by Bush, Holly
“Oh, James,” she said as she straightened and tilted her head at him with a smile. “When are you going to make an honest woman of me? You know you’d like to find me in your bed every night.”
He slapped her ass lightly. “Ah, Daisy, but I’d never know whose bed you’d just left!”
“There is that, James,” she said in a wistful voice and picked up her tray. “Men just love me. Another brew?”
James nodded and watched her walk away as MacAvoy slid into the chair opposite him.
“Where have you been?” James asked. “I thought we said eleven.”
The only man he trusted to work his corner of any boxing ring and his oldest friend blushed. “Eleanor’s been having trouble getting Mary into bed, and that darling little girl just loves me. She falls asleep in my arms.”
“You were at Alexander’s?”
“One of the maids was going to sit with Mary once she was asleep, and Eleanor and I were going to take a walk and maybe have some pie at the coffee shop. But once Mary saw me, she would not let us leave, and when that girl looks at me with those beautiful brown eyes and puts her little arms around my neck, well, I can’t be worried about having an ale with you.”
Eleanor Emory was Alexander and Elspeth’s housekeeper. He and MacAvoy met her when Alexander had taken them to his home after the three of them had found some trouble and needed a few cuts cleaned up. MacAvoy had immediately been enamored with the pretty widow, but it had taken him nearly six months to get up the courage to ask her if he might take her to the theater. James remembered it clearly, as MacAvoy had droned on and on with nerves before he finally took himself off to ask the woman.
“You better be careful, Malcom,” James said. “She don’t seem the type to be casual about a man, and Elspeth adores her and Mary. She’ll have your hide when you move on, mark my words, and you know Elspeth can be a spitfire when she gets her back up.”
MacAvoy took a long pull on his ale and looked out at the crowd in the tavern. “How do you know I’ll want to move on?”
“Don’t be a nodcock. We’ve been friends since we were boys and have spent the last five years chasing plenty of skirts. It won’t mean anything.”
MacAvoy swallowed and took a deep breath. “I want to marry her. With this last promotion at the mill, my cut of the prize money, and some work on the side with the Pendergasts’ security men, I’ve been able to put away some coin. I can afford a small house.”
“You want to marry her? That’s shit. You’re just trying to get under her skirts. What? She won’t let you there without a ring? Move on! There’s plenty of pretty skirts to get under.”
MacAvoy shook his head. “You don’t get it, James. This isn’t a game to me. I love her and her little girl.”
“Did she give you some cockamamie line about being a good, virtuous woman? What shit. She’s just another pussy,” James said and picked up his ale. He did not hold it long. MacAvoy knocked it out of his hand and pulled him up from his seat by his jacket.
“Don’t you ever talk about her that way. I mean it, James. I know you could beat me to a bloody pulp, but that don’t mean I will allow you to talk about her in that disrespectful way. I won’t. We can take it outside, or you can apologize.”
The tavern crowd had gone completely quiet, and the barkeep picked up the long wooden plank he called “the peacekeeper.” James dropped back into his seat, staring at MacAvoy, who was breathing hard, now towering over him with both clenched fists leaning on the tabletop.
“Sit down, Malcolm. I’m sorry I made light of the woman’s virtue.”
MacAvoy dropped into his chair, staring out at the crowd, now turning back to their own drinks and conversations. His foot was tapping, and he cracked his knuckles. He turned to James.
“I’ve an early morning tomorrow,” he said as he rose.
“Wait,” James said. “We were going to talk about what you found out about Crankshaw.”
“It’ll keep. We can meet next week.”
James watched him go. He’d screwed that up, hadn’t he, he thought to himself. His best friend, as loyal as a brother, insulted so deeply the man didn’t even want to talk about what was more important to them than anything. Boxing. They lived and breathed it. MacAvoy set up the fights, scouted the opponents, negotiated the prize money, and James arrived on the appointed night and did what he did best. Beat the living hell out of another man. MacAvoy also made sure James worked to keep his stamina up and build more muscle too, forcing him to focus on his training.
They told each other everything worth telling. And now Malcom had confessed something that was most likely hard for him to admit and he’d been nothing but dismissive. There was some very small part of James that was a bit jealous too, although he’d never admit that to another soul. But the idea that MacAvoy had found a partnership that might exclude him left a bitter taste in his mouth. He fished a coin out of his pocket for Daisy, tossed it on the table, and left to find his bed.
* * *
Lucinda kissed her father’s cheek after coming into the small dining room used by the family for their morning meals in their mansion in the most exclusive neighborhood of Philadelphia. He was holding a newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
“Good morning, Papa.”
“Good morning, Lucinda,” he said and stood, never removing his eyes from what he was reading.
“Good morning, Aunt,” she said.
“Good morning, dear,” Aunt Louisa said as she contemplated the food on her fork.
Lucinda wandered to the buffet and chose her plate, waiting for the young man wearing the livery of another time, including stockings, white breeches, an embroidered red vest and coat, and buckled shoes, to fill her plate. Her father insisted all the household staff be attired not only formally, but in clothing from the previous century. But she did not complain. He was good to her, even though his insistence on formal behavior and mores was unfortunate and sometimes embarrassing.
Their current home and Chateau Vermeal in Virginia, where they’d lived until the previous spring, were decorated much like what her father remembered of the family’s homes in Spain and included some of the artwork from there. His and Aunt Louisa’s parents, Lucinda’s grandparents, a young couple both of royal blood, had somehow escaped the Reign of Terror in their remote locale and maintained their vast inherited wealth at the same time. But being prudent, and realizing that the changes in France, including the rise of Napoleon, would not be peaceful or profitable for the Vermeals, they began to ship priceless artwork and artifacts to Spain and amassed trunk after trunk of gold coins. Telling a few trusted neighbors and friends that they intended to enjoy a holiday in Italy, they had promptly sailed for Spain with the clothes on their backs and heavy trunks, not full of clothing and personal effects, but rather precious metal. Her grandpapa had reportedly said that replacing wardrobes would be the least of their problems.
They settled in the port town of Barcelona, where her grandpapa made a second fortune in shipping and her grandmother birthed two children. As a young man in the 1840s, her papa recognized the opportunities to expand his wealth in America and brought his French-born bride from a family visiting the city, to Virginia, raising tobacco and other crops, and straddled the coming Civil War by divesting himself of slaves and contributing gold and goods heavily to both sides. Marie Vermeal died giving birth to a boy when Lucinda was just two years old, and her brother lived only a few hours. Aunt Louisa was sent for to care for her brother’s daughter and dutifully put aside her own life to raise her niece. She was the only mother Lucinda could remember.
Lucinda took her seat while another young man helped her with her chair, his eyes appropriately downcast. The plate of her favorite foods was sat before her and steaming tea poured into the hand-painted china cup to her right. She dropped in one sugar cube and stirred.
“How is everyone this morning?” she asked.
Papa ruffled his papers but did not reply. Aunt Loui
sa stared at her.
“Is something amiss?” she said quietly to her aunt. “Something with Papa’s business?”
“No. I believe your father’s business continues to prosper. I recently met with his man of business, and my accounts continue to expand.”
Oddly forward thinking, Father had given his sister a share of the Vermeal companies’ profits since she’d come to America. Or perhaps she’d demanded it, knowing she’d be giving up her chances to marry and have children of her own. Maybe she wouldn’t have come otherwise. Lucinda had never had the courage to ask her, and didn’t her father always say it was crass to talk about money?
Lucinda sipped her tea and slathered the warm roll in her hand with apricot preserves, her favorite. She looked up when her father put his paper down in a rumble.
“What is it?” she asked to his stern face. He was rarely angry, but she thought he might be now.
“I blame your aunt.” He signaled the servants to leave the room.
“Blame her for what, Papa? What has happened?”
“There was nothing untoward about Lucinda’s behavior or mine,” Aunt said.
“Clearly, that is not the case.”
“What are you talking about?” Lucinda asked.
“I know you’ve done it, girl, there is no use acting the innocent. Not only did Gauteau visit me already this morning, but your aunt admitted as much!”
“Please tell me what you are talking about, Papa.”
“Do not turn on the tears, dear. I’m quite immune to them when it comes to the family’s honor.”
Lucinda took a deep breath and calmed herself as much as she was able, although she was nowhere near tears. “Family honor?”
Father began to bellow, but Aunt shushed him. “One of your dance partners made comments about your dance together. I watched you the entire time, and there was nothing, well, nothing that should invoke this level of hysteria.”
“Hysteria, Louisa? Hysteria? She is a Vermeal! Meant to partner in marriage with someone of status. There’s no royalty in America, more’s the pity, but there is a ruling class nonetheless. She is meant to carry the family name to a marriage with one of the sons of that class and raise children worthy of this family.”
“You’re making far too much of this, Henri,” Aunt said and dabbed her mouth with the linen serviette.
“Would someone please tell me what you believe I have done?” she asked.
Papa scorched her with a glare. “You danced with a man last night who is not worthy of your notice. A man Gauteau has told me is nothing more than a common street fighter, from a family with a secretive history, no doubt born of some shame. From Scotland, of all places!”
Her mind buzzed, noting that her father had called James Thompson the exact same thing she had called him, and that name had set him on edge. “I was introduced by Mr. Pendergast’s son. James Thompson is his wife’s brother.”
“Sad for that family, then, that they have aligned themselves with that sort. The Pendergasts, I understand, are a notable Philadelphia family. The son’s connection cheapens them.”
“Papa. We danced one dance.”
“And he held you very close, from what I’ve been told.”
“No more than any other young man I’ve partnered with,” she said. She would not share that she’d told him to loosen his hold on her. No use upsetting him more than he already was.
Papa slammed his fist down on the table, making the china jump. “But that is not all! He bandied your name about to other men there, bragging that he’d more than danced with you, implying something devious and not fit for a lady’s ears.”
“He what?”
“He spoke to some young people after your dance and said something to the effect of his winning your affections and that other men should stay away from you. He may have just been bragging, and he certainly looked like a man who was confident. It was also said that you enjoyed yourself very much while in his arms,” Aunt said.
“Must you be so crude, Louisa?”
“Crude? What was crude, Henri? My use of the word ‘arms’?”
“It is indelicate, especially in front of an unwed young woman to be speaking of . . . parts of one’s body.”
Louisa smiled at her brother. “I am to this day unwed. Having left behind a young man in Spain, to do my duty to my older brother and to my family. Not that I regret a moment of my time raising your daughter, but I assumed you would remarry shortly after Marie’s death and that I would be free to pursue my own life. And now, after these twenty years, you accuse me of crude behavior?” Aunt Louisa stood, picked up her teacup, and went to the door of the breakfast room. “You will miss me when I’m gone, Henri.”
The door closed softly as Lucinda looked at her father. “I just danced with him.”
“I brought you to this city to begin the extraordinary task of carrying on the next generation of Vermeals, even though your children will not carry our name. You will have incredible wealth when I am gone. And influence in European capitals. Your behavior must be beyond reproach. The choice of your partner, your husband, must be someone up to the task of international business and a wide range of philanthropic interests, meant to carry the name, Vermeal Industries, forward for generations. He must be well-bred and educated, nothing less than one of the British schools for college, although Harvard would do, I suppose.”
“You have planned this out? Will my inclinations be considered?”
“Young women have been doing their duty to their families since the beginning of time. This is not something new, Lucinda. If your personal inclinations coincide with the man best suited to be your husband, it would be for the better, although those inclinations cannot divert us from our ultimate goal. There is no reason to think that I won’t be here for many years to come, maintaining the family and fortune. Of course, I have written into my will that you will inherit control of much of the Vermeal wealth. Blood tells, as you know, and I can’t risk our heritage on a young man who may turn to drink or to the church, God forbid, or to any distraction that would not be suitable for the Vermeal family. As you can see, I’m entrusting you with great responsibility and power when your aunt and I are gone. A heady gift for a young woman.”
Lucinda listened to her father with something akin to horror. She’d always known that he wanted her to make a good and respectable marriage—of course he did. He was her father and loved her. But this speech, this recounting of settled decisions, peeled away any notions that she may find happiness in her choice of husband. The characteristics that she would hope for would not be considered.
“And where do you think you will find this paragon of manhood who will meet all of your requirements for family and education and business skills, who will be controlled by his papa-in-law and usurped by his wife when you are gone? What kind of man would agree to such a plan?”
“He won’t know all the details, my dear. That would be shortsighted. And I doubt any young man would turn away from your beauty and virtue. You are a ‘diamond of the first water,’ as the British say about their most sought-after marriageable daughters. There is not a man with normal tendencies that would not wish you to be the mother of his children.”
“And much like the future son-in-law who will be kept in the dark, you’ve not been forthcoming with me either.”
“I’m telling you now, Lucinda. You are ready to know and understand your role.” He looked over his spectacles at her. “I will concede you were not at fault by dancing with this street ruffian, as he was introduced to you by the host, but you must be considerably more discerning, more circumspect, in the future.”
She looked down at her plate of congealed eggs and cold toasted bread. Even the apricot preserves looked unappetizing. Her father did not look at her as she stood, never taking his eyes from the newspaper he was now reading. She walked to the door, her mind and feelings a jumble, and turned back to her beloved father.
“He is not a street fighter, you know; he is a box
er. There is a difference.”
She could still hear his shouts as she climbed the steps to her room.
Chapter 3
“Did you enjoy the party last night, Kirsty?” Aunt Murdoch asked as they sat down together for the Thompson Sunday dinner after church, the oldest sister, Muireall, at the head and their great aunt, who’d made the trek with the family back in 1855, at the foot. Payden, the youngest, sat beside James and Kirsty, Elspeth and Alexander sat across the table from him. Mrs. McClintok and her son, Robert, were carrying in platters and bowls of steaming roast beef in gravy, mashed potatoes, creamed peas, and baskets with biscuits and fresh bread, hot and crusty.
“Oh, I did, Aunt Murdoch! I danced every dance! I had two glasses of champagne, and everyone loved my new dress!”
“Two glasses of champagne? Maybe I need to attend the next one with you,” Muireall said and looked at Alexander. “Does your mother know that the young women are having spirits?”
“Good Lord, Muireall! The glasses were very small, and Annabelle had some too!” Kirsty said.
“Mrs. Pendergast,” Elspeth said as she glanced at her husband with a smile, “who has invited me to call her Mother, keeps a very close eye on Annabelle and Kirsty. If there was any hint of impropriety or if a young man was too forward, she or Aunt Isadora would be sure to intervene.”
“So Mrs. Pendergast has invited you to call her Mother?” Aunt Murdoch asked and glanced at Muireall.
“It would hardly be fitting for you to address anyone else as Mother, Elspeth. Our mother is dead, buried at sea, if you don’t remember,” Muireall said as she scooped peas onto her plate.
“As if I could forget that day.” Elspeth glared at her sister.
“Stuff it, Muireall,” James said. “There was no disrespect meant by Mrs. Pendergast or by Elspeth. You’re being a prig.”
Muireall shrugged. “It is how memories are eroded. I prefer to keep those precious memories alive.”
“James is right. You are being a prig. As if anything could make any of us forget our parents. She was merely trying to make me feel part of the Pendergast family, and I do feel very comfortable with Alexander’s family, but I would never, ever exclude Mother and Father from my thoughts, my prayers, or my memories, or mean to replace them in any way,” Elspeth said.