Appearances mattered a great deal in the Beale household. Every objet d’art on every stick of fashionable furniture in their grand house spoke to the Beale family’s wealth. So did every stitch of clothing they wore, including Penny’s blue-and-cocoa Worth ensemble from Paris.
Perhaps that was the biggest reason Mother wasn’t enthusiastic about Penny’s work at the Home for Friendless Girls. No one saw fit to describe it in the society pages.
A pity. The home would need a new patroness once Penny moved to England. She could continue to send financial support, but who would step into her place, reading to the girls?
The tightening of her chest started Penny down a road of anxiety she must stop now, before it got too late. She took a deep breath, remembering the kind face of her governess, Miss Foster—a name Penny couldn’t pronounce as a small child and had shortened to Frosty.
Frosty used to hold Penny close when she was anxious, cradling Penny’s cheeks in her hands and reminding her to breathe. God is with you.
If Frosty were here, she’d look Penny in the eye and do the same. Frosty was with God now, but her love and wisdom remained in Penny’s heart. Thankful that Frosty had taught her about God’s care, Penny breathed and remembered she could trust Him to provide for the girls’ home.
And for her own life, too, at this time of change.
Alma sighed, drawing Penny’s attention to the present. Her friend scrutinized a sculpture, a quizzical look wrinkling her delicate nose. Everything about Alma was delicate: her tiny build and diminutive stature made her look like a fashionable doll. Alma nudged Penny. “I am poor company in a museum. I pretend to understand art for the sake of appearances.”
Appearances again. Penny shook her head. “No need to pretend with a dear friend.” Except, perhaps, when it came to the topic of today’s society pages. Penny couldn’t dishonor her parents by confiding in Alma—at least, not yet, and not in public.
Besides, the facts listed in the newspaper were true. There was no disputing them:
Lionel Retford, Earl of Hawton, of Nottinghamshire, England, arrived in Philadelphia yesterday, taking rooms at the Bellevue. His lordship dines tonight at the Rittenhouse Square home of Mr. and Mrs. Edwin Beale and their daughter, Miss Penelope Beale, and is expected to attend the family’s upcoming ball.
The report was true, but tantalizing in its suggestion. One needn’t speculate overlong to suspect the earl did not cross the Atlantic to attend a ball ….
Unless it was held to celebrate his betrothal to the Beales’ daughter.
Anxiety squeezed Penny’s rib cage tighter than her corset. She couldn’t get enough air to quell the panicky feeling swirling in her stomach.
You are with me, God. You are with me—
“You’ll be a lady, a titled English lady,” Alma whispered. “Can you credit such a thing?”
Oh, this wasn’t helping at all. “Lord Hawton has not asked yet. My, look at this sculpture—”
“He’ll propose,” Alma interrupted. “Why wouldn’t he? You’re kind, well mannered, exquisite to look at, and your hair was the envy of Newport this summer—don’t tell me it wasn’t.” Her gaze raked Penny’s chestnut coiffure, pinned under her picture hat.
Ridiculous. It wasn’t Penny’s pompadour style that Lionel, the well-bred but cash-poor Lord Hawton, wanted.
It was her inheritance. But she couldn’t tell Alma that.
Panicky jitters spread to Penny’s legs and arms. Thinking of Lord Hawton tended to do that to her. She’d met him a handful of times in London, and while he was pleasant enough, they’d discussed naught but weather, a play they saw, and his enjoyment of grouse hunting in August. There had been no spark of attraction, no meeting of minds, no talk of anything spiritual—all things Penny had wished for in a husband. Yet her parents thought him perfect for her.
Or rather, they thought his title perfect, a fair exchange for a significant dowry that would shore up his crumbling estate.
“Lord Hawton already has a little daughter for you to love, too.” Alma’s hand landed over her heart. “I cannot wait for a family of my own. But Mama doesn’t want to part from me.”
What a twist. Penny’s parents were shipping her to England while Alma’s mother couldn’t bear to say goodbye.
Alma released her arm, as if mistaking Penny’s quaver for the desire to examine something else.
Breathe. God is here. Look at the art.
Then she saw it, a painting on the opposite wall, beckoning her to step closer. She strolled toward it, her gaze locked on the pastoral scene of a stable’s interior, complete with sheep and chickens illumined by shafts of sunlight peeking through the rough wooden planks of the barn. A peaceful image, it reminded her of scenes of Jesus’ birth, although no baby lay in the feeding trough. Another museum patron viewed the painting, but there was ample room beside him for her to admire the canvas, too.
Nevertheless, her gaze flickered to the man beside her. Tall and slender, he wore a gray suit and a moss-green ascot tie that complemented his coffee-brown hair. To her surprise, he smiled down at her.
“Serene, isn’t it?” His accent betrayed him as an Englishman.
Mother would never approve of her exchanging anything more than a curt nod with a strange man, yet he’d said nothing untoward. And something about him beckoned her to continue a conversation. “That’s what I like best about it. I might have commented about the composition, or Verboeckhoven’s talent, but you phrased it best. The serenity of the scene.”
Dark eyes twinkled at her from a lean, handsome face. “You’re familiar with the artist?”
Caught. Heat surged up from her chest to her neck. “Not in the least. His name is labeled on the plaque.”
He laughed, and she joined in. My, he was attractive. She’d encountered her share of well-to-do, nice-looking fellows, both at home and on her European trip earlier this year with her parents. But none had captured her attention quite like this one.
Penny compressed her lips. She’d best stop this at once—whatever this was. A flutter of attraction for a complete stranger? She was not at liberty to entertain such a notion. She returned her attention to the painting.
He shifted. “I’m glad you’re not familiar with the artist. It frees you to interpret the work on your own, without someone telling you how it’s supposed to make you feel or what to think about it.”
Not being told how to feel or what to think? The idea of such liberty made Penny’s chest ache. “I’ve never thought of art that way.”
Or that her feelings and thoughts mattered, beyond shoving them down so she might better obey her parents. Frosty had listened to her, but that was so long ago now.
“A true tragedy.” The gentleman smiled, revealing even teeth and charming dimples in his clean-shaven cheeks. “I hope such perspective helps you view things differently in the future.”
By things he meant art, of course, but it applied to her life, too. In her twenty-one years, she’d never needed to hear another’s words more. Peace settled over her shoulders like a cozy cashmere scarf. “It will.”
Thank You for dropping this man on my path today, Lord. No matter what happens this evening, I will remember what this man’s words made me realize: that You care about my feelings and thoughts, and You alone can help them become what You wish them to be.
And what God seemed to wish was that she wed Lord Hawton.
“I enjoyed our chat.” His accent made the words sound like honey and cream.
A man of thirty or so years in a brown plaid suit blustered into the room, dripping wet from the rain. When he spied the gentleman beside Penny, his shoulders sagged in relief. “Sorry to be late, chap.” Another Englishman.
“I scarcely noticed, Whitacre.” The gentleman bowed his head at her. “Good day.”
“Good day, sir. And thank you.”
Alma studied a painting as if trying to memorize it. Penny drew alongside, curving her arm through her friend’s. A few more paintings and i
t would be time to go home and get ready to receive Lionel, Lord Hawton, her future husband.
Perhaps she should ask the Lord to help her be happier about it.
“I say.” Seymour Whitacre waved his hand before Emmett Retford’s nose. “Quit looking at her.”
Emmett dragged his gaze from the lady in blue, who sauntered from the room arm in arm with her friend. “Sorry, Whitacre. You were saying?”
“If you find the master of the house trustworthy, then I trust your instincts. Tell him. It’s easier to get the information we need when amateurs like you aren’t skulking about for it.”
“Amateur?” Emmett laughed. “You wound me. My previous task for you went off quite well, thank you very much.”
“Don’t be smug. All you had to do was verify the authenticity of that Rubens.”
“At no small cost. I was stuck at that abysmal house party.”
Whitacre scratched behind his ear, mussing his macassar-slick black hair. “Let’s hope tonight isn’t so dreary for you then, eh? I’ll meet you at my hotel tomorrow for a report.”
The rest of the afternoon, Emmett couldn’t stop smiling. Whitacre was one to lift the spirits, of course, but the young lady in blue he’d encountered in the art museum charmed him to his shoes.
What was her name? It would have been bold and impertinent to ask her outright, but he hoped they’d encounter one another again.
Then he’d learn her name.
If it’s Your will, God, anything is possible.
Even achieving his secret task for the Crown, the real reason he came to Philadelphia.
Well, that bit of spy work, and his niece, Viola.
Viola’s rap on his wrist dragged him to the present, where they sat on the plushcarpeted floor of their suite at the Bellevue. “Uncle Emmett, you aren’t listening.”
“Sorry, poppet. Lost in thought.” He shifted positions, crossing his legs on the other side of the pretend tea table Viola had built of several stacked books. “What was it Amelie did?”
Amelie, Viola’s doll, slumped on the cushions at his side, her porcelain face smeared with scarlet.
“Ate all the strawberry jam.” Viola shook her head, making her brown curls bounce. Even at seven years of age, she looked like a dowager when she made that disapproving face. “How rude of her.”
“Amelie must be hungry.” But where had Viola hidden the jam while Emmett daydreamed about the dark-haired miss from the museum? Some doting uncle he was. He peeked under the floral cobalt fabric skirting the chair beside them. Ah, there was the pot of jam. Better that he found it than the hotel’s housekeeping staff. America may lack some of the formalities of home, or so he’d heard, but forgotten jam pots moldering under the furniture were no doubt unpleasant surprises in every country.
He was wiping sticky jam off his fingers when Viola’s governess, Miss Partridge, bustled into the parlor. A woman of middle years, she wore a plain gray gown, a starched cap, and a sweet expression. She bobbed a curtsy. “Mr. Retford, sir.”
Viola pointed at her doll. “Amelie ate the jam, Miss Partridge.”
“We shall clean the both of you up at once, then.” Miss Partridge’s smile was indulgent. Emmett once again thanked God that Viola was cared for by such a compassionate woman.
It must be time for Viola’s bath. And for Emmett to leave for dinner. He rose to his full height and stretched his cramped legs. “Did you finish your pudding, poppet?”
Viola scraped her fork over her plate to capture every crumb of the jam-and-biscuit dessert. “It wasn’t pudding, Uncle Emmett. It was a tea party.”
“Of course. Thank you for the tea, Lady Viola, Miss Amelie. Until morning?”
She spun to Miss Partridge. “I want to go with Uncle and Papa.”
“Not this time.” Miss Partridge patted Viola’s shoulder.
“Tomorrow.” Emmett bent to wipe the smear of jam from Amelie’s porcelain face with his linen napkin before the matter was forgotten and Viola clutched the doll to her white pinafore. “Tonight is for the adults.”
Her tiny lips curled into a pout, even as her father, Emmett’s eldest brother Lionel, entered the parlor from his chamber. His evening finery resembled Emmett’s, although it was sharper; no doubt helped by his valet, Lionel looked the heir he was, from the soles of his leather shoes to the silk of his top hat. Emmett managed to knot a reasonable-looking white tie about his neck himself, and his black wool tailcoat didn’t sport a speck of lint, but he would never make the sort of impression Lionel did because he lacked that indescribable something in manner that conveyed nobility. And as a fourth son, he never would.
Not that he minded. How could he, when his life was so rich? Uncle to Viola, with work he enjoyed, and now this secret errand for Queen and country?
A thrill of anticipation shot through his limbs. He’d come to Philadelphia for this purpose. Now he had an additional objective for his visit, to return to the museum he visited today, in hopes that the dark-haired lady in blue visited, too.
“Are you whistling?” Lionel’s brow scrunched.
Emmett caught his lips midpucker. “I daresay I was.”
“Uncle Emmett isn’t attending today.” Viola stood on tiptoe for Lionel’s brief kiss to her crown. “Good night, Papa.”
Emmett bent to hug her. “Sleep well, poppet.”
Lionel waited in the vestibule, smoothing his neat mustache. “We mustn’t be tardy.”
With a nod to Miss Partridge, Emmett hastened after Lionel. The cool evening air swirled down his collar and chilled his spine, and the carriage wasn’t much warmer. He’d heard Americans overheated their homes, however, and he wondered if it would be so tonight.
“Nervous, Lionel?”
“Not too. It’s a solid arrangement, and the lady is a decent sort.”
Emmett shook his head. “Sounds like a merger, not a marriage.”
“It is both. Look where marrying for love got me the first time. Brief happiness, but now we’ve had to sell off anything that wasn’t entailed. If I don’t make a practical alliance this time, it’ll devastate us.”
Us? Emmett didn’t live at Hawton Park anymore. Still, the estate was part of his heritage. “Have faith.”
“I don’t need faith. I need a million pounds sterling.”
“And a mother for Viola?” That would have been Emmett’s top priority.
Lionel shrugged. “Miss Partridge does what needs doing, but speaking of mothers … I should like an heir, although the line is secure enough, between you and our brothers—ah, we are here.” The carriage pulled to a halt in a neat neighborhood of fine houses built around a grassy park. The dwelling to their right appeared crafted of stone, with a grand entrance flanked by Greek-style columns and marble statuary.
Mr. Beale’s banking fortune was enormous to afford such a residence.
Lionel smoothed his mustache again. “Ready to meet my bride?”
Pity for the young lady soured Emmett’s stomach. “She hasn’t said yes yet, brother.”
They stepped out of the carriage, and Lionel’s confused features were illumined in the streetlamps. “Why wouldn’t she? She’ll be a countess.”
Her money for Lionel’s title. The exquisite town manor before them for the freezing cold, crumbling pile of stone back in England. What an exchange.
At least Emmett wouldn’t share such a fate. “Some of us wish to marry for love.”
“Some of us can’t afford to. All we Retfords have is our breeding and a pile of debt.”
“And our dignity.”
Emmett also had a modest salary from the university and a faith in God. And when he wed, he’d want a woman who was his friend. Someone with a giving heart. And yes, he wanted love, too. For there to be a flash of attraction, as he’d experienced with the lady in blue today at the museum, a spark that would grow into something lasting and deep.
Lionel rapped the massive front door with his silver-tipped walking stick. Emmett squared his shoulders as the door open
ed to admit them.
Within a moment they were ensconced in a grand foyer, decorated with marble and gold. A manservant took their coats and led them to an elaborate parlor trimmed in red and dark wood, where a couple with gray tingeing their dark hair waited near the marble hearth. Behind them was a slender woman. Lionel’s intended—
Her. The lady in blue from the museum.
Emmett almost forgot to bow and smile when Lionel introduced him to Mr. and Mrs. Beale and their daughter, Penelope.
Her name was Penelope.
He’d daydreamed about visiting the museum tomorrow at the same time on the chance she would be there again, too. But now, she’d be in his life through the decades to come.
As his brother’s wife.
Chapter 2
Penny’s mouth stuck around the polite words of greeting she’d rehearsed for Lionel and his youngest brother. So good to see you again, Lord Hawton. Nice to meet you, Mr. Retford.
But the words weren’t appropriate anymore. She’d already met Emmett Retford at the museum.
Everyone peered at her with expectant expressions, except for him. His chocolate-brown eyes reflected her sense of astonishment.
Penny! The voice in her head might as well have been Mother’s scold, but it broke her tongue loose. “Welcome, Lord Hawton. Mr. Retford. So good to see you again.”
So good to see Lord Hawton again, she should have said. Mother’s glance was sharp.
Mr. Retford tipped his head toward Mother. “Miss Beale and I shared a few passing comments on a canvas at the museum today. I’d no idea she was Miss Beale, of course.”
How kind of him to save her from her slip. Penny smiled her thanks. His return smile melted something in her knees.
“Please.” Father bade them to be seated. Then he coughed, a dry, unproductive sound that made Penny’s stomach swoop. Father coughed like that when he experienced a heart palpitation, as a way to “get the drum beating again,” he would say. The palpitations were harmless, he’d said, but induced by too much work. Would he rest easier soon? She prayed so.
The American Heiress Brides Collection Page 15
