by Sierra Rose
“Hiding out, are you?” Her sister, Hannah, similar in coloring and carriage but with fewer responsibilities about which to be concerned, moved closer for a sympathetic pat on the arm.
“Oh, Lord. I just had to get away from those old biddies for a while. There isn’t a one of them,” Camellia paused for a little stutter of breath, “not one, that isn’t here to find out all the gossip about Papa they might have lost out on. Nothing like getting it from the horse’s mouth, wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, if you want to think of yourself as a horse...”
“You know what I mean. Oh, dear Miss Burton, I heard your father was found in a pool of blood already frozen to his body,” she mimicked the mincing tones already used in her hearing. “Oh, dear Miss Burton, I heard your father was discovered outside the door of a house of ill-repute. Oh, dear Miss Burton, I heard your father was stabbed/shot/hit over the head; can it possibly be true?”
“Filthy-tongued gossips,” agreed Hannah equably. “They’re hoping to see all of us girls break down into a puddle of grief. More grist for the rumor mill.”
With steady fingers, Camellia straightened the veil that was distorting her vision. Straightened —when she longed to do nothing more than tear the stupid bit of frippery off her head. But custom dictated, and so custom must have its way.
“Little does anyone realize just what went on behind our closed doors. Sometimes I wish I could feel grief for Papa. But all I feel is grief for us, left behind, and how we are to cope.”
In a sudden outpouring of emotion, Hannah threw her arms around the upright, brave, solemn figure. “I know, I know. What a hole he has left us in!”
But Camellia, who, as eldest, had always borne most of the responsibility for her two sisters and her cousin, was not about to relinquish any of that burden onto another’s unaccustomed and unprepared young shoulders. She could not yet divulge the contents of the letter received from Nathaniel Burton’s law firm, and the utterly frightening and debilitating news imparted about an equally frightening and debilitating future.
Instead, she set her mouth not to quiver, and her spine not to relax, and turned with a smile that would melt butter. “We’ll make the best of it,” she promised. “With the four of us together, we’ll always make the best of it. Now, I suppose we’d better get back to the crowd. There are a pack of mourners for us to deal with.”
And many more old ladies, wearing their bereavement best, all ready to flutter and coo over the orphaned Burton girls, in an excess of relish. A death in their neighborhood certainly upset the slow, monotonous routine of their lives; to have that death a murder, in shocking circumstances, added a delicious fillip of excitement.
It was, as might have been expected, a showy funeral, with far too many attendees and far too many fussy details. Fresh floral arrangements had been hard to come by, in this cold and snowy mid-December, but Miller Mortuary had managed urns full of tasteful fabric roses that almost matched the real thing in color and design. Fortunately, the parlor’s manager had, after a consultation with those in sorrow, done most of what was necessary. Planning a funeral comes along rarely (thankfully) in one’s life, so it was quite helpful that the surviving Burtons could lean on someone more knowledgeable and experienced.
As one of the Gilded Age families, living in a Lucas Street four-story (plus basement) showplace, Nathaniel Burton had claimed no particular place of worship as his own. Depending upon weather and mood, he and his daughters had occasionally attended St. Luke’s Evangelical United Church of Christ, or an up-and-coming Methodist edifice.
Thus, being possessed of no particular religious affiliation had led Camellia to the undertaker on call, some blocks away. He had, Master Elijah Miller, served the family well.
A full afternoon and evening’s worth of visitation, of the utmost decorum, in a spacious, elegant room that might have been lifted intact from someone’s home; refreshments of tea and coffee, served from silver pots, and plates full of tiny little biscuits; a basket overflowing with black-bordered calling cards: all the amenities.
Next day, the funeral itself meant mournful organ music and even heavier drapings of black and more black and black-edged handkerchiefs touched delicately to nonexistent tears. Then, for interment, a miserably cold ride to the cemetery in broughams and closed carriages.
The interval between that initial discovery of Nathaniel Burton’s body and the hour when his casket was settled into its final resting place seemed interminable. And when the services were finished, and the young Burtons, exhausted beyond measure, staggered home to their soft warm beds, there would be tomorrow.
A day of reckoning.
Chapter Three
IT WAS A BLEAK AND bitter Christmas tide, bereft as the Burtons were of their patriarch and any sort of merriment or festivity. No beautifully decorated fir, full of Mama’s Mercury glass ornaments and candles all lit up; no wreaths or boughs or garlands of green anywhere; no gifts, cunningly wrapped and crafted, waiting to be opened with exclamations of glee and delight.
Actually, the whole season also felt a bit boring. Long before it would be time to put their mourning away, all four girls were heartily sick of the fabric that draped them, and the main parlors, in depressing black. And, for Camellia, underneath the daily routine of dealing with housemaids and menus, laundry problems and minor repairs, lay the nagging worry about finances. She didn’t yet know their current state of affairs, but bills for normal household expenses and those for the funeral service, all marked Past Due, had begun to arrive with insidious frequency.
Nathaniel Burton had held an unwavering belief that the fair sex were put upon earth for but one purpose—to serve as decorative creatures who must tame and civilize their rougher, hairier counterparts. This viewpoint, Camellia was now beginning to realize, turned out to be outmoded and, quite possibly, rather dangerous. She and her sisters had been trained for little, except how to wear pretty clothes in a pretty manner, how to attend afternoon teas and evening dinner dances, how to simper at potential suitors and flutter an ivory fan.
True, she had learned how to manage the occasionally staggering details of running the Lucas Street mansion, over her father’s strenuous objections. After all, he employed a housekeeper; why couldn’t Camellia be satisfied to let Mrs. Pelinsky handle things?
But, as for being aware of just how much money it took, how much goods and utilities and upkeep cost on a monthly basis, she was completely in the dark. Now she deeply regretted that oversight. How could she have been so foolish?
Somehow they limped through Christmas and a brand new year of 1871, to be treated in January to more blowing, drifting snow and clogged streets and freezing temperatures.
By mid-month, Camellia had pulled herself together enough to respond, with a sense of dread, to December’s missive from the legal firm of King, Wilkins, Carter, and King. It was a nicely written letter, the penmanship clear, the ink a crisp black, upon smooth vellum that held the family crest. She requested the courtesy of an appointment in the very near future.
Llewellyn King, senior partner, sent an immediate reply. It would be his duty, and his pleasure, to work with the young Burtons and guide them through the morass of legal pitfalls. Might he suggest they join him in his office on the last Monday in January, at 1:00 p.m.?
The date and the time suited everyone.
Thus, promptly after swallowing what they could of an early luncheon (an anxious Camellia, in particular, found that even the tastiest dishes simply refused to go down her throat), the four girls climbed into their carriage, driven by Henry Caldwell, the coachman, and set off for their meeting.
None was particularly weighed down by grief. Since their mother’s death, some dozen years ago, their father had left their care to nannies, nursemaids, and private tutors, while he had answered the siren’s call to his first love: gambling, in any shape and form. Thus, with such absences frequent and lengthy, his daughters had learned to get along without his presence in their lives.
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Not surprising, then, that the girls felt no great loss. In fact, the youngest daughter, Letitia, and their cousin, Molly, were more excited than sorrowful over the turn of events. Of course, Molly, with her difficult and traumatic past, was probably more physically and mentally prepared than any of them to face whatever difficulties might come along.
That there would be difficulties, Camellia had no doubt. She felt it in her bones.
“The Misses Burton,” Mr. King greeted them, as they were ushered into his cozy office. A tall man whose portliness only added to his distinguished bearing, he brushed at his splendiferous goatee and tweaked the watch fob across his ample paunch. “Welcome, ladies. Please have a seat near the fire, and get comfortable. Nasty weather we’re having, aren’t we? Might I offer you a cup of tea? Or hot chocolate?”
Camellia eyed him suspiciously as, choosing a plump rosewood upholstered chair, she settled in like a little broody hen on her nest, sweeping voluminous skirts off to one side. While she knew the lawyer only in passing, it did seem that his steady stream of conversation might indicate nervousness.
Over their plight? At this point, drowning in uncertainty, she was feeling quite nervous herself.
“Tea would be very nice, thank you.”
“Fine, that’s just fine. Let me but speak to my manservant...”
He did his best to involve his guests in idle discourse while they waited for refreshments. Simply getting to know his clients a little better. Mr. King, who had attended the December funeral along with half the world, also offered his most profound sympathies for their loss, and went on to describe his years of association with Nathaniel Burton.
“And you’re the eldest, I believe, Miss Camellia?”
“I am. Twenty-three, and a decided spinster.” There was no smile beneath the heavy black veiling, though the words indicated a jest.
Mr. King, taken slightly aback, harrumphed. Apparently not biddable at all. That was not a point in the young lady’s favor. “Ah. Please forgive an old man a rather impertinent question, but—no prospects—ah—at the moment, then?”
Camellia blinked. Her veil had been pushed back, and her face was clearly visible, pale as marble. “No, as a matter of fact. I have had my debut, of course; and I have attended a number of cotillions and social affairs that—never mind. Lately I have been keeping company with a pleasant young man, but I suspect he is more interested in my fortune than in me, myself. So—no. No one of serious intent.”
“A pity. Well, perhaps that will change. You girls all look remarkably alike, I must say. And who’s next?”
“That would be me,” said Hannah in her clear voice. “If you’re requesting ages, for some reason, I was just twenty-one in November.”
“And I’m Letitia, the youngest. Nineteen and just full of sap and sass, Mr. King.”
Oh, dear. That flippant attitude might be very unfortunate. Attempting to conceal his dismay, he glanced from one to the other. “Then you must be Molly Burton, the cousin.” He didn’t add: The child who lost her parents so tragically, and had to be taken in.
“Yes, that’s me. The same age as Letty. Born in a different month, though.”
So similar in appearance and attitude, all four with the same curly hair, black as jet; the same somewhat imperious thick-lashed blue eyes ranging in color from brilliant delphinium to luminous moonstone; the same proud carriage and tilt to the head. Well-born, well-bred, well-clothed. A quartet of orphans, with no idea of what was waiting for them.
“Ah, Justin,” he said with obvious relief, as a young man entered carrying the requested tray. “Thank you. Ladies? Please allow me to serve you.”
For another half hour or so, the little group observed the niceties, sipping at tea, nibbling at lavender cookies with rose water icing, and chatting quietly. Although the daylight, seen through heavy rep curtains of gold and russet stripes, seemed too thin to be real, the fire crackling on its hearth helped dispel gloom and chill. Certainly the pleasant warmth of the place, more gentleman’s study than lawyer’s office, with its wood paneling and carpeted floor, added to the ambiance, as well.
Except that, despite the congeniality and the surroundings, tension seemed to be creeping in on little invisible tendrils of fog, to fill the room with apprehension and foreboding.
With a sigh, Llewellyn King put aside his porcelain cup. The time had come to impart knowledge, and face facts.
“I believe I am correct in assuming that, due to your ages, no legal guardian has been arranged for you?”
Camellia, who, as most senior, was placed as spokesman for the group, showed her surprise. “I hardly think we would need one, sir. Surely our father—”
“Yes, yes.” He held up one palm. “Well, then, we really need to discuss how Mr. Burton has left you, according to his will, and your current situation.”
“Our situation?” It was Hannah who asked. “Why, as far as we know, we are to keep on as we are. Papa always assured us—” She glanced around for confirmation, “—that the house and grounds were ours, along with a suitable amount for upkeep, staff salaries, and so on.”
“And a tidy sum to provide for us for the rest of our lives,” put in Letitia, whose sweet pallid face was beginning to show the strain of uncertainty.
“This is true. However—”
Camellia’s eyes narrowed. “—However—?”
Mr. King shifted in his chair, less comfortable now that his ample hindquarters had been wedged into a narrow seat for too much time. “All of that was certainly in accordance with your father’s wishes. And, I might add, that, since he had legally adopted Miss Molly Burton, she is considered a daughter of the house when it comes to any bequests.”
“Well, certainly, that goes without saying.” Camellia sounded a trifle impatient. “But as far as funds for support—“
“That’s just it. There are no funds.”
Rip the bandage off a wound quickly; the tearing away hurts more at first, but much less in the long run than a slow, drawn-out peel that merely protracts the agony.
Four simultaneous gasps. “What do you mean?” Hannah, jerked upright, demanded.
“Your father was a gambler. Surely you were aware of his—um—his propensity for this lifestyle, and how he had become consumed by every game of chance during these last few years.”
The young ladies exchanged glances: incredulous, shocked, horrified. “We knew this—this obsession was taking him ever farther away,” admitted Camellia slowly. “We begged him to leave off the lure of the cards. But we didn’t know—” a hard, painful swallow, “—we didn’t know just—how bad—it had gotten...”
“Very bad.” Bracing his elbows upon the arm rests, Mr. King placed the tips of his fingers together in a very thoughtful, very lawyerly pose. “Your father inherited a vast fortune from his own family, and he’s managed to go through almost all of it. There’s barely any left.” The expression on his face, and the roughened tone of his voice, left no one in doubt of his opinion of such mad behavior.
“I suppose he couldn’t help it,” murmured Letitia. Her head must be in the clouds; clearly she had no conception of the enormity of what had happened, and the cataclysm about to befall the luckless Burtons. “Poor Papa.”
“Poor us, you mean,” Camellia sharply reproved her sister. “So, then, Mr. King, exactly how much are we talking about?”
“Enough to run your household another few months, I should say. First Beneficial Bank & Trust gave your father his original mortgage, a number of years ago. As the wager amounts increased, and more debt accumulated, he was able to talk them into refinancing several times. You are sitting on a valuable piece of property, after all. Most valuable, and desirable.”
“And after those few months have elapsed?” The crisp steadiness of Camellia’s tone gave no indication of the sheer fright that had begun to twist her middle into knots. “What then?”
“Well, my dear,” the lawyer looked at her with pity, “then the bank will foreclose.
”
“Foreclose. On everything?”
“Exactly.”
“There will be nothing left to us?”
He spread his hands in an I’m-so-sorry gesture. “Your personal effects. Your wardrobes. But, otherwise, all the furnishings must stay with the house.”
“But,” Hannah was casting about with confusion, “where will we go?”
“That, Miss Burton, I cannot tell you at the moment. I would suggest that the four of you go home, digest this unhappy news, and talk over possibilities for your future. I will, of course, remain available, whenever you wish, for advice and suggestions. Will that be suitable?”
Abruptly Camellia rose, lowering the net of her veil and gathering up her heavy black cloak. “Eminently suitable, Mr. King. We thank you for your time today, and for—well, for whatever has already been put forth on our behalf. I hope—can you tell me if there is a—a balance due for your time and expertise?”
Dear child. She was not familiar enough with the business world to realize that attorneys, and their firms, were always the first to be paid for services provided. Sometimes in advance of services provided. Occasionally, sad to say, even in lieu of services provided.
Mr. King merely smiled and rose with respect to her position. “No, there is no balance due. And I have already taken the liberty of speaking with the bank’s president. He has set up an account for you, as legatees, and arranged to have the balance of funds transferred. Please do contact me if any difficulties arise.”
“Oh, we shall. We surely shall.” Hannah offered a blank, bewildered half-smile in return.
Dazed, overwhelmed, feeling as if the floor had suddenly collapsed underfoot, the four Burton sisters collected outdoor wraps and reticules and filed toward the door. All of them looked like nothing so much as a flock of rather bedraggled ravens, trailing black in their wake.
Chapter Four
