He might not have come, but the enigmatic curiosity that was Primrose Eames had proven too great a lure to ignore. Maggie had been stunned by his easy acquiescence to her suggestion that James accompany her to a night of cards. She hadn’t made the connection yet to her recital of who she expected to attend.
Finagling his way to become Mrs. Eames’s partner at a bridge table, James set forth to engage her in conversation. He veered away from normal topics such as the upcoming holiday, the yachting season for the following spring, and even Jack’s science fiction novel, which had been released the previous year. Instead, he’d brought up issues regarding the Cleveland presidency, searching as it were for a glimpse of the fire he’d seen her display in Albany, or at least a dose of the repartee she had hinted she might be capable of the previous week.
He’d intended to peel back the layers and discover the depths she clearly took care to keep under wraps. Even her conservative attire captivated him now. Her dinner dress of deep faun-colored velvet and cloth of gold collar, upon first sight, was drab and unremarkable, blending with little contrast to her dark hair. The plunging neckline of her outer bodice revealed only ivory lace inset that covered her bosom and crept right up her throat. A large cameo was pinned, further hiding any hint of her charms. The ivory and gold embroidering on the bodice seemed nothing more than the usual flora and fauna, but upon closer observation, he noted tiny figures peeking through the foliage.
Elves? Fairies? In either case, it only reaffirmed that Mrs. Eames was something more than the average society matron.
But what he’d gotten for his efforts was nothing. Nothing more than the tiniest of peeps when he tried to draw her out. A nod or feeble shake of her head when he asked her a direct question and pure civility demanded she answer.
Or as play necessitated. “Two hearts.”
James checked his cards without much interest and reached for the tumbler of Scotch near his elbow.
Not even a glance from her direction. No, all those were reserved for a trio of men at the adjacent table. Two of them were playing Écarté. One, he recognized as the banker Declan Eames, who given the name and age, was her father-in-law. The other, as the dark-haired man who’d been at her side at the Gould affair. He bore enough of a resemblance to Prim to be a relation, perhaps one of the siblings she had mentioned at the museum. The third man was watching the game with an occasional glower for Prim. James didn’t recognize him, though he was a brutish and sour looking fellow with a small mouth and balding pate.
“Three spades.” This from Mrs. Astor who was seated to his right in the east position.
Prim only flicked at the corner of one of her cards then sipped from her tepid tea before making her play.
No, Prim was hardly the red-faced rabble rouser he’d spotted waving a sign demanding equal rights a mere day ago. In fact, there was such a disparity of personality between then and now, he was beginning to wonder if she had a twin.
Or was what he’d witnessed in Albany nothing more than a lark on her part?
“Two clubs.” James threw out his card, noting the twist of Prim’s lips and the look, irritated as it was, that she threw his way with some pleasure. Good. He shouldn’t be the only one disappointed by the other, should he?
Since the conversation he’d hoped for from her was unlikely to be forthcoming, he turned to Jack Astor to his left in the west position as the play continued. “Any news from the committee in Albany?”
“None, yet,” Astor answered, smoothing his full mustache down with a forefinger. “Patience, MacKintosh, these things take time. Four spades. ”
Aye, he knew it. “I’ve never gotten into the habit of cooling my heels.”
“It’s not as if you haven’t other things to occupy your time,” the real estate magnate said.
“Gentlemen, please.” Mrs. Astor’s protest wasn’t unexpected. She was of the firm opinion that business had its place. It wasn’t at her parties.
“Apologies, Mother,” Astor offered.
Mrs. Eames set her card tidily in the center of the table. “Four clubs.”
“My investments with Rockefeller and Flagler show tremendous return potential,” James said, as Mrs. Astor played her card. “He’s almost ninety percent of the market in petroleum now. New uses for oil being dreamt up every day. Three hearts.” He bid just to be contrary and was rewarded with another exasperated look from Mrs. Eames. “There are more than a hundred uses for it now. The industry is growing by leaps and bounds.”
A flash of amethyst, eyes wide with interest. Mrs. Eames’s lips parted slightly before she caught her lower lip between her teeth and worried it. Her gaze was once again cast downward but not before she darted another look to the men at the nearby table.
What was that about, James wondered. “It’s been a marvel, really,” he went on. “With the expansion of electric lighting and the reduced demand for kerosene, there was a radical slump in the industry, but looking at the future of automotives—”
“Mr. MacKintosh, if you please.”
James hid a grin. “My apologies, Mrs. Astor. I’m not one for long silences and we’ve already covered the opera season.”
“Don’t upset yourself over a bit of conversation, Mother,” Astor grumbled, unfolding his long legs and shifting in his chair. James didn’t blame him, the tiny chairs were bloody uncomfortable for men their size. “Got to talk about something if a gentleman’s expected to partake in such a dreary game.”
Glad someone was able to say what he was thinking, James hoisted his glass in silent toast to his friend. It took a brave man to stand up to a woman as formidable as Caroline Astor.
More of one to continue the conversation as well.
“You’ve invested in Wharton’s nickel and coal mining efforts as well, haven’t you, MacKintosh?”
“I had but recently considered getting out of them. The laborers are unionizing, demanding better conditions. Unlike some others, I can’t say I blame them for protesting. They’ve reason.” James looked at Prim who was studying her cards intently, but she was listening just as attentively. He knew she was. “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Eames?”
