Of Gold & Blood Series 2 Books 1 & 4

by Jenny Wheeler

The seven years that separated them in age was only part of the reason they’d never had much in common. Henrietta had adopted a very strict evangelical view and liked to regularly warn others of their sinful state and their need for salvation.

  “Oh Aunt, she is so busy with the children. I understand.”

  She felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle at the very mention. Henrietta was certainly the last person she wanted to meet in her current fragile state.

  “But come home with you? I’d love that. Perhaps the simple change of air would do me good. I’ve felt low with what’s been going on. I mean Connie and all.”

  Aunt Glory considered her over the top of her embroidery, glasses pushed down on her nose.

  “Is Connie’s death all that’s bothering you, Elanora? Nothing else? You know you can always rely on me to keep a secret.”

  Elanora felt her cheeks reddening.

  “A secret? I’m not sure what you mean, Aunt.” Her breath caught in her throat, and she knew she was blustering. Her aunt would not be fooled either. She snatched up the thick burlap oven cloth and stepped across to the stove to check on the sponge.

  “Like what? Well, like that Miss Amelia Taylor. She’s still a Miss, I presume. Tell me. Is she in the family way?”

  Elanora had just opened the oven. As the shock of the casual inquiry registered, the oven cloth slipped, and her hand jabbed forward and touched the red-hot sponge tray.

  “Ow!” She jumped back. “Ooh, I’ve burnt my hand. Botheration …”

  Glory rose and poured a bowl of cold water from a jug on the bench. “Here. Sit down and put it in there to cool. You’re not going to die.” Her words were brusque, but her tone was soothing.

  “Let me get the sponge fingers.” She bent down. “They’re looking perfect. Just the right straw color. You’ve done well.” She drew out the heavy metal tray, set it to one side and closed the oven door.

  “Sorry to shock you, Elanora, but I’m certain you know the answer to that last question. And I can see things aren’t what they were between you and Eustace. So just what is going on?”

  Elanora’s eyes bolted to her Aunt’s kindly face. “Oh no, Aunt, it’s nothing like that. I mean to say … I don’t know what you’re implying.”

  Aunt Glory raised one eyebrow and gazed steadily at her without speaking.

  She felt the sadness she had been trying to push down rise up in her, forcing its way through her chest, up into her throat, a tidal wave of unhappiness engulfing her.

  “Oh, Aunt Glory. It’s not what you’re thinking.” She took a great gulp of air. “It’s much worse than you can imagine …”

  At first glance, the sitting room was pleasant but not luxurious

  An old man’s lair.

  Two leather chairs sat either side of a glowing fire, one of them set ajar from the fireplace, with a half-read newspaper spread open on a side table beside it. Rafael selected the other and sat warily, sliding his image case in beside him.

  Henry Travers — Rafael surmised the cantankerous old man was Elanora’s father — pulled up his wheelchair alongside the newspaper-covered table and glared.

  “So who are you again? Rafael who? And what do you want with my daughter?”

  Rafael began his account once again, more slowly this time. He was an experienced portrait photographer, working with one of the most established daguerreotypists in New York, Mr Philip Haas. Mr Haas was the one who took the President’s portrait, and he had some portraits of Miss Elanora Travers to show her.

  “Sounds like a lot of nonsense to me,” huffed Travers. He reached out and picked up a pipe from an ashtray buried under the newspaper. He fiddled in his jacket pocket for a match and lit the pipe while Rafael watched on in silence.

  He drew a few puffs of smoke and then rested it in his lap and turned rheumy eyes on Rafael.

  “I believe there has been some misunderstanding here. My daughter comes from one of the best families in New York. If she has been consorting with some foreigner —” He spat the word and paused for another puff on the pipe — “Spanish did you say?” And continued. “Some photographer, then she should know better. But as her father I can tell you she is not receiving visitors like you, not today nor any other day. Reputation is not something to be squandered, and the Travers family’s reputation is unsurpassed. You can pack up your goods and go.”

  Rafael remained erect and gracious in manner. “Forgive me, Mr Travers, the last thing I would want to do is cause offense. I wonder if you are aware that the very best of families are having their portraits done. I don’t know if you have heard of Mathew Brady’s Illustrious Americans?

  “He’s taking portraits of the most prominent people. President Andrew Jackson, Judge Joseph Story, Edgar Allan Poe — they’ve all sat for portraits. I myself have had the honor of photographing Mrs Sarah Astor. I believe being seen this way can only enhance Miss Travers’ reputation.”

  Henry Travers banged his pipe bowl on the edge of an earthenware ashtray with a force that spilled some of the hot charred contents into the tray.

  “Mr Casta … Casanova … whoever you are. No Spanish photographer is going to be associated with any daughter of mine. Have I made myself clear? She has just turned twenty-one. She is about to be betrothed to a young man of very good family. And she will not be consorting with anyone of your ilk. Now kindly leave.” He turned and pointed to the door. “You can let yourself out.”

  He glared for a long minute at Rafael, and then pointedly picked up the pipe and rustled the newspaper.

  Rafael stood and glanced around the room, where the fruity smell of pipe smoke now mingled with the charcoal smell from the fire. A mantle clock kept strict time, tick tock, tick tock, and the fire randomly sparked. The old man ignored him.

  He stepped away to the door, paused in the hallway and looked hopefully towards the closed kitchen door. Then he turned and went back out to his waiting hack.

  Fifteen

  She was ashamed to admit even to herself that she had opened the black velvet ring box every day since Eustace had given it to her on that birthday night and gazed down at the sparkling gem. Sometimes she put it on her finger before settling it back into the box.

  But this morning, after her tearful talk with Aunt Glory in the kitchen yesterday, she had addressed a brown paper envelope to Eustace at the Mountfort mansion on Washington Square and had slipped the black box in it for Boston to deliver when he went on his morning errands for her father. She couldn’t bring herself to include any note; it would be clear enough to Eustace why she was returning it, without her having to say another word.

  She hadn’t told Glory the whole story — she was still hoping she’d be spared from having to do that — but she’d told her enough to leave her precious wearied face looking brooding and somber.

  “William Mountfort always was a hard man,” she said. “You’ve probably guessed theirs was never a love match. Connie’s father was certain he was setting his daughter up to found a dynasty by joining together her inheritance and William’s drive. And so it’s turned out. The only thing that was missing was love and intimacy. Respect, perhaps. But not much love. I think William regards marrying Constance as one of his business triumphs — and he’ll be obsessed about achieving a similar prize for Eustace.

  “With Connie dead, I think you’ll have to surrender any hopes of marrying Eustace my dear. I know William too well.”

  She’d been angered but not surprised by Amelia’s state. “Men like William Mountfort can pretty well please themselves,” she said.

  “He enjoys the social status, but with the money he’s got, he doesn’t need it. And with the fortune he has, people are happy to act blind to his misbehavior. He might even get sneaking admiration for scoring a young beauty. My guess would be that Amelia will be installed as the new Mrs William Mountfort within the year.”

  The next morning Elanora waved Henry farewell and set out for a month-long stay with Glory. She felt hollow inside as she
kissed his stubbly cheek and said her farewells, but a sense of relief washed over her as she stepped into the street. At least she wouldn’t have to maintain her careful guard in front of him. She just prayed when she came back home she’d have nothing to hide.

  Sixteen

  Elanora’s sense of carrying lesser cares didn’t last long, even though spending time with Aunt Glory in her Brooklyn Heights cottage brought childhood memories of all their good times rushing back.

  By the time she marched up the ramp at Ferry Landing she was reflecting anxiously on the knowledge that her monthly purge hadn’t come like clockwork, as it usually did. It should be here by now.

  She pushed the awareness to the back of her mind and desperately tried to focus on Aunt Glory’s entertaining commentary about the rivalry between two local Irish bands who played evening concerts around town when the weather warmed up, embellishing her tales with anecdotes on the general liveliness of the city where she’d been principal of the girls’ school for the past five years.

  She was valiantly trying to divert Elanora’s attention from her disappointment in love, but she only knew half the story. They established a companionable routine over the next few days, with her Aunt reporting to the school during the day while she amused herself reading, playing on a small piano in the front parlor, and strolling the back garden looking out for the tips of spring bulbs that were pushing up through the gradually warming soil.

  In another few weeks or so the garden would be bright with snowdrops and the first daffodils. When her aunt came home they strolled together, taking coffee at one of the local houses. But always in the back of her mind was the gnawing anxiety: what would she do if she was with child?

  She was playing some light classics in the parlor while her aunt worked on some school papers early one evening when there was a knock on the front door. She continued playing while her aunt got up to answer.

  A minute or two later she returned, followed by a visitor. Elanora glanced up and her hands froze on the keyboard. Behind her aunt’s stocky figure loomed a broad-shouldered man with a poet’s aquiline profile and a shock of dark hair that curled loosely around his ears. In one hand he carried a black leather case. He paused in the doorway and smiled.

  “Hello, Miss Travers. I’ve finally tracked you down.”

  She slid off the piano stool and was grateful when her knees didn’t buckle under her.

  “Mr Castellanos …”

  She glanced nervously toward her aunt. “Aunt Glory, this is Mr Rafael Castellanos.” She licked her lips nervously and added, “The Spanish photographer who was engaged in taking my portrait before Aunt Coco died.”

  “I’m aware of Mr Castellanos. We’ve met before.”

  Her heart raced.

  “Really? When was that?”

  “At your father’s. A day or so after Connie’s funeral.”

  Elanora was stunned. She glanced in confusion from her aunt to Castellanos, caught completely off guard, not knowing what to say next. Her aunt moved aside and indicated an armchair near the piano.

  “Mr Castellanos, why don’t you take a seat and tell us what brings you to Brooklyn?”

  Her aunt resumed her own seat and Elanora sank back down onto the piano bench.

  “As Miss Travers mentioned, I am in the process of preparing some daguerreotype portraits of her to show in a Broadway gallery. We took the original studies just after Christmas but with the delays of the festive season and other unfortunate events I’ve been prevented from showing them to her until now. I am hoping you will allow me to present the work and give me approval to show them in an upcoming show at the Philip Haas Gallery.”

  He reached for the leather case he’d placed on the floor beside him.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Elanora’s voice sounded muted and strained even to her own ears. “My circumstances have changed. It would not be appropriate for a public display like that.”

  Rafael look up sharply and glanced across to her aunt. “I don’t understand. There’s really nothing controversial about them. Quite the opposite.” He continued to unlatch the case. “Let me at least show you the results.”

  Elanora searched her aunt’s face. “Is this acceptable to you Aunt? Really, I’ll do whatever you recommend. You know what father’s like.”

  “I see no harm in allowing Mr Castellanos to show us his work.” Her aunt relaxed back in her chair. “I, for one, would be most interested to see it.”

  Rafael drew out the studies and laid them side by side on a long occasional table that ran along the wall under the windows. She and her aunt moved to the table and stared for a long time, neither of them speaking.

  The young woman who stared up at her looked familiar — someone she had known a long time ago — but didn’t really know anymore. Deep wistful eyes challenged the photographer’s lens. The young woman was solemn, seeking, but there was a hint of mischief about the curve of her lips, a sense of energy and verve in the lifted eyebrow.

  She looked assured of her place in the world; a young woman with a sure sense of who she was and where she belonged. Elanora let out a long breath. She was looking at a young woman who no longer existed.

  She glanced across to her aunt and saw there were tears in her eyes. She dashed her hand across the corner of one of them, then the other, sniffed and smiled. “Sorry, my dear. I’ve got emotional. You look so beautiful. And so like your mother. It’s all there, and it took me by surprise.”

  Rafael offered her an immaculately pressed white handkerchief with a light flourish. “A response from the heart, Senora. The best compliment anyone can give my work.”

  Her aunt took it with a weak smile. “Thank you.”

  “They are lovely, Rafael. Very fine work indeed. But the fact remains. I’m sorry, it’s just not appropriate for them to be publicly shown.”

  Her aunt seemed to rally herself from her reverie. “Elanora, why don’t we sit in the drawing room where there’s more room and get some refreshments. I’d like to hear more of what Mr Castellanos has planned.”

  Seventeen

  As Rafael backed out of the room, his hat in his hands, Elanora pressed her palms to her cheeks, as if the physical act of touching could reassure her that this meeting had really happened. He knew how she felt.

  When he’d been turned away by her father’s churlishness he’d tried to accept the rejection. It was a father’s right to protect his daughter, he’d told himself, even if it was unreasonable. But he hadn’t been able to forget her.

  He stepped out of the house and the fresh cold air immediately brightened his cheeks and lightened his chest. When he reached the street, he stopped; he threw his head back and gazed up in wide-eyed wonder at the night sky, seeing it all with the eyes of his childhood.

  A thin sliver of moon was visible to the west, its relative dimness allowing countless galaxies to shimmer overhead. He took a deep breath of harbor air and reached skyward with both hands, playing his old game of touching the stars. As a boy of eight or nine, he’d dreamed of traveling to far off places, and as a man he’d done that. Now he wanted expansion of a different kind.

  He wanted the woman he’d just left behind in that stuffy parlor in his life forever. Even in the plain green day dress that said more clearly than anything that she wasn’t inviting male attention, she cut straight to his heart. It came to him with a clarity and certainty that he’d only ever felt a few times before in his life. He couldn’t, wouldn’t walk away from her a second time.

  He swung on his heel and walked down the hill to the village to find a cheap hotel for the night.

  Eighteen

  “You don’t understand, Rafael. It’s the American way.” She squinted her eyes against the bright sun and her nose wrinkled so delightfully he wanted to reach out and touch it. “Well, the British way, I suppose, but we’ve made it our own with a vengeance.”

  She cleared her throat as if preparing for a public announcement. “The less often a woman is see
n in public, the more highly she is esteemed.” She shot him a quick smile and continued in a passable mimicking of a Master of Ceremonies’ deep male voice. “Social rule number one hundred and ten.”

  Another wry smile. “According to one of those etiquette guides being consulted by the smart set, anyway. And it seems my father’s read them all.”

  When he’d returned to her aunt’s home this morning she’d been all rugged up and ready to step out, saying that her aunt had given her permission to walk with him to the nearest coffee house, as long as they stayed in public view at all times. “You need something to cheer you up,” her Aunt Glory had said.

  Her cheeks were glowing from the cold. She was dressed for the weather, in a fur trimmed hooded cape in cherry red cashmere with a matching muff and black elastic-sided kid ankle boots. They had a table near the window in a popular Brooklyn coffee house and though the temperatures were still chilling, a weak late winter sun was breaking through.

  He laughed and signaled to the waiter to bring a fresh pot of coffee.

  “Your father … You seem very patient with him. Is it difficult?”

  The light pink flush he’d seen before when she was discomforted showed in her face. She cleared her throat and hesitated before replying.

  “He’s lost his way since my mother died. His health deteriorated so fast in the months after her death — and I think now he’s an invalid shut away at home, he’s losing touch. New York’s changing so fast, and he just isn’t keeping up. Maybe he even guesses that, though he won’t admit it. So it’s hard for him.” She cast him an appeal for understanding.

  “Is that a roundabout way of saying he’s difficult?”

  “Not difficult. Just stuck in his ways. And now his poor health is overtaking him. One thing’s for sure. He’d never forgive me if he considered I’d shamed the family in any way. He’s extremely sensitive about that. It’s the only thing left that he can hold onto.”