by Maya Rodale
“Well, he did rush into the fire to save you, so I’m inclined to believe in his innocence,” Harriet said.
But still something sat heavy on Beatrice’s chest. It was guilt, like somehow this was all her fault.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted.
“Why on earth are you sorry?”
“Long ago, I made Dalton want revenge. And it was all he and Connor and been working toward for years, until I made Wes want to give it all up—and Connor feared he would lose everything he’d worked for. And now hundreds of shopgirls are without employment and wages. We have all lost our investment. We have lost the feminine space we have created. All because of my ambition. I should have just let them win.”
“You cannot dim your light, Beatrice,” Harriet said earnestly. She looked around the room at all the women gathered. “None of us can, especially not for any man. The world needs our light. It’s how we see what needs to be done to make the world a better place.”
“It just makes them so angry . . .” one woman said softly.
“If we lived in fear of men’s anger, we would never do anything at all,” Harriet said. It was the truth. If Beatrice were afraid of men and their anger, she would still be the Duchess of Montrose, choking on her own words and in a quiet and constant state of despair as she languished about the castle.
She supposed that was the point entirely. The threat of their violence was supposed to scare her into staying home and stay quiet and stay out of the way. To dim her light until it was extinguished entirely.
“So the question is, Beatrice, what will you do now?” Harriet asked. “I presume that you—and all of us—are constitutionally incapable of just letting a man get the last word. We are not women who sit idly by.”
A roomful of expectant faces looked at her, waiting. Expectantly. They waited for her to present the answers, along with a plan, a map, a seating chart, and a paper pattern for the dress to wear for the occasion.
If she could manage it, she would have smiled because she was reminded of herself just a few months earlier as she’d challenged Dalton: And then what will you do?
What will you do with the rest of your life when the thing you had originally set out to do is now moot? She was young yet. She had money. Friends. Connections. She still had passion and ambition to burn, though perhaps she might not phrase it thusly any longer.
“I for one hope you’ll rebuild,” Ava said.
And then there was a chorus of female voices rising up all around. Calls for a bigger, taller, more stunningly beautiful store, the likes of which the world had never seen. They would fundraise for it. They would plan it and build it together.
“Marian could design something for you,” Ava suggested. “She just graduated from architectural school.”
“I’d be happy to help oversee construction,” said Emily, who oversaw the Brooklyn Bridge construction years earlier.
“We’re all ready to shop at this new store,” someone said and a chorus of women agreed. Beatrice would build them a store worth waiting for. They dreamed out loud about what it would be like to make a monument to female consumption with no constraints. They plotted and discussed options and timelines and considered both the practicalities of such a project without limiting the scope of their dreams.
It was, of course, interrupted by a man.
The butler announced a caller.
Mr. Wes Dalton himself, looking every inch the powerful romantic hero in a dark, exquisitely tailed suit. A bruise on his cheek and a bandaged hand hinted at his recent heroics. He carried a newspaper.
All of a sudden, every one of the Ladies of Liberty remembered urgent appointments that necessitated their swift and immediate departures.
Dalton stood by, allowing them all to pass.
“Some have said that I’m a catch, but I guess that’s before I sent a drawing room of women fleeing,” he remarked drily.
Before she knew what was happening, the doors to the drawing room clicked shut softly and they were alone.
“Please, do sit,” she said and he did, setting his newspaper down on the table between them. He leaned forward, his blue eyes full of concern and fixed on her.
“How are you, Beatrice?”
“To be honest, I’ve been better,” she said drily, and he laughed and it thrilled her.
“Glad to see your sense of humor wasn’t damaged.”
“Have you come to say I told you so?”
“No. Although . . .”
“You could. You warned me about the dangers. You said I ought to stay home.”
“But if you had stayed home, you wouldn’t have been in a position to save the lives of your employees and customers,” he said, and it made her breath catch and her heart stop because that sounded like an admission that he knew she belonged in her store, that it was where she was at her best and most useful.
Not at home, languishing.
And if he knew and he thought that and he was still here, even after she had refused his proposal, what did that mean for her and him and them together? What did she even want?
“So maybe I should say I told you so,” she replied, trying and faltering at lighthearted conversation. Because he looked so handsome, so strong, so steady that she wanted nothing more than to curl up in his arms. She understood, finally, what kind of comfort and protection he’d been offering.
“If you wish.”
“No, it doesn’t matter now.”
“I have come to apologize for . . . everything. There have been moments where I wished to burn Goodwin’s to the ground but I never would have done it. Connor, on the other hand, feared losing everything we’d worked for. He’d feared losing to you. I hadn’t known any of this until this morning.”
“It seems some men can’t handle a little competition,” she said and it put in stark relief Dalton, who could handle competition with a woman. Who even seemed to enjoy it. Her heart did a little flip-flop. Because this man challenged her to do better, and she him.
Why, then, had she refused his proposal?
“I feel responsible. If I had been more attentive to Connor . . .” Beatrice could see the guilt racking his body. “I could have stopped him. I could have turned him in. I didn’t touch the matches but I feel as guilty as if I’d started the fire myself.”
“But you didn’t. It’s not your fault, Wes. And it’s done and Connor will go to jail and the world will see what happens to second-best men when they go up against an army of women.”
“I am deeply sorry for your loss,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said softly. And his apology meant more to her than anyone else’s because he knew, in a way that no one else knew, what it meant to own and run and love a store. Especially this one. She swiped away one rebellious tear, and said, “I suppose you’ve made it up to me by rushing to my rescue like some storybook hero.”
“You clung to me like a damsel in distress.”
“So you claim. I don’t recall that part at all.”
“You’ll just have to trust me.”
Again, his gaze met hers. Beatrice could sense there was so much feeling churning beneath the surface of that inscrutable expression and finely pressed suit. Just as her heart was beating wildly beneath her ugly floral day dress that was her penance to wear because she, too, had ideas about competition and winning even if it meant not wearing that gorgeous pink silk of his.
And what for?
For a store? For the sake of winning?
What had she won anyway? She had no store and no Dalton.
She had refused the love of the one man who would love, cherish, and support her dreams. Oh, God. She bit her lip, choked back a sob. He was still here . . . he was still here . . . would he ask her again, now that she knew better?
Now that she knew she loved him?
Now that she knew she could trust him with her heart and ambitions?
“While I have come to see how you are faring, I have also come to tell you something,” he said. “I wanted you to b
e the first to know that I’m retiring.”
“What? But why?” she cried out. “You love your store. You are your store. And you have won!”
“Maybe, by default or by a technicality. And it sure as hell doesn’t feel like winning. I no longer have the passion for it. I don’t wish to best you, I don’t wish to fight you, and I don’t even care about the new season’s merchandise,” he said and she gasped.
“And what about the store? Are you really going to give it up? How could you?”
Hers had been stolen from her and he was just giving up, walking away!
“I have no interest in it anymore. I obviously cannot and will not give it over to Connor. I find there are philanthropic endeavors that require my attentions and my fortune. I will no longer partake in the day-to-day operations.”
“But the store is you and you are the store. Your name is on the—” She stopped short. She was about to say your name is on the building. But it wasn’t.
“No, it isn’t. It never was.”
“I am shocked. It’s a good thing that I am lying down, otherwise I would faint.”
“Smelling salts. First floor, past the staircase. Fifty cents.”
“See! You belong in a department store. Dalton, you don’t need to do this.”
“You’re the one who belongs in a department store,” he said. That’s all he had to say for her to know. He saw her and accepted what he saw. She felt seen, truly seen and in this moment, for the life of her, she couldn’t remember why she’d said no to his proposal. His love for her was plain, and he was saying in so many words that he knew where she belonged and was at her best and wasn’t going to fight her for it anymore.
Another rebellious tear made a run for it down her cheek. A mutiny. She who orchestrated hundreds of human employees could not get a few tears to follow orders and stay put.
“What will you do now?” Dalton asked. She just assumed he meant business.
“I’ll rebuild, of course. It will take years, but it will keep me busy. You have caught me on my one day of being idle. . . . Just one. Tomorrow . . .”
She chattered on and he listened and after an appropriate interval he took his leave. He said, “Goodbye, Beatrice. Best of luck in your future endeavors.”
And then he was gone and she was stuck languishing in the drawing room. Alone. Stuck with the fate she had done everything in her power to avoid. No Goodwin’s. And no Dalton.
Just a newspaper that he’d left behind.
Chapter Thirty-three
In the absence of anything else to do, Beatrice reached for the newspaper, with some idea of catching up on the news, or at least avoiding thinking about her own problems. After all, it wasn’t like she had anything else to do, other than rest and try to recover.
But she’d hardly gotten past page four when she saw the most striking advertisement that had her heart racing.
There was no way not to see it. A full blank page with just a few little words. She knew like she knew her own name that these words were meant for her and her alone.
“Mother!” Beatrice shouted. “Mother!”
Estella rushed in, obviously fearing The Worst, as mothers tended to do.
“What is it?”
“Look.” Beatrice thrust the newspaper at her.
“Oh, my God, Beatrice, I thought something was actually wrong,” her mother said, pressing her hand to her heart. “But you only wished to show me something in the newspaper.”
“Not just something. Everything. Well, almost everything. Look.”
She did.
The advertisement read:
FOR SALE: ONE RETAIL EMPIRE
DALTON’S IS AVAILABLE FOR PURCHASE
BEST OFFER
“Well I’ll be damned,” Estella said softly.
“I know.”
“I thought the store, and success, were all he ever wanted.”
“Me, too.”
“With Goodwin’s gone, he has no real competitor. Yet the merchant prince is giving up the throne.”
“I thought the store was all I ever wanted. But now I am not so sure,” she said. Her voice cracked as she said, “Love complicates things, I suppose.”
Her mother sat down beside her and clasped her hands.
“Beatrice—I’m so sorry. As a mother, you try to do what is best for your children. I thought he was just a fortune hunter like all the others, but one who would break your heart and leave you penniless. I was only trying to protect you. I was only trying to do what was best.”
“I didn’t believe enough then, either. And neither did he. But now . . .”
His intentions could not be any clearer.
There would be no more competition.
“He obviously meant for you to see this,” Estella said.
“I know. But what does he want to happen because of it?”
“It’s time for you to stop thinking about what he wants. Or what you should do. Or what I or anyone else expects. You have nothing holding you down or holding you back now, Beatrice. You have a blank slate to create the life you want. This time, I’ll help.”
What did she want? The same thing she’d always wanted. Purpose-filled days and passion-filled nights. But now she saw a new way of making that dream become real and it seemed Dalton saw it, too.
They weren’t competitors after all and they were meant to be together.
“I know exactly what we need to do,” Beatrice said in the confident voice she’d learned to project from somewhere deep inside. “Mother, can you please go down to Dalton’s and buy all the pink silk they have in stock?”
“Happily. Especially if it means you’ll stop wearing these ghastly floral dresses. But I daresay they’d be lovely on the upholstery . . .”
“We can discuss redecorating later. I’m about to create my own happy-ever-after. But first, I need the right dress.”
Chapter Thirty-four
The House of Adeline
Beatrice’s heart hadn’t stopped racing since she saw the advertisement. Dalton selling Dalton’s was the last thing she ever expected and yet it made perfect sense all the same. And as for that best offer? She knew him, body and mind, heart and soul. She had an idea of an offer he couldn’t refuse and one that would beat all the others he was sure to get.
As soon as her mother returned with sufficient quantities of pink silk, Beatrice took it all to The House of Adeline.
“I need you to make me a dress,” Beatrice said to Adeline as soon as they were alone in the fitting area. “Out of this.”
“This” was yards and yards of the Wild Rose silk, carefully wrapped and folded and waiting to be crafted into something exquisite. It was begging to be touched, to be loved, to be proudly displayed. Between this fabric and Adeline’s gowns, Beatrice was going to be dressed to conquer the world.
Thank goodness—she was nervous about what she intended to do.
“Oooh,” Adeline sighed. “I’ve been dying to create gowns out of this. Of course I would never, because of our crusade. What changed?”
“I presume you saw the advertisement in the newspaper?”
“Of course. I’m sure someone on some farm out West has yet to see it, but it’s only a matter of time. But everyone in Manhattan has certainly been made aware that the great wonderland that is Dalton’s is for sale. I assume you’re going to make an offer.”
“Of course.”
Adeline’s eyes lit up. “How much?”
“Oh, he doesn’t want just money. Anyone can give him that. He wants something more, and I intend to give it to him.”
“So you need the perfect dress, made in the fabric that is exclusively his and that declares in no uncertain terms that the battle between you two is over.”
“Exactly.”
The dress would be the easy part. She had just the right offer for him, too. She was certain enough that he would say yes. But it was the realities of after that had her in a state of stomach-aching anxiety.
Beatrice stil
l had qualms about the after.
“But first, before I make this monumental and irrevocable step, I need you to tell me something.”
“Hmm.” Adeline was already stretching the measuring tape, recording the exact length of her arm and the span of her wrist. She’d been waiting weeks to make dresses with this silk, she would not waste a second now.
“You have found love with an impressive, important, and powerful man and you are going to marry him. But you are also not giving up your own dressmaking empire, or your friends. So I need to know, how do you do it? How do you have a relationship with a man without losing yourself?”
Adeline smiled and sighed and put down her measuring tape.
“It’s not easy. You have to know your own heart and mind. You need to own your heart and mind. But never forget that hearts and heads can expand if you let them. There is room for so, so much love. You can love him and love your work at the same time, Beatrice. Remember, it needn’t be either/or. It can be and/and.”
“I think we can do that . . . now.”
“Also,” Adeline continued seriously, her hand on Beatrice’s arm. “You need to be able to leave at any time and support yourself respectably. Because if you can leave at any time, you can freely choose to stay. For love.”
And with those words, Beatrice thought that perhaps her work wasn’t an obstacle to their life together after all. It gave her another purpose besides a marriage and money in her dress pockets; it meant that she could afford to choose to stay with Dalton or leave. Maybe it meant they could have a fighting chance at being together simply because of love and not of need.
Especially if her head and heart could expand enough for both. There was no good reason why her head and heart could not expand infinitely.
“But, Adeline, don’t you feel the tug? The tug between work and home, and yourself and your lover?”
“Of course I feel the tug.” Adeline laughed. “I don’t know that someone will never feel it. I just damned well hope that my duke feels it just as strongly. Look, Beatrice, love is messy. It’s hard and complicated and it’s not easy. But if we don’t embrace that hard part, then we don’t get the good stuff.”