The Test of Gold

by Renee Yancy

  He went directly to her home, a delightful Victorian cottage with elaborate gingerbread trim, not far from the amphitheater. What a pretty picture she made, in her pink dress, sitting at the wicker table on the porch, with her blond curls loosely pinned up and her chin propped on her hand, peacefully reading her Bible. And he was about to disturb that tranquility.

  She glanced up at his hesitant step on the stair. “John! You’re back.” She sprang up, her whole countenance full of restrained longing, and took his hands.

  “Yes.” He dropped her hands and stood back. “I need to speak with you.” He kept his tone solemn.

  Her eyes widened. “Very well. Come and sit.” She patted the wicker chair next to her. “Would you like some tea?”

  Be gentle, her uncle had said. How he hated to hurt her. “Yes, please.”

  She busied herself with the chintz teapot, pouring the fragrant liquid into a delicate cup and adding milk and two lumps of sugar.

  He cleared his throat. “Gillian, I think you know I find you a beautiful and gifted young woman. You’ve made my stay here quite pleasant.”

  She smiled, her pink cheeks blushing rosier. “I’m glad you appreciate me, John.”

  He took the cup of tea she offered him. “I do. And I think highly of you.” She beamed. “And... that’s why—” He swallowed hard as the smile on her face ebbed away. “Gillian... I can’t marry you. I’m so sorry.”

  She went stock-still. “What do you mean you can’t marry me?”

  “I’m sorry.” Jack shook his head. “I never meant to hurt you.” His fingers trembled. Carefully he set the brimming teacup down.

  Two spots of bright red appeared high on her cheekbones, and she clutched her hands together tightly, her knuckles white. “Is it because of her? The Lindenmayer heiress?”

  What else can I do but tell her the truth? Gently, her uncle had said. “Yes.”

  Her eyes looked suspiciously shiny, and her entire face flamed red. Poor thing, she must be dreadfully humiliated. He stood up. “I’ll go now and leave you in peace. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  Gillian wrapped her fingers around the teapot handle. “Forgive you?” She leaped up and smashed the teapot on the porch floor at his feet. Boiling liquid splashed his trousers and feet, penetrating his bare skin.

  “Ow!” Jack recoiled. People breakfasting on the porch next door glanced over at the noise and stared. He stumbled to his feet and snatched the steaming fabric away from the tender skin of his ankles.

  Gillian grabbed his teacup. “How can you do this to me?” She threw it against the far wall where it shattered with a crash, spewing brown liquid. “You... you brute!”

  She turned to him, her bosom heaving. The whites of her eyes showed all around her pupils like an enraged bull, and involuntarily he backed away. She bared her teeth and came at him with her fists

  “I’m so sorry, Gillian.” He fended her punches off and tried to retreat toward the steps, his head reeling with the ferocity of her sudden attack. “Please try to understand,” he panted. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  The Vincent’s housekeeper opened the screen door and peeped out. “Miss Gillian? Is something wrong?”

  Gillian whirled. “No!” she screamed, stamping her foot. The housekeeper ducked into the house as another teacup shattered against the door frame. The door slammed, leaving Jack to fend for himself.

  Gillian grabbed the last teacup and turned toward Jack, snarling like a cat.

  Dear Lord, what was happening? “Gillian, stop! Please.” He ducked as the teacup sailed over his head and crashed on the sidewalk behind him. “Can’t we talk about this calmly?”

  “Calmly?” she spat out, her lip curling. “I’ll give you calm.” She grabbed the edge of the wicker table and flipped it over. Spoons, plates, and napkins went flying. The campers eating breakfast on both of the neighboring porches were standing now, gawking, and people passing on the path below had stopped to watch in horrified fascination.

  “Gillian. You’re making a scene. Please stop.” He rubbed his legs where the tea had scalded his skin.

  The veins in Gillian’s neck stood out. She grabbed a wicker chair, lifted it over her head, and took a swing at him.

  He ducked. “Get hold of yourself!”

  “Get hold of myself? Oooooh! I’ll get hold of you!” She smashed the chair on the porch railing and picked up another one. “Get out!”

  He raised his hands in defense, and she brought the chair down on his head. He staggered back, seeing stars. “Stop this at once!”

  “I’ll stop you! Forgive you?” Her face murderous, she came after him with the chair. He tripped backward down the stairs and somersaulted off the bottom step. Then he ran for his life.

  He made a beeline through the camp for the pier. “Thank you, God,” he panted, as he saw the City of Cleveland lying at anchor and people boarding for the eleven o’clock trip. Praise the Lord he had his pocketbook on him. He bought a ticket for Buffalo and sat down to wait, nervously watching the beach for Gillian to appear waving her chair or some other weapon. But she didn’t, and soon the boat cast off, headed toward Buffalo. Only then did he allow himself to relax.

  He didn’t know which hurt worse, the scalded burns on his ankles or the tender lump at the back of his head. How in the world had he misjudged Gillian so badly? She’d said he had a narrow escape from Lindy. But between his burned ankles and his bruised head, he couldn’t help but feel it was he who had made the narrow escape.

  The two-hour trip meant the steamship would dock in Buffalo at one o’clock. He straightened his shirt and brushed grass off his trousers. It seemed to take hours before they tied up at the city pier, and he could run off the boat to hail a carriage. It seemed another hour before the carriage pulled up before 111 Delaware Avenue. Hurriedly, he paid the driver and asked him to wait. He ran up the manicured path and beat on the front door until the surprised butler opened the door with an insulted look.

  “May I help you, sir?” he asked, his nose in the air. Jack realized he must look a sight—out of breath, no hat, and more than likely a wild expression on his face.

  Jack drew a deep breath and straightened his posture. “Is Miss Lindenmayer at home?”

  “Whom shall I say is calling...” The butler gave Jack the once-over. “Sir?”

  “Jack Winthrop.”

  “I regret to say Miss Lindenmayer is out. Good day, sir.”

  He started to close the door, but Jack threw his hand out. “Wait!”

  The butler frowned.

  “Do you know where she is? Please! It’s very important.”

  The butler’s lip curled. “Even if I knew, sir, I’m not at liberty to say.” He tried once again to close the door, but Jack shoved his boot between the door and the jamb.

  “Wait. I’ve just come from New York. I met with her father, and he’s given me his blessing to ask for her hand in marriage. Please! I beg of you—tell me where she is!”

  The butler’s lip curled. “You met with her father?”

  “Yes, yes, her father.”

  The butler’s eyes narrowed. “And what does he look like, pray? And what’s his name?”

  “Otto! And he has silver hair, a silver mustache, and he’s given me permission to marry his daughter!” He shouted the last phrase at the top of his lungs.

  The butler’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. “Very good then, sir. Miss Lindenmayer left a short while ago for Chautauqua.”

  Jack ran to the carriage. “Quick! Back to the docks.”

  The cabby’s lips twitched, but he said nothing and clicked at the horses.

  I can’t miss Lindy again. But if she had gone to Chautauqua—what other reason could there be except to see him? He prayed it was so. And kept praying until he reached the docks and purchased another ticket for the twelve thirty sailing of the City of Pittsburgh.

  A maddening two hours passed while he alternated between pacing the boat deck and stoppin
g to pray fervently. Long before any of the figures on the beach and at the pier could be seen clearly, Jack stood at the rail, ready to search. As soon as the steamship pulled alongside the dock, he sprang up and over the rail, eliciting shocked gasps from the surrounding passengers.

  A dour-faced elderly lady waiting on the dock fixed him with a disapproving glance. “Just what do you think you’re doing, young man?” She waved her cane in his face. “Rowdy behavior isn’t tolerated at Chautauqua!”

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, trying to dodge the cane. “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Humph.” She sniffed. “Young people these days.”

  The camp orchestra was practicing near Palestine Park, and as he ran up the slope, the orchestra burst into the crashing strains of Stars and Stripes Forever. He turned every which way, trying to see everything at once while keeping an eye out for Gillian at the same time. Where would Lindy have looked for him first? He stopped and slapped his forehead. Of course, she would have gone to the hotel. He sprinted off, weaving in and out of the newly arrived campers streaming toward the main grounds. A stitch in his side throbbed as he ducked under tree limbs and skirted a wagon carrying children singing at the top of their lungs.

  The crowd grew denser as he careened through it. He reached the hotel and lurched to a halt to catch his breath. Several young ladies passed him, nudging each other and giggling when they looked at his feet. Oh no. Tea stains decorated the bottom of his light summer trousers. He ran his hands through his hair—no telling where he had left his hat—and realized his hair was standing on end. This wouldn’t do. He mopped his sweaty face with his handkerchief, smoothed his hair, and ascended the stairs to wait while the minutes ticked by as the desk clerk checked in three families with assorted children.

  Finally, he stepped up to the counter. “Any messages for Jack Winthrop?”

  “Yes sir.” The clerk plucked a single envelope from the key slot. “Here you go.”

  Jack ripped it open and read it quickly. “Hallelujah!”

  Then he closed his eyes. I know she’s here, Lord. Help me find her.

  “Did you see the lady who left this note?”

  The clerk nodded. “I did indeed, sir. Quite the lovely young lady.”

  “Do you remember the color of her dress?”

  “Rose pink, sir. A lovely rose pink.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jack hastened through the grounds in front of the amphitheater and scanned for any vestige of pink. Peacock blue, emerald green, dark purple, black and white stripes, polka dots. He’d never paid this kind of attention to a lady’s dress. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be too many ladies in pink. What would Lindy have done after she left the note? He set off for the pier where the crowds had dispersed for the moment, although another steamship headed for the shore, blowing its steam whistle. Soon the dock would once again be a sea of people.

  There! Just ahead, he spotted a woman in a pink dress with a matching hat. He strode toward her. “Lindy!”

  The figure in pink turned at his cry, and Jack gasped. “Gillian!”

  Chapter 52

  Gillian lifted her chin and regarded Jack with a cool smile. “Did you really think you’d escape me that easily, John?”

  Fortunately, she hadn’t any sort of weapon clutched in her hand, but he wasn’t taking any chances and retreated a step. “There’s nothing else to say. I love another.”

  Her lips trembled at his last words, and he softened his voice. “It wouldn’t be right to marry you when I can’t love you that way.”

  “People can learn to love, can’t they?”

  He nodded. “I believe so. But I won’t do that. You must accept this.”

  “I won’t accept it.” The veins in her neck bulged. “You’re going to marry me.”

  “No.”

  “Yes!”

  “Jack?”

  Gillian froze, staring over his shoulder.

  He turned, and there she was. “Lindy!”

  Jack took her hands, and Lindy’s heartbeat pulsed down to her fingertips. He beamed at her, holding her hands tightly. She couldn’t stop smiling while tears welled in her eyes at the same time.

  “Finally,” Jack said. “I’ve found you.” He pulled her closer. “We’ll never be parted again if I can help it.”

  Gillian stood a few paces away, her face frozen in shock. Then she drew a shaky breath. “You truly do love her, don’t you?”

  Jack turned. “Gillian—”

  “You don’t have to say anything, John. I—you’ve never looked at me that way. I understand now.” She smiled ruefully. “I release you. Go in peace, be well, be blessed.” Back straight and her chin held high, she walked away and called a greeting to a handsome young man who stopped to speak with her. A moment later, they strolled on together, her hand tucked into his arm while she smiled up into his face.

  Jack laughed and shook his head. “That’s exactly what happened the first time she laid eyes on me.” He captured Lindy’s hands again. “Now, you. That’s another story. I’m not letting go of you again.”

  She touched his cheek, and he turned his face into her palm and kissed it. She felt the touch of his lips all the way to her toes. “I don’t want you to.” Her face grew warm. “How often I thought about you all these months...”

  “And now here we are together.” He finished her sentence.

  “And it’s real.”

  He drew her closer. “So real. I love you, my darling.”

  “And I love you—so much I scarcely know what to do.”

  He smiled and planted a kiss on the tip of her nose. “I know precisely what we’re going to do, sweetheart. We’re going to plan our wedding.”

  About the Author

  Renee Yancy is a history and archaeology nut who works as an RN when she isn’t writing historical fiction or traveling the world to see the exotic places her characters have lived.

  A voracious reader as a young girl, she now writes the kind of books she loved to read—stories filled with historical and archaeological details in every aspect of life in a different time period, interwoven with strong characters and a tale full of pathos and conflict. Her goal is to take you on a journey into the past so fascinating that you can’t put the story down.

  Find out more about Renee and her books at www.reneeyancy.com.

  Trademark Acknowledgments

  The author gratefully acknowledges the use of the following trademarks:

  Louis Vuitton: LOUIS VUITTON MALLETIER Société par actions simplifiée FRANCE 2 rue du Pont-Neuf Paris FRANCE 75001

  The New York Times: Company CORPORATION NEW YORK 620 Eighth Avenue New York NEW YORK 10018

  Dear Reader

  If you enjoyed reading A Test of Gold, I would appreciate it if you would help others enjoy this book, too. Here are some of the ways you can help spread the word:

  Lend it. This book is lending enabled so please share it with a friend.

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  Everything you do to help others learn about my book is greatly appreciated!

  Renee Yancy

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