by JayneFresina
Epiphany replied before her father could. "Has Mr. Moffat read True Politeness; A handbook for gentlemen? No. I daresay it has too many words of four syllables and too few illustrations. He's a barely sentient creature, who wears too much Macassar oil in his hair, can do nothing for himself and carries a letter of credit written on his father's account. Excuse me if I fail to swoon in his presence, but I've seen tadpoles I'd deem more eligible."
"That's quite enough, Miss Epiphany. Your further views of young Mr. Moffat are not necessary."
Her father chuckled drowsily. "Yes, I'd say you made your opinion clear enough when you flattened the feller with a hard right, Pip. You left a lasting impression."
The despicable girl of whom nothing could be made, turned to Mrs. Thaxton-Choate again and said, "Everything about this place is as artificial and counterfeit as that sofa you're sitting on. And you're welcome to it, for I don't want to live in a world where nothing is genuine, where you're all just poor copies of what you wish you were."
The woman's face remained unmoved, apart from a slight curve to her lips, the hint of a condescending, even pitying smirk. "This, young lady, is an antique, Louis XIV settee. From France. But I wouldn't expect you to recognize such an object, of course."
"Ma'am, aside from the fact that your antique has hardly an ounce of wear on it, the scroll work along the back is overdone for the period and the shape of the leg is all wrong. A true chair of that era would have straight, baluster-turned legs and certainly not ball-and-claw feet. In fact, the wood work is all far too overwhelming for the piece." She paused. "But far be it from me, an uncultured— oh, what was it the Moffat boy called me?— Southern Bumpkin Swamp Crawler to tell you any of that."
Her words fell heavily, parting the thick, lilac air of pretention like Moses before the Red Sea.
Distant footsteps busily crossed a parquet floor somewhere in the house and, beyond the heavily netted windows, horses’ hooves trotted by at a brisk, steady clip. No other sound pierced the stillness, until Mrs. Thaxton-Choate gave a startled yelp when that lively wasp finally flew into her line of sight, aiming directly for her nose.
Since she refused any assistance from Mr. Piper, they left the room soon after, abandoning her to lone battle with the excited wasp. The last vision Pip enjoyed of that lady was of her cap ruffles flapping with an unusual lack of discipline as she ran around the reproduction sofa and yelled hysterically for her maid.
"So what do I do with you now, young lady?" her father muttered as they came out into the sunlight. "I brought you up north to attend that female seminary for a modern schoolin', like you wanted. I thought your outspoken, independent ways would be more accepted here. But now you've gone and made yourself as unwelcome in these marble mansions on the avenue as you were among the delicate Southern Belles sippin' lemonade on the veranda back home."
"Exactly." She sighed, hugging his arm. "I'm about as welcome in these fancy parlors as a wasp in a bouquet of lilacs. I can't stay here now, can I?" After finishing at the seminary, she'd spent just one month out in Boston society among all the arrogant "swells" like Ernest Moffat, and that was more than enough to sorely try Pip's endurance. But she was deeply sorry if she'd spoiled anything for her sisters. "Surely the venerable Choate can be persuaded to keep Serenity and Merrythought under her wing," she added thoughtfully. "Once the embarrassment of my presence is gone, and things have calmed down, they'll have plenty of beaus in no time."
As far as Epiphany there was no reason for her to remain in the north that summer. It was time she went to work for the family business. But she must edge her way gradually around to that.
Holding his arm even tighter, she slowed her pace and beamed up at her father. "How handsome you look today, pa. If I'm not mistaken you found a barber before collecting me from Aunt Abellard's this morning."
"Indeed I did, Pip."
"And that is a delightful, warm, powdery scent. What is it, pa?"
"It's a new concoction— called Jockey Club, so they tell me. Although it don't smell like horses, so I'm guessing it's a sort of jockey club where they dress up fancy to ride, but nobody truly has any contact with the beasts themselves."
She chuckled. "That is the most delightfully succinct castigation of these folks that I have ever heard."
He shook his head. "But you must stop being so sharp-tongued, young lady. Everybody has their imperfections. Even you."
"Oh, I freely admit to my faults. It's insufferable people who think themselves above fault and free of sin that I cannot abide. Their affectations and artifice make me itch."
"Hmm. And that temper of yours isn't mellowing with age. Your Aunt Abellard said you told a certain high society matron that she shouldn't get her head wet for fear of shrinking her brain."
"No. Well, yes...but it wasn't exactly like that. On the one and only evening I had the misfortune to meet her, she told me, quite unsolicited I might add, that my eyes are too close together, my lips are unrefined, my brows lack elegance, my nose is too blunt, my skin is too dark and my hair is too wild."
"I see, but—"
"I'm too short, too plump, too opinionated. My ears stick out too far. My face is too round. I have no fashion, no manners and no sense of propriety."
He squinted. "She told you all that in one evening?"
"In one two-minute introduction. However, I hear that to be noticed by her at all is considered remarkable and once her barbs have been shot, one is supposed to curtsey politely before scurrying off to alter everything that displeased her." She sighed. "I chose another option."
Her father shook his head again.
"I simply returned the favor. I advised the lady that, if she went out in the rain, all that boot-black she used on the grey in her hair would run like molasses in July. And then I added the part about her brain shrinking too, because by then I was madder than a wet cat." She sighed heavily. "I must confess, pa, there was a large, strawberry gateaux behind her, which distracted me. The anticipation of that delight meant that my tongue wandered off on its own. You know how I am in the presence of good cake. I quite forget myself."
Her father's lips freed a slight groan. "Yes, indeed. I've often wondered why some young man hasn't figured that out yet for himself."
"But she gave me her unwanted opinion of my appearance, so why should I not do the same for her?"
"Sometimes a little pretense and forbearance is necessary to get along in this world. It's a sign of maturity, you know Pip, to learn how to put on a smile, hold that temper, and not retaliate. There are times when it does no harm to save your breath and someone else's feelings."
"Why should I take trouble for her feelings? She had no concern for mine."
"You're only nineteen—"
"I'm twenty, pa!"
"Well, she's your elder. You should be respectful and not talk back, regardless of what she has to say."
"So as long as a person's old it doesn't matter what comes out of their mouth? Good lord, I can't wait until I'm forty!" She looked around, her jaw clenched. "The world had better watch out."
"We all know you have opinions; don't mean the rest of the world wants to hear every one of 'em Not everything you're thinking inside has to show on the outside. That's the difference between being five and surviving to twenty-five."
"Nobody told her that, clearly, and she's well beyond twenty-five."
"Her behavior and survival ain't my business, young lady. Yours is." His gaze pierced her with a glare that was, like his smiles, effective at breaking down defensive walls, but far less subtly or pleasantly. Whenever he felt it necessary to use such an expression on his middle daughter she knew his patience was at its limit and she was in danger of making him raise his voice above that lazy afternoon timbre. "If you let folk know what you're thinking all the time you can never surprise 'em, never out play 'em. You must learn to keep thoughts and plans closer to your chest, Pip. Otherwise they'll know all your sore spots and how to poke 'em. If you'd walked away from that wo
man with a smile on your face, she wouldn't have the slightest idea what was on your mind and that would have been the winning hand. Would have shown her that she can't get to you. Same with young Moffat."
Although Pip knew he was right, it took some swallowing of her pride— which everybody agreed was an obnoxious part of her— to reply, "Yes, pa, of course." Needing her father in a good mood, she sought another subject. "Is this a new waistcoat, pa?" She placed her free hand upon her father's chest and patted the embroidered silk. "It's very fine material."
Swiftly diverted from their previous conversation, he puffed out his chest. "You don't think it's too...colorful?"
"Certainly not, pa," she exclaimed. "How could you ever be too colorful?"
"Well, there is a youngish widow I'm thinking to court, and I don't want her to see me as brash and gaudy."
She laughed, relieved to see his eyes lighten again. "Any woman courted by you should think herself extremely fortunate and could not possibly find any fault. You are the most dapper gentleman I know." Pip always enjoyed the admiring glances thrown their way as she walked along any street with him, for even though she knew those looks were not meant for her, she could still bask in their warmth, taking pride in her father as if she had put his parts together and polished him herself.
He was just starting to grow a little silver at the temples, which only added an air of distinguished authority to his mellow, amiable charm.
"I don't think any man I meet could ever live up to your example, pa," she said proudly. "It's most unfair for them, but no other gentleman holds a candle to you."
He gave her a quick, narrow-eyed look. "Is that so?"
"Of course, pa. You've spoiled me."
"I probably have," he grumbled, but his eyes glittered with amusement as his lips softened in another smile, and a moment later he was preoccupied tipping his hat to a pretty, blushing young lady who passed on the pavement. "I suppose you're a good girl at heart, Pip," he allowed reluctantly, setting his hat back on his head. "Perhaps it's not so bad that you know how to defend yourself. Who knows what's brewing around the corner for any of us in this world, with things the way they are? All this change and nothing certain."
After a few more steps, Pip cleared her throat and said jauntily, "I thought I might come home with you now and get to work at Smokey Pipers, where I—"
"But I seem to remember you and I struck a bargain, young lady."
"Did we?"
"I agreed to let you come up here and get that education you wanted, but in return you promised me that at the end of these three years you would—"
"Oh, pa! Just look at the beautiful, brilliant pink of those saucer magnolias," she exclaimed. "Is it not exuberant and cheering to the very soul?! When one walks out in nature, one can forget the awfulness of people. Does that glorious sight not put spring in your heart?"
"Never mind spring in my heart. It's your head and what's put in there that I worry about. You promised me that as long as I let you study at that seminary you would seriously set your mind to the idea of getting wed and providing me with mischievous, curly-haired grandchildren."
She exhaled a deep groan. "I thought you'd given up on that idea by now."
"Yes, I expect you did, but at my age three years ain't that long to wait. Not nearly as long as it is for you. And I ain't yet losing my memory."
"Nor are you ready to be a grandfather, surely! You're much too young."
"Then I'll be a young grandfather, won't I?" he replied smoothly. "I'll be young enough to teach my grandsons all they need to know, because I can't leave them in your hands. Lord knows what you'd teach 'em."
"But what is the point of all that education if it must be entirely wasted? I'd rather come home now and help you with the business." As they strolled under the trees, she closed her eyes to enjoy the tickle of filtered sunshine on her face. "Because you will hand it down to me one day, won't you?"
"Will I?" He laughed. "Not if you can't learn to hold that temper. In business you can't let your competitors know how and where to prick you with their thorns. And you have to be civil, sometimes even to folks you don't like. With your hot-head I don't know if you would be the right choice for Smokey Pipers, indeed I don't."
She opened her eyes and looked at him as he began to hum a jolly, carefree tune, his expression giving nothing away. Frustrated, she couldn't tell whether he was teasing her. That, she supposed, was what he meant by being able to keep his true thoughts and intentions inside.
Her father couldn't hide everything from her though. Once, some years ago, she'd walked into a room unnoticed, just in time to hear her father declare out loud to a group of gentlemen that the biggest regret of his life was that he had no sons, only daughters. A wounded young Pip had set her mind, there and then, to the idea of becoming a businesswoman with no time to spare for a husband and children. She had vowed to herself that her sex wouldn't stop her from doing all the things a son could have done for him. And more.
But she had a challenge on her hands. Occasionally Pip's antics made her father laugh, but there were times when her behavior did not please him as much, especially when his mind was too heavily burdened with some trouble he would not share with her. On the other hand, her sisters were always smiled at benignly, no matter what difficulty he was in. When they entered a room, he lightened his voice and changed the subject, but he didn't necessarily bother to do so when Pip walked in. Sometimes she was glad of that, other times she wondered whether he simply hadn't noticed her there.
Of course, it was entirely her fault. Her sisters never caused him any consternation, but did exactly as they were told and what was expected. They were decorative, engaging when called upon to be so, and not at all prone to "unseemly fervor".
Pip felt like an angry parakeet— one that everybody was annoyed at, but nobody wanted to let out of its cage to set it free. Trapped there, she pecked at her own feet out of boredom, occasionally squawking insults at anybody who stuck a finger through her bars.
She tugged on her father's arm, and he paused his humming.
"Serenity may be the eldest, pa, but she has no interest in business. She yearns to be a devoted wife, mother and hostess, all things I'm sure at which she will excel."
"Hmm." One thumb hooked in the pocket of his waistcoat, he pretended to consider. "What about Merrythought? Might leave her in charge of the business. She has a good head on her shoulders. When she uses it."
"Merry is the sweetest girl that ever lived, but you know, as I do, that she is much too kind-hearted and would let everybody take advantage of her. What Old Smokey Piper’s Bourbon needs at the helm is somebody relentless, bloodthirsty and cutthroat." She tried on a bright grin. "Somebody who takes after her darling, incorrigible, progressive-minded father."
A low chuckle rolled out of him. "Flatter me all you want, I ain't givin' up on finding you a husband, Pip. One way or another. We Pipers never give up. Not in our nature. There's always another way to conquer the mountain, girl. If someone like that Choate woman gets in our way, we go around them and over them, and we don't pay them no more mind. We're adventurers and speculators by nature. So if New England don't know what to make of you, perhaps Old England will. I ought to send you to my sister Queenie, your Aunt Du Bois, and see what she can do for us."
Mr. Prospero "Smokey" Piper, of Louisiana and various other parts unknown and best unmentioned— a man who believed that when one ran out of opportunities one simply made more— was the first ambitious and wealthy American businessman to think of this idea, not that any history book or self-professed "expert" will tell you that, because...well, just like that first attempt at building a still behind his family's outhouse as a young boy, this plan didn't exactly turn out the way he expected either.
And although explosions were inevitable, it was not his grandmother's drawers in danger this time.
Chapter Six
The Offices of Stempenham and Pitt
London, 1850
Tobias
Stempenham was a tall, spare fellow, whose piercing, heavily lidded eyes and bony, sharply sloped nose contributed to the appearance of a hungry hawk. The older he got, the more gaunt and starving his look, as evidenced when one compared the living man with the thirty-year-old image in the oil painting behind his desk.
Sometimes, when Damon looked at that portrait and then the man who sat before it, he felt an overwhelming sense of doom, for this could one day be him. Time pulled him inexorably toward that end, and there seemed scant chance of changing his fate. His path had been set long ago.
Wisps of sandy and grey hair, now blown haphazardly about the man's head, were all that remained of the lush mane he sported in that grand portrait, and his body was now at least six inches narrower all around. The bones in those once fleshy, spoiled hands— resting on a book in the portrait— were gnarled and distorted now, the fingers often hooked into claws that could barely hold a pen. Only the intense stare in his ever-vigilant eyes remained the same, its affect quite unfaded over the years. If anything, it was fiercer now, less tempered with youthful enthusiasm, the softer padding worn away there too. And when Tobias turned his gaze upon a person they had better be prepared with either unflinching truth, or a very, very good lie.
"Roper," he barked at Damon that morning. "Explain."
"His lordship decided to withdraw the lawsuit, sir."
"And his fee."
"Yes." Damon stood his ground before Tobias Stempenham as few men could or would. It was one of the reasons why he was first employed by the firm. As the old man had snapped, when his partner protested the hiring of such a strongly opinionated young man, "There is a limit to the amount of fawning and arse-kissing I can take. This one will make a blessed change."
Today Damon knew he was fortunate the old man liked him. Or as much as Tobias ever liked anybody.
"He tells me you ruddy talked him out of it."
"I merely told him his options, sir. I prefer that a client understand all the possible outcomes."