Portia laid aside the rest of her correspondence. Her ringed fingers gently tapped the inlaid mahogany of her writing desk. “How odd that this man should contact you only weeks after your arrival here.” The china-blue eyes with their wintry chill contrasted sharply with her creamy complexion and cupid’s bow lips. Despite her advanced age—she had passed her sixtieth birthday—Portia’s voluptuous shape and exquisite gowns continued to draw admiring glances even after four decades.
In her presence, Jocelyn by turns felt garish, gangly and impatient. Sometimes a longing surged through her to yank a hairpin out of her aunt’s perfectly arranged coiffure, or step on the train of one of her Worth evening gowns. Thus far she had managed to quell the impulse.
“I would imagine he read my name in the papers,” she suggested now. “I scarcely remember meeting him. It was only once, when I was very young.” At her present age of almost twenty-eight, seventeen was barely out of leading strings. Micah, she realized, was a very good teacher of how to disguise truth with verisimilitude. “Mama mentioned his people came from Scotland. My mother was Scottish, you know.”
“Mmm. Unrestrained lot, like the Irish, with a tendency to vulgarity. But I have met Mr. Carnegie, who, despite his ancestry, has distinguished himself, with something of a philanthropic bent I find most appealing.” She took a sip of imported spring water from a delicate crystal goblet probably worth more than Jocelyn’s Richmond town house. “That business with his steel mills in Pennsylvania, however, is most distressing. A man who can’t control the mob becomes part of it, regardless of his wealth. You might want to remember that, child.”
“Yes, ma’am. Shall I read the letter?”
“Please do. You have a pleasing voice, Jocelyn, despite the Southern drawl.” She flicked her an assessing glance that encompassed Jocelyn from the crown of her head to the lace trim of her morning tea gown. “Good heavens, you’d think by now something could have been invented to remove freckles. Have you tried the bleaching rinse I instructed Matilda to make for you, to tone down the excessive red of your hair? Perhaps if you watered down the rinse, it would do for a facial scrub, as well. Not that I wish to impugn your hair and face, child. You understand that, I’m sure. And in your own quaint way, you’re a very attractive woman. But I know how uncomfortable it makes you, when people gawk at you as though you were an exotic creature in a zoological park.”
By now Jocelyn had learned to deflect the thinly disguised barbs with a serene Mona Lisa smile. Concentrating on opening the envelope, she withdrew the single sheet of paper, and pretended she could absorb Micah’s touch through the words he had written. “I’ll read my cousin’s letter—I’m sure you’re as curious as I to hear what he has to say.” That quip earned her a sharp look. Jocelyn schooled her own face to stillness and, heart thrumming, began to read.
“My dear cousin Jocelyn,
I had long since given up hope of finding other family still living, but can today thank God for unexpected blessings. On one of my business trips to New York City, at a dinner party I attended someone mentioned they had recently enjoyed an evening at Madison Square Garden with the Brocks, and the widow of their nephew Chadwick Bingham. With utmost discretion, I assure you, I inquired as to whether the widow was the former Jocelyn Tremayne. The confirmation filled me with delight. However distant the blood tie, we may still claim kinship, which for me is worth more than gold. With these words, I formally announce my intention to call upon you and your hosts, Tuesday afternoon, at four o’clock, in order to enjoy, however briefly, getting to know a long-lost cousin.”
She looked up. “He signs it, Your servant, Micah L. MacKenzie.” The inclusion of the middle initial indicated that all was well, and they could proceed with the intended plan.
Her aunt extended an imperious hand, and Jocelyn silently handed the letter back.
“I trust you’ll conduct yourself with decorum, Jocelyn. This family has suffered quite enough scandal.”
Now Tuesday had arrived, bringing with it the formerly banished butterflies, and a fog of grayness that dimmed the golden autumn sunlight. “Katya, could you loosen the stays a notch? I don’t care if my aunt notices and tears a strip off me later. Right now I can’t breathe. I need to breathe, Katya….”
Her patient maid laid aside the brush and combs she’d gathered to arrange Jocelyn’s hair. Somberly she laid a careful hand over Jocelyn’s intertwined fingers. The gesture calmed—and tweaked a feeble spark of amusement.
The reserved, proper widow of Chadwick Bingham allowed a housemaid a degree of familiarity beyond the pale for any servant. Scandal indeed!
After Katya loosened the corset, while Jocelyn gratefully sucked in air and willed the grayness away, the maid wrote on her tablet. Do not worry. You and me, we are good. HE is gooder. You be all right.
“He’s better, not gooder, but either way, I know you’re right. I’m just…” She stopped. Despite the closeness they shared it was far too dangerous to confess, even to Katya, the Chinese-sparkler sensation Micah MacKenzie set off inside her. Confiding the feelings only lent them more credibility.
Heartbreak lurked over her shoulder. More likely than heartbreak, however, she’d find herself lying dead on a cold floor somewhere like Mr. Hepplewhite, and the Secret Service still wouldn’t have the proof it needed.
Yet mortal danger was preferable to heartbreak.
A few moments later, as Katya fastened the last button of her gown, the parlor maid knocked on the door to announce the arrival of a visitor for Mrs. Bingham.
Jocelyn and Katya stared at one another for a suspended moment, then with a strangled sound Jocelyn clasped the younger girl’s forearms, leaned forward and brushed her lips against her smooth forehead. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I couldn’t do this without you.”
She had just opened the door when behind her Katya stamped her foot. Turning, Jocelyn waited while the girl hurried across the room with her final note.
I believe God is with you two.
For a moment the walls closed in upon Jocelyn. “I’m glad you believe that,” she finally managed. “I know Micah agrees with you. And if God chose to be with anyone, it would be Micah MacKenzie.”
Katya scowled. Her head moved in a definitive headshake.
“Don’t,” Jocelyn forestalled her as she dug out paper and pencil. “I can’t, Katya. Not right now. Just—” she closed her eyes, but a longing deeper than the ocean, deeper than the bowels of the earth pushed the words past her constricted throat “—pray for him. For—for me. Please.”
And before her courage collapsed, she walked out into the hallway.
Micah had been shown into the formal reception room, a calculated move designed to impress first-time callers. For a shaky moment Jocelyn stood in the entrance between the French doors, soaking in the sight of the one man she could not dismiss from her mind. He looked taller than she remembered, his shoulders broader. The strong face radiated strength and restrained power. In a room designed to dwarf self-importance, Micah MacKenzie stood at ease, just as relaxed as if he were standing in the library of Jocelyn’s cozy, cluttered town house.
Even her aunt was not immune to his potent masculine appeal. Cheeks delicately flushed, the graceful hands more animated in their gestures, Portia Brock carried on a largely one-sided conversation while Micah listened, his head tilted attentively. An unpleasant possibility slipped into Jocelyn’s mind. What if, like almost every other man in Portia’s sphere, he’d been moonstruck by her voluptuous beauty, blinded into forgetting his own role in this dangerous game?
Jocelyn’s throat locked; her feet refused to move. For one terrifying instant she herself forgot every line she’d practiced in silence and secrecy the past two weeks.
Then Micah shifted, and caught sight of her. “At last. My dear long-lost cousin.” He’d altered his accent, adopting the drawl of a Southern tidewater aristocrat. Striding across the room, his back to Portia, he searched Jocelyn’s face with concern flickering in the gray e
yes. “Cousin Jocelyn? It’s been years.…Have I changed so much you don’t recognize me at all? My mustache is thicker, and you may recall lamb-chop sideburns are no longer fashionable.”
He stopped a scant yard away, concern deepening when Jocelyn still didn’t respond. “You’re more beautiful than I remember,” he tried next, and executed a perfect bow.
The undertone of facetiousness finally unlocked her paralyzed vocal cords. “It has been a long time.” The words bubbled forth, a little too high-pitched, a little too breathless. “You’ve grown into a handsome man. I’m very sorry our families lost touch over the years. How fortunate to make contact after so long.”
“I was just lamenting to Mr. MacKenzie that I find inquisitiveness a deplorable flaw,” Portia interposed, coming to stand beside them, her blue eyes bright, bathing Micah in warmth and the heavy scent of her French perfume. “Now I see I must forgive our acquaintances as their penchant for name-dropping has been a stroke of luck for us all. Come, sit down, shall we, and I’ll ring for refreshments.”
She beckoned for Jocelyn to precede her, a ruse Jocelyn had witnessed several times before, having discovered at the Brocks’ first dinner party that her aunt considered other females to be archrivals, regardless of their age. As though he hadn’t noticed, Micah smoothly stepped around the older woman, offering Jocelyn his arm. “Allow me, cousin.” He laid his palm over her fingers, not betraying by even the flicker of an eyelash the discovery that they were chilled, and damp. “My business in New York will require much of my time. But I have already extended my stay at the hotel in the hopes that we can become reacquainted.”
“I would like that very much.” Jocelyn allowed him to lead her over to a striped-silk Louis XIV side chair with a decorative motif of grotesque masks. An involuntary shudder rippled through her, which she covered with a question. “How long will you be able to enjoy this magnificent city, then?”
“Oh, several weeks, I should think,” Micah replied with a sympathetic smile. After he seated her he ran his fingers over the carved masks, then straightened as though he hadn’t just read Jocelyn’s thoughts with uncanny accuracy. “I have managers who can attend to matters back home while I conduct business here in New York.”
“And what sort of business allows you the pleasure of so much discretionary time, Mr. MacKenzie?” Portia sat down, pressing the foot buzzer with a little more force than necessary. “My dear husband is seldom free, you see. He’s something of a slave driver—Oh, dear! I do hope I haven’t offended you, Mr. MacKenzie, seeing as how you’re from Charleston.”
“No offense taken. Slavery’s an evil our country’s well rid of, and I’m the first man to admit it. However, I no longer live in Charleston. Early last year I moved to Washington, D.C., and live in a lovely neighborhood practically within hailing distance of the White House. I’ve made a lot of contacts there, all of them beneficial.”
“Then you’re only a day’s travel from Richmond, which is where I live,” Jocelyn exclaimed. “How delightful, having my only living relative so close when I return home.”
“But, Jocelyn, child, you must know we’re hoping you’ll look upon New York as your home now. There’s nothing for you in Virginia. A man of Mr. MacKenzie’s obvious stature in the business world can’t be expected to traipse back and forth from Washington to Richmond, even for a long-lost relative. You’d do yourself and him a grave disservice, depending too much on his goodwill.” Lips framed in an appealing pout, Portia leaned forward. “Perhaps you’re not aware of our niece’s tragic story. We don’t like to speak of the scandalous death of her husband, of course. But since you’re family…”
“All I know is that her husband died, some years ago,” Micah said, his gaze focused solely on Jocelyn, his voice gentle. “Quite a blow, isn’t it, when one is young.”
“Yes. But I’ve made a life for myself in Richmond, and do not foresee leaving—” She stopped, furious with herself.
“You mentioned she’s only been here a fortnight, Mrs. Brock?” Micah filled in the charged silence. “Two weeks is perhaps not long enough to convince my lovely Southern cousin of the advantages of living in one of the world’s greatest cities. Over the past few years I’ve made several visits here, and only now am considering the efficacy of purchasing property. I believe you mentioned that your husband is in real estate as well as banking? A conversation with him might prove helpful as I make a decision.”
“Our middle son, Virgil, handles real estate matters for one of his father’s banks.” Her nostrils still quivered, but by the time the maid rolled a tea cart laden with refreshments into the room, Portia was batting her eyes shamelessly at Micah. She passed him a delicate Limoges teacup the size of one from a child’s play set, which Micah accepted with aplomb. “I’ll arrange our calendar to include you as often as you’re free, Mr. MacKenzie.”
“Excellent. I’ll do my best to convince your niece to change her mind about New York.” He took a sip of the thick Belgian cocoa Portia loved. Jocelyn watched admiringly as without so much as a grimace he swallowed half the stuff, then slid a smile her way. “Of course, I might decide that Washington, D.C., offers her even more.”
“I think I’ll make up my own mind about where I choose to live, and when I choose to move,” Jocelyn whipped out with just enough spirit to wipe the smile off his face. “Right now, I’m enjoying the city, and everything it has to offer. My aunt and uncle have been most generous and hospitable.”
The conversation settled into ritual; twenty minutes later, at precisely at five o’clock, Micah set aside his cup and rose.
“May I escort him to the door, Aunt Portia? I know you were supposed to meet the Auckleys to attend that lecture.”
“Very well.” Her mouth pursed in a moue, but she acquiesced with surprising grace. “Mr. MacKenzie, I’ll send a dinner invitation soon, I promise.” After a final lingering look she rose and glided over the parquet floor, silk skirts rustling.
Mindful of listening ears, Micah waited until Portia had left the room before turning to Jocelyn. “You’re fine,” he murmured under his breath to her. “And far more beautiful than your aunt.”
“Katya told me Mrs. Brock’s chambermaid confided that her mistress will be sixty-three next spring. But men still fall all over themselves whenever she appears.” She heard the wistfulness in her own voice and hurriedly moved toward the door. “I hope we can look forward to seeing you again soon, cousin.”
“Call me Micah. The family connection was really only an excuse to reestablish the connection. I’ve never forgotten you, Jocelyn. And I plan to see you as often as I’m able.”
“Micah,” she whispered out of the side of her mouth, stiffly waving her hand around the grand hall, another monstrosity of bad taste with its marble columns and ghostly white statues. “Anyone can hear you.”
“Good. Then my intentions will be clear to everyone.”
Heat rushed up her neck and burned her cheeks. When he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss on her knuckles, Jocelyn gawked at him like a knobby-kneed young girl, then brought her knuckles to her mouth.
Micah inhaled sharply, his eyes darkening. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
Footsteps rang on the tiled floor, and a uniformed maid scurried across from between the columns. When she caught sight of them she stopped, eyes widening before she bobbed a hasty curtsy, then scuttled away.
“Jocelyn…” Micah shook his head.
They walked in pulsing silence to the main foyer where Palmer, the stolid butler, opened the door. Jocelyn led the way down the marble steps, into a bright bar of late-afternoon sunshine. Behind them, horses and streetcars and wagons clattered along Fifth Avenue. Pedestrians strolled the sidewalk. Only after the butler closed the door did Micah speak again. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Next time, we’ll go for a walk in Central Park, where we can enjoy a bit of privacy.”
“There’s a safe in Portia’s private parlor—it’s a sunroom on the third floor.”
Jocelyn stumbled through the words, her tongue tangling because she could only risk a moment to tell him. “And I’ve seen several men visit Uncle Brock. They’re always taken in through a back entrance, and two times they’ve been carrying leather satchels—like the one you had in Richmond.”
“Identical?” he questioned sharply.
“No.” She searched her memory, and repeated with more assurance, “No. These were larger, more like a club bag.”
He nodded, then clasped her hand, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. Obviously, he could feel their trembling, but Jocelyn no longer cared.
“I don’t trust Chadwick’s cousins.”
“Why? Have they been rude? Unkind?”
Touched by his instant protectiveness, Jocelyn smiled up at him. “No. Just…secretive. Julius is the youngest, Virgil the middle. Lawrence is the oldest. He lives in St. Louis now, and wrote that he won’t be back in New York until Christmas. Both Virgil and Julius maintain suites here, but I think Virgil might have an apartment at the Knickerbocker, as well. As you heard, he works at his father’s bank. Julius…he’s something of a misfit, socially awkward. Mealtimes, when the whole family is in residence, have been interesting.”
“Ah. And what about Rupert Bingham?”
“Micah, I scarcely recognized him. He’s been staying here for a week, but he mentioned at lunch that he plans to return to his home on Long Island soon. We don’t talk much. He spends most of his time dozing in Uncle Brock’s study, or reading. I—I can’t explain it, but I don’t believe he’s guilty of anything these days, except—” she hesitated, then added softly “—regrets.”
The Widow's Secret Page 9
