Chapter 23
May 15, 1814
Natalya stared at herself in the Queen Anne looking glass that hung on her bedroom wall. Her chemise-style gown, the loveliest of Madame Henricot’s creations, was fashioned of thin pale pink jaconet muslin over a champagne-tinted taffeta slip. The bodice was daringly décolleté, and the sleeves puffed out at the shoulders, then fit close to her arms, covering the backs of her hands with two buttons undone. Straw-colored kid slippers peeked out from under the gown’s lace-edged hem, and there were matching gloves on the bed next to a pink-and-champagne-striped parasol.
“Maman, are you certain I look all right?” Natalya inquired of Caro, who stood in the dressing room door.
“You are exquisite, love,” she confirmed. “Your great-grandmere’s choker is an ideal finishing touch. She would be so happy if she could see you today.”
Natalya touched the pearl choker that encircled her graceful neck. Its rosy cameo centerpiece coordinated perfectly with her gown. “I adore it. Thank you for letting me wear it.”
Caroline walked over and slipped an arm around her daughter’s waist. She wore a simple, elegant gown of pale yellow muslin with primrose accents, and in the old, slightly hazy looking glass they appeared more like sisters than mother and daughter. “The choker is a gift, Talya, from Papa and me and your great-grandmere. She would want you to have it.”
“Oh, Maman,” she whispered, her eyes misting. “You are too good to me.”
“You’re my daughter and I love you.” Caro fussed a little with the satin ribbons that wound through Natalya’s artfully loose, upswept curls. “I want you to be happy... today of all days.”
Natalya’s mind and heart were full of Grey and the knowledge that she would see him today at the garden party. Lying awake during the night, she had realized that she was badly in need of advice, and now she took a deep breath and prepared to confide in her mother.
“Caro?” It was Alec, clad only in dark blue kerseymere trousers and a pleated white shirt. He stood on the threshold to the dressing rooms, a neckcloth in each hand. “Aren’t you coming back? I can’t remember which cravat I’d decided to wear.”
His wife laughed girlishly and shook her head. “Is this the same man who would not allow a woman to touch his clothes when I met him?”
Grinning at Natalya, Alec countered, “It’s a plot, you know. A clandestine plot among wives! Somehow, we gullible husbands are hoodwinked into believing that we can no longer match colors or trust ourselves to know if a coat hangs properly once we’ve taken marriage vows. Before we realize what has happened, we’ve dismissed our valets because we don’t want them poking about the bedchamber at odd hours, and we find ourselves depending shamelessly on our wives. It’s a source of secret embarrassment to grown men, I can assure you!”
Still laughing, Caroline took Alec’s arm to lead him back into the dressing room. He gave his daughter a wink in parting. “You’re a vision, Talya,” he called before disappearing. “It’s clear that I’ll have to spend the afternoon protecting you from frothing would-be suitors!”
“Thank you, Papa,” Natalya replied, with a giggle. Then, gathering her gloves and parasol, she went across the hall to see if her sister had finished dressing. She wanted to put in a good word for Hollis Gladstone before they left for Hampshire House.
Meanwhile, Caro helped Alec choose a cravat and watched him tie it, her eyes pensive. He brushed back his white hair, slipped on a waistcoat of gold-and-blue figured silk, then sat before his shaving stand and drew her down on his lap. “Where have you gone, cherie?” he murmured. “Your thoughts are miles away.”
“Years, actually,” Caro amended, with a catch in her voice. “I was thinking back to the weeks after I first came here, not even knowing who I really was. I see myself in our darling Talya and remember when I slept in her field bed and dreamed of you across the walls. Oh, Alec, how quickly the years have sped away from us!” She gazed into his turquoise eyes and touched the face that was so dear to her. “It seems such a short while since I used to visit darling Grandmere in her cottage. How she loved to surprise us by appearing through the secret passageways.” A tear slipped down Caro’s cheek, and Alec kissed it away, holding her securely in his arms. “I remember our first Christmas, when you declared your love for me at last. What good times we had, dancing in the garden under the moonlight, ice-skating on the Delaware River, riding our horses over the meadows in the spring...”
“Darling Caro, we still do those things!”
“Yes, but there is something special about experiencing such things when you are young... and falling in love. The years pass so quickly. How can it be that we have been together more than three decades, that our son is now a father, and our daughters past twenty?” Her voice throbbed with emotion. “I want to tell Talya that she cannot afford to put her own needs and dreams aside. Each day is a precious gift that must be embraced, even if it holds challenges that are difficult to face!”
“How I love you,” her husband murmured, kissing her. “As for Talya, take heart. Perhaps today will be the day our child summons the courage to embrace her life. You don’t need to tell her; she’s watched you do that very thing since the moment of her birth.”
“You always say just the right thing....”
“Do I?” He brightened. “That’s encouraging. I fear I’m too old to change even if you insisted on it.”
Caro rested her cheek against his. “I love you just as you are, Alec. Besides, you will never be old.”
He was chuckling when two female voices chorused from the hallway, “Maman! Papa! It’s time to leave for Hampshire House!”
* * *
Laughing, Lion Hampshire reached out to grasp the back of his wife’s gown as she rushed past him. “Slow down, fondling. You don’t want to look harried when you greet your guests!” He glanced over at Stringfellow, who was carrying a tray of miniature almond cheesecakes toward one of the garden tables. “I love that word ‘harried,’ don’t you? Splendid word.”
Nodding thoughtfully, Stringfellow replied, “Splendid indeed, sir. May I add that it’s a pleasure to hear it used in conversation?”
Meagan turned to face her husband, arms akimbo and violet eyes twinkling. “Have you two been into the Madeira? No, I see that you are teasing me. Well, that’s all well and good, but you must promise not to carry on this way in front of our guests.”
Although he had recently celebrated his fifty-eighth birthday, Senator Lion Hampshire looked and felt much younger. There were silver strands in his tawny hair and lines etched in his tanned face, but he remained a remarkably attractive man. His eyes glinted now with desire as they swept over Meagan. Her gown was reminiscent of the one she’d worn twenty-five years ago to President Washington’s inauguration in New York. Fashioned of cream silk overlaid with gauzy lilac muslin, it was accentuated by a silk ribbon marking the gown’s fashionably high waist. Around her neck she wore the necklace of three exquisite amethysts he had given her after their triplets were born, and sprays of lilac had been woven into her ebony curls.
“You grow more beautiful with each new day,” Lion told her softly.
Meagan knew he meant it and glowed in response. “You are looking very handsome yourself, Senator, but don’t let it go to your head!”
It was nearly one o’clock and there wasn’t time to worry further; the guests would soon be arriving. Gazing around the garden and into the spacious parlor, Meagan smiled. The parlor in particular was always a source of pride to her. White-and-dove-gray paneled walls complemented the blood red moreen chairs and draperies, while the blue, gray, and cranberry Kuba rug and brass accent pieces harmonized perfectly to complete the effect. Today, the garden doors were thrown open and Meagan herself had labored over the exquisite floral arrangements. A trio of soberly clad chamber musicians sat near the garden doors, quietly tuning their instruments, and in the far corner of the parlor reposed a graceful cherrywood desk. Meagan planned to have Natalya sit there and inscribe the copies of My Lady’s Heart that Mr. Thomas had promised to bring from his Chestnut Street bookshop.
The garden was in full spring bloom. Pink and white dogwood and apple tree blossoms scented the air, mingling with the sweet fragrance of violet wisteria that cascaded over the arbor wall. In the formal gardens near the house tables with embroidered cloths were arranged. Bramble, their ancient and dour cook, and Nancy Stringfellow had labored all week over the food, most of which now covered the tables in gay profusion.
There was a beautifully carved Virginia ham, iced oysters garnished with lemon and horseradish, a smoked turkey, and a huge Chinese bowl filled with spiced shrimp.
Accompanying the meats were dishes of Carolina red rice, succotash, sliced carrots, and sweet-and-sour red cabbage. Another table was arrayed with neatly sliced loaves of bread: rye, Anadama, potato, raisin, and Sally Lunn, with dishes of sweet butter and an assortment of Bramble’s famous preserves.
“Lion,” Meagan scolded when she saw him reach for a slice of raisin bread, “you’ll spoil the symmetry!”
He gave her a look that suggested she was carrying things too far and began to eat the bread. “I’m hungry. Show your husband some mercy.”
Smiling indulgently, Meagan surveyed the other tables. A colorful variety of cut fresh fruits were arranged on platters. One entire table was devoted to desserts, including a Williamsburg orange cake, blueberry betty, cocoa cake, and the almond cheesecakes.
Stringfellow had arranged the beverages on a table in a sheltered corner of the garden near the wisteria arbor. Bottles of various wines stood behind pitchers of iced ciders and tea and one large bowl of champagne punch with raspberries. Meagan had provided him with a chair, and he was now at his station, feet propped on a large rock.
Bramble wore one of the black, old-fashioned gowns she had owned since working for William and Anne Bingham twenty-five years ago at their legendary Mansion House in Society Hill. No one knew the cook’s exact age, but it had seemed to Meagan that she was excessively old when they first met in 1789.
Meagan had come to Philadelphia from Virginia after her parents died and she had been informed that she would live with her fusty Aunt Agatha. Instead she had chosen to masquerade as a ladies’ maid to her friend, Priscilla, who was traveling to Philadelphia to marry Lion Hampshire. Priscilla and Meagan had stayed with the Binghams’, then the city’s richest and most socially prominent citizens. A great many changes had taken place since then. Meagan and Lion had fallen in love and married, Bramble had come to work for them, and Priscilla had died in childbirth at nineteen after marrying another man. The government had moved its capital from Philadelphia to Washington in 1800, uprooting the Hampshire family and many others. Yet Meagan knew that she would see familiar faces today, and despite the changes wrought by time and progress, Philadelphia herself was much the same.
“Your guests be coming,” Bramble muttered to Meagan. Although the old cook was bent and appeared frail, she refused to give in to age, working as she always had and eschewing rest.
“Bramble, why don’t you sit down?” Meagan urged as she started toward the parlor. The cook’s only response was a snort of disgust.
Nancy Stringfellow had already welcomed the Beauvisage family, and now Lion and Meagan met them in the parlor. Even though a year or more might pass between visits, their friendship remained warm and constant. Greetings were exchanged all around, compliments were given and received, and then Lion stepped to the foot of the Chinese Chippendale staircase and called his daughter.
A door upstairs burst open and Susan Hampshire hurried down the steps, pausing midway to strike a pose for the benefit of her father. “Well?” She rested a hand on one hip and tilted her chin upward. “What do you think?”
Lion smiled up at her, delighted as always by his daughter’s style. She was a lovely creature, with hair the color of sunshine and eyes of ocean blue. Petite, winsome, and headstrong-like her mother, Lion reflected wryly—she looked deceptively angelic today in a simple gown of white muslin accented with daffodil-yellow ribbons. “You are a picture of springtime,” he told her, holding out his hand.
Susie fairly ran down the remaining steps and kissed her father’s cheek. “Thank you, Papa. Another perfect compliment!”
She then hurried over to greet Kristin Beauvisage, who was a vision in a lace-edged chemise-gown tinted pale azure. Krissie’s raven hair had been wound into a high Grecian knot that emphasized the classic beauty of her face and graceful neck, and her thick-lashed eyes seemed more vividly turquoise than ever.
“I vow, Kristin,” Susan exclaimed, “I shall never attend another party with you. I labor for hours striving for mere prettiness, and then I encounter you! It’s so discouraging!”
These complaints were belied by the affectionate sparkle in Susie’s eyes. She turned to kiss her mother, chatted with Caro and Alec, and fussed over Natalya, whose book she had read and adored. Finally, as other guests began to arrive, Meagan pried the guest of honor away from her daughter.
“Many people wrote to me, in response to our invitation, to ask if you might inscribe copies of My Lady’s Heart during the party,” Meagan said, leading Natalya toward the corner desk. “Mr. Thomas has agreed to bring his entire stock—ah, there he is now!” She waved to the diminutive, balding gentleman who was entering the parlor followed by a clerk loaded with books.
As she greeted Mr. Thomas, whose bookshop was one of many she had frequented with her parents since childhood, Natalya knew a vague sense of discomfort. Would people think her vain and self-important if they found her holding court at her own desk in the Hampshires’ parlor? On the other hand, it might be fun to bask in her own accomplishment, which was, after all, unique and considerable. As Mr. Thomas’s clerk stacked copies of My Lady’s Heart on the desk, Natalya felt herself respond to the drama inherent in the situation. People were already looking at her and the books, and she felt special.
“I hope you don’t mind that I made these arrangements without consulting you,” Meagan said. “I couldn’t imagine that you’d object, though. How often do any of us receive recognition for our talents? If you’re going to be famous, you may as well wade in and enjoy it!”
“I’ll do my best,” Natalya agreed, with a game smile.
Moments later she was sitting at the desk, inscribing books to old friends and people she pretended to remember. Mr. Thomas conducted his business discreetly, merely making note of each person who selected a book so that he could present his bill later, in less conspicuous surroundings.
The line that quickly formed was made up mainly of friends of the Beauvisage family who were anxious to offer congratulations and anecdotes related to some event from her childhood that proved her talent had been evident all along. Natalya knew the old society families. She recognized her parents’ friends, and most of their children as well, for they had been at school together and later attended the select dancing assemblies that often served to launch young ladies into society and, in some cases, act as a breeding ground for proper marriages. The assemblies had been part of the reason Natalya had fled Philadelphia for Europe; rigid, suffocating affairs, they had left her resentful and determined to escape.
Perhaps she wasn’t happier than the couples who had married, produced babies, and now spent their time at country homes and city clubs, but at least she had been able to pursue her dreams in her own way....
Natalya found that she was quite entertained by these chats with old friends. It was fun to learn which suitor had been chosen and how many children had since been born, but after a while she noticed that more and more unattached men were standing near the back of the line. Emboldened after a glass or two of Madeira, they were eyeing her with appreciative curiosity.
Soon she was chatting with Raphael and Rembrandt Peale, sons of the great painter Charles Willson Peale. They were older than Natalya, but she had danced with them at assemblies and visited the stimulating Peale home, which was always filled with children, inventions, stuffed animals being prepared for exhibit in the elder Peale’s museum, and paintings by members of the family in various stages of completion. Now, after exchanging information and news, Raphael and Rembrandt drew a younger man forward.
“This is Thomas Sully,” Rembrandt informed her. “He came to Philadelphia just four years ago, while you were in France. He’s studied with Gilbert Stuart in Boston, and with our own Benjamin West in London.”
“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Sully,” exclaimed Natalya, extending her hand. “You’re the portrait painter whom everyone is talking about. Papa has mentioned having me sit for you, if you can fit me into your schedule.”
“I like your father very much,” he said, with a smile. “And it would be a great honor to paint a woman as beautiful as you.”
At that moment Grey St. James was just entering the parlor, blocked from Natalya’s view by the Peale brothers and Thomas Sully. Meagan came forward to greet him and introduce herself.
“I’m so pleased that you could attend, Mr. St. James. Everyone is talking about the dashing Englishman who brought Natalya safely home, but few have met you save our dear Stringfellow.” Noticing that his gray eyes were surveying the crowd as she spoke, Meagan added, “You’ll doubtless want to speak to Natalya, but she is rather occupied at the moment, inscribing books for her many admirers. It’s so exciting to have a woman author in Philadelphia!”
One side of Grey’s mouth turned up in a grim smile. “And who better to play such a role than Natalya Beauvisage?”
“I beg your pardon?” Meagan replied, momentarily nonplussed. Was that a note of sarcasm in his voice? An incurable matchmaker, she had been intensely curious to meet the man who had aroused such strong reactions from the Beauvisage ladies. She had heard rumors of Grey’s chiseled good looks, which had led her to imagine various possibilities for the relationship between him and Natalya. How romantic it would be if he had fallen in love with Natalya at sea and remained in Philadelphia to woo her! Now, as Meagan watched him observe Natalya laughing with Thomas Sully and the Peale brothers, she wondered at his caustic retort. Was he being unkind—or did he perhaps care more than he would admit?...
“Miss Beauvisage has a flair for the dramatic,” Grey explained. “And, she is beautiful. A much more satisfactory candidate for the role of female author than a timid, plain bluestocking, don’t you agree?” He had softened the edge in his voice with an effort, just as he had forced back the unnerving surge of jealousy that had come over him at the sight of Natalya holding court. Grey could not allow his feelings for her to interfere with today’s real business.
“Point taken, Mr. St. James.” Meagan nodded. “Won’t you come out to the garden? My husband is eager to meet you, and all the refreshments are there.”
Natalya saw him then as he walked with Meagan Hampshire toward the garden doors, seemingly oblivious to her place of honor at the party. Her eyes devoured him, taking in every detail from his proud bronzed profile to the polished toes of his black boots. He wore a smoke-colored frock coat that fit perfectly against his broad shoulders and tapering back, a white shirt with high collarpoints and an expertly tied cravat, a Prussian blue and dove-gray striped waistcoat, and snug pantaloons so pale a shade of gray that they were almost white. Natalya’s heart began to ache with longing to speak to him, to touch his strong hand, to feel the heat of his smile...
“Natalya?”
It was Rembrandt Peale, looking expectantly toward the book she had been inscribing for him.
“I’m sorry!” she exclaimed. “I just saw—an old friend, and was momentarily distracted.” She finished writing her name as Raphael smiled and murmured:
“A fortunate man indeed—and, by the look in your eyes, considerably more than a friend!”
Natalya felt a maddening blush spread over her cheeks and glanced involuntarily toward the garden door. Grey had disappeared into the crush outside, where she knew Krissie was waiting eagerly. Where was Hollis Gladstone? Suddenly she had no heart for the task at hand; but people continued to gather around the desk, peering at her as if she were somehow different from them simply because her name was engraved on the spine of a book.
“You look as if you’d like to join your party,” Thomas Sully said kindly.
“Perhaps I shall, in a few minutes,” she said. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Sully.”
“I hope to see you again soon,” he replied, moving away from the desk.
“Father is out there somewhere,” Raphael told her. “He has no patience with queues like this, but I know he’s eager to see you. No doubt you’ll find him near the Madeira!”
“I’ll join you shortly in the garden,” Natalya called in parting, then looked up with a smile to greet the next person in line. Standing before her was a woman, a very beautiful, slender woman with sparkling green eyes that slanted upward exotically. Her glossy auburn hair was braided into a crown high on her head, and she was blessed with elegant cheekbones and sensuously full lips.
“So, you are Philadelphia’s celebrated new author,” the woman said, her voice rich with a cultured English accent. “How charming. I’ve decided not to purchase a book, for I never read novels, but I did want to meet you.” She held out a slim, pale hand. “My name is Frances Wellbeloved.”
Inexplicably a chill ran down Natalya’s back as she took the woman’s hand. Even though she was certain they had never met, Natalya felt an eerie foreboding, as though somehow their fortunes, their very lives, were inextricably bound together...