Authors: Kate Rothwell
Somebody To Love (9 page)
CHAPTER 9
The recital hall smelled of damp newspaper and old perspiration. Though the building was relatively new, gilt peeled from the elaborately frescoed walls and ceiling. If she hadn’t looked forward to the concert, Araminta would have turned around and demanded her money back. But it wasn’t the surroundings that made her wish she hadn’t come.
Araminta had splurged on a good seat near the front, but the usher refused to lead her to it.
The young man with spots and a crimson moth-eaten coat gestured toward the balcony. “That’s where you should be. I guess the ticket seller didn’t notice what you are.”
Araminta clenched her teeth, but didn’t move. Once upon a time, she would have come close to dying of shame and crept from the scene.
After her years working for a countess, she knew how to put on the act as well as any noblewoman. With her chin tilted high, and peering down her nose as if she viewed something distasteful, she confronted the man. “I daresay the ticket seller did not see anything objectionable. He simply took my money. And now I expect to be seated or to receive a good part of that money back.”
The man sputtered and shuffled his feet on the worn crimson carpet and even turned apologetic, but Araminta’s British accent had not worked as she’d hoped.
“Yes’m. I’m sure we will get some of your money refunded. If you’ll come with me, please.” He turned and began to lead her against the tide of incoming audience. She suppressed a sigh and followed.
A strong hand grabbed her upper arm. She twisted round, ready to do battle.
“Mr. Calverson,” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”
He raised an eyebrow. “A strange question.”
Griffin and music. Of course. The tension in her chest dissipated, and she almost forgot the noxious young usher hovering at her other side. She smiled at Griffin. “You play the flute. I remember now. Timona said you played beautifully.”
He ignored the comment and leveled an imperious stare at her unwelcome escort. “Tell me, what does that ridiculous man want?”
The usher tapped Araminta on the shoulder. “Please, ma’am, the concert starts in less than five minutes.”
Hot embarrassment flooded her cheeks. Of all people to witness this, why did it have to be Griffin Calverson? She shrugged, hoping she appeared unconcerned. “I’m supposed to sit in the balcony.”
Griffin gave the usher a frigid stare that had the man shuffling his feet again. No wonder the carpet was threadbare. “The young lady will accompany me.” Griffin’s voice was almost too quiet to be heard over the din of the fast-filling hall. “I shall pay the difference in ticket prices.”
The usher rubbed a gloved hand over his forehead. Under his maroon cap he turned a clashing shade of vermilion. “It’s not a matter of the money. The girl already has paid the money.”
People had turned in their seats to watch. Others squeezed past and looked back, curious.
“Then what appears to be the problem?” Griffin’s voice turned dangerously calm.
“It’s that she belongs up there.” The usher stabbed a finger toward the balcony. “That’s where she’s supposed to go.”
Griffin stared at the man with contempt. “No. I think not.” He tucked Araminta’s hand into the crook of his arm and began to lead her away. She curled her fingers around the fabric of the coat, almost giddy with the rush of gratitude as well as awareness of the strong arm beneath the superfine cloth. As a seeming afterthought, he turned to the cringing usher. “You are neglecting your work. People are waiting to be escorted to their seats.”
“But . . .”
“Go. Now.”
The usher went.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Araminta murmured. “I would have been fine in the balcony.”
Griffin gave her a cool look, almost as contemptuous as the one he’d directed at the usher. “Feel free to go then.”
“Never mind.” She blew out a long breath. “I think I’m merely jealous at the way you handled him. I wish I could quell people the way you do.”
She wondered if Griffin’s eyes actually twinkled as he said, “You can, I assure you.”
He led her to seats that were even better than her own. “Not a very crowded event. I wonder why that man made such a fuss,” he remarked, and she knew by the way he watched her that he wanted to know what she had to say about the incident.
She waved a gloved hand in what she hoped was a casual manner. “I imagine the usher enjoys the fact that at least there are some people who are considered his inferior.”
He lounged back in his plush velvet seat, regal in his perfectly tailored suit, every inch the man of wealth and taste. Not a man to be seen with a woman like her. “Thereby proving that he is the most inferior being possible. You don’t seem particularly annoyed.”
“I very rarely experience problems,” she said, masking her discomfort by smoothing her green silk dress over her lap. One of her better gowns yet she felt sadly rumpled and unfashionable sitting next to Griffin’s impeccable facade. “Many people mistake me for an Italian.”
“And is that good?” The iciness had returned to his face.
Could he possibly condemn her for denying her ancestry?
“Anything that makes life less complicated is good,” she snapped. “You do not know what it is like to face prejudice, do you?”
He tilted his head and eyed her for a long moment. “Touché,” he murmured. “You’re not one to shy from hard truths, are you?”
She was relieved when the musicians took the stage.
The music made her forget everything. The soaring lyrical flute solos brought tears to her eyes. In the quiet between movements, she glanced over at Griffin. At the same moment he turned to her.
What did she see during the brief moment when their eyes met? Radiance, peace, a quality of the man he hid from the world that was released by music, and even more intoxicating than the Bach.
Shaken, she faced the stage again. And when the music lifted her, she was curiously connected to the man next to her, because she knew that it struck the same notes in him. The almost tangible link the music formed between them seemed even as strong as the kiss they’d shared. So strong she knew she dared not mention it.
Yet after the concert, when he asked if she would join him to share a small meal, she eagerly agreed.
He pulled out his gold watch. “Blast. I forgot. I am meeting several gentlemen.”
“Ah. Perhaps another time,” she began.
“No, please, join us.” Something of the intriguing gentle warmth lingered in his manner.
“I’d be delighted,” she said, although less eagerly now fully aware of what these gentlemen would infer when they saw her unchaperoned in Griffin’s company.
As they walked down the stone steps from the concert hall, two young men bade Griffin a good afternoon and joined them.
“This is Mr. Potter and Mr. Nelson,” Griffin introduced the men. “They and three other gentlemen will be joining us for dinner.”
Potter and Nelson wore formal black evening wear and silk top hats, but Araminta suspected that they’d be more at home in rougher clothing. Occasionally, when either of them thought no one watched, he ran a finger between his neck and starched white collar.
“Did you enjoy the concert?” she asked Potter.
He turned slightly pink. “Nah. I didn’t stick around for it.”
The restaurant was smaller than Cavanaughs or Delmonico’s, though nearly as fashionable. Araminta braced herself for more trouble, but apparently Griffin Calverson could bring anyone in for dinner.
The maître d’ led them past the main dining room to a smaller semiprivate salon.
Thick carpeting meant their footsteps were muffled, as were the conversations. With each table surrounded on three sides by an elaborate stained-glass enclosure, this section of the restaurant was the perfect location for conducting serious business.
The chairs were large and well padded. And heavy. With some difficulty, the waiter pulled back her chair for her.
“I apologize,” Griffin murmured as he paused next to her chair for a moment. “I must sit with the men who will be joining us. And I have to go over some numbers first.”
He walked to the far side of the oversize table.
Araminta, who’d seen Kane’s thugs, supposed these young men assumed the same function for Griffin. A sort of decoration to show the man was so important he required guards. Although in Kane’s case, she supposed the guards were for more than show. Perhaps in Griffin’s case as well.
As Griffin sat down, Nelson eagerly pulled a small notebook from his waistcoat.
Araminta was taken aback to see Griffin take the notebook and study it. From the little bits she could overhear, she understood the business was connected to the railroad and seemed boringly legitimate. Potter must have seen her surprise. “We don’t strike you like regular gents, eh?” he muttered.
“I had rather thought you were, ah, here to make sure everything ran smoothly.” That seemed like a good euphemism.
Potter understood, but didn’t seem offended. “Yah, we keep an eye open for trouble, but we’re more like apprentices to business. That’s what I’d reckon you’d call us.” He grinned at her. “Up through the ranks, like Ragged Dick.”
He flapped his napkin a few times before carefully placing it on his right knee. “Nelson there was a baggage smasher at the big depot. I worked for a cotton merchant nearby. Nelson knew about Mr. Calverson and had the bal—, um, brass to stop him one day at the terminal and ask him if he had any positions open. For both of us.”
Araminta enjoyed listening to his description of life in a rough-and-tumble New York until the three other prosperous-looking gentlemen joined the table.
Griffin made introductions. The stout young one called Richardson shook her hand and claimed the seat next to her. He greeted her warmly, his gaze never shifting from her bosom.
They made their order, and Richardson, who had th”heavily pomaded blond hair and a red face, winked at Araminta.
“You been around long?” he asked her bosom.
She knew at once that he had pegged her as a loose woman. She should not have been surprised, of course, but she always felt as if she’d just been slapped in the face when men made that assumption.
Richardson’s hand brushed her knee. Come to think of it, slapping didn’t seem a bad notion. Would Griffin mind if she gave Richardson a good clout? She regretfully rejected the idea. Araminta had encountered many men who’d considered her fair game, but she did not think her usual direct method of dealing with them would be appropriate.
“I am a chef, Mr. Richardson,” she said firmly as she shifted away from him.
“Ahh,” he said, and immediately launched into an off-color joke about a cook and his cleaver.
The table was too large for general conversation. Several times Araminta attempted to speak with Potter, who sat on her other side, but Richardson was determined to have her attention.
She grew tired of Richardson’s goggling at her bosom, and barely noticed the flavor of the delicious curried soup.
“Oh dear, have I spilled something down my front?” she asked him at last.
“No, I’m just enjoying one of the prettiest views in New York.” Richardson leered. “Nothing wrong with that.”
She knew she blushed and so pretended to drop her napkin, determined that he wouldn’t see how his words affected her.
Griffin, who’d been engrossed in a conversation at the other end of the table, called out, “Is anything wrong, Miss Woodhall?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Richardson has mistaken me for a piece of the New York landscape,” she replied.
Richardson chuckled. “One I wouldn’t mind taking a tour of.”
Everyone at the table fell silent as Griffin aimed a look of pure ice at the man. “Mr. Richardson, please do not mistake Miss Woodhall for anything other than a lady.”
Even Richardson must have sensed the hostility, for he toned down his advances after that, but he still smirked enough to take away Araminta’s appetite.
She had very few precious hours off, and decided she would rather spend them reading or even sewing a seam than listening to Richardson’s idea of conversation.
When the main course had been removed, she stood. At once, the gentlemen all rose.
“I beg your pardon, I think I shall go home. I find I am extraordinarily tired.”
Griffin glanced at Richardson and back at her. “I will escort you,” he said.
The older gentleman next to him spoke up querulously. “But Mr. Calverson, we leave for Chicago tomorrow and we need to finish up this unexpected—”
“No need to bother about me,” Araminta said. “The streetcar is quite convenient. I can make my own way home.” In fact she could hardly wait to flee this place and return to the sanctum of her home and kitchen, the world where she was adept and confident.
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