A Question of Class

A QUESTION OF CLASS

By JULIA TAGAN

LYRICAL PRESS

http://lyricalpress.com/

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

To A.K., for everything.

Acknowledgments

A Question of Class
was inspired by a visit to the Morris-Jumel Mansion, Manhattan’s oldest house. Its most famous resident, the scandalous Eliza Jumel, is said to haunt the mansion to this day. A number of books were helpful in terms of research, including
The Jumel Mansion
, by William Henry Shelton, and
Painted Lady
by Leonard Falkner. Finally, thanks to everyone at Lyrical Press for their support and to my editor, Paige Christian, for her invaluable guidance.

1

The Island of Manhattan, 1810

“Unfortunately, my dear, we were never married.”

Catherine stared in horror at her husband. Or, whom she’d thought was her husband. Morris’s dark eyes, which once gazed upon her with delight, now twinkled with mad glee as he slurped turtle soup.

“How can that be?” she asked. “I was there, I heard the captain of the ship proclaim us man and wife.”

“You see, any marriage made on a merchant ship is not valid.” Morris wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“The captain of a merchant ship has no such power.”

“Why didn’t he tell us that?”

Morris didn’t answer.

Catherine dug her nails into the flesh of her palms. “He did tell you, didn’t he? You knew. And you tricked me.”

“Can you blame me? A poor man driven mad by desire. You are an exquisite piece of flesh.”

The room swayed. Morris was savoring every moment. Catherine knew her husband had the capacity to be crude and self-centered, but she’d figured she could stay one step ahead of him. Instead, she’d underestimated the man.

She inhaled deeply. “And why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I’m afraid it’s time for me to move on.”

“Move on?” As Catherine struggled to keep her voice even, a harsh realization dawned on her. “I see. Now you’ve discovered I won’t be accepted by New York high society, you have no more use for me.”

“You’ve learned so much from me the past five years
⎯
French, dancing, singing. I’m sure you’ll be able to snare someone else the way you did me soon enough.”

“I didn’t snare you. I was only fifteen. I had never—”

Mrs. Daggett strode into the room carrying an overcooked pheasant on a platter and placed it on the table. Catherine’s stomach roiled. She focused on smoothing out her napkin.

“Are you enjoying your supper, sir?” Mrs. Daggett asked. Morris grunted in return.

Mrs. Daggett cleared away Catherine’s untouched soup dish with a flourish and glanced down at her with disdain.

“Not feeling well, ma’am?”

It was enough to make one wonder who was the mistress and who was the servant, although after the last few months Catherine had gotten used to receiving reproving glances. First from the ladies of New York society. And now from Morris.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Catherine glared back and waited for Mrs. Daggett to leave. If Catherine appealed to Morris’s vanity, she might stand a chance of reasoning with the man.

The door clicked shut. “You’ve done so well for yourself, Morris, and you’ve often said I’ve helped you in so many ways.” Catherine hated the hint of desperation in her voice. “I encouraged you with your business in France, and I did my best in New York.”

“You did fine in Paris, my pet. You charmed all my associates and their wives. But not here, I’m afraid.”

Catherine had to admit it hadn’t taken long for the truth to come out that she was a lowly girl, with no money or family connections. She’d made a splash on the arm of her older husband in France, but in New York, where pedigree trumped all, she’d never be accepted by established New York families like the Astors and the Gracies, no matter how badly Morris wanted it. And although Morris’s wine importing business had done fairly well since he’d arrived in New York, his mood toward Catherine had changed. In France, he’d been encouraging. But his demeanor had become mercurial and impatient as he realized Catherine prevented him from rising above the merchant class.

“Give me a little more time,” said Catherine. “They simply need to get to know me.”

“You’ve had all the time I’m prepared to give. I thought by now we’d be hosting grand balls for the other families who can afford to have a place in the country. Instead we’re outcasts, and I can’t take you back into town and be snubbed once again. In order to grow the business I need to have the backing of the best of society. And because of you, that’s not going to happen.”

Morris was right. The unwritten rules of propriety and class in New York were much stricter than in France, to both of their surprises. “But you know I have nowhere to go,” she said.

“I’ve already thought of that.” Morris leaned back in the chair and put his hands on his rotund belly. He was turning fifty this year and his stocky body seemed to get heavier with each passing month. He glared at Catherine from under bushy, unruly eyebrows. “One of my ships is heading to the West Indies in a week. I’m off to Trenton the day after next, and I’ll be away on business until then. When I get back, we’ll put you on that ship and, if you agree not to return, I’ll be sure you get a good sum of money once you reach your destination.”

“And what on earth will I do in the West Indies?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find something to do. You’re quite bright, you know.”

Morris’s patronizing tone sent Catherine over the edge. She’d put up with his nonsense for far too long, and enough was enough. “So you’re throwing me off, like a used pair of boots? I’ve done everything you’ve asked. You can’t do this. I won’t go.”

“Remember what happened last time you disagreed with me,” said Morris in a low growl.

Even though he was sitting at the far end of the table, Catherine knew he could turn on her in a flash if angered. His frustration had become physical a few months ago. She stayed silent.

“Furthermore, there are rumors, my dear.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“You’ve sullied my reputation. And with that idiot, Percy Bonneville. I think that’s reason enough to send you packing, don’t you?”

“Percy Bonneville? That’s ridiculous. Mr. Bonneville is merely an acquaintance.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“From whom?”

Morris wouldn’t answer. Percy was a young lawyer from a prominent family, and Catherine had considered him a friend at a time when she’d been desperate for a kind word. In France, a gentleman acquaintance wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow, but apparently Catherine had missed yet another subtle rule of stateside etiquette. And she hadn’t realized the extent of Morris’s brutality, or how he had out-maneuvered her in every way.

“What happens once you’ve gotten rid of me? You’ll marry someone socially superior?”

“I will be open to the idea. As you know, I’m not the kind of man who makes the same mistake twice.”

Catherine stifled the urge to scream in frustration. Instead, she rose and left the room. Once Morris set his mind to something, it was difficult to change it and she needed time to think.

In her bedchamber on the second floor, she walked in circles, like a caged animal. When Morris purchased the estate six months ago, perched among acres of farmland and craggy rocks ten miles north of town, she’d happily overseen each detail of the house’s restoration, painting her bedchamber a brilliant turquoise blue that was all the rage in Europe. This evening the color seemed garish and cold.
 

She doubted he would keep his end of the bargain and give her enough money to live on once she’d made the journey to the West Indies. She’d heard rumors in France that Morris wasn’t the most trustworthy businessman. It was probably one of the reasons they’d come to New York to make a fresh start. If she followed his command, she’d end up destitute in a foreign place.

Morris was dangerous and she had to escape from his clutches, but how on earth would she manage? It was maddening to be surrounded by luxury yet have no funds of one’s own. To get far enough away, she needed to act fast and take with her something valuable yet easily concealed.

In a flash, the answer came to her: Morris’s revered bottle of 1780 Chateau d’Yquem, kept at their townhouse on Pearl Street. Catherine couldn’t count the number of times he’d displayed the bottle to visitors, going on at great length about the wine’s superiority. Even better, he would be devastated by its loss.

Catherine instructed Mrs. Daggett not to bother her, as she was retiring for the evening. She opened her armoire and stuffed several of her gowns and petticoats into a portmanteau, only pausing when she heard the heavy stomp of Morris heading down the hall to his own bedchamber.

Once the servants’ voices had died down, replaced by the mansion’s usual creaks and groans, she crept down the grand stairway. Her heart banged hard against her corset as she unbolted the lock of the front door and pulled it shut behind her. In the stables, she led the bay from the stall and harnessed him to the small phaeton, as she’d seen the groomsman, Davis, do time and time again.

Catherine had driven the route south to town many times with Morris, and he’d always encouraged her to take the reins. In less than two hours she’d reach the townhouse and the Yquem. After spending the night at her friend Theodosia’s, she’d escape out of town first thing in the morning, before anyone discovered she was missing.

But the journey proved difficult. The horse stumbled several times, forcing Catherine to slow her pace. She focused on the road ahead, but Morris’s hard words echoed in her mind. She was no different from his bottle of Yquem, an accessory to show off. At times when they were in Paris she’d felt like a gaily-colored parrot brought out to perform each day. Yet Catherine had tried to please, until they came to New York and Morris realized he’d made a terrible mistake.

Catherine jolted forward and almost tumbled over the dash. The carriage had stopped short, leaning precariously to the right. Sick with panic, she snapped the reins, urging the horse out of the rut. If only she’d paid more attention to the road. She jumped down from the seat and ran to the front of the horse’s head. He whinnied and impatiently stomped his front feet but didn’t seem to be hurt.