Heiress (11 page)

How would she ever learn to love another when she had given her heart to Foster?

Perhaps she understood Esme, after all.

Outside, lightning flashed against the gloomy pane. Thunder followed, far away over the river.

The servants readied the drawing room for the wedding—bowers of roses brought in to flank the marble fireplace, ivy and lilies hanging from the chandelier. Mother had sent out hurried invitations to a handful of close family friends, arranged a dinner for thirty to celebrate.

Unfortunately, Jinx couldn’t possibly retire to her room, given the fact that she would be the next Price to marry. Her mother had already ordered her vellum calling cards, already begun the invitations for her debut ball.

Just this morning, her trousseau arrived from Paris. Ball dresses, dinner dresses, tea dresses,

Jinx couldn’t look at it, knowing she’d be required to dance, flirt, and win the affections of a man who could never love her like Foster did.

Not that he’d professed it or—oh! She pressed her hands to her eyes.

“Ma’am, are you ready for your gown?” Amelia returned from the storage room, holding her new gown, the blue one with the rosettes along the neckline. She set the gown on the bed, began to open the muslin that protected it.

Amelia had already gathered Jinx’s hair up on her head—nothing so adorned as when she would enter society, but it would be her first appearance with her hair up, ushering in her new identity as a “bud.”

She stared at the mirror and wished she had half of Esme’s beauty. Probably she wouldn’t even make a match.

Maybe she should start looking at careers. Being a companion. Or a teacher.

“Jinx?” Her mother stood at the door, regal in a blue satin gown, her corset cinched tight, to accentuate her curves. On her head, she wore a tiara, diamonds at her ears, around her neck, a dog collar of diamonds. “Why aren’t you ready? And it’s freezing in here. Amelia, please light a fire.”

She swept into the room, stood behind her daughter. Jinx stared at their reflections. Perhaps she did have her mother’s features—at least the shape of her chin, the perfectly puckered lips. Someday she’d probably have her mother’s tragic marriage too, if she didn’t…if she…

“Mother, Esme should not marry Foster. She doesn’t love him. And, if their marriage ends in divorce, it will be a scandal for us all.”

“She won’t divorce Foster.”

“Are you so sure? She ran away to be with Oliver. Father had to post guards for the past two days to keep her secured in her room. What makes you believe she will keep her vows?”

She’d hit a mark. Her mother’s mouth knotted, her eyes narrowing. She squeezed her gloves in her grip. “Perhaps you are right.”

Jinx turned on the ottoman, keeping her voice schooled. “It’s not a good match, Mother.”

Her mother met her eyes then turned away to the window. “Then what will we do?”

Jinx took a quick breath, cast a look at Amelia, now striking a long match into her fireplace. She cut her voice low as she said, “I’ll marry him.”

Her mother rounded, stared at her. “But you haven’t even yet been presented to society.”

Jinx found her feet. “But you can admit it would be a perfect match. He and I share so many…interests. And you know I finished school with high praise from Mrs. Greenly. I can manage society and the balls, and the dinners—and you could teach me, Mother. I’m ready. I’ve been ready for two years.”

“Indeed.” Phoebe stepped up to her, lifted Jinx’s chin to meet her eyes. “But are you ready for marriage? For—for the challenges, the…indecencies?”

Oh. Her mother raised an eyebrow.

She remembered Foster’s hands on her waist when he’d helped her from the car, the thrill that went right through to her bones when he touched her face. “Yes.”

Her mother considered her a moment longer. “Perhaps you are.”

Jinx inhaled her Mother’s words, let them sink through her, turn her body to light.
Perhaps you are
.

“But what if Foster doesn’t agree?”

Jinx couldn’t help herself. “I believe he’ll agree, Mother.”

Phoebe gave her a sharp look. Outside, lightning crackled against the pane. “Really. Well, what about Esme?”

A darkness fell through Jinx. She stepped away from her mother’s grip, ran her hands up her bare, chilled arms. Thankfully, Amelia had lit the fire, but the immense room gathered the heat at the ceiling, warmed her toes last.

“She has Oliver.” Not really—for what indeed would Esme do with her wayward heart? She couldn’t marry the footman.

But her mother seemed to consider her words. Then she smiled. “Yes, she has Oliver. Get dressed.” She turned to Amelia. “Fetch the white gown, the one we were to use for her debut ball.”

The white gown, with the gold rosettes along the bodice, the lacy straps at her otherwise bare shoulders, a matching lacy hem. In it, she felt fresh and bright and beautiful.

Amelia disappeared to the storage room.

Her mother took Jinx’s hand, led her back to the ottoman. “Now you listen to me, Jinx. In order for this to work, you must keep your mouth closed. Say nothing to anyone, even your father. I will handle this.”

Amelia returned with the gown, laid it on the bed, untying it. She pulled the gown out. The gold threads shimmered against the flames of the fire.

“Perfect,” her mother said as Jinx stepped into it.

Jinx stared at herself in the mirror, the way the dress perfectly cascaded over her curves, accentuated by the corset. Just wait until Foster saw her.

Perfect, indeed.

She caught her mother’s eye once, found her expression pinched.

It nearly strangled the euphoria bubbling up inside her.

Amelia finished arranging her dress then handed her a bouquet of lilies and roses.

“Remember, do not speak.”

They passed Esme’s room, her door still shut, the footmen staring blankly as they guarded her door.

Esme would be just fine. Perhaps Father would allow her a time of mourning, send her to Europe to paint, or write. Yes, she’d enjoy that. Perhaps she too might even find love.

They descended the stairs, the blooms from the florists scenting the foyer. It could be her debut night, her hands in her gloves hot, anticipation stirring in her stomach. If it were, she’d stand in the drawing room with her mother, greeting guests, then lead the first quadrille.

Yes, she’d gladly surrender her debutante season to marry Foster, to dance every night in his arms.

Her mother opened the drawing room doors, and by the fire stood her father, dressed in his tailcoat, an ascot at his neck. He held a brandy, swirling it, the amber liquid as if in flames.

“August, we have a situation,” Phoebe said, gesturing to Jinx to close the doors.

Her father turned. He appeared aged, deep crevices etched into his brow.

“It seems that Esme may have compromised herself with Oliver.”

Compromised herself—but no, Esme’s wouldn’t have…

Jinx glanced at her mother who didn’t spare her a look. She sat on the divan, folded her hands to keep them from shaking.

Her father flinched, his jaw tightening.

“August, you know she can’t marry Foster, knowing she has…well, what are we to do?”

He shot back his drink. “Are you sure?”

“It may be worse than we suspect.”

Jinx looked at the floor.

“Are you saying?”

“She may be with child.”

Jinx closed her eyes, unable to believe her mother’s tone, her words.

Her father’s intake of breath made Jinx wish she could stop this. Except, well, what if it were true?

“I always feared something like this with Esme. She has a rather…untidy personality,” her mother said. “We will have to arrange passage for her immediately for Europe, spend the season there while she…comes back to us.”

Jinx didn’t miss the narrowing of her father’s eyes as she glanced at him.

“But, fortunately, Jinx is willing to”—she drew in a breath—“take her sister’s place. She will marry Foster Worth, keep our family from ruin.”

For the first time in her life that she could remember, Jinx saw her father look at her. Really look at her. As if she might be more than an annoyance, a mistake, a jinx.

“And would Foster agree to such an arrangement?”

“I believe he would be amicable, but of course, you’ll need to ask him.”

Her father’s eyes hadn’t left hers. She drew in a breath, held it.

And then, very softly, he gave her a tight-lipped smile. Nodded.

Heat washed through Jinx, her breath leaking out. And this time, when he patted her on the shoulder, she didn’t want to weep.

In fact, she could probably soar.

* * * * *

She could live in poverty. Really.

For Oliver.

Esme stared at herself in the mirror, at her hair upswept into a concoction that made her appear as if she had wings, and hated the sliver of cowardice inside. She hated the memories that slid into her sleep last night, sour breath prickling her cheek, dirty hands groping her, the sound of her own breath, quick and sharp, waking her in a sweat.

She hated that, with relief, she’d awakened in her own wide, cotton bed, Bette knocking at her door with her breakfast tray. As Bette opened her door, Esme looked past her, just to confirm her footmen stood sentry.

Most of all she hated her father’s voice in her head and how it could exonerate her, if she wanted.
If you try to contact Esme, I’ll have you arrested.
Or whatever it takes.

Oh, why couldn’t Oliver have been born to privilege? She cupped her face in her hands a long moment before she surveyed herself and the mess she’d made.

She looked like a princess in her wedding dress, the miles of tulle and satin puddling around her, the jewels sewn into the bodice capturing the twilight. Her hair coiffed, pearls at her ears, the dog collar laden with jewels around her neck. Bette had even affixed a tiara on her head.

Behind her, the fire flickered in the hearth, shimmered gold against the chandelier.

At least it had stopped raining, the rose gold of twilight sliding in across the parquet floor. She’d watched the wind lash Central Park, strip the trees bare, scatter the new buds upon the ground under the flashes of jagged light, turning over the touch of Oliver’s hands in hers, his kiss, his eyes holding hers.

She could live in the tenements with Oliver, couldn’t she? Share his tiny room with the moonlight scouring the floor, the scurry of rats behind the walls? She twisted her ring on her finger—apparently, she’d lost it, for it appeared on her tray this morning with breakfast. Diamond and platinum, it could buy food for the entire tenement house for a year.

She took it off, weighed it in the palm of her hand.

“Esme.”

A footman let her mother in, and Esme didn’t look at her. She’d measured the distance to the ground last night, a desperate thought pressing her to the darkened window.
If you try to contact Esme, I’ll have you arrested.
Or whatever it takes.

The thought burrowed inside her, turned her cold. If she married Foster, perhaps she could assist the families she saw in Oliver’s building. Employ Oliver.

At least he’d be fed. Maybe he could move from that decrepit room.

Her throat tightened, her eyes stinging. “I’m almost ready, Mother.”

Her mother walked up behind her. Esme turned and caught her strange expression. Almost a smile? “No need. You don’t have to marry Foster.” Her mother gestured to Bette. “You may remove her gown.”

“What?”

Phoebe took the dog collar from Esme’s neck and ran her hands through the pearls dripping from the ribbon. “I understand you better than you think, Esme. I know what it is to be in love, to be forced to marry another.”

She sat on the divan before the fire, the dog collar still in her hand. “I loved a man who promised to marry me. But like your Oliver, he lacked social standing and money. He asked my father for my hand, but…” She shook her head. “I understand, Esme.”

She stared at her mother, a slice of the night’s chill rippling through her. “What are you saying?”

Bette had begun to unbutton her dress. Esme watched it fall from her shoulders. She caught it, held it to herself. “Wait.”

Her mother looked at her.

Wait. Did she mean that? What if Foster courted her? They barely knew each other.

No. She pressed fingers to her lips, feeling Oliver’s touch.

Phoebe rose, walked over to Esme’s wardrobe, and pulled out a small valise, the one she’d used as a schoolgirl, visiting her friends on weekends.

“Pack her things—a skirt, some undergarments. We’ll have the rest sent.”

“Mother, what are you doing?” The words came out half panic, half disbelief.

She walked over to Esme, removed the tiara from her head. Then, carefully, she unpinned Esme’s hair. It fell down, the hair rats dropping to the floor. Her mother reached down, removed the ring from her finger.

“I’m freeing you. But you must go before your father discovers your absence.”

“Freeing me?” Her stomach swirled, her head lighter—probably from the lack of finery. “But Father said he would—that he would hurt Oliver.”

“Shh. I’ll handle your father. Bette, hurry, please.”

Bette had already fetched a shirtwaist, a petticoat, bloomers. She layered these plus Esme’s day skirt into the bag. Meanwhile, her mother unbuttoned the gown. Esme stepped out of it, gooseflesh rising.

“Her traveling costume, Bette. Now.”

Bette found the brown skirt, the matching jacket, the shirtwaist, and helped Esme into it. “I don’t understand—”

Phoebe took her face in her hands, icy against her flushed checks. She met Esme’s eyes. “Be well, daughter.” Then she kissed her on her forehead. “Use the servant’s entrance as you leave. You may take a carriage, as long as you send it back.”

Then, as she stared at Esme, a softness crossed her face, again that enigmatic smile. She opened Esme’s hand, dropped the dog collar into it. Closed it. “For your dowry.”

Then she shifted out of the room.

Bette bent to tie Esme’s shoes. Esme sank down on the ottoman, staring at the dog collar. “I don’t understand. Why would my mother send me away?”