The American Heiress Brides Collection

by Carter, Lisa; Davis, Mary; Dietze, Susanne

  She watched eagerly as the passengers continued to spill from the train. But the flood soon became a trickle, and at last a uniformed conductor stepped off the train, patting his belly in search of his watch chain. Fumbling, he pulled out the fob and tapped it.

  Anne approached him. “Isn’t there anyone else on board?”

  “Nope. Everyone’s off.”

  “That can’t be. My aunt was supposed to be on this train. It was all confirmed.”

  “Don’t know what to tell you. There ain’t any old ladies hiding back there. Something must have stopped her making the train.”

  Brow furrowed, Anne turned away. “I sure hope nothing awful has happened.”

  Lottie touched her arm and then jerked her chin toward the mother and son, who were the only passengers remaining on the platform. They were looking about them as if waiting for someone, though studiously ignoring Anne and Lottie. “Maybe that’s her.”

  Turning, Anne gave her skirt’s short train a kick out of the way and marched over to them. “Excuse me, folks. I’m looking for Irene Carver. Is that you, ma’am? Or maybe did you meet her on the train?”

  The woman looked horrified and raised a lorgnette to her eyes. She peered at Anne through the little slivers of glass like she was examining something repulsive under a magnifying lens. “Who might you be, young woman?”

  “I’m Anne Shepherd. I’m her niece.”

  “That’s impossible.” The woman’s lips were twisted as if she smelled something rotten.

  Anne straightened her spine. “Why would I make it up? Are you Mrs. Carver?”

  There was a flicker in the woman’s eye.

  “You are, aren’t you?” Anne pressed. “I know I don’t favor my father much.” She moved in to embrace her aunt. The woman wasn’t very friendly, but this must all be very strange for her. Moving all the way across the country could make anyone cranky. Anne was determined to make allowances.

  The woman stood stiffly, responding to the hug with a bare raising of her arms.

  “And that must make you my cousin.” Anne moved to embrace the young man who had accompanied her aunt. He smelled nice. A little bit of the coal smoke from the train, but also cloves and a touch of hair tonic and clean linen. He felt nice, too. Warm and solid, and he was less shy than her aunt about returning the embrace.

  “Move away from him at once. That is not your cousin.”

  “Oh.” Anne pulled away, cheeks stinging. She looked again at the older woman. “You are …?”

  “Yes.” The woman sighed. “I’m Irene Carver, and this is Perseus Jackson Wilberforce the Second. He is the son of family friends and graciously accompanied me.”

  Despite his cane, Mr. Wilberforce swept off his hat and managed a creditable bow. His movements were lithe, and Anne surmised that when he wasn’t injured he was probably fairly athletic.

  “I prefer Jack.” His voice was an undertone. Anne was pretty sure only she could hear him.

  Anne extended her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m sure sorry I grabbed hold of you.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought, Miss Shepherd. I’ve never been more pleasantly attacked.” His warm smile as he spoke took any possible sting from the words.

  Anne chortled. “You’re a good sport about it anyway.”

  “Miss Shepherd.” Mrs. Carver’s imperious tone froze the humor of the situation. “Am I correct in believing that you are wearing a ball gown?”

  “Yes. Isn’t it pretty? I wanted to wear my nicest dress to welcome you to town. I figured if there’s anything worth celebrating, it’s finding family when you thought you were alone.”

  Her aunt started to speak, but Mr. Wilberforce cut across whatever it was she might have said. “That is a lovely sentiment and very kind of you.” He glanced at his companion, who was turning a vivid shade of pink. “I’m afraid Mrs. Carver is exhausted from her travels. Can we get her someplace she might lie down and refresh herself?”

  “Of course.” Anne was instantly remorseful for keeping them both standing and waiting so long. “I’ve got the carriage waiting.”

  Jack peered at the modern city sprawling around them as they left the railroad depot on Market Street. Miss Shepherd’s carriage was luxuriously appointed, and the city around them was nothing like the shantytown he’d expected. It looked as prosperous and permanent as any of the cities out east. More so than some. He grimaced at the well-tended shop windows and bustling businessmen. There was nothing remotely wild about this west.

  It looked like he’d have to head up into Alaska territory to find real, untouched wilderness. Just as soon as his foot was healed he would figure out the best way to get there. One thing was for certain, there was no way he was returning to hidebound Boston. This was his chance, and he was grabbing hold of it.

  The streets of San Francisco seemed to be made of nothing but hills, and the carriage was once more climbing at a grade that made Jack’s calves ache just looking at it. The homes were growing larger and larger until they came to a neighborhood of great sprawling palaces that shouted their wealth to passersby.

  This most certainly was a departure from Boston, where wealth hid itself behind a pretense of genteel shabbiness. This flamboyance had an air about it, and he began to suspect that Miss Shepherd’s scarlet-and-gold ball gown was more fitting to this place and these people than Mrs. Carver’s black. He glanced at his family’s formidable neighbor and knew without a doubt that she was having no such reflections. The set expression on her face made it clear that she would make every effort to bring this city, and most especially Miss Shepherd, to heel.

  In the meantime, Miss Shepherd was chattily pointing out features of the city and trying to make herself agreeable. She was appealing, with auburn hair that seemed determined to caress her face, pale blue-gray eyes, and a smattering of freckles over apple cheeks. It was difficult to imagine that after her father’s death, this slip of a girl had single-handedly worked his claim and uncovered one of the biggest lodes in California. Not only that, but she had been managing her own affairs since then. Beneath the sunny smile, she must have a spine of steel.

  The carriage paused in front of an enormous turreted palace. He was still trying to absorb the ostentation when the carriage turned into the drive. He counted at least five stories if one included the tallest central tower. A glass-domed greenhouse was affixed to one side of the house. Great windows and slender columns proliferated. Of course this would be Miss Shepherd’s house—blindingly new and obvious, yet charming in its eccentricity, with an open, welcoming air. It was perfect.

  The driver pulled up smartly and the front door of the house was immediately flung open. A neat row of uniformed maids paraded out followed by a uniformed footman and finally an Asian man dressed in a frock coat. The staff lined up on the steps, hands clasped behind their backs. The coachman opened the carriage door and handed down Mrs. Carver then Miss Shepherd.

  Miss Shepherd waited politely for Jack to extract himself from the vehicle. Then she linked her arm through her aunt’s. Jack could see the older woman stiffen, but Miss Shepherd seemed not to notice. She walked her aunt along the line of waiting staff members, introducing each one. Mrs. Carver seemed to be making an effort to be gracious. She indulged each person with a regal nod.

  Having run the gauntlet, Miss Shepherd conducted them inside. Used as he was to the restraint of Boston, Jack nearly choked as they entered. The front door opened on a central atrium that soared all the way to the roof. This central area was lined by balconies with doors leading off to various rooms. Dark, polished wood was carved into banisters and posts and columns. The floor beneath their feet was of gleaming marble, dotted by gorgeous Turkish carpets in vivid reds, golds, and blues.

  “Refreshments in the parlor first, then I believe Mrs. Carver would like to rest.” Miss Shepherd spoke to the Asian man, who Jack had to assume was her butler. She turned inquisitively to Mrs. Carver. “Perhaps you’d like to have a bath drawn as well?”

 
“No.” The ring of finality in the woman’s tone made it sound as if she never intended to bathe again.

  Miss Shepherd turned her gaze to Jack. “And you, Mr. Wilberforce? Would you care to have a bath?”

  Practically salivating at the thought of being free from grit and the smell of smoke, Jack was grateful for her consideration. “You have no idea how welcome that would be, Miss Shepherd.”

  She offered a winsome smile as she ushered them into an opulent parlor fitted out with every modern convenience. “Oh, believe me, Mr. Wilberforce, I’ve come in off a long trail quite a few times. There’s nothing like a warm bath to make a body feel human again.”

  Mrs. Carver cleared her throat loudly.

  Miss Shepherd put a hand on the older woman’s back and ushered her to a chair. “Goodness, you sound dreadful. Let me go check on rushing that tea along for you.”

  She swept from the room, and Mrs. Carver lay back in her chair and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, waving it before her face as if she felt faint.

  Jack had seen a number of these spells on the long train journey, but he tried to remain kind. “Are you well, Mrs. Carver? I’m sure we can call in a doctor if need be.”

  “It’s this girl. This dreadful, vulgar girl. She doesn’t have the first notion of proper behavior.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “When I saw her on the platform wearing that—that getup, I thought she must be a woman of …” She couldn’t seem to bring herself to say it. “I thought she was not as she should be.”

  Jack refrained from saying what came to mind.

  Mrs. Carver continued to fan herself weakly. “I’ve never seen such an ostentatious display as this house. It’s grotesque. And did you see? I think her butler is Chinese.”

  “Oh, he is.” Miss Shepherd’s voice was a silvery rush. “Bao Chang is wonderful. He takes care of simply everything around the house. I swear I don’t lift a finger. His wife, Mei Lin, is my cook.” She settled herself on a settee across from her aunt. “That woman knows her way around noodles. She has opened my eyes to a whole new way of eating.”

  “You have a Chinese cook?” Mrs. Carver sounded as if she hoped she had heard incorrectly.

  “Sure enough do. You are in for a treat.”

  Bao Chang entered at that moment with a tray laden with tea things.

  “Bao Chang, I’ve been talking you up to my aunt.”

  “Miss is too kind.” His voice was quiet, the accent very slight. He placed the tray at Miss Shepherd’s right hand and gave a bow before slipping out of the room again.

  Miss Shepherd poured and offered a selection of cakes and savories that looked good to Jack, Chinese cook or no. He piled his plate high and ate his fill, though Mrs. Carver refused everything but the tea itself.

  Jack felt it incumbent upon himself to keep the conversation going. It wasn’t as difficult as it might have been. Miss Shepherd was quite willing to be pleased and interested, unlike her aunt, who seemed determined to find fault with everything.

  Poor Miss Shepherd, she had no idea what her generous impulse to bring her widowed aunt to live with her would cost.

  Chapter 2

  Silently, Anne sat and scraped butter on her toast. She reached for the little bowl of strawberry jelly then decided against it. Three days with Mrs. Carver had left her quivering like that poor jelly. Nothing she did was quite right: her manner was too frivolous, her dresses were too showy, her home too gaudy, and her cook too Chinese.

  Anne had done everything she could think of to welcome the older woman to San Francisco, but she was out of ideas and almost out of patience. Having invited Mrs. Carver to come live with her, however, she could hardly pitch her into the street after less than a week.

  As if Anne’s musings had summoned her, Mrs. Carver sailed into the room. As usual, she was kitted out in stiff black bombazine. She passed a critical eye over Anne’s far livelier dress of persimmon-colored silk done up with bows of sea-foam green. Anne immediately corrected her posture and removed her left hand from the table to lie primly in her lap.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Carver. I hope you slept well.” Always Mrs. Carver, never Aunt or Aunt Carver. The older woman had made it very clear that one ought to be invited before using such titles.

  Mrs. Carver surveyed the selection of food on the buffet. “How anyone can get a solid night’s sleep with the sound of those dreadful foghorns blaring away at all hours, I’ll never know.”

  “I’ve always liked the foghorns. They sound so melancholy and sort of romantic to me.” Mrs. Carver’s back stiffened and Anne hastened to amend her comment. “Lord willing, you’ll grow used to the sound and maybe even grow fond of it one day, too.”

  “Yes, well. We’ll see about that.” Mrs. Carver claimed a seat at the table and set down a plate graced by a single slice of toast and one slice of bacon.

  “If you’ll tell me what sort of food you prefer, I’ll be pleased as Punch to provide it for you.”

  “You needn’t concern yourself. I wouldn’t want to put anyone out on my account.”

  Mr. Wilberforce tromped in with his cane, sparing Anne the necessity of a reply. She greeted him enthusiastically, and he gamely joined in with sunny morning chatter. It seemed to Anne that he made an effort to be pleasant in direct proportion to her aunt’s grumpiness. By the time he took his seat, his plate was piled high with pancakes, sausages, bacon, and a mound of fluffy scrambled eggs.

  Anne passed him a jug of warmed maple syrup.

  Mrs. Carver cleared her throat. “Do you know anyone in this city?”

  “I know a lot of people.”

  “People worth knowing, I mean.” Mrs. Carver pinched her lips together in a way that made it clear she was wondering why she bothered. “It is customary that a relative would take a newcomer visiting when she arrives and make the appropriate introductions.”

  “Oh.” Anne’s breakfast felt like ashes in her throat. “I don’t—”

  Her aunt sighed. She looked at the toast she held poised delicately between two fingers, put it back down, then pushed away from the table. “I will be resting in my room for a while.”

  Mr. Wilberforce scrambled to stand as she left.

  Anne let her own piece of toast drop back on her plate. She stared at the eggs congealing on her plate for a long moment. Things could not go on like this. “Mr. Wilberforce?”

  He laid aside the newspaper he had reached for. “Yes, Miss Shepherd?”

  “My aunt thinks I’m vulgar and cheap and … and ignorant.”

  “Miss Shepherd, I don’t think—”

  She raised a hand. “I’d just as soon call a spade a spade. I grew up in mining and logging camps. I can climb trees, catch my own food, even make my own shelter in the woods if I need to, but I don’t know much about the world you and she come from. While you’re here, would you teach me how to be a more proper lady? The etiquette and stuff that she sets so much store by.”

  Mr. Wilberforce cocked his head at her request as if it had taken him completely by surprise. “You are a very unusual young lady, Miss Shepherd.”

  “I know. Like I said, I never learned—”

  He smiled gently. “It’s a compliment. Perhaps you’d be willing to work a trade?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “What do you have in mind?”

  He glanced in both directions as if afraid that someone was listening in on their conversation. “I don’t intend to go back to Boston. I’ve come west to make my own way in the world. I want to test my mettle.”

  “You sound like my father.”

  He nodded. “I always looked up to him. He seemed like some larger-than-life figure.”

  “What’s all this got to do with a deal?”

  “I’ll teach you about social niceties, if you agree to teach me wilderness lore in return. You’re clear-eyed about your situation, and I’d be a fool if I didn’t take the same attitude. I’ve read plenty of books, but I’ve never actually spent a night in the woods.”

 
Before that moment Anne believed that jaws only dropped open in books. “Not ever?”

  “Not ever. Do you think you can teach me a thing or two?”

  “Or three.” She grinned and offered her hand. “It’s a deal.”

  They shook on it.

  She tilted her head. “How should we get started?”

  “Your need seems more immediate than mine, Miss Shepherd. Where would you like to begin?”

  “You can call me Anne, you know. I’ve never been Miss Shepherded so much in my life.”

  He shook his head. “That’s a fine honor, but we don’t know one another well enough for such liberties yet.” His correction was tactful.

  “How well do you have to know someone to call them by their given name?”

  “With someone of the opposite sex, you’d need to be blood relations or very close family friends since childhood. Or …”

  “Or what?”

  “Or be engaged.”

  “Seems awful stuffy to me.”

  Mr. Wilberforce gave a short bark of laughter. “Just you wait.”

  Anne’s cheeks grew unaccountably warm. “But really, so long as I’ve given permission and everyone’s respectful, what’s the harm?”

  “It’s not about harm. It’s about appearances.” He leaned closer. “How about this. I’ll call you Anne, and you call me Jack, but only when we’re alone. That way we stay on your aunt’s good side.”

  “I’m not sure she has one.” Once more feeling as if she could face her food, Anne took a bite of crunchy toast.

  “If she does, we’ll find it.” Apparently, Mr. Wilberforce was an optimist.

  “Why do you want to be called Jack when your name is Perseus?”

  He sighed. “I prefer Jack.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She was surprised to see his ears turn pink. “No one would voluntarily be saddled with a name like Perseus.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. He was a hero of mythology, a doer of mighty deeds. It seems like a noble name. Certainly it has more character than Jack.”