by Jo Goodman
They were clear and penetrating, implacable in their expression, cold and hard in a way that a smile could not touch. The lines fanning out from the corner of his eyes had not been put there by laughter or age. He did not have the look of a man who laughed easily, and she guessed he was perhaps only a few years above thirty. He had a narrow, sculpted face, a Roman nose, and a mouth that was barely softened by the faint suggestion of a dimple on either side of it. His hair was several shades darker than her own, his eyebrows nearly black, and his skin was tanned, giving him a saturnine appearance that embraced both danger and attraction.
His clothes marked him as a man of some means. His shirt was white silk, tailored to his broad shoulders. His vest was pale gray, shot through with silver embroidery threads. He checked his watch, a pocket affair on a platinum fob, and turned toward the bedroom.
“I’ll get you a blanket, some towels, and wash out this shawl,” Nathan said, unbuttoning his vest as he went. “Feel free to stoke the fire and add some coals. The sooner you get warmed up, the sooner we can get you out of here.”
He disappeared into the bedroom and returned a few minutes later, his arms ladened with the warmth he promised. He was greeted by a blazing fire and an empty room. Nathan wasn’t completely surprised that he’d frightened her off. He shrugged, dropped the blanket and towels on a nearby chair, and headed back to the bedroom. Standing in front of the large cheval glass he tore at his bowtie and smiled faintly at his reflection. Had Lydia been there then she would have had good reason to be afraid, for his smile was a cold one and never came close to reaching the frosty depths of his eyes.
“Oh, Lydia,” he said softly, “I think you’ve only postponed the inevitable.”
“It’s not as if you’re pretty.” The words were not said sharply, nor were they born of envy. They were cruel by virture of being stated so simply, as a self-evident fact that could not be argued. “I mean,” the speaker continued in the same vein, “I could understand it if you were attractive to men. For a young woman in your position, money is sometimes a curse. I don’t think I would worry nearly so much if I thought they were only interested in you.”
“Mother,” Lydia said quietly, lowering her eyes away from the mirror. She bore her mother’s concern stoically, not dwelling on the hurtful side of her message. “I need to get ready. Couldn’t this—”
“No, I don’t think it can wait. That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it?” Madeline Chadwick smoothed the satin bodice of her ball gown and cast a quick, surreptitious glance in the same mirror her daughter was avoiding. Satisfied that her gown was not wrinkled, Madeline focused on the strand of pearls at her neck, straightening them so the clasp was hidden beneath the thick auburn coil of hair at her nape. She caught Pei Ling watching her, the dark almond-shaped eyes giving nothing of her thoughts away. Even when Madeline returned her steady regard, the maid’s gaze did not waver. “You can go,” said Madeline, waving Pei Ling off. “I’ll help my daughter get ready. See if Mrs. Church needs you in the kitchen.”
Madeline pretended she didn’t see that Pei Ling looked to Lydia for direction before she agreed to leave the room. Lydia’s faint nod was the permission Pei Ling sought. Making a slight bow, Pei Ling slipped out of the room.
“I’ll never get used to her,” Madeline said as soon as the door closed. “She moves in and out of a room like a dark spirit. I don’t know why you insist on keeping her. I could find you a perfectly acceptable Irish maid who knows something about—”
“Mother,” Lydia said quietly.
Madeline sighed. “Oh, very well. We won’t talk about Pei Ling. Here, let me do something with your hair.” Madeline approached Lydia from behind, reaching over her shoulder to pick up the brush on the vanity. She gave her daughter’s hair a few hard strokes, alternating the brush with her threading fingers. “It’s still damp.”
“I just left the tub a few minutes before you came in.” Lydia was amazed the lie did not stick in her throat. Usually her explanations were not so facile. She supposed that desperation lent her courage. She couldn’t imagine telling Madeline anything that had happened to her today. Taking the brush from her mother’s hand, Lydia began dressing her own hair.
“Why do you have to wait until the last minute?” Madeline asked.
Lydia did not respond to the rhetorical, sniping question. Her fingers worked expertly as they swept her hair into a smooth chignon and anchored it with a half dozen strategically placed pins. A few tendrils curled damply at her temples and ears. Lydia pushed them back. They rebounded stubbornly. She looked at the clock on the mantel and saw she didn’t have time to spare. She abandoned the attempt to make her hair obey and stood, giving Madeline her back. “Fasten me, please.”
“I don’t think you should have napped so long this afternoon. Look at you,” she said, focusing Lydia’s attention on her reflection again. “There are shadows beneath your eyes. I came by your room several times, but that sloe-eyed witch you keep wouldn’t let me in to wake you. She said you didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“I’ll speak to Pei Ling. I really was exhausted this afternoon, but I never meant that you shouldn’t come in.” Of course that was exactly what she had meant and her maid had followed her instructions to the letter. Somewhat belatedly Lydia realized Pei Ling must have had her hands full keeping Madeline at bay. She promised herself that she would find some suitable reward for Pei Ling’s undiminished loyalty.
“Pinch your cheeks,” Madeline admonished. “Perhaps that will distract from those violet bruises under your eyes. Honestly, Lydia, would you look at yourself?” Exasperation crept into her voice. “Could you have found a more unflattering gown for this evening?”
“You had this dress commissioned for me,” Lydia reminded her softly.
“So I did.” Madeline’s dark green eyes made a swift assessment of Lydia’s ball gown. Daffodil yellow did not flatter Lydia’s complexion, making it appear unappealingly pale while emphasizing the shadowed look of her eyes. The rounded bodice should have drawn attention to the high curve of Lydia’s breasts, but the stiff taffeta material flattened her chest and the ruffle that edged the bodice looked as if it had been sewn there to compensate for an inadequate bosom. Two tiers of ruffles adorning the hem broke the line from Lydia’s waist to her ankles. Extra material draped heavily from her waist until it was swept into a bustle at her back.
“I don’t understand it,” Madeline said. “It was beautiful on the young girl who modeled it at the salon. I thought it would be perfect for you. How could it make you look so thick and awkward?”
“Perhaps because I am thick and awkward.” Although Lydia’s smile was brittle, she used the same matter-of-fact tone that Madeline had used ealier. She only had to look at her mother to know the truth of her statement.
Madeline was everything Lydia accepted she wasn’t. She was several inches taller, gracefully slender, and at the same time generously curved. Her face was a classic oval with fine-boned features and wide green eyes the exact shade of emeralds. In the depth of the color was a blue flame that darkened with her mood, lending Madeline a smoldering, and somehow distancing, glance.
Her lustrous auburn hair held its coif no matter how it was styled. The deep, understated fire of her hair offset a flawless, alabaster complexion. She was long of limb, with a narrow waist, slender neck, and beautifully sculpted hands and tapered fingers.
Madeline finished fastening the gown. She placed her hands on her daughter’s shoulders, adjusting the gold locket at Lydia’s throat. “Nonsense,” she said, but her voice was not encouraging. “It’s only the gown that makes you appear that way.”
“Perhaps I should change.”
A faint frown pulled down the corners of Madeline’s full-lipped smile. It disappeared so quickly that it was easy for Lydia to believe she had imagined it. “I don’t think so, dear,” Madeline said, pushing at Lydia’s shoulders to adjust her posture. “There’s really no time. If you hadn’t waited, you might hav
e been able to—”
“I know, Mother,” Lydia interrupted wearily. She stood straight, her spine like a ramrod until Madeline’s hands stopped their prodding and poking and fell away. “I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you.” Lydia moved from the vanity and out of the line of the mirror’s harsh reflection. Caught in an old memory, Lydia’s smile held a hint of sadness. How many times before going to sleep she had prayed to wake up looking like her mother?
“Lydia! How could you think you’re a disappointment? Have I really given you reason to believe I’m disappointed in you?”
Lydia answered as expected. “No.”
“Well then, I fail to understand what you meant by that remark.”
Feeling two instead of twenty, Lydia bit her lip. The inside of her mouth was still bruised and tender from her encounter in the alley and she tasted blood almost immediately.
“Don’t do that. It’s unattractive.”
Lydia released her lip. She felt like crying. “I only meant that I must remind you of him and that must be disappointing.”
Madeline did not have to ask who “him” was. “How can you bring up Marcus?” she asked, her eyes expressing both astonishment and hurt.
“He’s my father.”
“Your father is waiting for us downstairs, preparing to greet your guests, opening his home to your friends for your charity affair, and you choose this moment to bring up Marcus.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand you, Lydia.”
“But—”
Color heightened the contours of Madeline’s cheekbones. Her eyes darkened. “We are not going to discuss it.” She drew a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly. “Now, let me look at you. You could use a pair of earrings.” She went to Lydia’s jewelry box and sifted through the jet beads, pearls, and sapphires. She found a pair of dainty gold drop earrings with yellow diamond centers. “These will do fine,” she said, handing them to Lydia. “Much better. They brighten your face. I’m really very sorry about the gown, darling. I thought it would be perfect for you. The next time perhaps you’ll go to the salon with me instead of letting your charity commitments overwhelm your time.”
“It’s fine, Mother,” Lydia said. “I don’t mind. Really, I don’t. No one will notice me with you in the room.”
Madeline did not appear mollified. “I’m not the one in need of a husband. You are.”
Rather than argue the point, Lydia said, “That isn’t what this evening is about, and I’m sure you realize it. You and Papa agreed to help me raise money for St. Andrew’s. Please don’t make the ball into something it’s not.”
“I don’t see that there’s anything wrong with mixing two agendas.”
“I’m interested in the orphanage, Mother.”
“And I’m interested in you. Why can’t we find anyone who cares more about you than your money?”
But Lydia knew why. She couldn’t hold a candle to her mother. Madeline’s flame was intoxicating beauty and artful conversation. Beside it, Lydia’s light was all but invisible. Too often a man who professed interest in Lydia was soon captivated by her mother. Lydia observed it, accepted it, and used it as a test, a trial by fire as it were, to determine if the man’s interest lay with her or with her money. Mustering a smile, she approached her mother, stood on tiptoe, and kissed Madeline’s smooth and unlined cheek. “You distract them while I pick their pockets. That’s the best way to mix our two agendas.”
Samuel Chadwick was pacing the area in front of the library fireplace when the double doors slid open. He looked up, saw his wife and daughter framed in the doorway, and put down his pipe. “Here are my beautiful girls,” he said, opening his arms wide to welcome them.
Lydia walked quickly to her father’s arms and returned his warm hug, kissing him on either side of his graying handlebar mustache. “Papa, you look wonderful! So dapper. Is that a new tie?” She straightened the black silk around the stiff points of his starched collar. “All gussied up for me? You’re a darling, do you know that?”
“I’ve already made a contribution to the orphanage,” he said dryly.
Lydia feigned a wounded expression. “I’m not an idle flatterer.”
“All right. Five hundred dollars. Not a penny more, thief. I’ll have to hit the mother lode to support you and St. Andrew’s at this rate.”
Madeline took the hand her husband offered and raised her cheek for his kiss. “Since you’d rather be digging inside some dark mountain anyway, perhaps you should donate a thousand.”
There was an edge to Madeline’s tone that did not go unnoticed by Samuel or Lydia. Both, however, had their own reasons for ignoring it. Samuel released his wife and picked up his pipe. “Won’t you each have a glass of sherry before our guests arrive? I confess, I thought I was going to have to drink alone. Always need a bracer before one of these shindigs.”
“Oh, Papa. You always exaggerate your misery.” Lydia went to the walnut sideboard and began pouring the sherry. “I’m not going to feel sorry for you. After the first few dances, you’ll slip away with three or four of my guests and spend the rest of the evening in here playing poker.”
Samuel puffed harder on his pipe, an endearingly sheepish light in his pale blue eyes. “Winnings go to charity,” he muttered around the pipestem.
“Of course they do.” Lydia gave her father his glass and offered another to her mother. “I wouldn’t countenance it if they didn’t,” she said saucily. She raised her glass a moment later and toasted her parents, thanking them for their help with her dearest worthy cause.
They were an odd pair, she thought, not for the first time. It seemed that she had always known her parents were suited to each other the way oil was to vinegar: individually distinctive in their own right, mixing briefly for some shared purpose, then separating.
Samuel was his wife’s senior by a score of years, fifty-eight to her youthful thirty-eight. While Madeline’s mien was often cool and her anger icy, Samuel was warm and even-tempered. He rarely raised his voice or showed his displeasure in any way save for a frown that knit his eyebrows. He was not one to suffer fools, but he believed in second chances, and played fair with every partner he’d ever had.
Samuel was in California when gold was discovered in ’48. He’d struck a rich vein and mined his first hundred thousand by the time the initial horde of greenhorn easterners arrived in San Francisco Bay. He parlayed that money into millions through shipping and railroads, and never minded admitting that he’d been lucky. He saw no shame in it. Striking that vein had been a matter of luck. Getting it out of the ground, on the other hand, had been backbreaking work.
That work showed in his hands, hard, gnarled hands, tough with calluses that years of leisure had never quite erased, and in his shoulders, broad and thickly muscled from the burden of pickax and shovel. He shifted now in his black-tailed dress coat, and reminded his daughter that unlike his wife, he’d never grown comfortable with the trappings of wealth. He was supremely happy to wear a pair of overalls and putter in the garden, or take a lantern and pickax a half-mile deep into the Sierra Nevadas. It was Madeline who gloried in affairs like the one they were about to host. Samuel merely suffered them.
Madeline set down her glass. “I think there’s just enough time for me to check the seating arrangements for dinner.” She was out of the room before Lydia could protest.
Lydia shrugged helplessly, shaking her head. “She’s going to select a dinner partner for me, I know it. A gold piece says it’s Henry Bell on my left and James Early on my right.”
Sam winked. “You’re on.” He drew on his pipe and looked at Lydia thoughtfully. She seemed to be trying very hard to keep the sparkle in her eye and the smile on her face. “Did you and your mother have words?” he asked.
“How did you—” Realizing she had given herself away, Lydia sighed and her agitation surfaced. “I’m sorry, Papa, I can’t seem to avoid having words with her these days. It was
my fault really. Once Mother saw this gown on me she decided she didn’t like it, or rather she didn’t like me in it, which I understand perfectly. I should have gone with her to choose it, but I was caught up in planning this evening with Father Patrick, and what do I care about a gown anyway?”
“Don’t you?”
“No.” But she didn’t look him in the eye. “All right,” she said after a short pause. “I do care. Just a little. I’m sure Mother thought it would be fine, but you can see that it isn’t. I was standing beside her, in front of the mirror, and I realized how different we are, how I’ll never have even a tenth of her beauty, and somehow I just thought of Marcus. Before I knew it I was blurting out his name.”
“I see,” he said without inflection. He would always regret that Madeline had chosen to tell Lydia that she was another man’s child and that the other man was a rapist. He could only guess at what Madeline’s motives were for sharing that with her daughter. He had never been consulted before the fact, and afterward Madeline had been characteristically tight-lipped. It had been left to him to console the stunned, confused, and heartbroken child he had raised from birth as his own. In the six years since that day, the only good to come of Madeline’s revelation as far as Sam was concerned was the unbreakable bond he forged with Lydia in the aftermath. “Shall I still call you Papa?” she had asked, her eyes grave and wounded. “I think I should die otherwise,” he had answered. His response was so sincere, so heartfelt, that Lydia could not doubt it.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned Marcus. It can’t be anything but painful for Mother to remember him, but sometimes I wonder if she doesn’t see him when she looks at me.”
“I don’t think that’s the case at all,” Samuel said, rolling the stem of his glass between his large palms. “I have an idea what your mother sees when she looks at you, and it certainly isn’t Marcus O’Malley.”
