“Ester, say hello to Mr. Jordan.”
She fixed her frowning face, hid her sketchbook behind her back, and followed her father in. “Hello to Mr. Jordan.”
Papa stepped near his walnut desk, a reward for when the mantua-makers had started ordering his fabrics for the new Burlingame Arcade. “My daughter, Mr. Jordan, is a treasure with a good sense of humor. She’ll make any man proud.”
The man stared at her, reached for her, and Ester froze.
Bashfulness clamping her lips, she couldn’t reply, not under Jordan’s beady gaze. She lowered her gaze to Papa’s orderly desk and spied the upside-down parchment that read Marriage Contract.
Now she truly couldn’t breathe.
Mr. Jordan with his short height of five-foot-five, lowered his palm and tugged on his silken gray waistcoat. “My son, Charles, is made of quite good material, if I may say so to the fabric king.” He bowed his balding head in Ester’s direction, and she resisted the urge to look behind her for some other girl to be the recipient of this tragedy.
“Charles will be here tonight for your mother’s party. He may have a question to ask you. Something that will change your life a month from now, on your birthday.”
Gloating at her sentence of a horrid marriage was uncalled for. No matter how much she wished to believe this was a bad dream, that she still lay in her canopied bed, sketching dresses for Frederica, dreaming of reciting lines with Arthur Bex, Ester had to admit she was horribly awake and tonight she’d be horribly engaged to a womanizer.
“Ester, the Jordans are an honorable family. They’ve perfected gas-lighting as good as anywhere in London. My warehouses can run multiple shifts. More productivity, more jobs.”
“And more money.” Mr. Jordan winked and bared teeth in his crooked smile.
Papa chuckled. “It’s a perfect match.”
For the Croome business, maybe, but not for the business of her heart. Ester refused to nod, didn’t want to give any form of consent. She tugged her gray-colored gloves tighter. “Well…I… I’m meeting a friend in town. Mr. Jordan. Papa…pleasant meeting.”
Her father picked up the spectacles he used for contract writing. “Ester, you should stay and become more acquainted with Mr. Jordan. There are ten-thousand reasons to be more acquainted.”
Her dowry? The price on her head—and they said enslavement was finished in England. How could Papa expect her to want this? She wasn’t like Mama. She wasn’t like her sister Ruth, who had been happy with her arranged marriage in the country.
“Daughter, say something. I know you are terribly shy, but Mr. Jordan will be family.”
Why did he expect a reply when he’d taken away her options? Ester had nothing for her father except a bucket of unshed tears. “Good day, gentlemen.” She turned on wobbly legs and headed for the door. At least she stayed composed and held her voice even. Surely, she looked in order, not shredding apart like poorly tacked-on ribbons.
She put her back upon the door and ensured that it closed, that no one followed. The great actor Arthur Bex would be marginally proud of her performance. If only this were a play. Then that would’ve been the scene where the villains won, and her victory was bound for the last act.
If only.
“She’ll come around, Jordan. Just like her mother, Ester is level-headed.” The statement was harsh, vibrating the panel door as if her father knew she was still within hearing distance.
Like my mother?
The comment was a final slap, and it shook Ester more deeply than the idea of a bad arranged marriage. She wasn’t like her mother, not in any way that mattered. It was an awful guilt-laden thought, but the sentiment was there, always there, more so since last Christmas.
Clancy, Papa’s butler, slipped into the hall with a shiny silver tray of teacakes. “Miss Ester, you need to run on. You’re going to be late. That Miss Burghley’s going to start her trouble without you.”
She half smiled at the man. He was tall and proud in his garnet livery. Papa had him powder his gray hair so he’d be as fine as the servants in Cheapside or even Mayfair. “Miss Ester, are you well?”
Ester wanted to say no, but that would make the man call a fancy physician and she’d not be able to go meet her friend. “I’m good. And you are right about Miss Burghley and trouble. I need to hurry. Can you see about the carriage, so I won’t miss a moment? I’ll take the tray in to Mama. I assume that’s where these are heading. Father doesn’t like the delicate treats. He says they are too small for his hands.”
“You’re not supposed to help me. Since you moved to this big house, you’ve been trying. It’s not your place anymore. If I can’t do it, there’s an upstairs maid or Mrs. Fitterwall who can. I’ll set these refreshments in the parlor for Mrs. Croome and Mrs. Jordan, then send the footman for your carriage.”
She watched Clancy knock and then slip into the parlor. He worked too hard, but he seemed proud to be of service, proud that his employer, a man of color, could achieve so much. But how could Clancy ignore the unhappiness that seemed to suffocate this place?
Ester pulled her sketchbook to her stomach and moved to the front door. From the side glass, she looked at the calm street, the occasional carriage trotting by. If she were bold, she’d hitch herself to the back of one.If I were bold.
Clancy came out of Mama’s parlor. “Mrs. Croome is asking for you. I’ll go send the footman for the carriage. You won’t miss that trouble. Go to your mother.”
She nodded and went back into the small hall. She heard Papa and Mr. Jordan’s laughter as she entered the adjacent parlor. The rich room of burgundy-papered wall was devoid of sound, so different from the room next door. Ester walked inside to the tapestry-covered couch where her mother sat.
