Book II
Fort Worth, Texas
August, 1900, to March, 1901
Chapter Five
As he strode along West Seventh Street past the ranks of elegant houses inhabited by Fort Worth's wealthiest families, Travis considered what he had got himself into. Jessica Harte might be captivated by his charms, he thought wryly, but she had a mind of her own. She had insisted, until the marriage was actually performed, on staying with a Mr. Henry Barnett, her father's lawyer and her godfather.
Convinced that Barnett would contact Justin Harte, who would doubtless try to stop the overhasty marriage, Travis advanced his timetable. His errand on West Seventh Street was designed to reunite Jessica immediately with her natural mother, Penelope Gresham.
And here was the house, an Italianate place, rather out of keeping with the Fort Worth climate and style, he'd have said. His knock was answered by a maid in a black uniform with a ruffled white apron and cap. The contrast to Harte's Mab with her hatchet and country-woman clothes was telling. The maid ushered him into a room graced by, among other things, a pastel flowered carpet, a marble fireplace, a crystal chandelier, a platoon of heavily carved chairs, sofas, and tables, and two walls of mirrors, placed there, no doubt, to provide the mistress of the house with a number of pleasing reflections of herself. Penelope Gresham was almost as beautiful now as she had been seventeen years ago. She wore a lavender dress, all flowing lines and flounces. He thought it was called a tea gown; one or two wealthy matrons in Corsicana had them. Penelope, ensconced in a velvet armchair, inspected him as closely as he had her.
"Have we met before?” she asked, her glance flirtatious rather than suspicious.
Because Travis did not want her to remember the frightened child in Hugh Gresham's office and perceive him as an enemy, at least not until it was too late for her to take precautions, he answered her question with another. “Have you ever been to Lubbock County—or Corsicana?"
"Goodness no,” she replied.
"Well, those are my stamping grounds,” he announced, projecting for her benefit the reassuring image of a simple man stunned by her beauty and sophistication. “And you can be sure I wouldn't forget you, Mrs. Gresham.” He watched her preen. This one could be manipulated without too much trouble, he decided with a secret grin.
"Will you have tea?” Her delicate hands fluttered over the china tea service.
"No, thank you, ma'am.” Travis wasn't drinking tea for any woman, even if it meant he could have slipped arsenic into her cup and poisoned her on the spot. “I've come to ask a favor, Mrs. Gresham, and to do you one, I wouldn't be surprised."
She raised finely etched eyebrows.
"I've eloped with your daughter.” Shock spread a brief flush over her cheeks; then her face went blank. “Jessica, the daughter of your first marriage,” he added, so that she couldn't act as if she had no child.
Her mouth settled into a dangerous, ugly line.
"The Hartes are against the marriage,” said Travis, “but then Justin's a hard man, as you know. Anyone who'd separate a mother from her baby would have to be."
Travis judged that he had just provided her an easy excuse by holding Justin Harte responsible for the separation. In truth, he had no idea whether Penelope had wanted her child or not. She didn't seem the motherly sort. He didn't even know why the couple had divorced, although in Harte's place, he'd certainly have divorced Penelope for the prospect of marrying Anne.
"I was hoping that you might—how shall I say?—take Jessica under your wing. Unless, of course, you're afraid of your ex-husband. I could sure understand—"
"I am not afraid of Justin Harte!” she snapped.
"Yes, ma'am. But since Mr. Harte has kept her from you all these years, I suppose he'd be mighty upset to find her in your house.” Travis watched the malice bloom in her violet eyes and knew he had her. She loved to cause pain; he'd seen that in her treatment of his father, and he saw it now. She wanted to cause Justin Harte anguish and thought she could be espousing her daughter's cause.
"You're married to my daughter, then?"
"Not yet,” Travis replied. “She's staying with Mr. Henry Barnett.” Barnett's name evidently touched another sensitive chord. The violet eyes once more turned black with hatred. “For propriety's sake. Until we can be married,” Travis explained, as if he had not noticed the reaction.
"That won't do at all,” said Penelope sharply. “Barnett is a widower.” Then she smiled that smile of sugared venom and added, “The perfect solution is for Jessica to come here. In fact, I'll make the wedding arrangements myself; I'd love to. What a lucky girl she is to have found a smart young man to reunite her with her mother, who'll give her a truly lovely wedding, better than anything her father would have provided.” Penelope drummed long nails on the arm of her chair. “Justin always was a cruel man, and miserly."
"I've noticed that,” said Travis.
"What did you say you did for a living, Mr. Parnell?"
"I'm an oil man from Corsicana."
"Oh? Is that a lucrative profession?"
"Very,” Travis replied.
"Lovely. Now you must bring Jessica here immediately. Pay no mind to what Justin may think—or Henry Barnett either. Tell me, how does her stepmother feel about all this?” The violet eyes narrowed.
"I'm afraid that I am not Mrs. Harte's favorite person,” said Travis, which was probably true since the last time Anne Harte had seen him, he'd come close to tarnishing her daughter's reputation.
"Indeed. Well, don't let it bother you. Anne Harte's is not an opinion worth cultivating. She was a woman of poor taste and poor reputation years ago, and I doubt that she's changed."
Travis smiled cheerfully. Spite had won the day—Penelope's against Anne and Justin—and perhaps spite would win another day now that Travis had secured the approval of his future mother-in-law. In fact, a little judicious flirting might well convince Penelope that she wanted the newlyweds living in her very house, which would make Travis's opportunities for revenge that much more numerous.
His father's stricken face flashed before his eyes, and he gave Penelope his warmest smile, which came from a heart as filled with malice as her own.
"For God's sake,” cried Justin, “couldn't Sissie have kept an eye on the girl?"
"Sissie had no way of knowing that Jessica would go off for a bicycle ride and elope."
"Bicycles,” muttered Justin.
"It wasn't the one you gave her,” said Anne. “It was Martha's. Oh dear, I hope she's all right. I know she loves him, but does he love her?"
"Well, he didn't do it for the money,” said Justin. “He's made a fortune in Corsicana, so why else would he marry her? He must love her. Unless—we don't know that they're married."
"Just put that thought out of your mind, Justin. She's a very proper and sensible young woman. She'd never let anything happen until after the wedding.” Anne realized that she was whistling in the dark. Travis Parnell had reminded her of Justin, and twenty-five years ago she too had been a proper and sensible young woman.
"She might at least have said where they were going,” Justin muttered.
"That's my fault,” Anne admitted, sighing. “When she told me she'd marry him that very day if he asked, I said we'd expect an engagement of at least a year.” Her brow furrowed with worry and regret, she added, “I only said it because we knew nothing about him, but I suppose they thought if we knew where they were going, we'd try to bring them back."
Justin groaned. “Well, let's hope he makes her happy. She made it pretty clear to me before she went to Sissie's that I hadn't."
Anne put her arms consolingly around her husband's waist. “None of us ever realized how left out she felt, poor child."
"Jessica,” Travis said, taking her hands into his, “do you remember wondering about your natural parents?"
Jessica shivered. Had he found out something that had changed his mind about marrying her? She didn't think she could stand such a disappo
intment after the joy of his proposal and the excitement of running away with him.
"I could see how unhappy it made you, thinking you were a foundling, so I looked into it."
When? she wondered. This morning? Oh, Lord, if she hadn't insisted on staying with Henry Barnett, Travis wouldn't have—
"Justin Harte is your father."
Jessica's panic changed to confusion. How could that be if Anne wasn't her mother, and she knew—well, Travis had to be wrong about that. “It's not possible. I told you about David and Ned."
"I know,” he said soothingly, “but think about it, Jessie. Your eyes are very distinctive, and they're just like your father's."
She supposed that was true, but—
"He was married to another woman when you were born, and that woman's your mother."
"But—but—David and Ned—they're a month older than me. How—"
"We mustn't judge,” said Travis, knowing how much she loved Anne. “It was a long time ago, and we have no idea what happened. The important thing is that your natural mother is alive. She and your father were divorced soon after your birth."
"She's alive?"
"Her name is Penelope Gresham."
Jessica drew in an awed breath, remembering the stunning woman she had once seen at the opera house.
"Do you know her?” he asked, puzzled.
"I've seen her, but we've never—” Jessica faltered into a confused silence. “I don't suppose she'd want to see me."
"She does want to, Jess. In fact, she's invited you to live in her house until we're married. She even wants to provide the wedding and reception."
"She does?” Jessica's eyes widened with pleasure, and Travis, remembering what Penelope was like, felt a prick of remorse. Still, he could protect Jessica, should that prove necessary. Probably it wouldn't. In order to infuriate Justin, Penelope would, no doubt, treat her daughter very lovingly.
Jessica sank down on the satin coverlet of her canopy bed. Her mother wanted to be called Penelope. She had explained that calling her Mother might remind people of those scandalous old days. To Jessica it seemed that being introduced as Penelope's daughter would do that anyway. After the first explanation, Penelope had said, with a trilling laugh, “After all, dear, we do look more like sisters than mother and daughter, now don't we?” However, Penelope had also made it clear that she didn't think they looked alike at all. In fact, she had said more than once that it was a shame poor Jessica hadn't inherited the Duplessis beauty. Of course, Jessica knew that was true, but it hurt to be reminded.
On the other hand, Penelope had whisked her from one dressmaker to another, buying not only a beautiful wedding gown, but a lovely trousseau, and remarking lightly but frequently that she supposed poor Jessica was unaccustomed to expensive clothes and furnishings, having lived in Justin Harte's house all these years. She never did explain why Jessica had stayed with her father after the divorce, and somehow Jessica couldn't ask. Despite Penelope's lavish display of generosity, which must mean she felt some affection, Jessica remained uneasy with her. She was so changeable, so suddenly and inexplicably cutting, although usually the things that hurt were said with smiles and laughter.
Henry Barnett had strongly opposed the move to West Seventh Street. Hugh Gresham had also seemed unenthusiastic about Jessica's introduction into his household, and he was certainly uncomfortable in her company, although he adored his wife and seemed to do everything she wanted, even to providing this trousseau and wedding, which must be costing a fortune.
Jessica was awed by the amounts of money her mother spent, and she knew that she should be grateful. Instead she felt like weeping. She missed Anne, whose love she had always trusted. And she missed her brothers and sister—and her father, for all she had never been sure of his affection. She shouldn't have eloped. When they realized how much she cared for Travis, they might have relented about the long engagement. But that was what it all came down to—she loved Travis.
"Yes, sir,” said Hugh Gresham expansively, “when I bring in one of the big northern packinghouses, the value of my shares in the Fort Worth Dressed Beef and Packing Company will skyrocket.” He helped himself to a second slice of the roast and poured himself a third glass of wine. “You're probably not aware, Parnell, being an oil man, but the Texas rancher is being strangled because of the quarantine lines against tick fever."
Travis found it ironic that Hugh Gresham should be telling him about the very disaster Hugh had capitalized on to take William Henry Parnell's ranch.
"What we need is a successful packinghouse. Fort Worth Dressed Beef has always been a losing proposition, but when Armour or Swift come in with us, all that will change.” He spooned more potatoes and gravy onto his plate.
Travis noted with dry satisfaction that high living hadn't improved Hugh Gresham's looks over the last seventeen years. His waistline had expanded, and his face had developed a ruddy, alcohol-induced color. Travis wondered how Penelope felt about the physical deterioration of her husband. He glanced over at her and decided that as long as she had her own looks and Hugh's money, she probably didn't care.
"As I was saying,” Hugh continued, recatching Travis's attention, “with the new packinghouse, the ranchers can avoid the quarantine lines by sending their beef to Fort Worth for processing, which will enrich them, the city, and the bank, and I'll make a tidy fortune on my stock."
"Sounds ideal,” said Travis.
"It is,” Hugh agreed smugly. “The Armour people are already in town for preliminary discussions."
"Are they?” murmured Travis. He smiled across the table at his fiancée, who was toying with her meat and looking pale. Probably exhausted from the endless rounds of shopping with Penelope. He was surprised at how generous the woman was proving to be but chalked it up to a combination of spite against her first husband and irresponsibility about money.
"We've had word from Henry,” said Anne, looking distraught. “Jessie was staying with him, but now she's moved—oh, Justin, I can hardly bear to tell you where she is.” Anne's eyes filled with tears. “If only I hadn't panicked when she said she'd marry him that very day."
"What is it, Anne?"
"She's at Penelope's."
Justin looked stunned.
"You've got to get her out of there, Justin."
"I'd like to know how that happened,” he muttered.
"It doesn't matter. Penelope will do her harm, and Jessica has no idea. We never warned her."
"Jessica's not a helpless baby any longer,” said Justin, but his face was white with dismay.
"Penelope's vicious and cruel. At best, she'll destroy the child with that malicious tongue of hers."
"I don't understand how this could have happened,” said Justin, “unless Parnell—” He frowned. “Do you think Parnell could have engineered the marriage because he wants something from Hugh, maybe the banking connection? It must be expensive to drill an oil well—especially when they've no idea whether they'll hit oil or come up dry. Maybe he's looking for financing. From Hugh, from me—"
"Which would mean he did marry her for money. Oh, poor Jessie."
"Well, whatever he married her for, we've got to get her away from Penelope. I'll have to go to Fort Worth and have a talk with Parnell."
"But then you'd have to tell him what actually happened when Jessica was a baby, and he'd tell her, and Justin—the poor child—"
"You're right, of course,” he agreed, frowning. “All right, I'll pressure Hugh. He may run that bank, but I own a big block of his shares."
Travis paid for the drinks and lifted his glass to his new acquaintance from Chicago. “I'm surprised Armour's interested in a partnership with local bankers and cattlemen,” he remarked.
"I didn't say we were,” Groiner responded evasively, “and I sure as hell wouldn't want to be the one to come down here and run the place—not that Fort Worth isn't a fine town,” he added hastily.
"I'm from Corsicana.” Travis grinned and tossed back his s
hot of whiskey. “You don't have to love Fort Worth on my account."
The Armour man grinned in return and admitted that Fort Worth would be hard to love on anyone's account. “Oil, you said? Think there's going to be any money in it here in Texas?"
"Already has been,” said Travis, “and I reckon there'll be more.” He thought of additional information he'd received about a hill called Sour Springs Mound outside of Beaumont. Yes, there would be more money in Texas oil, probably lots more, although not too many people believed it yet.
"I'm interested in your comment about going in with local businessmen—not that there's any deal been made. We're just in the talking stage."
Travis nodded but didn't pursue the opening lest he appear too anxious to warn Groiner off.
"What did you mean?” the man asked, pressing for an explanation.
Travis shrugged. “Just that their big interest'll be in how good a price the beef brings, not how much profit the packinghouse makes."
The Armour man frowned and turned his glass around and around on the bar, tracing and dispersing circles of moisture. Finally he said, “Many of the thirty stockholders are bankers and businessmen here in Fort Worth, not cattlemen."
"Of course,” Travis agreed. “This is a cattle town. Everyone here profits or loses on the price of beef."
"Ah.” The packinghouse representative frowned again.
"Jessica, I do not want to hear another word about feathers,” said Penelope sharply. “The wedding is tomorrow, and the headdress will be decorated with feathers and flowers. It's absolutely lovely and very fashionable."
"You probably don't realize it,” said Jessica, determined to have one last try at changing her mother's mind, “but the American Ornithologists’ Union, of which I'm a member, estimates that five million birds a year are killed—five million!—just so ladies can—"
"I not only don't realize it,” interrupted Penelope firmly. “I don't care. What an irritating girl you are!” She plied her feather fan vigorously.
Jessica felt a little queasy at the thought of the poor birds that must have died to make it.
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