Alva flicked her hand. “Am I the only one seeing impending disaster? That cowboy troubles me.”
“He has a great idea and was here for financing. That has nothing to do with Elizabeth.”
Alva stared him down. “Nevertheless, I don’t like the way he phrased things or the way he sat. Too comfortable. His arrangement seems fishy to me, and I’m warning you to turn a blind eye to his scheme.” Alva patted her hair. “You must admit I have a good grasp of social politics. That man is an inferior.”
“Yes, Alva,” Edward said tiredly. His wife had the ability to exhaust him in a few minutes of conversation. Alva had grown up in an environment that taught her that certain groups didn’t deserve respect while pretending to feel sorry for others because of the “misfortune” of their station in life.
“I need your full support with Elizabeth’s betrothal to the heir of the sugar empire. If I pressure Elizabeth enough, she’ll give in. She always does.”
Edward snorted. “Elizabeth? That’s not the Elizabeth I know.”
“I wish you had a pair. It gets old having to convince you not to cave in to Elizabeth.”
“My daughter is content with herself and wishes not to marry. I will not force her. In fact, I like having her around. If I had a son, I’d want him to be just like her.”
Edward had wanted a large family, but after three difficult births, with one of them a stillborn, Alva was less rapturous. She loathed being pregnant.
When he had gone to Europe on business, he had been elated to hear that Alva was expecting their next child. Alva miscarried. He wanted to know what caused the miscarriage, a question Alva had never answered.
“I suppose the messenger is always killed.” Alva pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead. “Oh, how I’m plagued with headaches. And you show no consideration whatsoever. I’m going to bed.”
Martyrdom was Alva’s foremost manipulation. Her talk. Her enormous ego, false, weak posturing, inventing drama where she always starred. He’d lost any sympathy for her years ago, especially when a private investigator found out that Alva had aborted his baby.
When Alva huffed into her room and slammed the door, Edward smiled. At a very discreet and luxurious brownstone, he kept a mistress, Mrs. Bethel, a widow. She provided Edward with companionship, love and understanding, all the things he missed in his marriage to Alva. With a spring in his step, he moved down the stairs and grabbed his topcoat and hat from the butler.
Chapter Nine
Elizabeth’s cup was running over. Today was the day they were taking the children to Central Park for a picnic. With Amanda and Shawn Fitzgerald, Elizabeth had planned a grand day for the orphans in utmost secrecy. If her mother found out, there’d be hell to pay. How convenient it was to have mentioned the occasion to her father when she had been helping him with private accounts. Too busy to respond, he had waved her off.
Opposite her in the Spencer carriage sat Fiona and Zachary, the latter unable to answer the unceasing questions from her daughter from all the sights limited to her confined while in the orphanage.
Joseph O’Connor proved an encyclopedia of the entire city, and demonstrated a most proficient tour guide, explaining all the sights. “There’s the spire of the Trinity Church. It is the only thing higher than the bridge tower itself.” His chest expanded with Caroline’s oohing and aahing, and then pointing out the opposite side of the carriage, he said, “That’s the Western Union Building. All ten stories of it. I’ve been to the top of all these buildings,” he boasted.
Elizabeth smiled down at her daughter and her nebulous cohort who had moved from the opposing seat and wedgedhimself on the other side of Caroline. For some odd reason the two were inseparable. The boy was a streetwise nine-year-old and had become Caroline’s self-appointed protector. How could Elizabeth refuse her daughter’s pleas to bring him along in the Spencer carriage?
“How can it be called rush hour when nothing moves? We’ll miss the whole day, unless this snarl of coaches clears,” said Fiona.
“The city will fall to ruin with this stagnating intractable tangle of traffic unless something is done about it,” said Elizabeth, happy with the delay and using it as an excuse to touch her daughter’s long, silky hair.
“Hopefully, Mr. Jay Gould’s ideas about promoting elevated trains and someday having trains underground will save the city,” said Zachary, among the horns honking, snort of horses, rasp of carriage wheels and darting a glance out the window to see if the traffic ahead had cleared.
At the park, the driver opened the door. The children screamed and piled over Elizabeth, brushing past the coachman. “Oh dear. They’re gone before I could teach Caroline the proper descent from a carriage.”
“They’re children, and they are excited. Let them have their day,” said Zachary, swinging to the ground and helping Fiona alight first. He lifted his wide capable palm to Elizabeth. “Shall I help my lady alight?”
Elizabeth held her breath. Her body tingled with awareness. Ever since the night he’d saved her from Havemeyer, she’d been thinking of her attraction to him. If only, she sighed, a weakness she had been careful not to indulge in all her life. Oh, if only…his mouth curved into a warm, friendly, country-boy grin.
Staring at his hand, her fingers shaking, she accepted that which was offered to her.
She placed her hand into his. And she quivered for the calluses on his palm caught her skin as his hand held hers. Small jolts scraped at her as though every minor edge on his fingertips were wired with sensation. It was the first time in her life she had ever taken leave of a man without her gloves. A gentleman always removed his, of course, before he offered his hand–it was a simple oversight for the frontiersman to forget that she herself wasn’t appropriately dressed.
Displaying a playful grin, he teased her. “I hope I won’t be penalized for breaking a rule.”
With her left hand, she raised her skirts and stepped to the ground. He held her hand securely in his, as if he were in no hurry to correct his impropriety.
“Oh, not at all,” Elizabeth said in a faint voice. His hold was warm and extraordinarily pleasant. He gave her another one of those looks—the way he looked at her during the dinner party, as if she held some answer to a question that he needed resolved.
He placed her hand in the crook of his arm, escorting her from the carriage, her silk slippers seeming to float above the soft grass. A warm glow flowed through her. How a simple gesture made her feel at home, like it should be, meant for time without end. His arm flexed, so strong it was. Oh, how he met the world with indifference, his boldness allowing him to escape any tragedy. He was honorable for sure.
