Louisa Rawlings

by Forever Wild

  Nat winked at Willough and turned about. “Sir?”

  Brian waved a piece of paper at them. “I’ve just heard from Arthur. He seems to have guessed from your behavior that something’s in the wind. His reception is to be held on Sunday. He thought, since Willough will be there, that you ought to be invited as well, Nat. He’s asked me to tender his invitation and to urge you to come.”

  Nat shook his head. “I don’t see how I can. I usually visit my grandfather on Sundays. He depends on me.”

  “Can’t you arrange for someone to look after him?”

  “It can be done, but Gramps wouldn’t like it.”

  Willough smiled hopefully. “Oh, Nat. I’d love to show you off at Arthur’s party.”

  He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m surprised Arthur would invite me to begin with.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” growled Brian.

  “We’re not overly fond of one another, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir.”

  “Dammit, I do mind! If you’re to be my son-in-law, I want you to get along with all my business acquaintances. As a matter of fact, this would be a good opportunity to introduce you around in the city. You can spend two or three weeks, meet the right people. I might even announce your engagement at Arthur’s party. Make quite a splash, eh, lass? What do you say?”

  Nat turned to Willough. “What do you think?”

  “You’ll have to meet my mother sooner or later.”

  “Christ,” he muttered. “I don’t even own a dress suit.”

  Brian clapped him on the back. “You’ll get it in Saratoga. Have them send me the bill. There’ll be time to get a good custom-tailored one before the wedding. You’ll have a few days here to arrange for someone to look after your grandfather while you’re away. We’ll leave here on Thursday. Give Isobel a chance to look you over before Arthur’s party.”

  Nat shook his head. His eyes were dark with uneasiness. “Why does that sound like running the gauntlet?”

  Willough laughed. “Don’t be silly, Nat. It’ll be fine.”

  “I hope to God you’re right, Willough. I hope to God you’re right.”

  Chapter Eight

  “We ought to be going in now. I’m sure they’re waiting for us.” Willough brushed a leaf from her lap and stood up, looking across Gramercy Park to her mother’s house.

  Beside her, Nat reluctantly rose to his feet. “Let’s hope your mother can make it through luncheon today. I’m rather tired of her scenes five minutes after we sit down to table.”

  “Oh, Nat, that’s unkind! She can’t help it if she’s been feeling poorly every day since we arrived. I’m sure Drew’s going away has been a terrible strain on her constitution. We’re fortunate to enjoy better health.”

  He shook his head. “I’m surprised you’d defend her. Since her fainting fits—quite conveniently—seem to be brought on by something that you say to her.”

  She pursed her lips in annoyance. “Mother and I don’t get along, true enough. But it’s cruel to suggest that her vapors are of her own making.”

  “Her ‘vapors,’ as you so delicately put it, are helped along by her addiction to that tonic she takes.”

  “Nat! What a thing to say!”

  He frowned. “You’d better get used to my plain speaking. I don’t intend to curb my tongue. That tonic of hers must be half opium. And then if she takes laudanum at night to help her sleep…”

  “Oh, Nat. She’s been very kind to you. I wouldn’t have expected it, knowing how she feels toward me.”

  “We haven’t exchanged five words since I arrived. I wonder what she really thinks of me?”

  Isobel seemed in good spirits when they sat down to the table. Willough felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for her. The news of Drew’s marriage had been a devastating blow. Willough was pleased, of course, that Drew had managed to escape Isobel’s clutches; still, she couldn’t help but pity her mother, who had made it clear that her son was now dead to her.

  Yes, thought Willow, Isobel was in fine form, showing the Carruth breeding that still won the admiration of New York society. Gracious to Brian, civil to Willough, and positively lavish in her attentions to Nat. And after the unkind things he had said about her!

  Even the luncheon table reflected her good taste. She had spared nothing. The best silver, the finest china. And Grandma Carruth’s delicate crystal goblets, perched fragilely on the Battenberg lace cloth. She smiled warmly and indicated the place of honor to her right. “Mr. Stanton, if you please.” She waited until they had all been seated and Parkman had poured the wine; then she lifted her goblet. “I understand, Willough dear, that your father will be announcing your engagement tonight at Arthur’s party. May I take this opportunity to wish you both well? And to welcome you into the bosom of the family, Nat. I may call you Nat, mayn’t I?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Bradford.”

  “Oh, but you must call me Mother.”

  One golden eyebrow shot up in surprise. “Isn’t it a bit presumptuous before the wedding?”

  She smiled sweetly. “My mother used to say that people of taste may presume anything they wish. But if it will make you more comfortable, you may wait till after the wedding. Which can’t happen too soon for my daughter, I should guess. She’s positively glowing.” She chatted amiably with Brian while the soup was served, a cold jellied consommé. The caramel-colored aspic shimmered and trembled in its delicate china bowls.

  Willough frowned across at Nat, watching the expression on his face as he struggled with the jelly and lifted a quivering spoonful to his mouth. She thought, He might at least pretend to enjoy it!

  Isobel was perfection itself. The moment Nat put down his spoon and gave up in disgust, she signaled to Parkman to remove the soup plates. She sipped delicately at her glass of water. “Do you like artichokes, Nat?”

  He smiled in relief. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  No! thought Willough, but it was too late. Parkman had already placed before him a whole artichoke, swimming in a shallow bowl of hot, buttery broth. Nat stared at it in consternation as the others were served, then looked up to catch Willough’s eye. There was something close to panic in his glance. He had obviously remembered the pie; the green globe before him bore no resemblance to it. As nonchalantly as possible, Willough broke off an outer leaf of her artichoke, dipped it into the broth, and scraped the inner surface against the edge of her lower teeth, extracting the delicate gray-green flesh. She discarded the inedible portion of the leaf in the empty bowl that had been placed at her elbow. She smiled encouragingly at Nat. He hesitated, then imitated her action, biting off too much of the leaf. She watched in dismay as he chewed in vain on the coarse leaf, unable to swallow it. At last, with a murderous glance at Isobel, he pulled the piece out of his mouth and tossed it into his discard bowl. Heartened by the sight of Brian, who had already worked his way through half of his own artichoke, Nat tried again. He managed to deal with about three more leaves, but it was clear that his temper was on the edge.

  Willough smiled uneasily. “It’s as good as the pie that Martha made, isn’t it, Nat?”

  “Yes,” he said tightly, and pulled off the next leaf with such ferocity that the artichoke sloshed through its buttery broth and leaped out of the shallow bowl, knocking over the delicate crystal water goblet. There was the sickening crack of breaking glass. Willough sucked in her breath.

  “Damn it to hell,” muttered Nat.

  “Nat! Your language!”

  “Don’t be a fool, Willough,” snapped Isobel. “Nat had a perfect right to be angry. Parkman!”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Remove this course at once and clear away the broken glass! I will not have this sort of thing! What’s to be the next course?”

  “Ortolan, ma’am.”

  “Merciful heaven! Who planned this menu? Aspic, and artichoke that’s impossible to eat! And now songbirds? Take it away, and tell Cook not to send out anything else like this!” Isobel
was warming to her indignation. “I want food on this table that a man can eat! A man with simple tastes! Plain roast beef. Even if Cook must serve it cold.” She smiled at Nat. “Will that be agreeable to you, Nat?”

  “Very agreeable,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Willough thought, Why is he angry at Mother? She’s doing everything she can to make him feel comfortable.

  “Oh, dear.” Isobel leaned forward and placed a delicate hand on Nat’s sleeve.

  “What is it now, Mrs. Bradford?”

  She smiled apologetically. “It’s only that the artichoke seems to have splashed rather badly on your frock coat. Well, it could have been worse. If you put on another coat this afternoon when you go for a stroll with Brian, Parkman will see that this coat is cleaned.”

  Nat stared at her steadily. “Except for my dress clothes, this is the only frock coat I own.”

  “Oh, dear. How thoughtless of me. Well, we’ll see if we can find something for you to wear out of Drewry’s wardrobe. A nice coat. And a few shirts also. I’m sure you can use them.”

  Nat grunted in anger, ignoring her, and bent to the roast beef that had been placed on his plate. What’s gotten into him? thought Willough. Mother was being unusually gracious and kind. Could there be such a difference in their backgrounds that he failed to see how rude his behavior was? She ate in troubled silence through the rest of the meal.

  Isobel tried once more to engage Nat in conversation, then gave up, contenting herself with discussing Arthur’s party with Brian. When the plates had been cleared and ice cream put before them, she tried again. “Are you related to the Boston Stantons, Nat?”

  He put down his spoon. “I doubt it very much. I’m sure the Boston Stantons are a fine old family. However, we were the Troy Stantons. And before that the Ingles Stantons. And before that…God only knows. Though I’m sure there must have been a bastard or two in there.” He slapped down his napkin. “If you’ll excuse me…” He rose from his chair and stormed out of the dining room.

  Isobel looked concerned. “I seem to have upset him. Go after him, Willough dear. Take him into the parlor. We’ll have coffee there in a few minutes.”

  “Yes,” said Brian. “There’s something I want to talk to him about.”

  Willough hurried out, catching Nat in the vestibule. “Come into the parlor,” she said sharply. “Mother’s serving coffee in a minute. And Daddy wants to talk to you.”

  He hesitated, then followed her into the parlor. His eyes searched her face. “Well?”

  She was reluctant to meet his glance. “How could you?” she said at last. “Your rudeness was unforgivable. And Mother was trying so hard to be nice to you.”

  He snorted. “I think she did it all deliberately. The questions about my background, the false concern for my clothing—which obviously offended her sensibilities. And that damned meal! That was her doing, too, or I’m hanged.”

  “Nonsense! Why do it?”

  “To make me appear a crude and clumsy fool. An upstart. A cat who dares to look upon a queen.”

  “Oh, Nat! How cruel of you! Why should she do such a thing?”

  He laughed sadly. “So that you’d look at me the way you’re looking at me now—with a little dismay, a little uneasiness, a little horror at your choice of bridegroom.”

  “Never,” she whispered, near tears.

  He softened and pulled her into his arms. “Perhaps I’m the one who’s so conscious of our differences, imagining that you must hate me.” He kissed her gently, then laughed. “But I think I’ll refuse to take coffee. Your mother is apt to give me a cup that leaks!”

  The coffee service went well. Isobel poured with her usual grace, and Nat even managed to smile and pay her a small compliment. At last Brian belched loudly, put down his cup, and turned to Nat.

  “I’ll be announcing your engagement tonight, but I think you ought to know of some decisions I’ve made. Clegg is retiring. As soon as we get back to Saratoga, you’ll take over as resident manager.”

  Nat smiled in pleasure. “That’s very good of you, sir!”

  “I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for me! I’m not getting any younger, you know. And then, after you and Willough are married, you’ll become my partner.”

  “I’m…overwhelmed!” Nat grinned at Willough.

  Brian stuck his hand in his pocket and absentmindedly jingled the coins. “I’ll give you five thousand for a wedding present. After that she’s your burden, lad.”

  Willough frowned, a stray thought sticking in the corner of her brain. “If Nat’s to be your manager and partner, who’ll be your clerk?”

  Brian shrugged. “I’ve been watching Bill. He looks good for the job.”

  “But Daddy, I…”

  “Don’t start that again, Willough,” growled Brian. “You’ll be a married woman. You’ll be able to stay home where you belong.”

  Willough opened her mouth to protest. Just then Isobel sank back into her chair. “Oh dear! Such a spell of weakness. I’m quite overcome. Willough, will you see me to my bed? Perhaps you could read to me for a bit before I sleep.”

  Willough looked desperately at Nat. “But I…we…”

  “Nonsense, lass!” boomed Brian, rising from his chair and clapping Nat jovially on the back. “Nat’s coming with me. To my club. I want him to meet Bigelow. Besides, you’re looking a bit peaked. Do you good to rest up, take a nap before Arthur’s party.”

  If I’m looking a bit peaked, she thought bitterly, it’s his doing. Bill as clerk. Bill! And though she hated to admit it, she had felt a pang at the announcement that Nat was to be his partner. Bradford and Stanton. Never Bradford and Bradford.

  Isobel seemed to be disturbed by the same thought. As Willough helped her to her room and rang for Brigid to undress her, Isobel railed against her husband. “It would have been Bradford and Bradford. If he hadn’t driven Drew away years ago. But I suppose Nat is delighted. It isn’t every day that a man can get to own a business just by marrying the boss’s daughter!”

  Willough gasped. “Nat would never…”

  “Of course not, my dear.” Isobel patted her daughter’s hand. “I’m sure Nat is genuinely fond of you. Still, it doesn’t hurt a man’s ambitions to marry well.”

  Oh, God, thought Willough, remembering. That first day, Nat had told her that he wanted to be manager when Clegg retired. That was why he had taken the clerk’s job—to stay on her father’s good side. How much better a position he was in now, by dancing attendance on the daughter! No! She couldn’t let herself think such unkind thoughts. Nat loved her. He loved her!

  Isobel sighed wearily as Brigid went to turn down her bed and fetch her tonic. “I’m sure you’re doing the right thing, Willough. If marriage is what you want.” There was an odd note in her voice. It gave Willough a chill of uneasiness.

  “Why shouldn’t I want it, Mother?”

  Isobel looked flustered. “This is a delicate subject, my dear. And one best discussed with your husband after you’re married.”

  Why would no one talk about these things? she thought desperately. “But if I wait to discuss it with my husband, it will be too late to change my mind!”

  “You needn’t take that sharp tone! I find this very distressing. But if you insist on frankness, despite my sensibilities… It’s only that…a man’s demands can be very…frightening.”

  “In what way?”

  Isobel put her hands to her burning cheeks. “Please. No more. I’ll only add that I wouldn’t go through it again, if I’d known then what I know now. But you must follow your own dictates, Willough. Now please leave, and let me take my nap.”

  Willough stood in the corridor outside her mother’s room, willing her heart to stop its mad thumping. Was marriage the horror that Isobel suggested?

  “Shall I turn down your bed for you, Miss Willough? For a nice little nap?” Brigid emerged from Isobel’s room.

  Willough jumped in surprise. “No. I’m too restless to sleep.”


  Brigid clucked her tongue in sympathy. “Tis a shame Mr. Bradford took that nice Mr. Stanton for a drive. He’d be good company this afternoon. You’ll pardon my saying so, miss, but you’re mighty fortunate.”

  “Do you like Mr. Nathaniel?”

  Brigid smiled archly. “That I do! He’ll make you a fine husband, you mark my words. A big, strapping lad like that. Me brothers used to say, with a man like that a girl couldn’t walk for a week after—well, you know what I mean!—and be glad for it!”

  Willough felt her mouth go dry. “Perhaps you’d better see to my gown. It needs a bit of pressing.”

  Brigid bobbed politely. “Very good, miss,” and hurried down the corridor to Willough’s room.

  Willough thought, I mustn’t think of such things. I’m being foolish. Yet Nat had said in the boathouse that Arthur would have hurt her. Was that what it was? Pain and grief?

  A book. She might divert her fevered brain with something light to read. Daddy had some books in his study. There was no point in going downstairs to the library. She picked up the first book that caught her eye. The Undeveloped West, or Five Years in the Territories. It didn’t look promising. She flipped it casually, noting the advertisements for other books by the same publisher. Human Science, or Phrenology. Definitely not. Sights and Sensations of New York. That might be interesting to order. Sexual Sciences; including Manhood, Womanhood, and their Mutual Inter-Relations; Love, its Laws, Power, etc. She scanned the list of topics; maybe there were answers here. She groaned. No. Only more frightening mysteries. “How young husbands should treat their brides to avoid shocking them.” “How to increase the joys of wedded life, and how to increase female passion.” She pushed the book back onto the shelf. There must be something that would be more helpful! She saw the word “Wife.” On a little brown book tucked into a corner of the last shelf. This was more like it. An Obedient Wife. Smiling in relief, she pulled down the book and opened it.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. Trembling, she replaced the book and stumbled out of the study, seeking the safety, the sanctuary of her own room. And all the while, before her eyes, she still saw the pictures. Of naked women tied to bedposts. Of leering men with whips. She had heard there were books like that. She hadn’t imagined that Daddy would read them!