The Bride
Christine Dorsey
Publishing History
Print edition published by Kensington Zebra
in the Anthology A Bride’s Desire
as the novella “A Proper Victorian Wedding”
Digital copyright 2013 by Christine Dorsey
Digital Edition published by Christine Dorsey, 2013
Cover design by Kim Killion
Digital formatting by A Thirsty Mind
All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, may be reproduced in any form by any means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
Excerpt: The Wedding Cake
Other Books
Reviews
Meet the Author
Prologue
They were all there—the Astors, the Vanderbilts, the Fiskes. The cream of New York and Newport society. If the United States had royalty, had a court, this was it.
All the families had money, of course. But that in itself wasn’t the main criteria. Hell, anyone with enough grit, determination... and luck, could make himself a fortune. He was proof of that.
What these people had was more. They had social acceptance—of the highest order. They weren’t perfect. There were affairs and indiscretions, even the occasional divorce. But it didn’t matter. They rode above the common, above people like him.
Except that he planned to become one of them.
One
Early Summer; 1884
Newport, Rhode Island
She would do.
John Edward Bonner leaned against one of the limestone columns on Oakgate’s broad loggia and appraised his bride to be. She stood beside her father shaded by a sprawling blue and white striped awning that spanned a portion of the perfectly manicured lawn. The cream of Newport society gathered for an afternoon picnic. And John’s soon-to-be bride was one of them.
An outsider, certainly not listed among the Mrs. Astor’s four hundred socially acceptable, John viewed the event with a jaundiced eye. But it suited his purpose to be here.
As it suited his purpose to wed Eleanor Fiske.
She wasn’t difficult to look at as he’d imagined she might be. But of course, until this moment, his only sight of her had been a fuzzy likeness in the New York Times. She’d been attending the annual New Year’s Eve Ball given by Mrs. Astor. Photographs seemed to adore some women and hate others. Apparently there was no love lost between Eleanor and the camera.
She was tall, nearly chin to chin with Oakgate’s owner, and slender waisted. Her cobalt blue gown with its red trim and matching straw hat overpowered her pale coloring and showed her to be less buxom than was the vogue. Or than he preferred.
But that didn’t really concern John.
Eleanor Hamilton Fiske might not be the most beautiful woman adorning the lawn of her parents’ sprawling Newport “cottage,” but she suited John perfectly.
She had something that mere money couldn’t buy. And John should know because thanks to hard work and a lucky break with a copper mine he had plenty of money. Acceptance was another matter. He didn’t have it.
But Eleanor Fiske did.
Her family was one of the oldest and most respected on the East Coast. Quality, his mother had always called those people who lived above the taunts and jeers of common folk. Folks like John.
A flash of memory from his childhood sprang blinding white to John’s mind and he tamped it back with practiced ease. He was a long way from the cribs of New Orleans. His dark eyes scanned the startling beauty of blue sky, green grass and jewel-like gowns. A long way.
Yes, acceptance by society would propel John beyond the memories of filth and sweat.
And though she didn’t realize it yet, Eleanor Fiske was going to share with him her family’s venerated place in society. He’d just committed a small fortune to assure it.
~ ~ ~
“There you are.” Franklin Fiske glanced up as John approached. “I’m glad you could join us today.”
“It is my honor, sir.” John responded affably, nodding his head to Franklin Fiske’s warm greeting. Of course the older man should be gracious... and damn grateful that John had agreed to bail him out of his latest economic blunder. But their last meeting, despite the promise of a considerable amount of cash, had been less friendly. It seemed at the time Mr. Fiske resented the price of John’s assistance.
John turned his attention toward Eleanor as he was presented by her father. John had to give Franklin credit. For all appearances he’d gotten over his indignation about selling his darling daughter to the highest bidder. But then, John had the feeling Fiske didn’t care all that much about his only offspring. It had seemed more to John at the time that Franklin was more concerned with how the approaching nuptials would affect him, than how his daughter would view them.
John bowed over Eleanor’s hand and gave his most charming smile—a smile that was lost on her when she didn’t even glance up. He could barely hear her murmured response to his greeting.
“Well, John, have you settled in at Newport?” Franklin’s voice sounded booming in contrast to his daughter’s.
“Yes, sir. I rented a house farther down Bellevue Avenue.” It was large with a socially correct address, though nothing like the reproduction of an Italian Renaissance castle that sprawled behind them.
“Good, good.” Franklin’s eyes darted toward his daughter, then returned to John. “I think you will enjoy your season in Newport. Don’t you agree, Eleanor?”
“Yes, Father.” Again her words were low and softly spoken. And she had yet to look up from fumbling with her parasol handle.
Though John seriously doubted he would enjoy anything about this summer, he accepted being in Newport for the necessity it was. It was time he had a wife who could hear his children. Though he knew scores of women willing to assume that responsibility, they lacked Eleanor Fiske’s qualifications. Or more precisely, her qualification.
“Mr. Bonner is from the West. From Montana.”
Eleanor’s fingers stilled and she glanced up quickly, but her eyes dropped to the emerald green carpet of grass before John could meet her gaze. “How fascinating.”
“I own several copper mines,” John said, hoping to stir a bit more interest in the object of his quest. But before she could respond—if indeed she intended to—they were joined by a short, dumpling shaped woman garbed in miles of folded and tucked scarlet satin.
She eyed John with mistrust then clamped her ringed fingers around Eleanor’s elbow. “Sir Alfred is waiting for you by the fountain. I can’t imagine what you were thinking, Eleanor. Come along.”
“Yes, Mother.”
John expected her to leave without a backward glance but before she turned to follow her mother
, Eleanor paused. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bonner,” she said, then swallowed. Her expression when she looked up at him was almost apologetic, but that wasn’t what had John stumbling over his words.
“The... the pl... pleasure was all mine.” Heated color rose past his winged collar. The sensation was one he hadn’t felt since he was a boy. And it wasn’t welcome. But then neither was the stammer in his speech. He had worked hard to rid himself of that imperfection; hadn’t been bothered by it for years. But standing there with the cool sea breeze filtering through his dark hair he felt like a child again. He could almost feel the heat of New Orleans creeping up his spine, smell the sour scent of stale sex, and hear the practiced moans of his mother as she entertained her current client.
God, what was it about Eleanor Fiske that had caused him to make a fool of himself? Were her eyes that disarming? John watched Eleanor trail along behind her mother whose hat sported a life-size stuffed bird and took a deep breath. He’d never seen eyes that shade before. They were green, but not exactly. More the color of the sea in the Caribbean, a cool, clear turquoise.
John’s jaw tightened. It mattered not at all if her eyes were green or brown or bright purple, he reminded himself. What he should concern himself with was getting her to say more than three murmured words to him and to keep himself from stammering in reply.
After clearing his throat, John turned toward his host. “Your daughter seems pleasant enough.” All signs of the stammer were gone.
“I told you she was reserved.”
Reserved, hell, the woman was painfully timid. And after seeing her domineering mother John could understand why. But he said nothing and apparently Franklin took that as a sign that John wasn’t satisfied with their agreement.
“Your marrying Eleanor isn’t a good idea. I said so from the moment you came to me with your ridiculous scheme.”
John’s brow arched. “As I recall you found nothing ridiculous about the money.”
“Would you keep your voice down?” Franklin glanced about nervously, but there was no one paying them any heed.
“Ah, that’s right. You think no one knows of your unwise speculation in the stock market. Or how you were unable to pay off your debt.”
John was in New York arranging for the sale of one of his mines when he heard of the financial woes caused by speculation on the East spur railroad stock. Most of the financiers were able to cover their losses without too much difficulty. But rumors swelled about Wall Street that one man, Franklin Fiske, would be in serious trouble if he couldn’t come up with a considerable amount of cash quickly.
A few discreet inquiries had told John all he needed to know about Franklin Fiske and his marriageable daughter. With bank notes in hand John walked across Wall Street and demanded to see Franklin Fiske. He’d found the pillar of society pacing back and forth in his mahogany paneled office. John offered him the cash he needed to cover his losses and Franklin had jumped at the salvation. He wasn’t getting out of the payment.
“I’ll get the money to pay you back somehow,” Franklin was saying as he pulled a large handkerchief from his frock coat pocket and wiped at his face. He perspired heavily though John thought the temperature very pleasant.
“I don’t want your money Franklin.” John had more money than he’d ever need. “I want you to live up to your end of our bargain.”
“But you can’t possibly want her now that you’ve seen her...” Franklin’s face mottled red. “I mean... I’ve given you the introduction you wished. And I’ll agree to the marriage if there is to be one. But you can hardly blame me if Eleanor didn’t fall madly in love with you at first glance.”
“I’m not after your daughter’s love, Franklin. Just her hand in marriage”
~ ~ ~
“Who is that man, Eleanor?”
“I... I don’t know.” Eleanor hurried to keep up with her mother as they walked across the lawn toward the marble statue of Neptune spouting water from his mouth. Eleanor always found it amusing, though knew better than to laugh.
“Well, certainly your father had enough manners to introduce you to him.” Matilda Fiske turned to face her daughter. “Do try not to stand so tall,” she said as she fluttered her hand across Eleanor’s skirt.
“His name is John Bonner and he’s from Montana.”
“Montana.” Matilda pursed her lips. “I wish your father would consult me before adding people to our guest list.” Matilda took a deep breath. “Well, I don’t imagine we shall have to bear his company again.”
Eleanor wasn’t too certain about that. She had the impression—though she wasn’t certain why—that her father planned to include John Bonner in many of his invitations this summer, but she didn’t mention that to her mother. For one thing she had no wish to provoke her mother’s wrath. For another, her mother had already moved onto her favorite topic.
Sir Alfred Farnsworth.
A proposal of marriage from the English baronet for her tall, plain daughter, was Matilda’s goal for this summer season. She wanted to plan a proper wedding. Eleanor knew it and had pretty much resigned herself to the inevitable. When Matilda made up her mind, there was no stopping her. The only problem with this plan was Sir Alfred himself. But Matilda had already explained to Eleanor that could be handled.
“He may flirt about and wish for other women, Eleanor, but by August you shall have your proposal. He will not pass up your trust fund.”
“But Alice Maitland also has a trust fund,” Eleanor pointed out in what she thought was irrefutable logic. Alice’s father was easily as wealthy as Eleanor’s, and petite, blond-haired Alice was Sir Alfred’s obvious choice in dancing partners.
“Don’t be obtuse, Eleanor. Alice would never settle for a near penniless Englishmen.”
Unlike you, she doesn’t have to. There are many suitors for Alice’s hand.
The unspoken words hung between them and Eleanor realized how correct her mother was. She was stupid. And tall and plain. And what in the world was she supposed to say to Sir Alfred?
He stood by the fountain as her mother had said, but he obviously wasn’t looking for her. Alice Maitland and two other women stood beside him. They were all laughing at something clever he’d said and Alice had her hand resting on the sleeve of his natty, cutaway coat.
Eleanor bit her lip and dutifully marched forward, her mother by her side, dreading the moment Sir Alfred looked up at her, wishing she could go back and listen to John Bonner talk about his copper mines.
Two
“No.” she whispered. “You mustn’t.”
Linette tried to pull her hand from his but couldn’t.
“Say you love me,” he demanded. “You know it is true”
Before she could protest Charles swept her into his arms. The feel of his lips was—
“Eleanor, what is taking you so long?”
Slamming the novel shut, Eleanor jammed it beneath the pillow, clutching her hands together as her mother marched into the bedroom. The older woman stopped near the large unadorned marble mantel, her expression as dark as the boiserie paneled walls.
“I sent Nellie for you nearly a quarter of an hour ago,” she accused.
“Yes, I know you did. But I... I had something to do.” Feeling a blush creep up her neck Eleanor hoped the light from the high casement windows was too dim for her mother to notice. Though she probably wouldn’t think it unusual even if she did. After all, blushing was just one of Eleanor’s myriad faults Matilda felt her God given duty to eradicate.
“Well, do come on. Your father is waiting to escort us to the Longs’ ball.”
“Yes, Mother.” Eleanor gave a final wistful glance toward the rumpled pillow, wishing she could stay home and read the scandalous French novel. How wonderful it would be to lose herself in the pages, for a time to see herself brave and beautiful and adored by the handsome Charles. To feel passion—
“Do come along, Eleanor.” Matilda paused at the top of the yellow marble staircase, and
turned an appraising eye on her daughter. “Try not to look so tall,” she said, her lips thinned in exasperation.
“I shall try, Mother. But do you suppose it would be better if I didn’t wear such large feathers in my hair?” It appeared to Eleanor that her elaborate headdress only added to her height. But her mother didn’t seem to agree. She simply pursed her lips tighter.
“Nonsense. Messrs. Redfern designed your ballgown. Princess Beatrice wears his creations.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“He should know more about what is appropriate to wear than you.”
“Of course, Mother.”
Something about Eleanor’s tone must have caught Matilda’s attention for she stopped halfway down the wide staircase and sighed. “Do try to show some enthusiasm, Eleanor. Sir Alfred is sure to notice your melancholy mood.”
Actually, Eleanor doubted Sir Alfred would notice anything about her. He would be much too busy committing every smile of Alice’s to memory. Not that Eleanor really cared. She knew she should, and for the sake of stopping her mother’s harping she must work toward extracting a proposal from him, but then as her mother was quick to point out, Eleanor’s money would handle that.
The ride to the Longs’ cottage, Fountainhead, was blessedly short. The Longs’ property adjoined Oakgate. If not for the fact that everyone else arrived in their most splendid coach and four, the Fiskes could have walked the distance without disturbing the stable boys or the coachman and footmen who wore liveries of Matilda’s signature purple.
Fountainhead was not quite as large as Oakgate, having only forty-five rooms and not nearly the tonnage of marble. But it still sported an entrance hall that rose three stories and led to a grand double staircase lined with darkly veined marble. The Louis XV ballroom was alive with music and filled with people when Eleanor and her parents were announced.
“I knew we would be late,” Matilda said in the direction of her husband, but Franklin was already moving away from her and didn’t respond. “The opening quadrille is about to begin and Sir Alfred is nowhere in sight.” Matilda spread her fan and pretended not to be searching the room.
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