“Let someone else take pity on her. You have a different task.”
“What task is that?”
“To flaunt all that costly, protected virtue of yours and keep me in good stead with your peers.” He grabbed her arms again, this time bruising them viciously. “So you will play handmaid to Mrs. Astor, and you will do as I say, or your sister won’t find me so merciful.”
“Oh God, how my aunt must be turning in her grave that she let you into the family,” she spat, her eyes tearing from the pain of his grip on her arms.
“On the contrary, she’s rejoicing that she left someone to take care of you. I’m all the family you’ve got left, Alana.” A cruel light appeared in his eyes. His gaze wandered over to the daguerreotype on her night table. He released her arm and went to pick it up. “But I forget about Christabel.” He fingered the portrait, his once handsome lips curled in amusement. “How is your sister? Have you visited her recently? Of course you have. You’re quite religious about it, aren’t you.”
Alana remained mute. He knew she didn’t talk about her sister. It was too emotional for her to speak of it. She lived a lie about her family. The Knickerbockers believed that all her family had perished in a housefire three years ago. No one knew the truth—not her beaux, not her “friends,” not even Mrs. Astor. Only Didier knew what had happened to Christabel. And that terrible fact kept her protected and vulnerable at the same time.
Didier glanced again at the picture. “She looks so happy here, doesn’t she? How long after this was taken was she put in the madhouse? Has it really been three long years?”
Alana tried to turn from him.
He wouldn’t let her. “Answer me,” he insisted. “She looks very happy in this picture. How happy do you think Christabel would be in a public institution, not that nice clean private home that coddles her so?”
“She won’t be put in a public institution,” she lashed out.
“And how will you afford her care if I no longer permit it?”
“I shall hire a lawyer and fight you!”
He shook her. “With what? Your fortune’s under my control. You think I’d give you money to use against me? Think again.”
“I won’t be blackmailed by you any longer! I’m going to the Sheridan ball, and my sister won’t be threatened!”
“Your sister’s care is shockingly expensive. How will you pay for it if I cut you off? Your parents, God rest their souls, didn’t realize when they died that they were to leave you with such a burden as your dear sister’s care.”
“You’re the burden to me, not Christabel!” She struggled against him. To grip both her shoulders, he released the picture, and it shattered on the floor. Alana was furious as she looked down upon her sister’s fractured portrait.
“You will stay in tonight,” Didier stated. “And since no one else is showing up at that party, I don’t think it necessary to send your regrets.”
His words appalled her. Though he was probably right that no one would show up at Sheridan’s ball, she didn’t want to believe people were so cruel. Yet the evidence seemed irrefutable. Young Mara Sheridan would be destroyed by this blow.
But Alana was not so cruel, and she would not contribute to society’s cruelty. She said, “I’m going tonight.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.” She lifted her head and leveled a challenging gaze at him. “I’m going because of Mara Sheridan, but mostly I’m going for myself, and to defy you and Mrs. Astor.”
“I see.” Didier took a calm step backward. Without warning, he raised his hand and hit her hard across one cheek.
She moaned and took her face in her hands. No one had ever hit her before. The shock of it was more debilitating than the pain.
“Do not defy me, Alana,” he whispered as she sank to her dressing-table bench, her palm gripping her throbbing cheek. He’d hit her so hard, she felt nauseous. She didn’t know whether she was going to faint or have to run for her washbasin.
“I’ll stop by tomorrow to see how you’re faring.” Didier spoke calmly, as if she were facing him, not hurt and crumpled on her bench. “We’ll take my curricle out after tea.”
“I’m going to the ball tonight,” she said, making one last attempt at defiance.
“You’re not,” he said. His eyes lowered to her back where her corseted curves seemed to beckon beneath the jonquil satin. “Oh, the price of avoiding vulgarity,” he whispered, sliding a hand to her small bound waist. She bolted away from him, and reluctantly he left, locking the door firmly behind him.
It was several moments before Alana could gain her bearings. Her head ached abominably, and her vision was still not steady. She looked around the room, its oppressive opulence making her long for the simple white house in her dreams. She would find that man, and when she saw his face, she would know him instantly. He would be the man she could share her troubles with, and her triumphs. He would love her, and together they would build a life. It would all happen one day, she vowed, taking what comfort she could in her reveries. One day she would find happiness, despite Baldwin Didier.
Yet as much as her spirit rebelled, the locked door was her ultimate defeat.
She made a miserable figure as she picked up her sister’s shattered picture. Margaret soon knocked softly on her door, whispering hushed inquiries about her well-being and begging her to let her in. Helpless and angry, Alana rested against the dressing table, her eyes unable to shed tears. Her only solace was her sister’s daguerreotype, and she hugged it to her bosom, unmindful of the way the glass shards caught in her bodice.
Somehow, some way, there was an escape from the hell her life had become. But try as she could, she couldn’t think of one. There seemed to be no other option but the one her uncle presented. Her sister’s care was frightfully expensive, more than she could ever hope to earn. And the thought of her sister being reduced to public care and all the horrors that brought with it was unendurable.
Inconsolable, Alana rested her throbbing head against the dressing table. Her sister had been destroyed by their parents’ death. Alana had been grateful for the home in Brooklyn that took such wonderful care of her. Even their uncle had agreed it was the best place for Christabel, considering the alternatives. Now Christabel at least lived out her youth in a tranquil environment, well sheltered from the madness their uncle had created around her.
In the mirror Alana glanced at the ornate expensive drapery at her windows, then at the red mark Didier had left on her cheek. It was ironic, but for the first time in her life she wondered if Christabel wasn’t the lucky one.
Lions
Were he not a supreme scoundrel, he would be a great man.
—George Templeton Strong
(on Boss Tweed)
2
Wall Street called him the Predator. No one knew if Trevor Sheridan was hated more for his wealth, which seemed to multiply as quickly as the Irish tenements springing up north of the Manhattan toe, or if it was the fact that he was a son of Erin, an enterprising phoenix newly risen out of the ashes of his impoverished homeland. Regardless, New York’s elite publicly shunned him. Yet as Knickerbocker society pushed the Predator away with one hand, certainly the other hand was outstretched like a beggar from Five Points in the hope that where Trevor Sheridan went in the exchange, they might follow and be the richer for it.
Tonight the Knickerbockers had Sheridan very much on their minds.
The Predator had them on his mind also.
“Do you think they’ll come?” Eagan Sheridan asked his brother as the two men stood in the dining room of the house on Fifth Avenue. Mara’s debut was to start in less than an hour, and the table had been set for fifty guests. Cobalt-colored Stiegel glass goblets and eighteen-karat-gold-painted Limoges porcelain graced the table. The ten-foot centerpiece consisted of 370 pale-pink tea roses interspersed with bouquets of lily of the valley topped off by an elegant ice sculpture of entwined swans. In the corners of the room, as a rather defiant gesture, to
piaries had been set up in the shape of shamrocks. It was a breathtaking display in a breathtaking room, for the dining room was an exact copy of the one at Blenheim, except that in the Sheridan dining room, unlike Blenheim’s, the heavy dentil moldings and priceless pink Numidian marble were real, not trompe l’oeil.
The master of all this splendor remained silent as he walked around the table, giving it a last critical study. His gait was as stiff and formal as the ever-present ebony and gold lion-ornamented walking stick he always used.
Eagan watched his older brother, worry etched on his handsome, boyish features.
“I suppose the question should be what if they don’t come?” Eagan prompted, obviously trying to get a response, any response, from his brother.
“Is Mara dressed?” Sheridan finally asked, the table having passed his inspection.
“Mara? She was dressed a month ago. I’ve never seen her so excited.” Eagan stared down at the glass of V.S.O.P. brandy he held in his hand. “I wonder, Trevor, was this … debut a little hasty?”
“Other girls have debuts. Look at the Varicks, the Biddles, the De Witts.”
“Yes, but—”
“Yes, but those ladies have no association with the Irish shanties on Eighty-ninth Street,” Sheridan finished bitterly for him. Quickly, as if he regretted his honesty, he looked at his brother’s casual attire and said, “Are you dressed, then?”
Eagan slowly shook his head, but unable to put his fears to rest, he whispered the dreaded words again. “But what if they don’t show, Trevor?”
Sheridan released a disgusted sigh. He stared long and hard at the shamrock topiary as if trying to think of the appropriate words. When they wouldn’t come, he cursed. “I don’t give a damn about Caroline Astor!” he proclaimed, twisting his walking stick in his hand.
Eagan only nodded as if cheering him on. By then, Sheridan need no prompting. “Her and that precious following of hers! Who do they think they are?” He whipped around and faced his brother. “But God grant me mercy, Eagan, what was I to do? Will it hurt Mara more if no one shows up tonight or if she were denied a debut altogether?”
“I don’t know, Trevor. Right now, I really don’t know.” Eagan whispered.
Sheridan glanced at his brother, obviously struggling with his anger. The two men stared at each other for a brief tormented second, then Trevor moved away as if unwilling to discuss the evening further. With a fatalistic shrug of his shoulders, Eagan returned to his brandy while his brother made one last survey of the glorious room.
To the casual observer, the two brothers might look very much alike. There were eight years between the two, Trevor being older, but there were still many similarities. They were both tall, broad-shouldered, and uncommonly handsome. Yet for all their similar physical attributes, the brothers didn’t quite match. Whereas Eagan was rakish and charming, Trevor was intense and grim, a man whom it was said horded his smiles like he horded his gold. Eagan had brown hair; Trevor, black. Eagan had eyes as green and wild as the Emerald Isle; Trevor’s were hazel, unusually dark, with an almost permanent wrathful expression. Though they had both been born in Ballinlough, County Roscommon, Eagan had been in New York since he took his very first steps. He exuded an ease and enthusiasm that was confidently American, while Trevor did everything with rigid, studied calculation. Even his accent was cultivated, a self-conscious, almost painful cloaking of his impoverished past.
“I’ve got to finish dressing,” Sheridan said, his words cutting the silence between the two men like a blade. “When will you be ready?”
Eagan only raised his empty glass and smiled. “Give me a refill, and bring on the Four Hundred.”
Sheridan lifted one eyebrow. “I suppose you’re guzzling our best brandy.”
Eagan laughed. “It’s better than drinking that rotgut you keep in your rooms. Look around, Trevor. Look at what your money has bought you. I think by now you can afford better than cheap Irish whiskey.”
“Brandy or poitín, I can’t tell the difference.” Sheridan dismissed him by walking away but then thought of something and turned. “By the way, it was Chateau Margaux you recommended for the wine tonight, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, that was it.”
An inkling of relief crossed Sheridan’s face; he would have let no one but Eagan see it. “Good. It needs to be right. This evening everything needs to be right.”
“Another would have done, Trevor.”
Sheridan gave Eagan a slight smirking smile. “Yes, but then why did I pay for that expensive education of yours if you can’t direct me in choosing our wines?”
Eagan suddenly softened toward his brother. “Despite my days at Columbia, Trevor, I truly don’t know as much as you.”
If they’d been ten years younger, Sheridan might have affectionately mussed Eagan’s hair. “Of course you know more than I. What’s the use of university, then?”
“There are things only life can teach you,” said Eagan.
“But those things you don’t ever want to learn.”
After that morose statement, Sheridan lightened. “Your education will prove much more useful, I think. With that degree from Columbia, perhaps your daughter won’t have Mara’s troubles.” He turned to depart. “I’ll see you in an hour, Eagan. Don’t be late.”
Eagan watched him go, his expression burning and full of pride. If ever a brother looked up to another, Eagan looked up to his. “Trevor,” he called, unable to stop himself, “I want you to know, if none of them show up tonight, I say we Sheridans go out tomorrow and lynch every one of them—just like they done in Galway.”
Sheridan turned and looked at Eagan. The Predator only nodded.
An hour later Sheridan knocked softly on the white gilded doors of his sister’s suite. In seconds the double doors were flung open, and a girl of sixteen took Trevor by the hand and pulled him laughing into her room.
“How do I look?” she asked, pirouetting before him.
Mara was beautiful. She had inherited the Sheridan good looks along with the stunning coloring of the Black Irish. She had masses of shiny raven-hued hair, skin the color of rich cream, and warm sparkling sapphire eyes made even bluer by the costly gown she wore. Her dress was ice-blue satin with the pattern of swallows set free at the hem appearing to fly to the heavens. Done in the Renaissance taste, her large puffed sleeves were slashed, revealing undersleeves of brilliant magenta. With her hair still unbound and cascading down her back, she was a Raphael madonna brought to life. She looked exactly like the kind of maid that knights of old had dreamed of and bled for. No one was more proud of her tonight than her eldest brother.
“Trevor! Trevor! Come see! Shall I wear the pearls in my hair or simply this boring wreath of artificial flowers that Peg wants me to wear?”
Trevor looked at the scowling elderly maidservant behind Mara and began to chuckle. “So she’s been a handful, I see,” he said to the maid in his native Celtic tongue.
Peg answered him back in tart Irish Gaelic. “Aye, sir. I think she’d be better tamed with a whip and a chair.”
Trevor tipped his head back and laughed, much to Mara’s ire.
“What are you two scheming about?” she asked, traipsing over to her dressing table. “You know it’s rude to converse in a tongue that the third party doesn’t understand.”
“And where did you learn this?” Trevor asked in English.
“In Mrs. Mellenthorp’s Lessons to Young Ladies.” She took the little red book from her dressing table as if it were her Bible. “Here it is, Trevor, on page fourteen. ‘Rudeness is to be tolerated only in others, never in oneself.’” Mara opened her eyes wide. “Oh dear, I suppose I was being rude in pointing out that you were rude.” She scowled and began thumbing the pages of the book as if to find another passage to prove her point.
“Enough of Mrs. Mellenthorp for tonight.” Trevor took the book from her. He took in the picture of her in her womanly finery, and a sad smile appeared on his lips. “No more short dresse
s for you, isn’t that right, Mara? After tonight, you’ll be a lady, and you’ll wear only ladies’ clothes.”
Mara smiled back, then impetuously hugged him. “Thank you for the beautiful gown, Trevor. I love it every bit as much as you said I would.”
“So I’m not the beast you claimed I was last winter.”
Mara gave him an impish grin. “Oh yes you are.” She turned to her maid and explained, “You should have seen him, Peg, in Paris, sitting before Monsieur Worth at seven Rue de la Paix. Monsieur Worth was showing Trevor all his magnificent gowns.” Mara began to imitate the rotund couturier. She took her alpaca lap rug from the chaise longue and swept it before Peg for her inspection.
“Is this to your liking, Mr. Sheridan?” Mara asked, artfully imitating Worth.
“Too low-cut!” Mara answered out of the corner of her mouth, lowering her voice to mimic her brother.
“And how do you fancy this one, sir, if I may ask?”
“Too sophisticated!”
Mara mimicked exactly Worth’s supercilious expression. Disdainfully, she asked, “And this one, Monsieur Sheridan, if you would be so good as to give your opinion?”
“Not RED!” she boomed out her brother’s reply, nearly choking with the effort not to giggle.
Peg turned away, her shaking shoulders betraying her laughter.
Trevor only scowled and took the alpaca rug from Mara’s hands. He mocked, “So is this how you thank me for that costly gown?”
Mara turned again to Peg. “Oh yes, and I almost forgot. Once he’d finally decided on a gown, Monsieur Worth assured Trevor again and again that he would pour his entire soul into the effort of clothing me. But when Trevor was handed the bill, do you know what he said?”
Peg shook her graying head.
“He said, ‘Mr. Worth, I see you place too high a price on your soul.’”
Mara fell back on the chaise hysterically giggling while dear old Peg hid her crooked smile behind a discreetly mitted hand.
Lions and Lace Page 2
