by Becky Lower
Rosemary willed her body to sit quietly and let her mother decide their best course of action to find her a suitable husband by the season’s end in August. Her mother was so certain the end goal of marriage could be reached in a matter of months. Amidst talk of musicals, theatre outings, carriage rides in the park, Independence Day parties in the Hamptons, dinners, and other small balls planned for the summer, Rosemary realized her writing time would totally evaporate in favor of the hunt for a mate. Finally, she’d had enough.
“Tell me, Mother. How does going for carriage rides and to the theatre help me understand what these suitors are all about, supposing there are any to be had? Let’s face it. Men haven’t exactly been banging at the door for me as they did for Ginger and Jasmine. But that’s beside the point. Shouldn’t I be having significant conversations with them about what their reading preferences are, what they want for their futures, and how they plan to get there; important topics such as those? Instead, you want me to have conversations about whether they prefer the waltz or the two-step, whether they care for light-colored horses or dark ones, and if they favor musicals over drama at the theatre. How do any of those conversations help me determine the true measure of the man?”
Her mother brushed a hand over Rosemary’s hair. “Ah, my darling daughter. What I suggest for a topic of discussion is merely the beginning of your conversation with a gentleman. What you talk about after asking if he prefers light-colored horses is entirely up to you. I’m only trying to help. And once these men do get to know you, they’ll be enchanted. You’ve become much too introspective since you’ve taken up writing, so it may be a challenge for you to meet and talk to strange men. I’m merely giving you ideas on how to open the conversation.”
Rosemary sighed. “I’ve just come from a meeting with the strangest man I’ve ever met, so don’t tell me I can’t hold my own against them. I did just fine. And I don’t really see the wisdom in this quest for a mate. I’m more than capable of making my own way in the world, without the need for a husband to support me. “
“I’m not talking about financial support, necessarily, although that is important. I’m talking about what marriage will give you. It is a gift you give yourself, or it can be, if you choose wisely. I want you to have the gift, Rosemary. I’m sure there’s a man out there who will understand your need to continue your writing and will support you as you pursue your goals, just as you’ll help him.”
The subterfuge she was attempting to pull with Henry Cooper popped into her head. “I’m not certain the world is ready yet for equality between the sexes, Mother.”
Charlotte leaned over and kissed Rosemary’s brow. “Maybe not the world, Rosemary, but your husband certainly will be if you make a proper selection. You’ll just have to be sure of yourself before you say yes. Your father has never held me back from anything I truly wanted and thought was important. He wanted us to stop adding to the family when we got to six children. If I hadn’t been able to charm him into rethinking his foolish idea, where would you be? Or Valerian and Saffron? Now, let’s see to those fingers of yours.”
• • •
Despite his best efforts, Henry could not stop thinking about his meeting with Phoebe. Or rather, Miss Wyatt. He’d be better off not referring to her by her given name, even in his head. Phoebe. Her name reminded him of the softness of a pussy willow in the springtime. God, she rattled him. There, he admitted it. Just one glimpse of the tiny woman with the wisp of a waist and those deeply intelligent gray eyes, and he was lost. It was a good thing he had already been seated when she’d leaned over his desk the other day, her lips mere inches from his. He would not have enjoyed the picture of his knees buckling in her presence.
He still could not understand why her infamous uncle wouldn’t show himself. A simple appearance was the only thing left to do before Henry offered a continuation of his contract and the popular Harry Hawk series. The sales numbers for Harry Hawk were impressive. Of course, he hadn’t yet told Miss Wyatt completely of his intentions. Best to let her twist in the wind for a while longer and see if she could indeed coerce the uncle into emerging from his home. The fact that Henry’s weekly, or semi-weekly, meetings with the young lady would cease once the contracts and paperwork were resolved flitted through his mind. Yes, perhaps it would be best to drag it out a bit longer. They needed to get to know each other on a deeper level before he would feel comfortable asking her to accompany him to the theatre. And he desperately wanted to ask her out. Yes, a few more meetings should be arranged. To discuss business, of course.
The attraction was there, on both sides, unless he was mistaken. Why not act on it? She wasn’t working for him, not really, so the obstacle of inappropriateness was removed. It was a fine line, to be sure, but technically, she worked for her uncle, who worked for Henry. She was not of his social station, but it didn’t matter since women were expected to marry in order to better their position in society. Not that he was thinking of marriage at this point. He shook his head. Hadn’t he just had the thought the other day of how his father would react if Henry brought Phoebe Wyatt home? But it wasn’t a serious idea, certainly not as serious as a marriage proposal. He merely viewed her as another way to get under his father’s skin. To perform a coulé, an attack sliding along his father’s blade to establish leverage. Was he so petty? Was besting his father enough of a reason to toy with Miss Wyatt’s affections? He raked his hand through his hair. No, of course not. He was not in a fencing match. This was real life, with real people and deep, raw feelings. Despite his unbridled thoughts when she was in the same room, he could not use Phoebe Wyatt merely to further his own agenda with his father.
Henry rose from behind his desk and began to roam the room. Automatically, his body adopted a fencing stance, and his steps were light and quick as he pinned an imaginary opponent against the wall. He always thought better when he was on his feet, and fencing.
Perhaps what he needed was to broaden his scope, and not focus merely on Miss Wyatt. He again thought of the Cabots’ offer to introduce him around New York when he had the time.
The dictates of proper Boston society did grate on his nerves. Having spent most of his formative years with his uncle in New Orleans, he had no patience for the nonsense Boston and even New York thought was appropriate and respectable social behavior. His uncle enjoyed having fun at the end of a long day’s work or training in fencing, and Jacques really paid little regard to the “social correctness” of his company. If the person was of a good nature and fun to be around, he was welcome at Uncle Jacques’s table. Having grown up in such a freewheeling environment, every “proper” move within society chafed at him, and had since his return from his uncle’s.
However, he was in New York now, not New Orleans. His father’s Bostonian friends had taken pains to arrange his introduction to relatives living in New York. So far, he’d only had dinner with this branch of the Cabots. But they had invited him to the biggest social event of the spring to kick off the high season of 1859—the cotillion ball, to be held in a few days. He could dress up in his finest clothes and use the ball to become acquainted with some of New York’s proper young ladies. Yes, the more he thought about attending the Cotillion, the better the idea sounded to him. Then this ridiculous obsession with Miss Wyatt and her patchouli would end.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Harry smiled wryly as he thought of President Buchanan sitting down with Screaming Eagle and negotiating a land treaty. The man couldn’t maintain order in the civilized part of the United States. He couldn’t possibly interact with Indians.
“I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, you lie low, and I’ll try to smooth things over with the rail boss.”
The woman Screaming Eagle had thrust into his arms fainted. Great, Harry thought as he slung her over his shoulder.
Rosemary reluctantly laid down her pen and removed the pinafore she had put on over her day dress. She hated to stop writing, because the story was just now getting to the good par
t, but she promised her mother she would take a nap, since her debut was this evening. She peered at her fingers. For the past few days, her mother had come up with all kinds of concoctions in an attempt to rid Rosemary of her ink stains. It would not do to have new ones form after her mother had been so diligent. The purple marks were still there, possibly a bit fainter than before, but thankfully, she hadn’t added to them. She picked up the ham and cheese sandwich the maid had brought to the room hours ago, and bit into it with relish. The salty sweetness of the meat calmed her rioting stomach. Harry Hawk would have to wait until tomorrow. She finished drinking her tea and, with a sigh, left the garret for her bedroom.
As she leaned back into her bed pillows, she allowed herself to think about the forthcoming evening. Did she dare to dream about finding the love of her life at the ball? Her best friend, Dorcas, thought it was possible, but Rosemary wasn’t so certain. Of all her sisters, only Ginger had met her soul mate at a Cotillion. And technically, she’d met him earlier that day on the streets of New York. Not a great showing, it would appear, yet for the past few years, the ball had been easily the most anticipated event of every young, highbred woman in New York. It seemed to Rosemary instant attraction only happened in literature. Take Pride and Prejudice, for example. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy fought their desire for each other for months, yet in the end, there was no denying its existence. Could the same happen to her? Even by wearing the most beautiful gown her sister Jasmine had ever created, she doubted if a fairy-tale ending could happen tonight.
Rosemary removed a pillow from behind her head and punched it with her fist. No amount of daydreaming would make such nonsense happen, and there was no reason to pile on the expectations for the evening. She’d leave those dreams to her mother and Dorcas. Rosemary’s daydreams should be reserved for her dime novels’ plot lines. She would merely get through this evening, and whatever other inane events her mother had decided on for the season, and then get back to her writing. She had plans for Harry Hawk, but none for herself.
She pulled a soft blue, woolen afghan up over herself and began to relax as her fingers fondled the fabric. Images floated in her mind, not of her hero, Harry Hawk, but of an attractive, exotic-looking man with dark hair pulled back into a queue, a shirt with billowing sleeves, and breeches that fit as if they were a second skin, revealing his muscled thighs and calves. He had one arm raised in front of him as he advanced toward her. Rosemary had no knowledge of fencing, but if the feelings she’d experienced when she’d walked into the room were any indication, fencing could be a most exciting sport. Henry Cooper cut a most dashing figure. She wondered how his hair would feel as she laced her fingers through it, freeing it from its restraint, so it flowed around his face as he lay on top of her and kissed her senseless. She would welcome his weight as he held her down, kissing her lips, scorching a path down her neck, cradling her breast. Her body responded with a small moan, and the noise pulled her from her stupor.
Propping herself up on one elbow, Rosemary ran a hand over her face, her body still humming. It had to be the upcoming evening and her mother’s incessant talks about meeting the man of her dreams that were causing these feelings. But maybe she’d already met the man of her dreams. She shook herself. No, what a ridiculous notion. Henry Cooper was merely the only man she’d had contact with in months. Besides, he didn’t really know who she was. Even though her father was willing to step in and portray F.P. Elliott for her, it still rankled that she couldn’t allow it to be known she was the mastermind behind Harry Hawk. Life would be so much easier if she were a man.
She lay back down and pulled the cover up over herself again. Since she had dozed off so quickly, she obviously needed to heed her mother’s advice and take a nap. After all, the evening was going to be long and arduous, and she wouldn’t take to her bed again until the wee hours of the morning. Best get some sleep while she could. Behind her closed eyes, the image of Henry Cooper cropped up again, but this time she didn’t try to fight him off. She imagined him taking her body to previously unknown heights of pleasure. She sighed as she glided into a deeper sleep, wondering if real life could be as she imagined.
• • •
Henry finally closed the ledger books and glanced up at the darkening room. He’d been immersed in the accounting numbers for his new business for several hours, but still he was surprised to find night was closing in around him. He struck a match to the sandpaper surface on the matchbox and lit an oil lamp at his desk. The smell of the phosphorus assaulted his nose briefly before it dissipated into the air. Henry sat for a few moments, thinking about the figures he’d just pored over. He pinched the bridge of his nose as his eyes began to focus on his surroundings instead of row after row of numbers. Lord, he hated the financial side of the company.
The business model was sound. Mr. Page had made a smart move by buying the small printing press and producing his own works, becoming a publishing house as well as acting as an agent for the authors. Henry would continue to follow the example that had been set for him, and would possibly adopt Boston’s format of a monthly magazine by producing his own here in New York. He could include a chapter at a time of a new dime novel into the pages of the magazine, creating an installment series for people to follow. His plan would give him a faithful readership for his new magazine venture, as well as a ready audience once a complete version of the story appeared in printed form as a dime novel. Yes, he could see the wisdom in his plans.
But for now, his ideas for the business would need to be shelved. The big cotillion ball was this evening, and he needed time to get ready for it. Especially since he hadn’t yet hired a valet, and it was up to him to get his appearance right. He needed to make certain his best jacket with the tails was clean and pressed, his cravat tied properly, his hair washed and held in place with a fine strip of leather. He also needed to buff his dress shoes. He hadn’t worn them since his last dinner at the Cabots’, but New York streets were filthy, and he was certain there was at least a layer of dust on them, if not something worse.
The cotillion was New York’s biggest social event of spring, marking the beginning of the high social season that would extend into August. He’d attended enough of these same type of balls in New Orleans to know how tedious they could be. Especially as each young woman was announced and entered into the pool of eligible bachelors at the bottom of the staircase who swirled like sharks in the water. He was not going to take part in any of such nonsense, or join the swirl, but he had no wish to offend his benefactors, so he would put in an appearance at the ball. Briefly, he gave thought to his notion of finding a woman to occupy his time and take his mind off the winsome Phoebe Wyatt, but if the New York debutantes resembled in any way the ones he’d come across in New Orleans, tonight was not the night to further that objective.
He’d time his entrance to take place after all the introductions were over and the women claimed for the evening by prospective partners. He’d be able to circumvent the pushy mothers and their simpering daughters if he were not in the room. It was a sound plan of attack for the evening, but in order to accomplish it, he must get to his quarters right now and begin his preparations for the night. He’d procrastinated long enough.
CHAPTER NINE
Rosemary sat quietly beside Dorcas. Yes, she’d already had her moment at the top of the staircase, where she had been properly introduced to society, and then led down the stairs by her father and Halwyn. However, where other young ladies who went before her had a horde of young men vying for their attention at the bottom of the stairs, there had been an embarrassing lack of interest as she had descended into the crowd below. Only family and friends, and a few stragglers, had greeted her. No Prince Charming.
Her dress was the most beautiful gown of all the debutantes. Jasmine had done a masterful job creating an illusion of loveliness and purity. The white satin was embellished with tight-fitting lace sleeves and a matching lace inset at the bodice. The many hand-sewn crystals on the skirt made it sp
arkle in the glow of the thousands of candles adorning the room. But even with the dress, she failed to capture any young man’s interest for more than a moment.
While Rosemary’s dark hair and gray eyes were not enough to propel her into the same category as the most popular of the ladies, she could not understand why Dorcas was relegated to the sidelines along with her. Rosemary thought her friend was striking, with her blonde hair with its tint of red, and her large blue eyes. Perfect coloring for the heroine in her Harry Hawk story. Her mind began to hum with possibilities, and she wished the evening would come to an end so she could return to her garret and Harry.
Sitting up against the wall was pretty much the way she had played out the evening in her head. She and Dorcas would make up stories about each of the popular debutantes who had tons of men whirling about them, all vying for a modicum of attention from the chosen ones. Dorcas was good at inventing stories about the other girls they’d both grown up with, and with Rosemary’s gift for embellishment, they laughed as each story became more outrageous than the one before it.
The two ladies were wiping tears of enjoyment from their eyes with their handkerchiefs as Charlotte Fitzpatrick approached and joined them.
“I’m so glad to see you girls are enjoying yourselves.” She turned to Dorcas. “You would have thought Rosemary was being led to the gallows, the way she fussed and complained right up until she got into her beautiful gown.”
“Oh, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, Rosemary’s gown is truly a piece of art. But even if we do have the best gowns of the evening, the young men have barely taken notice of us. What are we to do?” Rosemary grimaced as Dorcas barely controlled the wail, which threatened to invade her voice. If her mother thought they were a desperate duo, she’d take action. Rosemary had hoped to get through the evening without her mother’s help.