mercy said.

“Oh. I only supposed by your dress that you didn’t have time to change into suitable evening attire before arriving,” Cora said. “My mistake.”

The insult stung, but before Mercy could reply, Rand materialized on her other side and drew her arm through his. “Sorry. Just a quick bit of business.”

“Cora kept me company,” Mercy said as she forced a smile at the other woman.

“Yes. Lovely to have a moment alone,” Cora quipped. She called out to Ava Klein, who was a few steps in front of them.

“Ava!” Cora said, hurrying up to the other woman. “You were absolutely right about the new seamstress you sent me to. She was wonderful.”

Rand covered Mercy’s hand with his own as he led her into an elegant dining room. The twelve-foot-high ceiling had gold stenciling around a chandelier that illuminated the room with twinkling gaslight. The table setting alone was a feast for the eyes, even without the food—ivory damask linens, crystal glasses, heavy silver sat on either side of ornate china plates.

Guests located place cards, and the fact that Cora had been a late addition to the beautifully set table didn’t so much as create a hiccup in the presentation. Mercy found herself seated between Leon Zimmerman and Betsy Vaughn, and directly across the table from Rand—and Cora.

Under the watchful eye of Ellis, Marjorie, the downstairs maid, served the first course of the meal. Ava Klein watched her for a moment, then asked, “What happened to your girl Cecilia?”

“Had to let her go,” Charles said. “Caught her stealing food. Intolerable—especially since she was given three meals a day like every other servant.”

“I never did care for Cecilia,” Ava said. “I think she forgot her place one day and complimented my shoes. Imagine.”

The food on her plate should have made Mercy’s mouth water, but she couldn’t eat a bite because of her nerves. Sure she was going to do or say something to embarrass Rand, she found herself sipping so much wine she actually grew to like it.

On the brighter side, Charles Prescott was an excellent host. He kept the conversation flowing with small talk even Mercy could follow—the unusually wet summer, rising produce prices, the intersection in midtown St. Louis that had become a giant sinkhole of mud. Marjorie hovered anxiously near the sideboard, set at a moment’s notice to refill water glasses, pour more wine, whisk away dirty plates, and replace them with china that gleamed in the gaslight of the chandelier that had been lit against the darkening day.

With the arrival of the second course, Mercy started to relax. So far, she had managed to nod at the right times, laugh at the right times, and use the silverware in the correct order. And despite Cora’s unwelcome presence, Mercy decided that maybe the evening wasn’t such a mistake after all. She took another sip of wine, relaxed just enough to start enjoying her food, and listened with half an ear to the shift in conversation.

“They were talking about you the other day in the mayor’s office, Charles,” Frederick Klein said.

“What did they say?” Ilene asked.

Charles grinned. “Nothing that can be repeated in mixed company, I’m sure.”

“It was about that senate run,” Frederick said. “They think they’ll talk you into it by the next election.”

Howard looked at Mercy. “Did Rand tell you Charles was instrumental in the Union’s victory over the Confederacy?”

“No, he didn’t,” Mercy said.

Charles held up his hand. “Now, Howard, there’s no need …”

But Howard wouldn’t be dissuaded. He plunged ahead. “Charles used his railroad to provide strategic support for the Union. They figured out that they could use the locomotives in such a way that they were invaluable. They helped deliver supplies to the troops, and the Federals were able to gain information on the location of the Confederates. It got real dangerous for the engineers of those locomotives, though. Scoundrel rebel sharpshooters would lay in wait and try to get a bullet inside that cab. Union engineers put armor around those cars, but they soon figured out a crack shot’s bullet that pierced the boiler was a bad deal. That ruptured boiler could scald a crew in their iron cab like lobsters in a pot.”

“Father! This is hardly dinner conversation!” Cora objected.

“Talking about a hero is always dinner conversation, young lady, and that is exactly what Charles is, considering he was the one who figured out where to put the armor so those engineers could get their trains through safely.”

Mercy knew he expected her to make some kind of comment, but she had no idea what to say.

“Fact of the matter is that Charles helped win the war as sure as we’re all sitting here,” Howard said.

“That’s—good,” Mercy finally said. She looked at Rand, who smiled his encouragement. The food on her plate became tasteless again.

Leon, on Mercy’s left, leaned over his plate and fixed Charles with a serious look. “What’s your opinion about Drake’s proposed addendum to the state’s constitution, Charles?”

“He might be a member of the Radical Party, but I’m inclined to agree with his idea on the Ironclad Oath.”

“You’re agreeing with a Radical?” Howard asked in an incredulous voice.

“In this case—yes,” Charles said. “It seems to me if an individual isn’t willing to attest to his innocence of acts of disloyalty against the state of Missouri and the Union, he doesn’t deserve to be licensed as a lawyer or a teacher.”

“The way I understand it, even an expression of sympathy for the Southern cause could keep a man from holding public office—or even voting in an election,” Frederick said.

“Doesn’t that seem a little … severe?” Anna asked.

“Absolutely not,” Rand said. “Someone has to take a firm hand with those who went against the Union, and it certainly doesn’t seem like it’s going to be President Johnson.”

“You’re right, Son,” Charles said. “His plan for reconstruction for the South is so lenient toward the Confederacy, it’s going to allow those who dominated Southern politics before the war to return to power.”

“Where do you stand on the issue, Mercy?” Cora asked.

Mercy swallowed. “The—issue?”

“Yes. Do you believe in the Ironclad Oath?”

“I, um, I suppose, that is, I’m not …”

“Boring, boring, boring,” Ava said. “I’m sick to death of talking about the nasty war and reconstruction! Let’s talk instead about how Rand and Mercy met.”

Cora beamed. “A wonderful idea.”

Mercy reached for her glass of wine and marveled that it never seemed to empty no matter how much she drank. She heard Rand launch into a quick narrative about the first time they’d met. She waited for all the terrible details to materialize, but they never did.

“So after I fired a couple shots at her, she scrambled out of the pond, got on her horse, and rode away,” Rand said.

“And I made him go apologize to her the next morning,” Ilene said.

“And apparently you accepted his apology, eh, Mercy?” Leon asked.

She nodded, feeling hot and flush and a little bit nauseous. “I could see he loved his horse,” she said. “You can’t stay mad at a man who loves his horse like that.”

Everyone laughed, and Mercy felt a small thrill of satisfaction that she’d said something amusing.

“It seems to me you skipped over some details about that day, Rand,” Cora said.

“Unimportant details,” Rand said.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Cora said smugly. “For instance, you forgot to tell everyone that the reason you shot at her is because she was wearing men’s clothing.”

“Cora …”

“Actually, I’m not entirely correct,” Cora continued, looking straight at Mercy. “You weren’t actually wearing the shirt and trousers. You weren’t really dressed at all.”

“Well, this certainly isn’t boring conversation,” Anna said. “Where exactly did you say you hail from, Mercy?”