A Question Worth Asking

by Angeline Fortin

  Eve and Kitty’s mother, Maggie Preston, had, in an unlikely twist, become both confidante and matchmaker in his brash plan to find the woman of his heart with fairytale-like speed.

  Privy to his objective, Maggie took it as her duty to help him gain footing in the fickle societies of Newport and Manhattan, and had found him sponsors for membership to the Racquet and Union club.

  She’d introduced him to the lavish society of Mrs. Caroline Astor’s 400, families overly proud of their long New York heritage, though none dated back as far as his family’s ancient earldom. She’d also introduced him to their daughters.

  He might as well never have left Britain. His link to a title guaranteed him a barrage of ambitious mothers towing their eligible daughters behind them. Ogilvies, Vanderbilts, and Ogdens. Old money or new, not one of them provided the tiniest potential for the spark James sought.

  What had roused his interest was the ambitions of the ladies’ fathers, uncles, and cousins and their ever-expanding investments. Finding nothing more alluring to lavish his attention on, James watched and learned. Trading one ambition for what was looking like a more realistic possibility of success, he’d immersed himself in the task of making his own fortune.

  Through favors he’d undertaken on the part of the Earl of Haddington, he’d met J.P. Morgan, a financier and banker who’d made a fortune in industrial consolidation. Haddington’s investments with Morgan had cleared him of a mountain of debt, as well as made him a tidy fortune through the merger of Edison General Electric and Thomson-Houston Electric into the new General Electric company. That success paired with James’s immediate liking of the blustering businessman had prompted James to begin his own investments in Morgan’s endeavors.

  It might have helped him along the way that he was a bachelor and Morgan had two unmarried daughters then. However, by the time Morgan’s daughter Juliet had wed in 1894, he’d established himself as a business partner rather than a potential son-in-law.

  Likewise, he’d gained other colleagues in the oil fields of Pennsylvania where Rockefeller, also father of several unmarried daughters, was making billions.

  Through Maggie’s family ties, he’d befriended Jack Astor, her distant cousin who was about his age. Already knee-deep in real estate, Jack had been happy to drag James in with him. Through Astor, he’d also met and partnered with Robert Goelet—whose daughter was, quite thankfully, too young to be presented. It was their real estate endeavors which commanded his attention of late.

  Despite her glad assistance in introducing him to businessmen and friends of her late husband, Maggie hadn’t swayed from her purpose. Two years of failure notwithstanding, she was determined to see him wed whether he liked it or not.

  And at this point, James leaned definitively toward the not.

  “You act as if I’ve only two choices in the world,” he said. “A wife or misery.”

  “The wrong choice of one could easily lead to the other,” she countered.

  “Or, as I’ve mentioned a dozen times, I could choose neither.”

  A dismissive chuckle was her only response. Finished straightening his tie, she patted his chest and stepped back to assess her efforts.

  “Very fine. Now, tonight is another dinner party with some music and dancing afterward, this time with George and Edith Gould.”

  James breathed a sigh of relief. Gould’s children, daughters included, were all still in the nursery. Though George Gould had two sisters, James knew the elder, Helen, was a socialite with more of an interest in philanthropy than marriage. The younger sister, Anna, had safely wed in April.

  “Sounds like a pleasant evening.”

  Maggie nodded. “I believe it will be Mr. Gould’s cousin Elise, who has come to spend the winter with them. I know you’ll like her. She’s a charming girl...”

  His words had fallen upon deaf ears. “Girl?”

  “I believe she’s nineteen now?”

  James grimaced at the thought. “Not another one. If you’re so determined I should wed, why don’t you wed wi’ me and spare us both all this nonsense? You’re closer to my age than a chit of nineteen.”

  Her laughter chimed like the bells of St. Patrick’s. “If I were even a decade younger, I might take you up on that.”

  “It would be my honor.”

  For all her fifty or so years, Maggie Preston was petite and lovely still with a trim figure. Her pale blond hair hardly touched by gray, her genuine joie de vivre, gave the impression she was far younger than her years. The male populous of Manhattan must have been dominated by fools if one of them hadn’t put an end to her widowed status.

  She clucked her tongue, though a becoming blush colored her cheeks. “Dear boy, I know what you’re looking for and I’m not it. You need a young wife who can give you a dozen children and keep you in good company for more decades than I have left in me.”

  “I tossed that idea in the rubbish bin long ago. My sole purpose at this point is to make more money than Crocus possessed and roll in it in complete solitude.” James smirked as she laughed again.

  “That will never happen. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  He didn’t protest too much. Not only because he knew it would do him no good but because he was thankful for her friendship and counsel, and she knew it.

  After accepting her fur wrap from the butler, he set it on her shoulders and turned back to don his cape and snatch up his cane. He set his top hat upon his head with a resigned sigh.

  “None of that now! You can’t expect a good evening if you go into it with such a dog face.”

  “You know I am far more comfortable in the boardroom than I am in the drawing room these days.”

  “As was Mr. Preston.”

  She accepted his proffered arm and James led her out of the house and down the steps to the carriage awaiting them, though their destination was only a half dozen blocks north of the Preston residence.

  “Did he ever come around?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean I ever stopped trying.” She laughed. “You have far more potential to succeed in this at least than he ever did.”

  “Yet, he won you.”

  “Yes, he did.” A shadow passed over her face then was gone, her eyes once again as bright and merry as always. “And you’ll win your lady fair, I promise you.”

  “I’m only going tonight so that I might speak to Robert Goelet without a dozen lawyers listening in before we head up to Albany to lobby support prior to the assembly’s vote next week.” He paused then added in stern warning, “You’re not to abandon me again once we’re there.”

  “It’s not abandonment, it’s allowing you opportunity.”

  * * *

  She’d abandoned him...again. Blast it. Left him at the mercy of a trio of young debs with a masterful talent for whipping up gale force winds, not only with their heavily employed fans but with the constant fluttering of eyelashes.

  They buffeted him from all sides, hardly giving him a chance to speak with their constant chatter. Certainly not allowing him a chance to flee.

  “Is it true your brother is an earl, Mr. MacKintosh?” the lady hovering at his right elbow asked, brazenly resting a gloved hand on his forearm.

  James deftly rolled his arm away and snatched a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman, offering it to her so that she might have a better way to occupy her hands. She simpered and batted her lashes even faster, as if he’d bestowed some great gift upon her. Though he wasn’t even sure of her name. She looked so young, definitely too young for someone as jaded as he.

  Lifting his gaze away, he found the tall grandfather clock in the corner of the room for perhaps the tenth time in the past hour. Unfortunately, it was still too early to politely call the evening well and done.

  More young men and a few couples joined their group as the ladies nattered on about the ranking of English titles versus those of other countries. Who had married which count or grand duke or Prussian prince.


  James squinted at the clock again. Was the bloody thing moving?

  “Have you somewhere to be, Mr. MacKintosh?”

  “Beg pardon?” He shifted his wandering gaze back to one of the ladies among the group who had gathered.

  “I was only wondering if you’ll be directing any of your attention to the company before you tonight or if it will all be reserved for that very fine clock in the corner?”

  Uncertain whether he’d heard correctly, James blinked, staring back at the lady in amazement. Surely he’d not just been censured by the notoriously meek and soft-spoken Mrs. Primrose Eames? A lady who thus far in their brief acquaintance had managed in every way to live up to her nickname, Prim.

  “My apologies, madam.” He gave a faint bow, because it was the only polite option when the truth would be considered rude.

  Prim’s pursed lips told him she didn’t care for his answer, or believe it, before she focused her attention down at her hands. He didn’t have a care which it was. He’d developed a severe aversion to Knickerbocker society over the past two years...hence his frequent checking of the clock.

  “I hear you’ve ordered a Benz Velo from Germany. Are you not a proponent of the new American models, then?” Mr. Bilker across the group from him began conversationally, earning a glare from his wife as well as Mrs. Eames.

  That was the fundamental problem with society, any society really. No talking about anything of interest. Only the most blasé and boring topics would do. Well, too bad. If it would make the evening quicken its tedious pace, James welcomed a topic that held some interest for him.

  “Nay, I believe the many attempts by the American inventors to successfully develop a steam engine won’t come to fruition.”

  Most of the younger ladies brandished their fans, kicking up a heavy breeze to indicate their displeasure at the topic. Namely, James supposed, that it had drifted from them. Bilker’s wife even gave her husband a sharp rap on the knuckles, but the man seemed even more bored than James and ignored the warning.

  “I read Mr. West in Rochester has produced a promising model.”

  “Mr. Bilker! Please!”

  The stern reprimand didn’t deter James any more than it did the woman’s browbeaten spouse. He was glad for a moment of stimulating conversation.

  “Mr. West hasn’t found the financial backing he’ll need to go into production. I believe the future will belong to the gasoline powered piston engines.”

  Mrs. Eames’s lashes fluttered up briefly, giving him a glimpse of her wide eyes, before the top of her dark head was once again all he saw.

  “There are many up and coming companies exploring those options as well,” Bilker countered.

  “Aye, but many of the newer developments here have only been to modify the Benz engine.”

  Rather than berate him with a scowl as she had before, Mrs. Eames only cocked her neatly coifed head, speaking softly. “I believe the newest Benz model has four cylinders, increased horsepower, and can reach thirty miles per hour. A solid choice, Mr. MacKintosh.”

  Gawking at her, his jaw dropped even further when she continued, “I read some years ago that unbeknownst to him, Mr. Benz’s wife drove one of his autos herself from Mannheim to Pforzheim with only her two young sons to accompany her. And when needed, acted as a mechanic as well. A journey of more than one hundred miles.”

  “This is hardly a conversation for young ladies,” Mrs. Bilker cut in imperiously. “Gentlemen, please converse upon a more appropriate topic!”

  In the two years he’d been in New York, ‘appropriate topics’ had educated James more thoroughly about ladies’ fashions than any man should have been without intimate experience. He’d been lectured on the benefits of custom gowns versus those ready-made, and listened to one-sided debates regarding whether B. Altman & Co, Gimbals, or Mr. Macy’s department stores carried the finest goods...as if he had a care. He’d been told of the wonders to be found in the stores of the Ladies’ Mile, a nickname given to an area of Manhattan between 15th and 24th Streets and from Park Avenue South to the Avenue of the Americas. That he could name the geographic region with such accuracy appalled him.

  Knickerbocker society overflowed with vacuous conversation with ladies more fearful of commanding intelligent conversation than any of those filling London’s drawing rooms.

  Herself, Mrs. Primrose Eames had never offered more than polite niceties in their few interactions previously. And yet, in just two sentences she’d displayed more cleverness than any lady of his acquaintance outside of his family and Mrs. Preston.

  Even while she continued to stare at her own fan as if it would snap open and bite her for speaking aloud. She was such a wee shy mouse, she’d never caught his attention despite her widowed status. Even now, out for an evening, her dark hair was scraped back tight, her dinner gown stylish but drab brown with a lace collar right up to her chin. Everything about her blended into the woodwork.

  He wouldn’t have thought her bold enough to say boo to a ghost much less talk knowledgeably of automobiles.

  Intrigued, he leaned forward. “I’ve read that when her brakes wore down, she had a shoemaker nail leather to the brake blocks.”

  “And she cleaned her carburetor with her hat pin.”

  “And used her garter to—”

  “Mr. MacKintosh! Please!” Mrs. Bilker protested, fanning herself while the younger ladies giggled behind theirs.

  Mrs. Eames’s lashes waved up and quickly down again, but James could have sworn he saw a hint of a smile on her lips.

  “A great achievement for a woman,” he said.

  “A great achievement for anyone,” came the counter. Her chin jutted out defensively and this time, she met his gaze full on. Her wide eyes flashed, daring him to argue.

  The first hint of pleasure he’d been able to summon all evening teased the corner of his mouth, and he raised his glass to her in silent salute.

  Her lips pursed, but this time he was sure she was suppressing a grin of her own.

  The string quartet the Goulds had hired for the evening began to play. A few couples from around the room drifted toward the center for some impromptu dancing. The trio of younger ladies around him immediately perked up with sighs of ‘Oh, how I love this song!’ and ‘I love to dance! Don’t you, Mr. MacKintosh?’

  James looked at Prim Eames, his interest still piqued.

  “Would you care to dance, Mrs. Eames?”

  She tilted her head again as if he were a curiosity at the zoo. “No...thank you for asking.”

  The refusal was immediate, the cushion to the blow coming a mite too late to indicate any regrets on her part. She gave the man hovering at her elbow a tight smile and, putting her hand on his arm, left the group.

  Not to the dance floor though. James watched as the gentlemen led her toward the door but no farther.

  His spark of interest extinguished as quickly as it had flamed. That was that then.

  With a shrug, he turned back to the ladies still around him, considering the pack. Might as well do his duty then. Picking out young Elise, his host’s plain-faced cousin, he gave a slight bow.

  “Miss Gould, may I have the pleasure?”

  Chapter 2

  I can get on with beasts first-rate; but men rile me awfully...

  ~ Louisa May Alcott from Jo’s Boys

  “For heaven’s sake, Shane, I would hardly call a brief spurt of automotive repartee flirting,” Prim said sourly as her older brother escorted her through the series of connected drawing rooms. Though it didn’t seem so much as if she were being escorted but rather towed along beside him.

  “You were smiling and waving your fan as much as any of the other ladies surrounding him, and what were they doing if not flirting with him?” her brother asked.

  “They might have been but I was not.” She sighed impatiently, wondering why she bothered. Arguing her lack of any coyness or fan waving would do no good. Men, she’d found, saw what they wanted to see. “I hardly know the man
at all. Certainly I have no interest in engaging...much less marrying him.”

  Or marrying at all, she added silently.

  “I should think not.” Shane paused to pluck two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. “A spoiled nobleman like that? What would you do with a man constantly ordering you about?”

  “I have no idea,” was her dry response.

  There was no sarcasm in his question, no teasing. The better question might have been what would she do without a man constantly ordering her about? Oh, she loved her three older brothers dearly. She did. But to the last, each one was more prone to patting her head as if she were a simpleton than listening to her opinion.

  Things hadn’t changed much for her between her father’s home and her husband’s. Fletcher Eames had been raised to believe women were fragile and senseless. He took the greatest care of her, seeing to her comfort and security. In that sense, he’d had admirable intentions. However, his belief that she mustn’t be burdened with any decisions greater than the management—superficially, of course—of her home and the care of her person tried her patience for close to a decade. It’d taken years to sway him from what he saw as his duty to relieve her of the pressures of making decisions regarding finances, the rearing and discipline of her children, and her future welfare.

  The true irony of it was all of her male relatives considered her to be a veritable harridan, forever haranguing them. When all the while they ruled her world. The only power Prim possessed was whether to allow muddy boots on her parlor carpets. Or not.

  “In any case,” Shane went on, tapping his glass against hers in a silent toast, “even the mildest flirtation might give him some encouragement, and a man like that would hardly know how to handle your fortune for you.”

  Men also only heard what they wanted to hear.

  Prim took a sip of the beverage hoping to cool the flash of annoyance. “While I must repeat, I was in no way flirting with Mr. MacKintosh, I would add in his defense that I’ve heard he has an excellent business reputation. He’s done quite well in his investments with Mr. Goelet and Mr. Morgan.”