by Nan Ryan
He showed her a side of New York she had only wondered about. He took her to the glittering theaters lining Broadway. At the Reesbeck she sat entranced as a European company brilliantly performed Hamlet, an incredibly talented dark young man in the lead as Shakespeare’s Danish prince.
Not a week later Dane took her to the famous Wallack’s Theater, right next door to the Reesbeck. Flower girls circulated outside the theater among the well-heeled crowd and Elizabeth laughed with delight when Dane generously bought her fragrant bunches of carnations and roses and tulips.
One chilly Saturday afternoon they visited the Eden Musée, a museum filled with wax figures of sensational crimes and horrors. Childlike, Elizabeth stared wide-eyed at the frightening wax statues reigning eerily over the dim, windowless chamber. Frightened by the amazingly lifelike murderers and ugly gargoyles and chilling vampires, she clung tightly to Dane’s arm. He hugged her close and teased her, saying perhaps he should bring her here every day.
He took her into New York’s finest shops, some below Canal Street, the rest along Broadway to Fourteenth and over to Union Square. They went to A. T. Stewart’s gleaming marble palace, where the mannerly clerks welcomed him by name. To Lord & Taylor, where Elizabeth blushed at seeing filmy underwear displayed, her eyes clinging to a wispy, daring white negligee shot with threads of gold. To Arnold Constable, where, Dane informed her, he purchased all his fine linen shirts and silk foulards. And finally to Tiffany’s with its sparkling glassware and glittering diamonds and shiny gold baubles.
Urging her toward one of the glass cases, Dane insisted on buying her a little trinket. A gift. He chose a delicate butterfly brooch of gold filigree and told the clerk to put it on his bill. The clerk, a well-groomed, nervous little man, wrung his hands worriedly. He dared not remind Dane Curtin, in front of the lady, that he was overextended and was no longer able to charge at Tiffany’s until he paid his bill.
Dane had counted on the man’s impeccable manners and knew he was safe. He proudly pinned the filigree butterfly to the high lace collar of Elizabeth’s white blouse. His fingers toying with the miniature butterfly’s golden wing, he said, “This is only the beginning, Elizabeth.”
“Dane,” she replied, “you are too generous.”
He smiled. “One day I’ll cover you with fine jewels,” he said, and felt himself become half aroused at the thought of playing the treasure hunt game with Elizabeth instead of Marjorie Ann Bishop.
One quiet, cloudy Sunday they strolled along Fifth Avenue, stopping to peer in the windows of the hotel shops that fronted the thoroughfare. When they reached the scarlet carpet outside the canopied front entrance of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, Dane paused and said, “Have you ever stayed at this hotel?”
“No. No, never.”
“Shall we, then?”
A small twinge of alarm shot through Elizabeth’s breast. Had Dane Curtin somehow found her out? Is that why he had kept after her all those weeks, why he had continued to ask her out? Because he knew she was not the lady she pretended to be? Did he somehow know about her shame in Shreveport, Louisiana?
“Dane,” she tried to sound indignant, “how could you suggest—”
“Oh, my dear, no, no.” He smiled and shook his golden head. “You’ve misunderstood, and it’s my fault.” He laid a gentle hand to her waist. “I meant only that I’d like to show you the downstairs lobby. It’s quite grand and I thought you’d enjoy seeing it.”
Relieved, Elizabeth laughed and her face flushed with color. “Please. I’d love to have a look around.”
Inside Elizabeth saw what they meant when people described the Fifth Avenue as deluxe. The painted paneling. The waxed mahogany. The emerald-green ferns. The thick, rich carpets. Uniformed young boys stood at attention or rushed about the lobby and up and down the stairs. The hotel director stood near the ebony registration desk, where handsomely attired guests signed the hotel book.
“Ever ride in an elevator?” Dane asked.
Elizabeth’s blue eyes lit up. “Could we, Dane?”
“Right this way,” said he.
Inside the magic box, Elizabeth clung tightly to Dane’s hand and felt her stomach rise to her throat as they slowly ascended the six floors to the hotel’s top story. Staying inside the elevator, they rode back down. When they reached the ground, Elizabeth was reluctant to get off. With her eyes she silently pleaded and Dane laughed and indulged her.
He confided, “I’m told that when the Prince of Wales was here some years ago, he would ride in the elevator whenever he had a few spare moments. Simply for the thrill of it.”
They rode up and down several more times before Dane finally said, “The hotel restaurant serves the best peach melba in New York. How does that sound?”
“Wonderful.”
And so it went.
Life was suddenly fun again and Elizabeth was grateful to Dane Curtin for making it so. She realized that perhaps she had misjudged him on their first meeting. He was nothing at all like his disagreeable nephew, Daniel. Dane was respectful, easygoing, always a gentleman.
Then came the day her frail father died and Elizabeth, heartbroken, was extremely grateful she had Dane’s strong shoulder to lean on. He was her rock of strength at a time when she needed him most. She greatly appreciated the caring and understanding he showed her.
Dane offered to help her sort out her father’s few belongings, and it made the gloomy task more bearable. While Elizabeth carefully placed clean, worn nightshirts in a large wicker basket, Dane crossed the room to a scarred chiffonier and began removing the items from its top.
Finished, he went into Elizabeth’s small bedroom, walked to the chest, and saw nothing there but a small bottle of perfume, a lace handkerchief, the gold filigree butterfly he’d bought her at Tiffany’s, and a pair of tan gloves.
He was about to turn away when a small object caught his eye. From underneath Elizabeth’s tan gloves, he plucked a brass button from the white doily draped atop the chest.
He lifted the button and studied it closely. At its center was the letter A. Although he had not fought in the war, he recognized the button as being like one worn by his brother Edmund, an officer in the artillery. A slight frown creased his high forehead.
“Elizabeth,” he called, “I thought you told me that your father was with the cavalry during the war.”
“That’s right,” she replied, placing a pair of darned stockings in the wicker basket.
Button in hand, Dane came to her. “Darling, this brass button was lying atop your chest.”
Elizabeth felt her knees go watery. “Yes, it’s … it’s from Father’s uniform,” she lied, reaching for it.
Dane withheld it. “Elizabeth, the cavalry’s buttons carried the letter C. This one has an A.” His eyes lifted to hers. “A for artillery.”
“Does it? I never noticed.” She reached for it, took it from him, and shook her head as though puzzled. “Father must have borrowed a tunic from someone in the artillery.”
“I suppose,” he said. “What next? Shall I begin carrying some of the baskets out to the carriage?”
Her hand closing around the brass button, she said, “Yes, why don’t you. We’re almost finished.” She slipped the button into the deep pocket of her woolen skirt.
“What’s this?” Dane asked, lifting a long, rolled-up leather scroll from atop one of the packed baskets.
“Oh, that,” Elizabeth said, and a smile came to her lips. “I’ll show you.”
Taking the scroll from him, she untied the grosgrain ribbon wrapped around it and spread the worn oxblood leather map and several sheets of brittle yellowing paper out on the small eating table.
“This,” she said, “was something my father kept with him at all times.” She laughed softly and admitted, “He even took it with him when he went away to war.”
“Sentimental value,” Dane reasoned.
“More than that. This is a map and deed that was given to my father a long time ago by an old sourd
ough whose life he saved.” She pointed to a gaping hexagonal hole, the size of a man’s hand, directly in the center of the ancient map. “Somewhere in that missing section, a vast fortune in gold was supposedly hidden.” She laughed, unable to recall anything more about the absurd legend surrounding the map.
More interested than he let on, and not nearly as wealthy as Elizabeth supposed, Dane laughed with her, but he moved closer, studied the map intently, and said casually, “I guess the sourdough never mentioned what part of the country this map is supposed—”
“He did. He told Father it was in the New Mexico Territory. The southern part, I believe. Something about vast caverns miles underground.” Shaking her head, she added, “Needless to say, Father never did make it back out West to hunt for his hidden treasure.”
Dane hardly heard her last remark. He was too busy reading the yellowing papers, which appeared to be a valid mining claim and deed. The deed was in the name of Thomas S. Montbleau, Sr.
Slowly refolding the yellowing deed, Dane’s thoughts raced. He knew Elizabeth had lost the rest of her family during the war. Now, with her father’s death, she was the only Montbleau left.
Dane felt excitement stir within him. Elizabeth was the sole heir to anything and everything the old man had owned.
“Couldn’t be worth anything, could it?” Elizabeth broke into his thoughts.
He gave her an apologetic smile. “No, darling, I wouldn’t think so.”
Nonchalantly, Dane folded the deed, placed it atop the worn oxblood map, and began to roll the map back up. He tied the grosgrain ribbon around it and tossed the oxblood map back atop the bundle where he had found it. All the while he was very carefully committing the map to memory.
“Should I throw it away then?” asked Elizabeth.
Too loudly, he shouted, “No!” Immediately his tone softened, and he said, “You might want to give it to your children one day.”
She liked his answer. “Yes,” she said, “I’ll save it for my children.”
He reached for her, drew her into his embrace. Against her blazing red hair, he murmured, “I want at least a half-dozen children, don’t you?”
Her arms locked around his trim waist, cheek pressed to his shirtfront, she replied happily, “At least.”
Elizabeth tipped her head back to smile up at Dane. He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her. Needing him, wanting more than anything in the world to love him, Elizabeth put everything she had into her kiss.
When at last their lips parted, Dane Curtin was trembling, his breathing rapid and heavy. It was all he could do to keep from throwing Elizabeth down on the bed and making hot, quick love to her.
Wishing at this moment she were not an innocent refined young lady, the kind who had to be slowly wooed and always treated with the utmost respect, he fought the surging passion she so easily evoked in him.
Elizabeth fought as well. It was not surging passion Dane’s prolonged kiss inspired. It was the lack of it. Her face against his shoulder, she kept her eyes tightly closed and pressed her slender body to his tall frame, hoping, wishing, praying to feel just a spark of the raging fire she’d known in the arms of a bearded Yankee spy one April night nearly four years ago. A man whose caresses she had found so stirring, she’d plucked a button off his tunic in her excitement. The button she had kept all these years that was now cutting into the flesh of her left thigh as Dane’s hard leg pressed against hers.
Her hands anxiously roaming Dane’s back, Elizabeth inhaled deeply. He smelled good, so clean and nice. He was a well-built man, leanly muscled and slender. With his classic facial features and his golden hair and emerald-green eyes, he was strikingly handsome.
Not only was he physically attractive, he was also highly intelligent and extremely rich. He was all any woman could long for or dream of. And he was obviously very fond of her. There was little doubt that one day he would ask her to marry him. She’d be the worst kind of fool not to accept should he propose.
Elizabeth pulled back a little and looked up at Dane. While passion flashed in his expressive green eyes, he made no attempt to overpower her, to make love to her. They were alone in her apartment. A lesser man might try to take advantage of her grief, her vulnerability, but not Dane. He was a gentleman. He respected her.
At dusk they were finished with their chore. They went out for supper at a small, quiet café off Union Square and were back to her small room by nine. Dane told her he had an early morning appointment, would she forgive him if he went on home.
It was then Elizabeth smiled, took the worn oxblood map from its basket, handed it to him, and asked if he would keep it in a safe place for her.
“Count on me, my darling,” he told her.
She felt certain she could count on him and that was a warm, comforting thought. Knowing it was only a matter of time before he asked her to be his wife, Elizabeth pushed aside both her doubts about loving him and her guilt over past transgressions, and said softly, “Dane Curtin, may I tell you that I think you are one of the finest men I have ever known.”
“Dane Curtin, you are one of the biggest cads I have ever known.”
“A fine way to speak to your intended.”
Dane opened his arms wide and the angry Marjorie Ann Bishop sighed and came to him. Scolding him soundly for showing up at half past nine when he had promised to be there no later than eight sharp, the woman to whom he was secretly engaged wrapped her short, fleshy arms tightly around his neck.
“You are so mean to me, Dainee, and I don’t like it.”
“Mean to you, dearest? How can you say such a foolish thing?”
“Because it’s true. You won’t let me tell anyone about our engagement. Why not?” She tilted her head back and looked up at him.
He favored her with one of his most dazzling smiles. “Because secrets are such fun. You know that, sweet. Like our treasure hunts. Our own special secrets.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She made an unhappy face. “But we can’t have one of our secret treasure hunts tonight.”
“No?”
“Mother and Father came home unexpectedly this afternoon.” Her double chin sagged to her huge chest.
Relieved instead of disappointed, Dane Curtin put a finger beneath her chin, lifted it, and whispered, “Damn them! All day I’ve been looking forward to my evening alone with you.”
“You have, Dainee?” Her eyes lighted. “I know what, we’ll go for a carriage ride through the park and I’ll undress and—”
“Out of the question, my love. You think I’d risk compromising you like that? Suppose someone saw us?”
Her face fell. “You’re right. It’s too dangerous. Oh, well, come into the drawing room and say hello to my parents.”
“Dane Curtin, you’re one of the biggest scoundrels I have ever known.”
“Why, Edmund, such a thing to say to your only brother.”
Edmund, standing with his back to the fireplace in the drawing room of his Fifth Avenue mansion, glared at Dane, lolling on a long beige brocade sofa.
After staying at Marjorie Ann Bishop’s for only a very few minutes, Dane had come by to show Edmund the worn oxblood map Elizabeth had given him.
“She wants me to keep it in a safe place,” said Dane, pouring himself a splash of brandy into a sparkling crystal snifter. Smiling, he added, “The map might prove useful when Tom Lancaster and I go out to the New Mexico Territory next month to survey and evaluate those mineral holdings we have there.”
Edmund’s calm eyes shone with disapproval. “Dane, I don’t like this … this relationship you’re having with Elizabeth Montbleau. It’s not right. Has it occurred to you that she might be falling in love with you?”
Dane took a sip of his brandy. “It has.”
“I don’t want to see her get hurt. She’s a fine young woman and she’s just lost the last member of her family. How do you suppose she’d feel if she knew that you were all but engaged to the Bishop heiress?”
Dane
’s pleased smile never slipped. “She wouldn’t like it, that’s why she won’t find out until she’s so much in love with me it won’t matter.” He downed the last drink of brandy. “You must understand that I care deeply for Elizabeth, but I can’t marry a woman with no money. My God, man, she thinks we’re all rich. She has no idea that an unstable stock market could make paupers of us any day.”
“For God’s sake, Dane. Keep your voice down. Do you want Louisa to hear you?” Edmund said nervously.
“Edmund, we both know that if Jim Fisk and Jay Gould’s attempt to corner the gold market proves successful, the market will crash and we’ll be ruined.” His blue eyes snapped with anger. “Damn the greedy, thieving bastards. There’s nothing they won’t do to gain even more wealth for themselves.”
Edmund nodded worriedly. “I know, I know. But, you mustn’t be like them. Those men are unprincipled and—”
“Edmund, just how do you suppose your free-spending wife would react if we suddenly lost all our wealth?” Seeing the fear leap into his older brother’s eyes, Dane hurried on. “Even if Louisa agreed to stay with you, she’d be miserable without the luxury you’ve always provided. Face it, we can’t live as beggars, and that’s what we’ll be if the market crashes. For your sake as well as for mine, I’ll have to marry Marjorie Ann Bishop. There’s no other choice.”
Edmund’s shoulders slumped wearily. “Then leave Elizabeth alone.”
Dane came to his feet, crossed to the drink trolley, and poured himself another brandy. “I can’t do that. I want her. Besides, it’s not necessary. After I’m married, I’ll set Elizabeth up as my mistress, buy her a fine house, make it my home away from home.”
Edmund shook his head. “Money is everything to you, isn’t it? The only thing that really matters.”
Dane’s green eyes gleamed. “Where’s the crime in that?”
11
ON THE EVE OF the brand-new year, Elizabeth was alone in her cheerless rooms on Twenty-fourth Street behind the stables. She was achingly lonely.