Heiress

by Susan May Warren

  “She has Oliver.” Not really—for what indeed would Esme do with her wayward heart? She couldn’t marry the footman.

  But her mother seemed to consider her words. Then she smiled. “Yes, she has Oliver. Get dressed.” She turned to Amelia. “Fetch the white gown, the one we were to use for her debut ball.”

  The white gown, with the gold rosettes along the bodice, the lacy straps at her otherwise bare shoulders, a matching lacy hem. In it, she felt fresh and bright and beautiful.

  Amelia disappeared to the storage room.

  Her mother took Jinx’s hand, led her back to the ottoman. “Now you listen to me, Jinx. In order for this to work, you must keep your mouth closed. Say nothing to anyone, even your father. I will handle this.”

  Amelia returned with the gown, laid it on the bed, untying it. She pulled the gown out. The gold threads shimmered against the flames of the fire.

  “Perfect,” her mother said as Jinx stepped into it.

  Jinx stared at herself in the mirror, the way the dress perfectly cascaded over her curves, accentuated by the corset. Just wait until Foster saw her.

  Perfect, indeed.

  She caught her mother’s eye once, found her expression pinched.

  It nearly strangled the euphoria bubbling up inside her.

  Amelia finished arranging her dress then handed her a bouquet of lilies and roses.

  “Remember, do not speak.”

  They passed Esme’s room, her door still shut, the footmen staring blankly as they guarded her door.

  Esme would be just fine. Perhaps Father would allow her a time of mourning, send her to Europe to paint, or write. Yes, she’d enjoy that. Perhaps she too might even find love.

  They descended the stairs, the blooms from the florists scenting the foyer. It could be her debut night, her hands in her gloves hot, anticipation stirring in her stomach. If it were, she’d stand in the drawing room with her mother, greeting guests, then lead the first quadrille.

  Yes, she’d gladly surrender her debutante season to marry Foster, to dance every night in his arms.

  Her mother opened the drawing room doors, and by the fire stood her father, dressed in his tailcoat, an ascot at his neck. He held a brandy, swirling it, the amber liquid as if in flames.

  “August, we have a situation,” Phoebe said, gesturing to Jinx to close the doors.

  Her father turned. He appeared aged, deep crevices etched into his brow.

  “It seems that Esme may have compromised herself with Oliver.”

  Compromised herself—but no, Esme’s wouldn’t have…

  Jinx glanced at her mother who didn’t spare her a look. She sat on the divan, folded her hands to keep them from shaking.

  Her father flinched, his jaw tightening.

  “August, you know she can’t marry Foster, knowing she has…well, what are we to do?”

  He shot back his drink. “Are you sure?”

  “It may be worse than we suspect.”

  Jinx looked at the floor.

  “Are you saying?”

  “She may be with child.”

  Jinx closed her eyes, unable to believe her mother’s tone, her words.

  Her father’s intake of breath made Jinx wish she could stop this. Except, well, what if it were true?

  “I always feared something like this with Esme. She has a rather…untidy personality,” her mother said. “We will have to arrange passage for her immediately for Europe, spend the season there while she…comes back to us.”

  Jinx didn’t miss the narrowing of her father’s eyes as she glanced at him.

  “But, fortunately, Jinx is willing to”—she drew in a breath—“take her sister’s place. She will marry Foster Worth, keep our family from ruin.”

  For the first time in her life that she could remember, Jinx saw her father look at her. Really look at her. As if she might be more than an annoyance, a mistake, a jinx.

  “And would Foster agree to such an arrangement?”

  “I believe he would be amicable, but of course, you’ll need to ask him.”

  Her father’s eyes hadn’t left hers. She drew in a breath, held it.

  And then, very softly, he gave her a tight-lipped smile. Nodded.

  Heat washed through Jinx, her breath leaking out. And this time, when he patted her on the shoulder, she didn’t want to weep.

  In fact, she could probably soar.

  * * * * *

  She could live in poverty. Really.

  For Oliver.

  Esme stared at herself in the mirror, at her hair upswept into a concoction that made her appear as if she had wings, and hated the sliver of cowardice inside. She hated the memories that slid into her sleep last night, sour breath prickling her cheek, dirty hands groping her, the sound of her own breath, quick and sharp, waking her in a sweat.

  She hated that, with relief, she’d awakened in her own wide, cotton bed, Bette knocking at her door with her breakfast tray. As Bette opened her door, Esme looked past her, just to confirm her footmen stood sentry.

  Most of all she hated her father’s voice in her head and how it could exonerate her, if she wanted. If you try to contact Esme, I’ll have you arrested. Or whatever it takes.

  Oh, why couldn’t Oliver have been born to privilege? She cupped her face in her hands a long moment before she surveyed herself and the mess she’d made.

  She looked like a princess in her wedding dress, the miles of tulle and satin puddling around her, the jewels sewn into the bodice capturing the twilight. Her hair coiffed, pearls at her ears, the dog collar laden with jewels around her neck. Bette had even affixed a tiara on her head.

  Behind her, the fire flickered in the hearth, shimmered gold against the chandelier.

  At least it had stopped raining, the rose gold of twilight sliding in across the parquet floor. She’d watched the wind lash Central Park, strip the trees bare, scatter the new buds upon the ground under the flashes of jagged light, turning over the touch of Oliver’s hands in hers, his kiss, his eyes holding hers.

  She could live in the tenements with Oliver, couldn’t she? Share his tiny room with the moonlight scouring the floor, the scurry of rats behind the walls? She twisted her ring on her finger—apparently, she’d lost it, for it appeared on her tray this morning with breakfast. Diamond and platinum, it could buy food for the entire tenement house for a year.

  She took it off, weighed it in the palm of her hand.

  “Esme.”

  A footman let her mother in, and Esme didn’t look at her. She’d measured the distance to the ground last night, a desperate thought pressing her to the darkened window. If you try to contact Esme, I’ll have you arrested. Or whatever it takes.

  The thought burrowed inside her, turned her cold. If she married Foster, perhaps she could assist the families she saw in Oliver’s building. Employ Oliver.

  At least he’d be fed. Maybe he could move from that decrepit room.

  Her throat tightened, her eyes stinging. “I’m almost ready, Mother.”

  Her mother walked up behind her. Esme turned and caught her strange expression. Almost a smile? “No need. You don’t have to marry Foster.” Her mother gestured to Bette. “You may remove her gown.”

  “What?”

  Phoebe took the dog collar from Esme’s neck and ran her hands through the pearls dripping from the ribbon. “I understand you better than you think, Esme. I know what it is to be in love, to be forced to marry another.”

  She sat on the divan before the fire, the dog collar still in her hand. “I loved a man who promised to marry me. But like your Oliver, he lacked social standing and money. He asked my father for my hand, but…” She shook her head. “I understand, Esme.”

  She stared at her mother, a slice of the night’s chill rippling through her. “What are you saying?”

  Bette had begun to unbutton her dress. Esme watched it fall from her shoulders. She caught it, held it to herself. “Wait.”

  Her mother looked at her. />
  Wait. Did she mean that? What if Foster courted her? They barely knew each other.

  No. She pressed fingers to her lips, feeling Oliver’s touch.

  Phoebe rose, walked over to Esme’s wardrobe, and pulled out a small valise, the one she’d used as a schoolgirl, visiting her friends on weekends.

  “Pack her things—a skirt, some undergarments. We’ll have the rest sent.”

  “Mother, what are you doing?” The words came out half panic, half disbelief.

  She walked over to Esme, removed the tiara from her head. Then, carefully, she unpinned Esme’s hair. It fell down, the hair rats dropping to the floor. Her mother reached down, removed the ring from her finger.

  “I’m freeing you. But you must go before your father discovers your absence.”

  “Freeing me?” Her stomach swirled, her head lighter—probably from the lack of finery. “But Father said he would—that he would hurt Oliver.”

  “Shh. I’ll handle your father. Bette, hurry, please.”

  Bette had already fetched a shirtwaist, a petticoat, bloomers. She layered these plus Esme’s day skirt into the bag. Meanwhile, her mother unbuttoned the gown. Esme stepped out of it, gooseflesh rising.

  “Her traveling costume, Bette. Now.”

  Bette found the brown skirt, the matching jacket, the shirtwaist, and helped Esme into it. “I don’t understand—”

  Phoebe took her face in her hands, icy against her flushed checks. She met Esme’s eyes. “Be well, daughter.” Then she kissed her on her forehead. “Use the servant’s entrance as you leave. You may take a carriage, as long as you send it back.”

  Then, as she stared at Esme, a softness crossed her face, again that enigmatic smile. She opened Esme’s hand, dropped the dog collar into it. Closed it. “For your dowry.”

  Then she shifted out of the room.

  Bette bent to tie Esme’s shoes. Esme sank down on the ottoman, staring at the dog collar. “I don’t understand. Why would my mother send me away?”

  Bette looked up at Esme. “Isn’t this what you want?”

  Esme flattened the collar out in her hand. “I…yes. But…what if it…” She leaned down, held Bette’s hands. Not soft like her own, they had strength to them that Esme held onto. “I want to be happy. To do something powerful with my life. To…receive God’s blessings. But I—I don’t want to live in poverty.”

  Oh, she hated the truth, so bare and raw. She turned away from it, staring at her warm fire.

  Bette cupped Esme’s hands in hers. “What makes you think that poverty isn’t God’s blessing, also?”

  “How could it be a blessing to watch your children die, living hand-to-mouth?” She slid her hands out of Bette’s.

  Bette folded her hands. “Ma’am. Is it possible that God is giving you exactly what you want? You just don’t know how yet. Trust Him.”

  Trust Him.

  Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.

  She got up and Bette retrieved her cloak then picked up her valise.

  Esme watched her. “What will I do without you?”

  Bette smiled. “You will learn to tie your own shoes.” She met Esme’s eyes, a smile on her lips.

  “Indeed,” Esme said and reached out for her valise.

  She took the back stairway, as her mother instructed, and found a Victorian waiting for her at the servant’s entrance. Giving Oliver’s address to the footman, she climbed in, settled back in the shadows, her bag at her feet.

  Bette stood at the window, her gaze on her as Esme pulled away.

  A fresh breath upon the city caused her to draw her cloak around her. She clutched her reticule in both hands, the dog collar inside. The pearls and diamonds would be enough for her and Oliver to purchase an apartment, perhaps not on Fifth Avenue, but in Chelsea. They wouldn’t have to live in the tenements.

  Perhaps God had blessed her way already.

  The smell of fire, probably from the coal furnaces and wood boxes in the slums beyond Fifth Avenue, scented the air. Storm water pooled in the streets, splashed up on the wheels. She could taste Oliver’s smile as she let her circumstances flood through her.

  Indeed, she would be happy. Blessed.

  She drank in the sudden, wild sense of freedom as they cut past Penn Station. Maybe he’d find a job at a paper.

  Maybe she’d even write too.

  They traveled toward Hell’s Kitchen and she watched the city darken. No more gaslights, no more trees laden with buds dripping onto the fresh grass. No more houses, their ornate windows peering onto the cobbled streets.

  Alleyways like tunnels gaped at her, homeless men squatting under makeshift shelters made of crates, the sputter of fire flickering at the depths. The rain turned the streets to clay, scoured up a smell of waste.

  She fisted the cloak tight. Perhaps she would ask her driver to wait while she found Oliver. And then—where would she spend the night? She hadn’t thought far enough to consider her lodgings. Her mother didn’t expect her to stay with Oliver, did she?

  She glanced at the valise. What, indeed, did her mother believe about her?

  Wait. What, in fact, did her mother intend to tell Father? She drew in a quick breath, leaned forward to tell the drive to turn around—she’d return home, get her father’s blessing, or at least his forgiveness—

  Light bathed the street before her. She heard shouting, screams, the breaking of glass.

  A roar.

  She leaned out the window as a stream of sparks swirled beside her carriage.

  “What is it?”

  “Fire, ma’am. One of the tenement buildings.” Her driver stopped the carriage. “The street is filled with people. They seem to have abandoned the building.”

  As they neared, she got a view of firefighters in long coats pumping water out to hoses and spraying from horse-drawn steamers onto—

  No. She reached for the door handle. Stumbled out onto the muddy street. Didn’t even bother to hike up her skirt—just stumbled to the edge of the crowd, the heat burning her face as smoke poured out the windows at the top of Oliver’s building. Flames licked like tongues around his dormer window, black smoke pouring from the ones below it. From the front door, a man, his face sooted, stumbled out, holding a little girl in his arms.

  “Oliver!” She pressed forward, searching for him in the crowd, past firemen, women clutching their children, saggy-jawed men in suspenders and derbies reeking of alcohol, others in cotton shirts bearing the build of workingmen. A broad-chested man in a great coat and top hat, someone who could have been from her side of town except for his rickety-rack nose, stepped in front of her. “Whoa there, missy, you’re going to get hurt.”

  She pushed against him, her eyes on the roil of flames as they burst out a lower-story window. “Oliver!”

  “He’s dead.”

  The voice, spoken loud enough to cut through the roar of the flames, the screams, stilled her. She whirled around.

  The redhead—what was her name? Colleen. She held herself with her arms crossed, her hair long and tangled, her face puffy. “He was in his room when the lightning struck the house.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I had just left him. He told me…” Colleen’s face tightened, something frenetic in her eyes. Then her hand came out, up as if to slap Esme. Esme recoiled as Colleen made a fist, held it to her breast.

  “You wouldn’t have been happy,” she said then pressed her lips together, her body shaking. “He wouldn’t have been enough for you.”

  Esme stared at her, everything stilling, turning numb.

  “But to me, he was the world.” Colleen cupped her hands to her mouth, shook her head. “Go home, Miss Price. You don’t belong here.”

  The words shook Esme through, winding down her body, seeping into her bones.

  Dead.

  She stared at the inferno. Glass exploded and the crowd gasped, screamed. She bore it without moving, even when the spray from the fire hos
e slicked her skin, turned her dress soggy. The mud seeped into her shoes as the night fell around her, shrouding her, only the glow of the fire upon her skin.

  He couldn’t be dead. She refused to believe it.

  She wrapped her arms around herself. She’d stay until she knew. Until—

  A great roar shook her as the house caved in, the skeletal frame charred, flames rising up to the blackened heavens.

  He could be out taking crime photographs. Which meant he’d turn them in tomorrow…at the Chronicle.

  You’re an amazing writer, Esme. Prove to him that you can write—better than any man in his city department.

  His voice found her behind the growl of the fire, his words calm and solid. She gritted her jaw, swallowing back her tears.

  He won’t care.

  Make him care.

  Her gaze landed on a group of three, a man holding a child, coughing, a woman stoically watching the destruction. Another man held his head, his eyes glassy. Firemen wet the houses nearby, the mist like the steam from the underworld as it floated into the night.

  To me, he was the world.

  This had been Oliver’s world. The one he’d tried to capture, to not only survive in, but redeem.

  “Ma’am, we should go.” Her driver—she looked at him, saw that he couldn’t be any older than Oliver, the hint of shadow on his skin, his eyes darting to the crowd around them.

  She watched the fire begin to die, the embers like eyes, blinking through the night.

  “Take me to my father’s paper. Take me to the Chronicle.”

  * * * * *

  “You never told me you had a yacht.”

  Jinx held onto Foster’s shoulders as he lifted her out of his landau and onto the pier.

  “It’s a recent acquisition. For our wedding trip to Europe.”

  Their wedding trip. She glanced at him, trying to read his face. He seemed unfazed by the substitution of a different bride, almost as if her father had suggested she might be a racehorse, one that could accomplish the derby as well as the first. Foster had entered the drawing room after meeting with her father in his study and taken her hand. Then he bent before her and slipped the ring he’d presented to Esme onto her finger. She’d watched him for any hint of a twinkle in his eyes, but when he looked at her, she saw nothing. No charm, no smile, not even triumph.