by Nikki Poppen
In this series:
Newport Summer
The Romany Heiress
The Heroic Baron
The Dowager’s Wager
Nikki Poppen
San Francisco, Late Spring 1889
Marianne never saw it coming. It had been done with classic technique. The woman had waited until Marianne had acknowledged her. Then, when there could be no mistake about who was slighting whom, the woman had lifted her chin with a haughty air and sailed past without a flicker of recognition even though Marianne had shared the woman’s box at the opera two nights prior. The worst thing in the world had happened for someone who aspired to be accepted by the social elite of New York. She’d been given the cut direct in the middle of a Patriarchs’ ball and subsequently sent home in disgrace.
Amid the familiar comforts of her family’s renowned San Francisco kitchen, Marianne Addison fought back the unpleasant memory and plunged her hands deep into the thick ball of sourdough, pummeling the dough with all the force of her agitation. It had been three months since the incident, as she thought of it. She’d believed she’d put it behind her but a letter from her mother’s friend in New York, full of news and gossip, had brought it all back. The letter had been innocuous enough, mentioning people she and her mother had met in New York before the incident. But it was enough to resurrect Marianne’s anger. She’d been treated unfairly simply because she’d been different.
Marianne shoved the dough into a pan and set it on a shelf to rise. She grabbed another chunk of dough and set to work, starting the process all over again. She loved to make sourdough bread. She’d been doing it ever since she was a little girl and had tagged along with her father to the bakery. In those days, the bakery had been a small establishment on DuPont Street. Father would give her a chunk of dough and set her up at the big floury worktable while he went about his business.
With her hands busy in the dough, she could let her thoughts loose, spinning fairy tales full of castles and handsome princes. Today, her thoughts were far removed from fantasies. Today her thoughts were focused on the disaster of her visit to New York in January. Marianne punched the dough fiercely.
The adventure had started well enough. She and her mother had traveled in high style in her father’s plush, private Pullman car, arriving at an elegant hotel with hot running water in her bathroom and other amenities she’d become used to in her father’s large mansion on Powell Street back home. That was where the similarities between San Francisco and New York ended. In San Francisco, the only prerequisite for status was money. In New York, money wasn’t enough, no matter how much you had. A girl also needed sponsorship from the right patron and acceptance by the right people.
Marianne had quickly learned the importance of that sponsorship among the Patriarchs, as certain men from Manhattan’s ruling families were known. Without their patronage, there was little chance of an outsider being included in Mrs. Astor’s prestigious Four Hundred Club, even temporarily.
Marianne sniffed and pushed back a strand of loose blond hair with a flour-covered hand. The whole premise was ludicrous. The only reason the Four Hundred Club was significant was because four hundred was the capacity Mrs. Astor could cram into her ballroom, Marianne thought uncharitably.
Of course, Marianne’s mother had known all that beforehand and she had planned accordingly as best she could. Before the train had ever left San Francisco, they had been assured of invitations to the Academy of Music and afterward to the Opera Ball. There had been other guaranteed introductions as well. But the old saying that “blood will out” was never truer than in Manhattan. Better families than the Addisons had been cut by society simply for their questionable antecedents. She might be San Francisco’s great “Sourdough Heiress” today, but the Addison money was only two generations old and founded through her grandfather’s sweat and hard work. There was nothing glamorous about the Addison family fortune, earned on the gold fields and in the streets of San Francisco when it had been Yerba Buena.
Manhattan had made it clear that her father, Cleveland Addison, could have been the richest man on earth and it wouldn’t have changed the city’s disapproval of him or of his daughter. Not even her mother’s New England ancestry could prevail against the stonewall of Mrs. Astor’s knickerbocker hierarchy. However, Marianne ruefully admitted with the wisdom of hindsight, it might have helped if she hadn’t gone to that Champagne Sunday.
Marianne put the second loaf into a pan and checked the other one. She plopped down on a tall stool to wait, wiping her hands on her apron. The Champagne Sunday weighed on her mind.
Attending the dubious event had started out as a harmless dare between girlfriends. At least that was how it had appeared to Marianne at the time. Now she wondered if the other girls had known just how damaging the prank would be.
Sundays in Manhattan were notoriously boring. No social events were scheduled except for those that were held in a few suspect venues and hosted by women of ambiguous social character and attended by rich men looking for ways to escape the rigid pressures of their stifling Fifth Avenue mansions. It wasn’t only men in attendance. Some women went too; Marianne had been assured of this by her so-called new friends. She soon found out these women were not the women with whom New York society socialized. These were the mistresses of the wealthy husbands, the opera singers and actresses who would never grace Mrs. Astor’s ballroom. In short, they were Manhattan society’s “unreceivables”
Too bad the evening had been so much fun. There had been singing and some dancing. Everyone had seemed much more relaxed than at the Patriarchs’ balls. Marianne had enjoyed herself. But the aftermath had been horrendous.
She’d been given the cut direct two days later in the middle of a ballroom floor. Invitations had stopped immediately, a resounding endorsement of the cut. Her mother’s pleading had found no sympathy. It had only taken their sponsor two days after the debacle to figure out that the situation was not redeemable by New York standards.
No one could be cut at a Patriarchs’ ball and survive, especially not an arriviste whom Old New York didn’t want in its midst anyway. Her mother had been quietly told that it would be best if they packed themselves back to San Francisco where society was more to their tastes. They would no doubt be bored in New York, they’d been told-the implication being that there would be no further invitations. They would spend the remainder of the social season in their elegant hotel suite with nowhere to go and no further expectations. When New York’s best families removed to Newport in June, the Addisons would not be invited.
She had not deserved to be ostracized and she certainly hadn’t deserved the disparaging comments the girls had made in quiet voices behind their fans. They’d meant her to hear, of course: “What can you expect? San Francisco society puts on airs but they’re still so uncivilized, so showy and loud out there” The last had been said with derision, relegating San Francisco to the category of an oddity, a fraud only capable of superficially aping its betters.
The snub had hurt her as much as it had made her angry. Marianne loved her city with its hills and cable cars. She loved the sun bouncing off the bay, making the water sparkle. She loved the breeze that blew in from that bay, keeping the city cool. Most of all, she’d love a chance to show those girls in New York that she and San Francisco were better than all of them put together. But how to do it? What could she do that they couldn’t copy?
She stood up and reached for a third loaf to knead. She massaged the dough, deep in thought. Her father would build a cottage in Newport if she asked, but that wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want to purchase her acceptance and the right to grovel at Mrs. Astor’s feet. But Marianne recognized that attempting to break into their supercilious society wouldn’t exactly be “besting�
� them, but becoming one of them.
She had to think. What did they covet that they couldn’t readily obtain? Marianne smiled to herself. That was her father coming through in her thoughts. She’d once asked her father how he knew what to invest in. He’d said simply, “Find something people want and then find a way to give it to them. To do that, ask yourself, what do people want that they can’t get for themselves?”
Marianne knew from years of watching her father do business that the best way to determine what people wanted was to look around and see what they admired in others. She thought of whom people at the social functions in New York had revered. Her mind lit instantly on the Earl of Camberly and his lovely wife, Audrey Maddox nee St. Clair, once an American girl like herself and now the Countess of Camberly. They’d been the center of attention wherever they went, always in the presence of their friends the Carringtons. She’d had the good fortune to become acquainted with them. They may even have become friends if the incident hadn’t interrupted her stay.
Now she had her answer. New York Society coveted a title. Not just any title, but an English title. This was something that couldn’t be bought or constructed simply because one had enough money. Her idea formed quickly after that. New York would bow to her if she married an English lord. They would be sorry they had ever looked down their noses at her.
Her excitement grew. She set aside the dough and wiped her hands on a towel. There were plans to be made, lists to be drawn up. This gambit would need meticulous strategies.
Marianne rubbed her hands together in delight, brushing flour motes into the air. After weeks of feeling directionless, she felt reborn. She had a purpose now. She was going to snare a lord. She was going to show them all! It never occurred to her as she sailed up the stairs to her room, humming under her breath, that she might actually succeed or that along with the title came a husband. Snaring a lord meant marriage when all was said and done. But if the thought crossed her mind, it did so fleetingly only to be pushed aside. There were so many steps to take before that marriage became a consideration that it was hardly worth dwelling upon.
She would have to plan this carefully. Fragments of a plan began to take shape. Throughout the afternoon, lists began to pile up at her writing desk as thoughts flew onto paper. By dinner that night, the plan had achieved full-blown maturity. Marianne was ready to launch the first phase of her stratagem: persuading her father to take the family to England.
Dinner was, without fail, an elegant affair at the Addison home at precisely seven o’clock every evening. Most nights, her father entertained business acquaintances or friends, many of them oftentimes unannounced until Cleveland Addison arrived with them in the drawing room. Such impetuosity would be frowned upon in New York with its social etiquette and callingcard rules. But in San Francisco the spontaneous gesture was welcomed as a matter of course.
Understanding her father’s penchant for impromptu dinner parties, Elizabeth Addison and the well-run staff made sure the Addison dining room stood perpetually ready to accommodate guests with its long, polished table at which twenty people could easily be seated. The room and the adjacent drawing room were decorated impeccably and authentically in the style of Louis XV right down to the Sevres china that adorned the table, a tribute to the French chef who dominated Cleveland Addison’s kitchen and made an invitation to dine at their table a most-coveted item among San Francisco’s business community.
Tonight was no exception, Marianne thought, as she neared the drawing room at ten minutes before seven. Masculine voices drifted from the drawing room. She had hoped for the privacy of a family meal in which to launch her campaign, but guests might help her cause as well. Perhaps one of them could be unknowingly engaged as an ally.
Marianne smoothed the expensive silk of her jonquil evening gown and took a last look in the gilt-trimmed hall mirror to check that her coiffure was steady on her head. She gingerly touched the pile of neat curls gathered at the top of her head. A few random wisps had deliberately been left loose at her neck and Marianne reached for a strand of the pale blond hair and wrapped it around her finger, giving it a fanciful curl. She smiled, pleased with the results. She drew a deep breath and entered the drawing room, determined to see her plans launched with resounding success. After all, she was her father’s daughter.
“Ah, there’s my lovely daughter,” her father’s bluff tones announced from the fireplace where he stood talking with three of his guests. “Marianne, come and meet everyone” He waved her to his side. Marianne smiled as she made the acquaintances of the men dining with them. One of them had brought his wife and she was deep in conversation with Marianne’s mother on the far side of the room. There wasn’t time for much more than the usual exchange of small talk before the butler announced dinner. Once at the table, however, there was ample opportunity to broach the subject on Marianne’s mind.
“Miss Addison, your father mentioned you are recently returned from New York,” the guest on her right, a Mr. Green, said over lobster bisque.
“My mother and I were there in January,” Marianne said politely. “We were there for most of the social highlights. We took in the opera on several occasions.” No one at the table tonight, looking at her dressed her yellow silk and demure pearls, would ever suspect she’d been evicted from that rarefied society for her indiscretion in attending a Champagne Sunday.
The guests expressed sounds of interest at her trip. “How did you find New York, Miss Addison?” the man across the table asked.
This was her moment now, while she held everyone’s attention. “I found it entertaining, although perhaps a bit confining with its Patriarchs and Mrs. Astor’s Four Hundred. I did enjoy the museum, of course, and many of the cultural venues New York had to offer. I would like the opportunity to travel again.”
“Travel back to New York?” Mrs. Green inquired.
Marianne sipped from her Waterford crystal wine glass. She was aware of her mother’s eyes on her, wondering why she’d told such a lie. “A little farther than that, I think, next time. I’d like to try London. I’ve heard the National Gallery is not to be missed and the Season is a sight to behold” Marianne smiled at them all, saying disingenuously, “All those balls and Venetian breakfasts to attend sound positively wonderful. Just think of all the interesting people one would meet” She turned her gaze toward her father. “London in the late spring would be spectacular-quite the experience, don’t you think, Father?”
Special experiences were one of her father’s weaknesses. He was a man who staunchly believed life was a series of adventures. Certainly, most of his adventures were in the form of business risks, but he had compiled a lifetime of “experiences,” from the imported French chef in his kitchen to the fleet of delivery wagons at the sourdough factory where he’d been one of the first people to expand their business by taking their product right to people’s doorsteps.
“London, eh, Marianne?” Her father cocked an eyebrow at her. “What does your mother say to this?” He looked down the table to where Elizabeth Addison sat, still regal and lovely in her late forties, gracing the table with the kind of innate dignity one can acquire only through years of good breeding.
“London is a world away,” Elizabeth said pointedly, shooting Marianne a questioning look. Marianne knew very well what her mother’s veiled comment meant. London was more than geographically a world away; it was socially a world away too. London would take time to understand and would take practice. She knew her mother was skeptical. London would be no more welcoming of outsiders than New York had been. But there was one difference: in London, Americans, particularly rich Americans, were all the rage. Prince Albert adored American girls and the peerage adored their daddies’ money.
“You must come too,” Marianne said, turning back to her father. “The prince is obsessed with yacht racing. He’s desperate to beat his nephew, Kaiser Wilhelm, at Cowes this year. The Earl of Camberly was talking about it in New York. He’s crewed for the prince before”
The mention of yachting was a far more powerful lure for Cleveland Addison than was the prospect of hobnobbing with nobility. Still, Marianne noted that he looked suitably impressed at the mention of yachting and racing all in the same sentence. In addition to all else that he was, Marianne’s father was a sporting man. In business or in leisure, he loved a good competition.
“I have been thinking of commissioning a new yacht. There’s a boat builder out of Cherbourg who has an engine design I’ve been very intrigued with.”
Marianne could see the wheels of her father’s mind working as the soup was removed and the fish set down in front of him. “Well, Elizabeth, what do you say to a stop in France first?”
Marianne looked demurely down at her napkin, casting a covert glance in her mother’s direction. “First? Before what?” she said obliquely.
“Why, before we head to London,” he answered, full of bonhomie at the thought of his new yacht.
A frisson of excitement rippled through the table and the rest of the meal was taken up with discussion of London. The Greens had been there a few years past and were eager to offer suggestions.
Marianne beamed, barely able to contain her elation. She’d won round one. Her campaign to garner an English title was under way.
London, May 1890
Alasdair Braden, the fourth Viscount Pennington, disguised a yawn with a sip of champagne from his glass. He stood on the perimeter of the dance floor with his friends, Gannon Maddox, the Earl of Camberly, and the American shipping magnate Lionel Carrington. All of them were doing their best to look cool, no mean feat considering the crush of people at the Bradley ball and the heat of the unusually warm spring evening. It did not help Alasdair’s mood that he’d quarreled with his mother before he’d left her home in Richmond earlier that day.
Quarreling with one’s mother was not an admirable trait in a gentleman but neither was being a man of fiveand-thirty who let his mother run his life. He was the viscount, after all. He should be the one to decide. He knew very well what his duties and obligations were. How could he not, after having had them pounded into his head since he was eight? It wasn’t that he didn’t know his duty; it was only that he didn’t care to do his duty with the woman his mother had picked out. He’d long harbored hopes that he would make a marriage that had less to do with duty and more to do with something more vivifying to one’s personal well-being. But the time for such hopes was running out.