by Robyn Carr
“It’s going to be a struggle not to let them see how sentimental I am,” she told Fletcher.
“You’ve had plenty of practice at that, madam. And I’ll be there.”
“I wonder if he’s the least curious about my visit?”
“Don’t expect anything, madam. It will be difficult for you to react when he does something unexpected if you prepare yourself too well. Keep yourself fluid--keep your mind wide open to any possibility. People like Montaine succeed by doing the unexpected.”
The coach slowed in front of the mansion. “You must have been hell in the courtroom,” she said to her personal solicitor.
“Ah, yes,” he replied, jumping out ahead of her. “But as I told you, it takes it’s toll after a time. This is much better work.”
Amanda had prepared herself for a feeling of nostalgia when she entered her old home and used all of her conscious energy to cover it. The maid who answered their knock curtsied and said, “Good afternoon, Lady Nesbitt,” and Amanda was impressed with the mannerly greeting. She remembered Wilson as uncouth. This was an improvement. “Mr. Montaine is waiting for you in his study. If you’ll follow me.”
“As if I don’t know the way,” she whispered to Fletcher when the maid preceded them.
As they walked through the house, she looked through open doors to see the mark of the parvenu. Gilt and possessions. The house had become cluttered with crystal, china figurines, gilded tables, filigree fixtures, gilded picture frames and too much art, linen and lace and gold and gold plate. It would be difficult to pass through any room without upsetting the gimcracks that littered every shelf, table, and mantle. Rather than tasteful, quality items in an orderly design, Wilson had crushed too much of what he owned into the rooms. It was not an uncommon sight in the homes of the nouveau riche. Although the maid walked ahead of her, Amanda did not stare. She had learned how to observe without moving her head or eyes very much. To notice wealth was to give away a yearning for it. She was practiced in this mien of noblesse disdain.
Despite her efforts to follow Fletcher’s advice about remaining fluid, she knew why the study had been chosen. Wilson wanted to confine her with the portrait he kept and find out her business. He must have already surmised this was not really a social call.
She had forgotten to warn Fletcher. “Don’t look at the portrait,” she whispered just in time. The maid tapped lightly on the study door, opening it.
The study was cloudy with cigar smoke, possibly a deliberate attempt to make it unpleasant, but Amanda did not react. This was easier for her because of the years of Bertie’s pipe. Wilson stood from behind his desk as she entered. He had put on pounds. She remembered his gluttony for all things. It looked as though his table had recently become more alluring; the buttons on his brocade vest were strained.
She held out a hand in greeting. “Hello, Wilson.”
He placed his cigar in a crystal dish and bowed slightly rather than taking her hand over the expanse of the desk. “Amanda, Lady Nesbitt,” he said. “You’ve hardly changed a bit.”
Looking at him, little changed as he was, she nearly exploded into laughter but caught herself. He had always had the most horrid bunch of hair on his face and head. Black and silver, it was bushy and unkempt. His long sideburns fluffed out of his cheeks, his mustache was out of control, and his eyebrows could stand a combing. “You’ve always been such a pleasant liar, but never a good one,” she said. “Your continuing prosperity is quite well known, Wilson. Congratulations. Please, meet my solicitor, Fletcher Drake.”
Wilson extended his hand to Fletcher, man to man. “Why bring a solicitor, Amanda?”
“Fletcher serves many purposes, not just legal. He’s been with me for so long that he’s almost an appendage. I hardly go abroad without him.”
“Sit down then,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”
“It’s good to see the house in such fine order, Wilson. It brings back memories.”
“I’m sure it does. Shall we proceed?”
“Is my visit badly timed? Are you busy with something? I could--”
“This is not a visit, Amanda, and we both know it. Let’s get straight to the point, and then maybe we’ll have a brandy.”
Amanda relaxed in the chair in front of his desk. It had once been Richard’s. She wanted to caress it…and could not. Would not. Nothing that Wilson owned that had once belonged to her would experience her touch of longing. She was determined to forget all that.
“I thought it was reasonable to come here first, Wilson, to tell you personally that I am reestablished in Philadelphia. I wanted to tell you so that you won’t be surprised by the fact. I have already contacted some of my old friends, and we might encounter mutual acquaintances. It seemed prudent to be sure we’re on agreeable terms.”
By the way his eyebrows lifted, she believed he found this lie impossible to believe. She proceeded just the same.
“There are no hostilities,” she added.
“I never did anything wrong,” he said.
“When I left this house…at our last discussion…I swore revenge. I want to tell you myself that I have long since given up that notion.”
“In the end, I was more than generous,” he said.
“In your own way.” He had discovered Richard Bellmont’s posthumous financial calamity, Amanda’s desperation to pay the debts, and bought the house for almost exactly the amount Amanda needed to clear her name. Then, at the last moment, he had offered her ten thousand dollars for her portrait. It hung in the study still. “Why?”
“Why have you never asked me before now?” he countered.
“Perhaps I was afraid of the answer.” She let her head turn for the first time to regard the painting. Amanda at age thirty. She had almost forgotten how flattering it was. Fletcher, loyal to the last, did not look.
“You were afraid I kept it because it’s beautiful? Because I thought you beautiful?” Wilson asked. She did not react. His voice was deep and scratchy from many years of cigars. “I had to know I could beat you, always been as much a game to me as a way to make money--getting the best price. It gave me no pleasure to see you suffer, and there was no other buyer at any price. When I think about a sentimental investment, I look at that face and remember what happened to you. I give a second thought.”
“You could have saved me some dignity by giving me a little more for the house and letting me keep the painting. Richard had it done.”
“You can have it now if you like. Free. I think the lesson ran its course.”
“No, thank you. I frankly like my face better now. It’s less pretty perhaps, but it is to my liking just the same. Why did you think I came to see you?”
“To ask to buy the house.”
“Would you have given me a price?”
He laughed loudly, leaning back in his chair and picking up his cigar. “Oh, yes! A price that would amaze you!”
Amanda smiled with every ounce of charm she could muster. She could not dredge up a scrap of liking for him, but there was a grudging respect. He was a tenacious old devil. Never bested by emotion, never disadvantaged by affection. She had wished, quite often, that she had had some of those qualities when it mattered, before Richard Bellmont had exhausted her fortune. Before he died. She had been in a difficult place for a woman; she had admired him so thoroughly, it had never occurred to her he had had flaws. Even now she would not change those things she respected about him; he was a powerful abolitionist, a great advocate of free education, a staunch proponent of laws to protect women and children--but what she would have given for a little financial sense, a little healthy cynicism!
“Are you ever fair?” she asked him.
“Fair? Always,” he answered. “But I am no fool.”
“Wilson,” she said, leaning toward him, “I’d like to meet your son. Is he here?”
Again he put aside his cigar. “I’d like to know the reason before I call him. When your letter arrived asking if you could visit and mee
t my son, I asked him what he knew about you. He’d never heard of you except from me. I suppose he’s asked around, but he doesn’t understand your curiosity.”
“I’m sure he knows nothing about me. He has a passing interest in my granddaughter, however. I would like to introduce myself.”
Wilson’s face became expressionless, a quality that had proved good in business. But Amanda had a good eye; she noticed the shrinking of his pupils. He knew a few things about his son. Now, she wondered, where did he stand? She would know shortly if Wilson thought it prudent to be as much an opportunist in romance as in business. She had heard he once divorced a wife.
He rose rather clumsily because of his bulk. The man must fill a Pullman car, she thought, his size was so formidable. Not just wide, but tall, and with that monstrous hair he presented a wild and awesome figure.
He sent the maid for Dale and went back to his chair, waiting silently, brooding. He was too clever to be fooled any longer; he must have guessed her business. She had to remember what Fletcher had advised because she couldn’t imagine Wilson’s position on an issue like this. Wilson took what he wanted. Why not his son?
When the young man arrived, Amanda was momentarily relieved to discover his appearance was far more bearable than that of his father. She judged him: he was handsome, well groomed, but his eyes, narrow and deep set, looked a little conniving to her. But she smiled very pleasantly as he kissed the back of her hand. Fletcher stood from his chair, shook Dale’s hand, then positioned himself against the bookcase behind Amanda’s chair. No doubt he stole a look at that painting now, but Amanda couldn’t see his face. “Please,” Amanda invited, “sit down. I’d like to get to know you a little bit.”
“I’m flattered, Lady Nesbitt, but a little confused,” Dale confessed.
“Oh, I’m sure you are. But don’t worry. Philadelphia was once my home and will be again from now on. We have many mutual friends here. I’m sure your father has told you how he acquired this house and land. I’m afraid my husband, poor Richard, lost all our money, and I was forced to sell. Your father got a good bargain. But I’ve been fortunate enough to more than recover from that sad circumstance. Unfortunately, I’m widowed again. I think I will have to be done with marrying.”
Dale laughed lightly, stealing a glance at his father. Wilson did not move. He observed shrewdly.
“My husband left me enough to reestablish myself here, with my friends. I’ve missed them. I am home, finally, for good.”
Dale nodded, waiting. He grew up with the story of this house. He knew painfully well that the Bellmonts were once the richest, most prominent in society, then were suddenly deposed. If she had more than recovered, he was chatting with one of the wealthiest women he’d ever met. The Bellmont name was, in its time, better known and more respected than any.
“I’m well acquainted with the Sinclairs, the Lancasters, the Towerys. You have some young friends in those families. In fact, I’ve been told that you might be accused of aspiring to Dorthea Lancaster’s hand in marriage.”
Dale laughed in good humor. “I’m afraid you put me at a disadvantage, Lady Nesbitt. I’ve been keeping company with Dorthea, but we haven’t made any agreement about marriage.”
“Good, good. Then I’m not too late! I’d be honored if you would consider my granddaughter.”
His eyes brightened slightly at the prospect of a family even more prestigious than the Lancasters.
“She’s very beautiful. Very charming. You could not be embarrassed to have her on your arm. She could do you credit.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Dale said. “You must understand that Dorthea--”
“Dorthea will understand, Dale, I assure you.”
“Oh, Lady Nesbitt, I’m not certain she would. She has come to expect me to play escort--”
“Say you’ll consider this, Dale,” she said, her voice wheedling and persuasive.
“Certainly I would be honored to make the acquaintance of your granddaughter, my lady, however--”
“But you’ve already met.” A flicker of doubt crossed his eyes--just what Amanda was looking for. He would not have missed a young woman more beautiful, more prominent, and even richer than Dorthea. “Her name is Patricia Armstrong.”
There was momentary shock as she hit her mark. It took him a long moment to recover. “I’m sorry,” he said, less agreeable now. “Again, you have me at a disadvantage.”
“I’m sure I don’t, Dale. It was in July, I believe. The day her mother and sister attended the Centennial fair and you had convinced her to steal away with you. You took her to the theater to see Shakespeare, then to dinner, and finally to tour your home. Specifically, I am told, to see the room prepared for your wife.”
Dale decided, wisely, to lean back in his chair, lock his fingers together across his waist, and say nothing.
“It took a little doing, but I was even able to find a person or two who saw the two of you together. I dine at Tiffin’s myself, quite frequently.”
“What do you want, Lady Nesbitt?” Dale asked.
“Fortunately there is no hurry. The holidays will soon be upon us and we will all be terribly busy. My family will be doubly burdened--we have so many friends to visit. And of course I want Patricia to be gracefully introduced to all our mutual friends. It needn’t get around how well the two of you already know each other. I think a wedding…perhaps in the spring, should do.”
“You don’t think things are as simple as that, do you? You don’t really think you can--”
“Dale, what I think is this; I think my granddaughter has made a despicable choice for herself. Even to consider accepting marriage with a man who tricked her, took advantage of her, and then dismissed her as you did seems the worst horror to me. But you are the man to stand responsible if Patricia is willing to accept you.”
“Father? Father, I--”
Wilsonstood from his chair, cutting his son off. “Where can you be found, Lady Nesbitt?”
“The Grafton Hotel.” Fletcher had an embossed calling card ready to flick toward Wilson as quick as a magician. “You may call on me, or Lady Nesbitt, depending on your preference. Madam?”
Amanda stood. “Once again, Wilson, it is good to see that you continue to prosper.” She turned to Dale. “Do give my regards to Dorthea. I’m sure you’ll be talking with her soon.”
She turned to Wilson. “My earlier declaration stands. I want only goodwill between us. If possible.”
“We’ll have a brandy another time,” he said shortly.
“Perhaps, Wilson. Good day.” She left the study, Fletcher close beside her, and they found the maid ready to hold the door for their departure. When they were in the coach Fletcher asked, “When do you imagine we’ll be hearing from the Montaines?”
“It shouldn’t be long,” she said, beginning to feel exhausted. “Unless Dale has cuts and bruises to heal before he can show his face.”
“How do you feel?”
She was quiet for a moment. “Stricken,” she said at long last. What a dirty piece of business that was.
Lilly was fond of looking out the window into Rittenhouse Square for many reasons. One of them was Andrew Devon. She watched his clothing change from thin wool to a dapper overcoat with a leather collar as the weather became colder. She knew why he was there.
He was looking for her. Her grandmother had explained the Montaine family quite thoroughly.
Andrew Devon had been taken under Wilson Montaine’s wing when he was an orphaned boy without resources. Montaine himself had been an orphan who made good in property by way of determination, cleverness, and a few inside clues to property values he had learned while sharpening knives in the kitchens of rich Philadelphians. Andrew Devon, it was said, had become a protégé of sorts, though he now owned a factory, a carpet manufacturing business. He was married to a beautiful woman who brought this business to their marriage. Wilson Montaine regarded Andrew as one of the family; the old millionaire appeared more proud of A
ndrew than of his own son.
Lilly never let on that she knew Andrew Devon.
Lilly did not rush into the square the first time she saw him there…or the tenth. A new snow, swirling lightly around the square, gathered on his shoulders and hat. Her mother, grandmother, and sister sat before the hearth making lists for holiday parties to which old family friends would be invited. Lilly let the drape fall and turned away from the window. “I’m going for a walk,” she told her family.
“Don’t you want to help plan?” Patricia asked.
“No, thank you. Just tell me what I’m to do and I’ll do it.”
“Lilly,” Amanda asked, “are you all right, darling?”
“Yes, Grandmother. Only bored.”
“Don’t worry, love. We’ll be finished with all this nonsense soon.”
“Nonsense?” Patricia asked hotly. “It’s only my entree to society and my wedding! Why, if you all think it’s--”
“If you shriek one more time, Patricia, I will wash my hands of this entire--”
Lilly left them. She walked across the street to the square, her hands in her fur muff, her hair tucked into a fur cap that almost covered her ears. Her cheeks were pink, but this time it was from the cold. Lilly had almost completely stopped blushing. She walked toward him and stopped when she stood in front of him. “Hello, Andrew,” she said.
Those days in the park were so long ago--all that talk of philosophers and mannerly women. His eyes did not brighten with playful enthusiasm now. The Dublin green darkened, and his smile was melancholy. The thing that had confused her last spring was a little too obvious in the cold winter light. She no longer had trouble distinguishing friendliness from desire. She remembered when she would have been so happy to see desire in his eyes. “Lilly. I wondered when you’d come.”