“Then I propose a toast,” Billy said, raising his glass. “To dreams.”
Brenton lifted his own iced lemonade and touched it to Mr. Vanderbilt’s. “To dreams.”
16
“Surprise!” the colorfully dressed partygoers shouted.
Brenton, rather flustered, looked first at his sister and then at Billy Vanderbilt. Both grinned and seemed to thoroughly enjoy his embarrassment.
“Happy birthday, Brenton,” Meg Vanderbilt said as she moved closer and offered him a small package. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Brenton had noticed of late that the girl was growing sweet on him, but he had never seen her as anything but his sister’s little friend. Nevertheless, he took the gift and gave her a most chivalrous bow. “Thank you, Miss Vanderbilt.”
“Oh, don’t go being so stuffy,” Jordana said, grabbing hold of his arm to propel him across the room. “We’ve created an entire birthday supper for you, Brenton. Caitlan even made the cake.”
“Where is Caitlan?” Brenton asked, looking around the room. The twenty-five or so people gathered there in Billy Vanderbilt’s parlor were fashionable and elegant in their afternoon clothes, and all seemed to be having a wonderful time. Caitlan, however, was nowhere to be seen.
“I’m not sure,” Jordana replied with a frown. “Meg lent her a gown, and I was certain she would be here. I don’t know what’s become of her. I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention.”
At that moment a huge cake was carried into the room, and the revelers began to applaud. Brenton felt his cheeks grow hot. He hated anyone making such a fuss over him. But despite his embarrassment, he was touched that the Vanderbilts would rally their friends to act in the absence of Brenton’s own loved ones.
Nineteen years had passed since Brenton’s arrival in the world, but such affairs and celebrations had never come easy to him. He hated fanfare when he was the focus of it. He would have much preferred being the photographer at someone else’s party. It wasn’t that he minded being made to feel special, but to become the center of a event was more than he had ever desired. He was glad that only girls had large coming-out parties. Men—at least the men in his family—simply drifted into adulthood rather unannounced.
“Come now and cut the cake for us,” Billy said in his fatherly way. It was clear to Brenton that in many ways Billy had simply adopted both him and Jordana into the family. Billy leaned forward and added, “You’re about to rob me of the best maid this house ever had. The least you can do is enjoy my party for you.”
Forcing a smile, Brenton nodded. “Very well,” he said, taking up the knife Jordana held out to him. “But I warn you. I do this very poorly.”
“Perhaps you should have trained to become a surgeon instead of a photographer,” Jordana teased.
“No,” Meg replied, shaking her head. “They would have forced him to join in the war.”
Jordana gave her brother a quick look. Though Brenton’s avoidance of the army was completely honorable, he still occasionally found himself in situations where others refused to understand, and it caused him distress, as Jordana well knew. She gave a light laugh. “That’s true, Meg. We must be grateful for small favors.”
Brenton knew she was trying to protect him and was grateful for it. He kept up the light banter as he put the knife to the cake. “So my photography work is a small favor in your eyes, is that it?” He smiled at Jordana, knowing she would realize his teasing was a way to move the subject past the morbid dwellings of the war. It might have worked, too, except that Billy was completely unaware of the exchange between brother and sister.
“As I was telling my colleagues,” Billy said, “this war has done a great deal to boost the economy here in the North. After that ridiculous bank scandal a few years ago, this was just the kick in the pants we needed to get things up and running again.”
Brenton saw Jordana pale slightly at the comment, but before she could open her mouth to speak, Meg reached out to her father.
“Please, Papa, let’s not talk of war today. It’s all so sad, especially with G.W. having suffered so miserably from it.” She obviously regretted having mentioned the subject in the first place.
But, unfortunately, the poor girl had unwittingly opened another tender subject. The comment about G.W. caused Jordana to wince, and though she tried to turn away from him, Brenton reached out to pat her arm reassuringly.
“G.W. will no doubt recover from his ailments to go forth again into adventure,” Billy assured them. “I have a recent letter if anyone would like to read it. He sounds in good spirits, although he grows quite bored with doctors and their treatments. He does try to keep up with the war. He’s lost a great many friends already, and it worries him greatly knowing there is no real end in sight. He says the men try to stay positive, but they’re discouraged by the entire matter. With the exception of Antietam, the last four major battles have been Confederate victories.”
“No doubt it is hard on the Union men to see victories like the Second Battle of Bull Run go to the Confederates,” one of Billy’s investors said rather stoically. “The Union felt certain they would have victory there and make up for the first battle.”
“We’ve made up for it in other ways,” someone else added.
Billy laughed. “If only President Lincoln can settle on a commander. I heard tell that Lincoln once sent a post to McClellan asking that if he wasn’t going to use his army, could Lincoln maybe borrow them for a spell?” This brought uproarious laughter from the men in the room, encouraging Vanderbilt. “Then the president got Pope but wasn’t happy with him and begged McClellan to come back. Now I hear tell he’s gone and fired McClellan again.”
As talk of the war droned on, Brenton noted the tension building in Jordana. She was no doubt thinking about G.W. She felt totally responsible for his lack of recovery. He’d questioned Meg, and even Billy, about finding a way to get G.W. to at least take Jordana’s letters, but it was all to no avail. It seemed G.W. was nursing his wounded pride. Having been a handsome, well-muscled man, G.W.’s ego had been completely deflated by Jordana’s rejection and his own sickness.
“I’ve heard there is much concern over whether Britain will join in the ruckus,” someone said, bringing Brenton’s attention back to the conversation at hand.
“That’s all we need. The British have been nothing but a thorn in our sides,” one of Billy’s cronies contended.
“I heard tell they might send troops into Canada,” another man added.
“I heard the same,” Billy replied. “I say let them. Perhaps it will refocus our own people, and then we can leave off with this war against ourselves.”
“I suggest we leave off with this conversation, Mr. Vanderbilt,” Billy’s wife said, coming gracefully to her husband’s side. “You men would talk of nothing but war and profit if we women allowed it. I suggest we eat cake and allow Brenton to open his gifts; then you may all retire to the drawing room and discuss war until your hair turns gray.”
“That won’t be hard for me,” Billy said, laughing. “I’ve already a sprinkling of the matter.”
“Better than our friend Witherspoon here,” one of the men laughed. “He suffers from more than a sprinkling.” Again laughter filled the air, and Brenton felt a deep gratitude for Mrs. Vanderbilt’s intercession.
A half hour later, Brenton found himself the center of conversation in the smoke-filled Vanderbilt study. Billy puffed on a fat cigar, as did many of his associates, but Brenton remained absorbed by a map of the United States and her territories.
“I believe the interest in a transcontinental railroad will drive men west,” a thick-chested man said after blowing a long puff of smoke into the already saturated air. “I believe this scheme of yours holds great merit, Billy.”
“I wouldn’t risk the capital if it didn’t,” Vanderbilt replied. “Young Baldwin here has impressed me as an honorable and capable young man. He has shown me proof of his work as a photographer, and I must say
I’m notably impressed. He has assured me he will not only act as our eyes by photographing our interests, but he will be our voice as well. He will make purchases of prime real estate on our behalf. In return, we will bankroll this expedition and see to it that he is able to fulfill his own dream of putting together a book of western regional photography. Not to mention getting his brother-in-law’s sister to California.”
Brenton listened to their discussion of his future, all the while forcing himself to appear completely engaged in the map before him. Things were finally coming together. It had taken Billy much longer than anticipated to raise interest in his plan. Throughout the summer and early fall, Brenton had despaired that their plans might be for naught, but now as the month of November opened, he knew an overwhelming apprehension as things were finally taking form. Perhaps because he realized that once they left New York, he alone would be responsible for Jordana and Caitlan. Perhaps because he felt inadequate to do the job.
He looked up to see that the men had completely forgotten him in their enthusiasm for the conversation. He watched them for a moment. They had no concerns except for how to expand their purses to accommodate the new influx of wealth to come. He admired Billy Vanderbilt and thus tried to ignore the rumors that Vanderbilt was often like his father, the commodore, in business dealings. Usually he was completely above board on all matters, yet at other times there were issues that remained questionable. Brenton could only pray this wasn’t one of those times.
But given the war and Caitlan and his own parents’ absence from the country, Brenton felt he needed Vanderbilt in order to accomplish what was to be done. He would simply distance himself from the details. That way he wouldn’t be responsible for any underhanded dealings. At least, this was how he comforted himself.
Brenton wandered over to a window in the study and noticed a familiar figure strolling in the now-dormant garden below. Caitlan O’Connor seemed as forlorn as the dried and withered plants. Yet to Brenton she was also as radiant as the oaks and maples with their brilliant amber and orange and red leaves. The wind blew her gray woolen cloak open, revealing the green satin gown Meg had loaned her. She looked as refined as any of the ladies in the house with her copper curls artfully amassed atop her head. The green fabric must make her eyes seem like perfect emeralds. His thoughts had often strayed to her that day, worried about her absence from the party. He wondered what she might be thinking out there all alone on that chilly autumn day. Then he decided he didn’t have to wonder at all. Perhaps she would welcome company.
Vanderbilt’s cronies hardly noticed when Brenton made his exit from the study. On his way outside, he noted the ladies were still in the drawing room involved in their own conversations. The party would manage quite well without its guest of honor.
A gust of wind caught him as he stepped outside, and he regretted not stopping for his overcoat, but he had feared being seen by the ladies and pulled into their company. He forgot all about the chill air when he reached the garden and Caitlan glanced up at him, an immediate smile on her lovely face. Her countenance seemed to reflect the golden hue of the trees above.
“Do you mind some company?” he asked as he joined her.
“Not a bit. But is yar party over so soon?”
“They are having a grand time without me.” He grinned. “I’ve never been completely at ease as the center of attention.”
“I be feelin’ the same way.”
“But I thought all Irish liked a raucous time.”
“That would be like saying all Americans are industrious,” she countered. “And we both know ’tis not so.”
“And is that why you didn’t come to my party, Caitlan?”
She glanced up at him; then her gaze skittered away. “Would ya be walkin’ with me, Brenton?”
Brenton held out his arm, and she hesitated only a moment before linking hers with his. He tried to think it was merely a gentlemanly gesture, yet he couldn’t ignore the thrill that coursed through him at her touch and her closeness.
“So, Caitlan,” he said to get his mind off what he was feeling, “you didn’t answer my question.”
“And ya know exactly why I did not come,” she answered shortly. “It was yarself who convinced Jordana when I first came here of the masquerade of me bein’ her maid.”
“But I realized soon after that it was a foolish idea. You are family, Caitlan, and I don’t know how it is in Ireland, but at least in the Baldwin family we respect and accept one another equally.”
She lifted grateful but sad eyes to him. “And for sure, yar the rare one, Brenton. Ya know well enough most people don’t feel that way. The Vanderbilts might have accepted me for your sake, but the fact would never change that I did not belong as a guest at their party. Ya can dress me up all ya like, and I’d still not be fittin’ company for the likes of them. And it makes it even worse that I work for them. How do you think the other servants would be feelin’ havin’ to serve me, their equal?”
“Well, I missed you.”
She smiled at him, and he saw that she needed no green material to highlight her eyes. Even with the gray cloak pulled over her dress, her eyes were as green as the isle where she was born.
“I wanted to be there . . . for ya.” She sighed and looked away. “I’m hopin’ ya understand.”
“I do,” Brenton answered with sincere intensity. “I see that it is hard to place yourself into a position where you feel less than qualified to perform. It’s rather like this whole idea of going to California.”
Her gaze returned to his. “And why would ya be seein’ it that way?”
Brenton shrugged, initially hesitant to share his inadequacies with this dear girl. Yet he sensed that she more than anyone would understand, and, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he wanted her to know his whole heart. “My parents entrusted a huge responsibility upon me by placing Jordana in my care, so now I feel I may jeopardize that trust by taking you two west. I feel I am not worthy of the task—not only for Jordana’s and your care, but also for the work with which Mr. Vanderbilt is entrusting me.”
“Ya’ll do a good job.” Caitlan’s green eyes penetrated his worried soul. “Ya always do.”
“Jordana says I’m a ninny for my worry.”
“Yar no ninny, Brenton,” Caitlan protested, the emphasis of her words touching his heart. “Yar an honorable man. There aren’t many like ya in the world, and those we find should be cherished—that is, I mean . . .” She ended in a fluster.
He felt his cheeks grow hot and prayed she didn’t look at him just then. “I suppose I must just step out in faith.” Caitlan’s gaze wandered to the played-out flower beds.
They were silent for some time. Brenton grew so lost in thought he did not notice that Caitlan had looked back to study him, until her soft Irish brogue caused him to turn his head and meet her eyes.
“Yar a good man, Brenton. I believe in ya. I know ya won’t fail us.”
Her confidence in his ability caused his heart to swell with pride. She treated him as no other woman did. Even Meg Vanderbilt, in all her girlish adoration, was no more than an awestruck little sister. Not so Caitlan. She treated him like a man. She made him feel alive, special, powerful. If she had asked him to sprout wings and fly, he felt he would be able to do so on nothing more than her desire. She believed him capable of anything—and with her near, he could almost believe it himself.
It was after dark when Brenton and Jordana bid their farewells to the Vanderbilts.
“Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt.” Brenton gave each a bow. “Thank you so much for the birthday party. You have truly helped fill the void left by my parents’ absence. I am honored and quite content. I look forward to embarking on our business venture, but I shall miss the company of such valued friends.”
“We shall keep in close touch.” Billy slapped Brenton on the back. “Come, I’ll see you to your carriage.”
As a servant was helping Jordana into her burgundy wool cloak, she turned toward he
r host. She had struggled the entire evening over the matter of G.W. and knew she could not leave without somehow easing her pain. “Mr. Vanderbilt, would you please answer a question?”
“But of course, Jordana,” Billy replied. “What is it?”
Jordana finished up her buttons as though gathering her courage with each closure. She looked up to meet Vanderbilt’s curious expression and bit her lower lip.
“I never meant to hurt your brother. You must believe that. I care very much for G.W., and I long only that he would allow our friendship to continue. I wonder if you might approach him on my behalf. Might you appeal to him as one brother to another, pleading my cause?” Each word was an agony for Jordana. She took friendship seriously and maintained only a few friends whom she could call intimates. G.W. had been one of those, and now he was gone—not only physically but emotionally as well. The fact tore at her heart.
“Jordana, I will speak to that pigheaded fool and do what I can to rebuild your bridges.” He placed a fatherly arm around Jordana’s shoulders. “G.W. can be ten kinds of idiot when it comes to getting his own way. No doubt he thinks if he makes you suffer long enough, you’ll capitulate to his proposal. But I say stand your ground and follow your heart. Perhaps once this war is over, and you’ve had time to grow up and experience your own adventures with Brenton, you’ll be more inclined to consider G.W.’s request. And by that time his health should be restored and he’ll see things more reasonably.”
“Perhaps so,” Jordana conceded. “But for now, I miss his friendship and hate that he’s angry with me. I’ve never known such a burden before.”
Billy chuckled. “I’ve had many a man angry at me, and my skin is pretty thick, but I wouldn’t wish such toughness upon you even if it would lighten your present load.” He gave her shoulders an affectionate squeeze. “You are like a daughter to me, which I don’t mind telling you is both good and bad. Good, because I hold great affection and concern for you. Bad, because after all these years of fatherhood, my daughters remain great mysteries to me.”
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