The Enchantment

THE ENCHANTMENT

Kristin Hannah

Emmaline Hatter was a beautiful, brilliant, and rich Wall Street financier in the nineteenth century until the crash of 1893 wiped her out completely. Desperate to recoup her losses, she joins Dr. Larence Digby in his search for the legendary lost city of Cibola, rumored to be rich in gold. Emmaline was used to getting her own way, but Larence was not about to give up control of his expedition to a woman. Somehow, in a world of enchantment, each would have to learn to believe -- to trust the other with their lives, their secrets, and their hearts . . .

FAWCETT GOLD MEDAL • NEW YORK

Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the pub-lisher may have received payment for it.

A Fawcett Gold Medal Book Published by Ballantine Books Copyright © 1992 by Kristin Hannah All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copy-right Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and si-multaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-90149 ISBN 0-449-14773-8

Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition: August 1992

To my dad, for all the roads that needed to be explored.

You taught us to dream. To believe. And that has made

all the difference.

And, of course, to Benjamin.

Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

A Fawcett Gold Medal Book Published by Ballantine Books Copyright © 1992 by Kristin Hannah All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-90149 ISBN 0-449-14773-8

Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition: August 1992

Special Thanks to . . .

Kathleen Gens for her invaluable assistance. And Ken John, the storyteller who started it all.

Rain. Miserable, boring rain.

Emmaline Amanda Hatter stared out the mullioned window, trying to see Central Park through the gray haze that shrouded Eighth Avenue. Angry water drummed the thick glass, slashing downward in opaque, zigzagging streaks. A frigid postwinter wind rattled the pane. Cold seeped through the window and shivered across her fashionably bare shoulders.

Frowning, she let her gaze wander back to the men clustered in her parlor. Railroad tycoon Wilbur Jacobs stood hunched over the hors d'oeuvres table like a greedy rodent preparing for winter. With barely a pause to breathe, he rammed one elegant canape after another into his already overstuffed mouth. His gray-whiskered cheeks worked feverishly to keep up.

Good God, she thought with a deepening frown. At the price of caviar, he could at least chew. There was nothing that irritated her more than spending her hard-earned money on fools.

She glanced at the elegantly clad man standing beside her. Tonight's horror was all his fault. "I can't believe

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you talked me into hosting this disaster," she said to Michael Jameson through clenched teeth.

The president of Columbia College laughed softly. ' 'I saw you studying poor Wilbur. Should I fear for his health?"

Emma took a small sip of the ridiculously expensive champagne her cook had ordered. "If you feel inclined to worry, try worrying about me. I should be examined by that German doctor from Vienna—what's his name? Freud? Only someone with a mental defect would host a fund-raiser in such financially uncertain times. I cannot imagine why I agreed."

"You owed me," he said easily. "Dr. Zinberg's patent made you a small fortune—and I could have taken him to Rockefeller."

"Well after tonight that debt is paid in full, Michael. I refuse to—"

A boisterous pounding at the front door interrupted her. Emma's gaze cut to the salon's doorway. Long, tense minutes passed as she waited for someone to answer the door. No one did.

The hammering intensified until it echoed through the empty corridor and trembled beneath her feet. She thought about the dainty Meissen vase perched on the brass sconce beside the front door. That expensive knickknack represented her first big stock payoff, and it had cost her dearly. Like all her possessions, it was important to her—perhaps even more than most, because it was the first. If it fell because some stupid, unwanted guest didn't know how to knock like a gentleman . . .

No, she realized, no guest would be so rude. It had to be the butler she'd engaged for the evening. She THE ENCHANTMENT 3

glanced at the sterling-plated clock on her mantel and frowned.

He was more than an hour late. An hour! Emmaline took a deep breath to quell her anger, and set down her Waterford goblet with exaggerated care. "Excuse me, Michael. It appears my butler has finally deigned to put in an appearance." "Certainly."

With an almost imperceptible nod to Michael, she plucked up her heavy velvet skirts and exited the smoky, overcrowded room. The unseen man's hammer-hits reverberated through the walls, punctuating the rat-a-tat clicking of her elegant French heels on the walnut floorboards.

She crossed the marble foyer and reached the door. Prepared for battle, she flung it open, and immediately realized her mistake. Her gaze shot to the antique vase just as the door cracked against the wall. The Meissen wobbled precariously.

She surged forward but wasn't fast enough. The precious antique crashed to the floor. Porcelain shattered, flew everywhere. Eggshell-thin fragments scattered across the black and white marble tile like a pugilist's lost teeth.

She stared at the fragments in horror. The memory of the vase's purchase—and how much that day had meant—rushed to the forefront of her mind. Furious, she spun around. "Now look at what you've—"

One look at the intruder and her throat went dry. She stared, gape-mouthed, at the ... thing in her doorway. Tall, thin, wearing a hopelessly out-of-date black cape, it stood shadowed by the hallway's meager light. Beneath a sagging, slightly askew top hat was a dark void where a face should be.

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She shook her head in disgust. This . . . creature . . . was no butler.

She reached for the door, prepared to slam it shut. Suddenly a hand snaked out from the sloshy black cape. Long, dripping wet fingers curled around the door, and a brown creedmore rain boot snuck through the opening and planted itself on her floor. "Is this the Hatter apartment?"

Even the voice sounded wet. Emmaline squeezed her eyes shut, briefly imagining herself strangling the biddy at the employment house. "Yes, but—"

"Great!" He shoved the door open and pushed his way through. Emmaline stumbled backward, crashing into the wall behind her with a resounding thud.

He limped across the threshold like some creature from a Grimm Brothers fairy tale. His uneven, wobbling gait gave him an odd, drunken appearance. Emma watched in horror as his muddy boots squished across the wooden floor and sank into the ivory wool of her Aubusson rug.

Water streamed off his ugly top hat and cloak in a thousand silver streams. He pushed a lock of dark brown hair off" his forehead. It immediately plopped back in front of his eyes. Shrugging, as if to say, /

tried, he flashed her an eager grin and extended his right hand. "How do you—"

She charged him. Halfway there, a spray of water hit her in the face. The world turned into a watery blur.

She came to a sputtering halt. It took a moment for her vision to clear.

The hulk was shaking like a freshly bathed dog!

Emmaline flung her pointed finger toward the open door. "Get out!"

His already oversize grin expanded—although Emma

THE ENCHANTMENT 5

would have sworn such a thing was physically impossible. "What?" "Get out."

"Just a second." He rammed his flattened palm against his ear. At the contact, more water flew from his head and clothes.

' 'Get..." Emma's teeth came together with a snap when she realized she was screaming like one of the fishwives she'd known in her youth. An acrid memory of old Mrs. Hopcoat sitting on the tenement's decaying stoop slammed through her mind. The woman's shrill, biting voice assailed her. Whitefish . . .

day-old white-fish . . . two cents a pound . . .

The unexpected remembrance brought an involuntary shudder. With a ruthlessness born of practice, she forced the memory from her mind. "Get out," she repeated with considerably more control. He smacked his ear again. "What was that?" Deaf. She stared at him in disbelief. They had sent her a deaf butler.

Marching forward, she snapped her chin up to look at him. Bright, intelligent green eyes peered intently into her own. He smiled suddenly, and her breath caught for an instant. She came to a dead stop. In his eyes was something she hadn't seen for a very long time in her own: happiness. The bright and shining emotion was so unexpected, so completely foreign, that for one confusing heartbeat she was speechless.

He surveyed the entryway with obvious wonder. "Beautiful room."

The spell shattered. Room? she thought with contempt. A butler thought the foyer was a room? "That's it." Emma grabbed his arm, spun him around, and pushed him out of her apartment.

6 Kristin Hannah

He turned to look at her. His bright smile wobbled, fell. Confusion replaced the wonder in his green eyes.

"Isn't the party inside?"

"Not for you, it isn't," Emma answered. "And you can tell your boss not to expect a dime from me."

"Isn't he here? I thought-"

"Nice try." She slammed the door shut in his face.

Emmaline spun on her heel and walked briskly back toward the parlor. Halfway there, she saw Michael Jameson heading her way with two glasses of champagne. She walked right past him. She didn't feel sociable right now, and besides, she needed something stronger than champagne.

Michael executed a quick pivot and fell into step beside her. "What happened? I saw—"

"I threw the idiot out."

He stopped. "You did what?"

It took Emma a few steps to realize that Michael was no longer walking with her. Slowing, she turned around and walked back to him. "Surely you're not going deaf, too. I threw him out. He's gone. And good riddance."

"But-"

"I know what you're going to say, and don't bother. I don't care a fig that a butler is the thing to have at a party. I am not about to pay top dollar for a late, deaf, incompetent server just so that Mrs. Astor—who wouldn't allow her dead body to be dragged into my home—won't be offended."

"He must have told you—"

She sighed. "Michael, I appreciate that you want this party to go well. It's your college that will benefit.

But I had to decide quickly—another ten seconds and my Aubusson rug would have shrunk to the size of a postage stamp."

THE ENCHANTMENT 7

"Emmaline, will you let me speak?"

"Certainly."

A smile curved his lips. "That man was no butler."

"At least we agree on something." She grabbed one of his champagne glasses and took a sizable drink.

"You should have seen what that old biddy at the employment house sent me. Even that fool you and Caroline engaged for your Christmas party was more competent."

"I did see him. I went to get a glass of champagne, and when I got back, he was gone."

"Like I said, good riddance."

"Emmaline," he said in a voice tinged with laughter, "that wasn't your hired butler." His smile graduated to a grin. "It was Dr. Digby."

She gasped in horror. There was a heartbeat's pause before he added, ' 'I see you recognize the guest of honor's name when you hear it."

Dr. Larence Digby stared at the door. A frown worked itself across his face. Something was wrong.

True, it was his first party, but he was pretty sure he was supposed to be inside the house. . . .

What had he done? Or not done? He'd read Duffey's Ladies' and Gentlemen's Etiquette from cover to cover. Of course, he'd thought the person answering the door would give him enough time to think.

Problem was, he didn't think quickly. Never had.

He'd made his usual mess of things. He shouldn't have allowed himself to get so caught up in the beauty of the city at night. Ordinary people weren't mesmerized by the glitter of a fat raindrop as it slid down a streetlight's pane. Most people wouldn't even notice such a thing.

But Larence could no more overlook that singular

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Kristin Hannah

beauty than he could fly past it. The world was just too exceptional, too breathtaking, to ignore. After so many years of darkness, of nothingness, he simply couldn't ignore the many faces of light.

He'd forgotten that the people behind that door didn't notice a rainstorm, let alone the beauty of a single drop. They were the people who made the world go around, not the people who watched its pirouette.