Chapter Fifteen
The musicale was a smashing success, and as guests crowded forward to congratulate mother and daughter, Claire could see her mother was giddy with pleasure. They would be at the top of the list now, for invitations and social precedence. Her daughter had demonstrated rare accomplishment, and she was receiving acclaim from some of the most important people in London. Lord and Lady Kessing declared that it would be the talk of the season.
Elizabeth was so caught up in accepting congratulations from that elite company that she seemed annoyed when Claire dragged her bookish pianist and the second violin player over to introduce them.
“Yes, yes, Monsieur Maubrey.” She extended a hand to the pianist. “Your accompaniment was excellent tonight. I’m sure, as a result, you will be in great demand.”
“And this is Julian Fontaine, Mama, conductor of the orchestra Soliel,” Claire said, her face rosy and eyes bright with expectation. “You remember, the orchestra that played at Ardith Tutty’s ball.”
“What a debacle that turned out to be. Not that it was your fault.” Her mother looked him over and chose not to offer him her hand. “You make an excellent second violin, monsieur. Someday you may even play as a soloist.”
“Mama, he is the conductor of an orchestra,” Claire said, dismayed by her mother’s blatant dismissal of him. She placed her hand on the tall violinist’s forearm, unwittingly drawing her mother’s narrowed gaze to the gesture. “He generously agreed to play second part with me on the Bach sonata and the Russian scherzo.”
“As a conductor, he no doubt wishes to be associated with such extraordinary talent.” Elizabeth turned on Julian with an arch look. “Claire, however, is not interested in playing publicly. Her gift is meant for more discerning ears.” She seized Claire’s hand from his arm and used it to pull her daughter along. “Come, my dear, there are people you simply must meet.”
* * *
Reeling from her mother’s behavior toward Julian, Claire glanced back at him with a desperately apologetic expression. The disappointment and longing in his luminous eyes tugged at her heart.
“Mama, how could you?” she whispered as she pulled Elizabeth to a halt at the rear of the grand parlor. “You were rude to Monsieur Maubrey and Monsieur Fontaine.”
Her mother was taken aback by her charge. “Are you calling me account for my behavior toward musicians
?”
Claire stared at her mother with dismay that gradually gave way to understanding. Frankie had said again and again that her mother would be furious to learn she was involved with a musician, but she hadn’t wanted to believe it. She knew Julian as so much more than a musician that she couldn’t imagine her mother truly rejecting him.
Now the truth of it came crashing down on her. Frankie was right. Her mother’s whole life was based on insinuating them into a fiercely stratified society . . . in which lowly musicians did not mix with heiresses who wore designer gowns from Paris and dined with earls.
“Mama,” she said, her throat constricting, “I
am a musician.”
“Don’t be absurd, Claire. You are a wealthy and accomplished young woman who happens to have an extraordinary gift for the violin. That is a far cry from scrambling to make a living on scraps and fees from anyone willing to hire you.”
“Please, Mama”—her eyes widened and her shoulders sagged—“if you would just talk with him, listen to his plans for—”
“I have no intention of associating myself with a musician in any way,” Elizabeth said, glancing around to be certain no one was listening. When she focused on Claire again, her gaze was sharper. “And I will not allow you to do so. I believe you’ve been spending too much time with this music teacher.”
“No, I haven’t.” She backed away a step, though her mother still held her arm. “The monsieur has been wonderful. He has opened up a whole new world to me.”
“You do not need a new world, Claire,” Elizabeth snapped. “You need to learn to content yourself with the one you are in.” She straightened and looked around the grand parlor with a little smile meant for anyone other than her daughter. “We will discuss finding you a new music teacher later.” She grabbed Claire’s elbow and turned her toward the other guests. “Right now, you have a number of important new admirers to greet.”
* * *
Simmering, Frankie did her best to ignore the duke, who shadowed and pressed her until she was desperate to escape him. She caught sight of the same misery in Claire’s face and knew something had gone wrong. She looked around for Julian and the pianist, only to discover they had withdrawn from the gathering. Their mother was trundling Cece around from one knot of noble cronies to another like a prize pony at a gymkhana. She escaped the duke by hurrying to her sister’s side. Peeling Cece from their mother’s clutches on the pretext that she looked a bit pale and should take a moment, she ushered her to a bench by the stairs outside the grand parlor.
“When will this be over?” Cece collapsed on a bench, looking dazed.
“Not soon enough to suit me.” Frankie settled beside her. “What happened with Julian and the monsieur?”
Cece told her quickly about her mother’s pointed dismissal of Julian and his bereft expression. “He left shortly afterward. You should have seen the look on his face. I fear you were right—Mama will never accept him or allow me to see him or, if it comes to that, marry him.”
“She is determined to see us rich and miserable,” Frankie said.
Those words fell like a pall over them, creating a dispirited silence.
“Then she is destined for disappointment,” Claire said, stiffening. “If she thinks she can just order me to ignore the call of my heart and soul, she is badly mistaken.”
The set of Claire’s jaw worried Frankie.
“We’ll find a way, Cece,” she said, putting an arm around her sister. “Promise me you won’t do anything rash.”
“Frankie, have you ever known me to do anything outside the bounds of Mama’s will?”
It was the way she said it that gave Frankie a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. Hurt. Angry. And beneath that, quietly determined.
On the way home in the coach, Elizabeth lectured them yet again on the importance of making advantageous connections, and stressed the need to seize an opportunity for advancement through marriage. Frankie ground her teeth. Opportunities for noble marriages were rare and not to be stubbornly, stupidly ignored, Elizabeth declared, drawing no response.
Claire, whose spirits were drowning in unshed tears, finally gave in to a surge of despair. With every tear that rolled down her cheeks in the darkened coach, Frankie grew more furious with their mother.
Her hands were clenched around bunches of her skirts to keep them from shaking when Jonas met them in the main hall to take their wraps. Bridges hovered at the top of the stairs, eagerly awaiting news of her mistress’s triumph.
“Go to bed, both of you,” Elizabeth said with a dismissive wave.
“Not yet, Mother. I need to speak with you,” Frankie declared, sweeping past Elizabeth into the darkened parlor. By the time her mother followed, she had turned up one of the gas lamps enough to illuminate one end of the long room.
“Claire is devastated,” she declared. “She said you have forbidden her to see Monsieur Fontaine for lessons.”
“It is for her own good. She is becoming too independent and self-absorbed. She must get her head out of the clouds and remember her place and her responsibilities.” Elizabeth began removing her twenty-button gloves, inch by inch, growing steadily more irritable.
“The monsieur is a wonderful teacher,” Frankie countered. “You heard, tonight, how she has blossomed under his tutelage. You cannot deprive her of this chance to follow her heart and develop her gift for music. Music is her destiny.”
Elizabeth plopped her gloves on a side table and turned on Frankie, stalking closer, her countenance fierce with indignation.
“I
decide what her destiny is, not some dime-a-dozen fiddler. And I say her destiny is to find a wealthy, respected husband and become a pillar of society.” She swept Frankie with a furious look. “You could use a few reminders of that yourself. Abandoning the duke tonight to run off to God-knows-where.”
“I had a reaction to something in the dinner,” Frankie declared, “and I had to leave to keep from spoiling Cece’s performance. The duke followed me out and told me that I am to become his wife. That you agreed to it and promised me to him in marriage. Is that true?”
She stared at Frankie for a moment, seeming a bit surprised, then mechanically smoothed the front of her dress. “He asked permission to propose and I gave it. I told him I would be pleased to have you wed him. Dukes do not grow on trees, Frances. There are only a handful in England. He clearly wants you for his wife. Such a proposal is not something one can refuse.”
“Well, I do refuse it. I cannot marry a man who tells lies about others and takes liberties with the daughters of his host. I cannot marry a man whose lustful approaches make me want to scrub my skin with lye soap.” She stepped closer, her eyes blazing. “Would you have me marry a man whose hands leave bruises on my skin?”
“How dare you accuse the duke of such vile behavior? Where have you heard such—” Indignation turned quickly to deduction. “It’s that Boulton miscreant. He’s filled your head with nonsense about the duke. Ottenberg is a proud nobleman with manners to put the queen herself to shame. Reynard Boulton has always been jealous of us. He can’t bear to see anyone in our family do well, so he makes up poison to spew about.”
“Well, he hasn’t made up these.” Frankie yanked down the shoulder of her dress to reveal the marks left on her shoulder by Ottenberg’s punishing grip. “It is my own experience that makes me reject him. His manners may be impeccable in public, but in private the duke is a harsh and unprincipled man. I’ll have nothing more to do with him.”
Her mother sputtered, staring at the bruises on her upper arm that could only result from the punishing grip of a hand. “I cannot believe that a man so cultured and refined would . . .” She looked up to find Frankie staring at her in righteous defiance. Her face reddened, and she fell back a step before recovering her determination. “It was you,
wasn’t it? You were headstrong and defiant with him. What did you do to make him set hands to you?”
Frankie’s jaw dropped. Her mother was blaming her for upsetting the duke and being manhandled?
“I told him that whatever deal you made with him, whatever permission you gave him, I was not his future wife.” She drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I will not marry him.”
Her mother’s hand was coming forward before Frankie realized what was happening. Her face stung from the slap and she staggered back a step. For a moment, Elizabeth’s eyes were wide, almost as if she were as stunned by her action as Frankie was. She took in Frankie’s trembling chin and clenched fists, and looked at the bruises on her daughter’s shoulder. Frankie could see her weighing and sorting, coming to a decision.
“Ottenberg is a duke, a rank that places him next to royalty. Surely you know by now that women must sometimes . . . make accommodations to . . . men of importance.” Her chest rose and fell quickly as Frankie made no apology or excuse. “Fine,” she snapped. “I told you what to expect if you refused to make yourself amenable to suitors. Now I must deal with two ungrateful and rebellious girls. Perhaps you will feel different after you’ve been banished from the luxuries of life in England.”
She turned away, rubbing her hand, and Frankie hoped it was still stinging from the slap. Elizabeth drew herself up with maternal authority, though her voice wavered slightly.
“Go to your room, Frances, and think on the disgrace of remaining unmarried and unwanted for the rest of your life.”
Her mother’s ambition trumped all else in her life and their family. With her cheek still burning from that slap, she gathered her skirts and fled the parlor. In the privacy of her room, she gave in to the fury that she had to vent or explode. She threw and bashed the pillows on her bed until she was breathless and unable to continue.
Then came the hot, angry tears.
* * *
Breakfast trays were delivered to Frankie’s and Cece’s rooms the next morning, with news that they were confined to their rooms for now. An hour later, Jonas the butler supervised the delivery of steamer trunks to Frankie’s and Cece’s rooms and assigned upstairs maids to assist them with packing.
Red, who was dragging himself up the main stairs after spending the night at a gentlemen’s club, had no idea what had happened. But like a true prospector, he read the mood of the house as surely as he read white streaks in ore that betrayed the presence of silver.
When he spotted the servants hauling the trunks into the girls’ rooms, he demanded to know what was going on. The footmen shrugged and said they guessed somebody was traveling. Before Red could reach Frankie’s room to find out what was happening, Elizabeth appeared in the upper hall and demanded he join her downstairs.
Soon, there were loud voices from behind the closed parlor doors.
“What the bloody hell, Lizzie? Have ye lost ever wit ye had?” Red roared. “Sendin’ the girls back to th’ States?”
“It’s what they want,” Elizabeth gritted out. “They hate it here!”
“They do not hate it here.” Red jammed his thumbs in his vest pockets and leveled a hard look on his sister. “They just hate all the needlin’ and naggin’ about how they gotta land a blue-blooded husband to make you proud. I got to tell you, Lizzie, I’m damned tired o’ hearin’ about it too. That’s all you ever talk about. Dukes this, and earls that. Lord Got-rocks and Lady Gimme-more. It’s all about money an’ it’s all a bunch o’ horse manure.” He halted for a moment, realizing what he’d just said. “See? You even got me so I quit using good ol’ ‘horseshit
.’”
“That’s crude and beneath you, Redmond Strait,” she charged.
“That’s another thing. Since when did I get to be ‘Redmond? ’ I grew up with you, remember? I knew you when you were just plain little Lizzie Strait. And I knew ye even after ye become Elizabeth Bumgarten. You were a good and lovin’ woman to Jonny Bumgarten and yer girls. But I don’t reco-nize this stuck-up, sharp-tongued ‘Mrs. Bumgarten’ who can’t think of nuthin’ but tradin’ her sweet girls for the fool’s gold of a fancy title.”
“That’s what you think I’m doing here? That’s what you think of me?” Elizabeth was practically vibrating with hurt and anger. “It is, isn’t it? That’s what you all thi-ink . . . of . . . meee.” Her voice broke and a moment later her tears were rolling like Sherman’s caissons through Georgia. Just about as unstoppable.
Red watched her crumple and saw the tears scalding her cheeks. He had lived by and cared for his sister all his life, and the sight of her so overcome and distraught was nearly unbearable—especially knowing he was the one who pushed her to the brink.
He took her sobbing form into his arms and led her to the settee, where he settled beside her and gave her his broad shoulder for her tears.
“Go on, Lizzie, jus’ cry it out.” He stroked her fancy hair awkwardly and patted her shoulder through her puffy mutton-chop sleeve while she snubbed and gasped and talked into his chest.
“Why can’t they understand I just want what’s best for them? Can’t they see that they need a future, a family, a place to be?” She lifted a tortured expression to him. “I’m all alone.”
“That ain’t true, Lizzie. You got me.” His gut twisted at the thought that he had betrayed his love for her and her trust in him time and again.
“But I’m the one who has to make sure they come out all right,” she wailed. “Jonny died and left it all on me. For years, I’ve tried to do right by them, but they won’t listen. I don’t think I can do it anymore, Reddy . . .”
He shushed and comforted his Lizzie, while he thought about what could be done. The girls were headstrong and probably needed a yank of the tail now and then to keep ’em on the straight and narrow. But Lizzie was the last person they would listen to at this point. If there was somebody else who could talk some sense into them—maybe help ’em find some middle ground—
Her face came to him. Her face always came to him in emotional moments. She was the one he had admired and teased and finally courted. But he’d been an eighty-proof idiot and lost her.
The Countess of Kew. Evelyn Hargrave. Evie.
She had managed to get Lizzie’s eldest, Daisy, sorted and married to the right bloke. She knew how to get girls to listen because she listened to them.
“Lizzie”—he felt a weight lift from his heart—“I got an idea.”