Two Beaux and a Promise Collection (19 page)

“Forgive me, but farmers sell their products, and investing gives one a stake in the business. So what is the distinction?”

“Distance. A steward oversees the fields, which are worked by laborers and tenants. Investing is likewise an aloof activity.”

“Ah. A gentleman keeps his hands clean, relying on the labor of others to pay for his life of idleness.”  She could not keep the bite out of her tone.

“I take it you were not raised to idleness.”

“Hardly.” She smiled. “And you are rebelling against it.”

He nodded. “I must do more than finance other men’s schemes. Even if I cannot create something myself, I want to oversee its production.”

“What sort of business are you considering?”  Despite her resolve to eat like a lady, she had already finished her soup.

“I am not sure. I’ve been meeting with inventors, hoping to narrow my interests, but so far everything is fascinating.”

“Which means you’ve not yet found your niche. One of our—”

The waiter returned to lay out the next course. And just as well. Describing the industries near Pittsburgh would reveal her home. “Who have you approached?” she asked, renewing her resolve to be mannerly after tasting the sauce coating a delicate fish. When she spotted Alice’s gleaming eyes, she could almost read her friend’s mind: 
How can I entice this chef to Pittsburgh?

“You would not recognize the names,” he said with a shrug.

“You might be surprised. Are you interested in products – a better carriage spring or mechanical harvester?  Or do you want to improve the manufacturing process itself – adapting steam engines to practical use or reinventing products using interchangeable parts?  Whitney has done wonders with muskets. Since every weapon is identical, spare parts can be kept at hand, making repairs simple.”

He stared, as if she had started speaking in Greek. “What do you know of such things?”

“Women are allowed to think where I come from. And we frequently discuss ideas.”  At least, she did. Her father had trained her to take over his business. But that was a topic she must avoid. She gestured to her plate. “Delicious birds. What are they?”

“Grouse,” he said shortly, ignoring her diversion. “My interests are varied. Now that I have time to meet inventors, I feel like a starving child thrust into a room filled with sweets. When I speak to Trevithick, I can see networks of rails moving goods and people across vast distances. When I talk to Cayley, I become enthralled by his gliders.”

“Gliders?”

“Birdlike devices that soar from cliff tops.”

“How far?”

“A few hundred feet.”

“That doesn’t sound very practical.”

“Few things are in the beginning,” put in Alice. “But imagine how it would feel to float through the air.”

“Imagine how it would feel to land on one’s head,” countered Maggie. Widmer laughed, drawing her eyes to his sensuous lips. His green eyes raised images of sunbeams sifting through young leaves.

“There are other possibilities,” he continued. “Two years ago a company began installing gaslights on London streets – they’ve been used in mills for some time. Koenig is designing steam-powered printing presses. Steamships are plying Scotland’s Clyde River, and one will soon serve on the Thames.”

“America has had steamships on the Hudson for years,” said Maggie in challenge.

That began a competition that lasted nearly an hour as they feasted on the best food she had ever tasted. She described the safety equipment added to the coal mines near her home. He countered with Davy’s latest experiments on the nature of matter. She demanded details of how gas lighting worked in factories. He asked about Whitney’s muskets and the machines that made interchangeable parts possible.

Fate was taunting her, she decided, scraping the last of the venison from her plate. Widmer was the most attractive man she’d ever met, reminding her of her father – the same quick mind, the same odd assortment of knowledge, the same fascination with diverse topics. Why couldn’t she find someone like him at home?

A disturbance jerked her attention toward the door just as a huge man burst into the room, brandishing a cleaver. Flour dusted his golden hair.

“Imbecile!” he roared. “Who has dared to insult my sauces?”

“The gentleman is gone, Monsieur DuPré,” said Simmons, producing a soothing tone despite his undignified dash into the dining room.

“Enjoy the farce,” murmured Widmer, keeping his face neutral, though his eyes were dancing with laughter. “He entertains us at least twice a week – often better than the actors at Drury Lane.”

“Why?” she whispered.

“He is French.”  He shrugged. “And he is determined to win London’s acclaim. It infuriates him when anyone praises Jaquiers – the chef at the Clarendon. He doesn’t understand that no one would dare disparage Jaquiers’s food after paying such exorbitant prices for it.”

Simmons might have been invisible for all the effect he was having on the volatile Frenchman. DuPré ranted. He gesticulated. He called the wrath of heaven down upon anyone who dared suggest a better chef existed in the world.

Without warning, he lunged at Alice. “Why ignore you zees work of art?” he demanded, pointing to her plate, where two mushrooms carved to resemble flowers graced a slice of venison. “Ze sauce, she is smooth, and rich with wine. And ze meat!”  He kissed his fingertips.

“Truly perfect,” agreed Alice, fluttering her lashes. “It begs to be savored, bite by delicate bite, not inhaled in a gulp like a dog would a stolen chop.”

His laugh filled the room. “Ah,
chérie
, how delightful. A woman who knows food is above rubies.”

“Above diamonds and rubies,” insisted Alice in French, sending him into new transports in that language.

His hands punctuated his words, as did his shoulders and hips, providing a vivid contrast to the stiff English gentlemen in the room and reminding Maggie of an Italian family who had recently moved to Pittsburgh. His deep voice drew every eye, as thick as honey and as smooth as one of his sauces.

Alice matched him claim for claim, gesture for gesture, flattering his artistry and vowing to puff his talent to the highest in the land. She even thanked fate that the Clarendon had been full, for otherwise she would have missed the most exquisite meal of her life.

Simmons slipped out, his face sagging in relief now that the cleaver rested harmlessly on the table.

Alice kept DuPré talking until he had revealed his recipe for the venison’s sauce. The moment he left, she laughed. “I haven’t had that much fun in years.”

“I cannot believe he gave you a recipe,” murmured their waiter, staring at Alice in awe. “DuPré
never
reveals his secrets.”

Maggie laughed. Alice’s eyes had gleamed at the word
never
, for she loved a challenge. Their stay at the Grand Regent should prove quite interesting.

“Only because those asking don’t know how to handle him.”  Alice cut a bite of venison. “He is just like my father, using emotional outbursts to cow those around him. But he revels in flattery and will do anything to elicit praise.”

“Recipes?” asked Widmer curiously, returning his gaze to Maggie.

She nodded. “Alice plans to open a hotel.”

“I like good food,” Alice explained. “I could never entice DuPré home with us, but at least I can duplicate  his dishes.”  She cocked her head. “What was it you said about prices when he first burst in?”

Widmer smiled. “The Clarendon charges three or four times as much for a meal as the Grand Regent, though DuPré’s food is better. But the price gives Jaquiers a cachet no one dares deny.”

“I prefer to decide for myself what I like and dislike,” said Maggie bluntly.

“As do I,” said Widmer, catching her eye with a look that pooled heat in her stomach. Maybe he was a rake after all…

The rest of the meal passed quietly, though DuPré returned to serve them a magnificent dessert with his own hands. Alice had obviously enslaved him. But a flirtation promised to keep them well fed.

-2-

Maggie stared at the note – the same one she had sent to Adams House yesterday. Someone named Robert had crossed her lines, denying any connection to her father, John Adams. A postscript informed her that her grandfather was dead.

“How dare they disown Papa,” she spat, crumpling the letter. Pacing the room, she muttered imprecations against her English family. She should never have promised to approach them. But who could deny a dying man his last wish? 

The memory formed a lump in her throat.

A tunnel had collapsed at the mine, killing four men and burying her father. Rescuers had dug him out, but he was too badly injured to recover. For a week, she’d hovered at his bedside as his delirium gave way to a coma and his life slipped inexorably away. Then he’d unexpectedly awakened.

“I’m dying,” he’d whispered, his fingers clasping hers.

“No.”  The denial was automatic, though she knew he was right. Already his skin seemed transparent.

“Don’t argue, Maggie,” he continued in a stronger voice. “I haven’t time. I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“You won’t. I have Alice and Harry and Mr. Franco and—”

“That’s business.”  His grip tightened as he fought for breath. “A person needs more.”

“I won’t wed Jeremy,” she swore, naming the latest fortune hunter to come calling.

“He is no good. But you need family, Maggie. You need to know where you came from. I want you to heal the breach with my father.”

She stared, for the request made little sense. “What breach?”

“We parted in anger.”  He shook his head. “Catherine was promised to my brother.”

“Why did Mother accept him when she loved you?”

“It was arranged when they were children.”  He met her eyes, his own full of pain. “That is society’s way.”

“Boston society?”

“London. Father is a viscount.”  He paused to catch his breath.

She could think of nothing to say. He’d never hinted at such a background, though she had often envied his ease with powerful businessmen. But this was no time to discuss the past. His face was gray with fatigue.

“Family is important,” he continued before she could urge him to rest. “Learn about yours. Go to England.”  Another pause. “My only crime was eloping.”  His voice softened. “But I cannot regret it…  William hated Catherine. He hates everyone, so be careful. He won’t welcome you.”

“Where are they?”

“Adams House … London. Or Fielding Court … Kent. George Adams.” 

“Rest, Father,” she said, stroking his frail arm. His gasps for breath tore at her heart. “We can discuss this later.”

“No time … look for … box of papers … desk … prove your birth…”

“Father—”

“Promise, Maggie.”

“Father?”

“Promise … but don’t trust … hide this … until you know.”  He gestured weakly at the room.

“I promise.”  Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Love yo—”  His hand went limp as he slipped back into the coma.

Five months later, she brushed away new tears. He had died that night. The doctor could not explain how he had awakened, but the fact that he’d roused himself long enough to extract her vow gave it added weight. So she had come to England.

The box had held a packet tied with string. She’d been too grief-stricken to examine the papers then, but with this stinging rejection in her hand, she could postpone the task no longer. George might be gone, but the rest of the family remained. Pulling the papers from her writing case, she spread them across the desk.

Her father’s will.

A statement of baptism, describing her as the daughter of John and Catherine Adams of Halifax, signed by her parents and a pastor.

A letter dated April 1783, addressed to Andrew Adams at a hotel in Paris.

“Andrew?” she muttered, opening it. Penned by Andrew’s father, it referred to Andrew’s recent week at the French court. Four more letters followed, all addressed to Andrew in Paris and mentioning social events Andrew had attended.

“Who is Andrew?” she murmured, setting the last one aside.

The next document was marriage lines, written by the captain of the
Mariner Queen
, who had united, on the high seas, Andrew Jonathan Franklin Adams and Elizabeth Catherine Anne Widmer. An accompanying note explained that they were listed on the ship’s roster as John and Catherine Smith, immigrants.

She laughed. She had meant to ask George about her mother’s family, for her father hadn’t mentioned them. Now there was no need. Unlike Adams, Widmer was an uncommon name. Marcus Widmer must be connected.

The packet also contained a statement of death from the doctor who had treated her mother’s final illness, documents related to her father’s estate, Uncle Peter’s will, and other papers that had nothing to do with her English families. It had not been assembled for her use, then. Separating the marriage lines, baptism record, and letters, she returned the rest to her writing case.

No wonder she had felt attracted to Marcus. Somehow she had recognized a tie. Perhaps she’d heard the name as a child.

Half an hour later, she took a seat in the hotel lobby. Marcus was out but would return shortly – or so Simmons claimed. She wasn’t so sure, for if he was meeting another inventor, he might easily lose track of time. But she was too impatient to rely on a note, which he could set aside if he was rushed.

After ordering coffee, she distracted herself by watching the comings and goings of other guests.

A pale blonde wearing the entire contents of a large jewelry case swept down the stairs, accompanied by three men speaking what sounded like German. When Simmons addressed her as “your highness,” Maggie stared. She would never have guessed the buxom woman was royal. In fact, she bore a striking resemblance to the Bavarian barmaid at the Riverboat Tavern, who required no assistance to oust rowdy drunkards.

A man with the blackest skin she’d ever seen burst through the door and hurried up the stairs, knocking a descending brunette into the banister. Obviously neither slave nor servant; he was too confident. But what was such a man doing in London?  And in so elegant a hotel?