Glamorous Illusions (7 page)

CHAPTER 9

~Wallace~

A heavy silence fell on the table after Wallace Kensington finished speaking. Only he continued to dine, cutting apart his tender slice of roast. He knew he was acting as if he'd just shared the current price of copper and his projected profits, rather than the devastating truth that would challenge them all ahead, but he didn't want them to back out of the tour. He had to make them believe they could do this task, despite the poor odds. If he failed, his children and the Morgans would forever blame him—and Cora—for ruining their trip.

“So,” Stuart said carefully, “Miss Kensington was not aware of her parentage until this past week?”

Wallace considered that, squinting, as if he had to count back, then nodded with a grin. “Heavy load to drop on someone, isn't it?”

The older man stared back at him. “Surely you understand what a tremendous task is before her, Mr. Kensington. She shall be meeting not only her family for the first time, but some of the world's finest citizens. And if it gets out that she is…that she is of…”

“That she is my illegitimate daughter,” Wallace said sadly. He knew he was casting her into a vast net that would be nearly impossible to escape—but it was part of her journey of discovery. Part of what would prove to him that she was a Kensington by blood as well as by name. It was best for her, this path of challenge. And if there happened to be copper on the Diehl property he'd just purchased, she'd benefit further, down the road.
Better to sweat out the profits from the rock, than that meager topsoil…

“It shall haunt her, sir,” the old bear said. “And cast a pall over the entire party, I'm afraid. We may not get half the invitations we'd hoped for. Some families might turn us away outright.”

“So be it,” Wallace said gruffly, waving a hand of dismissal in their direction. “There are more than enough funds for you to rent a chateau or villa or mansion here and there, if the distant kin see fit to shun you. But, gentlemen, remember who I am.” He placed his hands on the table and leveled a gaze in their direction. “You know as well as I that they may whisper behind closed doors, but they will be more than gracious to your face. They shall be eager to learn everything they can of me and mine. If for no other reason than opening a door for future commercial relations or potential strategic marriages.” At that he held up his finger and lowered his brow. “You are to see to it that the girls get their fill of flirtation but no proposals, understood?”

“Understood, sir,” Stuart said. “A common request from fathers stateside.”

Wallace shook his head. He'd heard all about the European dandies with their fancy titles and rambling mansions, desperate for cash. More than one of his friends had shipped off a daughter to find love as well as title. But not him. He wanted his daughters to return. All of them.

He let out a dismissive sound. “They'll be curious about this latest batch of nouveaux riche from America. How they are dressed. How they conduct themselves. Fodder for their circles of gossip.”

Will and Stuart straightened, taken aback. But Wallace cocked his head and raised his fork. “Oh, don't look so surprised, gentlemen. I know how they are. Some will open their doors to the children. I'm confident of it.”

The guide took a deep breath and let it out slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he had a sudden headache. “You might be surprised how provincial the Europeans may be,” Stuart said at last. He paused a moment, then, “But sir, would it not be easiest if we simply introduced Miss Cora as a second cousin? None would bat an eye at—”

“No,” Wallace growled, hitting the table, then remembering to keep his voice down. “Absolutely not. I spent twenty years ignoring that child,” he said, pointing upward, “and I'll do nothing but right by her now. Her birth certificate testifies that she is a Kensington. It is time that the world knew I am father to
four
children, each of whom I recognize as my own. It may be more
comfortable
for us to call her something else”—he paused, shaking his head—“but we shall not. We shall not. We will face the truth and get beyond it.”

The men were silent for a moment. Then the bear said, “But you will not be with us, Mr. Kensington. We will be the ones who bear the brunt of this coming storm.”

Wallace let out a dismissive snort. “All of these young people are far too absorbed in themselves to care one whit about Cora.”

The bear paused. “In our experience, sir, the younger generations of privileged families tend to spend an exorbitant amount of time considering social standing and such.”

Wallace stared at him. The guide dared to contradict him? His first impulse was to excuse them from his employ. But deep down, he knew the bear was absolutely correct.

Both Morgan and he had concocted this plan to send them on the tour because they saw their children for what they were. In need of culture and refinement, yes. Spoiled. Used to things going their way. Each given to their own weakness. But good at the core, each and every one of them. Facing Cora would help transform them into the adults he knew they could be—or plunge them headlong into their deepest weaknesses.

It would be what it would be. “I understand that this is both the chance and challenge of a lifetime. That I've added a…
nuance
to the group that could not have been anticipated. But it must be faced head-on. And for your trouble, I will double your fee.”

The old bear stared back into Wallace's eyes, calculating, considering. It didn't take him long. He held out a hand to shake with Wallace. “We shall see it through,” Stuart said.

But Wallace had already known he had him.

Everyone could be bought. Everyone.

~Cora~

My father never knew I'd heard every word that he'd said to the guide and his nephew, laying bare my humiliating personal history, negotiating my inclusion in the group as if I were simply a difficult sack of goods to sell. His words had echoed over the finely polished wood floors, up the stairs, to the landing where I hovered, alternately entranced and horrified.

I sat down when he said that my name was Kensington on my birth certificate. I wondered over that. Was it true? I'd never seen the document with my own eyes, had always taken Mama's word that she kept it safe in her box of papers. I put my head in my hands when he said he intended for me to be introduced everywhere as a Kensington. What did that mean for me? That I'd face ridicule, mocking, through the whole journey? The guides clearly felt I was a liability.

Spotting a maid coming up the stairs, I rose and scurried to my room, not wishing anyone to know that I'd been eavesdropping. And then I spent hours pacing my bedroom floor, wondering if I should have declined his invitation to come on this trip, even if it meant finding our own way to make it on the farm and care for Papa. Here in Butte, knowing a little more of him, I felt fairly certain he had traded upon our insecurities and fears to get what he wanted.

But could I do it? Face the world as the illegitimate child of Wallace Kensington? Without him by my side, protecting me, driving back those who challenged the notion—even as our guide and his nephew had just done in the dining room? What was I to do if someone dared to remark on it? Grin and bear it? I shook my head and rested my hand atop it.

Lord, please help me. Give me courage. Hope.

How I envied my sisters and brother. They'd never known anything but this house, this name, this existence. As much as I loved my parents…how could they have loved me, as well as lied to me, all those years? My siblings had never had such doubts. They always knew they were Kensingtons. I shook my head, hating Mr. Kensington, hating my mother's weakness, hating Mama and Papa's lies—even if they meant to protect me. I felt as if I'd fallen into a narrow hole and could not move, let alone begin to claw my way out.

It didn't help that the June evening was uncommonly hot. This time of night, most of Montana cooled down, allowing sleep. But after tossing and turning for hours, I knew I'd never find my rest. My mind was in as many knots as my sheets.

I had to get out. Out of this house. For a walk, to clear my head. To pray.

I threw on my old brown dress and my tired, worn boots, wanting the comfortable, the known, weary of drowning in a sea of new. Only when I felt the last button at my neck, the familiar rub of the rough fabric against my skin, did I begin to breathe easier. After a moment's hesitation, I dared to turn on my lamp. I listened intently, worried the light might draw a servant or my father. But no one came.

I moved to the dressing table, wound my hair into a knot on top of my head, and hastily pinned it in place, not even checking the mirror to find out how well I had done.

My mind was solely on my exit. Outside, in the air, I might catch a bit of a breeze, feel as if I could move freely, without being examined. I crept down the stairs, glad that the fine carpentry meant there were no creaking boards to betray my flight. At the bottom of the stairs, I looked one way and then the next. All the lights were out except for one by the front door. Were any servants even awake at this hour?

Feeling every hair rise along my neck, I pushed forward, not looking back until I'd unlocked the door and turned the knob. Then, with one last glance around the huge foyer and empty stair, I slipped out of the house, quietly closing the door behind me. I didn't pause, but scurried down the steps and the walk, wincing over the creaking wrought-iron gate that betrayed my escape. But I moved through it as quickly as I could and then down the walk as if it were completely common for a young woman at two in the morning.

Oh, but the freedom! For the first time, I considered where I was. In the middle of one of Montana's biggest cities. A shiver of daring rolled down my back. Even at this hour, I could hear touring cars and horses' hooves a few streets over. The red-light district, I surmised, and turned in the opposite direction. I wasn't such a bumpkin that I would allow myself to get caught in that sort of place. I made my way toward homes progressively much smaller and modest in scale than the Kensington mansion.

More like my own house, the only home I'd ever known. Now owned by Wallace Kensington. It made me feel dirty, as if Mama and I had betrayed my father by selling it. How long might I have lasted, trying to run the farm on my own? Mr. Kensington had been right that we were lucky to make it through the winter every year. Would we have been forced to sell before Christmas anyway?

I shook my head. It felt better to hold on to the anger. The resentment against the man listed on my birth certificate. At least my anger was mine. Something that Wallace Kensington could not take from me until I was ready to let it go.

The neighborhood felt welcoming, even in the darkness. Less frightening than the mansions, because these houses seemed like homes where I might see Mama, feel her welcome me in a hug.
Mama, Mama
, I thought, my heart twisting in a braid of anger and sorrow. She'd been weak, weary, primed for Wallace to strike when he'd shown up at the farm. And this invitation—an escape route from the farm, hope for Mama and Papa, a way out for me—had shaken us back to life, partially. Out of our own sense of paralysis.

I'll give that to you, Mr. Kensington
,
I said silently, begrudgingly.

I climbed and climbed the steep street, liking the feel of the incline and the way my heart beat from the exertion rather than the constant fear I'd battled in the last days. At home, I'd spent hours hoeing the garden, hours milking, hours repairing shingles on the roof, hours chopping wood. Did the wealthy ever feel their hearts pound for anything but excitement?

I reached the end of the street and looked left and right. The neighborhood gave way to a poorer district to my left, but there were finer houses to my right. Above me, I could hear shouts and machinery—sounds of the mines, working around the clock. It was odd to be in a place that was not quiet come dark; it felt vaguely unsettling, off. I couldn't imagine spending the night working deep inside a mine, then sleeping the day away. It seemed unhealthy, not ever having time beneath the sun. Not that anything in Butte felt healthy. The smelters' smoke spewed into the air night and day, mixing with wood smoke from cooking stoves and becoming a cloying cloud that settled around the city, choking every living thing. Even now I didn't feel I could take a deep breath, the odor acrid, vaguely metallic.

I longed for the wide, open plains, the swaying grasses and ripening grain of summer. The wind off the fields, smelling of nothing but earth. Roads with a few horse-drawn wagons rather than the noisy motor carriages and horse traffic clogging the streets…

So lost was I in thoughts of my home, I didn't see them approaching me until it was too late to avoid them. Three men, one who'd clearly been drinking too much, staggering left and right, his companions laughing at him. I cut across the street, as if heading home, but one of the men moved to intercept me.