Behind a Lady's Smile

by Jane Goodger

  He growled and reached for her, but she dashed off the bed and beyond his reach. “Get dressed, Mitch. I truly am famished. They always have some sort of food in the saloon.”

  “All right,” he grumbled and heaved himself off the bed.

  “While you get dressed, I’ll start unpacking. I do wish Tillie were still a maid. It was lovely having help with this,” she said, dragging one of her dresses out of the trunk. She stilled, her eyes on her rosewood box that contained the letters from her grandfather. She carried it to the bed, where Mitch sat tugging on his stockings.

  “Do you think it’s possible I am an heiress?”

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “No. But let’s find out anyway.”

  She opened the box and took up the letters, setting them aside carefully. Then she slid the bottom until an opening appeared, just large enough for one of her slim fingers to slip inside and take up the false bottom. She started to lift it, then looked at Mitch. “I do hope I am. It would be rather nice, wouldn’t it? Imagine if it’s enough for you to start your photography studio. I feel simply awful that you spent all your—”

  Mitch pressed a finger against her lips to stop her. “Just look, will you? And don’t get your hopes too high.”

  She lifted the false bottom out of the box and set it aside, revealing several documents beneath.

  She unfolded the first and read, “Girard Bank.” Her eyes scanned the document, but having never read a bank statement, she had no idea what all the notations meant. She handed the thick vellum to Mitch.

  “Let’s see how rich we—” He stopped dead, his eyes widening. And then he swore.

  “Oh,” Genny said, disappointment washing over her.

  “No, darlin’. If this is correct. My God, you’re rich.”

  “What?” she said, getting excited. “How much is there? And what if it’s not still there? What if my mother and father spent . . .”

  “This is dated March fifth eighteen sixty-five,” he said. He looked at the dates and entries. “Nothing was added or withdrawn since the eighteen sixties.” He looked up at her, excitement in his eyes. “I don’t want to get your hopes up too high, darlin’, but I think this money is still there, and if it is, it’s yours.”

  “How much?” she whispered.

  “Two hundred thousand thirty-two dollars and fifty-eight cents.”

  “What?” It was an enormous sum. An outrageous one.

  He repeated the number, and Genny squealed, “We’re wealthy!” She stood up and hopped up and down. “We’re wealthy. Oh, Mitch, it’s wonderful!”

  “Whoa, darlin’, you don’t know for sure if this money is still there.” He studied the documents again, shaking his head as Genny looked on hopefully. “We’ll have to wait until we get to Philadelphia to be certain. Anything else in there?”

  Genny began taking out the rest of the papers. “My birth certificate. My parents’ wedding license.” She looked up and smiled. “This is all so lovely to have.” Then her smile faded. “My father’s will.” Her eyes immediately filled with tears and she handed the document over to Mitch.

  “Do you want me to read it?”

  She nodded.

  Genny watched Mitch’s eyes, for they always told the story of what he was looking at. But this time, she just couldn’t tell. “What is it, Mitch?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. It talks of the money in the Girard Bank, but not how much, and it talks about, let’s see. ‘All stocks and bonds as listed in addendum two’.” He flipped through some pages. “There’s a list, but I have no idea if any of these stocks have value. With the panic last year, they may just be pieces of paper with no value at all.”

  “Panic? What does that mean?”

  “It’s complicated, but it was mostly about silver and gold. Used to be that silver was also used to back paper money. You can’t just print money with no backing. So for every dollar in your pocket, there’s a piece of gold or silver of the same value in a vault somewhere. Then they decided to back money with only gold, and everyone who had silver, well, it wasn’t worth as much, you see? Bunch of other stuff happened, too, men spending money they didn’t have, and all of a sudden, everything went a little crazy. Banks closed, businesses closed. People lost jobs. That was all last year and it’s still pretty bad now.”

  Genny felt foolish for getting so excited about the money. “So it could all be gone?”

  “If this bank is closed, then yes. And the stocks? I don’t even know if any of these businesses are still around. I’m sorry, darlin’.”

  She sat down next to Mitch and rested her head against his shoulder. “Poor and happy suits me just fine,” she said, and smiled when she felt Mitch kiss the top of her head.

  Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell Campbell stepped from their cab on South Third Street and looked up at the imposing structure of Girard Bank. The marble building, stark white against the blue September sky, dominated the street with its six columns that rose three stories, ending at a portico decorated with an eagle and a cornucopia.

  Several people walked in and out of the building, causing Mitch to remark, “At least it’s open.”

  After returning to New York and learning more about the financial devastation wrought by the panic, they had little hope that any money was left from Genny’s once sizeable inheritance. They’d married within a week of returning to New York and had been staying with Mitch’s mother, who’d welcomed them effusively. Her career, it seemed, had been greatly aided by the New York Times article about Genny in which she had been prominently featured.

  “If I ever start up my business again,” she’d said grandly, “Mr. Tish may enjoy all services free of charge.”

  Mitch was grateful for his mother’s generosity—to them, not Mr. Tish—but he wanted nothing more than to set up a home for just the two of them. Unfortunately, all they had was a few hundred dollars left in his accounts and a few hundred more from the duke’s wedding present.

  Mitch had worn his best suit and Genny one of Madame Brunelle’s creations. “It won’t do to look like poor church mice when we go into the bank,” she’d said, fixing his tie.

  In just a few minutes they would know whether they were, indeed, poor church mice or something a bit better. Since they’d discovered the will, Mitch had taken care not to let Genny get her hopes too high. He couldn’t count the times she’d said, “But wouldn’t it be nice if there is money?” And he’d always say, “I wouldn’t count on getting a dime, darlin’.”

  Genny tugged at her kid gloves, a gesture Mitch recognized as nervousness, and the two walked up the shallow marble steps to the door, which Mitch swung open, saying, “After you, Mrs. Campbell.”

  She smiled, as she always did when he called her that. The interior of the bank was just as impressive as the exterior, with marble columns that soared from the brilliantly polished black-and-white marble floor, to the arched sky-blue ceiling. They walked up to a teller, who gave them an assessing look Mitch was beginning to recognize, a look that was meant to discern in a few seconds whether they were important or not.

  “How may I help you?” he asked.

  Mitch pushed Genny forward gently, a hand on the small of her back. “My name is Mrs. Mitchell Campbell, formerly Miss Genevieve Hayes, and I believe we may have funds in this bank.”

  The man drew out a piece of paper and took up a pencil in an efficient manner. “Genevieve Hayes you said?”

  “Yes. The account may be in the name of my late father, James Hayes, or my mother, Mary.”

  The man stopped writing and looked up sharply, giving them a strange smile. “One moment please,” he said, and disappeared behind a windowed partition that separated the tellers from a series of offices.

  “What’s happening?” Genny asked, sounding almost frightened.

  “I think they recognize the name and the teller is too cowardly to tell you all the money is gone,” Mitch teased.

  “You’re likely right,” Genny said, sounding forlorn.
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  As they watched, an older man peered at them through the window, then stood and came out from behind the glass partition.

  “Mrs. Mitchell, welcome to Girard Bank. My name is Arnold Dwight. I’m the manager here. Please do come into my office.”

  Genny and Mitch looked at each other and, when the teller lifted a portion of the counter, they slipped through and followed the manager to his office. He sat in a tufted leather chair behind a large desk, completely covered with stacks of paper, sunlight from a high window streaming down upon his nearly completely bald pate. When they sat down, he cleared a spot by shoving a few stacks aside and folded his hands in front of him.

  “How can I help you?” he said.

  Genny explained that her father had died, then presented to the manager all the documentation she had, which Mr. Dwight looked over silently and thoroughly while Mitch and Genny sat, getting more and more nervous every minute.

  Then Mr. Dwight let out a short, heavy sigh, which sounded like regret to Mitch’s ears.

  “You are aware of the panic last year,” he said, and Mitch felt any hopes he’d harbored drop to his feet.

  “Yes, sir.” Mitch looked at Genny, whose expression told Mitch she was feeling the same sense of hopelessness he was. They were poor. They would likely stay poor. He reached over and squeezed her hand and she turned and smiled at him, understanding exactly what Mitch was trying to say: it didn’t matter. Not really.

  The clerk entered the office and handed Mr. Dwight a slip of paper and a long metal box. “If you’d give me a moment,” he said, starting with the slip of paper and moving on to the contents of the box, which Mitch recognized as stock certificates. Likely worthless ones. The manager began putting the certificates in two separate piles, working as if he and Genny weren’t in the room.

  Finally, after several minutes, he looked up. “The panic,” were his first words. So, that was that. “I’m very sorry. Your father, Mrs. Campbell, was an intelligent investor. He couldn’t have possibly predicted what happened last year.” He took a deep and tragic breath. “At one time, Mrs. Campbell, your inheritance was sizeable. Quite, quite sizeable.”

  Mitch looked over at his wife, noting that her hands were clutched together in her lap. “And now?” she asked. Mitch hated the way she sounded and wished with all his might that he could give her a better life than the one facing them.

  “I’m afraid there are only two left.” Mr. Dwight looked positively ill.

  “Dollars?” Genny asked, bewildered, shocked. Bitterly disappointed.

  Mr. Dwight’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, no, Mrs. Campbell.” He let out a laugh as if she’d said the most delightful thing. “Two million.”

  Genny’s hand shot out and clutched Mitch’s thigh. Hard.

  “Million? Two million dollars?”

  Mr. Dwight smiled, obviously realizing that two million dollars was a happy surprise. “Yes. As I said, your father was an intelligent investor. At one time, his portfolio was worth considerably more. Considerably more. But I take it you are pleased with the result?”

  “Pleased? More than pleased, Mr. Dwight. You see, I had no idea I had any money, never mind . . .”

  “Two million dollars,” Mitch added, when it became clear Genny was so overwhelmed she could hardly say the words.

  “Of course, it is not all liquid funds. Only approximately fifty thousand is readily available. But I’m more than happy to liquidate some of these stocks for you so that you have more cash available.”

  Genny let out a laugh. “That would be wonderful, Mr. Dwight. I do think fifty thousand should tide us over for a bit.” She laughed again.

  Genny signed some papers, withdrew five thousand dollars, which she placed carefully in her reticule, and the three shook hands, all smiling. Giddy with the day’s events.

  Once they were out of the bank and on the wide sidewalk in front, Mitch couldn’t wait any longer. He picked her up, laughing and spinning as she clutched his neck.

  “You know,” Mitch said, once he’d set her down and pressed a kiss on her forehead, “it doesn’t matter. If all we had in our pockets was the money your grandfather gave us, I’d still be happy.”

  Genny nodded, but couldn’t help smiling. “I truly don’t think I would have been this happy had there only been two dollars in that account. We’re wealthy, Mitch. I never, ever would have believed it. You made this all come true.”

  Mitch smiled, but guilt, unexpected and sharp, hit him. Hard. “I have to tell you something, darlin’.”

  “My, you look so serious.”

  “I’m not the man you think I am.” When she started to speak, he stopped her. “When I first met you, when you were hurt, my plan was to stay just long enough to make certain you could get around. The last thing I wanted to do was escort some girl anywhere, never mind all the way to England. And then you showed me those letters and, well, all I could think of was getting some reward from your rich relatives so I could open my business. That’s why I did it. Not because I’m a hero or a good man.

  “Then something happened. Around the time we got to Sacramento and definitely by the time we got to Omaha. I started to not care about the money. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was getting you home.”

  He expected her to be hurt or angry, but Genny smiled. “You fell in love.”

  “I fell in love. Madly, madly in love.”

  “I’m glad,” she said, getting up on her toes and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Because I fell madly, madly in love, too. Besides, I always knew you were interested in money.”

  He pulled back, stunned. “You did?”

  “I tried sympathy, then anger, but when I mentioned my mother’s jewels, that seemed to do the trick.”

  He grinned down at her. “You little scamp. You knew all along?”

  “No, not about a possible reward. Honestly, Mitch, how disappointing.” She didn’t look at all angry, so he couldn’t stop smiling. “I shall be very angry with you but not now. Today is too wonderful for anger. Do you think we can give some money to Tillie so she can have a grand wedding? I do like Mr. Paulings.”

  Mitch looked down the street and spied a hansom cab coming toward them without occupants, so he stepped forward and waved to the driver to stop. “I think you can do whatever you want with the money.”

  “Then I shall buy a house for us and a wedding for Tillie. And a photography studio and clothes for you. And a home in the country by a lake. I do so miss nature.”

  Mitch chuckled. “You certainly have thought this through. Anything else?”

  “We need to set aside some money for your mother just in case her acting career takes a turn. I shouldn’t like her to open another brothel, though she did seem to enjoy herself. And . . .”

  “And?” The cab stopped and Mitch gave the driver the address, for the first time in his life not caring that the trip would take nearly a dollar out of his pocket.

  “And we’ll need furniture for the house. And clothes for the baby, of course.”

  “Of course,” he said, helping her up to the cab. Then it hit him, what she’d said, and if Mitch thought a man could feel any happier than he had a moment ago, he learned what real happiness was in that instant. “Did you say baby?”

  Genny gave him a smile he instantly recognized, for he’d been seeing it on and off for days now. She nodded, her cheeks blushing becomingly. “A baby, Mitch.”

  And now he knew what was behind that smile all along.

  Don’t miss Jane Goodger’s delightful Lords and Ladies series,

  available now wherever digital books are sold!

  Lord Graham Spencer needs a wife.

  But not just any girl will do. She must have the money to save his dilapidated estate and desperate tenants. So when he meets a charming American lady’s maid on the beach at Brighton, the last

  thing he ought to do is kiss her.

  Katherine Wright is hunting a titled husband.

  Or at least her mother
is. But Katherine can’t get the memory of a

  most inappropriate kiss out of her mind. The handsome stranger

  who took her in his arms in Brighton was only a valet, but even if

  she is an heiress, she’d rather spend her life with him than some

  stiff British aristocrat.

  Can true love survive two false identities, two scheming mamas,

  and two lavish house parties where all is revealed? It can . . .

  WHEN A LORD NEEDS A LADY

  Praise for the novels of Jane Goodger

  “Gentle humor, witty banter, and attractive characters.”

  —Library Journal on Marry Christmas

  “A touching, compassionate, passion-filled romance.”

  —Romantic Times on A Christmas Waltz

  “Fun, delightfully romantic—and sexy.”

  —Sally Mackenzie, USA Today bestselling author

  Mr. Charles Norris needs help finding a wife . . .

  For he has the unfortunate habit of falling for each Season’s loveliest

  debutante, only to have his heart broken when she weds another.

  Surely Lady Marjorie Penwhistle can help him. She’s sensible,

  clever, knows the ton, and must marry a peer, which he is not.

  Since she’s decidedly out of his reach, Charles is free to enjoy her

  refreshing honesty—and her unexpectedly enticing kisses . . .

  Lady Marjorie Penwhistle doesn’t want a husband . . .

  At least not the titled-but-unbearable suitors her mother is

  determined she wed. She’d rather stay unmarried and look after her

  eccentric brother. Still, advising Mr. Norris is a most exciting secret

  diversion. After all, how hard will it be to match-make someone so

  forthright, honorable, and downright handsome? It’s not as if she’s