Comparing the entrance to his own estate, he thought it had grandeur but wasn’t nearly as ancestral and ornate as what stood before him. Nevertheless, it was an estate, and he vowed to have more authority over his staff and his household in general, especially his son. At the thought of Will, acid rose from his stomach, searing his throat. Coughing into his handkerchief, he followed the butler through a great hall where giant palm plants reached to the high ceiling. The walls displayed dream-like landscape murals, and he thought of his daughter. She would love these. It was hard to take it all in, and soon he stood alone in a large bluish room. The expanse of windows revealed a carefully landscaped property. Not one leaf seemed out of place in a maze of bright green boxwood and animal-shaped topiaries surrounding a large, square gazing pond.
The beautiful room seemed to resent the intrusion of an American. The unlit fireplace added to the chill that had seized him on the carriage ride. He hugged himself as he marveled at the room’s majesty and wondered what he and his friend had in common after all.
Charles Moore came through the door at that very moment, a spring in his step.
“My dear Thomas, I’m so pleased you are here at last.” He took hold of Thomas’s hands. Even at sixty, he had the robust appearance of a much younger man. At forty-seven, Thomas forced himself to equal Charles’s vitality.
Thomas returned his friend’s grasp. “It’s wonderful to be here, Charles. Thank you for your invitation.” He began to relax into their familiarity.
“How was your journey, my man? As you know, I loathe the voyage myself. Come my friend, this is the parlor where my wife greets her guests.” Charles led Thomas from the room. “Jason insists on seating all my company this way. My study is down the hall. We’ll be more comfortable there.”
The long hallway that led away from the blue room had floor-to-ceiling windows encased in heavy, dark-stained wood, and gas sconces lined one side. Larger-than- life-size portraits on the other side gave the impression of the subjects gazing out to the world beyond. A slight breeze funneled in from a few open windows, chilling the vast hall. Charles opened a engraved, wood door at the end.
“Now, here is a room.” He poured them each a drink from the well-stocked bar, and the men settled into the overstuffed furniture. The fire in the great stone fireplace was crackling, and soon its warmth made Thomas feel at ease.
Not more than an hour had passed when there was a knock on the door. “Come.” Charles seemed to be expecting the intrusion. A crisply uniformed young woman stood in the doorway, her hands folded in front of her starched, white apron in a way that was neither subservient nor authoritative. Charles rose from his seat. “This is my good friend Thomas Messing. Thomas, this is our head housekeeper, Anice Mills.”
Miss Mills curtsied. Thomas bowed his head. He couldn’t help but think how her sweet, youthful looks belied what would be an important position in a house this size.
“Anice means grace in Scottish.” Charles smiled at the blonde-haired beauty. Thomas nodded politely. It was odd to be introduced to the help in such a familiar fashion. “Anice will show you to your rooms, my friend. You can rest and refresh yourself before dinner.”
Leading the way, Thomas went for the door. When he turned back, he saw Charles carefully tucking a strand of the young woman’s hair inside her white bonnet. He stepped into the hallway and waited for the housekeeper with the hope he wouldn’t have to deal any further with Charles’s indiscretion.
The lavishly decorated bedroom was a sight to behold. Heavy red and gold patterned drapes hung from two large windows. The material covering the canopy bed matched the drapes and looked fit for a king. Silk damask covered the chairs and a small settee. He noticed his trunks had been unpacked, and his clothes and accessories were neatly arranged in the polished walnut bureau and armoire. Weary, he took a deep breath.
After a short nap, Thomas dressed for dinner. Looking at his reflection in the standing mirror, he parted his straight brown hair down the middle and ran the comb over his tidy mustache and through his full brows. The formal dark tailcoat with satin lapels and matching waistcoat fit well on his trim body. He wrapped his white satin tie around the stiff winged collar of his shirt and tied it into a neat bow. Once done, Thomas knew he looked quite suitable even if his nerves were a bit on edge. The outcome of his journey had to prove fruitful. The future of his law firm was at stake.
Chapter Five
Fingering his appointment book, Frederick looked at the scribble on today’s date—Thomas Messing/ Dinner. The large, highly coveted office he had inherited from his father when he joined the family law firm weighed him down.
Though Frederick had a natural curiosity about meeting his father’s friend, he felt indifferent toward seeing Thomas Messing socially. He was more interested in what the American could do for him personally. Placing an elbow on his desk, he cupped his chin and looked out of his office window. His father had mentioned that Mr. Messing had a son and daughter. Frederick wondered what obstacles the son would present and what opportunities the daughter could offer. The sun pierced the clouds, and he took the light as a good omen for the evening ahead. It would either go well for him, or he would find a different way of getting the results he wanted.
Returning to his paperwork, he finished several files before leaving for his quarters in the left wing of his parents’ estate. Ready to meet the challenge of convincing his father and Mr. Messing of his sincerity to learn from the Americans, Frederick placed the rest of his papers in his leather case. The room he had worked in since his early twenties held little interest to him now, and at thirty-two, he was ready to move on.
~
Thomas observed his hosts, Charles on one end of the polished, walnut dining table, his wife, Lillian, on the other, and Frederick across from him. It felt slightly forced, and he sensed this may not be a nightly ritual for them. Or was it just their formal British way? He caught Lillian’s eye. Her stoic, pleasant expression did not mask the sadness he sensed from her. The thought of Charles and the housekeeper came to him, and he diverted his attention to the line of silverware on either side of his plate.
The dinner conversation flowed easily through several courses. Thomas noted that Frederick was as much of a proper gentleman as he had expected and knowledgeable on many topics. He resembled Charles in stature, but Thomas could also see the fine features of his mother, Lillian. Frederick was a handsome man. He hoped Jessica would think the same.
After dinner, the men went into Charles’s study. Frederick stood by the fireplace mantle, a drink in his hand. The older men were seated as they enjoyed brandies. Frederick began to inquire about Thomas’s law firm in such a way that Charles had to remind his son their guest was not a witness on trial.
“Excuse me, Mr. Messing,” Frederick apologized. He added sardonically, “Actually, I haven’t been in a courtroom for some time. My father keeps me busy with the shipping companies we represent. It’s mostly a matter of protecting them from the courtroom.”
Thomas looked at Charles for a reaction to his son’s remark but noticed no change in his demeanor. “Tell me more of your intentions in the States, Frederick.”
“I’m interested in becoming more familiar with how law is practiced in America. Although I am an established attorney here, I would welcome the opportunity to apprentice under your fine tutelage.”
Thomas was flattered. He sat up straighter. “And in the financial markets, your father tells me.”
Frederick took a sip of his drink before answering. He began to pace the room. “I’ve been studying your markets. I’m intrigued.”
Thomas noted how measured he was with his answers. Perhaps the younger lawyer felt he was being interviewed. Naturally he’d be a bit nervous. “I think you will find a good deal of difference in the way we approach our business affairs.”
“I’m sure I will. I’d like to learn as much as I can.”
“That sounds possible.” Thomas gave a broad smile. “Indeed, quit
e possible.” He became serious. “Now, gentlemen, I must remind you that I cannot make a contract of agreement here for Frederick’s employment. However, once you arrive in the States, it would be perfectly legal for you to visit our law firm firstly as our guest. We don’t want to get ourselves in hot water at the start. I assume you are gathering the necessary paperwork for you to work in America?”
“Yes, of course.” Frederick looked into his glass and swirled the liquor.
Thomas felt satisfied. “It would be an honor to show you the workings of our business.” Adopting the role of mentor came easily to Thomas. It was one he sorely missed with his own son. “Is it your intention to continue as a financial lawyer only?”
Charles cleared his throat, and Frederick gave a forced chuckle. The tension between them was obvious. “My son believes he can broaden his knowledge, making himself a better lawyer for our company.” Charles took a measured sip of his brandy. “I believe that may be true, but we have many fine opportunities here for his expansion.”
“Father, we’ve talked about this.” Frederick turned to the bar and refreshed his drink.
“However, I believe that you, Thomas, will give him the experience he desires.”
The conversation had turned sour and Thomas was uneasy, but he smiled graciously. To his relief, Charles changed the subject and the three men discussed the business of law, opining how it could be improved in both countries. They solidified Frederick’s plans to return to America with Thomas.
Later, as he lie in the large bed reflecting on the evening, Thomas felt things had gone well. The tension between Charles and Frederick was not his affair. He would take Frederick on the man’s own terms. He found the attorney had great confidence and intellect, along with an ambition surprising for someone already steeped in wealth and recognition. Frederick would make an ideal husband for his daughter, and he was willing to push the matter to its conclusion. Rubbing his chest vigorously in an effort to remove the nagging pain, he thought of Will and determination swelled in him. I will not let you ruin this family, my son. It would have to fall on Jessica and Frederick Moore to secure the family’s future.
Chapter Six
July 1885
Two weeks had passed since her father’s return from England. Although she was glad he was back, Jessica grew tired of hearing about Mr. Frederick Moore. Her father’s constant reminder of the Englishman’s imminent visit had her rolling her eyes. Today she would put that out of her mind with an art lesson at the Cromwell Gallery.
She had enough to worry about as her relationship with Jacob had grown more serious. How did it get to this point in only a month?
With the June heat came a rise in their usual flirtations. Without any formal recognition of their unique circumstance, they saw each other beyond the normal Sunday family dinners and their frequent, early morning rides. She would explain to her mother that she had to work more hours at the gallery or her friends had invited her out. The excuses were running thin and she had to be careful. Just the other day she’d spied her father’s carriage sauntering down the street heading her way. Quickly she’d run behind a hedge. When she could steal away, however, she would ride or walk to the path that led to secluded Mary’s Pond where Jacob waited each time. They sat under the tall oak tree. The sturdy oak became their tree. The nerves that kept her from thinking beyond her own desires had evaporated, replaced by a confident devotion. First, the long looks into each other’s eyes, then another day, another look. A touch of an arm, a smile that spoke, a brush of their hands. On their last ride, the chill of the morning air had him warming her hands between his, one at a time. Beyond the physical attraction their conversation held more value to her than any in her lifetime. Alongside him she could truly escape her confinements and find a great and glorious purpose. Their rendezvous were the respite from her daily routine, an acknowledgment of life’s tide rushing toward her instead of slipping away under the layers of social obligations as a young lady in Hartford. The freedom was palpable and tasted delicious.
This morning was already warming uncomfortably when she took the omnibus downtown to Main Street. It carried her as far as Clifford Street, and she had to walk the rest of the way. She was hoping to gain practical use from the public summer classes Mr. Cromwell offered to her without charge. However, her mind was on Jacob, thoughts that added to the burden of the corseted dress over her pantaloons, petticoat, and black stockings. Even her shoes felt leaden on her feet. The humidity growing, she wiped her damp brow.
Minding her pace to avoid becoming overheated, she made her way down Clifford Street then onto Benton, trying to stay in the shadows of the tenements and shops lining the street. She pulled at the band of lace on her high collar to let air reach her neck, then looked around to make certain no one had noticed her unladylike gesture. She had enough to carry with her art box and paper, but she was remiss in not bringing her parasol. She let her body suffer as her mind whirled with the thought of her last rendezvous with Jacob. With their imaginations, they explored the world and all its possibilities–Paris, London, Vienna. His words sparked hope for their future together. Her hands eager to paint the grand cities. She mindlessly touched her mouth, her upper lip was damp with sweat. She smiled anyway. Someday his lips would touch hers. The thought was as heady as lilacs in spring.
Stepping off the sidewalk, she was about to cross the street when a horn blared. With Blood rushing to her head, she pulled herself back up the curb as a hackney went by. She caught her breath, then looking both ways, she crossed to the other side.
While her feelings for Jacob occupied her heart, her gallery work and her social obligations filled her time. She attended the theatre and ballet with her friends, making sure she was seen, and spoke only when spoken to. No loud laughing or silly giggles at the dances she attended with other wealthy young women, those who pined for a rich husband and a life of children and duty. It did not charm her and certainly not with the men in her social circle. A few of them called her “high and mighty” after she refused their advances. It didn’t bother her, and she liked the thought of being above them. No, she knew what she wanted. She dreamed of painting Jacob’s portrait in a studio in Paris, he complaining, her telling him to keep still. Perhaps a child running about? That was where her daydream came to a dead end. How would they support such a life? Would he want a family? She mourned a life she had not lived. She shared none of it with the other girls, for when she tried to explain her plans to her closest friend, Sarah, without mentioning Jacob’s name, she was met with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, then bright laughter. “A painting studio in Paris?” Jessica joined the amusement to ease the tense moment and tucked away any further thoughts of confiding in anyone.
The back door to the gallery was open, and she walked past the storeroom and into the small, darkish lesson room. It offered cool relief from the outside. Mr. Cromwell hadn’t arrived yet. There were six worn, wooden desks from a school no longer in need of them, and a steel stool with a round, wood top accompanied each one. At the front of the room, a blackboard was attached to the wall behind a teacher’s desk. It was cruder than the college art rooms she was used to, but it didn’t matter to Jessica. She was here to take in any bit of knowledge she was given while on her summer break. Anything to advance her passion. She settled at a desk by an open window. A soft, welcoming breeze floated in, and Jessica embraced the sweet fragrance of early summer, bringing with it the scent of roses hanging heavy on a bush just outside. A perfect subject. Placing her art box on the top of the desk, she raised the lid, and as always, her supplies were in impeccable order. She organized her brushes by size, and each square of color was wiped clean from her last practice. The pencils were sharp, and a cotton cloth was at the ready. Her mother let her buy a small sea sponge, which had greatly enhanced the texture of some of her work. Deciding which color to mix to duplicate the pinkish-apricot blush of the delicate layers of the rose petals, she turned to the large color wheel at the front of the room. Sh
e took out her tin palette and was ready to mix her paints on it. Mr. Cromwell had told her this lesson would be on the study of the glazing process and how to better make use of it. Although she had studied it at college and practiced it many times, she had to admit she was not as good at layering her colors as she would like to be, even with the upgraded paints Mr. Cromwell had suggested she purchase.
While she studied the rose, the other students took their seats. A man stood at the front of the room and called for attention. Jessica looked up and saw that it wasn’t Mr. Cromwell. Instead, there stood a man with an extremely large and curly mustache that stretched beyond his face. His baggy, beige suit coat matched his pants. It was casual attire for a teacher, making it difficult to take him seriously.
“Mr. Cromwell has been detained in New Haven,” said the man. “He asked me to teach the class in his stead.” His tone was formal and condescending. “My name is Mr. Layfette. I am the art professor at Bristol College. I hope I may offer you all a bit of inspiration in your artistry.”
Well, this does sound promising.
Mr. Layfette turned to the blackboard and began to write. He then stepped aside. “Techniques used in 16th century art.”
Jessica raised her hand. “Excuse me, Mr. Layfette?”
Layfette looked stunned at the interruption. “Yes? Stand up, young woman. What is your name?”
“Jessica Messing.” She pulled on her waistcoat. “I believe today’s lesson was meant to be about glazing and choosing our own subjects to practice with.”
Traveled Hearts (First In Series Book 1) Page 3