“Oh my,” she murmured. She’d never expected to see one of her novels in her own home, let alone in the hands of her brother’s wife.
Irene smoothed her halo of silky blonde curls caught up in a loose pompadour. She laid the slim paperback on her lap, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Why hello, Lilly. Where have you been on this beautiful afternoon? Cooped up in your bedroom again? My goodness, what do you do in there all day?”
“Sometimes I enjoy a few hours of solitude.” Lilly’s nerves seized control of her voice and it rose like the screech of a seagull. “I’m sorry I interrupted your reading.” Heat crept into her skin as Irene watched her, face aglow with interest.
“Do sit down, Lilly.”
She slipped into a wicker chair opposite Irene. A gust of salty air, typical of Newport’s summer weather, blew in from the Atlantic and brushed its cool breath across her cheeks. She prayed it would fade the red splotches that came so easily when embarrassment struck.
Irene cocked her head. “Is something wrong? You look positively ill.”
“No, I’m fine.” Though every fiber of her body continued to quiver, Lilly steadied her breathing. She folded her hands in the lap of her charcoal-gray skirt and willed them not to shake.
“You aren’t shocked by my novel, are you?” Irene smirked.
“Of course not.” Lilly squirmed around on the soft chintz cushion and avoided Irene ’s skeptical stare. “Why should I be shocked?”
Irene leaned forward. “Some people claim dime novels are trash, and from your reaction I thought you might be one of those faultfinders. Of course they’re wrong. These books are filled with adventure and I love adventure.” She rolled the last word around her tongue like a stream of honey.
Irene, the niece of Quentin Kirby, one of San Francisco’s silver kings, fancied herself an adventuress, but Lilly inwardly disagreed. Irene merely appreciated fun and frivolity more than most. That hardly made her a woman like the heroines of Lilly’s books. “I’m so sorry, Irene. I didn’t mean to criticize your choice of books. I just wondered where you obtained your copy.”
“I discovered it in the kitchen while I was searching for a blueberry tart.” Irene grinned as if Lilly ought to admire her clever ness. “One of the scullery maids must have left it there.”
“You took it without asking permission?” Lilly could scarcely believe Irene had wandered downstairs to the basement kitchen, the domain of servants who strongly disapproved of visitors, even the family.
“Why yes. Well no, not exactly. I borrowed it. As soon as I finish reading, I’ll give it back. Of course.”
Irene tapped the big, red letters spelling out the author’s name across the cover. “Fannie Cole. She ’s a splendid writer, the very best. Have you ever read any of her books? I devour them like chocolate.”
Lilly’s heart lurched. “Naturally I’ve heard of her. I believe her stories are rather popular.”
“They’re enthralling.”
At the sound of the front door squeaking open, Lilly looked away with relief.
Mama bustled onto the veranda, a frown knitting her eyebrows. “What’s that about Fannie Cole? She ’s quite infamous, I hear.” Glancing from Lilly to Irene, Mama’s eyelashes fluttered, a sure sign of agitation. “Oh, I see you have one of her books . . .”
Lilly knew her mother couldn’t let this breach of propriety pass without comment. On the other hand, the kind and ever tactful Vanessa Westbrook would hate to offend her new daughter-in-law.
“Mama, Fannie Cole writes harmless fiction. You needn’t worry.” Lilly smiled her assurance, hoping she’d veer off to another topic.
Her mother sunk into a wicker chair beside Irene. “Perhaps, my dear, but you must admit, there are so many more uplifting novels.” She patted Irene ’s arm, which was robed in a cream silk blouse that matched the lace of her skirt. “Lillian is a poet, you know. Her work is delightful. You must read it. I’ll go fetch you a copy.”
Lilly cringed. “No, Mama. I wrote those poems years ago. She wouldn’t be interested in the meanderings of an eighteen-year-old ninny. It’s sentimental tripe.”
“Nonsense, my dear. You’ve always been much too critical of yourself.”
“Nevertheless, I’m sure Irene would prefer Fannie Cole.” Who wouldn’t? Lilly thought. Still, she appreciated her mother’s enthusiasm for her meager literary efforts.
Irene tossed her a wide, grateful smile. “There, that’s settled.”
Mama’s round, girlish face tightened with distaste. “I wish you wouldn’t read dime novels because . . .” She looked toward Lilly for support.
“Really, Mama.” Lilly softened her voice, not meaning to scold. “While some of the dime novels are sensational, others are written to help working girls avoid the pitfalls of city life. They’re moralistic tales that encourage virtue. Nothing to be ashamed of reading.” Or writing.
“Exactly.” Irene beamed. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Of course, I read for the story, not the moral lesson, but I’m sure it’s beneficial for those who enjoy a good sermon.”
Lilly suppressed a sigh of resignation. “No doubt Miss Cole hopes and prays her words touch the hearts of her readers and bring them closer to the Lord.” Lilly looked at Mama and Irene, hoping they’d somehow understand her purpose and approve. But both looked puzzled over her words.
Irene ’s gaze narrowed. “An odd way to spread the gospel, don’t you think?”
“Not at all. The Lord is more creative than we are.” Lilly bristled and then glanced away when she found her mother and sister-in-law still staring at her.
She’d spoken up much more forcefully than she intended. With a sinking heart, Lilly realized Mama would never accept her viewpoint; it flew in the face of beliefs and opinions ingrained since childhood.
Irene picked up a sheet of paper resting on a small table between two pots of ferns and waved it like a flag on the Fourth of July. Lilly immediately recognized Talk of the Town, a gossip rag published by that scandalmonger, Colonel MacIntyre, the bane of Newport society. He shot fear into the hearts of all upstanding people and others who weren’t quite so virtuous. Lilly swallowed hard.
Mama gasped. Her pale skin whitened. “Oh my dear, that’s hardly appropriate for a respectable home.”
Irene shrugged. “Perhaps not. But if you don’t mind my saying so, it’s great fun to read. I’m learning the crème de la crème of Newport are up to all kinds of mischief.” She laughed with pleasure.
“Listen to this.” Irene leaned forward. “One hears that Miss Fannie Cole, author of wildly popular dime novels, has taken up residence at one of the ocean villas for the season. The talk about town claims this writer of sensational—some might even say salacious— stories, belongs to the New York and Newport aristocracy. Which of our fine debutantes or matrons writes under the nom de plume, Fannie Cole? Speculation runs rampant. Would the talented but mysterious author of Dorothea’s Dilemma, Hearts in Tune, and several other delectable novels please come forward and identify herself for her public? ”
Lilly’s throat closed. She clamped her hands down on her lap, but they shook like a hummingbird’s wings. Had a maid or a footman stumbled across her secret and sold the information? Colonel Rufus MacIntyre of Talk of the Town paid handsomely for gossip. No one was safe from his long, grasping tentacles, including some of the most prominent people in society.
“The colonel has mentioned Miss Cole in his column for the last two weeks, so I expect we ’ll hear more about her during the summer.” Irene grinned as she studied the sheet. “I wonder who she is. I’d love to meet her.”
Mama’s mouth puckered into a small circle. “Undoubtedly someone from the wrong side of the tracks. No one we’d know.” She punctuated her words with a firm nod.
Irene persisted. “You must have an idea, Lilly. You seem to know everything that’s going on in society.”
Lilly turned away, sure that a red stain had again spilled across her pale skin. Her sis
ter-in-law was right. She did listen to all the tittle-tattle, but she prided herself on her discretion. The foibles of her set provided grist for her novels, not for spreading rumors and innuendo.
“You give me far too much credit, Irene.” She hated to dodge questions to keep from lying, but what was her option short of confessing? She twisted the cameo at the neck of her tailored shirtwaist.
Mama wagged her finger. “Mark my words. By the end of the summer someone will discover Fannie Cole ’s true name and announce it to the entire town. Oh, my. What humiliation she ’ll bring upon her family. They’ll be mortified.”
“How delicious,” Irene murmured.
Lilly groaned inwardly. Her subterfuge gnawed at her conscience, worsening day by day, but she couldn’t turn back the clock and reconsider her decision to write in secret.
She rose. “Will you excuse me? I need to take my walk now.”
With her head held high and as much poise as she could muster, Lilly descended the veranda’s shallow steps. She strode across the wide, sloping lawn that surrounded Summerhill, the old twenty-two-room mansion the Westbrooks rented for the season.
Once she reached the giant rocks that separated the grounds from the ocean, she picked her way over to a smooth boulder that doubled for a bench. As she ’d done every day since her arrival three weeks ago, Lilly settled onto its cold surface. Instead of watching the breakers pound against the coast and absorb the majesty of nature ’s rhythm, she rested her head in her hands and let the breeze brush against her face.
What would happen if her beau, Harlan Santerre, discovered that she and Fannie Cole were the same person? The wealthy railroad heir, a guest of the family for the eight weeks of summer, miraculously seemed ripe to propose. Her mother kept reminding her how grateful she should be that such a solid, upstanding man as Harlan Santerre had shown interest in a twenty-five-year-old spinster with no grand fortune and no great beauty. Mama and the entire family would be humiliated if her writing became public knowledge and Harlan turned his attention elsewhere.
Yet the Holy Ghost had urged her to compose her simple stories, and as she wrote, her melancholy gradually faded. Her enthusiasm never waned thanks to the joy she received from doing the Lord’s work.
Why would He allow someone to ruin her and end the good deeds she accomplished? He should smite her enemies instead. All her life she ’d trusted the Lord to guide her and protect her, but never had she needed His help more than now. But would He continue to shield her?
Trembling, Lilly tossed a stone into the roiling surf and watched it sink into the foamy white waves. What if the surge of curiosity aroused by Colonel MacIntyre didn’t fade away and everything she held dear was threatened?
TWO
Jack Grail’s blood coursed through his veins as the matched pair of grays gained speed. With daring abandon, he urged the horses forward as they pulled the carriage around the twists and turns of Ocean Drive. Manorial homes set on windswept lawns rushed by. He glimpsed the deep blue Atlantic crash and spit against boulders and cliffs. A steady breeze raked through his hair and whistled past his ears. How he loved the exhilaration that increased with every hoofbeat, the stimulant of speed.
“We’re here.” George Westbrook leaned across Jack and pointed to a winding driveway tucked behind a low stone fence. Jack slowed the horses to an easy canter before turning into the pebbled drive.
Directly ahead, Summerhill crowned a gentle rise. With white shingles and gingerbread trim, it looked like a wedding cake set against the sprawling acres of bright green grass. Yet the awnings and wraparound porch won his approval for their refreshing simplicity. This seaside home, called a cottage—despite its numerous rooms—appealed to him far more than the Italianate palazzos and French chateaux that lined Newport’s Bellevue Avenue, one of the country’s most exclusive addresses.
Jack lifted his chin toward the house. “What a grand home you have here.”
“We rented it for the summer. The doctor thought a few months by the ocean might improve my father’s health. His asthma has worsened this past year.”
The Westbrooks weren’t nearly as rich as the Astors, the Vanderbilts, or the Goelets, but leasing a mansion still made them plenty rich, in Jack’s opinion. They certainly had enough to remain in great comfort.
A familiar and unwanted prick of envy punctured his good humor. Someday, he hoped to build a villa boasting thirty spacious rooms and sweeping views of the rocky Rhode Island coastline. If he expanded his business and achieved the success he expected, he might have a place like Summerhill, commodious, though unpretentious by Newport standards. In a few years a summer house could easily be within his reach—if all went well.
As they neared the cottage, Jack slowed the horses. Then he saw her glide across the lawn, back from the sea. Lilly. His heart clenched. She looked the same as she had six years before, only more mature, less girlish. Tall and slender, she walked with a grace he’d never noticed while they were secretly courting. Her dark skirt billowed out in a gust of ocean wind as she grabbed onto her straw hat piled high with too many red flowers. Gone was the debutante. In her place strode a young woman some might consider past her prime, but whom he suspected was just coming into it. As Lilly approached, he noticed the years had softened her sharp features and added curves to her slender frame. But she never once glanced in his direction before she disappeared into the house.
He halted the carriage when they reached the veranda and turned the reins over to a stable hand. With an occasional glance toward the porch, hoping Lilly would appear, Jack unloaded his trunks containing everything he ’d need for a three-week visit.
“I’d like to pay my regards to your mother and sister.”
“No doubt they can be found in the library. Follow me.” George instructed a footman to carry Jack’s luggage up to a guest bedroom and then headed through the foyer and down a wide hallway lined with paintings of seascapes and still lifes in gilt frames.
Jack’s heart raced when they entered the oak-paneled room lined with bookshelves rising to the coffered ceiling. He inhaled the smell of furniture wax mixed with the fragrance of roses.
He saw her carefully climbing the ladder set against the shelves, apparently too intent on retrieving a book to hear their loud entrance. She stretched up, grasped a volume, and then gingerly descended the rungs.
“Lilly, look who I’ve brought home.” George jerked his thumb toward Jack. “Remember Jackson Grail?”
She halted, wrenched her head around, and glanced down. Her blue eyes widened as the color drained from her face. The hefty tome slid from her slim hand and thudded to the floor. She didn’t seem to notice.
Jack scooped up the Jane Austen volume and tucked it under his arm. “Hello, Lilly.” His muscles tensed. Would she ignore him or slap him in the face for leaving her so abruptly years before? Apprehension slithered down his back. He deserved anger for the abominable way he ’d treated her, but he hoped she ’d found the compassion to forgive him, though he’d never had the decency to even ask.
After a brief nod, she continued her descent. Dainty boots reaching the floor, she lifted her chin and came forward with an uncertain smile. He recognized the light floral scent enveloping her, flooding him with warm, unforgotten memories. She pinched a smile. “How delightful to see you. George didn’t tell me you were coming.”
Her frown settled on George, but was her hint of reproach also directed at him? He hardly expected her to welcome him. “I hope my presence won’t cause you any inconvenience. If it does, I’ll be happy to move to a hotel.”
“No, indeed. We should all be upset if you didn’t stay.” Her words were more generous than her tone of voice indicated. “But I must say I never expected to see you again after so long an absence.”
From her stricken look, that was an understatement.
“Sorry I forgot to tell you about Jack’s visit, Lilly.” Her brother’s long face sported the same rueful grin that had maneuvered him out of trouble for
most of his life.
“You’re forgiven, George, as usual.” She cleared her throat and half-smiled at Jack. “Are you here for business or pleasure?”
“A bit of both. I’d like to buy a boat, maybe a yawl or a sloop. I also brought work along.” He searched her eyes, looking for some semblance of encouragement, hope, that she might welcome his pursuit again. Was she still hurt? Angry?
She nodded politely. “Well, I’m not surprised you’d combine business and pleasure. You always were full of ambition and boundless energy.”
When she smiled, he accepted her remarks as complimentary, though he couldn’t be sure.
“Do enjoy yourself in Newport and don’t work too hard.” Lilly looked as though she hoped his vacation would soon be concluded.
Jack shook his head, realizing she had no idea how hard he had struggled to return here, as a worthy potential suitor. “Don’t you approve of a strong work ethic?”
“You misunderstand me. I certainly believe in commitment and diligence.” Frowning, Lilly glanced at George, who was eyeing escape to the billiard room across the hall. “Yet, too much labor is as destructive as too much recreation. We need to strike a balance.”
Jack gave a small bow along with a sheepish smile. “I’ll try to remember that.”
“See that you do.” She laughed and so did he, cracking the ice, though not melting it.
This wasn’t the passionate reunion he ’d yearned for, but he ’d known a cordial welcome was the most he could expect from the woman he’d jilted. And more than he merited.
“Jackson Grail, do come here and let me properly welcome you to Summerhill.” Mrs. Westbrook and a young woman descended onto the settee at the far end of the library and waved him forward, like a small, plump queen to one of her people. Mrs. Westbrook exuded the friendliness George had inherited but Jack could see the matron’s eyes flit between him and Lilly. He followed the Westbrooks over to their mother. Lilly squeezed in next to her while he and George took the leather chairs that afforded a clear view of the back lawn and ocean beyond.
Love on a Dime Page 2
