Midnight Star by Catherine Coulter
“Miss FitzHugh,” he managed at last, “not only are you independent, you are likely now one of the premier heiresses in all of England. My dear, you have inherited some two hundred thousand pounds.”
Chauncey could only stare at him. “Two hundred thousand pounds,” she repeated stupidly.
“Yes, my dear. At least I was wise enough not to tell your aunt and uncle the amount of your inheritance. I told them only that it was sizable. I imagine if I let slip the true amount, they would have whisked you willy-nilly to Gretna Green with their obnoxious son in tow.”
“Two hundred thousand pounds,” Chauncey said yet again. She rose jerkily to her feet. “It . . . it is too much! Oh dear, whatever am I to do?”
Frank Gillette was silent for a moment, watching the lovely young lady pace in front of him. “I believe you are an intelligent young woman,” he said. “And you are twenty-one and in entire control of the money. I would suggest, my dear, that you have two alternatives: you can either find yourself a husband to control your holdings, or you can learn to manage for yourself.”
“But I have never even seen one hundred pounds!”
Before Mr. Gillette could reply, Chauncey suddenly burst into loud laughter. “Oh dear,” she gasped, hugging her sides, “surely I have stepped into the pages of some fairy tale, and you, sir, are my fairy godfather!”
“Well,” Mr. Gillette said dryly, “this fairy godfather owns ten percent of your wealth.” He downed the remainder of his tea and rose. “I suggest that you think about it, Miss FitzHugh. Rest assured that your inheritance is quite safe. Here is my card. When you have decided what you wish to do, please contact me.”
After showing Mr. Gillette out, Mary returned to where Chauncey stood staring blankly into the small fireplace.
“Is there anything else you wish, madam?”
Chauncey, startled, looked at Mary, who stood stiffly in front of her. “You’re acting awfully starchy, Mary,” she said. “With all that money, I am suddenly become a madam instead of a miss?”
“Well, I only want to do what is proper—”
“Oh, Mary, cut line! Sit down and have some tea. You and I need to discuss what the devil I’m going to do with all my ill-gotten gains!”
The next afternoon, Chauncey, with Mary in tow, entered Mr. Gillette’s office, not far from her Uncle Paul’s, on Fleet Street.
The single black-frocked clerk was evidently expecting her, for he was on his feet in an instant. He bowed low to her, as if she were royalty. “Miss FitzHugh? Mr. Gillette is expecting you, ma’am. If you will follow me, please.”
What servility, Chauncey thought, now that I am rich. She winked at Mary, and entered Mr. Gillette’s office. It was large and dark, with heavy mahogany furnishings and two walls lined with bookshelves. Thick brocade draperies were drawn across narrow windows.
“Ah, my dear Miss FitzHugh. Welcome. Sit down.”
“I have come to a decision, Mr. Gillette,” Chauncey said without preamble, once she was seated across from his imposing desk.
“Yes, my dear?” he asked in a carefully neutral voice.
“I wish to control my own money. I have done a bit of studying in the past twenty-four hours, and have learned that a woman has absolutely no control over anything once she is married.”
“That is quite true.”
Chauncey lowered her eyes to her clasped hands in her lap. She toyed with the idea of telling Mr. Gillette of her plans, but decided not to. It really didn’t concern him, after all. “I realize that in order to be able to handle my money with some astuteness, Mr. Gillette, someone must teach me about finance and business.”
A thin dark brow arched upward.
Chauncey drew a deep breath. “I will apply myself, sir. I have allotted myself two months to learn what it is I need to learn.” At his continued silence she added with some asperity, “I am not stupid, sir, nor am I a fluffle-headed female!”
“No. No, you are not,” he said.
“I would imagine that most men would treat me in an odiously condescending manner were I to tell them what I wished to do. I ask you, sir, can you recommend someone who would help me, truly help me?”
“Yes, Miss FitzHugh, I know of someone who would help you.” He grew silent again, and toyed with a pen on his desk. “You say you have chosen a time period of two months. May I ask what you intend to do when the two months have elapsed?”
Chauncey gave him a wide smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes, which grew cold and hard. “Yes, Mr. Gillette. I am leaving England. I am going to . . . America.”
Mr. Gillette sucked in his breath in surprise. “This is quite a surprise, Miss FitzHugh—”
“Please, sir, call me Chauncey. My aunt thinks it is a dreadfully common nickname, but I am comfortable with it.”
“Very well, Chauncey. Perhaps you will tell me why you have chosen America?”
“Perhaps,” Chauncey said coolly, “I might just decide to live there awhile, and of course I understand it is a vast place. I shall doubtless travel.” She shrugged. “We shall see.” She leaned forward, her eyes intent on his face. “I trust you, Mr. Gillette. I wish you to remain my solicitor in England. But you will have to explain to me how I am to transfer a portion of my funds to America.” A vast portion, she amended silently.
“I will be delighted to explain all that to you, Miss Fitz . . . Chauncey. I would also be delighted to teach you myself, had I all the knowledge you need. But alas, I do not. Are you free this evening?” At her nod, he smiled. “Good. Expect me around seven o’clock tonight with a gentleman. His name is Gregory Thomas. He is one of the most astute and knowledgeable gentlemen of finance in all of England. I am certain that he will not disdain you because of your sex, my dear, I can promise you that!”
“I believe, sir,” Chauncey said, grinning impishly, “that I should prefer you.”
“Yes, I myself always prefer the known to the unknown. But you will like Mr. Thomas. He has much free time on his hands now, and will likely treat you like a beloved granddaughter.”
After Frank Gillette had shown Chauncey from his office, he returned to his chair and sat down. He steepled his fingers and thumped them thoughtfully together. He was not blind. He had seen the implacable determination in her expressive eyes. What, he wondered, is the girl up to? Why does she wish to go to America? Perhaps, his thinking continued, if Gregory agreed to take the girl under his knowledgeable wing, he could discover what she was after. He disliked mysteries.
“Really, Chauncey, you must pay attention!”
Chauncey started guiltily and raised contrite eyes to Gregory Thomas. Indeed, she thought, taking in his thick wavy white hair and twinkling brown eyes, he did look like her grandfather. He had taken her under his wing with a good deal of enthusiasm, for, she guessed, he was very bored since he had left his business dealings in the hands of his son. “I’m sorry, Gregory,” she said. “It’s just . . .” Her voice broke off suddenly.
“Chauncey, what are you up to?”
No, she thought firmly, I won’t tell him. No one is to be involved, no one but me. She smiled warmly, praying that she was convincing, for Gregory Thomas was exceedingly perceptive, making her feel on occasion as if her mind was a story eager to be read. “I was just thinking about my aunt and uncle, if you must know!”
He looked instantly diverted. “What have they to say this time?”
Chauncey gurgled with ready laughter. “You won’t believe this, Gregory, but my Aunt Augusta has sent me a bill! For my room and board for six months. Also for the gowns and things she had made for me that fateful week.”
“I trust you told them to go to the devil.”
“Gregory, such language for a sweet young lady! No indeed, sir, I instructed Mr. Gillette to send them fifty pounds. I can just imagine the look on my aunt’s face. She has been trying to blacken my name, you know. I find it most diverting.”
“Wretched woman! I think we should put a stop to it, Chauncey. After all, a good
“Particularly for a woman?” she asked blandly.
“Yes, I won’t lie to you, and neither should you lie to yourself.” He waved a slender hand. “Now that you have successfully gotten me off our fascinating subject, I must tell you that your aunt and uncle have been to see your father’s solicitor.”
“Uncle Paul? Good heavens, whatever for? When? I visited him last week, you know, and he mentioned nothing of it to me.” Indeed, she thought, Paul Montgomery’s kindness to her had turned to stilted formality during the past weeks. He had been hurt, she had thought in explanation, to learn that she had no intention of allowing him to administer her vast wealth. No, he hadn’t mentioned anything about her aunt and uncle on her last visit. Indeed, he had seemed perturbed when she finally confided her plans to him.
“But you can’t do that! ’Tis unheard-of, Chauncey! For God’s sake, my dear, let it go!”
She had gazed at him intently, wondering at his unwonted display of emotion. “No, Uncle Paul, I shall never let it go. Delaney Saxton will pay. Once he is broken, once he knows that I, Elizabeth Jameson FitzHugh, am the person who has ruined him, I shall consider getting on with my life.”
His jaw had worked spasmodically and he had paled under her intense gaze. “But, Chauncey—” he began.
“Uncle Paul, don’t worry about me. I know what I am about, I assure you. And please don’t tell me how much money it will cost. I can afford it, after all.”
Chauncey, aware that Gregory was regarding her questioningly, shook off the memory of that meeting and asked more calmly, “What did they want with Uncle Paul, sir?”
“They wanted to discover if there were some way they could get part of your inheritance. Nearest relatives, former guardians, and all that sort of nonsense.”
“I trust,” Chauncey said tartly, “that he sent them to the rightabout!”
“Oddly enough, he didn’t,” Gregory said. “My sources of information tell me that he is quite busy at this moment trying to manufacture evidence, shall we say, that you were guilty of a breach of promise, that you had, in fact, been engaged to marry Owen Penworthy, and broke it off when you learned of your inheritance. These are some of the rumors they are busily spreading, my dear. I am surprised you did not know of them. But you needn’t worry yourself about it, Chauncey. I have discussed the matter thoroughly with Frank Gillette. If such a charge were true, it would be likely that you could be sued for a good deal of money, but of course, it isn’t true. Your Uncle Paul doesn’t have a prayer of succeeding.”
One thing Gregory Thomas had taught her during the past weeks was to sift calmly through facts when faced with a problem. She forced herself to do that now. After several moments she said, “I can understand my aunt and uncle’s actions, for as my nurse Hannah used to tell me, a cat remains a cat. As to the rumors they are spreading, I had heard only that they were calling me coldhearted, an unnatural niece, and the like. What I do not understand is why Paul Montgomery would be willing to assist them.”
Gregory Thomas shrugged elaborately. “Who knows? Money, as I’m certain you are discovering, my dear, makes people behave in execrable ways.”
“You don’t like Paul Montgomery,” she said flatly.
“You are becoming much too perceptive, Chauncey. No, I will admit to it. I dislike the man heartily. I have for many years now. I do not trust him.”
More facts to sift through. “Why?”
“My reasons have nothing particularly to do with you, my dear, thus I will keep them to myself.”
“Very well, sir, I will not press you. None of it will really matter soon in any case. In exactly three weeks I will be sailing on the Eastern Light to America.” She shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps I shan’t return to England.”
He shook his head at her, perplexed.
“The Eastern Light,” she explained kindly, “leaves from Plymouth on the thirteenth of November.”
“Chauncey, stop playing games with me!”
“Games?” She raised an eyebrow. “I have told you often enough that I wish to travel. Now, enough about my plans, Gregory. You were quizzing me about contracts, remember?”
Gregory sighed. He wished Chauncey had confided her plans to Frank Gillette. He reluctantly drew himself back to Chauncey and her question. “Not exactly contracts, Elizabeth. A good lawyer can handle that. It’s the people involved that are important. You must learn everything about anyone you intend to become involved with in a business venture.”
“Yes,” Chauncey said, nodding her head, “I understand that, Gregory.” Indeed she did, she thought. Her eyes glittered. She could taste the revenge now. How she would savor it as she watched Delaney Saxton ruined!
“I do have several more questions about transferring funds, Gregory,” she continued. “If I decide to travel around a bit in America, how can I be certain that my money will be available to me when I wish it?”
“It’s a bit difficult, particularly in America. Not in large cities like New York or Boston, to be certain, but if one goes farther west of Chicago, honoring drafts becomes a bit hazardous. I, of course, will provide you with names of men whom I trust, and banks that have endured during the currency fluctuations.”
She was not that ignorant about San Francisco anymore. “If I decide to travel beyond Chicago, then it appears I should carry my money with me.”
“It’s true. What several people of my acquaintance have done when traveling to more uncivilized areas is to turn their money into gems. Diamonds most often. They’re easy to hide, don’t alert thieves, and are easy to turn back into currency. But, my dear, I cannot imagine that you would ever want to visit such places.”
“Likely not,” Chauncey said blandly. “But it never hurts to know about such things, does it?”
5
San Francisco, California, 1853
Delaney Xavier Saxton dismounted from the broad back of his stallion, Brutus, and stood on the corner of Second Street and Bryant, gazing with pride at his gray-stone-faced house, one of the most impressive additions to South Park. And it was nearly always sunny here on the southern slope of Rincon Hill, the San Francisco fog rarely wrapping it in a thick blanket of white. After nearly a year he still enjoyed contemplating the impressive structure with its wide portico and deep-set stone steps. He was pleased that the architect, Archibald Grover, had been able to reproduce his father’s home in Boston from the rather amateur drawings Delaney had made for him. Although he hadn’t thought so at the time, the devastating fire of June 1851 that had destroyed his first home had been something of a blessing. His new house had permanency; no fire would destroy it. It was a house that would become a home, with a wife and children filling the now-vacant rooms with laughter and joy.
The thought quickly turned his expression to a frown as Penelope Stevenson came to mind. Penelope, with her lovely face and dainty figure. She already treated his house with proprietary complacency, as did her mother and wealthy father, Henry Stevenson. Henry, known to his business cronies as Bunker, was beginning to press him, intimating in that brash, loud voice of his that his little girl could have her pick of eligible men.
It was true. There were still few marriageable ladies in San Francisco. The majority of women were whores, rich men’s mistresses, or tight-lipped matrons who sought continually to improve the society of the city with their endless subscription balls, charity dinners, and Shakespearean productions. Penelope was quite pretty, Delaney thought objectively, pretty when her little mouth did not pout or turn down sullenly at the corners. And for some reason, she wanted him. Why was he still hesitating to ask that fatal question? He shook his head, knowing well the answer. He didn’t love Penelope. She was eighteen years old, still childish in so many ways, capricious, vain, utterly spoiled by her doting father, and an outrageous flirt.
“Mr. Saxton, do you want me to take Brutus to the stable?”
Delaney turned at the sound of Lucas’ deep, rumbling voice.
“Miss Stevenson and Mrs. Stevenson will be here soon, sir, for tea.”
Delaney snorted. “Tea, for God’s sake,” he muttered. “As far as I know, Mrs. Stevenson has not one whit of English blood in her fat veins.”
Lucas’ bland expression didn’t change. “Lin Chou has made cakes, but I don’t think they’re particularly English. Made with rice.”
Delaney laughed. “I suppose I had better see to improving my appearance. I’m certain Mrs. Stevenson won’t approve of male sweat.”
“Likely not,” said Lucas. “You were at the post office, sir?”
“Yes. I’ve a letter from my brother in New York.” He saw Lucas’ face drop and said with more optimism than he actually felt, “Not a letter today from your sister, Lucas. You know the mails as well as I do.”
“Aye, I know.” But Lucas was disappointed. His sister, Julia, lived in Baltimore. Lucas had written her dozens of letters, begging her to join him in San Francisco. She would agree in one letter, only to put him off in the next.
Delaney patted Brutus’ glossy neck and strode into his house. His booted steps sounded loud on the Chinese granite entryway, and the large chandelier overhead rattled with his movement. He climbed the beautiful carved oak staircase to the upper floor. His bedroom was enormous, the floor covered with several beautiful carpets from China. The huge bed was made of rosewood, as were the night table and armoire. Possessions, he thought, standing quietly for a moment in the middle of the room. At last I have all the possessions I could wish for, and still . . . A large high-backed sofa faced the marble fireplace, with two wing chairs flanking it. Delaney sank down into one of the chairs and pulled his brother’s letter from his waistcoat pocket.