He had stopped and they stood in the center of the ice. Alistair swished past them, chasing Lizzie, who waved at her.
“I am cold.”
“My sleigh awaits. I promise to deliver you home warm and safe. It is the least I can do after knocking you over.”
“I think it was I who knocked you over, sir.”
He again slipped her hand into the crook of his arm as he led her toward his sleigh. “Indeed.”
* * * * *
Certainly she could learn to love Foster. Jinx obviously did. Esme watched her laugh at Foster’s comments, hiding giggles behind her hand as he regaled the family—no, Jinx—with stories of catastrophes down at the shipyard. Esme picked at the boiled lamb’s head her mother had decided to serve for dinner, trying to act informal. Never mind the shimmer of the crystal chandeliers above the table that cast a prism of light upon the gilded chairs, turning the spray of roses and orchids to gems. Hickory logs crackled in the hearth, as if the Price family took dinner every night in the dining room, a pastoral dinner.
Esme wished herself into the music salon, at her piano, or secreted away in her room watching spring bloom across Central Park, scribbling her thoughts—forbidden as they were—into the only journal her father hadn’t confiscated from her room. He’d tossed her books, her magazines, her writings, one by one into the fire, oblivious to her pleading.
She’d stopped begging after he’d thrown in her copies of her articles, folded and secured in a scrapbook. She’d watched wordlessly as the fire blackened the leather book, curled the pages, and soured the room with the acrid odor of cow flesh incinerated.
Even her copy of the Chronicle disappeared from her morning tray. She’d discovered the announcement of her engagement through Jinx, who recited it word-for-word while Esme tried to close her ears.
While Jinx’s world brightened with her oncoming debut, Esme’s only seemed to darken. Never mind that she hadn’t seen nor heard from Oliver. He once made a habit of stopping by the servant’s quarter to inquire after his father, their butler, especially on Sundays. But although she’d asked, discreetly, about his attendance, no, Pierce Stewart hadn’t seen his son in months.
An absence that should probably stop gnawing at her, especially with her fiancé seated at the dinner table.
“Have you heard anything of a grain shovelers’ strike brewing in Buffalo, Mr. Price?”
Foster had initially given a feeble attempt to engage Esme in conversation, stopping by often for tea or to invite her for a stroll in the park. But it was Jinx’s witty spirit that had filled the silence during the ride home from church he’d given them last Sunday.
Not that Esme minded.
Her father ate in silence.
Foster finished off his lamb’s head. “We had men stop by the shipping yard talking about heading up to work as strikebreakers.”
“Why would they strike?” Her mother asked. “Aren’t they well cared for?”
Foster wiped his mouth with his napkin, his gaze darting to her father, then back to her mother. “Depends on how you look at it. The brewery set up the workers’ food and lodging at the local saloon, and the charges are taken out of their paychecks. But the workers claim the saloons are owned by the brewery bosses and they end up getting cheated.”
Esme put down her fork. “What about their families?”
Foster looked at her, surprise in his expression. “Most of the men are single, just like the men we have working for us down at the docks. We provide their lodging, their food. I hope they don’t get any ideas from the unions up north.”
“But shouldn’t they have a right to spend their paycheck where they choose?”
“Esme, don’t be contrary. This is men’s talk.” Phoebe motioned for a server to take Esme’s plate of uneaten food.
“But Mother, have you seen those saloons? The families live in tiny, unventilated rooms. Children die of dysentery and cholera. It’s filthy, unchristian conditions and—”
“That’s enough, Esme,” Father snapped from the end of the table.
Foster stared at her, unblinking, as if he’d never heard her speak before.
“Mother, isn’t it time for the May Day baskets to go to the Children’s Home Society?” Jinx allowed her server to remove her plate. He replaced it with a custard.
“Indeed, Jinx. Perhaps you and your sister will join me this week for the presentation?”
Esme didn’t know what took possession of her mouth, but, “Don’t forget to invite Father’s pressmen. You would hate to have the gift diminished by lack of fanfare.”
“Esme!”
“I feel unwell, may I please be excused?”
“No,” her father said. He turned to Foster. “I apologize for my daughter’s tongue.”
But Foster was watching Jinx as she ate her custard, a strange expression on his face. Amusement perhaps, or…
Was Foster in love with her sister?
Her stomach tightened as she looked from Jinx to Foster, at the way they stole glances.
Jinx. What had she done?
“Why don’t you men retire to the drawing room for your port? We will join you presently.” Phoebe signaled to the butler to follow the men to the drawing room and attend to their conversation.
Foster caught Esme’s eyes, nothing of a smile in his expression as he pushed away from the table.
The maid closed the doors behind them and her mother waited one beat before, “Are you trying to cause him to retract his offer of marriage?”
“In my wildest dreams.”
“Hush your tongue. Yes, you may be excused.” Her mother threw her napkin to the table then rose and strode from the room.
Jinx finished off her custard. She licked her spoon, put it back in the dish. “I know I shouldn’t finish my meal, not with my trousseau already ordered, but I just love our chef’s custard—”
“What are you doing, Jinx?”
Jinx looked up at her. “Eating?”
“Don’t be quaint. Foster looks at you like you are custard. You laugh at his jokes—”
“He’s funny, Esme. You could get to know him more, you know. That’s why he’s here. You would like him. He’s educated and well-mannered. And handsome.”
“He’s arrogant.”
“He’s a millionaire. He has a right. Besides, he’s just like Father. I thought you adored Father.”
Esme pushed her dish away. “He isn’t Father.” She didn’t know what to think about her father. With her declaration at the newspaper, they’d lost all rapport. He seemed a stranger to her.
“You’re going to be married to him. Have his children. Share his life…his home. His bed.”
“Don’t talk that way. It’s bad enough that I barely know him. I refuse to think of spending my wedding night with a stranger.”
“Then talk to him. He has beautiful eyes, and he’s an amazing dancer—”
“Have you been dancing with him?” She hadn’t expected those words to turn inside her like a knife, to have them cut, and bruise.
Jinx froze. “Just…a few times. For practice. I needed help with the steps of the quadrille, and the waltz.”
She saw them then, Jinx in his arms, him smiling down at her, caught in the music.
The pose of a couple in love.
She stared at Jinx, the words boiling out of her. “Jinx, are you in love with my fiancé?”
Jinx recoiled. “No! Of course not. But I don’t understand why you’re not.”
She drew in a long breath over the nettles in her chest. “I…will be. Someday.” Please, please. But perhaps she’d had her chance for love, and walked away.
Do you love me? Because I think you do. She couldn’t escape the haunting of Oliver’s voice. He found her in her sleep, in the morning as she watched the newsies hawk their papers, in the familiar presence of her father’s butler.
Did she love him? The question wrapped around her at night, noosed her breath from her chest. Indeed, she missed him so desperat
ely, the answer seemed suffocating.
Jinx had risen from the table. “Give Foster a chance to win your heart. You may not find him as repulsive in reality as your despair has conjured.”
She watched Jinx leave. Probably she’d never understand what it felt to have another determine her future. To be powerless. To feel as if she’d wasted her life before it had even begun.
To be a coward.
The April air scented of lilacs and jasmine as she walked out into the garden, the last tendrils of twilight etching the sky. Perhaps she should attempt to allow Foster to win her heart. Perhaps with time, she’d forget the echo of Oliver’s voice.
After all, her parents wouldn’t have sold her into marriage with a monster.
She sat on the bench under the cover of an empress tree, listening to the city just beyond the gates, the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves, the chirrup of crickets rising from the park. A breeze raised the flesh on her bare arms, her mother requiring her green satin evening gown for tonight’s dinner.
“You seem cold.”
The voice startled her, especially when Foster stepped out into the garden. He wore a quilted Turkish smoking jacket—she recognized it as one of her father’s.
She found a repentant voice. “I’m sorry for my behavior this evening. Perhaps I read too much of Jacob Riis’s work.”
“I read him also, and I’m not unaware of the plight of our working class. But it is not a sin to be wealthy, Esme. It is our businesses that give them employment.”
He sat on the bench, next to her, the smell of her father’s cigars rising from his skin not entirely unpleasant. “But when Alva Vanderbilt or Mrs. Astor throws a ball that could feed the city for a year—”
“They have that right; it is their millions. But forget not that to throw such a ball, they must employ hundreds. They are feeding the city.”
Esme ran her hands up her arms, whisking away the cold. She nearly jumped when Foster traced his finger down the back of her neck. It was fleshy and bold, especially when he turned her to face him.
“I have always known you were outspoken and bold, Esme. I remember from those few times when we played lawn tennis. I won’t ask you to temper your comments unless we are in public.” He smiled at her, and she searched for warmth in his eyes.
“Th—thank you?”
“I think you’ll find that I can be quite agreeable to a woman’s whims.” He touched her chin. “When she is agreeable to mine.”
She stilled, and he held her chin as he moved toward her.
What—no, wait—she pressed her hand on his chest to stop him, but he brushed his lips against hers. She stiffened, “Fos—”
He curled his hand around her neck, held her in place as he moved his mouth against hers, forcing his kiss upon her.
She fought his grip, pressing both hands against his chest, but he held her tight, finishing his kiss before he released her.
She reeled back, staring at him, her lips bruised. “I—you—I didn’t give you leave—”
“You will get used to my kisses.” He ran his hand down her face. “Learn, even, to enjoy them.”
She pressed her hand to her chest as he rose.
“Jinx has asked me to join her in the library. Apparently she has a poem she’s penned for my amusement. Will you join us?” He held out his hand. She wanted to slap it. Instead, she shook her head.
“Very well. I’ll call on you tomorrow. Perhaps we can take a carriage ride.”
She held her breath, watching him leave, her heart webbed in her chest.
She waited until she heard his footsteps vanish then fled to her room, locking the door behind her. She tore off her evening gown, unhooking her corset from the front, and slipped into her nightgown.
She scrubbed her face, pulled down her hair, brushed it through, tears shaking her. Why hadn’t she run away with Oliver? She dropped the ivory-handled brush, put her face in her hands. Oh God, she’d lived such a fairytale. Thought she could somehow live in both worlds.
Now, she belonged in neither.
Father cheated on Mother. He had children—illegitimate children. And one of them lives right here, in this house.
Jinx’s words gnawed at her. Maybe she hadn’t lied. Maybe—maybe indeed, Esme wasn’t the daughter of Father’s wife, but the offspring of some illicit union, one she was destined to pay for. What if God, because of her father’s sin, had turned His back on her?
Be the woman you were meant to be.
And who, exactly, might that be?
If you don’t start behaving like a Price, you just might end up in one of those tenements, right beside your whore mother.
What if she didn’t belong in this family? What if her mother had been a working-class maid, someone her father had betrayed, just as he’d betrayed her?
She watched the fire crackling, devouring the hickory Bette had laid in the hearth. Please don’t marry Foster Worth.
Oliver again, and this time she let him linger in her mind, despite the barbaric pleasure of it. She saw him hiding behind the piano in the solarium, the winter sun in his ebony hair, stolen moments playing hide-and-seek.
“You found me, Esme! You always find me!” he’d said.
He smelled of the stables, where’d he’d no doubt assisted the footmen in caring for the horses, but he’d found her reading in the garden and the chase ensued.
“It’s because I can smell you all the way across the house.” Laughter always came so easily when she teased Oliver.
He came out, sat on the bench. “My hands are clean.”
She took them, examined the scrapes, the reddened skin. Compared them with her own, creamy white.
“You have pretty hands,” he said, and for a moment pressed his against hers. His wounds scraped, but she pressed back, folded her fingers between his.
They sat there, her legs swinging under the piano bench as the dust motes swam through the sunlight.
Footsteps in the hallway drove him away, back into the shadows, but his voice lingered.
“You found me, Esme! You always find me!”
She got up, went to her bureau. Inside was the picture Oliver had taken of her the night of Mrs. Astor’s party. Regal in her white dress, she saw a woman undaunted by the scrutiny of the camera, a smile unfamiliar in recent days upon her lips.
I love you, Esme. I have for years.
What if he really did love her? What if he looked at her like—like Foster did Jinx? She pressed her fingertips against her lips, tender now after Foster’s assault. Her first kiss. The gorge rose in her throat. Nothing like the moment when Oliver had searched her face, so much longing in his eyes.
She closed her eyes, remembered his breath, so close she could nearly taste his lips against hers. Why hadn’t she let him kiss her?
Fear.
The truth shook her through to her bones. She wasn’t so much different than Jinx, was she? She simply disguised it with a sort of righteous indignation.
She didn’t want to be poor, live in the tenements, scraping out her life from day-to-day. But she didn’t want to live trapped inside Foster’s cruelty either.
She studied her picture again, then took it out and set it upon the bureau. Under it lay her Bible. She pulled it out and took both of them back to her divan before the hearth.
“Miss Price, is there anything you require of me this evening?” Bette stood in the doorway.
Esme sighed, ran her hand over the Bible.
“Ma’am, if you will permit me, I remember what Mr. Moody said that night.”
Esme glanced at her. “Mr. Moody?”
“When he visited a year or so back? Your family attended the evangelical soiree. A fundraising event?”
Of course. Which meant Bette also attended. “What do you remember of the evening?” She’d remembered the man: portly, with a receding hairline and a dark beard. He spoke with a tone of command that made his words sink into her tissue, her bones.
Bette took a step into the ro
om. “ ‘God never made a promise that was too good to be true.’”
“And what did he promise you, Bette?”
“That night? ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’”
Of course Bette would be poor in spirit. What did she have but the clothes the Prices gave her, the room in the attic? How did she suppose to see the Kingdom of God?
But, just in case, “And have you seen it?”
“Every day, ma’am. Being poor in spirit means we need God more than we need ourselves. He also said, ‘If we are full of pride and conceit and ambition and self-seeking and pleasure and the world, there is no room for the Spirit of God.’ He said that many of us are praying to God to fill us when we are already filled with something else. Things, however, that leave us bereft.”
Like, perhaps, her own ambition? Esme let her thumb shuffle through the Bible’s pages.
Bette took another step toward her. “He also said that seeking to perpetuate one’s name on earth is like writing in the sand by the seashore; to keep it, it must be written on eternal shores.”
Bette picked up the poker, pushed the logs back into a pile.
Esme watched the embers glow red. “I remember, ‘We can stand affliction better than we can prosperity, for in prosperity we forget God.’”
She glanced at Bette, looking for condemnation in her eyes. Strange, she’d always felt an affection for her maid, only a few years older than herself. She recognized nothing but a strange compassion in her expression as Bette said, “Yes, he said that too.”
“Thank you Bette, that’s enough for tonight.”
“Very good, ma’am. Pleasant dreams.”
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Esme let Bette’s words soak into her as she watched the fire burn. She hadn’t needed God, not really. In fact, she’d spent most of her life thinking God needed her.
She opened the Bible, found the verse in Matthew 5, read it again, then the entire passage, ending with, “ ‘Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.’”
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