“You mean everything that is worth anything?”
Mama stopped aligning the forks. “Mrs. Jordan thinks you are a tad bit spirited for her son. Charles Jordan is a handsome young man. How well his hands will look on yours as we give you the wedding I’ve dreamed of, one bigger, even, than what I wanted for your sister.”
“Yes, Ruth had to go away with her husband. Did she try to rebel against the arrangement you and Papa made? It’s so odd they haven’t visited in two years.”
Mama moved to an adjacent table and smoothed the white linens. “She’s doing what’s best for her family. You will, too. You’re very level-headed.”
She fluttered a napkin before folding a perfect square. “The gown I’ve planned for your wedding will make you look regal. The decorations for your wedding breakfast will be perfect. This will be the most celebrated wedding. You and Jordan will do well.”
Burning inside, words and gall pitting in her throat, Ester threw up her hands. “We won’t. He’s not Arthur Bex.”
“Not the actor again? I don’t want that actor’s or any actors’handson you.”
Something in the way she said “hands,” made Ester angrier. “So, if Jordan were a mulatto like you or Miss Burghley, our hands wouldn’t match well. Or if his skin were pale like your father’s—”
The look her mother offered, blank eyes, mouth shrinking to a grim line, made Ester cringe. Her heart dove into her stomach. “I’m sorry, Mama. I’ve said too much. I didn’t mean to bring up the memories.”
Her mother lowered her head. She twisted one of her rings before latching on to a misaligned plate. “You have a mouth on you. But you know how we’ve fretted for Papa’s business dealings—that he’d shake the wronghandsand never come home.”
Ester knew. And could count on her fingers and toes, triple the times they’d feared that he’d disappear like some of their old neighbors, taught a lesson, a fatal lesson like Papa’s brother. Yes. Ester knew, and her stomach knotted, and she swallowed bile. “Sorry, Mama.”
Her mother pressed at her temples like she had a severe headache. “Tonight, we celebrate the anniversary of moving into this house. Perhaps, you and Charles can live here once you’ve married. It could help you settle into the marriage, knowing we are here to help. Mrs. Jordan thinks that will help her son settle in, too.”
“You mean, stepson.” Ester sank into one of the diner chairs and ruffled the tablecloth. The spotless silver service cast a sparkle on the pale blue walls. “The girl is barely older than me. And if that is true, that I’m so spirited, why do they want me to marry him? I can’t do this. I won’t twist up who I am.”
“Who are you, Ester?” Mama stopped poking and sliding silverware and folded her arms in their elegant emerald silk sleeves. She glared, her forest green eyes narrowing. “Let me tell you who you are. You are the daughter of Josiah Croome, the granddaughter and niece of proud women who did what they had to, to survive. You’ve been brought up educated, and now have a taste for the finest things. You’re a jewel. A man will strive to become what he sees blooming in your eyes. He’ll want to be the source of your joy and pride. So, fix your face and lift your head. Do us honor tonight.”
Ester drew back. That was the sternest thing Mama had ever said to her. “Yes, ma’am.” She pushed a fork askew. “I can’t set Charles Jordan’s table or just be ready for his bed—that is, if he chooses to be there. I refuse to turn myself into nothing for some sort of status.”
“You mean like me?” Mama pushed the fork back into position. “You were never really good at setting tables. ThatwasRuth’s gift. Maybe she can be spared from the country and come back for a visit. Maybe as soon as your wedding. That would be an excuse for her to come.” Mama twisted her rings, all gold, one with a jade stone. “You’re young, Ester. You’ve been sheltered. You don’t understand the cruelty of this world or its hard choices.”
“I’m not naive. I see the world as it is.”
There was pain in Mama’s eyes. The little flecks of gold had disappeared in the glossy wetness. “No. If you truly saw the world, you’d know how hard it is to be a good wife, a good mother. You’d know the sacrifices I’ve made for the family. Then you’d respect my choices.”
Mama turned and headed to the door, but paused in the threshold. “The Jordans are a decent, respectable family. For my party, give it a chance. Be kind tonight. I’ll see what can be done, if you are truly against this.”
Ester loved her mother, but she couldn’t respect the choice of not even getting angry at Papa, of going through Christmas dinner with smiles as if nothing had happened. She had even chastised Ester for confronting her father over the affair.
Pushing a knife to align with the crystal goblet, Ester fought her own tears. She’d do anything for her mother—anything but marry a known philanderer.
Maybe things had changed between her parents. There were signs of true affection betwixt them, like the way he kissed Mama’s cheek at breakfast. The way her eyes had lit up when he’d given her a pearl necklace for her birthday.
But Ester wasn’t her mother.
Eloping tonight was the chance to ensure that she’d never become her. Bex played men of honor on stage, men so deeply rooted in love and principles that they would die rather than be untrue. With life, there were no guarantees. Yet, the way the papers hounded him, if he were a lout, something would’ve been printed about his wild life? The break with Countess Devoors was the worst gossip she’d seen, and that wasn’t bad—just a woman throwing dishes because Bex didn’t want to go to a party.
With a sigh, Ester moved into the drawing room, which had been opened for dancing.
A servant chalked the floor as they’d seen Papa’s best client, a duchess, do. The woman had paid him well for importing special fabrics so she could be the fashion rage of the season, and the duchess had let Papa and Ester come by for a few moments before the rest of her guests had arrived. Papa had wanted to see her house. That was how he set his dreams, looking at what he wanted and pushing for it.
Walking fast, she almost leaped down the stairs. Back on the first level, she veered straight to Mama’s parlor. Once inside, Ester closed the door then settled near the window. She peeked through the leaded glass. The waves in the pane made it look like it had rained. Fournier Street was lit up with link boys to guide the carriages to the house and the mews. The place would be filled with friends for Mama’s party, but Ester wanted a light showing her the way to her dreams. What would be her path? Was it running away with Bex? What would she do if he didn’t appear?
…
In the mews near the White Horse Cellar, Arthur stood at his phaeton and pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat. It was four hours to midnight, four hours and five minutes before eloping with the future Mrs. Bex—
“There you are, Bex.”
