They were announced and, in no time, Elizabeth became the belle of the ball. From the moment she made her entrance, she had the rapt attention of everyone in the room. Conversations halted. Men stared and flocked to her side, their conduct less than dignified, while worried mamas and young women watched in jealous dismay. With a surge of confidence, she lifted her chin and laughed at shared witticisms provided by young bankers, industrialists, and magnates of various fortunes. Men, young and old, begged for a dance with her. Obligated to accommodate, Elizabeth was led onto the dance floor for one dance after another wondering all the while what Zachary would think of her in her ball gown.
She begged her last dance partner for a rest, and standing on the sidelines to catch her breath, her mother’s mouth took an ugly twist. “Why Havemeyer dropped you is a mystery. Fortunately, you possess some physical appeal, not the beauty your sister is, but you have wealth to back up that flaw. I hear the Duke of Westerly is in attendance this evening, and rumorhas it, he is in insoluble debt and looking for an heiress. To think you could snare someone once removed from the prince. Be your charming self.”
“By all means, Mother,” Elizabeth said, her hands curling into fists. Elizabeth straightened, refusing to be the compliant innocent girl who did everything by the book. No longer would she suppress her own female intuition and strength. No longer did her validation come from her family or society. To make them happy? Impossible to accomplish that feat.
Her best friend, Sarah Astin had married an impoverished duke the prior year. The match was boasted all over New York, her triumphant parents engendered the most gloating. Adding a title to one’s family had become all the rage with the nouveau riche in the United States. In her many letters to Elizabeth, Sarah had described the haughty condescension of British society, giving her a cut-direct at every event and whispering her inferior status as she passed. What had hurt the most was that as soon as the “I dos,” were said, and the duke had received the funds from her family, he dropped the pretense of his tender devotions, abandoning her to be with his mistress.
Edward Spencer joined them. “Your mother is right, Elizabeth. Time to find a suitable husband. The Duke of Westerly is a perfect match. I have thrown out a lucrative carrot to reel him in. He has accepted but we must work through certain provisions that I’m sure won’t be difficult.”
Elizabeth’s world tilted. “And why is it that I’m at this moment being told?” Up until now, her father had been her ally and not pressed the marriage subject. His betrayal broke her heart and mushroomed into the elephant in the room.
“Elizabeth, I’ve been patient, waiting for you to pick someone. The Duke of Westerly is a perfect match. You will live in style with the title of Lady Westerly. What more could you want?”
“I want the freedom to choose my husband.”
Her father shook his head. “No such fiction exists. No more delays. You are getting past your childbearing years, and the duke needs an heir. It’s for your own good.”
“For my own good? Your kindness stings with intolerable insult. My dearest friend Sarah Astin was sold off to a duke. Her life is pure misery. She has never been accepted. The English nobility remain ruthless, reminding her with innuendo and pointed slights of her foul American roots. Her husband treats her with disdain despite her ample dowry. From her letters, she is lonely and trapped in a desolate marriage that is leaving her little desire to live. I fear for her.”
“The gossips are mounting with your unmarried state,” chided her mother.
“I’d rather live under all-pervading moral busybodies,” said Elizabeth.
Her father snorted. “What better than to marry into royalty? My decision is final.”
“The tyranny of your decision makes me a casualty of oppression. Why am I not surprised? Power is your modus operandi, Father. Selling your eldest daughter, placing her on the altar of sacrifice is an illusionary ruse of that power. It’s a trick. A shadow on the wall. Forfeiting me casts a very large shadow. Do not think for one moment that you care for my feelings or my existence.”
With a petty smirk, Louise said, “I heard about your romp in Central Park. Have you no shame?”
“What are you talking about?” snapped Alva.
“It is too delicate a subject to mention in public.” Louise sneered. “I’d be worried if I were you, Elizabeth. News travels fast.”
Elizabeth’s stomach plummeted with a disturbing mix of emotions concerning her sister. “And you are always the first to pick gossip up,” Elizabeth said through gritted teeth.
“Enough,” said her father. “Our family linen will not be bandied about. This topic will be finished at home. We should concentrate on the duke. He is here for a short time, and we need to nab him before Emma Morgan sets her sights on him for her daughter.”
Chen and O’Reilly were announced with the Irishman making headway to stand by Elizabeth.
“Dreadful,” said Alva, leaning over to Louise loud enough for everyone to hear, “How Abigail Merriweather dared to invite an uncouth Chinaman and a vulgar Irishman. I hear she has regular visits from the Chinaman.”
“He looks bored,” sniped Louise about Chen.
“That’s his excited face,” said O’Reilly, planting himself beside Elizabeth. “You haven’t seen his bored face yet.”
“Mr. O’Reilly,” said Alva, testing out his name as if she swallowed poison. “I understand you are a factory worker?” Alva’s purr, a subtle intimation, connecting O’Reilly to what she considered the crude and Irish tide that had swept over the population of New York City.
“That’s enough, Mother. I’ll remind you we are guests of Mrs. Merriweather as are Mr. Chen and Mr. O’Reilly.”
“I’m sure they are not the same species,” sniffed Louise and moved away from them as if not to be infected.
O’Reilly leaned over to Elizabeth. “Everyone has the right to be without a thought, but that girl abuses the privilege.”
“You are referring to my sister,” said Elizabeth, resisting the urge to break out laughing.
O’Reilly’s eyes twinkled. “You have my pity.”
Suddenly, there arrived hushed murmurs of delight trilling through the crowded ballroom. The swirling of silks andswish of satins came to a standstill. Feminine voices fluttered like a million darting hummingbirds. Energy flowed like a tsunami, sweeping over the spans, tinkling the huge chandeliers, flickering the gaslights, and scintillating rainbows on the opposing walls.
