by Becky Lower
“I’m assuming Rosemary has told you she’d like to continue meeting you for lessons, and the kiss sealed the arrangement. So, now come, Rosemary, we must be off. Gather up your pins and do the best you can, so as not to appear too disheveled in public. Especially if someone was to witness the place of business we are leaving. Mr. Cooper, we’ll see you Friday at seven for dinner and the recital. I do believe you and Mr. Fitzpatrick need to have a private conversation.” Henry wondered how long Mrs. Fitzpatrick had been standing in the room, staring at them.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Where you headed, pretty lady?” Hands reached out to grab Penelope as Harry steered her past the table of rowdy men.
“Pull in your horns, man. The lady is retiring to her room.”
The man with the eye patch rose from the table. Harry was ready for a confrontation but was surprised when the man let them move past without a quarrel. However, the itch between Harry’s shoulder blades told him they were being watched. Best to keep his guard up.
The next week dragged by as Henry waited impatiently for a letter from his sister. Since he now had a plan in place, he was eager to get started. When Marguerite arrived, he’d impress her with the publishing house, explain his idea about creating a monthly magazine as well, and put her in charge of the accounting portion of the business. Assuming she agreed. He wanted it to be her decision, not something forced upon her. His father was the one trying to control her life, not Henry. He only wanted to give her options. Then, once Rosemary realized his ideas on women in the workplace did not mesh with his father’s, even a little bit, she’d be forthcoming with the information about who the real F.P. Elliott was.
Since their scorching kiss at his office, which had been interrupted by her mother, Henry had been the model of decorum, much to his dismay. Her father had taken him aside before the dinner prior to the recital and told him in no uncertain terms he would not tolerate such brazen behavior toward his daughter, unless they got engaged. Then he’d loosen his control over her a bit. Until Henry proposed, and Rosemary accepted, she would be chaperoned each time they were together. So, all had been tame and totally proper as together they went riding in the park and she continued with her fencing lessons, with a maid trailing behind them at all times. Henry was about to climb the walls as he waited for word from his sister.
He gave some thought to his father and how he might react to Henry’s plans. His father would not be pleased, but exactly how angry he would get was an unknown. The man was capable of anything, as Henry was well aware.
Even though his father now wanted him as part of the business, Henry was aware of the real reason he was in New York instead of by his father’s side in Boston. Out of sight, out of mind. Which was just as well, since they could not agree on a wide range of items, including his father’s thought process behind Henry’s banishment. Since Henry was placed in charge of the New York branch of the business, it meant he’d run it the way he wanted to. But he’d best prepare for an attack, which was why he was on his way to the National City Bank this morning. He needed to discuss with Rosemary’s father his idea and extract Mr. Fitzpatrick’s promise of backing, should the worst-case scenario happen.
“Mr. Cooper, how nice of you to call.” George Fitzpatrick rose from his leather chair behind a rather large desk that was covered with neat stacks of paper. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I need to discuss a business plan with you and find out if I can count on your backing.”
“Always open to new ideas. Please proceed.” George motioned for Henry to take a seat in front of the desk. George closed his office door and returned to his leather chair.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” George Fitzpatrick took out his pipe and pouch of tobacco.
“Not at all, sir. Even though I’ve never developed a taste for tobacco, I do enjoy the aroma it creates.”
“Good, because my office here and my library at home are the only places in my sphere where Charlotte allows it. I’ve been banished within my own house, can you believe it?” But George was wearing a smile as he spouted his words. Henry grew envious of George and his life. He took a deep sniff of the tobacco smoke before he began his practiced speech.
“First, I want you to know my feelings for Rosemary are deep and true. I have every intention of proposing to her at the earliest opportunity, if I can obtain your approval.”
George pinned Henry into his seat with his eyes. “The final decision on Rosemary’s future will be up to her, but I have no objection to you becoming a permanent fixture at my dinner table. You can be assured of that. Of course, her mother and I would prefer to have the engagement announced as soon as possible, especially after your public display at the theatre a few weeks ago. Mabel Wentworth has made certain all of society is expecting it.”
“I am aware our indiscretion caused some talk, and I hope to rectify it soon.”
“So, as long as we’re in accord on Rosemary, let’s talk business. I’m sure your relationship with my daughter is not what led you here today.”
“No, sir, but it is part of it. I’ve extended an invitation to my sister, Marguerite, to join me here in New York, and to become part of the publishing house. When my father gets wind of what I’m doing, he’ll threaten to sell the business from under me. And without steady employment, I can’t very well take on the commitment of a wife.”
George steepled his hands together and peered over them at Henry. “I see. Then why are you intentionally setting yourself up to incur your father’s wrath?”
“Because my father retains a very traditional view when it comes to a lady’s place in the world, Mr. Fitzpatrick. My sister is far more capable of dealing with the financial side of the business than I am, but simply because she was born female, my father doesn’t think she can add two and two and come up with four.”
George smiled. “Many men are of a similar mind, Mr. Cooper.”
“But you’re not.”
George shifted in his seat. “Comes from having a house full of daughters who each, in her own way, is proving such a backward way of thinking is very wrong.”
“Precisely. Which is why I’m here today. I’ve pieced together the fact Rosemary is the true author behind the F.P. Elliott name.”
George Fitzpatrick lifted an eyebrow. “I told you my daughters were advocates of change. Rosemary is no different. But why come to me with your suspicions instead of confronting Rosemary?”
Henry had to applaud Mr. Fitzpatrick’s neat side step. He hadn’t confirmed or denied Rosemary’s duplicity. “Because I want her to reveal herself to me willingly. If she sees me offering my sister a part of the business in spite of my father’s ideas, she’ll understand my feelings toward women are more in alignment with yours than they are with my own father’s. It’s not a matter of ‘if,’ but ‘when’ with my father. I received a note from Marguerite today, and she’ll be here by week’s end. So when my father puts the New York portion of the family business up for sale, to thwart me for going against his ideas, I want to be ready to buy it. And for that, I need your bank’s help.”
“Your beliefs about women’s rights are so strong, are they?”
“Yes, sir, they are.”
“Well, then, you have my blessing. The bank will fund the purchase of the publishing house by you whenever you need to exercise that option. I assume you’ll want the transaction handled anonymously when we’re dealing with your father. And I give my consent, if Rosemary is in agreement, for you to wed my daughter.” George’s wide smile made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’ll leave it between her and you to lift the final veil on her duplicity. At least I no longer have to pretend to be F.P. Elliott, which is a huge relief. But now that you understand why she did it, I think you can forgive her. Your life with Rosemary won’t be an easy one, but it will be greatly rewarding.”
“I am aware we’ll face many challenges on the road ahead. But with the two of us side by side, we’ll make a good go of it. Thank you,
sir.”
George stood along with Henry and extended his hand. “Welcome to the family, son.”
Henry took Mr. Fitzpatrick’s hand in his. “But, as you told me the first night we had dinner, you do things differently in your family. Rosemary has yet to say yes.”
“There is that, yes, Mr. Cooper.”
Henry got an itch between his shoulders as he departed. He was not in the good graces of the family yet.
• • •
In the days that followed, Rosemary had only seen Henry twice as her fencing instruction continued, but he had been on her mind the entire time. Today, Rosemary’s tongue crept to the corner of her mouth as she bent over her demanding task. Nearly every encounter she had with Henry seemed to end with her touching his hair. It drew her as if it was a magnet, and each time, she ended up with a strand or two of his hair between her fingers or on her clothing, which she carefully placed in a hankie. Even when appropriately accompanied by a chaperone, she found a way to touch him. By now, she had gathered enough of Henry’s lovely dark, long hair to do something with it. Rosemary pulled out an equal number of her own strands and laid the two tiny piles side by side, straightening them out with her fingers. She examined them closely. Her hair was almost as dark as Henry’s, and much longer, but his had a special sheen to the follicles that hers lacked.
That’s the only reason I find running my fingers through his hair irresistible. It’s the sheen.
Even in her own head, her thoughts attempted to deceive her, and she could no longer ignore the real reason. Sheen be damned. She ached for Henry when they were apart, and couldn’t wait to touch him each time they were together. Even with her mother or father in the room, she found a reason to brush his fingers or lay her hand on his arm, to pluck a stray hair from his jacket, just to experience the bright spark of excitement again. She could sense his muscles jumping underneath his fine clothing when she touched him, and it made her smile. Her mother’s crafty plan was working, just as she said it would. If only she could keep her own heart in check until Henry asked for her hand.
Rosemary and her mother had intensified their plan, deciding to place as many roadblocks in the way of Henry being alone with her as they could, simply to torture him, and to get him to propose to her. An official engagement was the only way they could be together again without the prying eyes of a parent, and the sooner the better, since Mabel Wentworth’s loose tongue was creating talk all over town.
But what Rosemary hadn’t counted on was it being equally as hard and maddening for her to be denied access to Henry. When he did manage to get her backed into a corner at their frequent fencing lessons and he stole a kiss, even in front of her maid, she lost control of all her carefully structured inhibitions, and another little piece of her heart escaped from the cage she had built around it. She had to thank her mother for keeping things in check with Henry, because if she hadn’t insisted that her daughter be properly chaperoned, Rosemary was certain things would have gotten way out of control by now. Then Mabel Wentworth would really have something to talk about. Rosemary had not been immune to Henry’s manhood, pressing hard up against her even with her layers of skirt and petticoats, the last time they had kissed. The dampness she’d experienced between her legs was new to her, and exciting. She wondered what came next, certain it would be delightful.
She let herself daydream as she carefully cut her hair strands to a matching length as Henry’s. She tied ribbon around each small clump of hair and began to weave them together.
“Oh, bosh and bother,” she said as the strands pulled out of the ribbon. What to do? This wasn’t the easy task she originally thought it would be. Maybe she needed a drop of candle wax to hold the strands in place until she got the braid going. Being careful not to spill too much wax, she poured a few drops on each clump of hair and let it set. She pried the wax away from the piece of paper, and was pleased to see the hairs staying together. Braiding the two piles of hair together was easy once she’d figured out how to hold them in place. She then pried the wax away from the end of the braid and tied it in a small circle with a ribbon. Her finger ran over the soft, braided coil. Dark and darker. Shiny and shinier.
She pondered the significance of her actions. They were weaving their lives together, she and Henry, much as she was weaving the braid of their hair. And similar to the braid, the beginning took some time to figure out. Could the strands of their lives be held together? It would take a force as strong as candle wax to do so, and she had been playing with ribbon up until now. She could no longer convince herself it was merely an act, a means to an end, on her part. She wanted the braid to continue forever, to keep adding to it with the hair of their children. Many children. And, toward the end of their days, to form a new plait of their then-graying hair as they rocked their grandchildren to sleep. Her mind coursed ahead, creating a story line of her own.
With a shake of her head, she opened the back of her chatelaine. There was a little space designed for a picture or token, and she placed her tiny braid there. She’d carry it with her always.
With a wistful sigh, she returned her attention to her almost-completed story. She had to quit dragging her feet and finish her Harry Hawk story so she could present it to Henry. It was her best work yet, but she had an even better idea in mind. She’d just read about the discovery of the Comstock Lode in the Utah territory, and the entire city of New York was abuzz with tales of immense wealth being pulled from the ground. Her next book would be told from the standpoint of a young prospector who headed west from New York City to seek his fortune. She couldn’t wait to begin. Whether it would be produced by Cooper and Son or another publisher was yet to be seen.
Once she gave Henry her completed Harry Hawk story, the current contract between F.P. Elliott and the publishing house would be completed. It would be a perfect time to tell Henry who the author really was. And to let the chips, and the pieces of her heart, fall where they may.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
At daybreak the next morning, Harry knocked on the door to Penelope’s room. When she didn’t answer, Harry put a shoulder into the door and broke it open. Penelope was nowhere to be found. Only a note, hanging from the bedpost.
“You want her back? Come and get her.”
It wasn’t signed. Instead there was a crude drawing of a face with an eye patch.
Harry rushed to the docks, hoping he was in time to save Penelope’s virtue. Her father had placed a lot of trust in him, and Harry wanted to keep his job.
It didn’t take long to find the pirate’s ship, still in the dock, thankfully. Harry stepped aboard.
“Ahoy, mate.” The voice cried out behind him, and he spun around. The pirate was at the far end of the ship, one arm wrapped tightly around Penelope, the other brandishing a sword.
Charlotte Fitzpatrick ran her hand down Rosemary’s arm as they walked into the parlor a few days later. “We’ve got company coming for dinner tonight, dear. You need to put on a better dress.”
“Who will be joining us?”
“Your young man, Mr. Cooper, is bringing his sister, Marguerite, here for dinner. Aren’t you excited? She’s just arrived from Boston, and we have the pleasure of her company even before the Cabots meet her. It’s such a coup!”
Rosemary took a seat and smoothed out her favorite gray skirt before she raised her eyes to her mother.
“First of all, Mr. Cooper is still not my young man, Mother. It’s maddening to me, the fact he hasn’t yet proposed. I’ve even tried to stay away from him for days on end, hoping he’d come here and bend a knee. But nothing will happen tonight if he’s bringing his sister. We won’t have a moment alone.”
“Well, I see this evening as a perfect opportunity to change his mind and make him commit himself to you. Why don’t you wear the beautiful, deep purple gown Jasmine created for you? A gown such as that will be sure to get the dashing Mr. Cooper’s heart pumping. And do pinch your cheeks to get some color in them. You are way too pale. Comes from s
pending too much time in the garret, writing away. Have you bleached your fingers lately, or are they stained with ink, as usual?”
Rosemary hid her hands in the folds of her day skirt, and attempted to change the subject. “Henry and his sister seem to be very close, which I find a bit odd, since they were separated for years when he went to New Orleans. She was just a girl when he left.”
“What’s so odd about them being close? Aren’t you close to your brothers?”
“Well, yes, but we’ve been with each other the whole time, growing up in this house. Do you think Henry and Marguerite wrote letters back and forth all the time he was in New Orleans?”
Rosemary caught the gleam in her mother’s eye. “Am I sensing a bit of jealousy on your part?”
“Of course not! Why would I be jealous? She’s his sister.”
“And she’s capable of drawing his attention away from you. Isn’t that what truly worries you?”
Rosemary stiffened. Her mother had an uncanny knack of getting to the heart of the matter so quickly it made her head spin. “I’m not worried. Merely curious. Is his father in town too? Surely Marguerite didn’t travel from Boston on her own. And who invited them to dinner?”
“Your father did, this afternoon. They stopped into the bank, and he extended the invitation to them there. And yes, Marguerite is here by herself. Their father is still in Boston. It would seem she has a bit of a rebellious streak. I’m sure she’ll fit in nicely at our dinner table.”
Rosemary had a niggling feeling she was being blindsided, but she shook it off, telling herself she was being ridiculous. Despite her admonition to herself, she wished for a weapon over dinner. Something larger than a steak knife. Perhaps an épée instead. With a sigh, she climbed the stairs to her room to find something more appropriate for dinner. She did admit to a curiosity about Henry’s sister. She was five years younger than Henry, which made her the same age as Rosemary. And she was as light as he was dark, according to Henry. Other than that, she hadn’t a clue. Still wishing for a sword in her hand, she pulled out the purple gown from the armoire and called for the maid to help her change her clothes and dress her hair. Jasmine’s latest creation would have to be her weapon of choice for the evening. And some of her signature scent, which Henry seemed to enjoy. She splashed an extra portion of the perfume between her breasts.
