“Being married doesn’t permit you to overlook the proper rules of etiquette, Sophie. I realize many of you young married women have decided you can attend formal gatherings without a proper escort. However, you’ll find such behavior is still frowned upon.” Her aunt looped arms with her. “Let’s see what Minnie can do about altering your dress; then we’ll decide upon the matter of an escort.”
Escort, chaperone, someone to watch over her behavior—how was she to have any fun? Aunt Victoria wouldn’t have blinked an eye if Beatrice had divulged plans to attend the dance without Andrew. Of course, Beatrice wouldn’t want to attend the party with or without Andrew, especially if she knew that remaining at home would prevent Sophie from attending.
They discovered Minnie polishing silver in the dining room, and Sophie presented her idea. The maid shrugged while she continued to polish a silver platter. “Until I look at the seams and measure you, I can’t say it will work. Even so, such refashioning will take time.”
“Then let’s be off,” Sophie said. “I’ll have Veda finish polishing the silver when Elizabeth wakens.”
Once they’d arrived in Sophie’s bedroom, Minnie made a cursory examination of the seams before Sophie wriggled into the dress. “Turn,” Minnie commanded while she poked and prodded the fabric.
Her aunt maintained a watchful eye throughout the process. While Sophie removed the dress, her aunt nudged Minnie. “What do you think? Can you make it work?”
“If her corset is tightly laced, it should fit. I could use lace overlays to hide the fact that the seams have been let out,” Minnie suggested.
Sophie clapped her hands. “That is a wonderful idea, Minnie. You have saved my life.”
“I don’t believe refashioning a dress constitutes a lifesaving event,” her aunt said. “And there is still the matter of an escort.”
“Do say you’ll come with me, Aunt Victoria. You know Beatrice won’t want to attend.”
Her aunt tapped her fingers on the dresser. “I would enjoy visiting with the Oostermans. . . .”
“Then it’s settled.” Sophie hugged her aunt around the shoulders. “I can’t thank you enough.”
Saturday, May 13, 1899
After numerous fittings and hours of stitching, Minnie completed the alterations to Sophie’s satisfaction. “It looks lovely,” her aunt remarked as the two of them descended the stairs Saturday evening. “No one would ever guess that your dress has been refashioned. You look absolutely lovely.”
“I would think you’d consider it more important to remain here and care for Elizabeth than go off to a party without your husband,” Beatrice said. She was sitting in the front parlor where she had a view of the staircase, obviously lying in wait.
Sophie forced a smile. “My daughter is being well cared for, and I don’t believe I asked for your opinion. If you prefer to sit at home, I don’t question your choice. I would appreciate the same courtesy.”
“Marriage to a fine man and the birth of a healthy baby girl would be enough to satisfy most women, but you’re never happy. You can’t wait to go to the hotel ballroom and become the center of attention. What would Paul think of your behavior?”
Sophie clenched her hands into tight fists. “My behavior is beyond reproach. It’s your evil thoughts that make this anything more than an evening with friends.”
“I want the two of you to cease your bickering.” Victoria pointed her fan toward Beatrice. “I would not escort your sister on this outing if I believed our attendance overstepped proper etiquette or protocol. Whether it was your intent or not, you’ve also insulted me, Beatrice.”
Sophie grinned at her older sister as Beatrice hastened to offer an apology to their aunt. Though she had doubts, Sophie wondered if the reprimand would put an end to Beatrice’s constant criticism.
“Is this the final menu for the weekend meals, Mrs. Broad-moor?” Mrs. Atwell asked as she hurried toward them waving a piece of paper in one hand.
While her aunt and Mrs. Atwell stepped aside, Beatrice drew near to Sophie. “You don’t fool me, Sophie. You were an unruly child, and you’ve grown into an ill-behaved woman. Though you won’t admit it, we both know your intentions aren’t to sip punch and visit with the old dowagers. You plan to flirt with the men and pretend you’re a young debutante.”
“You have no idea what I plan to do this evening,” Sophie hissed.
An evil glint shone in Beatrice’s dark eyes. “Perhaps I shall spend my evening penning a letter to your husband. Does that prospect remove the smirk from your lips?”
“Do what you will, Beatrice. A letter to my husband doesn’t concern me in the least.” Sophie hoped the response sounded more assured than she felt, for there was no telling what Paul would think if he received such a letter from Beatrice.
She took a deep breath as she and her aunt walked onto the veranda and down the path to the boat. Let Beatrice write her letter if she wanted. Paul had insisted she come out here against her wishes. She’d pleaded to remain in Rochester; it was Paul who had pushed her away. She had wanted to stay by his side, not on this horrid island with nothing to do but miss him. Instead of honoring her wishes, he’d given her no say. She wanted a husband who would listen as well as talk, one who would truly consider her wishes before issuing ultimatums. Perhaps Paul needed to learn a lesson.
7
Monday, May 15, 1899
Rochester, New York
“Vincent! This is a surprise. I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to meet with me. But I had hoped to meet in your office so that I could examine my files.”
Mortimer’s son patted his leather satchel and a box he’d placed on the floor. “They’re right here. I apologize for the delay, but as I explained on several occasions, it was necessary for me to address issues with all of my father’s clients.”
“As his dear friend, client, and business associate, I think he would have wanted you to attend to my files first,” Jonas said. “And wouldn’t it have been easier for me to go there to review the contents?”
Vincent shook his head. “I’ve delivered your files to you because I have come to the conclusion that you need a lawyer who can devote a great deal of time to your legal matters—much more time than I can spare.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Vincent. Your father was a much busier man than you, and he found ample time to represent my interests. Once you have a better understanding of my files and investments, you’ll discover you can complete them with ease. I’ll lend you the assistance you need to gain that understanding.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Broadmoor. You see, I’ve conducted a cursory review of the files myself. It didn’t take long to realize that you and my father went beyond the boundaries of the law in handling many of your business matters.” Vincent reached into his leather satchel and withdrew a stack of files. “I can’t be a part of this.” The files landed on Jonas’s desk with a dull thud.
Jonas massaged his forehead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Vincent. If your father and I hadn’t been dear friends, I would throw you out of my office for making such an appalling accusation.” Though his stomach roiled at Vincent’s revelation, Jonas hoped the young lawyer would believe his feigned indignation and surprise. “How can you stand here and disparage your dear deceased father? What a disappointment you must be to the rest of your family.”
“You need not concern yourself with how my family will react to this news, Mr. Broadmoor. You have more than enough right here to worry about.” Vincent tapped the files. “Once you review these files as well as those in the box, you’ll clearly understand why I have adopted this position.”
Jonas leaned back in his chair, his mind suddenly reeling at what the files might contain. Surely Mortimer had followed his orders and burned all the incriminating documents. The man wouldn’t have been foolish enough to retain records of their misdeeds. Mortimer knew any leak of their actions would ruin both their power and reputations among their peers—not to
mention the possibility of criminal proceedings. Of course, Mortimer didn’t need to worry about any of that now. But Jonas did. Fingers trembling, he reached across the desk and glanced at the folders.
“Put that box up on my desk,” he commanded.
Vincent lifted the box and slid it across the desk. “I have other things that require my attention this morning.” He picked up his coat and hat while Jonas riffled through the box of files.
“I don’t see any files regarding my niece. Did you locate any files with the name Frances Jane Broadmoor?”
“Indeed, there were a number of files with her name. They have been delivered to her,” Vincent replied. “Good day, Mr. Broadmoor.”
Jonas didn’t look up. There was little doubt Vincent would detect his fear. He wanted to flail the man for giving any of the files to Fanny, but he dared not object. Besides, it wouldn’t change anything. The files were already in her possession.
He removed the files from the box. One by one he opened the folders, each one revealing far more information than the last. Information that Mortimer had been instructed to destroy. And what if Vincent had retained some of the incriminating records? How would Jonas know until it was too late? He couldn’t recall even a portion of the paper work he had passed along to his lawyer. He could burn the records, but the thought gave Jonas no reassurance. Vincent could have shown the files to someone before turning them over.
He silently chastised himself. In spite of Vincent’s protests, Jonas should have insisted upon retrieving his files the day Mortimer died. In his younger years, Jonas never would have permitted anyone to hold him at bay. Now he would suffer for his kindness. For that’s what his agreement had been: a simple act of kindness. What a fool he’d become in his old age!
Strange how he’d believed that Mortimer had begun to lose his edge and bordered on senility. Under his façade of memory lapses, Mortimer had been intensely shrewd. There was little doubt he’d saved all these documents as insurance against any attempt at betrayal. The old man had safely maintained every record that could implicate Jonas and prove that he’d been the one to initiate the plan to use Fanny’s money. Use. Jonas liked the word use much better than steal or convert or embezzle. Use didn’t sound as though he’d intended any real harm to his niece or her assets. And if his financial hunches had been solid, her accounts wouldn’t have suffered. At least that’s what he told himself.
Now Mortimer was dead, and Jonas was left to wrestle through this treachery. He would be the one who would suffer the loss of reputation, power, and money. Well, he wouldn’t give up easily. The Broadmoors weren’t among those who had only recently become rich. They were old money. That fact alone granted immense power and prestige. Power and prestige that Jonas wouldn’t relinquish—no matter the cost.
For now, he must direct his attention to Fanny and those records Vincent had given her. How much did those files contain, and did she go through them? Surely Mortimer had heeded the instructions to destroy those incriminating records. But given what he’d found thus far, his doubts continued to rise. If Fanny had discovered his less-than-legitimate handling of her affairs, he needed the assurance of available cash to set things aright. Or at least to appease her until he could develop some story to convince her that none of this had been his doing. He yanked his coat from the chair where he’d tossed it earlier that morning. A visit with Jonathan Canby at the Profit Loan Association bank was in order.
Jonas wasn’t going to beg, but he’d certainly remind Jonathan of the loyalty and preference he’d given his bank since it had opened its doors for business. Had it not been for Jonas, their father would have never considered moving his accounts from the Rochester Savings Bank. Jonas had argued at great length with his father, but he’d finally won his confidence. When his father had made the change, many of his business associates eventually followed. Once the transfers had been completed, Jonathan had shown his appreciation with any number of loans at lowered interest rates or without proper security. Of late, the banker hadn’t been as agreeable when Jonas had requested financial aid. There was no way to know whether Jonathan would be amenable to this request. But Jonas was prepared to remind the banker of past favors. He had no choice. He needed help, a fact he didn’t like to admit, even to himself.
Head bowed against a stiff wind, Jonas didn’t notice the bulky white-thatched man until they collided near the front door of the bank. He mumbled a quick apology, but the thick fingers digging into his upper arms caused him to look up and twist away from the hold.
“Jonas! It is you, isn’t it? Jonas Broadmoor. How long has it been?”
Jonas stared into the intense blue eyes for a moment before realization slowly washed over him. “Ellert Jackson. Where did you come from?”
Ellert clapped him on the back and, with a hearty laugh, pointed over his shoulder. “The hotel. I’m here for only a few more hours. I was going to have lunch at the men’s club. Do you have time to join me?”
“Of course, of course,” Jonas replied. “I was going to take care of some banking business, but it can wait. Friends are more important than work.”
Ellert gave him a sideways glance. “Since when?” He guffawed and nudged Jonas in the ribs. “If you’ve changed that much, it may take more than one lunch to hear what’s been happening in your life.”
From time to time Jonas had heard mention of Ellert’s continued success in New York City, but the two men hadn’t seen each other in years. While living in Rochester, Ellert and Jonas had invested in several of the same business enterprises, though they’d never been close friends. Ellert had never been accepted in fashionable social circles. He’d belonged to the gentlemen’s club, of course, but his name failed to be included on the Rochester social register. When Ellert later joined forces with some foreign investors and moved to New York City, the two men lost contact. Some years ago Victoria had mentioned reading an obituary for Ellert’s wife. Or had one of his wife’s gossipy friends mentioned the death? He couldn’t remember, but he did recall there had been no children born to the union. Jonas had expected Ellert to meet with failure and return home, but that hadn’t occurred.
They walked side by side the short distance to the club. “It appears life has treated you well in spite of the country’s bleak economy,” Jonas said.
Ellert smiled and nodded. “I can’t complain. Life has been good since moving to New York City.”
Ellert’s words seeped into Jonas’s consciousness like a soothing balm. His old acquaintance who could access financial resources had appeared after years of absence. Was this simply a fortuitous encounter, or was God looking out for him? Jonas smiled at the thought. Even though he attended church services on Sunday mornings, it had been a long time since he’d truly considered the possibility that God might be interested in his life.
Mr. Rosenblume welcomed Fanny with a kind smile. Perhaps because he had been her grandfather’s trusted lawyer for years, Fanny felt a sense of comfort whenever she entered his office. He escorted her to the library table, where he’d arranged papers for her review.
Fanny handed him the private files he’d given her at their last meeting. “I thought I should bring these back to you for safekeeping.”
He nodded and accepted the folders from her, setting them aside. “It is probably for the best. I hope the information was useful to you.” He offered her a seat. “I wanted to go over a few details regarding the purchase of your grandparents’ home.”
Fanny’s pulse quickened as she settled into one of the leather chairs. “So I still have an opportunity to purchase it?”
The old lawyer nodded.
“I was afraid my uncle had located a buyer and hadn’t passed along the details to Mr. Fillmore.” She clasped her palm to her bodice. “I can’t begin to tell you my relief.”
“I’ve been using another party, one I trust, as an intermediary in this transaction. I don’t want to tip our hand and have Jonas discover you’re involved. I’ve been told that you
r uncle is desperate for a quick sale. He’s apparently in need of cash, but real estate sales are nearly nonexistent at this time. To my knowledge he’s not had any offers. We can’t be absolutely certain, but I believe that if we offer him less than the asking price, he’ll accept out of desperation.”
This talk of finances and sales gave rise to an important question. “Have you examined the records closely enough to know if there are any funds maintained solely in my name? I’d prefer to pay for the house myself rather than rely upon your personal funds.”
“I haven’t visited the bank, as I didn’t want to alert Jonas. However, in going through the papers, it appears there are some funds that he hasn’t attached.” The lawyer tugged at his starched collar. “But I fear if you attempt to withdraw any of it, the bank will notify your uncle. Since you’ve never before attempted to access your inheritance, the bank would feel obligated to make an inquiry.”
“Even though I’ve attained legal age?”
The lawyer offered a sympathetic nod. “You’ve never notified the bank to withdraw his authority to act as your representative, have you?”
“No,” Fanny murmured. Mr. Rosenblume was likely correct. The bank officers wouldn’t permit her to withdraw money without notifying her uncle. “If you pay for the house from your own funds, how can my name be placed on the deed?”
“If you trust me, I have a proposal for you.”
Fanny gave the old lawyer her full attention. “I’m willing to listen to any idea you have.”
“The intermediary will act as our agent to purchase the house. Jonas will be told that the purchaser wishes to remain anonymous. He won’t care, as long as he gets his money,” Mr. Rosenblume explained. “I will pay for the house. You and I will enter into a contract. Once we manage to release any of your inheritance that your uncle hasn’t converted to his own use, you can reimburse me and the house will be yours.”
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