Her Defiant Heart Read online

  "Didn't you tell them I was too grief-stricken to attend?" Stephen lifted his coffee cup and sipped slowly, watching his father over the gold leaf rim. "The meeting was ceremonial, wasn't it? Dedicating Caroline's portrait or some such? Their reasoning escapes me entirely. It's not as if she had anything to do with the bank. Her great-grandfather founded the blasted institution. What Caroline knew about finance was strictly confined to accounts payable. She died owing A. T. Stewart's thousands of dollars, and that was only one of the places she set up credit after her return from Europe. Left to her own devices, she would have owed city merchants more than a half million dollars by spring. If that's what the members of the board want to pay tribute to, then let them. I don't have to sanction it with my presence."

  "My," William said, raising both eyebrows, "this is something new. Principles, perhaps?"

  Stephen mirrored his father's skeptical expression exactly. "I think you know the answer to that."

  "Then it's sour grapes." William picked up a biscuit, sliced it, and smeared it with sweet cream butter. "That money should have been yours."

  "Ours," Stephen corrected, lowering his cup and leveling a significant, knowing look at his father. Stephen pushed away from the table and stood, slipping the paper under his arm. He went to his father and touched him lightly on the shoulder. "Don't worry. Caroline Van Dyke was not the only heiress in the country, or in New York for that matter. I'll find someone to take her place."

  "The sooner the better, Stephen. There are rumblings at the bank about changes being proposed. I would not like to find myself on the outside looking in. I don't believe you would relish that position either. Money would give us control and secure my place as president. The terms Charles Van Dyke set forth in his will would be less significant to us. Keep that in mind."

  Stephen offered a small smile. "I will, Father. I am meeting a young woman this morning for a ride in Central Park."

  "The same woman whose bed you warmed last night?"

  "Hardly." He paused at the door. "Last evening was strictly pleasure. This morning is business. You taught me how important it is to keep the two separate."

  William watched his son go and hoped Stephen knew what he was doing. His son did not seem to understand there were a number of significant loose ends. William raised his pocket watch and glanced at the time. He pressed his lips together. He was due to meet with one loose end in less than thirty minutes. Applying himself to his breakfast as if it were the last meal of a condemned man, William Bennington finished eating just as his visitor was admitted to the entrance hall.

  He looked up when Reilly, house butler of some twenty years, opened the dining room doors with his usual officious air. "Yes?" asked William. "What is it, Reilly?" As if he didn't know.

  "Dr. Morgan is here to see you."

  Had William been less concerned about the interview, he might have noticed the hint of curiosity in the butler's dark eyes and the faint insolence in the lift of his chin. "Very well. Show him to the library. I'll see him there."

  * * *

  Christian Marshall's coolly colored eyes fastened on the door as soon as he heard the handle being twisted. He felt a measure of disappointment when he saw it was Scott. "Oh, it's you."

  "Apparently you were expecting someone else." Scott dropped his bag on the floor and locked the door. His brief, knowing smile vanished by the time he faced Christian again. "Miss Holland, maybe?"

  "Not likely," Christian said, and because it was so obvious a lie, he felt the need to support it with further denial. "She's made my life a pure misery. Why would I want to see her?"

  "I'm sure I don't know." Scott looked around the room. Mrs. Brandywine had warned him there had been some changes, but he was still a little taken aback by what he saw. He could hardly believe Christian had permitted so many alterations. He whistled softly, at once amused and bemused.

  "You think it's funny?" Christian asked, sitting up in bed. He tossed his copy of the New York Ledger on the nearby table. The magazine slid across the polished surface and skidded to a halt at the edge. "If I have to be incarcerated in my own room, then I may as well find some pleasure in the surroundings."

  "I was here not two days ago," Scott said. "Everything's different." The draperies, canopy, and counterpane had all been replaced. The heavy hunter-green velvet had been exchanged for lighter fabrics in ivory tones. The walls seemed brighter now and the fireplace drew one's attention with its collection of pipes and colorful tins of tobacco. A divan and an antique rocker had been placed on the large, braided rug in front of the hearth, forming a surprisingly inviting sitting area. The dark walnut woodwork contrasted suitably with the room instead of being part of the dark and somber whole. "How did she accomplish so much in so little time?"

  "Who?"

  "Miss Holland, of course. How did she do it?"

  Christian crossed his legs at the ankle and folded his arms across his chest. "Except for tearing down the old, perfectly suitable drapes, damaging my walls, knocking over my furniture, and finally polishing my floor with her very fine backside, Miss Holland did not have a damn thing to do with it. Mrs. Brandywine made the suggestions, and I agreed to them. There was a small army of people in here doing the work, cleaning and buffing and hanging and whatnot, and Jenny Holland was not one of them." When Scott merely stared at him, Christian was compelled to add, "Thank God, I say. There were generals in the Union army who were not as whip-handed."

  "Which is why it took us four years to lay Ol' Dixie down," Scott said dryly.

  Christian snorted as his mouth curled derisively.

  Scott walked over to the fireplace and examined the pipes and tins. "I didn't know you smoked a pipe."

  "I don't. They were Braden's."

  That surprised Scott. He was not aware that Christian kept many personal reminders of his family in places where he would have to confront them daily. Scott had been all through Marshall House, and he had never seen this collection. "He was the eldest, wasn't he?" Casually he picked up a meerschaum pipe and studied it. The craftsmanship of the bowl was detailed and exquisite. From the teeth marks on the end, Scott imagined it was a favorite.

  "Yes," Christian said. "The eldest." Unbidden, the thought came to him that Braden was also the first to die. It always came to him that way. Braden's death overshadowed his memories of Braden's life. "Mrs. Brandywine found them in the attic. I didn't even know they were there. Mother probably had them put away after Braden was killed."

  Scott replaced the pipe. "Bull Run, wasn't it?"

  Christian nodded. "The first battle."

  Turning away from the mantel, Scott approached the bed. The last thing he wanted was for Christian's thoughts to linger in the past. Christian would not want it either, but drink was how he cured that curse. It was not Scott's treatment of choice. He put his leather bag on the table and opened it up, withdrawing his stethoscope. "How are you feeling?"

  "Rather like an idiot."

  "Not precisely what I meant, but it'll do." He made Christian lean forward and listened to his breathing, then checked his heart and took a pulse. "You've been dry... what? Four days?"

  "It's been five and you know it."

  "I thought you probably had been counting."

  "Not because I want a drink," Christian said in clipped tones. "Because I want out of this room."

  "Temper... temper."

  "Temper be damned." He slapped Scott's hand away from his wrist. "My pulse is fine. My heart is fine. My lungs are fine. My muscles, however, are pudding, and my brain is turning to oatmeal. I don't need a drink. I need to get out of here."

  "And do what?" Scott asked pleasantly.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Precisely what I said." Scott put the stethoscope away, shut the bag, and went to the rocker. He turned it so it faced the bed and sat down. "What is it you intend to do with your freedom?"

  "There's business at the Chronicle which requires my attention."

  "But you hate going there
. You've said so often enough."

  "So? There are responsibilities I can't entirely avoid. Not if I don't want to bury the paper."

  "I thought that was exactly what you wanted. Isn't that what you told me not so long ago?"

  Christian's lean fingers raked his hair impatiently. "What I said was that I didn't want to be the publisher. I also said I had as little to do with its running as possible. But I never said I wanted to bury the paper. Too many people depend on it for their livelihood as well as for fish wrap."

  Scott chuckled. "Susan says the Herald is better for fish. Except for the personal columns, it stinks already."

  Christian did not smile. "Listen, Scott. I never meant to imply that I wanted the paper to go under. I just don't have an interest emulating Greeley at the Tribune or Bennet at the Herald or even Raymond over at the Times. The Chronicle carried the stamp of my father and my brothers. It still does. There are people managing it now who make certain that happens. I couldn't do that. When it came to editorializing, I rarely shared the Chronicle's view. That hasn't changed. The staffers suffer my presence in the building twice a week because it's necessary to get certain things done. I sign papers they put in front of me, ask a few questions, question a few answers, and generally encourage their efforts. They give the paper its prestige, not me. I am merely the only surviving son of the founder." He drew in a calming breath and let it out slowly. "Now that that's settled, why not let me get on with what I need to do?"

  Scott hesitated. He envisioned Christian drinking himself under another table if his only motive for leaving was the paper. It was clear from Christian's tone that what he felt for the Chronicle was best described as an obligation, a sense of duty to the memory of those who had cared for it. Part of what Christian did for the paper—and what he neglected, perhaps purposely, to mention—was to make it visible in certain fashionable circles. Christian lent his formidable presence and power to the Chronicle. He made people think of the paper, gave it a high profile, and did not object if society thought his opinions and the paper's were one and the same. He subscribed to a stall at Wallack's Theater and a box at the Academy of Music, each for the season. Christian could be seen there, as well as at the elite social gatherings, the races out on Harlem Lane, and at the New York Yachting Club. He promoted the Chronicle, suppressing his own views and pretending an interest he did not feel. The facade was taking a steady toll. Scott was very much afraid that if Christian did not bury the Chronicle, the paper would bury him.

  "We'll see," he said finally. "Why not wait until after the holidays? Christmas is the day after tomorrow. Let the paper rest until the New Year."

  Christian threw up his hands. "Who in the hell appointed you my guardian? Don't you think this is absurd?" He threw his legs over the side of the bed, stood, and began pacing the floor. "I should have you brought up on charges, that's what I should do."

  "If only it weren't so embarrassing," Scott said.

  Christian shot his friend a wry look. "My thoughts exactly. I'd be the laughingstock of the avenue. Probably of the entire city." He paused a beat. "I have social obligations, Scott. There must be twenty or more invitations downstairs waiting to be answered."

  "There were twenty-eight," Scott said. "And they're all taken care of. You sent your regrets."

  "You dared," he said softly.

  "I did. Miss Holland has a fine writing hand. She's been taking care of all your correspondence. You could do a lot worse than to keep her on as your secretary."

  "I don't believe I'm hearing this. You're completely taking over my life, and my own employees are helping you. God, spare me from humanitarians."

  Unperturbed by Christian's helpless frustration, Scott went on. "Susan and I would like you to share Christmas dinner with us."

  "What?" he asked mockingly, giving his friend an arch look. "You didn't send my regrets?"

  "We didn't send round an invitation. I didn't think one was necessary since we'll be eating here."

  That brought Christian up short. "No," he said firmly. "Absolutely not. I forbid it. I will not have you and Susan up here. My dining room is downstairs. We'll eat there."

  "Very well," Scott said amiably. "We'll see you on Christmas Day. Say seven? I assume my daughter's included."

  "Why do I feel as if I've been completely outmaneuvered?"

  "I'm sure I don't know."

  Christian stopped pacing and sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward, clasping his hands and pressing his thumbs together. His nightshirt caught around his knees. "I don't know what to do to convince you that I'm not about to drink myself senseless if you let me leave this room. You can't keep me here forever, Scott. I think I've showed admirable patience and considerable tolerance for your high-handed methods thus far. That's about to end. If you're going to permit me downstairs on Christmas Day, then you can damn well give me the key now."

  "Promise me you'll stay away from Printing House Square. Forget about the paper and social obligations. Do something you want to do."

  Christian's eyes narrowed on his friend's nose, imagining what it would look like if it were knocked slightly askew. "Don't tempt me."

  Scott could almost feel the pressure of Christian's fist. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and smiled sheepishly. "What about painting? You could open up the studio and—"

  "You're about to get thrown out of here. I don't need the door to do it either. The window will serve my purpose just as well."

  "I see."

  "I hope you do."

  "What about the paper?"

  Christian swore softly. "All right," he said, exasperated. "I'll pretend the paper doesn't exist. It's obviously managed this long without me. It can manage a while longer."

  Scott nodded, pulled the key to Christian's room out of his vest pocket, and tossed it to him. "You can check it if you wish."

  "I will. I've been tricked once already."

  "I know. Miss Holland told me."

  Christian was at the door, inserting the key before he answered. "You approved, of course."

  "Of course."

  The door opened and Christian poked his head into the hallway. It was almost as good as being outside. After a moment he withdrew. "You're leaving?" he asked when he saw Scott had moved to the table and was picking up his bag.

  "I've worn out my welcome for today, and I am satisfied with what I've seen and most of what I've heard."

  Christian opened the door a little wider so Scott could pass.

  "If you need me... just to listen... don't hesitate to send for me." He ducked his fair head slightly, avoiding Christian's probing eyes. "I couldn't just do nothing, Chris. Watching you... what you were doing to yourself... I couldn't."

  "You don't have to apologize for being the man you are," Christian said. "I might even thank you one day." He paused and revealed a narrow smile. "But don't hold your breath."

  * * *

  "You asked to see me, sir?" Jenny crossed the threshold into Christian's room and then stood there, rooted. So this was how he was getting some of his own back, she thought when she saw him sitting in a copper tub in front of the fireplace. He was not going to let her off lightly for the trick she had played him with the keys. Jenny had not seen him since then, and she believed that she was seeing too much of him now.

  His naked shoulders and chest were tawny in the firelight. Droplets of water glistened on his arms, and his muscles bunched as he groped for the towel that lay on the floor. His aquamarine eyes studied Jenny's face.

  For a moment she thought he was going to stand and dry himself. She tensed, closing her eyes tightly, and stayed that way until she heard his deep, throaty chuckle. Risking a peek, she saw that he had only used the towel to dry his hair. The streaks of copper were visible now. In the mere seconds she had stood in the doorway she had noticed too many things to pretend indifference. Jenny swallowed hard, made a small quarter turn, and let her eyes rest elsewhere. She reached blindly behind her for the door handle an
d grasped it like a lifeline. "I'll return when you're finished," she said. "You only have to ring once. I'll know it's me you want."

  "I want you now," he said, watching her carefully. She was wary and it showed. The hint of peaches in her cheeks deepened a little, and she tugged unconsciously at her lower lip with her teeth. She wore the same severe dress she had worn the last time he saw her, the same type of dress all female employees wore, yet Christian couldn't remember ever thinking the dresses were particularly becoming to their wearers. The effect was otherwise on Jenny Holland. The delicate structure of her face was highlighted. The line of her neck seemed longer, slimmer. For all her uncertainty her carriage was regal. She held her shoulders stiffly; her spine might well have been steel. Christian's eyes dropped away from the high curve of her breasts to the papers she carried under one arm. His temperature was becoming warmer than the water. "Is that the correspondence I asked for?"

  "Yes."

  "Well?" he drawled, raising one eyebrow.

  "Well what, sir?"

  "Put it on the desk. I can't very well review the stuff while it's a parasitic growth on your hip."

  Avoiding his gaze, Jenny quickly crossed the room to the window, dropped Christian's letters on the writing desk, and made certain she stayed beyond his arm's length. "You're not very kind, Mr. Marshall," she said when she reached the door again.

  "Oh?"

  "This..." She made a gesture with her hand to indicate the room, the tub, and Christian's presence in the tub. "I lied to you about the keys for your own good. I can't help but think that this is your revenge. This could have waited until you were more appropriately prepared to receive me." She bowed her head slightly. "I'm going now."

  Christian sat up straighter in the tub and held up his hand. "No, wait," he said, dropping the towel around his shoulders when she stopped her retreat and looked at him. "You may as well hear it from me as from any of my staff. Dr. Turner is kind. Mrs. Brandywine is kind. Joe Means is kind. I am not. And yes, I suppose part of my purpose in asking for you now was to make you uncomfortable. You may call it revenge if you wish. It seems small enough repayment for what you did to me."