The upstairs grandfather clock’s moans reached her ear.
Seven o’clock. Still trying to feign calm, she waited until she saw Clancy go inside and then come out of the parlor. Step one was accomplished. Her bag was in place. If Bex showed, she wouldn’t have to think of anything or need any excuses.
Mrs. Fitterwall swished by, her strawberry-red hair matching her gingham skirts. “Good, you finally crawled out of your second bath. I swear you are going to be all wrinkled if you keep to that.”
Ester put her arms about her shoulders and swayed to the music beginning to filter down the stairs. “Nothing helps to make sense of things like soaking in a lilac-scented bath.”
The housekeeper stopped and pointed her finger at each sconce, then the chandelier. “The hired servants for the party lit that. One thing completed on your mother’s list. She frets so much about her parties. I’ve known her since we first worked together as maids in Mayfair. She’d get like this about our employers’ affairs, too.”
Affairs? That was the last thing Ester wanted to think of. “What more is there to do? The dining room is set. The musicians have arrived. You hear them practicing.”
Mrs. Fitterwall put a hand on her hip. “You know it’s not done till Mrs. Croome says it is. Her celebrations have to be perfect. I think she gets her love of big to-dos from the sugar plantations where she’s from.” The woman clasped her hands together. “You know she’ll make sure your upcoming wedding celebration is perfect. She truly wants to give one of her daughters a proper wedding breakfast.”
Running away with Bex would deprive her mother of all the things she seemed to enjoy. When Ruth’s arranged marriage had happened so fast, Mama hadn’t been able to plan a proper wedding. She’d been so sad about it. The family had lived at Fournier only two years then, after practically growing up in the two-room apartment above Papa’s warehouse. Had those small quarters, with the peephole to spy on things below, been better days? Had it been the last time the Croomes were all truly happy?
Another fiddler’s tune joined the first as more music filled the house. After dinner was done, they’d play full-on, and Nineteen Fournier would become a place for dancing. The perfect time to escape with Bex.
“Miss Ester,” said Mrs. Fitterwall. “Don’t doddle too long. Your mother needs you.”
The housekeeper went back upstairs. She was a good addition to Nineteen Fournier, maybe the best, for she and Mama had a wonderful friendship beyond employer and employee. Sometimes, Ester wished she and her mother were as close.
With slow steps, Ester started for the stairs to the dining room, and Mama, but stopped and twirled under the candelabra. That first day Papa had shown them this house, before anything inside had been restored, she and her father had danced under it. With his big thick arms, he’d twirled her high as Mama and Ruth had looked on, laughing. He had been perfect then. She’d known of no wrongs, no transgressions. How long had they lived a lie?
“Ester.”
She looked up and faced her father. “I see those dancing lessons I paid for have worked. You look like you could float.”
Dressed in his onyx tailcoat and formal white silk waistcoat over dark pantaloons, Papa came down from her parent’s second-floor bedchamber. His head swung from side to side, no doubt admiring the lighting, maybe remembering those easier times, too.
After tugging his white, white gloves over his big hands, he held out his palm. “May I twirl the loveliest daughter at the party?”
Ester stared at his pristine dancing gloves. This could be one of her last moments to spend with Papa before riding off with Bex. So, she’d pretend she was fifteen again and Papa was her hero. She took his hand, clutched it tight, and let him spin her until they both were laughing and breathless.
“Ester!” That was Mama’s voice.
Papa put his big arms about her and gave her a large hug. “She probably needs you, but I’m happy, sweet girl.”
“Happy about what?” Ester slipped away from him and smoothed the shimmering overdress that surrounded her robin’s-egg blue gown. She fingered the matching thin bonnet to make sure the hat wasn’t going to fall and unravel her thick braid. “Has something changed?”
Her father’s smile diminished. “You’ve come around to the idea of an engagement.”
“I am not happy about your arrangement. I won’t marry him.”
“Ester, this is best. You’ll be happy.”
“As happy as you and my mother?” Ester turned from Papa and the hurt in his dark eyes. She couldn’t pretend anymore. She couldn’t lie as well as Josiah Croome, either. “I need to go to Mama.”
She left him standing under the chandelier. She wasn’t fifteen anymore. Her new hero would come for her at five past midnight. But what if Bex’s sweet talk was acting, and he proved to be no better than Papa?
The hairs on her neck rose. She felt dizzy and clutched the banister more tightly. Then she bucked up her spirit. Bex was better than her father’s choice. At the second level, she moved toward the dining room and counted on her fingers the new servants she passed. Each wore crisp blue satin livery, no doubt some imported fabric that Papa had procured for this party. Four men, all tall, each with freshly-powdered locks. This party was even bigger than last Christmas Eve, when Papa had celebrated the new contract for the mantua-maker at Burlingame. Such a high moment for the Croomes. The next day, making room for Papa’s new desk, Ester had found the love letters.
“Ester?” her mother said. “I need your help. You’ll have your own home soon. You’ll need to know these things.”
“I’m not much for place settings. That was Ruth’s job.”
Mama looked off into the distance. Thirty seconds passed before she returned her gaze. “You will be under the scrutiny of the Jordans. I wouldn’t want you saying something unwarranted.”
Ester brow and her ire raised. “Unwarranted? Like what?”
“I don’t know. Politics, or your theater nonsense.”
“You mean everything that is worth anything?”
Mama stopped aligning the forks. “Mrs. Jordan thinks you are a tad bit spirited for her son. Charles Jordan is a handsome young man. How well his hands will look on yours as we give you the wedding I’ve dreamed of, one bigger, even, than what I wanted for your sister.”
“Yes, Ruth had to go away with her husband. Did she try to rebel against the arrangement you and Papa made? It’s so odd they haven’t visited in two years.”
Mama moved to an adjacent table and smoothed the white linens. “She’s doing what’s best for her family. You will, too. You’re very level-headed.”
She fluttered a napkin before folding a perfect square. “The gown I’ve planned for your wedding will make you look regal. The decorations for your wedding breakfast will be perfect. This will be the most celebrated wedding. You and Jordan will do well.”
Burning inside, words and gall pitting in her throat, Ester threw up her hands. “We won’t. He’s not Arthur Bex.”
“Not the actor again? I don’t want that actor’s or any actors’ hands on you.”
Something in the way she said “hands,” made Ester angrier. “So, if Jordan were a mulatto like you or Miss Burghley, our hands wouldn’t match well. Or if his skin were pale like your father’s—”
The look her mother offered, blank eyes, mouth shrinking to a grim line, made Ester cringe. Her heart dove into her stomach. “I’m sorry, Mama. I’ve said too much. I didn’t mean to bring up the memories.”
Her mother lowered her head. She twisted one of her rings before latching on to a misaligned plate. “You have a mouth on you. But you know how we’ve fretted for Papa’s business dealings—that he’d shake the wrong hands and never come home.”
Ester knew. And could count on her fingers and toes, triple the times they’d feared that he’d disappear like some of their old neighbors, taught a lesson, a fatal lesson like Papa’s brother. Yes. Ester knew, and her stomach knotted, and she swallowed bile. “Sorr
y, Mama.”
Her mother pressed at her temples like she had a severe headache. “Tonight, we celebrate the anniversary of moving into this house. Perhaps, you and Charles can live here once you’ve married. It could help you settle into the marriage, knowing we are here to help. Mrs. Jordan thinks that will help her son settle in, too.”
“You mean, stepson.” Ester sank into one of the diner chairs and ruffled the tablecloth. The spotless silver service cast a sparkle on the pale blue walls. “The girl is barely older than me. And if that is true, that I’m so spirited, why do they want me to marry him? I can’t do this. I won’t twist up who I am.”
“Who are you, Ester?” Mama stopped poking and sliding silverware and folded her arms in their elegant emerald silk sleeves. She glared, her forest green eyes narrowing. “Let me tell you who you are. You are the daughter of Josiah Croome, the granddaughter and niece of proud women who did what they had to, to survive. You’ve been brought up educated, and now have a taste for the finest things. You’re a jewel. A man will strive to become what he sees blooming in your eyes. He’ll want to be the source of your joy and pride. So, fix your face and lift your head. Do us honor tonight.”
Ester drew back. That was the sternest thing Mama had ever said to her. “Yes, ma’am.” She pushed a fork askew. “I can’t set Charles Jordan’s table or just be ready for his bed—that is, if he chooses to be there. I refuse to turn myself into nothing for some sort of status.”
“You mean like me?” Mama pushed the fork back into position. “You were never really good at setting tables. That was Ruth’s gift. Maybe she can be spared from the country and come back for a visit. Maybe as soon as your wedding. That would be an excuse for her to come.” Mama twisted her rings, all gold, one with a jade stone. “You’re young, Ester. You’ve been sheltered. You don’t understand the cruelty of this world or its hard choices.”
“I’m not naive. I see the world as it is.”
There was pain in Mama’s eyes. The little flecks of gold had disappeared in the glossy wetness. “No. If you truly saw the world, you’d know how hard it is to be a good wife, a good mother. You’d know the sacrifices I’ve made for the family. Then you’d respect my choices.”
Mama turned and headed to the door, but paused in the threshold. “The Jordans are a decent, respectable family. For my party, give it a chance. Be kind tonight. I’ll see what can be done, if you are truly against this.”
Ester loved her mother, but she couldn’t respect the choice of not even getting angry at Papa, of going through Christmas dinner with smiles as if nothing had happened. She had even chastised Ester for confronting her father over the affair.
Pushing a knife to align with the crystal goblet, Ester fought her own tears. She’d do anything for her mother—anything but marry a known philanderer.
Maybe things had changed between her parents. There were signs of true affection betwixt them, like the way he kissed Mama’s cheek at breakfast. The way her eyes had lit up when he’d given her a pearl necklace for her birthday.
But Ester wasn’t her mother.
Eloping tonight was the chance to ensure that she’d never become her. Bex played men of honor on stage, men so deeply rooted in love and principles that they would die rather than be untrue. With life, there were no guarantees. Yet, the way the papers hounded him, if he were a lout, something would’ve been printed about his wild life? The break with Countess Devoors was the worst gossip she’d seen, and that wasn’t bad—just a woman throwing dishes because Bex didn’t want to go to a party.
With a sigh, Ester moved into the drawing room, which had been opened for dancing.
A servant chalked the floor as they’d seen Papa’s best client, a duchess, do. The woman had paid him well for importing special fabrics so she could be the fashion rage of the season, and the duchess had let Papa and Ester come by for a few moments before the rest of her guests had arrived. Papa had wanted to see her house. That was how he set his dreams, looking at what he wanted and pushing for it.
Walking fast, she almost leaped down the stairs. Back on the first level, she veered straight to Mama’s parlor. Once inside, Ester closed the door then settled near the window. She peeked through the leaded glass. The waves in the pane made it look like it had rained. Fournier Street was lit up with link boys to guide the carriages to the house and the mews. The place would be filled with friends for Mama’s party, but Ester wanted a light showing her the way to her dreams. What would be her path? Was it running away with Bex? What would she do if he didn’t appear?
…
In the mews near the White Horse Cellar, Arthur stood at his phaeton and pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat. It was four hours to midnight, four hours and five minutes before eloping with the future Mrs. Bex—
“There you are, Bex.”
Arthur turned to the hoarse-sounding voice. Phineas, the dogged reporter, entered the mews. The man leaned against a wall with one of his trademark Hessian boots lifted onto the stall rail. “Are you sure you have to leave now? I could buy you a brandy, and we could chat.”
Trying to ignore the hound, Arthur worked on his horse, checking the harness, tugging each ring and each strap. At his flat in Cheapside, Jonesy would do it, but away from there, he needed to be careful. Someone against his message of abolition might play tricks or create sabotage. He tightened the backhand and bellyband around his silver gelding. “I have an appointment, Phineas.”
The man came to the other side of his gig. “A late-night rehearsal? Or a rendezvous? I hear it’s not uncommon for men of the theater to keep numerous mistresses.”
Phineas was an irritant, one who’d successfully become a burr in Arthur’s saddle. The man wouldn’t quit digging. “You should know. You follow me everywhere. Take a break from this chase and go interview the countess again. She’s always ready for gossip.”
The reporter started to laugh. “Oh, you saw my article in last week’s paper. Mighty interesting, your being involved with a woman for two years and yet she knows nothing of your past.”
Arthur hated that the woman had again tried to make a headline out of him, a year past their break. A woman who wouldn’t seek scandal was what he needed. His quick gamble to marry the shy Miss Croome was looking better. “Phineas, why not report on matters like slavery in the colonies and help stop all the blasted slave ships that still roam the seas? That’s a worthier fight to take on than the private life of an actor. Go fight wrongs. Do good.”
The reporter chuckled. “Finding out the sins of famous men is what I do. You know those make the front page. That’s what people want to read.”
Tired of games, Arthur drew in a breath and readied his sore knuckles to come to blows. “If you have something to accuse me of, say it. The newspapers print sinful lies. They need to be sued.”
Pushing away until he backed into the rails, Phineas frowned. “I have nothing yet. But there is a great deal of smoke about you, Gunpowder. No one had heard of you before your acting debut. You have no family or lifelong friends. No pretty little wife to talk of your good points. No children. You’re in your late thirties, right?”
Barely thirty-four, but he’d not say that. Giving Phineas any detail could give the dog new life on his digging. Yet, what the man said was true. There was no one to attest to anything good or bad about him, except Jonesy, and most would discount the boy because of his disfigurement. Arthur had lost all connections when he had righted a horrible wrong, but no one fretted about those details when hunting juicy tidbits. “Over thirty. And I have not had the fortune to marry.” Yet.
Phineas’s lips drew to a circle. “Pretty peculiar to be at this point in your life with no one to attest to your goodness. You do like women, Bex.”
“I do. I also prefer solitude. It helps to perfect my craft. Why are you pestering me? Is there a sister or niece you wish me to meet? I’m very picky but could keep them both entertained.”
That got to Phineas because the man frowned, and hi
s beak nose flared. “I have a gripe. Your debut, the starring role that made you—do you remember it?”
Arthur looked up at the sky, his heart pounding with the memory of taking the stage. The role of Hamlet wrapped about him. “Yes. It was a character meant for me.”
“It was my brother’s.” Phineas pounded his fist into the post. “He’s now reduced to bit parts.”
Arthur rent his frockcoat open. “Then he shouldn’t have been so drunk on opening night.”
“So, yes. This reporting started as revenge, but my articles have added to my readership. Now, I’m more than curious. Give me your story, Bex. Be cooperative. I could make your interview in print be more forgiving. It’s obvious you’re hiding something. Confess to me. It’ll make the medicine less painful.”
“I am neither sick or stupid. I want to be left alone.”
“A man in your position with no family or connections is rare. You should take care. Someone could make things up, and not a soul would be able to come to your defense.”
Arthur fisted his hand. “Phineas, I’d be careful if I were you.”
“Is that why your knuckles are red?”
The drunk from the cellar had come back at him after the young woman left, saying all types of crass things—slave-lover, fancy-thief, or the oddest one, accusing of him of wanting tar-water kisses. Arthur flexed his stinging fingers but reined himself in from slamming his fist into the reporter’s face. “I don’t take kindly to threats, or to people who threaten those under my protection.”
“Who is under your protection? Was boxing in your past?”
Arthur stepped up upon his phaeton and bowed in dramatic fashion, as if he were leaving the stage. “This interview is over. Chase one of the folks in Parliament who are standing in the way of justice for a scandal. Write on freeing men in our colonies—then we’ll have more to speak of.”
“No, I’ll stick with smoke, Gunpowder.”
Gripping the reins, Arthur pushed his hat down. “Good evening, Phineas.”
“When you’re ready to confess, Bex, I’ll be around.”
The Bashful Bride (Advertisements for Love Book 2) Page 5
