Heiress

by Susan May Warren

  Perhaps, he, like she, didn’t want to betray an untoward jubilation.

  He did, however, squeeze her hand, just enough to calm the battle inside.

  Surely, he loved her. After all, he stood before the judge and committed himself to be true to her, to care for her, in sickness and health, for richer or poor.

  Hopefully, for richer. “Europe?”

  “You said Esme wasn’t going to visit Paris, so I thought…” He lifted a shoulder as he held out his hand to help her up the gangplank.

  She rather wished he’d sweep her into his arms, carry her across the proverbial threshold. But perhaps he wanted to wait until they had privacy.

  He did help her manage her way over the deck, sweeping up the train to her wedding dress—or rather, her debutante costume. But it felt like a wedding dress, the way the guests had admired her attire. She’d eaten nearly nothing at the dinner, and now, at midnight, hunger clawed at her insides.

  But she had nothing of food on her mind.

  “It’s a beautiful ship.” Three-masted, with a steamer pipe in the center, she gauged it nearly two hundred feet long. An observation lounge spanned the center of the deck. She peeked inside, noticed padded chairs, long windows that overlooked the ocean.

  The yacht listed gently, a delicate memory of today’s storm, and overhead, diamonds of light sparkled in the scrubbed sky. The slightest tinge of smoke seasoned the air, caught in the breezes of New York harbor.

  “Our salon is downstairs.” He cupped her elbow and escorted her down the mahogany stairs. Rooms off the main gangway opened to porthole windows, most with a fireplace and maple wainscoting, overstuffed gold and green chairs.

  He led her to the end of the boat, to the room at the bow. Porthole windows like eyes peered over the ocean. He turned on the tiffany chandelier, the gold thread in the seafoam green damask wallpaper sparkling like an undersea chamber. And at the far end of the room, a carved walnut canopied bed, its linens fresh and tufted.

  On top lay a box, wrapped in bright paper.

  “You got me a wedding gift?”

  She glanced up at him and he nodded, his smile tight.

  “I’ll change, but…” She turned. “You’ll have to unbutton my dress.”

  She had hoped for something gentler as he worked her buttons free. She held the dress to herself then scooped up the box, glancing over her shoulder as she headed to the dressing room. “I’ll be right back.”

  But he had moved to the fireplace, as if to start a fire. Well, it did seem chilly, and…

  She shut the door to the dressing room, leaned against it, and tried to swallow the webbing in her chest, the dark thread that wound through her.

  She’d rescued them all, hadn’t she? Her father walked her down the stairs, into the drawing room, gave her hand in marriage to Foster, and for a moment, her hand on his arm, she’d felt safe. Protected. Wanted.

  Blessed.

  She stepped out of the dress and, not knowing what to do, laid it out on the carpeted floor. Then, she unhooked her corset, letting her body breathe.

  Finally, she opened the box.

  Inside, wrapped in brown paper, she discovered a two-piece lingerie suit. White cotton, with lace across the bottom of the drawers, and pink ribbon sewn into the edge of the corset bodice, which hooked in the front. Eyelet lace trimmed the neck and sleeves. She pulled it out, ran her fingers across the fabric.

  Tears filmed her eyes. What a kind gesture from her husband. She reached up to take down her hair, missing Amelia’s ministrations. She should have insisted her maid travel with her. Perhaps she could request her in the morning, before they left port. Her hair fell, and she finger-combed it out, gathering up the rats, setting them with the tiara her mother had presented to her next to her dress.

  She stepped into the drawers, tied them at the waist. They seemed longer than normal, bagging nearly to her ankles. Then she pulled on the bodice, hooking it in front. It pulled against her chest, bagged at her waist. Still, she felt oddly pretty, despite the shiver that ran up her bare feet.

  Good thing Foster had built a fire.

  She smoothed the fabric over her stomach then looked at herself in the mirror. She seemed older, just in the few hours since she’d become a married woman. Her eyes wiser, her body more womanly.

  She fashioned a smile, her lips puckered, then opened the door.

  Foster stood with his back to her, one hand braced over the mantle, a poker in hand, staring at the flames.

  “It’s beautiful, Foster,” she said softly.

  He turned.

  His eyes contained no warmth of the man she’d thought she knew, as if he’d been far away and yanked back too soon. He let his gaze scour over her. “Indeed. It was made for Esme.”

  Esme. Of course it was. Jinx pressed her hands to arms, rubbing away the gooseflesh. She looked down, wishing suddenly she could change back into her debutante dress, wishing that the flimsy fabric didn’t make her feel naked.

  She turned toward the dressing room, not sure—

  Foster caught her, wrapping his hands around the tops of her arms. His hands were warm, almost sweaty. He leaned down, and as she drew in a breath, staring at her reflection in the mirror, he brushed her hair aside and pressed a kiss at the base of her neck.

  Then met her eyes in the mirror.

  There was the smile, the one she’d fallen for. Something full of mischief, of charm. She caught his hands on her arms, wove her fingers into his grip. “We’ll have the perfect life, won’t we, Foster?”

  He gave a low chuckle and turned her to face him. He cupped his hand beneath her chin and raised her face to meet his.

  As he moved in to take her lips, he stopped a moment to meet her eyes, his so gray, like the smoldering sky right before dawn. “Yes, Jinx. Absolutely perfect. I promise.”

  * * * * *

  Her father had a magnificent view of New York from his office, the way the sun gilded the cobblestones, the statue on the roof tolling the early morning hour. Here, seated in his leather chair, hands on the armrests, Esme could see why people feared him.

  Not her. Not anymore.

  She watched the pigeons alight on his statue, others pick at crumbs at his feet. Across the street, newsies scuffled their way to the alleyway to pick up their papers, a man wheeled an apple cart into the square. Inside the corridors of the office, the city desk began to stir with voices, stringers stopping in to sell their stories, the night photos of local crime.

  No Oliver.

  The truth began to settle in her bones, a pervasive chill that tasted of grief.

  She closed her eyes, itchy and cracked, and leaned her head against the chair. No second thoughts.

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

  No, she was through trusting God. So far, with every step of faith, she’d found grief, instead.

  From now on, she’d trust no one but herself.

  Footsteps through the reception room stilled her and she drew herself up, not turning to greet him, staring a moment longer at the view.

  “Who’s here?”

  The voice shook her, the violence in it, as if he’d arrived to the Chronicle already churning the stress of the day.

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

  She didn’t have to prove anything to anyone but herself.

  She turned his chair around. “Hello, Father.”

  He looked as if he hadn’t slept either, his eyes reddened, cracked, his face lined. She hadn’t before noticed the stoop in his shoulders, the way his hands shook when he took his watch from his coat pocket, checked the time.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “The night editor let me in. He remembered me.” She folded her hands on his blotter. He just stared at her.

  “When did you get here?”

  “After midnight, after watching Oliver bu
rn to death.”

  She clipped out her words without emotion, pushing the ball of flame deep inside her chest. Later.

  Her father stared at her. “Has something happened to Oliver?”

  She caught her voice before it escaped her. “His tenement caught fire last night. He was trapped in his attic apartment.”

  “I’m very sorry, Esme, but I still don’t understand. What were you doing there? I thought…your mother told me you were unwell. Of course, that’s to be expected I suppose. And now…I suppose we will have to provide for you in your situation.”

  She frowned at him. “Unwell? Why would I be unwell? What situation?”

  He stared at her a moment longer, his eyes finally narrowing. “Aren’t you expecting…a child?”

  His voice shuddered at the end and she saw what his words cost him. As if, with that question, everything flushed to the surface. Suddenly, she saw it all in his eyes. Hurt. Worry. Grief.

  The truth settled on her. Of course.

  “I don’t know what you have been told, but no. I have not been with a man. Including Oliver.”

  He pressed his hand to his heart. Closed his eyes. Reached out to palm his credenza. “Oh no.”

  It was the way he sagged, how he turned to her, horror in his expression that made her breath hiccup, made her want to rise, to rush to him.

  Instead she watched him make his way to a chair, sag into it.

  “Father, you’ve been lied to. But never mind. Oliver is gone, and I will do my duty for the family, on one condition.”

  He had his face pocketed in his hands as if overwhelmed, despairing. She couldn’t agree more. But now wasn’t the time to grieve. “If you require me to marry Foster, then I want to write for you. Be a journalist for the city. I know I can do it, and you do too.”

  He still hadn’t looked up at her.

  “I saw those people at the fire last night, and they need a voice. Families without homes, living in squalor. Children dying of cholera. And high society sits by and lets it happen. We should be ashamed of ourselves, having dinners for our dogs and horses and going to Hell’s Kitchen on guided tours. Makes me ill.” She stood, picked up the notepaper she had put on his desk, and handed it to him.

  He looked up at her.

  “What is that?” His voice seemed to emerge from far away.

  “My first article.” Somehow she held it without her hand shaking.

  He reached out and took it.

  And, as she lowered herself back into his chair, he read it. The clock ticked behind him. So, this was how it felt to have an editor read your material. She tried to study his face.

  It shook her when he cupped his hand across his forehead, hiding his eyes.

  “Father?”

  He said nothing, finally sighing. “It’s very good. A few sentences I might change. Overdramatic.” “Thank you. I will return home and dispatch my apologies to Foster immediately—”

  “He’s already married.”

  The words clipped her, fast and hard.

  “What?”

  “He married last night.”

  She leaned back in his chair. “I don’t—I don’t understand. Who did he marry?” But even as the question left her, she knew the answer. Heard the name in her head before he said it.

  “Jinx.”

  Of course, Jinx. Finally ascending to her birthright.

  She spread her hand on his desk. Felt the smooth wood, with the other hand, the worn creases of his chair. Someday, she would sit here. Rightfully.

  For Oliver.

  Her father set the article on the desk. “I can’t publish this, Esme. You’re a talented writer, but it is not your place in society to write articles for my paper, like some stringer. We will need to find you another suitor—”

  “No.” She got up, and picked up her reticule, the one holding the dog collar. It would buy passage somewhere, even to a new life. Oklahoma, or even Montana. She didn’t belong in New York. Not without Oliver.

  She would go somewhere that allowed her to be the woman he believed in.

  Her father looked up at her, eyes reddened. “I love you, you know.”

  “I’m sure you did. Take care, father.”

  He caught her arm as she passed by. She glanced at his hand, the strength of it, on her arm. “Love has many faces.”

  “I know, Father. The one I knew was Oliver’s.”

  She reached the door before he turned. “Esme?”

  She pulled out her gloves, fought the tremor in her hands as she worked them on.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  She turned and traveled back to Delmonico’s, to her father’s voice in her ears. I expect great things from my Esme. She found a smile.

  “Keep an eye out for my byline.”

  SECTION TWO

  Jinx

  NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND

  1899

  Chapter 6

  News traveled too fast, even in the seaside town of Newport. Jinx should have had the right to tell Foster the news, should have been entitled to see his face.

  Trace it for a hint of remorse.

  “How long will you wait for him to come in from the harbor?”

  “I don’t know, Mother.”

  Jinx sat in the dining room, the bronze and crystal Doré-style chandelier dripping light like tears upon the table. Landscape panels depicting a dark and fertile French countryside suggested a more baroque existence than her own. A clock—a wedding gift from the Astors—chipped away the late hour. She should have ordered a fire in the marble-carved fireplace, for the early July breeze had a bite that had collected in the corners of the room before they’d closed it for dinner.

  “You’ll just let him sit out there, scandalizing you with his boatloads of trollops, chorus girls, and cabaret singers.” Her mother put down her fork, letting it rattle on the Dresden china, a purchase from Jinx’s last trip abroad.

  Upon her own plate, Jinx’s broiled quail had turned chewy. She had no appetite anyway and lifted her hand for the footman to carry it back to the kitchen.

  “I won’t be needing dessert,” she said. Indeed, with Foster’s arrival in port three days prior, she’d sworn off all sweets, aware that since the miscarriage, she hadn’t yet fit back into her standard corset. In fact, she should probably reorder her winter season wardrobe, since she wouldn’t need the adjustments the maternal condition would have demanded.

  Her throat burned and she drew in a breath, wishing for the tang of the salty air, to lose herself in the sultry night. She would have taken dinner on the terrace, but her mother regarded that sort of al fresco dining barbarian.

  “He went to Paris to pick up his brother. I am sure they are simply friends of Bennett’s. You know his reputation.”

  “Perhaps his reputation has infected his brother.”

  “Mother—”

  “I saw his sins with my own eyes as I rode with Mamie today down Ocean Avenue. A sloop setting out for the Jinx with a couple of strumpets on board.”

  “Mother, please!”

  “He’s as much of a scoundrel as your father.”

  Jinx stared at her mother. One had to consider her closely, past the powder, the diamonds and pearls at her neck, the flourish of her dark, padded hair, to see the marks of despair, the finite lines troweled into her face over the past four years. But no one could miss the flashing dark eyes, the contempt barely veiled when she spoke of August.

  Indeed, Phoebe had all but moved into Rosehaven the moment Jinx finally announced her renovations completed. Never mind that her father resided in New York—even during the height of the social season of Newport. Phoebe apparently couldn’t bear the notion of his belongings leering at her.

  Jinx gladly gave her mother rooms at Rosehaven. She had no one else to fill them. And, her mother made for an adept party planner. She had stood beside her in the gilded ballroom for the past two seasons to host Jinx’s annual motor chase cotillion.

  “Foster is most likely conducting
business and is too busy to come ashore.” Jinx placed her hands on the table, and at the signal, the footman slid back her chair, too heavy with its brass finishing for her to move alone. “I no longer wish to discuss this.” She stood, smoothing her shirtwaist into her skirt, then rose and walked out toward the ballroom.

  Without guests, the chandelier unlit, the massive room gathered the shadows, the windows dark, the electric lamplights outside illuminating the fountain. The place mocked her.

  Four years without an heir. No wonder Foster had fallen out of amour with her.

  Her shoes resounded across the parquet floor, and for a moment, she saw herself in Foster’s arms, the few times in the past two years when, for society’s sake, he belonged to her.

  She opened the doors and stood on the veranda. The sky was dark with mystery, the nuance of the sea beckoning.

  Her mother’s steps tapped across the floor, so she stepped out onto the terrace, past the potted ferns and ivy twining across the Corinthian balustrades that bordered the terrace. In two month’s time, she’d have the footmen erect columns, entwine them with silk and electric lights, perhaps sprays of hydrangeas from the gardens. Then, three hundred of her closest friends would dine alongside her and Foster, she in a new Worth gown, bedazzled with some diamond choker Foster had gifted her. He always found a way to soothe her wounds, and this night, these past two months of reading his name in the tattler’s pages of the Newport News would be abolished.

  “You need to give him an heir.”

  Her mother’s voice, kept low, cut through the swath of her assurances, and Jinx drew her arms around her waist.

  She drew in a breath. “You know I’ve tried.”

  Phoebe stood beside her, staring out at the fountain where two swans swam, their wings clipped. “You must keep trying. Your standing is insecure unless you produce an heir.”

  Jinx closed her eyes, fighting the ache that swelled inside her, the one that could curl her into a ball in the wee hours of the night. Or cause her to walk out onto the grass, barefoot in her nightclothes, when she knew the house slept.