Tangled Lights and Silent Nights

by Kelly Stone Gamble

  Across the table, the eldest Vanderbilt son, William, shot daggers at me and Tennie. Clearly his disposition toward us hadn’t warmed any with time, nor had he grown in trust of us.

  “Tell me, what will be your parlor trick tonight?” He picked at one of the starched white lace napkins. “Will you channel the angel who announced Christ’s birth to the shepherds, or perhaps even the baby Jesus himself?”

  “If you are so certain you know, perhaps you should place a bet on it,” I shot back, referencing William’s secret vice of gambling.

  Before William could reply, a bevy of maids and footmen emerged from the kitchen carrying the first course of raw oysters. A succession of dishes followed, each more sumptuous than the last – broth, fried smelts, sweetbreads, turkey with cranberry sauce. We tucked in with enthusiasm and by the time the quail with truffles was served, any lingering awkwardness had vanished and even William was smiling, entertained by my husband’s stories of his service in the Civil War.

  Tennie and I were seated on either side of Mr. Vanderbilt, regaling him with stories of our clients. “What’s the news south of Broadway?” he asked.

  It was a polite way to inquire about the latest gossip from the brothels, where we still worked part-time as healers and many of New York’s wealthiest businessmen took their pleasure. As a result, the Bowery’s whores had more inside knowledge of business and government than the politicians in Washington.

  I lowered my voice so that no one else would hear what I was about to say. “The spirits have a Christmas gift for you, Commodore.” We had a tacit understanding that he wanted no knowledge of where I got the information for my stock tips; he preferred to let others believe they came from supernatural sources.

  He leaned down as though to hear me better. “Oh, and what is that?”

  “I am advised that stocks of Central Pacific Railroad are going to go up.”

  “Is that so? Well, I will see what I can do with that information. It has the potential to be very profitable for us both,” he said, with a finger to the side of his nose, reminding me to keep the tip quiet.

  I opened my mouth to say more but was distracted by Mr. Fisk calling to my husband from two seats away. “Say, James. You’re a supporter of women’s suffrage, are you not? What do you think of this split in the movement?” Only months before, the national women’s suffrage organization had broken into two rival factions, each with a different philosophy about how best to achieve their goal.

  Mr. Vanderbilt loudly harrumphed, “A well-deserved nail in their coffin, I say.”

  “Hey!” Tennie yelled. “How can you be so supportive of Vickie and me as independent businesswomen, but not want us to be able to vote? Isn’t that our right as Americans?”

  Mr. Vanderbilt squirmed in his seat. “Now, Tennie, don’t get your dander up. I was just saying that those loudmouthed women can’t lead our country to anything good.” He patted her hand. “There’s a might bit of difference between supporting your foray into finance and changing the law of the land.” Elbowing his son, he added, “What’s next? A woman president?” He guffawed.

  William acknowledged his father with a forced smile, but his attention was on my husband, his expression far less fond than it had been just a minute before. “You support those sour spinsters?”

  “Indeed, I do. I see no valid reason why women should not be granted the right to vote, especially seeing that former slaves can now do so.” He turned to Mr. Fisk. “To answer your question, I believe the split is dangerous. Anyone who has ever been in the military knows that dissention among the ranks is a sign of weakness. A split is essentially mutiny against the current leaders.” He shook his head. “It will be a hard climb back for them if they want to regain their momentum as a unified national movement.”

  “I don’t know that it is so bad,” I countered, sipping my wine. Most women would not dare contradict their husbands in public, but James was not an average man. He indulged me in most things, but especially whenever I showed interest in the woman’s movement, which was beginning to appeal to me more and more.

  “How so?”

  “Well, from what I’ve read in the papers, it seems to me Mrs. Stone and her ilk are content to let things play out as they will, whereas Miss Anthony and Mrs. Stanton are much more willing to take risks. If life has taught me anything, it’s that if women want to get ahead, we must do whatever needs done.”

  “Watch out, James,” Mr. Vanderbilt, said conspiratorially. “Your Victoria could well become one of them, from the sounds of things.”

  “I do hope so! In fact –”

  His thought was interrupted by the butler, who silently slipped into the room to whisper into Mr. Vanderbilt’s ear. But before the Commodore could reply, my name drifted in from several rooms away, called by a male voice.

  Pa. And where he was, Ma was sure to follow. What were they doing here?

  Around the table, heads turned and conversation ceased as guests sought the source of the interruption.

  I looked down at my lap, mortified, ears and cheeks burning. All I had wanted was one night – just one – of peace when I could forget the calamity and embarrassment that was my family and the poverty of my upbringing. I was going places, poised to join the blue-bloods who ran this town and tonight was supposed to be my unofficial introduction to that world. Now that opportunity was ruined.

  Mr. Vanderbilt gestured to the table and replied in a tone too quiet for me to hear. But William must have understood because he leapt to his feet. He was almost at the French doors when they flew open, admitting the astringent scent of gin moments before Ma came into view, calling, “Happy Christmas!” Her garish red and green tartan gown overpowered her small, boney frame, making her look like someone had mistaken her for a gift to be placed under the tree.

  She wobbled a bit and Tennie stood to steady her. “You aren’t drunk, are you, Ma? Please don’t tell me you are.”

  “Nah,” she brayed. “Just had a nip.” She lifted a small bottle from her reticule and wiggled it.

  I grabbed the bottle when Ma made to brandish again. “Best keep that hidden for now.”

  Following behind, Pa handed William his coat and hat as though he was a servant and sidled up to Mr. Vanderbilt. He extended his hand to shake. “Sorry we’re late, but our invitation must ‘ave gotten lost in the mail.”

  Mr. Vanderbilt took in Pa’s tattered waistcoat and faded breeches and hesitantly accepted his hand. “I – ah, yes…”

  Pa barreled over his attempted response. “Cuz, you’re too gracious a’ gent to overlook the man who brought these find lasses to your door, am I right?” Pa winked at Tennie and me. “When I heard down at the pub that my girls had snagged an invitation, I said to my Anne, ‘there’s got to be some mistake.’ So here we are.” He pulled out an empty chair and plopped down as though he really had been invited.

  Around us, mouths hung open and eyes were wide with shock.

  There was no way Tennie and I would get out of this with our reputations intact, but I had to try. Putting my arm around Ma and nudging her toward the door, I said, “It seems you have missed both dinner and dessert. Perhaps it would be best if you called another time so you can enjoy a proper meal with the Vanderbilts.”

  Following my lead, William held out Pa’s coat and hat. “Yes, that would be splendid. Shall we say some time in the new year?” His tone made it clear their invitation was for the tenth of never, but neither one seemed to notice.

  “Nonsense,” the Commodore boomed. “Let them stay. They are Victoria and Tennie’s family and if there is one thing Christmas is about, it’s family.”

  Instead of the men retiring to one room for cigars and port and the women to another for gossip and brandy or tea, as was traditionally done, Mr. Vanderbilt invited us all into his parlor for a game of Whist, one of his favorite pastimes.
Several of the guests, Mr. Fisk included, begged off to return home to their families, but I suspected they really wanted to be away from my parents and gossip about the unexpected turn the night had taken.

  The parlor was decorated similarly to the dining room, with pine garland looped around banisters and hanging from the mantle of the black marble fireplace. Miniature candles in tiny sconces on the tree and flickering candles in crystal chandeliers gave the room a festive glow, which was enhanced by the Christmas carols Mr. Vanderbilt’s eldest daughter played on the piano, while her sister sang.

  James and I arranged ourselves around a small rectangular wooden table, opposite Mr. Vanderbilt and Tennie, while at another, William and his wife reluctantly took up their places as my parents’ competitors. As we played, two maids ensured our cups stayed full of warm spiced rum punch and the men’s cigars remained lit.

  Tennie and I won our first two games but lost the third and by the time James laid down his final card in the fourth game, my cheeks were glowing with merriment. Perhaps tonight would turn out well after all.

  But then a chair crashed to the ground behind us as William shot to his feet. “She cheated.” He pointed at my mother. “You cheated. How dare you –”

  Ma stood as well, hands on her hips, facing William down. “I did no such thing.” She leaned over the table and poked a finger in William’s chest. “You take that back.”

  William turned to his wife. “Did you see the way she dealt that hand? Overhand shuffle is a sure sign of a card shark.”

  “If anyone would know, it’s him,” Tennie whispered to me.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, please. This is only a friendly holiday game,” the Commodore reminded everyone, while attempting to draw his son away from the table. “I’m happy to repay any wagers lost. I’ll see no one returns home tonight poorer than when they arrived.”

  But Pa would not be so easily dissuaded. “Fine thing, calling my wife a liar and a cheat on Christmas. I thought you toplofty gents were supposed to have manners.”

  William’s eyes widened. “What did you call me, sir?”

  “You ‘eard me. I don’t ‘preciate you being all high-toned with us and assuming we cheat ‘cause we ‘ave to earn our coin while you were born into yours.”

  The two exchanged a few more heated words while Tennie and I helped Ma, who was crying now, over to the chaise lounge against one wall. Tennie sat next to her, cooing calming words into her ear and petting her like a child. “We’ll be fine here,” she assured me. “Go take care of Pa. Their bluster should burn out soon.”

  Or not. I turned in time to see William’s fist connect with Pa’s jaw.

  Pa grunted and instinctively pushed William back, knocking him into the Christmas tree, which wavered, then toppled to the floor. Several of the candles affixed to its branches came loose and bounced onto the Turkish rug, which was quickly set ablaze.

  Tennie screamed, followed by one of Mr. Vanderbilt’s daughters. Thick black smoke dimmed the room and I rushed toward the windows, yanking them open as fast as I could. James threw a blanket on the fire to smother it at the same time as Mr. Vanderbilt dumped a bucket of sand on it. Together, they were able to douse the flames and extinguish the remaining candles before the fire spread or did any serious damage. Carefully, they raised the tree so that it once again stood tall.

  “Damn thing. I feared this would happen,” Mr. Vanderbilt groused.

  “I am so sorry,” I apologized on behalf of my parents, who made no move to do so. “Please take the cost of the rug out of my paycheck.”

  Mr. Vanderbilt looked up at me, his eyes kind. “Nonsense. These things happen.” He gestured to the bucket of sand. “Why do you think we had this on hand? Damn candles are a hazard.”

  Turning to his son, he growled, “William, we will discuss your behavior later. Now, I think it is best if you cool your heels.” He gestured toward the door.

  Grumbling, William stormed out.

  Mr. Vanderbilt bowed to my parents. “I do apologize for my son’s unacceptable behavior. Please, let me make it up to you.” He gestured toward the floor, where a pile of finely-wrapped presents peeked out from the soot and sand. “Please take one. It is the least I can do.”

  Ma’s face lit up at the prospect of a fancy gift. “Thank ya kindly.” She pawed through the sand, weighing packages and inspecting her options, no doubt looking for the most valuable gift. If anyone could sniff it out, it would be her.

  Meanwhile, Pa spoke with Mr. Vanderbilt in hushed tones. “You know, if you have a mind to set things right, I have a supply of elixir in my shop that would benefit you and your friends. Perhaps you could give me an in? My tonics cure most ills, from bum knees to gout and even kidney ailments. I hear tell you have a spot of rheumatism…”

  I rolled my eyes. Pa’s formulas were little more than alcohol and beef fat, with a few herbs thrown in for good measure. I turned to warn Tennie that Pa was trying to swindle her sweetheart, and caught Ma slipping a small, thin package from beneath the tree into her purse. This wouldn’t be a problem, had she not already accepted one package, which Pa held under his arm.

  Before I could say anything, much less rescue the purloined present, Mr. Vanderbilt was ushering them toward the door with more apologies and wishes for a joyous holiday season. Ma grinned a secret smile at me as they departed, silently gloating over having put one over on the tycoon.

  “What a night,” I sighed deeply once we were home safely and sprawled in the comfort of our own modest parlor.

  “Well, at least Ma didn’t tell any embarrassing stories,” Tennie said.

  “I think nearly burning down the house of the wealthiest man in New York is gift enough,” I said dryly. “Word is sure to get out. I’m sure no one will include us on their guest lists now.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure.” James rummaged in his coat pocket. “I was just about to give you this when your family intervened.” He handed me a small envelope. “Open it.”

  I slid a gloved finger beneath the flap and removed a square sheet of paper, scanning it quickly.

  National Convention of Woman Suffrage

  Annual Convention

  Washington D.C.

  January 19-20

  Admit One

  I looked up at him in wonder. “What is this?”

  A sparkling smile lit his face. “Your ticket into suffrage high society. Demosthenes told you that you would one day hold a position of great authority in this country. I aim to make that come true. This is the perfect place to begin. Besides, this way you can evaluate Miss Anthony and Mrs. Stanton for yourself before you decide which faction to join. No one will give a hoot what your parents did once you’ve made yourself known to this group.”

  Was it possible? Could James be correct? Perhaps this really was the beginning of a new era for me, one even my family couldn’t ruin. That would be a Christmas miracle indeed.

  I threw my arms around him. “Thank you so much. Your support means the world to me.”

  “Happy Christmas, Victoria.”

  “Happy Christmas, James.”

  The End

  Books by Nicole

  Madame Presidentess (biographical historical fiction about Victoria Woodhull)

  Daughter of Destiny (Guinevere’s Tale Book 1) (Arthurian historical fantasy)

  Camelot’s Queen (Guinevere’s Tale Book 2) (Arthurian historical fantasy)

  Mistress of Legend (Guinevere’s Tale Book 3) (Arthurian historical fantasy)

  The Guinevere’s Tale Trilogy (compendium of the three books above)

  Been Searching for You (contemporary romance/women’s fiction)

  The Once and Future Queen: Guinevere in Arthurian Legend (non-fiction)

  About Nicole

  Nicole Evelina is a historical fiction, non-fiction, and women’s fic
tion author whose six books have won more than 30 awards, including three Book of the Year designations. Her fiction tells the stories of strong women from history and today, with a focus on biographical historical fiction, while her non-fiction focuses on women’s history, especially sharing the stories of unknown or little-known figures.

  Nicole’s writing has appeared in The Huffington Post, The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Independent Journal, Curve Magazine and numerous historical publications. She is one of only six authors who completed a week-long writing intensive taught by #1 New York Times bestselling author Deborah Harkness.

  Nicole is currently working on her next historical fiction novel, which centers on an obscure WWII heroine, and researching two future non-fiction books. You can find her online at http://nicoleevelina.com/.

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  Another Bloody Festival

  by Ciara Ballintyne

  Alloran’s boots beat out a rapid tattoo as he strode down the hallway. It was the eve of a momentous moment, and no one else even realised it.

  He hurried through the hallways towards his laboratory, running through the last calculations in his head. It was vitally important to be sure the math was correct, the rune-chains linked properly, and the spellwork perfect to the finest detail. Even the most infinitesimal of errors could spell total—

  “Well, excuse me!”

  He blinked down at the sorceress he’d just bumped into. Ismyn—yellow-eyed, red-haired, her creamy skin gorgeous against the gold and black brocade she wore.