Fear and curiosity twisted about her neck like the jewelry she wore. She looped the heavy cord of beads about her pinkie and waited. Truth, even a horrible one, always came out, like Papa’s affair.
“Yes, getting married to a respectable young man is all she talks about,” he said.
Her sketchbook dropped again, slipping from the crook of her arm to the floor with a splat. She froze. Papa’s study was several feet away, opposite Mama’s parlor. Either could hear her, demand her time, further ruining her already ruined day, but worse, make her miss her appointment and let Frederica down. Her friend counted on her. It would hurt her heart too much to disappoint her.
But how could she leave and not know more of Papa’s deal-making?
So Ester waited, clutching the milk-white trim at her back, her nails sinking into the raised plaster fleur-de-lis rimming the hall of the family’s Cheapside townhome. It wasn’t Cheapside proper, but as close as Father could move them. Croome money wasn’t enough to erase the limitations of Papa’s dark hands.
“Yes. My son, Charles will be pleased, too.” The second voice was masculine, but lighter, without an ounce of richness or gravitas, just pure smugness. “He’ll ask her tonight.”
Mama’s party was tonight.
Mother’s special celebration to honor Nineteen Fournier was turning into an engagement party. Ester scratched her brow, resettled her trim gray bonnet over her thick locks. There was only one of Papa’s business partners with a son named Charles. Could it be Charles Jordan? She shuddered at the notion of marrying the known womanizer. No. This engagement couldn’t happen, not at Mama’s party. Not ever.
Heart pounding like it would break free of her ribs, she risked it flopping out from her stays and bent to pick up her treasured book. She tugged the worn spine to her bosom like it was a shield and covered her soul. She was one month from one and twenty and hadn’t considered marrying. Not seriously. She’d been more involved in helping her friend Frederica craft a newspaper advertisement for a husband. That girl needed a good situation in the worst way and was to meet her first serious candidate today, with Ester as chaperone.
There was hope. One always had to have hope. The Croomes had been blessed by hope. How else could the family business grow without it? How else could they have come up from living above a warehouse to having a home? How else could they have taken this rundown place and made it bloom into a fashion plate?
Maybe Ester could hope to change his mind. Papa was reasonable, and until Christmas last year they’d had a perfect, doting relationship. Clenching her fingers in and out, she hesitated then tapped on Papa’s door. Before her fourth knock, he answered.
Josiah Croome was a tall man with thick, jet-black hair, parted on top. He tugged on the lapel of his sleek lapis-blue tailcoat. Endowed by God, he’d used his large dark hands and smart ebony eyes to build the family textile business from nothing. But Papa couldn’t use those big palms to give her future away.
“Ester,” he said with a toothy, winning smile. “Just the young woman I wanted to see.”
He tried to claim her arm, but she stepped back. “Papa,” she said in her honeyed tone. “Could you come out here for a moment?”
A frown appeared on his face, but he nodded. “Mr. Jordan, I’ll be right back.”
When he closed the door, Ester exhaled. “Father, no. I can’t.”
He folded his arms and stared way down at her short five-foot-four height. “You heard?”
“Yes, and I won’t marry Charles Jordan, Papa. I can’t.”
“You met him once, Ester. You said the meeting was pleasant.”
“I was being polite. He’s horrible, and that evening cost me seeing Arthur Bex’s last performance as Romeo.”
With the wide span of his palm stretched over his face from ear to ear, he sighed. “Not the actor again. Ester, you talk about this Bex every day, as if he were truly your lover. Stop this. The man doesn’t know you exist, and if he is as wonderful as you say, he isn’t looking for a bride in the old Huguenot section of London.”
Papa was being diplomatic, but it was his way of saying important men didn’t go looking for Blackamoor brides.
A little unnerved by his use of the word “lover” and Bex in the same sentence, she clutched at the buttons of her short jacket. “You know how I love Bex’s art. His theatrical performances are outstanding, and I missed one because of nasty Charles Jordan—a boy who never reads, knows nothing of Shakespeare, and needs a variety of women to stave off boredom. He cannot be a good husband to me.”
“Ester, this is true life. You’ll be one and twenty. I must make sure that you are well provided for, and Charles Jordan is a man you can build a life with.”
“How can that be? Your choice is a womanizer. He’s—” She bit her lip. Why would infidelity matter to Papa? The letters Ester had found last Christmas proved her father was an adulterer, too. She lowered her tone, looked to the polished floorboards. “He’s not right for me.”
Father claimed Ester’s fingers, his big, meaty palms surrounding her thin ones. “You don’t know what is right. You’re young and sheltered. I’ve made mistakes, but this isn’t one. The matter is settled, Ester. Tonight, at your mother’s party, your engagement will be announced.”
It sounded like a commandment from on high in Papa’s deep, Moses voice, but he’d have to part the Red Sea or the Thames to make her believe that Charles was her fate.
“Come, Ester. Do your duty for the family. Be nice to Mr. Jordan. We are a respected family, too. We need to act like it.”
Her pride kicked in, and she stood up straight. She’d act the part of a submissive daughter until she could plan a way to stop this, to become her own Moses and find a space, a promised land where she could choose her own husband. Someone who’d be truthful and not mock their vows of faithfulness.
Her father opened the door to his sand-colored study. The etchings of the old Huguenot fleur-de-lis were in here, too, making it feel stately—and the decisions made inside, so final.
