The Tempestuous Debutante: Book 4 in the Cotillion Ball Series (Crimson Romance)

by Lower, Becky

  “I’m just so grateful that I’m not sitting on the sidelines as one of the poor unfortunates.” She nodded her head at the group of young ladies sitting up against the wall. “At least Amanda is engaged, so she doesn’t have to wait with that group for someone to come along and ask for a dance. Oh, look. At last, some men are heading in their direction.”

  “I would, too, if I was still single. After all, America is full of bonny cailíns.”

  “Well, you can’t have more than one.” She tapped his arm with her fan.

  “I have the only one I’ve ever wanted.” Then he proved his point by being totally scandalous. He leaned in and kissed her on her lips.

  About The Author

  As is the case with most writers, Becky Lower began to write stories as soon as she could figure out how to put pen to paper. Her career got off to a rocky start, though, because she was a defiant teenager. A journalism teacher in high school told her she should become a writer, so she went in a totally opposite direction, majoring in International Studies for her first two years of college, nearly flunking out in the process. It wasn’t until she switched over to an English/Journalism major that her grades improved. So, she owes a much-belated thank you to Mr. Tanner, who actually did know what he was talking about.

  Today, Becky lives in an eclectic college town in Ohio with her puppy-mill rescue dog, Mary. She uses her love of history as an excuse to roam around old graveyards and Civil War battlefields, and to spend large chunks of time watching old westerns when she’s not writing romances. Learn more about her at http://www.beckylowerauthor.com

  More from This Author

  (From Banking on Temperance by Becky Lower)

  St. Louis, July, 1856

  Basil Fitzpatrick removed the handgun from the bank safe and put it in the shoulder holster before putting on his suit jacket. As he shut the metal safe door and spun the combination lock, he pictured his father opening the doors of the main branch of the National City Bank in New York City. His father wouldn’t have to strap on a gun to go about his business. But this was the West, not New York. More than miles separated them. He took out the gold pocket watch given to him by his father on his twenty-first birthday, two years prior, when he left home. It was engraved with Basil’s initials, and he ran his finger over the letters.

  A noise from the street interrupted Basil’s morning routine. He flicked open the timepiece and glanced at it. The bank was due to open in ten minutes. Time enough for a cheroot on the porch while he explored what was making such a racket. He walked out to the front of the bank and lit his cigar.

  He got a wry smile on his face as he followed the path of a wagon that came creaking down the cobbled street. In the couple of years he’d been in the West, he’d seen all variety of transportation as settlers rolled into town to join the wagon trains heading further west each spring, to Oregon or California. There were big, expensive, Conestoga wagons, capable of transporting pianos and other heavy furniture across the vast wilderness, and handcarts carrying only the basic essentials necessary to live. But this one rolling up to the door right now took the prize for the poorest mode of transportation.

  The boards around the sides of the wagon were held in place by strips of leather, but the warped boards were weathered to a gray color. They jostled and sagged with every step made by the two skinny mules struggling with their load. The wagon was covered with a large piece of waterproofed canvas worn thin and stretched tightly against the wooden ribs overhead so that it seemed as starved as the mules did. Holes in abundance dotted the canvas, so it could barely provide shelter.

  A young woman sat on the wagon seat, holding the reins, and the rest of the group walked alongside, slowly. A woman and five children formed stair-steps in their heights as they shuffled one behind the other. To Basil’s eyes, they were tired and beaten down, even at this hour of the morning. Their clothing was as tattered and threadbare as the wagon’s canvas, and the color had long ago been washed out of the materials. The sunbonnets, perched on the heads of the women and girls, were bleached out and drooped onto their foreheads. Everyone, women and children, resembled a faded watercolor. He snuffed out his thin cigar as the wagon rolled to a stop in front of the establishment.

  The older woman gave directions. “Justice and Prudence, look after the little ones while I go inside. Temperance, you come with me.” The young woman behind the reins climbed down from the wagon.

  The two women shifted their gazes from the children who remained by the wagon and cast their glances at Basil. “Good day, sir,” the eldest one said. She moved past him and put her hand on the door.

  “Here, let me get that for you, ma’am.”

  Basil allowed the women to lead the way into the cool, quiet room, as he followed behind them. The oak floors gleamed with a high gloss, and the scent of lemon wood polish permeated the air. The teller booth was straight ahead and Basil’s desk was off to the side.

  The elder woman then turned to Basil. “I need to talk to the manager of the bank. Can you direct me to him?”

  “I’m the owner of the bank, ma’am. Basil Fitzpatrick, at your service. How can I help you today?”

  The woman drew a long, shaky breath. “Pleased to meet you, sir. My name is Martha Jones and this is my eldest daughter, Temperance.”

  Basil gestured to a small office off the main room of the bank. “Why don’t we sit over here where we can have some privacy, and you can tell me what your business is?”

  The lone bank teller, Herbert Walker, strolled across the room before Basil could close the door. “I can handle this, Mr. Fitzpatrick. There’s no need for you to bother yourself.”

  Basil glanced from the women in front of him to the teller. A thinly veiled look of distaste and judgment crossed Herbert’s face. The younger woman’s spine stiffened and her chin rose a few notches. These were proud people, regardless of their circumstances, and Herbert had offended them, he could tell. Basil didn’t conform to the viewpoint of his teller. If a person had a reason to be in his bank, they were important to him.

  “I’ve got this, Herbert.” He glanced at his employee. “You may return to your duties.” He turned back to the women but kept the door open so he could keep an eye on Herbert. “I am sorry for the intrusion. Please tell me how I can be of assistance.”

  “My husband, Samuel, and I ran into a bit of trouble on our way here. We are supposed to have some money waiting for us at your bank, from our kinfolk back in Pennsylvania.”

  “Is your husband with you?”

  “He is in the bed of the wagon. He’s been ill almost the entire trip.”

  “Let me check into this first. If we need his signature, I can take the paperwork out to him.”

  The younger woman said between gritted teeth, “Even though my father is sick, he will come inside. We want no special treatment. We make our own way.”

  Basil turned to Temperance, studying her carefully. She was a true beauty — petite, with soft, light brown curls escaping from her serviceable bun and swirling around her face. Her moss green eyes snapped in anger before she lowered her gaze, which emphasized her long lashes. He judged her to be in her late teens, perhaps a bit younger. Basil’s breath caught in his throat as he studied her. It wasn’t just her lovely face that captured his attention, but her proud attitude and resoluteness.

  Reluctantly, he brought his attention back to the older woman.

  “Temperance, please.” Martha Jones touched her daughter’s arm. “Mr. Fitzpatrick is only trying to help.”

  Basil’s gaze flitted back and forth between the women. “All right then. Give me a few minutes to check the bank’s records and make certain your money is here before you bring him in. I’ll try to make his visit as brief as possible.” Basil examined the records, and found the few dollars that had been sent from her relatives back east. He sat behind the small desk in the tiny
room again and cleared his throat.

  “Everything seems to be in order here, Mrs. Jones. I need to change the subject slightly, though. I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but do you realize the last wagon train of the year pulled out of here several months ago?”

  Resignation flashed in her eyes, overtaking the tiredness for a moment. She ran her hands lightly over her face.

  But, he noted, her chin rose a few degrees as well, matching her daughter’s countenance. “We have had some hard luck, sir, and we are well aware we missed the trains this year. I’m sure they are already halfway to Oregon by now. But it’s obviously the Lord’s wish for us to stay here for the winter, since my husband is so ill. We need to find a doctor to treat him, and he needs to regain his health.”

  “What is your husband’s profession?”

  “He’s a preacher, and we had a small farm back in Pennsylvania.”

  “Well, even though the lure of Oregon or California is compelling, there’s plenty of room in St. Louis for a fine preacher man.” Basil smiled across his desk, trying to put the women at ease. His smile usually had a positive effect on the ladies. But these two women were bent on survival, not amusement. He lowered his head to the paperwork in front of him.

  “Let’s finish the transaction here first. I’ll try to be as brief as possible, and then I can direct you to the doctor. Will you need help getting your husband inside?”

  “No, Temperance and I will get him. We’ll be just a minute.”

  True to her word, Martha Jones returned a few minutes later, with her husband supported between them. Reverend Jones sat heavily in the chair in front of the desk and raised his fevered gaze to Basil. His graying hair was greasy and a thinning lock of it fell across his forehead. He extended his hand. Not wanting to embarrass him by avoiding the simple gesture, Basil reached out and shook the man’s hand. The gasp from his teller as he did so told him he had done the correct thing.

  “Mr. Fitzpatrick, I’m Samuel Jones.” He stopped and bent over as a cough rattled his body. He brought a crumpled handkerchief to his mouth, and Basil could see the telltale stain of blood. “I do apologize for being such a bother. Where do I sign?”

  “Right here, sir. I’ll get your money for you and you can be back in the wagon before you know it.”

  The Reverend signed in the appropriate place and Basil walked behind the teller window to obtain the money. He turned around to head back to the small room, counting the bills in his hand, when a loud thump and a cry from Mrs. Jones pierced the air. Her husband was sprawled on the floor of the bank. Temperance quickly knelt beside her father. Basil ran over and found a faint pulse. His eyes met Temperance’s as they knelt on the floor on opposite sides of Reverend Jones. A quiet sense of understanding passed between them. She was aware her father was dying, but wanted to shield her mother. Basil nodded.

  “Herbert, run next door and get the doctor!”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t think these folks can afford a doctor.”

  Basil’s gaze hardened as he stared at his teller. “Get. Him.”

  Martha Jones held her husband’s hand and ran her free hand over his forehead, brushing back his hair. “He’s had the fever for weeks now. Nothing we do seems to bring it down for long. I’m so sorry he passed out in your fine bank, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

  “Nonsense. It couldn’t be helped. The doctor will fix him up better than new.”

  Basil handed the money over to the woman. She stared at the few measly bills. “Reckon this will just be about enough to pay the doctor.”

  Not voicing his fear that Samuel Jones was beyond the doctor’s ability to help, Basil replied, “Everything will be all right now, Mrs. Jones. You’re in St. Louis.”

  • • •

  The doctor arrived a few minutes later, and Basil helped him move Reverend Jones to his medical practice, located adjacent to the bank. Mrs. Jones was standing by the wagon with her family when Basil stepped outside the doctor’s office. He could smell the trail dust from the wagon, and on the bodies of the children.

  “Mrs. Jones, the doctor is examining your husband now. Why don’t you introduce me to the rest of your children while you wait?”

  “I appreciate your kindness, Mr. Fitzpatrick.” She turned to her brood. “My eldest son is Justice. He will be sixteen soon.” She touched the shoulder of the next oldest boy. “This is Valor, who’s twelve, and that scamp over at the end is my youngest son, Noble, who just turned four.” Noble turned and gave Basil a wide grin. Basil grinned in response.

  “My girls are Prudence, who is fourteen, and Faith, at six years. You’ve already met Temperance, my eldest child, who is eighteen. She’s been the driving force of the family since Samuel took ill. She and her da have a special bond.”

  Basil nodded his head as he acknowledged each of the children. “Named for the virtues, are you?” He glanced at the children, and then turned back to Martha. “My parents named my brothers and sisters and me after herbs and spices, so I can relate. I’m pleased to meet all of you. I come from a large family, too.” He executed a small bow towards the family, which resulted in giggles from the younger children. They did remind him of his family back in New York, and he wrestled with a pang of homesickness as their tinkling laughter filled the air.

  As his gaze moved from one child to the next, he took an extra moment to study Temperance. Her dress hung limply around her, a faded blue homespun, covered by a long apron. Despite her obvious poverty, from the flash of resoluteness and anger he’d witnessed in the bank, he could tell he was dealing with a different breed of woman from what he was used to.

  He preferred women who were only interested in having a good time, who could be wooed by the purchase of a drink or by telling them they were attractive. This one wouldn’t melt in the face of a sugar-coated compliment. She was made of much sterner stuff. Despite her tempting lovely eyes and the soft, brown hair that curled around her face, any pursuit of her would have to end in marriage, and the last thing he wanted was to marry and settle down.

  Since his experience with Rachel, the French actress who he fell in love with in New York the previous year, he was willing to admit he was ready to settle down with just one woman. But as a mistress, not a wife. He was far too young to tie himself down completely. Perhaps he should take himself to the steamboat tonight to look over the latest crop of women brought in to serve drinks to the card players. Even without the bank’s considerable involvement in the steamboat, Basil would have been a frequent visitor, so he could partake in the nightly card games. However, he allowed his gaze to remain on Temperance longer than was appropriate. Her blush rose as he perused her, which brought another smile to his face.

  Martha Jones interrupted Basil’s thoughts as concern for her husband overtook her. “Mr. Fitzpatrick, thank you again for your kind assistance. But we’ve bothered you long enough. I’ll go finish up with the doctor, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Basil glanced at her. “We welcome you to winter over in St. Louis, and then head out in the spring on the final leg of your journey. Where will you be staying?”

  For a brief moment, Martha seemed confused. She sighed as she shook her head, and then lowered her gaze to the cobblestones. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll drive out of town a bit and set up camp in the wagon.”

  Basil wrestled with himself for a moment. This family should be of no concern to him, but he couldn’t help himself. “For the time being, please move your wagon into the alley behind the bank. You’ll at least have a bit of privacy there, and be close to your husband.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fitzpatrick. We’ll do that. We are much obliged to you.”

  Temperance’s jaw tightened at her mother’s words. She wanted no more help from him, which made him want to be of further assistance, just to see the flash of anger from her again. As Basil walked back into t
he bank, his mind was abuzz. How could he help this family? He couldn’t offer money. They were too proud for that, and he wouldn’t embarrass them by suggesting it. But surely there was more he could do. They reminded him of the large family he’d grown up in. Besides, it would liven up the summer.

  To purchase this ebook and learn more about the author, click here.

  Also check out The Abolitionist’s Secret and The Reluctant Debutante.

  In the mood for more Crimson Romance?

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