“Well, don’t feel that you have to stay if you can’t stomach the sight of two people in love getting married,” the groom jested as he rose to his feet with the assistance of a cane and Eve’s arm.
“I suppose I might stay on,” Jack gave in. “I shall endeavor to turn away if the carnage upsets my delicate sensibilities.”
“Oh, please,” Eve mocked. “Jack Merrill, your day will come and I shall taunt you relentlessly when it does.”
Haddington merely shook his head and shuddered at the thought.
Francis took Laurie up in his arm and looked down into his little face. “My lord Shaftesbury, will it be acceptable for me to marry your mother?”
“If you marry my mother, you will become my father,” Laurie reasoned solemnly.
“Aye,” Francis nodded seriously, “that I will, if you might be able to accept such a thing.”
“I would like that very much, but,” he faltered a bit, but Francis gave him an encouraging nod, “but I will still be Shaftesbury, will I not, my lord?”
“You are Shaftesbury and always will be.”
The little boy’s shoulders sagged in relief. “That’s good. I have a responsibility to my people, you know?”
Francis grinned down at him. “As do I. Perhaps if your mother and I have another son who will someday become Glenrothes, I might count on you to help him understand his responsibilities as well as you do.”
Laurie smiled brightly in turn. “I should like that, my lord. I should like having a brother as well!”
“Very good,” Francis answered as he set the boy on the ground. “And perhaps you might choose to call me father before long?”
“Might I call you Papa?”
“I should like that very much,” was the serious reply. Francis was so pleased by the lad’s request that he asked in return, “And perhaps I might call you son? If you like?”
“Very much, my lord,” the boy returned, with a broad grin now.
Turning, he offered a folded piece of paper to Abby, “For you, minx.”
Abby smiled broadly as he slipped the fifty-pound note into her hand. “Well played, Francis.”
Francis offered his hand to Eve. “Shall we, my lovely bride?”
Flushed with happiness, Eve took Francis’ arm as he led her across the hall toward the larger drawing room at the front of the house, while the others fell in behind them. Her thoughts were a jumble of love for Francis, gratitude for his love of her son and eagerness for the moments to come. She was about to become his wife! A mere month ago, the very thought had paralyzed her with the same symptoms Jack expressed at the thought, but now! All she felt was excitement and anticipation. As much as she was about to become his, he was just as assuredly about to become hers.
She smiled beatifically up at him with her green eyes shining as they met the darker green of his.
“You look very beautiful this evening,” he whispered softly into her ear, seeing none of the slight bruising that marred her cheek and temple.
“So do you,” she returned, thinking he had never looked more handsome or happy as he did this night.
“No doubts?” he asked.
“Not one.”
With flourish, Hobbes swung open the double doors of the drawing room and bowed low. When he rose, she might have almost thought that there was a smile on his face and she smiled at him in return.
But when she walked into the room, her jaw sagged as she took in the bounty of flowers and candles that transformed the room as if her gown had come to life. A makeshift altar had been set up at the far end of the room, where a Catholic priest waited for them. The soft strains of music reached her and she located the violinist near the windows. A trail of rose petals marked the path to the altar.
Her sighs of appreciation blended with those of her two friends as she took in the scene. She could not imagine how all of this had gotten done so quickly and without her knowledge! It was lovely, just magical! Eve could not imagine a more perfect setting to mark her marriage to Francis.
“Do you like it?” he whispered softly in her ear.
Her eyes met his, bright with tears as joy pierced her heart. “You did all this?”
He nodded his eyes gleaming with pleasure and love.
“Why, Francis,” she smiled up at him and caressed his cheek lovingly. “This is almost, dare I say it? Romantic!”
“Only almost?” he teased and met her lips in a tender kiss.
Epilogue
The Glenrothes Townhouse
Carlton Terrace
Edinburgh, Scotland
Six Weeks Later
Perhaps it was the intensity of the silence in the cozy sitting room where Evelyn MacKintosh was reading Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil that made the slamming of the door and battery of voices below seem so loud. She was setting her book and tea on the side table and moving her sleeping son to the seat as a flurry of steps raced up the stairs. Rising, she opened the door just in time to meet her butler with his hand raised to knock. “What is it, Hobbes?”
“There seems to be a slight problem, my lady.” The old servant paused as if he did not know where to begin. If Eve hadn’t known better, she might have even said he was flustered, but dismissed the thought as unconceivable. “It appears that we have unexpected company.”
“Who is it?”
“A young female person of uneven temperament with a small girl-child and, if I am not mistaken, an aged Chinaman.”
“Aged Chinaman?” she echoed.
“Indeed, my lady, most particular.”
“I’ll see to it…” Eve rushed down the hall, wishing her husband were there as well. Her husband! She couldn’t stop the smile that flashed at the thought. The past six weeks had been more magical and fulfilling than she had ever imagined the days and nights of marriage might ever be. She’d never known such bliss and had been missing Francis mightily since he had gone to Glen Cairn for a meeting with his steward and would not return for a couple of days.
“I can’t believe this country!” were the words Eve heard as she reached the top of the stairs. She stood for a moment in the shadows and watched the late night visitor pace the foyer at a ripping speed. Her hair was disheveled and hanging from its coiffure at a precarious angle. The color was impossible to discern, given the rain and mud caking it. Her face was darkened with dirt and… soot? Her dress, once a probably very lovely yellow brocade, was torn and dirty and hanging limply to the ground. She was indeed in a temper, pacing as she was, and throwing her hands in the air. Fortunately, the countess could make out little of the stream of curses that were currently flowing from her lips.
“Damn Scottish idiots!” she heard briefly. “Can’t speak one decent word of English at all! I end up on the side of the road, in the rain with no way to get anywhere! Idiots! Every single one of them!”
“Is that so?” Eve questioned mildly as she descended the stairs. The words were soft but carried into the foyer as all eyes turned up to greet her. Two harassed looking footmen, one tiny old Chinaman holding a miraculously sleeping toddler and one angry, bedraggled woman.
“You there! Close that door,” Eve spoke with authority to the open-mouthed footman who stumbled over himself to do her bidding. “Now, may I ask what is going on here?” Her expression was serene until her eyes widened as they met the woman’s. “Kitty? Kitty, what is going on here?”
The four people before her, and the unusually nervous Hobbes to her rear, all began their versions of the tale at once in such loud voices Eve could barely hear herself think. “Enough!” Eve’s voice rang out and the hall fell completely silent. She wrapped an arm about Kitty’s shoulders. “You two may go,” she indicated to the footmen. “Is this your… servant? Yes, alright, Hobbes, please see to our guests and prepare a room for them and my sister.”
“Your sister, my lady?” Hobbes eyed Kitty skeptically.
“Yes, this is Mrs. Hayes, my sister from America.”
“A pleasure to be of service, m
adam.” He sketched a small bow to her. “May I bring you some refreshment, my lady?”
“Thank you. Tea in my sitting room, please.”
“Coffee?” came a small voice.
“Oh, dear,” Eve whispered, “I’m sorry, no. Chocolate?”
“That will be fine,” the disheveled woman answered as she took the sleeping child from the ancient Chinaman.
“As you wish, madam.” Hobbes started to lead the old man from the hall as Eve steered Kitty into the drawing room, when Kitty suddenly remembered, “Eve! My driver! He needs to be paid.”
“I shall see to it, madam,” Hobbes assured and snapped his fingers to nearby servants.
Once up the stairs and inside the sitting room, Eve flung her arms around her sister, disregarding the grime covering her. “Kitty! Oh, my goodness. Kitty, dear! How I’ve missed you! Oh, what are you doing here? Did Mama come with you? Da?”
It took Eve a moment to realize that her sister’s shoulders were shaking. A moment longer to realize she was crying. “Kitty! What is wrong?”
“Evie!” Kitty cried, as she clung to her sister. “I thought I’d never make it here! I left him! I left him!”
Prologue
Through this atmosphere of torrid splendor moved wan beings as richly upholstered as the furniture, beings without definite pursuits or permanent relations, who drifted on a languid tide of curiosity…
Somewhere behind them, in the background of their lives, there was doubtless a real past, yet they had no more real existence than the poet’s shades in limbo.
- Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth
Kilberry Manor
Newport, Rhode Island
June 1886
The wedding ball of Katherine Preston to Mr. Frederick Hayes of Boston was the first social event to be held at Kilberry Manor, the newest of the Newport summer ‘cottages’, since its completion just three months before. The guests for the ball numbered five hundred and seventy-two, nearly a hundred more than originally invited, making it by far the grandest single social event in the history of the social register. It was most certainly guaranteed to be the highlight of the social season, outshining even Mrs. Astor’s famed Summer Ball.
All the oldest and wealthiest New York families passing the summer at their Newport cottages were present, as were so many others who had come by train from New York and Boston, some from as far away as Philadelphia. Every member of the Knickerbocker set vied for an invitation to see and be seen by families with the names Vanderbilt, Goelet and Oelrich and for a chance to see the inside of the magnificent manor. Indeed, it was more immense than rumors had indicated. To the eyes of those seeing it for the very first time and entering into its halls, the overall effect was awe-inspiring.
Lelan Preston, the father of the bride, was widely considered one of the wealthiest men in America and most certainly in New York City. Bellevue Avenue was the most fashionable address for the elite to build their homes, as evidenced by mansions like Astor’s Beechwood, Jones’ Kingscote and the fabulous Chateau-Sur-Mer, and where the future summer cottages of Ogden, Goelet and William K Vanderbilt were being built. A non-conformist most of his life, Preston had chosen instead to build his glorious mansion high on the cliffs at the southern end of Ochre Point Road, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Or rather, as the Irishman claimed, looking home.
The four-story mansion’s immense proportions had been designed by Richard Morris Hunt, an architect of growing popularity among the wealthy of New York. Though its exterior was modeled after a sixteenth century Venetian palace at Mrs. Preston’s insistence, Mr. Preston had named it Kilberry Manor, after his childhood home in Ireland near the Hill of Tara. It was rumored to have more than fifty rooms lavishly displaying antiques and art collected from around the world, all modern conveniences including contemporary plumbing and electric lights, and luxuries, it was whispered, such as solid silver knobs on every door. The cost of the palace was debatable, given an incredible – and inconceivable – number of closed mouths, but speculation estimated a cost of more than seven million dollars for construction. Five million more to furnish it.
As the guests arrived for the ball that warm June evening and stared up in awe at the structure looming over them, it was easy to believe all the tattle. Exclamations rose from around the foyer of Kilberry Manor as guests entered the wide double doors of the grand Newport mansion. And they knew, one and all, when entering that there would never again be a night filled with such excitement and enchantment as this. Beyond its imposing edifice, the Grand Hall into which they entered was a full four stories tall, forty feet long and topped by an arched ceiling of colorful, elaborately detailed stained glass. There were hundreds of butterflies flitting through the hall, fountains cast their pleasing music while liveried footmen roamed the rooms with trays overflowing with champagne. Five orchestras played throughout the reception rooms luring guests through them into the ballroom, a cavernous yet stunning sixty-five foot room of white and gold. There, another orchestra played, calling the masses to the dance.
Once the eyes of the enthralled guests had consumed all they could of their surroundings, it was to the center of the dance floor their eyes turned as they watched the new Mrs. Frederick Hayes waltz gracefully about the large polished floor in the arms of her husband.
This evening marked the end of an engagement that had lasted almost two years. A short engagement period to some, but since the bride was already twenty years old it seemed the quicker she and her fortune approached the altar, the better off her family would be. The older sister, Evelyn, had married the previous summer after an engagement of just one short year. But since that marriage had taken place at a lavish ceremony at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and she had wed no less than an English earl, such a brief engagement had been easily overlooked.
It was generally assumed by those in attendance that evening, unlike the sister’s fairy tale-like romance, that this marriage was an arranged one – most were, among their acquaintance. Matrimony to Katherine Preston would mean an extremely secure financial future and a connection to one of the oldest families in New York through the Preston girl’s mother, a cousin of the Astors. Evelyn and Katherine were the sole heirs to their father’s outrageous fortune. This, of course, meant their husbands would gain all upon his death. Nonetheless, when the groom was young and handsome with elegant blond looks – the mere sight of him in his evening clothes enough to make many a young debutante in New York swoon with delight – and the bride so lovely, her fair beauty a perfect match with his, it was easy to get carried away by the assumption of a love-match.
Indeed, the groom had eyes for no one except his lovely bride.
Passing his new wife into the arms of her father, Freddie Hayes watched her closely as the older man swung his daughter around the floor in big, sweeping movements more appropriate to a playroom than a ballroom. Katherine clung to her father and squealed with delight as he swung her into the air. A tolerant smile lifted Hayes’ lips, for her joy only amplified his triumph. He had wed the most beauteous and wealthy heiress in the land. But a frown replaced his contented smirk when another young gentleman about the same age as his bride cut in on the dance, such as it was.
The man bowed with exaggerated flourish and Katherine returned it with a deep curtsy as Preston turned to his daughter making a comment that had the younger couple laughing. The younger man must be John Jacob Astor the Fourth, Hayes thought. Jack, as family and friends knew him, was a cousin to the Preston girls, but he’d heard that hadn’t stopped the matchmakers from pairing him with one of the two since infancy. It would have been a powerful alliance, he admitted, as both were heirs to large fortunes. The pairing of old money and new.
Of course, Hayes was a much better match for Katherine, he thought with a frown as she batted her eyelashes flirtatiously at the other man. His family was old Boston, money in banking. Combined with the shipping interests that Preston developed, they would be able to finance any new developments in the coming
years. His father had approached Preston several years before to contract a marriage with one of the girls. He had been put off several times as Mrs. Preston wanted a title for her daughters, but after a Season in London, only Evelyn had gained a titled husband, leaving Katherine to him. He preferred it thus, though his father had insisted either sister would do. But Hayes had long fancied the younger sister. It was not because of her looks, since the sisters looked enough alike to be twins. Rather her demeanor had drawn him. She was sweet and reserved as well as beautiful.
Never had he doubted that his proposal would be accepted for he knew himself to be a much sought after bachelor. Preston seemed happy enough to give his consent to the match and had agreed to inform Katherine of their engagement. He never heard for himself Katherine’s reaction but was certain she had been as overjoyed as he with the engagement. How could she not be when he adored her so?
He watched her dancing with Astor. Noted their closeness. Katherine did not know Hayes very well yet of course, or she would never have paid such marked and flirtatious attention to another gentleman. Hayes was a jealous man by nature, he had long ago admitted that to himself. He kept what was his. Katherine was now his.
It occurred to him perhaps he should make sure she knew that as soon as possible.
Unaware that she was being scrutinized so closely, Katherine, or Kitty as she liked to be called, tried to enjoy what was supposed to be the most exciting night of her life, as the bold strains of the waltz carried her as much as the arms of her partner, Jack Astor. Her cheeks flushed, her green eyes dancing as well. Perhaps not so much from excitement as from the three – or was it four? – glasses of champagne she had drunk so far. Her mind was very far from her upcoming wedding night.
Questions for a Highlander Page 55
