by Renee Ryan
“That is a grave offense, indeed.” Luke couldn’t hide the momentary flash of amusement in his eyes. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Aunt Tilly bobbed her head in agreement. “Indeed, she should.”
“I do apologize.” Elizabeth pursed her lips into what she hoped was a contrite expression. “I’m sure I’ll be available to go shopping sometime . . . soon.”
“Oh, no, I’m onto your slippery tactics. You won’t put me off again. My schedule is quite tight, but I’m free two weeks from Wednesday. You will meet me at Bergdorf Goodman, one o’clock sharp. I’ll take no excuses.”
Elizabeth couldn’t think of a worse way to spend an afternoon. An army of seamstresses stuffing her into dresses while her ribs cracked and her organs were crushed.
Of course, even if she were to voice her misgivings, they would be of little concern to Aunt Tilly, and so Elizabeth took a deep breath and said, “I’ll be there.”
“Excellent.” The older woman smiled triumphantly. “Oh, look, it’s Isadora Covington. I haven’t seen her in ages. Good-bye, dear.”
“Good-bye.”
Aunt Tilly bustled off, calling after her friend.
Elizabeth sighed. “You were right, Luke.”
“Though I do love to hear those three little words, especially when uttered in front of my name, what was I right about?”
“Regrets.” Elizabeth sighed dramatically. “I shall regret my upcoming shopping excursion with a grand passion.”
His only response was a low chuckle.
“Do a little spin for me, dear, so I may see if the material flows in an attractive manner around your form.” Aunt Tilly gave this directive from a silver brocade divan in the fitting room of Bergdorf Goodman.
Fixing a smile on her face, Elizabeth did as she was ordered, taking a slow, measured turn, then executed another one when the older woman twirled her finger in the air and said, “One more time, please.”
Elizabeth finished her spin and waited.
“Lovely,” Aunt Tilly declared as she reached out to grab a tea cake from the tray brought in by the store’s floor manager. “I predict you will be the belle of a winter ball in that gown, once the alterations are complete.”
“It is beautiful,” Elizabeth agreed, smoothing her hand down the cool, shimmering silk.
She returned to the raised platform, and the team of seamstresses moved into place, manipulating and pinning the evergreen silk. The material was of the finest quality and complemented her skin tone, giving it a rosy glow. But Elizabeth had been through too many fittings in her life to find any excitement in the process today.
Had she truly thought shopping in a department store would be any less trying than in a Parisian couture house?
The experiences were nearly identical. For hours she was measured, poked, and pinned, while only being allowed to move when told to do so.
Knowing what was expected of her, she held perfectly still. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched one of the young seamstresses tuck and drape the material at her waist.
When the girl turned her attention to the hem, Elizabeth had an unencumbered view of the mirror. She inspected her new gown with a critical eye. It was indeed lovely, as lovely as any of her dresses made by French hands. Lifting her gaze, she studied the cameo hanging around her neck.
What lay inside the locket reminded Elizabeth of her list, of the too-few items she’d accomplished. The circus had come to town. Unfortunately, she hadn’t flown on the trapeze. There’d been too many people milling about. At least she and Sally had gotten close enough to a camel to pet his bristly fur. The creature had rewarded their bravery by spitting on Elizabeth’s foot. A pair of ruined ankle boots had been well worth the experience.
Smiling at the memory, she reached up and clutched the necklace, then immediately dropped her hand when the seamstress ordered her to be still.
From her spot on the divan, Aunt Tilly began a chattering litany about the type of ball gowns that were all the rage among British women. These simply divine creations were made in subdued colors, nothing too bold, and were cut from thin materials such as gauzes, laces, and softer silks. Seemingly unaware that she carried the one-sided conversation, Aunt Tilly prattled on. And on and on and on.
Elizabeth let her mind wander to the rain-drenched field where she’d kissed Luke.
For a fleeting moment he’d been all hers, and she’d been bold, and her life had been anything but boring or predictable. For that one gloriously fleeting moment, Elizabeth had been anything but passive. She’d been passionate and shared a connection with the man she loved, a wonderful, scandalous connection that she would very much like to repeat a hundred, nay, a thousand times over.
A ghost of a smile crossed her lips at the thought, then fell away just as quickly. There would be no repeat of that day’s remarkable adventure. Luke had been too horrified and guilt-ridden over his behavior to initiate another kiss. Sadly, he hadn’t made a single unsavory overture since.
I could kiss him.
Elizabeth’s smile returned.
Already, her life was changing. She was reaching for more, doing more, becoming . . . more.
Live every day to the fullest. Love without reservation.
Her life was already fuller, richer, all because of the chances she was taking, because of knowing Luke, and because of her kinship with Caroline. When her cousin had first arrived in America, she’d been understandably distant. Even after the family connection was revealed and verified, she’d held a portion of herself apart from the family.
Elizabeth hadn’t blamed her cousin. Caroline had every right to keep her distance.
There’d been a time when Elizabeth had been convinced that Caroline hated her. But Caroline had eventually accepted her. And while their relationship was still evolving, Elizabeth was learning what it meant to care for the woman as more than a cousin, as a sister. Loving without reservation was easy when it came to Caroline. It was easy with the rest of her family, save for one person.
Elizabeth thought of the two unopened letters on her writing desk, resting in the same spot where Sally had deposited them days before. Both were from her mother; Elizabeth had recognized the handwriting in a single glance. No doubt each page was filled with explanations, false apologies, and pleas for forgiveness. She had no wish to read those words. Liar.
She desperately wanted to read her mother’s letters. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Something in them might cause her to have a change of heart. Forgiving her mother would be the ultimate betrayal to Caroline.
Or would it?
Perhaps one act didn’t automatically lead to the other. Perhaps—
“You’ll want to add extra trim to the dress. Embroidery wouldn’t be out of the question, and perhaps some additional lace down the front of the bodice.” Aunt Tilly scrambled to her feet and headed for a wall of accents. Studying the choices of ribbons, buttons, and lace, she said, “Something that will draw attention to your lovely long neck.”
The older woman picked up two spools of cream lace, one slightly darker than the other, and, for the first time in her life, Elizabeth made her opinion known. “No lace.”
Aunt Tilly glanced over at her. “What’s that, dear?”
Elizabeth squared her shoulders and firmed her chin. “I don’t want any additional lace on this dress. There is enough already.”
There was a long pause, during which Aunt Tilly’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
If the rushing in her ears had not been so loud, Elizabeth would have heard the sound of footsteps approaching.
“I agree completely,” said a musical voice with an Italian accent. “More lace would only detract from the exquisite cut of the neckline and your beautiful face.”
An unfamiliar young woman appeared in the mirror. Her arresting features and a mass of chestnut curls piled atop her head spoke of a foreign heritage. She was exotic, beautiful, with the kind of loveliness reminiscent of another time, another world
. Her smiling eyes weren’t brown, nothing so mundane, but the color of burnished old gold. Elizabeth knew those eyes.
She’d seen them in another face.
But that couldn’t be right.
Something akin to shock clogged in her throat. She felt a nudge of foreboding, which she ruthlessly suppressed. “Do I know you?”
The young woman held her gaze a long moment, her mouth forming into a pretty pout. “You don’t remember me.”
“Should I?”
Smiling again, eyes twinkling with mischief, the girl sang the opening bar from Carmen, her voice as velvety rich as her mother’s.
“Sophie! Sophie Cappelletti, is it really you?”
“Sì, bella, it is I.”
Elizabeth needed no further confirmation. Uncaring she was crushing the silk of her new dress, she grabbed her old friend and hugged her tightly. The years fell away, and Elizabeth was back in the gardens of Griffin Manor, playing a rousing game of tag with her two favorite friends, Penelope and this young woman.
“The last time we met,” Elizabeth said, “we were children.”
“What fun we had, amica.”
Elizabeth stepped back and studied the stunning face, finally seeing the girl she’d once called friend. But the first thing she’d noticed about her old friend hadn’t been her delicate features, or her gorgeous hair, or even her lilting voice, which carried the sound of her Italian heritage.
No, the first thing Elizabeth had noticed about Sophie Cappelletti was her stunning eyes. The shape, the exotic tilt, and the unusual color were a flawless reproduction of Luke’s. And Penelope’s. And . . .
No, it couldn’t be. But of course it could. Memories nagged at her. Luke’s proclamation about discovering his father wasn’t the man he pretended to be.
Elizabeth’s thoughts were interrupted by Aunt Tilly’s voice.
“Who is this lovely young woman? I don’t believe we’ve met. Or have we?” Eyes locked on Sophie, confusion in her gaze, Aunt Tilly began the process of trying to place the face with a name.
Elizabeth made the introductions.
“Aunt Tilly, this is Sophie Cappelletti. Sophie, this is my aunt Tilly—I mean, Lady Matilda Effingham.” She lifted a questioning glance at the older woman. “Is that the proper title?”
“Close enough.” With a quick slash of her hand, she dismissed Elizabeth’s question. And Elizabeth. “Cappelletti . . . I know that name. How do I know that name? Oh, yes, Esmeralda Cappelletti.”
“She is my mother.”
“But of course.” Aunt Tilly shook her head, laughing as if surprised she hadn’t made the connection sooner. “That explains why you look familiar.”
Sophie’s face went dead white, a clear indication that Elizabeth’s suspicions of her parentage were warranted. For her part, Aunt Tilly didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy gushing over the incomparable Esmeralda Cappelletti.
“I had the pleasure of attending one of your mother’s performances in London. Exquisite voice, captivating stage presence, really quite delightful.”
Recovering from her initial reaction, Sophie pasted a pleasant smile on her face. “I’ll pass along your words of praise.”
“Please do. Oh, to think, I have come this close”—Aunt Tilly lifted her hand, closing her forefinger within an inch of her thumb—“to meeting the most celebrated diva of our generation.”
As Aunt Tilly expounded on Esmeralda’s wonderful, charming, not-to-be-forgotten talent, Sophie’s expression didn’t change. She continued smiling stiffly, unmoving, hardly even blinking.
At last, Aunt Tilly took a breath. Elizabeth seized the opportunity to send the woman in search of another new dress for her to try on. It would mean an additional hour of being pinned and poked, but she wanted a brief moment alone with her friend and had been unable to think of another solution.
She had so much to ask Sophie, so much she wanted to know. But they were strangers now.
Needing privacy for their conversation, she sent the seamstresses away as well. Once she and Sophie were alone, she placed a hand on the other woman’s arm. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Home,” Sophie repeated. “Yes, I am home.”
She shifted her gaze to where Elizabeth was touching her, staring at her hand for a long moment before placing her palm atop Elizabeth’s. When she lifted her head, her expression was full of anguish.
“Do you remember the games we played?” Sophie asked, changing the subject with an alacrity that would have impressed Elizabeth if she hadn’t been concerned for the repercussions of the girl’s presence in New York, months before Penelope’s wedding. “Hide-and-go-seek was always my favorite.”
Elizabeth agreed with a smile and a nod. She couldn’t seem to push words past her throat as time shifted and bent in her mind. Memories once again bombarded her in a shocking assault to her senses.
Sophie’s mother in the private opera house . . .
Day after day, the children sent outside to play in the gardens . . .
The endless rehearsals they weren’t allowed to attend, the ones they were . . .
Warren Griffin always there, offering his opinions, his direction . . .
The absence of Violet Griffin at the formal performances . . .
“Oh, Sophie, you look so much . . .” Like Luke and Penelope was what she wanted to say. Instead, she tempered her speech. “So worldly, far more than when we were children.”
Sophie laughed, a pretty, melodic sound. “I suppose that’s because I have traveled the world.”
At last, Elizabeth found her smile. “I can only imagine how exciting that must have been. I suspect you have seen great wonders.”
“Allora, yes. But America is my home.”
Home. The way she said the word, with reverence and conviction and furious intent. That sense of foreboding returned. “Are you here for a long visit?”
“I am here to stay.”
“How . . . wonderful.”
They shared a tense smile.
“Have you seen Penelope yet?”
“Not yet.” A flash of guilt crossed Sophie’s face. “Soon.”
“She will be so happy to see you.”
“Will she?” Something unpleasant came and went in the other girl’s face, full of intent. “I wonder.”
A gasp worked its way up Elizabeth’s throat. She swallowed it back. Unfortunately, her fear remained. Fear for her friend and the repercussions to her and her family, particularly if what she suspected had brought Sophie to America was true.
If Elizabeth noticed the family resemblance, others would as well.
She knew it wasn’t her place to interfere. Griffin family matters weren’t her concern. But Elizabeth couldn’t help worrying, not only for Penelope, but for Luke, and Sophie, too. If she was Warren’s daughter, she deserved to take her place in the family.
At what price?
“Penelope is engaged to be married.”
Two perfectly winged eyebrows lifted. “Is she?”
“His name is Simon Burrows. He’s from a proper Knickerbocker family. His reputation is impeccable.”
Sophie’s gaze hardened. “You are telling me this to warn me.”
“No. Well, yes. Penelope is my closest friend. And so are you, Sophie,” she added hastily when the young woman’s gaze darkened even further. “I would not wish for you to be harmed, any more than I would want Penelope hurt.”
Sophie stared at her, seeming to consider her words, weighing and measuring.
There was a chill in the air now, seeped with emotion.
Sophie’s breathing hitched, making her tremble. Only then did Elizabeth realize she was still clutching the other woman’s arm. She released her grip and looked into the hauntingly familiar eyes. There was so much need and defiance staring back at her, so much loneliness and disillusion, and a wild, desperate hope. Elizabeth hurt for this woman, her friend.
Was it any wonder she’d always loved Sophie? She was related to two of he
r favorite people. Not simply related, she was their half sibling. The revelation would cause a great scandal. Luke had warned Elizabeth that disobedience came at a cost. She’d been too headstrong, too naïve and selfish to understand. Her pitiful little list of rebellions seemed trite now. Except for one of the most recent entries.
Love without reservation.
Suddenly, she knew exactly what to say to ease this woman’s mind.
“I will stand by you.” She would do the same for Penelope, and for Luke. “No matter what happens in the next few days, Sophie, I will not forget our friendship or what we once meant to each other.”
Abruptly, Sophie’s tattered control broke. Great, raw sobs poured from her as she stood rigidly, her hands clutched tightly together at her waist. With tears streaming down her cheeks, Sophie’s eyes were locked with Elizabeth’s as if the past connecting them was her only hope.
Grasping the enormity of her friend’s torment, Elizabeth wrapped her arms around the girl as tightly as she could. In the midst of the emotional chaos, her mind went to Luke.
Luke. She must warn him before the scandal broke.
Chapter Twenty
Luke was deep at work reviewing an article on the benefits of a four-speed transmission versus a three-speed when a knock came at his office door. Concentration sufficiently shattered, he looked up. “Enter.”
His assistant, Franklin Southerland, a thin young man with regular features and a tentative smile, stuck his head in the room. “Excuse me, Mr. Griffin, I know you requested not to be disturbed, but a young lady is here to see you.”
“Did she give her name?”
The clerk’s Adam’s apple was bobbing, and his gaze danced around the room, landing nowhere in particular. “Miss Elizabeth St. James, sir.”
Luke scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and glanced at the clock on his desk. Four o’clock, three hours after the shopping excursion Elizabeth had scheduled with her aunt.
His first instinct was to send the troublesome woman away. He did not have time for another argument concerning her bothersome list. He certainly didn’t have time for her quiet smiles and unforgettable adventures in the rain and the way she made him yearn for things lost to him years ago.
