“But my mother—” Thomas began. “My father’s suic—death is so recent.”
“Miss Hutchinson will take care of her. You don’t have time to dawdle. You have to marry immediately.”
Oliver placed the papers in Thomas’s reluctant hands. “Trust me, you have no other choice.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re not grateful yet,” Oliver said knowingly, and clapped Thomas on the back. “But you will be soon. American girls are full of snap and dash; you’ll be swept off of your feet.”
“I thought men were supposed to do the sweeping off of feet,” he said. “Shall I have Hibbert make up a room for you?”
“No, no. I told Lois that I would take the afternoon train back.”
Thomas smiled with relief that his cousin would not be staying. Not that he didn’t enjoy Oliver’s company, but he was embarrassed at the lack of servants and the general state of disarray that the house was in. Oliver literally lived in a palace that not only was twice the size of Ashdown Abbey but had three times the servants. There was nothing in Birkhall Palace that was not made of the very finest materials, and Ashdown Abbey paled in comparison.
He walked Oliver to the front of the house, where the hired coach was waiting. His valet, Mr. Thayne, playing the role of a footman, opened the door for Oliver. Thomas watched the hired coach depart down the gravel drive until it turned onto the road.
“Thayne,” Thomas said quietly. “Would you please pack our things?”
“Where are we going, sir?”
“New York City.”
3
After four weeks, Cordelia hated everything about her bedchamber. She hated the circular walls that were made of blue silk. She despised the floor installed with the finest Italian marble. She loathed the moldings that were gilded with real gold and the Venetian mirrors that hung over her bureau. She no longer sat on the expensive brass and mahogany furniture but on the cold floor. She lived in the finest prison on earth. All she could do was stare down from her balcony at the people below, living their lives.
Hoping. Praying to see Stuyvesant’s handsome brown eyes and infectious smile. Waiting for him to return home to her.
The Wilson twins had come to see her twice. It was impossible not to recognize the sisters even from afar. Alida was tall and thin, with light blonde hair and Julia was short and curvaceous, with dark brown hair. Both times they’d come to visit, they’d been ushered inside. Her mother must have talked with them, for Cordelia was never called from her room. A half hour later, the twins had left. After two visits without seeing her, they must have given up trying. Neither Wilson girl was overly fond of her mother, who had called Julia “plump” at Cordelia’s eighteenth birthday party.
Lucy Miller came five times during the first week of Cordelia’s confinement and was rebuffed each time by the butler. Her mother had never approved of their friendship. Every day since, Lucy walked down Fifth Avenue at ten o’clock in the morning with her maid and waved up at Cordelia. Lucy’s bright red hair and infectious smile were the only light in her life. All Cordelia could do was wave back. She longed to shout to her friend. To beg for help, but if she made a scene, her mother would no doubt restrict her from the balcony, and Cordelia couldn’t bear not to have any sunlight and fresh air.
She stood up, her long hair falling loose past her waist. Cordelia tiptoed across the room and gently opened the door, hoping that no one would be on the other side. But the footman stood as sentry, guarding her exit. The expression on his handsome face was one of pity, but also of resolve. Peter would not let her out and she couldn’t blame him. If he did, he would lose his position and be sent off without a reference. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. She closed the door.
Cordelia had to get out of her blue room or she would go mad. She flung open the double doors to her balcony and leaned over the railing, breathing in the fresh air. Her long hair tumbled over the ledge and she laughed—a hysterical little laugh.
She was truly Rapunzel now. She was locked in her tower and forced to stay there until her handsome prince came to save her. Or rather, until she promised to marry whomever her mother selected.
If only he wasn’t in South America. Stuyvesant would have loved to play the role of the handsome prince. Cordelia gave another hysterical little laugh that turned into a sob. In her heart she knew that he would help her if there were some way to get him a message. A letter. She fell to her knees and buried her face into her hands. She didn’t have a paper or a pen with which to write one. She, Cordelia Violet Jones, heiress to over two million dollars, did not have enough pennies to purchase a stamp.
Cordelia grabbed a fistful of her hair. She had to escape this room. If she could make it to Lucy’s or the twins’ house, they would help her get a letter Stuyvesant. He would surely return immediately from his trip if he knew she was in trouble.
She looked across at the balcony Stuyvesant had climbed over to see her. If only he could climb over now. Or that she could climb to him. But Stuyvesant was much taller and stronger than she was and that was before she’d been locked in a room for over a month with no exercise. And even if she could get to the opposite balcony, the doors would be locked. Stuyvesant’s entire family was out of town. There would most likely be a few servants left to watch the house, but whether or not they would be near enough to hear her or help seemed doubtful.
Cordelia sat up and wiped off her wet face with the edge of her sleeve. Her tears were not helping. She needed to use her mind. Pulling herself to her feet, she looked over the balcony—it was over a twenty-five-foot drop. She would be dead if she attempted it. What she really needed was a ladder. Something besides hair to climb down on.
Stumbling back to her room, Cordelia pulled the coverlet and the satin sheets off her bed. She tied them all together with knots and the end she secured to the balcony. She threw her makeshift ladder over; the bottom did not quite reach the ground, but she could jump the last three or four feet. Her long hair fell forward—it would only be in the way, so she quickly braided it and went back into her room for a ribbon. Her eyes fell on her jewelry box and her five-strand pearl necklace. She would need money. With shaking hands, she clasped the pearls around her neck and placed diamond earrings in her ears.
Cordelia walked back to the balcony and put one leg over the top of it. She held her breath. Her heart was racing and her hands were sweaty. What if she fell? What if she slipped? She resolved only to think of Stuyvesant. The feel of his finger gently tracing her collarbone until she was weak in the knees. The pressure of his mouth on hers, parting her lips with a gentle lick of his tongue. She could do this for him. Holding on tightly to the material, she lifted her other leg over the balcony to the small ledge on the other side. Gripping the sheet even tighter, she stepped off the ledge.
For a second, she felt weightless.
Finally free.
Her weight pulled against her arms and hands, and she began to slide down the sheets to the first knot, the second knot, and finally to the bottom of the coverlet. Her legs dangled beneath her, not quite far enough to reach the cement sidewalk below. Before she could prepare herself for the drop, her fingers slipped.
Cordelia’s feet hit the sidewalk, but the force of the impact caused her to fall forward onto her hands. She took a deep breath and tried to get to her feet, but one of her ankles refused to hold her weight. Both of her hands were scratched and bleeding. She reached for the wrought iron fence and pulled herself to her feet. Shifting her weight onto the foot that wasn’t sore, she dragged her other foot behind her and managed to walk around the block and out of sight of her home, when a police officer came up to her. He was a burly man, with a black mustache that reached from one side of his face to the other.
