Читать книгу Forever a Lady - Delilah Marvelle - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

All that you hear, believe not.

—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen

July 22, 1830

Manhattan Square, late evening

“BRING HER OUT!” a man yelled in a riled American tone that drifted from beneath the floorboards of her music room. “Bring that woman out before I damn well dig her out!”

Bernadette Marie let out an exasperated groan and dashed her hands against the ivory keys of the piano she’d been playing. She really needed to lay out more rules for these American men. Not even the hour was sacred anymore.

Heaving out a breath, she gathered her full skirts from around her slippered feet, abandoning her Clementi piano, and hurried out of the candlelit music room. Rounding a corner, past countless gilded paintings and marble sculptures, she veered toward and down the sweeping set of stairs that led to the dimly lit entrance hall below.

She paused midway down.

Hook-nosed, beady-eyed, old Mr. Astor glanced up at her from the entrance hall. “Ah!” He tugged on his evening coat and strode around the sputtering butler. “There she is.”

Mr. Astor was not the man she had expected to see, given the late hour, but the endearing, quirky huff of a man had long earned her trust. He was one of the few to have welcomed her into the upper American circle, which had been most hesitant about accepting her due to the fact that she was British. He had also become the ever-guiding father she’d never had. Of sorts.

She hurried down the remaining stairs. “Mr. Astor.” She alighted to a halt on the bottom stair and smiled. “What a pleasant surprise. Emerson, you may go.”

Her butler, whom she had dragged all the way over from London—much to the poor man’s dismay—hesitated as if wishing to point out that the hour was anything but respectable.

Mr. Astor snapped out his hat to the man. “Take it and go, you Philadelphia lawyer. I’m not here to kick up her skirts.”

Bernadette cringed. The mannerisms of New Yorkers, even ones as privileged as Mr. Astor, was something she hadn’t quite gotten used to. She had watched in unending astonishment all but two weeks ago as, after a meal, the man had wiped his greased hands on a woman’s dress at a dinner party. Prankster that he was, he thought it was funny. And it was, in a son-of-a-butcher sort of way. But the woman whose gown was ruined didn’t care for his humor at all, even though he had offered to buy her four new gowns.

Not that Bernadette was complaining about the company she was keeping these days. No, no, no. He and all of New York were refreshingly, gaspingly glorious in comparison to the boring, overly orchestrated life she’d left behind. “Emerson, go. You know full well Mr. Astor deserves late entry.”

Emerson sniffed, grudgingly took the hat and disappeared into the adjoining room, silently announcing that the British were by far the superior race.

If only it were true.

Mr. Astor swung toward her, patting frizzy white hair back into place with a gloved hand. Dark eyes glinted with unspoken mischief. “I’m here to collect on a debt, Lady Burton.”

Bernadette stiffened at being addressed by a name she had never hoped to hear again. ’Twas a name only a select few in New York knew of, given she now publicly went by the name of Mrs. Shelton. And coming from Mr. Astor, it was especially troubling, be he jesting or not. “Is there a reason you are addressing me as such?”

He clasped his gloved hands together, bringing them smugly against his gray silk embroidered vest. “I’m a man of business first, dear. That is how this son of a German butcher came to trade and buy every last fur from New Orleans to Canada, making me the wealthiest man in this here United States of our Americas. Because when an opportunity presents itself, a man has to set aside being nice for a small while and lunge on said opportunity. So I suggest you do the favor I’m about to ask, Your Highness.”

She rolled her eyes, sensing he knew she wasn’t about to cooperate. Their viewpoints were never the same despite their bond. “I am not the queen. Please do not address me as such.”

“Ah, but you’re related to the woman.”

“My husband was related to the woman. Not I.”

“Are you telling me I can’t depend on you for anything? What sort of friend are you? Is this how you British get on?”

Drat him. She knew it would come to this. New York, after all, hadn’t really been her original destination when she had left London with a deranged twinkle in her eye. She had actually planned on staying permanently in New Orleans to better explore the history of privateering—and its men—until she was robbed right down to her petticoats during a less-than-reputable street masking ball. She had wanted to know what it would be like to frolic with the locals and found they didn’t frolic fair at all.

If it weren’t for Mr. Astor and his grandson, who at the time were all but strangers when they had heroically come to her assistance that night on the street, she might have been robbed of a lot more than just her reticule and gown. After that night, they had all become not only good friends, but old Mr. Astor had also brilliantly proposed she abandon New Orleans and accompany him and his grandson back to New York City under an alias to stave off all the newspapers who sought to exploit her after what had become known as “The Petticoat Incident.”

It was good to be plain old Mrs. Shelton, living in New York City, entertaining good-looking men whenever she had a fancy for it, as opposed to being Lady Burton gone wild, who had made United States gossip history by being included in every American newspaper from New Orleans to Nantucket. She had no doubt whatsoever that London had also long heard of it by now. Right along with her father. Gad.

She drew in a ragged breath and let it out. “I am forever indebted to you and your grandson, Mr. Astor. You know that.”

“Then do as I say, will you? Because my grandson is actually the one who stands to benefit from this. We are talking about squeezing ourselves into British aristocracy and making those prissy, tea-sipping bastards acknowledge that money is what makes power. Not a name smeared with drips of blood.”

Her brows rose. “You wish to...squeeze yourself into British aristocracy? I see. And what is it that you believe I would be able to do for you in that regard?”

He shifted toward her, his aged features taking on the sort of mock severity he reserved only for business associates. “You would be able to help us open doors, is what. How? By overseeing the first American marry into aristocracy. ’Tis a nugget of an opportunity. What I need is for you to assist this American girl along. Georgia Emily Milton is her name. Though, we’ll have to change it. ’Tis overly Irish and plain and needs tinsel. You see, there is an aristo this girl seeks to wed—a Lord Yardley who is next in line to become the Duke of Wentworth—who is already willing and waiting. What you need to do is make her palatable to British society, for her sake and his. It would involve teaching her everything you know about the ton, then guiding her through a Season over in London next year. The duke and I will ensure you have infinite resources to guards. No man will touch you whilst you’re in London. No man. Unless you want him to.”

An astonished laugh escaped her. Oh, now, this was humor at its finest. “Whilst the idea is most amusing, and I have no qualms about assisting this girl if that is truly your bidding, I am not going back to London. It would be an even bigger mess than the one I left behind and I will admit that I am infinitely fond of my new life. None of the men here in New York know who the bonnet I am and I can skylark all I want without getting dashed for it. Unlike back in London, where I was getting dashed for even breathing.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “You owe me.”

Bernadette let out an exasperated laugh. “I do not owe you hanging myself. I am not crossing an ocean for that.”

He gestured grudgingly toward the adjoining parlor. “Would you rather my favor involve a piano and a parlor full of naked men? Is that it? Would that be more to your devil-may-care liking?”

Oh dear God. Americans. No wonder the British finally relented on letting them go. Bernadette lifted a brow, knowing that, as always, the man was merely being crass for crass’s sake. It was time he realize that she was no longer the same girl he and his grandson had to rescue on the streets of New Orleans. She knew how to rescue herself and she was not about to touch a toe to London by exposing herself to vicious gossipmongers who knew nothing about a woman’s right to a life or privacy. “The last time I was in London, Mr. Astor, I had a man break into my home, intent on proving to me that he could beget me with his child in the hopes of beguiling me into matrimony. And he was the friendliest of my money-salivating suitors.

“Sadly, my inheritance has only served to encumber my happiness thus far, and I am trying to create a relatively pleasant life for myself. Going back to London would only impede that. For heaven’s sake, I have yet to do a sliver of all my plans. In fact, I’m about to negotiate a two-year trip to Jamaica.”

“Two years?” He pulled in his chin. “What for? Last I knew, all they had in Jamaica was water and sand.”

“Port Royal and Kingston happen to be known for their extensive privateering history. I also hear that the men there dress down because of the heat.” She smirked. “That alone would be well worth traveling for. And unlike New Orleans, I intend on hiring a guard to accompany me everywhere I go. So you see, Mr. Astor, that is what is next for me. Not London rain and pasty pale men, but Port Royal and sun-bronzed pirates.”

He stepped toward her. “You know I would not normally ask this of you, but my grandson stands a chance to follow in the footsteps of this girl if we do this right. He stands to marry into aristocracy. ’Tis something he and I have talked about for years. Hell, I would have gladly married him off to you to ensure that title, but for some reason, you won’t have him.”

Bernadette lowered her chin. “The boy is twenty.”

“And all the more virile for it! Unlike your old William, he’ll ensure you have twenty sons in twenty minutes.”

She cringed at the thought. “Mr. Astor, really. Jacob, whilst very lovely, is fifteen years younger than myself. I wouldn’t even know what to do with him.”

“Lovely? Did you just call him lovely? Don’t ever call him that.” He sighed. “I need you. My grandson’s entire livelihood needs you. Don’t make me kneel for this.”

“Why would you ever want that poor boy to be part of the aristocracy? ’Tis a queernab existence I have spent my entire life trying to escape. Besides, with your vast fortune, you and Jacob already have everything.”

“Everything but that.” He hissed out a breath. Eyeing her, he went down on a grudging, wobbly knee, grazing the hem of her gown, and slowly spread both arms wide, giving sight to everything known as Mr. Astor. “The dreams of a mere butcher’s son is something you would never understand. You, who were born unto a rare breed few touch. Do this for me. Seven months of training this girl here in New York, a little over a month of continuing to train her during travels abroad and one month in London. One. That is all I ask. My wife will be the one playing chaperone. Not you. So you needn’t worry in that. I tell you, this girl is going to establish a taste for all things American if we do this right. ’Twill be a sky-brightening storm that will finally see that my grandson wed into his dreams. I beg of you. Take pity upon his dreams and mine. Have you never had a dream?”

Too many. She had once dreamed of sweeping, heart-pounding adventures, true love meant to make one sigh and unadulterated passion that no music from her piano could ever evoke. All of that had drowned rather quick, however, when her father married her off at eighteen to an old man whose idea of love, passion and adventure was a carriage ride through Hyde Park and a pat on the hand.

She’d been trying to make up for it ever since.

Sensing that the man wasn’t about to relent, Bernadette sighed. She did have unfinished business in London with her father after she’d packed up old William’s estate and sailed into the night without a word to anyone. She supposed she owed her father one last visit. Bastard. “So be it. I will take on this girl as it means so much to you. But I am not staying in London beyond a month. Is that understood?”

His face brightened as he scrambled up onto booted feet. He grabbed her hands in both of his and shook them. “’Tis a pleasure doing business with you, dear, as always.”

“Yes, yes, and you are most welcome. In truth, this idea of introducing an American into London society would be rather gratifying. Those self-righteous bastards, who dare act like gods thinking their blood is pure, deserve to have their blood tainted.”

“I knew you were the woman to oversee this.” He tapped at her hands one last time before releasing them. “Though I will say, my dear, after London, I highly recommend you settle down before you set fire to those skirts. You’ve broken enough hearts. You ought to remarry.”

Bernadette almost snorted. “I prefer to say yes to life and no to the altar.”

He tsked. “Don’t be taking off to Madrid and riding bulls next. You can do that after we get this girl into London.” He paused. “My hat.” Glancing about, he bellowed, “Where the hell is my hat, Emerson? You aren’t pissing in it, are you? Bring it out already. Now!”

Bernadette blinked. Maybe time in London would be a good thing. Because sometimes, just sometimes, and rare though it was, she did miss the, uh...culture.

Seven months later

New York City—the Five Points

LINGERING BEFORE THE LOPSIDED, cracked mirror hanging on the barren wall of his tenement, Matthew affixed the leather patch over his left eye. It was annoyingly fitting that the only image he ever saw of himself every morning after shaving and dressing was splintered in half.

Turning, he grabbed up his wool great coat from the chair stacked with his father’s old newspapers.

He paused, leaned down and touched a heavy hand to those papers. “Morning, Da,” he whispered.

He drew in a ragged breath and let it out, fighting the sting in his eyes he could never get past, knowing this was all that remained of his father. This. An old stack of papers that personified his father’s life. Though at least that life had amounted to something.

Matthew patted that stack one last time.

Draping on his great coat and buttoning it into place, he swung away, opened the door leading out of his tenement and slammed it behind himself. After bolting the door, he trudged down the narrow stairwell and out into the skin-biting, snow-ridden streets of Mulberry.

Matthew paused, glimpsing his negro friend heading toward him. Apparently, knuckles were about to get bloody. Smock only ever called on his tenement when there was a problem.

Matthew briskly made his way through the snow that unevenly crusted the pavement, his worn leather boots crunching against the ice layering it. The bright glint of the sun did nothing to warm the frigid air that peered over slanted rooftops. He squinted to block out the glare in his eye and stalked toward his friend. “Don’t tell me one of our own is dead.”

Smock veered toward him, large boots also crunching against the snow. He puffed out dark cheeks before entirely deflating them. “Worse.”

“Worse?” Matthew jerked to a halt, scanning that unshaven, sweat-beaded black face. It was winter. Why was he sweating? “Have you been running? What the hell is going on?”

Smock lingered, his expression wary. He scrubbed his thick, wiry hair. “Coleman called a meetin’ an’ put Kerner in command.”

Matthew’s eyes widened. “What? Why? He can’t do that.”

“He already done did.”

“But I own half the group!”

Smock shrugged. “He’s leavin’ an’ yer goin’ with him. To London, says he. What? Dat not true?”

“London? I’d rather swallow my own shite than go to—” He paused, thinking of his father’s widow, Georgia. Last time he’d seen or heard from his “stepmother,” was all but seven months ago, when the woman had ditched the Five Points in the hopes of creating a new life for herself in the name of some Brit. He only hoped to God her life hadn’t sunken into mud. “Is this about Georgia? Shouldn’t she be in London about now? Is that not working out?”

Smock threw up both hands. “Don’t know. Don’t care. All I know is—” He tapped a long finger to his temple. “Coleman’s not himself.”

“Where is he?”

“Don’t know.”

Bloody hell.

* * *

UNLATCHING THE DOOR COLEMAN never locked, Matthew stepped inside. The acrid smell of leather and metal wafted through the air. Matthew scanned the vast, high-ceilinged storage room that Coleman leased from an iron monger. Bags of sand nailed against dented, dingy walls lined one side and a straw mattress laid on crates with a dilapidated leather trunk full of clothes lined the other. Like him, Coleman had always been a man of little means, but sometimes, he sensed Coleman purposefully tortured himself into living like this a bit too much.

Matthew wrinkled his nose and muttered aloud, “Don’t you ever air this place out, man?” Kicking aside wooden crates that cluttered the dirty planks of the floor, he jogged across the echoing expanse of the room, holding his pistols against his leather belts to keep them from jumping out.

Unlatching the back door, he shoved it open. Afternoon sunlight spilled in, illuminating the uneven wood floor, as a cold breeze whirled in from the alley with a dancing twirl of snow. Adjusting his great coat about his frame, he slowly strode toward the center of the room with a sense of pride. He had primed his first pistol here.

Shouts and the skidding of boots crunching against ice-hardened snow caused him to jerk toward the open door. A lanky youth dressed in a billowy coat and an oversized wool cap sprinted into and across the room, darting past Matthew so fast he barely made out a blurred face.

Was that— “Ronan?” he echoed.

“Can’t talk! Two men. I owe you!” The youth dove headfirst into a stack of large, empty crates and out of sight.

Matthew’s brows shot up as two thugs in stained wool trousers and yellowing linen shirts burst in from the alley. One gripped a piece of timber embedded with nails and the other a brick.

“Show him up, Milton,” the man with the brick yelled. “That runt owes us money.”

How was it everyone knew his name even when he didn’t know theirs? Matthew widened his stance. “With this attitude of brick and timber, gents, the way I see it, the boy owes you nothing.”

The oaf with the timber glanced at his burly companion. The two advanced in stalk-unison, their unshaven faces hardening as thick knuckles gripped makeshift weapons.

Matthew crossed his forearms over his midsection and gripped the rosewood handles of his pistols. Whipping out both from his belts, he pointed a muzzle at each head. “He’ll give you the money by the end of the day.”

They scrambled back. They raised their hands above those oily heads, those weapons going up with them.

Matthew advanced, cocking both pistols with the flick of his thumbs. “Given you both know who I am, it means you also know that my jurisdiction runs between here and Little Water. So get the hell out of my ward. Now.”

The men sprinted through the open door and out of sight.

He released the springs on the pistols and shoved them back into his leather belt. With the heel of his worn boot, he slammed the alley door shut. Turning, he strode over to the pile of crates. “I feel like all I’m ever good for is giving you money and getting you out of trouble, Ronan. It’s been that way ever since I first saw you shuffling along in those oversized boots.”

Several wood crates were frantically pushed out of the way by two bare hands. They clattered to the floor as Ronan crawled out. Still on fours, the youth peered up from beyond a lopsided cap, strands of unevenly sheared brown hair pasted to his brow. “If it had been one man, I would have taken care of it.”

Taking a knee, Matthew smirked. “Thank goodness there were two. So. How much do you owe those cafflers? I’ll pay it. As always.”

Ronan hesitated, then blurted, “Two dollars.”

He choked. “Two! What, did they introduce you to God?”

Ronan winced. “It was for this girl over on Anthony Street. She said it was free. It wasn’t my fault!”

“You’re fourteen, you—” Matthew flicked that cheek hard with the tip of his finger and rigidly pointed at him before jumping onto booted feet. “What the hell were you doing over at Squeeze Gut Alley? You could have been killed.”

Ronan scrambled up, adjusting his brown coat. “She was worth it. She not only knew what she was doing, but had tits the size of jugs.”

Matthew stared him down. “They could have been the size of Ireland and it still wouldn’t have been worth two dollars or your life. Did you at least sheathe yourself?”

Ronan blinked. “What do you mean?”

Matthew groaned. “You need a father.”

“What? You offering? Do I get to live with you, too?”

Matthew snorted, knowing the boy would move in with him. “I need a wife first.”

“Go find one then. I ain’t going anywhere.”

Knowing his days of having a family were fading fast, given he’d be thirty in less than a year, Matthew grouched, “Not to disappoint you or myself, but all the good women in these parts are either dead or taken.”

Ronan snickered. “Ain’t that the truth. And the dead ones are the lucky ones, I say. So. I got a message from Coleman. You want it?”

Matthew paused. “Yes, I want it. What’s this business of him overriding me?”

Ronan eyed the closed door and lowered his voice. “There’s talk of another swipe on your life. Only, this time, it involves seventeen men from a neighboring ward, hence why Coleman up and put Kerner in charge. Coleman says he’s got business abroad he’s been putting off, so he bought two tickets on a packet ship to Liverpool and wants you on it with him tomorrow at noon. That way, you dodge the swipe, until these boyos are taken off the street by marshals, whilst Coleman ties up strings in London.”

Matthew set a heavy hand against his neck, pinching the skin on it. Another swipe. God. He should have been dead years ago.

Dropping his hand, Matthew dug into the inner pocket of his patched waistcoat, and pulled out all the money he had on him—three dollars. He held it out. “Here. Pay off the debt and keep the rest for yourself and out of your mother’s hands, lest she drink it. And next time, if you want a girl, Ronan, do the respectable thing and marry one.”

Ronan searched his face. “Thanks for... Thanks.” He took the money and tucked it deep into his pocket. He cleared his throat and adjusted his cap and trousers, trying to appear manly. “So, um...what should I tell Coleman? He’s got business over at the docks.”

“Tell him he’s a son of a bitch for caring.”

“Which means you’ll be on that boat.”

“Exactly.”

Ronan sighed, grudgingly turned and made his way to the door, flinging it open. “I’ll tell him.” Ronan glanced back. “You’re coming back, right? You’re not leaving me?”

Matthew hesitated, knowing the boy depended on him for far, far more than money. “I’ll be back once I get word from the marshals that the swipe is over. I promise. In the meantime, take my tenement whilst I’m gone. I’ll give you the key in the morning. The rent has already been paid for to the end of the year.”

“I’ll take it.” Ronan’s face tightened. “I’m done cleaning up whiskey and tossing men out on the hour. No matter what I say and despite all the times you’ve gone over there to talk to her, nothing ever changes. I hate her. I do.”

Matthew swallowed and nodded. Ronan’s mother, who had once been a successful stage actress in Boston when the boy was two, was nothing but a drunk and a penniless whore, who now brought all of her cliental home, whether Ronan was there to see it or not. “She’s still your mother and you’re all the woman has. She needs you.”

“More than I need her,” Ronan muttered, disappearing.

Matthew threw back his head, exhausted. London? Why did he have this feeling Coleman was saving him from one mess, only to drag him into another?