Of Gold & Blood Series 2 Books 1 & 4

by Jenny Wheeler

  There’d be mulled wine, rum balls and roasted chestnuts, musical entertainment and gifts for the children. And, of course, an opportunity for potential customers to admire the latest work and commission portraits of themselves or their loved ones. They had a big night planned — but it wasn’t due to begin for another hour.

  He quickly finished the delicate print he was working on and wiped his hands on a towel before ducking his head through the doorway into the main gallery. A young woman rested on one of the gallery ottomans, deeply contemplative, gazing up at the portrait of John Quincy Adams, the sixth president of the United States.

  He stepped into the room, and she started at the sound of his boot hitting the floor. “Can I be of assistance, madam?”

  She rose, half in alarm, as if she’d been caught eavesdropping or shoplifting.

  “No … no, I’m absolutely fine, thank you. Couldn’t be better really.” She laughed in a low musical rush, enjoying, it seemed, a private joke, because he couldn’t see anything amusing.

  “I was Christmas window shopping and I got waylaid.” Her face clouded over. “And then I got followed by a worrisome vagrant. Actually, I was semi-lost. And I found safe harbor.” She smiled.

  He stepped across the room, his hand outstretched, to greet her formally.

  “Rafael Castellanos y Ordonez at your service Miss …”

  He took her hand in his and felt the lingering iciness.

  “Elanora Travers,” she said. “My father was a lawyer with one of the local import houses down on the wharves until he was invalided.”

  “I see. So a born and bred New Yorker?”

  “That’s right. And this gallery? Is it your gallery?”

  “Oh no, no, I’ve only recently arrived in New York. Philip Haas is a celebrated photographer. One of the pioneers in fact. We met in Paris. We were both fascinated by the new daguerreotype process and had gone there to learn more. You knew it started there?”

  She hunched her shoulders forward in a wistful shrug. “I guess … I haven’t had much opportunity to learn about it. But these portraits … They are wonderful. You feel as if the soul is bared … And what it shows sometimes isn’t what the sitter might have been expecting.” She gave another light, tuneful laugh. “I imagine appearances don’t always deceive, at least when Mr Haas is at work. I presume this is his work — or is it yours?”

  “Oh no, all his. As I say, I’m just getting started.”

  She stepped toward him and offered him her arm. “So you are also a daguerreotypist, Mr Castellanos? Why don’t you show me around the exhibits, and explain the finer points of your art to me.”

  He accepted the gesture of friendship with a smile. “Delighted, I’m sure. We have a few minutes before our guests arrive for our Christmas show. And if you don’t have to be somewhere else, I’m sure Philip would be delighted to have you stay for that as well.”

  She inclined her head gracefully toward him. “My turn to be delighted, I’m sure. My fairy godmother has given me permission to stay out tonight. After everything that’s happened today, it feels like it was meant to be.”

  Eight

  The trees in Astor House’s central courtyard were a glittering spectacle of Christmas lights. The air hummed with sweet music and the pop of champagne corks as Elanora made her way through the festive throng. Everyone who was anyone attended Sarah and John Jacob Astor’s Christmas party, and elegantly dressed women flocked together like a myriad of brightly colored parrots in their multi-hued full-skirted gowns.

  As she progressed forward slowly, she nodded and bowed to numerous acquaintances — girls from school in bright pink and turquoise; her mother’s generation in more sober plum and olive green.

  No one watching her would have guessed that her heart skittered in her chest as she walked alongside her father’s chair. Henry Travers’ chair was tonight being managed by Boston Dowd, the muscular gray-haired manservant her father employed to attend to all his physical needs.

  Tonight she had to pull off one of the best performances of her life, to appear as if she had not a care in the world. She ignored her unruly heart, beating hot and erratic. The brainless organ was anticipating the meeting with Eustace — the first time they would have been together since their heated confrontation two days before. Her heart was reacting, and nothing her head told her made any difference.

  She didn’t regret walking out on him, and she still didn’t believe they had a future. He’d made no attempt to call on her in the days since, and for that she was strangely grateful.

  She allowed herself a brief smile as she thought back to the serendipity of that night — her frantic need to get away from the man stalking her, and her remarkable meeting with Rafael Castellanos and his friend Philip Haas.

  She’d been welcomed like a patroness of the studio; Rafael had discussed the finer points of photography in a way that made her feel included in an exclusive circle.

  And then Philip and his wife Mary had hosted their delightful European-style party, with gifts for everyone — coupons offering a discount on sittings and cigars for the men, pretty lockets with space for an image to be housed in the casing for the ladies, and pretty painted miniature toys for the children. There seemed to be lots of children.

  What with the warmed Gluhvein — she didn’t need Rafael’s joking warning to go easy on the ‘glow wine’ — and the excited laughter of the children, she’d forgotten all her troubles. The evening’s spicy cardamom and cinnamon fragrance came back to her as she recalled the moment. She thought wistfully of the time when her mother was alive and they’d shared that kind of joyful family life. It had evaporated in the years since her mother’s death.

  When Mr Castellanos kindly saw her to the safety of a hired hack cab to take her home, she’d found that her father had retired to bed early and Boston advised that she hadn’t been missed.

  She straightened her shoulders and paused mid-stride as she looked around the Astor House courtyard. Despite some serious new competition, it was still considered New York’s premium hotel, and tonight it was truly living up to that claim.

  The central courtyard was ringed with bowers arched with greenery and pretty lights which picked up flashes from snow crystals still evident on the ground, but the air temperature was pleasantly mild thanks to a very effective gas heating system.

  No sit-down meal was planned, but an army of servants circulated with trays laden with delicacies that they offered guests in passing or deposited on round tables. Hot spiced punch in crystal tumblers, shrimps in saffron cream, smoked trout on potato pancakes, fried asparagus, smoked pheasant in puff pastry, mustard eggs, stuffed cabbage rolls, and duck liver pate. The tables were piled high.

  The footman who’d been guiding Boston to the correct table bowed and left, and they began the customary greetings. William was talking to an older man she didn’t recognize and neither Eustace nor Amelia were in evidence. Mingling no doubt.

  Aunt Coco sat quietly on a bench seat backed into the green archway looking pale and drawn. Elanora felt a jolt of alarm. Eustace’s mother looked ill. Seriously ill. She quietly made her way to her side and sank down beside her.

  “Dear Aunt, so lovely to see you. I hope you are feeling well this evening? Are you keeping warm?”

  “I am perfectly fine, dear girl. Just a little tired. Comes with old age I suppose.” Her tender gray eyes searched Elanora’s face. “How about you Elanora?” She reached out and placed a hand consolingly on her arm. “I can’t express how bad I feel about that dreadful scene William threw the other night. I don’t know what’s gotten into the man.”

  Elanora leaned in and brushed her Aunt’s cheek with her lips. She then bent in closer, right next to her ear and whispered. “Please don’t mention it, dear Coco. I know it doesn’t reflect your views, and I’d prefer to forget about it.”

  She knew Connie would not miss the tight set on her jaw as she pulled back, fighting to maintain full control of her emotions. “Things happen.�
�� She squeezed her Aunt’s hand affectionately. “We can’t always expect a straight road.”

  She sensed people around her stirring, and she glanced up to see Amelia was back, dragging behind her none other than Rafael Castellanos.

  “Elanora. Look who I’ve got here. The Spanish photographer who took Mrs Astor’s portrait. They’ve set up a daguerreotype booth in the main foyer and anyone can get their picture taken for free! Let’s do it Ellie. To remember the days of our youth.”

  Castellanos was watching her with an eagle eye, and when Amelia finished talking he made a slight bow. “Miss Travers. How very pleasant to meet you again.”

  Amelia’s jaw dropped. “Again? When did you meet before?” She eyeballed Elanora with a mischievous glint. “Secret assignations, hey? You are a dark horse.”

  Elanora felt her cheeks flush. “Nothing like that, Amelia. That night when I made my own way home from your father’s office, I went via Mr Philip Haas’s studio and was lucky enough to be invited to a delightful Christmas celebration there — all done in the German tradition, wasn’t it, Mr Castellanos?”

  His deep black eyes bored into her, and then a smile lit his face. “Yes indeed, in the German tradition. Philip is a stickler for it, true American soul though he is.”

  Amelia clasped at Elanora’s arm. “Never mind all that. Let’s go now and have our image taken. You never know if we’ll get another opportunity.” She blushed and Elanora guessed she was anticipating her still-secret planned trip to Paris.

  Elanora glanced over to Aunt Coco. “Is that OK, Coco? We won’t leave you for long”

  “Off you go. Have some fun. It’s Christmas!”

  As they made their way to the photographic booth, shepherded courteously by Castellanos, Elanora became aware of the Spaniard’s already substantial social networks. Every few steps stylish woman or their teenaged daughters smiled, nodded greetings, gave a little wave or plain simpered at him.

  He was quite a favorite with the first ladies of New York. She wondered how she’d missed out on that piece of intelligence and realized she’d not really had time for any man except Eustace for months now.

  A jabbing jaw pain brought her up short; she was grinding her teeth and clenching her fists as if gearing herself up to fight. Her face was hot again. She couldn’t be jealous, could she? She hardly knew the man. Then she did something she was getting good at. She faced the truth fair and square.

  She didn’t like the approving female attention Rafael Castellanos was effortlessly harvesting. The man just had to stalk that prowling lion-like walk and fix them with those cool detached eyes and they fell over themselves to win his undivided attention. He seemed oblivious to it, but it annoyed her anyway. For goodness sakes, what was wrong with her?

  “You didn’t tell me you were running away when we met the other night.” With the photo session over, Amelia had disappeared off with William and Eustace to meet mutual friends.

  She’d held back, and Rafael, sensing her reluctance, had offered to escort her back to Aunt Coco’s side. But no sooner had the others left, than he’d issued his challenge, his voice low and confidential, like he was sharing a secret with her.

  The surge of pleasure that coursed through her at the intimacy of the moment was doused in the next second by the recognition that she was as bad as all the rest of the twittering females, craving his individual attention. She tried to distance herself from her feelings.

  “Running away? I don’t know what you mean. I told you about the bothersome man who followed me.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t tell me you were wandering the streets because you’d had a lover’s quarrel.”

  She could feel her face flushing red, and she stammered as she answered. “A quarrel? What gives you that impression?”

  “Come on, Miss Elanora. When you’re operating in a second — or third — language as I am, you get a lot better at observing the silent communication. The language which doesn’t require words.”

  She always wondered later if this was the moment she fell in love with Rafael — the moment when he called her out on her play acting.

  Her heart felt like it had plummeted to her boots as she regarded him in silence, following the intelligent, thoughtful flickering across his face, the cool assessment in his eyes, the wolfish twitch of his lips. With a shock she understood; with this man, she didn’t need to use words. He was already a master at reading his subject’s silences.

  He didn’t look away, and as they locked eyes she felt stripped of all the lies, the pretensions, she was still holding onto. He addressed her in a low, considered tone.

  “I’d very much like to do a portrait of you — free of charge of course. You have such a strong individual face — beautiful it goes without saying — but so much more is revealed there. Let me do this and any debt you owe me for ‘rescuing’ you the other night is forgiven.”

  He suddenly dropped the intense gaze and gave her a predacious grin. “Have we got a deal? You’ll be helping me immensely to achieve recognition as the daguerreotypist to New York’s ‘top fifty’ if you do.

  “I’ve been fortunate enough to photograph Sarah Astor, yes. But forgive me for saying, she’s no oil painting. I’m confident the younger set will fall over themselves to be photographed once they see what I’ve done with you.”

  He dropped his eyes from her face, and when he glanced back up, his mood had changed to one that was playful, even flirtatious. “The worst photographer in the world couldn’t make you look bad, and I’m one of the best.”

  Nine

  They slipped through Trinity Church’s heavy bronze doors into their rented pew — Number 95 — just ahead of the crocodile of white and gold gowned clergy and choir boys lining up for Christmas Eve Midnight Mass. Elanora drew aside the fur-trimmed hood of the mantle that protected her head and shoulders from the lightly falling snowflakes. She was glad for its satin quilted lining because the church was as cold inside as it was in the yard outside.

  They always seemed to be late these days. What with her father’s fragile health and the delays with carriages negotiating the icy crowded streets, transporting him around town was increasingly difficult. She wondered how much longer he’d be able to go out and about — and what it would do to his spirits to be stuck at home.

  Boston Dowd leaned across and said in a hoarse whisper. “He’s happily settled.” The organ sounded the trumpet-like signal that the officiants were about to start processing, and she replied with a quick smile.

  The doughty assistant had once again done the heavy lifting to get Henry’s chair aligned at the end of the row, well out of the way of incense-swinging thurifer who was even now leading the solemn file of priests and musicians to Trinity’s stained-glass jewel of a Gothic altar.

  She settled into the wooden pew and took in the familiar panorama: the back-head view of some of the people she knew best in the world, framed by the awe-inspiring pointed Gothic arch at the end of the chancel, its three dazzling layers of glass — Jesus at the center, lined either side by the disciples and saints — Peter, Matthew, Mark, Luke and the apostle Paul — displayed for all to see.

  She resisted the way her heart lurched at the sight of the Mountfort pew, a dozen rows in front. William sat half a shoulder taller than Eustace, but there was no sign of Aunt Coco. She felt a pang of concern. Her aunt had not looked well the other night, and she hadn’t been able to call in to see her since. She hoped she was waylaid by something trivial.

  On the opposite side of the aisle, halfway between where she sat and the Mountforts, she sought out Amelia and her parents, the three huddled together, the epitome of the happy burgher family. Will and Adelaide flanked their daughter, who radiated beauty in an emerald green dress with a pagoda sleeve. She recognized it as one she often wore, with a nipped bodice that highlighted her tiny waist.

  The procession was well past her now; the incense carrier and the boy with an incense box had passed by, followed by the crucifer with a large gold
cross held like a battle standard, and then two acolytes carrying lighted candles. And then all the rest — clergy and singers. The whole train paused at a model crib with a baby in it set up at the end of the nave, and the rector William Berrian stepped up to bless the baby Jesus.

  Elanora’s eyes flicked to Amelia, who was looking blissfully secure in her emerald green. A shiver ran through her. How she managed to appear so unconcerned, when she was carrying such a ruinous secret — Elanora’s heart chilled at the thought. What if the indiscretion she’d permitted with Eustace had left her in the same condition? She felt sick in her stomach, and immediately worried that thinking it might make it so.

  They’d just have to marry if that happened. She chewed her lip as the service got under way, the words from the pulpit washing over her as a faint background chorus as she reflected on her situation. If the impossible, the dreadful, the unlikely happened and she was carrying Eustace’s child, she’d have to tell him. They’d have to marry.

  A week ago, that thought would have sent her into ecstasy. Now it was accompanied by a dull ache across the back of her neck. She’d be forever yoked not just to Eustace, but to his father, carrying the knowledge like an incubus her whole life that she was not good enough, that she’d kept Eustace from a union that would advance the family’s fortunes so much better than she could.

  Bile rose in her throat even as she contemplated the prospect. And what of Eustace? Did he see things the same way as his father, really? What if she told him about Amelia, told him he should be expecting a half-brother or a half-sister in seven or eight months’ time?

  Would he be shocked at his father’s duplicity? A man concerned about fostering an illustrious public face while he was abusing Will and Adelaide’s trust? If she told Eustace about William’s secret life, would it change anything?

  She was startled back into the present by the pealing of a pretty musical bell — not the big clappers in the bell tower, but a musical hand bell rung by one of the servers before the choir led the congregation in the Sanctus. “Holy, Holy, Holy Lord … God of Power and Might … Hosanna in the Highest.”