by Jen Turano
“Not that I want to enter into this particular argument,” Asher began. “But I do believe, Mrs. Griswold, since this does seem to be the moment to divulge secrets, although your husband already knows this about me, that I should disclose here and now the pesky truth that the majority of my family fortune was lost years ago due to some disastrous investment opportunities. Because I wanted to spare my parents the pain of losing almost everything they held dear, I decided to try my hand at starting my own business. Seeing a need for a new type of store, one where customer service would rule the day, Rutherford & Company was born, after a bit of begging on my part to get the required backers.”
Ida raised a hand to her throat. “Your mother never mentioned so much as a whisper to me about her financial difficulties, and we’ve sat down to tea on numerous occasions through the years.”
“It’s not as if that’s a subject most society members are comfortable talking about, Ida,” George said, drawing his wife’s attention. “As you yourself know far too well.”
Ida blinked, blinked again, and then turned an interesting shade of red. “That is not a topic I’m willing to delve into at the moment, or ever.”
George arched a brow. “But you’re willing to discuss every other titillating subject matter that’s come up in the last hour. Far be it from me to point out the obvious, Ida, but you seem rather judgmental and sanctimonious for a woman who admits, at least to yourself and to me, of course, that you married beneath yourself in order to escape the poverty your late husband left you in.”
Drawing herself up to her full height, Ida shot a look to Lucy, who was frozen in her chair, her eyes wide and disbelieving, then returned her gaze to George. “I did marry beneath me, but it’s not as if you had lily-white reasons for marrying me either. You’ve said yourself on more than one occasion that you only married me because of your precious daughter, and yet not once have you spoken a word of appreciation for the amount of trouble she’s caused me, especially since she never excelled at the feminine arts you tasked me with teaching her.”
Permilia rose slowly to her feet. “Do not tell me, Father, that you truly did marry Ida because of . . . me.”
George’s eyes softened ever so slightly. “Of course I did.”
“But . . . why?”
“You were left without a mother from far too early an age. And while I enjoyed every minute you and I spent together while you were growing up, I didn’t want you to miss out on the pleasure of being a young lady.” He blew out a breath. “You were always drawn to feminine bits of lace and whatnot whenever we’d visit country stores. And while I knew that I was being selfish by not sending you away to a finishing school, I just couldn’t abandon your upbringing to anyone other than myself.”
“But you abandoned me to Ida’s care.”
“That wasn’t an easy choice on my part,” George argued. “But after you and I came to this city on a matter of business, and we went to Delmonico’s, well, I knew I’d been severely negligent in your education, especially in regard to the feminine arts.”
Permilia frowned. “Because I didn’t know how to maneuver around the silver?”
“And I didn’t know how to teach you, since I couldn’t maneuver around the silver either.” George ran a hand through his hair. “Not long after that, I ran across Ida while I was enjoying lunch with Mr. Morgan, one of my bankers, and . . . she seemed to be the answer to my prayers.” He nodded Ida’s way. “You were well known throughout society, possessed all the right connections, along with remarkable manners and knowledge of everything proper. And when I discovered you were in a rather precarious state, it seemed only logical that you and I would wed.”
“But I never wanted to enter New York society,” Permilia said in almost a whisper.
“I thought that would change.”
“One would have thought, given that you were present when my father did the same thing to me, George, that you would have known that trying to foist your daughter into New York society was only going to push her away from you in the end.”
Turning to the new voice that had just sounded around the room, Permilia discovered none other than Miss Mabel Huxley strolling ever so casually into the room, followed by her sister, Miss Henrietta, and a man Permilia had never seen before.
Before anyone had an opportunity to greet them properly, Miss Mabel—seemingly unconcerned that she’d thrown herself into a situation she hadn’t been asked to enter—came to a stop, settled her gaze on George, and continued her speech.
“And far be it from me to point out the obvious, but tying yourself to a shrew like Ida did not do your poor daughter any favors. Ida has always been known to be an incredibly self-serving soul, so she would have put little to no effort into seeing your darling Permilia accepted into society. She holds anyone who didn’t grow up in the very midst of society in great disdain, which means one can only conclude that the only reason she married you was for your money.”
George took a single step toward Miss Mabel, but before he had an opportunity to speak, Ida bolted across the room, picked up one of the crystal decanters that Permilia’s father always had accessible on a beverage cart in his study, and hurled it, not at George but at Miss Mabel, leaving little doubt about where her daughter had gotten her vitriolic temper.
Chapter
Twenty-One
As Ida picked up one decanter after another, switching her aim to George Griswold after he’d rushed across the room to block Miss Mabel from harm, Asher finally managed to get feet that had seemed glued to the ground into motion. Dodging one flying object after another, he winced when a decanter holding what smelled like bourbon glanced off his shoulder, leaving a large wet spot on his fine woolen jacket in the process.
Not allowing the hit to distract him from his goal, he finally reached Ida’s side. Wrestling a cut-glass decanter that certainly could be considered a weapon out of her hands, he set it down out of her reach. Grabbing hold of her when it seemed as if she was trying to slip around him, he took hold of her arms, restraining her when she began to struggle.
The part of him that had been raised to never use any type of force against a lady regretted his actions, but the part of him that was dripping in bourbon, and had seen the rage resting in Ida’s eyes as she’d gone about the business of trying to harm Miss Mabel and Mr. Griswold, was applauding his efforts, even if he regretted the need to take them.
Leaning in toward her and hoping she was not a woman prone to biting, he lowered his voice. “You need to get a hold of yourself, Mrs. Griswold. If you’ve forgotten, the Huxley sisters are not ladies to trifle with. And since you seem so concerned about Lucy and her future prospects, well, I would suggest you abandon your attack and perhaps try to summon up a few apologies.”
Instead of heeding what Asher had thought was stellar advice, Ida turned purple in the face—that particular color lending her a completely deranged appearance. The purple, paired with the troubling fact that her hair had escaped most of its pins, what with all the exertion that had been needed to fling bottles around the room, had her looking anything but the respectable lady society was used to seeing.
“How dare you presume to lecture me, Mr. Rutherford. From what you just disclosed, you really are nothing more than a common merchant, perpetuating a fraud on society by presenting yourself as a man of inherited wealth instead of one of those repulsive self-made men.”
Asher frowned. “While this is not going to come across as very gentlemanly of me—and I will apologize in advance for that—you are quite like the pot calling the kettle black, aren’t you?”
“I’ve never sullied my hand peddling wares.”
“Perhaps not, but you did marry a self-made man—and not out of any love, from what I’ve been able to gather. You married Mr. Griswold because you were left in genteel poverty when your husband died, and while there are many women who have done the exact same thing, they normally extend their husbands a bit of appreciation. You, on the other hand, can bar
ely conceal the loathing you hold for Mr. Griswold and his daughter, and that, Mrs. Griswold, does not reflect well on your character.”
Ida shook herself out of his hold. “You would loathe Permilia as well if you’d spent as much time as I’ve spent over the past few years trying to get her accepted into society without experiencing a smidgen of success. I was charged with arranging dancing lessons, deportment lessons, and every other lesson you can think of that a young lady needs to become refined, but she never embraced or appreciated the lessons I arranged for her. She certainly didn’t throw her heart and soul into trying to get society to adore her.”
Asher tilted his head. “While I’m sure you expect your little speech to garner some sympathy from me, Mrs. Griswold, I find it garners more questions instead. Tell me this—since you’ve been involved with society your entire life, even moved in the very highest of circles, how was it possible that you didn’t find any success with Permilia? Your status should have guaranteed that every door would be open to her, and suitors should have flocked to win her hand.”
“My status will only take a young lady so far, Mr. Rutherford, and given that Permilia’s looks are not what anyone would consider fashionable—what with all that red hair she flatly refused to allow me to have dyed—I can hardly be blamed for her lack of success.”
Asher blinked and shot a look to Permilia, who was standing stock-still directly in front of the chair she’d risen from, her mouth hanging just the slightest touch open, as if she couldn’t quite reconcile herself to everything being disclosed in such a short period of time.
“I, for one, am certainly glad that you never agreed to change the color of your hair, Permilia,” he said. “I think the red is a most delightful color, and it suits you to perfection.”
Turning her head toward him, Permilia pressed her lips together, glanced at Ida, who’d begun muttering something undecipherable under her breath, and then took Asher completely by surprise when she sent him a rather cheeky wink.
Unfortunately, Ida seemed to notice the wink, and before Asher could stop her, she’d slipped around him and headed off across the room, not toward Permilia, but rather toward George, who was still standing in front of Miss Mabel and Miss Henrietta, arms crossed over his broad chest and his stance protective.
“Do give it a rest, George,” Ida spat. “I’m not going to hurt the Misses Huxley, but I must say here and now that I find it most distressing how you’d throw yourself in front of them, which lends clear credence to the idea that you’re not being a proper husband to me at the moment.”
George seemed to grow even larger. “And you believe that abusing our guests is being a proper wife to me?”
Completely ignoring his statement, Ida turned on her heel and sent a nod Permilia’s way. “I suppose you’re happy with yourself now, causing this discord between me and your father. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that this was the outcome you wanted all along, what with how incompetent you seem to be with anything revolving around proper behavior, and blaming that incompetency on me and some poor Russian dance instructor.”
Permilia narrowed her eyes. “That Russian dance instructor did not speak English. I told you that the day he showed up in our house, but you wouldn’t listen, so you’re just as at fault as I am for my misunderstanding of the proper rules to the Go-As-You-Please Quadrille.”
Ida turned purple again right before she began marching Permilia’s way. “If you would have had even a semblance of grace, I wouldn’t have had to resort to hiring a Russian to teach you to dance in the first place. However, since you are not graceful, and I was told time and time again that you lacked the patience to practice the steps as diligently as the other dance instructors I hired for you expected, you have no one to blame but yourself for being taught by someone who didn’t speak the language.”
George strode across the room, his expression anything but pleasant as he scowled at his wife. “Permilia may not have excelled with her dancing classes, Ida, but she sits a horse better than any man I know, can scramble through a mine shaft without missing a step, and wields a sword with so much grace that she’s been known to cause people to descend into a hypnotic state just from watching her.”
“Stellar qualities indeed, especially since sword wielding is in such demand at all the society events,” Ida returned. “But if you’ve forgotten, she has also infiltrated society while masquerading as a true lady, then abused that very society by writing about our balls and dinners under the pseudonym of Miss Quill, which . . .” Ida’s eyes widened, she shot a look to the Huxley sisters, and then she pressed her lips firmly together and didn’t say another word.
“Goodness, but we really have landed ourselves into the midst of something interesting,” Miss Mabel said, drawing everyone’s attention. Then, instead of taking her leave, which Asher would have expected her to do since the atmosphere in the study was definitely not of a warm-and-fuzzy nature, Miss Mabel grabbed hold of her sister’s hand. With a smile spreading over her face, she then pulled Miss Henrietta across the room, not stopping until she reached a settee so shabby Asher was surprised Ida even allowed it to stay in the house.
Plopping down on the settee, Miss Mabel took to giving the cushions a good thump, grinning a second later as an unexpected cloud of dust erupted from her thumping.
Miss Mabel turned the grin on George, her face looking a good ten years younger. “How delightful to discover that you still have this old settee, George. Why, if you’ll recall, I was with you when you purchased this.”
“Oh dear . . . I had a feeling coming here was going to open up an entire can of worms,” Miss Henrietta began, looking grim as she dropped down next to her sister.
Miss Mabel pursed her lips for the briefest of seconds. “Occasionally, sister dear, worms need to be let out of their cans, especially worms that are clearly abusing my dear George, taking advantage of his generous nature.” She turned her head and pinned Ida under a steely gaze. “It truly is unfortunate that ladies of your ilk have been left in charge of society for so long, but I do find a small hope in the idea that leadership will soon see a great change in our city, especially if women like Alva Vanderbilt have any say in the matter, which I do believe they will.”
“Alva Vanderbilt is an upstart who just happened to marry into one of the wealthiest families in the country,” Ida snapped.
Miss Mabel nodded before she began smiling pleasantly at Ida, as if they weren’t in the midst of exchanging barbed words. “It is so fascinating to watch you criticize a woman who was able to force her way into society by the sheer amount of wealth she married into—especially since you were only able to stay in that very society by marrying George, who, rumor has it, is also one of the wealthiest men in America.”
Ida’s eyes flashed. “I have no idea why you believe I care what you—a spinster, if you’ve forgotten, Miss Huxley—have to say, and . . . now that I think about it, what are you even doing here?”
Miss Mabel shrugged. “After Henrietta and I had a lovely chat with your stepdaughter the other day, I thought it was past time I came and paid George a visit.” She smiled pleasantly again. “We were quite good friends back in the day, and since I am now on friendly terms with Permilia, I didn’t want her to feel I was being neglectful of our new friendship.”
“Forgive me, Aunt Mabel, but since when have you become friends with Miss Permilia Griswold? And forgive me again, but I was under the impression we were off to Delmonico’s this evening for a nice meal and a glass or two of claret, not traveling here to insert ourselves into what is certainly none of our business.”
Turning, Asher narrowed his eyes on a man who, in the midst of the drama swirling around the study, had been all but forgotten—and a man who was just now stepping farther into the room.
He was not known to Asher, but upon closer observation, Asher recognized him as a man who occasionally rode his horse down Broadway—probably in order to visit Huxley House, since the man had just called Miss M
abel, aunt. With his receding brown hair, average height, and slim build, he was a rather unremarkable-looking gentleman.
When Miss Mabel ignored the man’s question and instead turned and launched into a whispered conversation with her sister, Asher stepped forward. “I do beg your pardon, sir. What with the curious atmosphere of the room at the moment, I fear all of us quite neglected the expected pleasantries. I’m Mr. Asher Rutherford.”
“I’m well aware of who you are, Mr. Rutherford, being you are such an innovator when it comes to that exceptional department store of yours,” the man returned in a surprisingly high voice, tinged with a slight nasal quality. He stepped smartly up to Asher and took the hand Asher was now extending him in a less than firm grip. Giving it the expected shake, he stepped back, breaking their contact. “I’m Mr. Jasper Tooker.”
“He’s our nephew,” Miss Mabel called from her position on the settee, her words having George clearing his throat and looking rather confused.
“I don’t recall you having another sibling, Mabel,” he said.
“Well, we do, a half sibling, if you will.” Mabel’s lips pursed. “She’s not exactly a topic for polite conversation.”
Mr. Tooker caught Asher’s eye. “I fear my aunts are in rare form this afternoon, Mr. Rutherford. They’re a handful at the best of times, and I’m afraid to say, this isn’t one of those times.”
He walked around Asher and headed off across the room, stopping in front of his aunt. “You should have a care with what you say about my mother, Aunt Mabel. It wasn’t her fault that your father, my grandfather, kept . . .” His voice trailed off to nothing, and he summoned a weak smile that he sent all around, right before he began taking a pointed interest in the ceiling.