“He’s not,” Delia had chimed in, as if the three of them were in it together, and they’d both looked at her and laughed. “Well, he’s not,” the maid had insisted. “Mr. Foure will come back from France and be ever so pleased for you both.”
“Perhaps we can go to dinner at Amity’s home tomorrow,” Beatrice had mused.
“You feel like celebrating, do you?” he’d asked her.
“Yes.” Her eyes were sparkling like sun on the water. “It would be nice to share our news and to do so at St. James’s Place.”
He had kissed her hand before leaving her and Delia at the shop door. Back at his hotel, Greer entered through the front vestibule because it was a treat each time he did. Nodding to the porters who congregated, ever ready to help, Greer traversed the main entrance hall. Taking a left, he eschewed the lifts for the staircase. As he passed the reception office, a porter stopped him.
“You have a letter from America,” the man said and held out a silver tray.
Greer read the return address, seeing it was from his uncle. The hotel had its own postal office and a telegraph, which he’d used to let his mother’s brother know where he was when he’d first settled in. He couldn’t help wondering why his uncle hadn’t responded in kind, rather than using the slow route of mail by sea.
Noting with glee there was also a single Rare Confectionery chocolate on the tray, perched on top of one of their familiar white-and-blue cards, he stuffed the envelope in his pocket before taking both the chocolate and the business card.
Thanking the man, he pulled a coin out of his pocket and gave it to him.
“The lift has arrived, sir,” the porter said. With a shrug, Greer decided not to be rude but to take the hydraulic elevator the hotel was so proud of.
In the lift, he popped the sweet into his mouth. A burst of deliciousness exploded on his tongue, and he sighed, thinking of his toffee-maker.Beatrice was going to be his!
He didn’t feel an ounce of regret for letting the Scottish estate go. And he hoped his distant cousin would somehow overcome the legalities and take it on, renovations and all. For his part, Greer would have a modern townhouse in London with his beautiful bride. Hopefully, they would be blessed with a large brood, and if they wanted, they would buy a modest country home for the months they wished to escape the city, as he heard the nobility liked to do.
Feeling blessed as he entered his suite of rooms, he was greeted by Miss Sylvia and one of her long feline sentences of meows. When he walked over to the writing desk, she jumped up onto it, scattering the newspaper he’d left there. He supposed she was ready for a walk.
“Wait until you see your new home,” he told her, having become quite used to chatting to his fluffy companion as if she understood him. In truth, their closeness began on the ship when he realized he was leaving behind everything else from his old life, and that Miss Sylvia was the sole connection. He rubbed her head the way she liked.
“Three stories for you to rule and a walled-in garden to keep you safe. And the loveliest woman to fuss over you. Over both of us, in fact.”
He slit open the letter with the silver opener provided by the hotel and scanned it in the light streaming in the window. His mother’s brother wished him well, and apologized for the bad news he was about to impart. And then Greer felt his world tilt as the wordsruined,tragedy, andworthless stocksleaped out at him.
“You already know how ’73 rippled through the banks, with the collapse of Cooke & Company and the Northern Pacific Railway debacle. Last year’s railroad strike damaged the company more than I imagined,” his uncle wrote, filling Greer in on the hit to their stocks, their labor force, and even how passenger use had fallen off. “Grant left the country rudderless, and while Hayes is working on all fronts, he has a hundred fires to put out. The war your father died in is still being fought, with the South wanting all troops out and an end to reconstruction. Cotton prices have been cut in half. The president is still dealing with the silver coinage issue, and the clamoring to retire greenbacks grows stronger daily. Steel production is increasing, but prices are assuredly not. In short, we are in a mess.”
Greer took a breath. Even with his railroad stocks being all but worthless, he surely must have a large balance in his bank account. He would head to Barclay’s Bank on Lombard Street immediately and have them wire his New York City bank.
“Meow,” said Miss Sylvia.
His uncle concluded with an apology for not sending word via telegraph, but the exorbitant expense had seemed untenable at a hundred dollars for ten words. “Besides,” his uncle wrote, “how could I have told you so much in ten words? I am sorry. I hope you make a life for yourself there in Great Britain.”
“Meow,” said Miss Sylvia again.
Even with all his dreams suddenly seeming precarious, and while his mind started to mull over the ramifications, Greer wouldn’t shirk his obligations to his mother’s precious cat. Dropping the letter onto the desk, he was at least thankful his uncle’s missive had arrived before he’d attempted to buy the townhouse.
Hooking the cat’s leash onto her collar, he picked her up and carried her from the hotel.
