Of Gold & Blood Series 2 Books 1 & 4

by Jenny Wheeler

  Elanora’s face faded to chalk, and the lines across her forehead deepened into dark shadows. She began shaking her head in frantic denial. “No, Eustace, no of course not.”

  “Because you know, it’s just not possible. Not just one time and … Well, I was careful — you don’t need to know the details, but I was careful. There’s no way that could happen.”

  Elanora squeezed her eyes tightly closed and then opened them again. “It’s just — well, you’d given me the ring, and I thought we were going to be married, so it all felt right. But now it’s different. If you’re not even here, who can I turn to? I’m just saying …” She grabbed for his hand. “I’m frightened, Eustace. What if I am and you aren’t here?”

  His chest tightened. He had never seen Elanora like this, insecure and needy, and he realized with a shock he didn’t like it.

  “It won’t happen, Elanora. I’ve told you.”

  His voice had a tart note he hadn’t intended, and she pulled back as if he’d slapped her.

  He cleared his throat and adjusted his tone to something more conciliatory and reassuring. “Look, if disaster did strike, I suppose I’d have to go to my father and explain. Ask for his permission to marry you. He wouldn’t like it but —”

  He glanced up and just had time to brace himself. Elanora pushed him hard in the chest with both hands. He staggered back until the backs of his legs hit the edge of the sofa and he could steady himself. “What? What was that for?”

  “If you don’t know what that was for then you’re a bigger fool than I thought you were.” Her eyes were blazing as she stood, hands on hips, glaring.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall, and she dropped her hands to her sides and relaxed her posture. “Eustace, you need to go.”

  She turned toward the door just as her father’s chair nudged into the room. Henry Travers looked like he was in his last days. One arm lay curled up and useless in his lap, the other trembled with a palsy. His head dropped on his neck, as if holding it upright was beyond his power.

  “Everything alright here, young Mountfort? Not upsetting my girl, are you?”

  “No sir. Of course not, sir.” Eustace looked to Elanora in silent appeal. She stared stonily back.

  “Eustace just popped in to say goodbye, Father. He’s off to the Indies on New Year’s Day.”

  Her voice momentarily cracked at ‘Indies’, but her stance was fierce, her head erect, and she wasn’t giving an inch.

  “He’s just leaving.”

  Twelve

  Elanora had thought she’d never see a worse day in her life that when her mother died two years before, but she’d been wrong. Today, on January 6, 1848, a worse day even than that of her mother’s death had dawned. It was the day they were burying her precious Aunt Coco.

  New York had woken to a dense, clammy fog on the Hudson River and bone chilling temperatures that left her numb inside and out. She’d fallen into so deep a hole in herself she was barely aware of the pallbearers carrying in the elm wood coffin with black ruffles around the lid which they placed down in front of the Trinity altar.

  Beside her in the bare wood pew looped with thick black cord and white lilies sat the solid comforting presence of Gloria Patience Grayson — her Aunt Glory — her mother’s sister and an old friend of Connie’s.

  Her aunt slipped her gloved hand into hers and gave it a gentle squeeze as the organ sounded the chords for the first hymn. ‘Oh God Our Help in Ages Past’, that anthem that had reminded generations of mourners of the brevity of life and the eternal everlastingness of God.

  The simple warmth of her aunt’s gesture pierced the ice encasing her heart and the tears she’d been holding back for days overflowed. She wasn’t sure which was easier to handle — feeling like she had when she’d first woken, iced up and disconnected, or feeling the thaw of her heart’s loss.

  She dabbed at her eyes with her free hand and pressed her fingers onto Glory’s wrist in grateful response.

  In the last minutes of 1847, Constance Mercy Mountfort had died in her bed in her Fifth Avenue mansion from typhus — a disease of the slums — contracted, her family believed, when she was going about her charitable endeavours.

  The thing that upset Elanora the most was that she had never got to say goodbye, never got to tell Aunt Coco what she meant to her. Her rift with Eustace had made it awkward for her to visit, and she had dismissed his remarks on Christmas Eve as a spiteful, throw-away line to get at her.

  She hadn’t realized how serious it was until it was too late. It was so like Coco not to want a fuss made, even when she was in her last days.

  Apart from a brief attendance at the Mountfort home with her father to pay their respects two days after her death, she’d seen nothing of Eustace since their terrible argument before New Year’s Eve. And on the day they’d visited, he’d barely been aware she was there, consumed as he was by his own grief. For that she was grateful because as far as she was concerned there was nothing left for them to say.

  The round-faced rector was opining in a bored tone. “The liturgy for the dead is an Easter liturgy. It finds all its meaning in the Resurrection. Because Jesus was raised from the dead, we, too shall be raised.”

  Connie certainly believed that, and Elanora fervently hoped she was right. The thought of no Connie existing anywhere in the universe, gone in a puff of smoke, was too awful to contemplate.

  Bible readings, another hymn, and the bland-faced rector rose to deliver the eulogy, praising Constance Mercy Mountfort’s selfless devotion to serving the less fortunate. William sustained a fit of coughing in the middle, with Eustace coming to his rescue with consoling back thumping.

  She wondered what their household would be like without Connie, and then remembered Eustace wouldn’t be there anyway. She supposed William would just spend a lot more time at his men’s club.

  Before she knew it, they were spilling outside into the churchyard, a sliver of sunlight ineffectual in lifting the fog as they followed the coffin to the graveside. The rector intoned the committal “earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust …” And it was all over. Connie’s empty shell had been consigned to the hazardously icy ground.

  “Is there anyone you need to see here, Elanora?” Gloria Grayson glanced around the crowded churchyard. Despite the weather, many of New York’s leading citizens had turned out to pay their respects to Aunt Coco, and to offer condolences to her husband. She turned back to Elanora with a worried look.

  “If not, then I think it will be wise to just get ourselves home. It’s a day to give the healthiest body pneumonia. I certainly don’t think your father should be out too long.” She squinted around her again.

  “And what do close family remember of a funeral anyway? It’s all just one heart-wrenching blur. There will be plenty of opportunities to offer condolences in coming days, don’t you think?”

  Elanora’s insides warmed with a surge of relief. “I couldn’t agree more, dear Glory. Let’s find Boston and get Father home.”

  She glanced around for her father’s wheelchair and saw Amelia weaving her way through the throngs of mourners toward her. She was wearing an elegantly cut black astrakhan lamb’s wool coat and a neat pillbox hat with a half veil that gave her an air of allure. Among the other drably garbed mourners she stood out. Aunt Glory frowned. “Is that Amelia Taylor? My goodness, hasn’t she grown up.”

  Elanora couldn’t help feeling pleased by the undertone of doubt her voice carried.

  Cock-a-hoop no doubt, about this latest development. I’m guessing she’s imagining herself as the new Mrs William Mountfort in no time at all.

  She flattened her simple black cap with a side mourning cockade firmly down on her head as she reproved herself for her meanness.

  She’s just a young woman caught in awful circumstances. It’s the man who’s old enough to be her father who should have known better.

  “Elanora, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Elanora swung towards
her Aunt. “Amelia, I’m sure you’ve met my Aunt Glory before? My mother’s sister and a girlhood friend of Aunt Coco’s?”

  Amelia halted and extended a dainty hand. “Delighted to meet again, Miss Grayson. Sorry it’s on such a sad occasion.”

  “That it is,” said Aunt Glory. She took hold of Elanora’s arm. “I’ll go and find your father and Boston. Then we should be getting home. Shall I meet you on the sidewalk outside in five minutes? Very nice to have seen you again, Miss Taylor.”

  Amelia paused and waited for her to move out of earshot, and then turned to Elanora in a confidential whisper.

  “Elanora, I know you were very close to Eustace’s mother and losing her so soon after your own — well, I just came to say I am so sorry. If there is anything I can do …”

  “Amelia, that’s fine.” Elanora momentarily felt guilty for her earlier thoughts. “It’s an awful thing, it really is. But death — well, you know what the priests say — memento mori and all that.” She gazed around the snow-covered cemetery and sighed. “‘Remember you must die.’ It comes to us all. Sorry, I’m rambling. I can’t find too much that’s cheerful to say today, so best I keep quiet.”

  Amelia gave a small smile. “I understand, I really do.” She glanced around uncertainly.

  “I’m off to Paris next week, as you know, so I’m sorry I won’t be here when you’re feeling more cheerful again. Not for a while, anyway …”

  She hesitated and then moved in closer to Elanora’s shoulder. “William says he’ll come and see me in the spring. He says we can marry quietly in Paris. He seems quite pleased at the prospect of another son.”

  “A son?”

  “Yes. Oh well, or a daughter. He says he’d prefer a son — for the business — but he doesn’t mind.”

  A wave of light-headedness threatened to topple her. She reached out to grab something to hold onto and grasped Amelia’s shoulder. She clutched at the fashionable curly wool.

  “Sorry, Amelia. Suddenly I’ve come over all queer. I think today’s all been a bit much for me. I’d better find Aunt Glory and my father.”

  She let go of the coat and Amelia stepped away. “Of course, Elanora, I understand. I’ll send you a postcard.”

  Thirteen

  Rafael Castellanos alighted from the hack on Bleecker Street and tipped the driver to wait while he crossed the street to the address Elanora had given him, a two-story house with blue shuttered windows in the popular Federal Style. From his left arm hung the leather case containing the daguerreotype images of last week’s photo session.

  He surveyed the brick façade. On each floor, four rows of white-silled, double-hung windows faced out onto the street. An archway, which would bear summer roses, straddled the entry, underlining the sense of comfortable prosperity.

  He’d made visits to many similar houses in recent times, calling on a portrait subject to present the results of the sitting. He should have been used to it, but this time it felt different. His heart beat faster, his core tingled with a heightened awareness and expectation. Without even being aware of her charm, Elanora Travers had reached out to him in a way that few other women had.

  He’d pondered over why that was in the hours he’d spent working on the images he’d taken in his studio more than a week ago. He’d felt restless at not being able to show them to her, but it had been impossible with holiday festivities and Mrs Mountfort’s death.

  It was so much more than her physical beauty, though that was breathtaking. It wasn’t just about the way she looked. He thought briefly of that other minxy friend of hers. She was pretty enough, but she left him unmoved.

  It was a much deeper sense Elanora carried, of a yearning for bedrock truth — a fearlessness to face whatever came, to not be deceived, that he found arresting. It shone out of her gold-flecked brown eyes, in the erect fluid way she carried herself.

  She’d inspired him to produce some of his best work yet. The images captured her gaiety and solemnity all in one sitting. You could sense the seeker beneath the sparkle of youth.

  He stepped up the tiled path and paused at the front door. Around a weighty lion head brass door knocker hung a wreath of green olive branches trimmed in black ribbon. He hoped he wasn’t offending any etiquette by calling without an appointment.

  “Right. Father’s favorite. Charlotte Russe coming up. We need something to cheer us.”

  Elanora pushed back from the kitchen table and gazed across at her Aunt Glory, perched on the other side of the kitchen table, watching with her sharp but not unkind eye. In one hand Elanora held a fine willow egg whip, balanced against the edge of a heavy earthenware bowl filled with egg whites and sugar.

  She sniffed the air. The mix in the bowl gave off a heavenly vanilla and lemon fragrance. Her exertions had left her feeling pleasantly warm, and locks of blond hair had escaped from their clips and hung over her forehead.

  She resisted the temptation to either push them back, or run her damp hands down the fall of the sleeveless black gilet that covered her pale blue dress three quarters of the way to her hem, the long waistcoat her concession to mourning, along with the black and white cockade pinned to her pushed up sleeve.

  “Check the oven, would you Glory. We don’t want it getting too hot.”

  She resumed vigorously whipping the egg whites and realized with a jolt that this was the happiest she’d felt since her aunt had arrived three days ago.

  The icy chill outside had not broken, and Elanora did not feel fully recovered from whatever malady had weakened her over the days of Connie’s funeral. Perhaps it was just the sickness of grief, but neither she nor her aunt had any interest in leaving the house, or receiving visitors.

  They’d mutually decided an afternoon baking while Mrs O’Loughlin took the afternoon off to visit her family would be great fun, mimicking times in much earlier years when they’d cooked together in her aunt’s house. They’d make something to please her father, whose one last pleasure in life was the occasional sweet dessert.

  “Your father will enjoy a touch of elegance.” Glory looked up from the embroidery frame she was quietly stitching into as she chatted. “He hasn’t got too many indulgences left to him, has he? Not that he was ever one who took license.”

  The Charlotte Russe was lavish and luscious, and just what they needed to banish the gloom that had descended with Connie’s death.

  An elegant and popular frozen banquet cake, it was molded around a palisade of light lady fingers, filled with whipped egg whites, Bavarian cream and thick plum fruit puree. It was an extravagance to cook it for their small household, but Elanora felt like doing something rash. It seemed everyone but her was setting off on some new adventure. She needed to get some fun somehow.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the heavy thud of the brass door knocker. “Would you check on that, Aunt. I can’t leave this — and Boston and father might not hear it.”

  Her aunt readily complied, and she set about the tricky business of piping the light sponge mixture onto the baking sheets ready for cooking, humming with quiet satisfaction as she went about her task.

  Fourteen

  Rafael was stamping his feet to warm up his toes when the door was opened by a stout middle-aged woman with penetrating blue eyes and gray hair covered in a black mantle. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she had a chance to greet him, a man’s barking objection sounded from the hallway behind. She stepped aside as an elderly man in a wheelchair propelled himself to the door.

  “Don’t you see the wreath?” he snarled. “The house is in mourning. Visitors — particularly uninvited ones — are not welcome.”

  The woman attempted to intervene. “Don’t worry yourself, Henry, I can handle this.”

  “Go back to the kitchen, Gloria. This is my home.” She shrugged and backed off. He glared up at Rafael. “So what is your business here? Spit it out.”

  Rafael began to explain who he was, and why he was here. He’d hoped to show Miss Elanora Travers some studio
daguerreotypes he had taken, but if it was inconvenient he would be happy to return on another occasion.

  As he spoke the old man’s expression darkened, but he did not interrupt. When he’d completed his explanation, the old man backed his chair away from the door and gestured towards a doorway off the hall. Rafael stepped into the house and was immediately struck by a homely fragrance of vanilla, lemon and woodsmoke.

  “In there,” the old man said.

  The woman had gone back down the corridor, and as she opened the door at the end of the hall the smell of vanilla grew stronger. Evidently the kitchen was in there. Rafael reluctantly went ahead into the drawing room. The old man followed and wheeled his chair past him. He gestured irritably to the door handle. “Close it.”

  When her aunt returned she brushed aside Elanora’s inquiring look. “Someone for your father, I understand. He’s dealing with it.”

  She picked up her embroidery and paused before putting her glasses back on. “Elanora, my dear, I’ve been thinking. How would you like to come and spend a few weeks with me in Brooklyn?

  “You know I’ve got plenty of room, and Henry will be quite well taken care of here with Boston and Mrs O’Loughlin. Your sister might even put in an appearance if you aren’t here to take care of everything. She is rather inclined to leave it all to you.”

  There was just the slightest hint of reproach in her voice. Elanora’s much older sister Henrietta was married with five children and lived on a farm thirty miles up the Hudson River. She rarely visited, saying that New York was far too expensive for a poor country lawyer’s wife.