Heiress (4 page)

“Did it begin?”

“I’m afraid it is over.” Foster reached out, slid Oliver’s coat from her shoulders. Without looking at him, Foster handed the coat back to Oliver. Like he might be a coat rack.

He slipped off his own jacket, draped it upon her. Into her settled the odor of his many dances, the cigar smoke from the after-dinner gathering with the men in the library. And a line of sweat from his collar.

“I’m sorry,” she managed without shivering, “I needed some fresh air.”

He stuck out his elbow, and she took it, glancing at Oliver. He didn’t meet her eyes.

Foster escorted her inside, the humidity of the hallway dense against her skin. “I need to talk to you.”

From the ballroom, the lively romp of Tchaikovsky suggested she’d also missed her polka with Colin Rutherford.

Oh, mother would be incensed. Perhaps Jinx had been correct—she should have been born first. Then Mother would have her debutante, her escort into high society. Jinx could speak French with a Belgian count, dance the quadrille or the Muzant with a German duke, and counsel an English butler on correct table-setting placement. She could probably even make Foster Worth crack a smile with her witty banter.

And Esme? She’d be free to write for her father. He’d always said that he expected great things from her.

Any forthcoming engagement was all her mother’s doing, Esme knew it in her bones. She’d simply explain—

“Let’s go in the drawing room.” Foster had her by the elbow, directing her toward Mrs. Astor’s white-paneled salon, with the gilded boiseries and mirrored doors. As they entered, she stifled the urge to hide amidst the clutter of bowers of roses and towering apple blossoms in gold-etched pots, the Victorian staging of busts of Shakespeare and Wagner, stuffed birds in glass domes, Louis XIV-style gilded divans and chairs. But how could she escape the eyes of the immense portrait of Mrs. Astor, the mistress of the manor, peering down on her?

Suddenly, she felt it, everything Jinx had been trying to tell her. The dictum of society and its import to their future. From the next room, the music ended, and a lancer began. Everyone turning in step, schooled for their role in society.

Foster escorted her to an ottoman. She sat, her heart lodged in her throat.

Oh. Wait…

He took her hand as her brain scurried to keep up.

He lowered himself onto one knee. She stared at her curved hand in his, unable to meet his eyes, tasting her heartbeat.

“Esme, your parents have agreed to allow me to ask for your hand in marriage. I believe we would make a winning match. I know we haven’t yet had the opportunity to deepen our friendship since our youth, but I am confident that in time we will come to care deeply for each other.”

She glanced up at him, caught his eye. He gave her a quick smile. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Perhaps he could be labeled handsome. Brown, wavy hair, a stern brow, deep gray eyes, a confidence about him that said he would work hard, provide. Perhaps even remain faithful.

She hadn’t expected the rush of emotions, the heat in her chest, her eyes. Hadn’t expected the unfamiliar thrill that cascaded through her. Wife.

Someone’s wife.

She looked up at him, words netted in her chest.

She saw herself in a moment, hearing Foster’s proposal then turning him down to the din of Chopin.

Or not. What if she said yes? What if she became Mrs. Foster Worth, the world at her fingertips?

Couldn’t she change it that way also?

Over Foster’s shoulder, she spied Oliver, entering the room to gather his equipment. Invisible. Anonymous.

Oliver looked up, then, and for a blinding moment, met her eyes.
You
would make a fabulous Annie Oakley.

“Esme?” Foster said.

She drew a breath. No. She could say it. No. Simply explain to him that she wasn’t ready, that she wanted more out of life, that she wanted a man who loved her, who believed in—

“Yes.”

She looked over at the voice. Her father stepped into the room, regal in his coattails, cigarette smoke curling over his head, a smile on his face as if he’d just scooped Pulitzer. He settled his hand on her bare, cold shoulder, hot, heavy. “Of course, her answer is yes.”

Foster slipped a ring on her numb, gloved finger as Oliver shouldered his tripod and walked from the room.

“What are you doing still in bed? You’re engaged! You should be dressed and out shopping, or planning a tea to host your engagement. Get up!” Jinx had opened the doors to Esme’s chamber and stood in the soft press of darkness, the only light in the room sliding out from the edges of the drawn velvet drapes.

Esme lay in her massive bed, huddled in the middle. She snatched the blanket over her head as Jinx flung open the curtains. Light spilled into the room, across Esme’s form.

“Go away, Jinx.”

“No. It’s a beautiful day—the snow is like a blanket of diamonds on Central Park. We should go ice skating.” Indeed, the fresh-fallen snow enchanted the park, trees glistening with icy jewels, horses’ breath caught in the air like a cloud. They would go skating and she’d hear the gossip from others, instead of her mother, taste the envy in their voices, and revel in the glow of conquest.

Her sister would marry Foster Worth. Jinx had seen him from afar since his return from England, at church twice, and at the onset of the social season at the New York Horse Show. Handsome, with his dark wavy hair, regal nose, high cheekbones, assessing eyes. Then, his name began to curl off debutantes’ lips more often than “prism”—the word intoned for the correct placement of one’s lips into a perfect pucker. Foster Worth. He’d graduated from West Point, and for the last two years had run his father’s shipping business in London. He’d probably even been to court. She’d heard that he had impeccable manners.

“I don’t want to go skating. In fact, I’m never leaving my bed.”

“Did he kiss you?” Jinx sat on the edge of the bed. “Let me see the ring.”

“It’s on the bureau. Next to my gloves. And no, he didn’t kiss me.”

“Did you want him to?”

“I’d rather kiss Mother’s pet chow. No, of course not. I hardly know the man.”

“He’s going to be your husband.”

“Go away.”

Jinx found the ring, held it up to the light. Platinum, with a center-cut diamond and a floral motif of diamonds surrounding it, it caught the morning sun, turned the ceiling to kaleidoscope. “It’s gorgeous. Why aren’t you wearing it?”

“It’s too loose. It’ll fall off me, then how will I give it back?”

“That’s not funny.”

Jinx glanced at Esme then slipped it on her own finger. It fit her perfectly, but then again, she hadn’t been born with elegant piano fingers like Esme.

“Tell me how he proposed. Was it terribly romantic?”

Esme still hadn’t emerged from the covers. “No. And don’t get attached, because really, I’m not marrying him.”

Jinx stilled. Something in Esme’s voice—she couldn’t be serious. “What?”

Esme finally flung the covers off, sat up. Her hair hung in ratted tangles around her head, still in the form of her party coif. “I’m not marrying him, and I would have told him that if Father had given me a chance to answer.”

Jinx stared at her. “Have you lost your mind? Of course you are marrying him. He’s Foster Worth. He’s proposed. Your life is set—you will marry him, he will build you a glorious Fifth Avenue chateau, a home in Newport, and you will enter society already included on the register.”

Esme pressed her hands to her face. “No, my life is over. Foster Worth will want a wife who births out an heir then plans his parties and runs his household.” She looked at Jinx, shaking her head. “I don’t want that life. Besides, I don’t love him.”

“You’ll grow to love him. No marriage is perfect, but you adapt, and you accept. He’ll be a wonderful husband.”

“He has sweaty, tight hands.” Esme slid out of bed, reached for her robe. “We danced afterwards and I wanted to bathe.”

“You’re overreacting.” Jinx kept her voice schooled, just in case Esme might be serious. Not marry Foster Worth? Jinx had no illusions about love—look at her parents’ marriage. But such a union would mean a life of worth, of success. Happiness.

If Esme returned his ring, they would all have to board a steamer and hope they could find some bankrupt count in Europe who hadn’t heard of the family’s social disgrace.

“Esme, with time, I am sure that Foster would allow you to write in your journals, perhaps pen something for a ladies’ paper—”

A knock came at the door. Bette stood with Esme’s breakfast tray.

Esme waved her in as she sat at her table. Bette set down the tray, and Esme took the newspaper while Bette poured the tea.

She opened to the last page, and a smile spread over her face. “Indeed.”

“What are you reading?”

“A piece by A.W.—Anonymous Witness. She wrote an opinion piece about the state of tenement buildings in Hell’s Kitchen.” She put the paper down. “Ten families live in a room this size. Their children live without fresh air, fresh water.”

“They’re immigrants. It’s what they can afford.”

“And some landlords charge five cents per bed per night. These houses are a cesspool for tuberculosis and diphtheria. For crime.”

“She?”

Esme frowned at her.

Jinx pulled out a chair. “You said ‘she.’”

“She who?”

“Anonymous Witness. You think a woman is the author?”

Esme picked up a piece of buttered toast. “Why not?”

“A woman writing for the newspaper? Father would be the laughingstock of the journalistic community. Women should write dime novels and society columns, not news.” She picked up the paper, glanced at the headline. “ ‘Tenements’ Dwelling a Disgrace to New York.’ I’ve read the articles, and yes, they do have an emotional slant to them.”

“They’re powerful.”

“They’re whiny, bloodletting pieces, meant to stir the guilt of the wealthy.”

“They sell papers, don’t they? And father even said that he would love to know who writes them. Last week he put an editor’s note at the bottom of the article, asking for the name of the writer.” She nibbled at her bread. “What if it is a woman?” She stared out the window, her eyes shifting to Jinx and back.

No. Jinx froze. “Esme—you haven’t—you…”

Esme’s mouth tightened.

“You’re Anonymous Witness?”

A smile edged up Esme’s mouth, and Jinx wanted to wipe it away even as a chill rippled through her, touching her bones. “But how? Please tell me that you haven’t visited a tenement?”

Esme cut her voice low. “I have, what we call in the journalist’s world, a source.”

“Someone is feeding you stories.”

“Someone is doing my research. But…” She turned to Jinx, a smile on her face Jinx didn’t recognize. “Yes, I’m A.W. And…see, that’s why I can’t—why I won’t marry Foster Worth. I have the right to my own life.”

“No, you don’t! You have a responsibility—”

“I’ll reveal myself to Father and he’ll realize that I don’t have to marry to make my way. He’ll give me a job at the
Chronicle
. I’ll be like Nellie Bly—”

“Stop. Stop talking.” Jinx stood up. “You can’t do this.” She grabbed the paper and stared at the headline, at the article.

Then she tore the paper in half.

“What are you doing?” Esme rose, grabbed for the paper, but Jinx tore it again, and again, shaking.

“Stop, Jinx, please—”

Jinx rounded on her, flung the pieces like shards at Esme. “You make me sick. You’re engaged to the catch of the season, and you sit here and talk about immigrants and tuberculosis and other disgusting topics that a lady doesn’t speak of—and—making it on your own? Being a journalist? Mother was right—you don’t deserve to be a Price!”

Esme stared at her. Jinx heard her words echo back at her, but she couldn’t stop them. “You don’t even look like a Price. If you haven’t noticed, you’re the only one with blond hair in this family.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Father cheats on Mother. He’s had other children. You’re probably the illegitimate daughter of some scullery maid—”

“Have you gone mad?” Esme knelt and began picking up the shreds of newspaper.

“No—it suddenly all makes sense! I heard Mother and Father arguing last year, right after the social season and—”

“Just how many bastard children do you intend to have, August?”

Jinx had stood outside her father’s study, paralyzed by her mother’s tone, not sure she recognized the raised voice, the shrill tone.

The hurt in her mother’s voice.

“Isn’t it enough that I had to take one into our own home? Care for the child?”

“You hardly care for her, Phoebe. You barely tolerate her.”

Her?

“All I can imagine is that she is carrying the product of your adultery. Again.”

“You’re one to talk. Like you haven’t had a slew of indiscretions.”

The silence tore through Jinx like a dagger. She’d longed to flee, her heart already outside her chest, but horror affixed her to the parquet floor. Indiscretions? Her mother?

No. With certainty, the truth slid through her, solidified, turned her heart to marble. Father was the cheater. The betrayer. An adulterer who would say anything to defame her mother. Indeed, Phoebe confirmed it with her clipped tone. “Your lies and accusations won’t absolve you, August. Not this time. Get rid of her, and her child. Or I swear, this time, I will divorce you.”

“I can’t throw her onto the street. The scandal would make headlines—‘Chambermaid Claims to be Mistress of August Worth.’ You’d never let that happen.”

Jinx had heard a quick, horrible intake of breath.

“Besides, you can’t divorce me, Phoebe. Your father deeded everything to me, and I’ll make sure you’re penniless.”

“I’ll prove my fidelity. And my constant devotion. I’ve given you children. I’ve run your home.”

“Perhaps if you were a real wife, I might not have to look elsewhere.”

Something crashed and Jinx jerked.

“Four miscarriages, August. Four. Is that real enough for you?” Footsteps across the floor. They stopped at the door, just as Jinx came back to herself. She slipped into the salon, hiding behind a bust of Shakespeare as her mother flung open the door to the study. “Be glad I haven’t printed the truth in your beloved newspaper! Send her far away, I don’t care where, or she’s not the only scandal you’ll have to endure—”