Chapter 83
Fancy watched Aurora pirouette before the mirror in her new dress. It was made of the softest burgundy velvet, with collar and cuffs of ecru lace. The bloomers protruding below the hem were lace trimmed, too, and thin burgundy ribbons nipped through the stitching above the deep flounce.
The child's dark hair was done up in a thousand shining ringlets, for Aurora already had her own lady's maid, as well as her nanny.
Love welled up in Fancy, as the exquisite child admired her own reflection in the glass. Aurora had been blessed with the best features of both parents—Fancy's delicate facial structure, and Chance's stature of long, lean bone and well-placed muscle. No one could see the child without being startled by her uncommon beauty, and when it came time for beaux to come calling, only the finest young men from the most prominent families would darply their suit for Aurora McAllister. But that, of course, was all far in the future.
"Oh, Mommy, it's absolutely gorgeous!" the child breathed, enchanted by her own reflection. "Thank you so much—you know how I love velvet."
Fancy opened her arms to catch the happy little girl in an embrace. Aurora seemed to be growing taller every day and Fancy . felt sure she'd inherited McAllister stature rather than that of the diminutive Deverells.
"I know, sweetheart," she said, buoyed by Aurora's joy. "No one looks grander in velvet than you do. I declare you're growing up prettier every week, Aurora. Someday, every man you see will set his cap for you."
The little girl's attention was already back on the mirror.
"It makes my heart sing to see you so happy, darling." Watching the child evolving in the safety and plentitude of their life helped to heal Fancy's own wounds of want. If only her daughter got along better with Chance, everything would be perfect, but Aurora had never let him into her affections, and if the truth were told, Chance no longer tried to woo her; he'd been rebuffed so often.
"Nanny makes me work too hard, Mommy," Aurora said suddenly, turning from the glass. "And she's very nasty to me."
"Whatever do you mean, darling?"
"She lies about me and punishes me all the time for things I didn't do."
Fancy frowned. The nanny had impeccable credentials and letters of recommendation from families in both New York and London. She reached for her daughter's hand and drew her closer.
"Tell me what you mean, darling. Are you sure she's been unfair with you?"
Aurora sat down primly on the bed beside her mother.
"She lies about me, Mommy." The fringe of dark lashes brushed her cheek and a hint of moisture appeared behind them.
"I try my best to be good and to do my lessons perfectly, no matter how hard they are, but Miss Powell tells the other servants that I haven't done them and then she scolds me. I think she hates me."
Fancy patted her daughter's hand comfortingly. "Don't you worry, darling, I'll have a word with Miss Powell; I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding of some kind." Fancy leaned over and hugged Aurora impulsively. "You'd best take off that dress now, dear, it's much too elegant to wear on an ordinary day."
Aurora's face fell. "Please, Mommy, let me wear it for a little while at least, I'll be so careful with it. And today isn't really ordinary, because you and I are having lunch together!"
Fancy hesitated, then remembering how special the occasions had seemed when she and her mother had dined together, instead of her being consigned to the nursery, she relented.
"Very well, darling. But promise me you'll take very special care of it. That dress came all the way from New York and was very costly. Besides, it makes you look immensely grown up."
Aurora smiled sweetly at her mother as Fancy left the room. Then, humming softly, she returned to the mirror and admired herself all over again.
The stern-faced nanny pursed her lips and folded her hands in front of her square figure. She had withstood the assaults of irate mothers before now and would again; she waited patiently for Fancy to finish, took a breath, and plunged ahead.
"Mrs. McAllister, I assure you I find it difficult to say the things I am about to, but it is my belief that we have a genuine problem on our hands with Aurora." The small but sturdy gray-haired figure looked as if she could handle any problem a nursery might provide.
"And what exactly do you mean by that?"
"Aurora lies, Mrs. McAllister. Almost incessantly."
"All children tell fibs, Miss Powell..."
"Not fibs, Mrs. McAllister. Lies. About large things and small. About events of no consequence at all. In fact, it is almost as if the child lies to keep in practice. I have never seen the like."
"I can't believe that."
"I realize its difficult for a parent to see the flaw in such a child, Mrs. McAllister, but I have had considerable experience in child-rearing, and it is my opinion that if you don't nip this in the bud, you'll be in for serious trouble later. And lying is not her only failing."
Fancy felt her anger surge at the woman's supercilious tone. "Precisely what other problems do you perceive?" she asked icily.
"Aurora is lazy and resents all authority. She is unresponsive to constructive criticism and pretends to change her ways while remaining recalcitrant. She is sly with other children and adults. She is not in the least intellectually inclined, but is constantly conniving and can pull the wool over one's eyes until found out." She paused for breath. "She is also cruel to those less fortunate than she."
"I've seen none of this," Fancy said hotly. "Absolutely no evidence of what you suggest."
Miss Powell looked almost smug. "That is because she lies to you and your husband most of all."
Fancy checked the fast rebuttal that sprang to her lips and tried to calm herself. It was obvious the child was right; this woman did hate Aurora for some unknown reason. No wonder her progress at lessons was so slow. Who could possibly prosper in such an atmosphere of hostility and mistrust?
"I feel that under the circumstances it would be best for you to seek employment elsewhere, Miss Powell," Fancy said evenly. "It seems apparent you are unhappy dealing with my daughter."
"Just as I expected," Miss Powell replied with a disdainful sniff. "The parents of such monsters always take the child's side."
So! thought Fancy. She has been in this situation before. Perhaps the woman treated all her young charges badly and when the parents found out...
"It would be best if you were to prepare to leave immediately," she said.
Miss Powell stood her ground like a small tree. "I shall go, and gladly. But you mark my words, Mrs. McAllister, the child is unnatural. There is something very wrong with her."
"There is nothing wrong with my daughter that a kind and competent nanny wouldn't cure," Fancy snapped. "I only hope that being around you hasn't already damaged Aurora in any way."
"Your daughter was damaged long before I ever arrived here, Mrs. McAllister." The nanny's tone was as cold as Fancy's. "I shall leave on the first available train."
Aurora, eavesdropping behind the double doors to her mother's sitting room, smiled with relief and walked back silently to the nursery. What fun to watch the dreary old woman pack her miserable belongings and depart. Even if her mother was so stupid she could be fooled without the slightest difficulty, knowing she was on her side was a great comfort.
Blackjack was a charmer. Everybody said so. He had a face so handsome, it seemed almost beautiful instead of boyish. And he had a joyous disposition—occasionally given to petulance, if he didn't get his own way—but as that seldom happened, he had little reason to be cross.
Blackjack idolized his father, and with good reason, for Chance loved his son with single-minded passion, as if all the love he longed to give Aurora and to Fan had finally found a home. From the time he could toddle, the little boy accompanied his father wherever Chance could take him. He appeared at meetings and at the mine; he was even, according to town gossip, occasionally seen coming out of certain high-class parlour houses with his handsome father, but that m
ight merely have been malicious gossip.
Chance bought the boy an elegant black pony, as soon as he could sit upright, and the child rode well. Indeed, Blackjack McAllister did everything with the easy confidence of a favorite.
Chance's gambling cronies were amused by the little tagalong. They gave him a deck of cards, as soon as his chubby baby fingers could fasten around them—they even showed him how to use them. Some said Blackjack used to sit by the hour, when his lessons were done, or he had conned his father into letting him escape them, just exercising his fingers... practicing dexterity with the deck, as his father had done so many years before.
Fancy watched her son's connection to his father with a curious mixture of pride and distress that she didn't quite understand herself. It was marvelous that Chance and Blackjack adored each other, but she wished she didn't feel so superfluous to the little boy's life. He was intelligent to the point of precocity, he had his father's astonishing memory, and he was an unconscionable charmer... it made no sense at all to her that something in her son made her so uneasy. She did her best to ignore her misgivings, but they were there nonetheless, and she wondered, when she let herself dwell on them, where they would lead.
Chapter 84
"I love you so very much, Mother," Aurora said impulsively, wrapping her arms around Fancy's neck from behind. "You're so beautiful. I only hope I grow up to be exactly like you!" Fancy smiled in response at their lovely reflections in the dressing table mirror.
She was preparing to go out to a formal fund-raising dinner and Aurora had offered to do up her hair. Now that her daughter was more young lady than child, Fancy was enjoying her company in special ways.
"Judging from what I see in the mirror, my darling, you seem to be growing up to be very much like me, only far more beautiful." Aurora beamed and ran the silver-handled brush over her mother's coif one last time.
"You'd best go, Mother," she encouraged as she stood back to admire her handiwork. "It's getting late and you know how Daddy is." She laughed amusingly as she said it, and once again Fancy was filled with the hope that Aurora and Chance might reach some sort of detente. They'd come so close to never knowing each other at all.... They'd made a mistake by not telling the girl long ago that Chance was her real father, but the timing had just never seemed right and besides, if the word got out now, with Chance's political prominence a scandal could be disastrous. She couldn't help but wonder, though, if knowing the truth would have made Aurora any more loving toward Chance... not that there was any point in crying over spilled milk.
Fancy adjusted her heavy gown as she rose; the bugle beads caught the light of the lamps and fireplace and twinkled like elegant fireflies. As she picked up her evening bag, Fancy caught sight of the pile of earrings that lay on the little table in front of her. Aurora had encouraged her to try on endless pairs before the girl was satisfied with the diamonds and emeralds her mother now wore. Aurora caught the glance.
"Don't worry, Mother, I'll put them all away for you."
Fancy smiled with relief; she hated to leave jewelry lying around as temptation to the servants.
"Be very careful with them, darling. They're worth a king's ransom."
"I know, Mother—I love those jewels as much as you do, so of course I'll be good to them!"
Fancy blew a kiss to the girl, and hurriedly pulled on her elbow-length kid gloves and left the bedroom.
Aurora listened to her mother's footsteps echo down the hall, then, satisfied she was gone, seated herself at the mirror and tried on each pair of earrings in turn. The rubies were exquisite, but her mother wore them constantly, so they wouldn't do. The sapphires were breathtaking, but they were her father's newest gift and he'd be expecting her to wear them. The garnets were too old and dismal. The diamond and aquamarines would be best.
Aurora returned the other earrings to the velvet tray and slipped them into the mahogany jewel case.
The aquamarines, she dropped into the pocket of her dressing gown, and left the bedroom humming.
"Chance, I've looked absolutely everywhere!" Fancy said anxiously. "My earbobs are gone. Definitely gone."
"Have you asked Aurora?" It was bad business to have a theft in your own home.
"Yes, and she said they were most definitely in the tray when she replaced it the night of the party. She's certain because she says she liked them so much, she intended to ask if she could wear them on Christmas."
Chance frowned and Fancy, looking at him, thought how the passage of years had simply made him seem all the more desirable to her, despite their ups and downs.
"Who had access to your room?"
"I'm afraid it must have been Maria, although I hated the idea of firing her. She swears she had nothing to do with it. But you know how careful I am not to let the other servants know where I keep my precious pieces."
"I'm sorry, sugar," he said, sitting down on the bed beside her, and putting his arms around her. She leaned her head back against his shoulder and let his strength be a comfort.
"I feel so dreadful about sacking Maria, Chance. She cried and pleaded and I kept thinking, what if she didn't do it?"
"Who else, then?"
Fancy took a deep breath. "You don't think Aurora could have taken them, do you?"
She felt Chance stiffen as if struck.
"No. Of course I don't think that. She knows I'd buy her anything she wants. Besides, where could she wear them? If she ever did, we'd see them. No, Fancy. That's a preposterous idea."
Fancy nodded glumly. "That's exactly the conclusion I came to, but Maria seemed so innocent..."
What she did not say to her husband was that other things had disappeared—a satin shift, a beaded jacket, a tortoise comb. Until now, nothing of extraordinary value. And then there was the question of the velvet dress she'd found a while ago in a ruined heap at the bottom of the dumbwaiter shaft. That hadn't been theft, of course, but it had said a good deal about Aurora's disrespect for precious things. And the girl was wasteful... Fancy had been poor too long ever to feel comfort with wastefulness.
"Don't worry, sugar. I'll buy you new earbobs to replace those. Aquamarines are too watery for you anyway. I like you better in bolder colors."
He reached his hand up to her face and tipped it toward him; he saw there were the finest lines at the corner of her eyes now. He thought they made her face even more interesting and bent his own to kiss away the teardrops.
"Remember that first day in Tabor's store, when I told you always to wear red or purple?"
She could tell by the husky playfulness of his voice that he wanted to make love to her. It was his way to soothe hurt, or expiate guilt or smooth troubled waters. His way, too, in times of joy or celebration. She smiled a little at the simplicity of thinking lovemaking a solution to everything, and dutifully turned her face to his to be kissed.
It wasn't such a bad way, after all, to banish the cares of the world. She felt his hands move knowingly along the back of her dress, seeking to undo the buttons. Stretching her neck this way and that to free it of the tension that had been building, Fancy arched her back and insinuated herself willingly into Chance's waiting embrace. She'd wanted to talk to him about other things tonight, but the problem of the earrings had banished everything.
It couldn't have been Aurora, she thought as she abandoned all thinking, gratefully. Aurora loves me much too much to do such a thing.
Chapter 85
Life in Denver was demanding on every level. You paid for success and money, Fancy thought, you paid with precious time, and endless energy and with never being able to show your true colors.
Chance prospered despite his strangely unconventional methods, maybe even because of them, and the more he did, the more disturbed Fancy grew that he never seemed to worry about the important details of life. He had no interest in what it took to run a household, or to train children, or to handle the unconscionable number of social obligations. Fancy found herself working harder .at being the doyenne of Ch
ance's world than she'd ever worked in business, and the work was far less fun, if more lucrative.
Not that she had any real sense of how much money they had, for the cost of their life now was too astronomical to calculate or control. Denver's life-style demanded waste as a way of proving your wealth. That seemed immoral to Fancy.
"I swear, Magda. It's just like a battle to see which rich family can squander the most money on the most damn fool show."
Fancy fretted, at the same time she strove to perform all her wifely functions perfectly.
"Don't you ever worry about anything, Chance?" she asked one night in bed. "Tell me the truth." Fancy ran her finger down her husband's side judiciously, savoring the textures of his body, knowing the response it would provoke.
"I worry... but I've never seen it do me a damned bit of good, so I try to keep it to a minimum." He turned to fold her in his arms; he never felt as secure as when he was in bed with a woman, and best of all when that woman was Fancy. Then all the pieces of the puzzle fit and it was easy enough to believe God had your best interests at heart.
"You've been happy here in Denver, haven't you, sugar?"
Fancy nestled in close. "It is great fun to show everybody what we're made of, I'll say that. And I do love having a beautiful house and gorgeous clothes... it's just that there are so many obligations for both of us now, Chance. We're always around people, never alone. It was fun for a while, all the parties and the dinners and the adulation... almost like being in a hit play, when everyone accepts the make-believe as real, and you feel you're on top of the world. But there's a lot about this life that troubles me, too. It seems to me about the only time you and I are ever alone now is in bed."
"All the more reason to make the best of that time, sugar," he said as he nudged her legs apart with one of his own and nuzzled her hair away from her throat. She started to say something more, but his insistent lips were on hers and she remembered how sweet it was to let him love her into forgetfulness.
Paint the Wind Page 59