Behind a Lady's Smile (29 page)

“I made a terrible mistake with my daughter. She left and I never saw her again. You have my blessings. Someday I hope to see you again. Perhaps I can come to America?”

“For goodness’ sake, Glaston, get a backbone,” the duchess sneered.

The duke nodded. “Yes, dear, you are correct. Now if you would be quiet so I might say good-bye to my granddaughter, it would be greatly appreciated.” He turned back to Genny. “Let me call the carriage. At least let me do that. Your trunks won’t fit in a cab at any rate.”

“Thank you.”

Her grandmother stood and picked up the newspaper again. “You cannot think to allow them to use our carriage after this,” she said, slapping one hand against the paper. “If someone sees, it will be interpreted as approval of her behavior. Which I certainly do not.”

The duke ignored the old woman and gave instructions to a footman who hovered outside the door to fetch the carriage and have another sent round for Genny’s trunks.

“Is the article that bad?” Genny asked her grandmother.

“No,” Mitch answered. “It’s actually one of the best things I’ve ever read.”

Her grandmother let out an odd sound, then seemed to lose her bluster all at once. “It doesn’t matter. Leave. You’re ruined. This article made it a certainty.”

Genny furrowed her brow. “The article appeared in the
Times
?” she asked, walking over to where the newspaper lay. “Oh, and my picture, too. They drew it from my portrait.”

“A wonderful likeness,” her grandmother said, sitting. “I had such high hopes for you.”

“As I had for you,” Genny said softly. “I thought you might even like me a bit.”

Her grandmother, face completely devoid of expression, said, “You may leave,” as if her permission was necessary.

“Your carriage is ready, miss,” the footman said.

Genny looked around for her grandfather, but he had disappeared. “Good-bye, Your Grace.”

The duchess stared straight ahead, silent.

Despite everything, Genny felt sad about leaving her grandparents in such a manner, but what choice did she have?

“Let’s go, Genny,” Mitch said softly, holding out his arm to her before she walked out of the parlor and down the long hall to the entryway and the front door. Behind them Tillie was fairly skipping.

Mr. Blackwell was there, as dignified as ever, and when they approached, he pulled the door open.

“Thank you, Mr. Blackwell,” Genny said, then whispered, “Your name was never mentioned.”

She was about to walk through the door when she heard her grandfather calling out to her. When he reached them, he was slightly out of breath.

“Good-bye, Genevieve,” he said. “Try not to judge either of us too harshly. Losing your mother was difficult. For us both.”

Genny smiled sadly and embraced her grandfather, something he obviously wasn’t used to, for he stiffened and patted her back a few times before stepping back. “Here,” he said, taking her hand and pressing something into it. “A wedding gift.”

“Thank you,” Genny said, then turned and walked out the door to the waiting carriage.

When they were in the carriage, Genny began laughing so hard that Mitch became concerned. “What a strange journey this has been,” she said.

He grunted in agreement. “What did your grandfather give you?”

Genny held it up in the glow of a passing gaslight. “Money. Quite a bit of it, actually.” She handed it to Mitch, who let out a whistle as he began counting.

“There’s a thousand pounds here.”

“Truly?” Genny asked, and clapped her hands together. “We can use this toward your studio.”

Mitch smiled. “That and first class passage on the ship. I’m already thinking about that bed you had.”

“The beds
are
larger in first class, I expect,” she said, her voice low, and just the way she said it, just the way she
meant
it, made him instantly hard.

“Definitely first class.”

T
he ship was still within sight of Liverpool and Genny and Mitch were in bed, naked, and feeling quite pleased with themselves.

Genny stretched out on top of Mitch, drowsy and completely sated. The things he’d done . . . with his hands, his fingers. His wonderfully talented tongue. He had brought her to a place she hadn’t imagined, where wave after wave of ecstasy engulfed her body in the throes of such complete pleasure, she finally understood why the French called it
la petite morte
.

She kissed his jaw, loving the way his chest vibrated when he moaned in appreciation. “Am I too heavy for you?” she asked, for her entire body was on him, a human blanket.

“I never want you to move,” he said.

“We shall starve.”

“There is that. I suppose I can let you up briefly, to eat and such.”

She giggled and kissed him. Lord, she could kiss him for hours and hours and never get tired of it. If they never left their stateroom, that would be perfectly fine with Genny. Considering what they’d paid for the suite, they might as well stay inside. In bed.

Tillie had been given her own room in first class on the other side of the ship, no longer needing to pretend she was a maid and glad of it. Genny and Mitch, of course, told everyone they were married, because nothing wags more than the tongues on a ship. Mitch had purchased a simple gold band for Genny to wear, promising a much lovelier ring when they were Mrs. and Mr. Mitchell Campbell in fact.

She looked at it now, liking the way it felt, foreign and yet perfect. “Mrs. Mitchell Campbell,” she said. “I do believe I shall like that.”

“I do believe I shall like it too,” Mitch said, kissing her deeply. Genny let out an irritated sigh, and Mitch turned his head so he could better see her expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m famished.”

“Ah.”

“Which means I’m going to have to get up, get dressed. I suppose we should unpack. We’ll be on this ship for days and days.”

“Not just yet,” Mitch said, moving his hips. Genny’s eyes widened, and she smiled.

“No,” she said, her lips against his. “Not just yet.”

 

When Genny got out of bed some time later, her limbs strangely loose, she walked over to her trunks, unabashedly naked, and started to unpack.

“Darlin’, if you don’t get some clothes on, I’m afraid you’re never going to eat.”

She turned back to him and smiled. “As wonderful as that sounds, if I don’t eat soon, I will perish.” Mitch turned on the bed so that his head was at the foot, his chin propped up on one fist as he watched Genny go through her trunks in search of something to wear. A short time later, wearing one of her simpler gowns, she came back to the bed and sat, laying one hand on his bum.

“You’re very pretty,” she said, making him laugh.

“Men aren’t pretty. They’re handsome.”

“This part of you is pretty,” she said and leaned over to kiss one firm buttock.

He growled and reached for her, but she dashed off the bed and beyond his reach. “Get dressed, Mitch. I truly am famished. They always have some sort of food in the saloon.”

“All right,” he grumbled and heaved himself off the bed.

“While you get dressed, I’ll start unpacking. I do wish Tillie were still a maid. It was lovely having help with this,” she said, dragging one of her dresses out of the trunk. She stilled, her eyes on her rosewood box that contained the letters from her grandfather. She carried it to the bed, where Mitch sat tugging on his stockings.

“Do you think it’s possible I am an heiress?”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “No. But let’s find out anyway.”

She opened the box and took up the letters, setting them aside carefully. Then she slid the bottom until an opening appeared, just large enough for one of her slim fingers to slip inside and take up the false bottom. She started to lift it, then looked at Mitch. “I do hope I am. It would be rather nice, wouldn’t it? Imagine if it’s enough for you to start your photography studio. I feel simply awful that you spent all your—”

Mitch pressed a finger against her lips to stop her. “Just look, will you? And don’t get your hopes too high.”

She lifted the false bottom out of the box and set it aside, revealing several documents beneath.

She unfolded the first and read, “Girard Bank.” Her eyes scanned the document, but having never read a bank statement, she had no idea what all the notations meant. She handed the thick vellum to Mitch.

“Let’s see how rich we—” He stopped dead, his eyes widening. And then he swore.

“Oh,” Genny said, disappointment washing over her.

“No, darlin’. If this is correct. My God, you’re rich.”

“What?” she said, getting excited. “How much is there? And what if it’s not still there? What if my mother and father spent . . .”

“This is dated March fifth eighteen sixty-five,” he said. He looked at the dates and entries. “Nothing was added or withdrawn since the eighteen sixties.” He looked up at her, excitement in his eyes. “I don’t want to get your hopes up too high, darlin’, but I think this money is still there, and if it is, it’s yours.”

“How much?” she whispered.

“Two hundred thousand thirty-two dollars and fifty-eight cents.”

“What?” It was an enormous sum. An outrageous one.

He repeated the number, and Genny squealed, “We’re wealthy!” She stood up and hopped up and down. “We’re wealthy. Oh, Mitch, it’s wonderful!”

“Whoa, darlin’, you don’t know for sure if this money is still there.” He studied the documents again, shaking his head as Genny looked on hopefully. “We’ll have to wait until we get to Philadelphia to be certain. Anything else in there?”

Genny began taking out the rest of the papers. “My birth certificate. My parents’ wedding license.” She looked up and smiled. “This is all so lovely to have.” Then her smile faded. “My father’s will.” Her eyes immediately filled with tears and she handed the document over to Mitch.

“Do you want me to read it?”

She nodded.

Genny watched Mitch’s eyes, for they always told the story of what he was looking at. But this time, she just couldn’t tell. “What is it, Mitch?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. It talks of the money in the Girard Bank, but not how much, and it talks about, let’s see. ‘All stocks and bonds as listed in addendum two’.” He flipped through some pages. “There’s a list, but I have no idea if any of these stocks have value. With the panic last year, they may just be pieces of paper with no value at all.”

“Panic? What does that mean?”

“It’s complicated, but it was mostly about silver and gold. Used to be that silver was also used to back paper money. You can’t just print money with no backing. So for every dollar in your pocket, there’s a piece of gold or silver of the same value in a vault somewhere. Then they decided to back money with only gold, and everyone who had silver, well, it wasn’t worth as much, you see? Bunch of other stuff happened, too, men spending money they didn’t have, and all of a sudden, everything went a little crazy. Banks closed, businesses closed. People lost jobs. That was all last year and it’s still pretty bad now.”

Genny felt foolish for getting so excited about the money. “So it could all be gone?”

“If this bank is closed, then yes. And the stocks? I don’t even know if any of these businesses are still around. I’m sorry, darlin’.”

She sat down next to Mitch and rested her head against his shoulder. “Poor and happy suits me just fine,” she said, and smiled when she felt Mitch kiss the top of her head.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell Campbell stepped from their cab on South Third Street and looked up at the imposing structure of Girard Bank. The marble building, stark white against the blue September sky, dominated the street with its six columns that rose three stories, ending at a portico decorated with an eagle and a cornucopia.

Several people walked in and out of the building, causing Mitch to remark, “At least it’s open.”

After returning to New York and learning more about the financial devastation wrought by the panic, they had little hope that any money was left from Genny’s once sizeable inheritance. They’d married within a week of returning to New York and had been staying with Mitch’s mother, who’d welcomed them effusively. Her career, it seemed, had been greatly aided by the
New York Times
article about Genny in which she had been prominently featured.

“If I ever start up my business again,” she’d said grandly, “Mr. Tish may enjoy all services free of charge.”

Mitch was grateful for his mother’s generosity—to them, not Mr. Tish—but he wanted nothing more than to set up a home for just the two of them. Unfortunately, all they had was a few hundred dollars left in his accounts and a few hundred more from the duke’s wedding present.

Mitch had worn his best suit and Genny one of Madame Brunelle’s creations. “It won’t do to look like poor church mice when we go into the bank,” she’d said, fixing his tie.

In just a few minutes they would know whether they were, indeed, poor church mice or something a bit better. Since they’d discovered the will, Mitch had taken care not to let Genny get her hopes too high. He couldn’t count the times she’d said, “But wouldn’t it be nice if there is money?” And he’d always say, “I wouldn’t count on getting a dime, darlin’.”

Genny tugged at her kid gloves, a gesture Mitch recognized as nervousness, and the two walked up the shallow marble steps to the door, which Mitch swung open, saying, “After you, Mrs. Campbell.”

She smiled, as she always did when he called her that. The interior of the bank was just as impressive as the exterior, with marble columns that soared from the brilliantly polished black-and-white marble floor, to the arched sky-blue ceiling. They walked up to a teller, who gave them an assessing look Mitch was beginning to recognize, a look that was meant to discern in a few seconds whether they were important or not.

“How may I help you?” he asked.

Mitch pushed Genny forward gently, a hand on the small of her back. “My name is Mrs. Mitchell Campbell, formerly Miss Genevieve Hayes, and I believe we may have funds in this bank.”

The man drew out a piece of paper and took up a pencil in an efficient manner. “Genevieve Hayes you said?”

“Yes. The account may be in the name of my late father, James Hayes, or my mother, Mary.”

The man stopped writing and looked up sharply, giving them a strange smile. “One moment please,” he said, and disappeared behind a windowed partition that separated the tellers from a series of offices.

“What’s happening?” Genny asked, sounding almost frightened.

“I think they recognize the name and the teller is too cowardly to tell you all the money is gone,” Mitch teased.

“You’re likely right,” Genny said, sounding forlorn.

As they watched, an older man peered at them through the window, then stood and came out from behind the glass partition.

“Mrs. Mitchell, welcome to Girard Bank. My name is Arnold Dwight. I’m the manager here. Please do come into my office.”

Genny and Mitch looked at each other and, when the teller lifted a portion of the counter, they slipped through and followed the manager to his office. He sat in a tufted leather chair behind a large desk, completely covered with stacks of paper, sunlight from a high window streaming down upon his nearly completely bald pate. When they sat down, he cleared a spot by shoving a few stacks aside and folded his hands in front of him.

“How can I help you?” he said.

Genny explained that her father had died, then presented to the manager all the documentation she had, which Mr. Dwight looked over silently and thoroughly while Mitch and Genny sat, getting more and more nervous every minute.

Then Mr. Dwight let out a short, heavy sigh, which sounded like regret to Mitch’s ears.

“You are aware of the panic last year,” he said, and Mitch felt any hopes he’d harbored drop to his feet.

“Yes, sir.” Mitch looked at Genny, whose expression told Mitch she was feeling the same sense of hopelessness he was. They were poor. They would likely stay poor. He reached over and squeezed her hand and she turned and smiled at him, understanding exactly what Mitch was trying to say: it didn’t matter. Not really.

The clerk entered the office and handed Mr. Dwight a slip of paper and a long metal box. “If you’d give me a moment,” he said, starting with the slip of paper and moving on to the contents of the box, which Mitch recognized as stock certificates. Likely worthless ones. The manager began putting the certificates in two separate piles, working as if he and Genny weren’t in the room.

Finally, after several minutes, he looked up. “The panic,” were his first words. So, that was that. “I’m very sorry. Your father, Mrs. Campbell, was an intelligent investor. He couldn’t have possibly predicted what happened last year.” He took a deep and tragic breath. “At one time, Mrs. Campbell, your inheritance was sizeable. Quite, quite sizeable.”

Mitch looked over at his wife, noting that her hands were clutched together in her lap. “And now?” she asked. Mitch hated the way she sounded and wished with all his might that he could give her a better life than the one facing them.

“I’m afraid there are only two left.” Mr. Dwight looked positively ill.

“Dollars?” Genny asked, bewildered, shocked. Bitterly disappointed.

Mr. Dwight’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, no, Mrs. Campbell.” He let out a laugh as if she’d said the most delightful thing. “Two million.”

Genny’s hand shot out and clutched Mitch’s thigh. Hard.

“Million? Two million
dollars
?”

Mr. Dwight smiled, obviously realizing that two million dollars was a happy surprise. “Yes. As I said, your father was an intelligent investor. At one time, his portfolio was worth considerably more. Considerably more. But I take it you are pleased with the result?”