Blessed Assurance (19 page)

January 1906

“They'll be preening like peacocks on a terrace.” In a black bombazine gown, Auntie paced in Cecy Jackson's bedroom. “Men, they think they're in charge. But a wise woman always stays in control of herself. And of them.”

Cecy stood very still while her personal maid lifted the ivory satin gown over her coifed hair and settled it carefully in place. Cecy had difficulty taking in air, her nerves as tight as her stays.

“Oh, Miss Cecilia,” the chambermaid said breathlessly. “I never seen a dress this pretty.”

“Pretty?” Auntie snapped. “It's an original by Paquin of Paris. I doubt any other young lady at tonight's ball will have as lovely a gown. You may leave. We have no further use for you.”

Blushing, the maid blinked quickly as if beset by tears. Cecy felt her embarrassment as her own. As the girl left, Cecy murmured, “Thank you.” The maid darted a look at her and fled, closing the door behind her.

Auntie glared at the door and then turned back, “Tell me, Cecilia, how does a woman stay in control of men?”

Cecy's mind raced, calling up her aunt's careful instruction. “I set the pace.”

“Exactly. You make them dance to your tune, Cecilia. Not theirs.”
As Cecy's personal maid buttoned the hundred or so buttons that closed the back of her gown, Auntie walked around as if viewing a statue at the Louvre. Then she halted. “Now that girl from New Orleans—what's her name?”

“Fleur?”

“Yes, the Fourchette girl. She's the only one who'll give you any competition.”

Cecy's stomach clenched tighter.

“None of the other debutantes vying with you to be the Belle of San Francisco 1906 have a chance.” Auntie's face rounded with a satisfied smile. “But the competition Fleur provides will make your victory all the sweeter.”

Cecy swallowed, firming her resolve to outshine the Fourchette girl. “Yes, it will.”

“You performed creditably at your coming-out party. Tonight however, you must set the tone for your entrance into society. You are my sister's daughter, a Higginbottom of Boston. You mustn't let these provincials, these Westerners, shine you down. You must not show any weakness tonight.”

“I'll try—”

“Try?” Auntie halted. “You won't
try
. You will do it. I didn't waste all last year coaching you for social success just to let you falter at the post. A woman is nothing without social success.”

Auntie lifted Cecy's chin and looked into her eyes. “You have your mother's features. It's unfortunate that you inherited your father's red hair, but it's not as bad now that you're older and it's become more auburn than carroty.”

Her aunt glanced at the wall clock. “The hour is nearly here. Remember. You are immeasurably superior to any young woman you will meet tonight. Show no fear. If you do, they will take the lead and leave you behind in their social dust. You must shine. Let no one attract more beaus than you, do you understand? And keep the men dangling and uncertain. Then they and the other debutantes will respect you.”

“Yes, Auntie.” Cecy's voice quavered slightly.

Her aunt studied her and then turned away. “Just remember not to make the same mistake your mother did. Or you could end up just like her. I'll meet you downstairs when you are ready.” Auntie left her alone with her maid.

Finally, the maid finished buttoning her dress and then began coaxing the first skin-tight white silk glove up Cecy's fingers, hand, and arm. “I'm sure you'll have a lovely time tonight, miss,” the maid murmured. “It's a party, not a battle.”

Cecy made no response. She didn't know exactly what had caused her mother's problems. But Auntie knew and Cecy had to do what Auntie said to avoid following in her mother's footsteps.

Tonight was going into battle. She'd do whatever it took to seize her rightful place in society and put her desolate past behind her forever.
Auntie's right. Show no fear.

 

Linc Wagstaff got out of his brand-new Pierce Arrow in disgust. His new Chinese houseman, Kang, stood beside the vehicle, his hands folded. “Auto not good like horse.”

“At this moment I'm inclined to agree with you.” Linc stalked out of the old carriage house at the rear of his new home.

“What you do now, mister?” Kang hurried along a step behind Linc.

The ding-ding of a nearby cable car bell interrupted. Linc instantly picked up his pace. “I'll take the cable car!” Linc sprinted to the street, hailing the cable car. It lurched to a stop. Linc leaped aboard.

Invigorated by his run, he looked at his fellow passengers, some workmen and a few women. His evening dress had taken them by surprise. Despite the swaying of the vehicle, he made a half-bow. “Good evening, ladies and gents.”

At his sally, most grinned at him. Linc flipped up his tails and sat down before he could unceremoniously lose his balance.

The cable car made its way up the next hill, straining and rocking. Over the grinding noise of the car, one of the workmen called to him, “Horses lame?”

Linc shook his head. “My automobile wouldn't start.”

This announcement was followed by hoots. “Autos! Get a horse!”

This only made Linc grin more.

The old woman who sat beside him said, “Automobiles are of the devil. God made horses.”

Accustomed to this attitude, Linc nodded politely, but without agreement. This new twentieth century was a mere six years old. Change, the possibility of even more progress, was what drove him tonight. The future could be better if only good men would try to make it that way. Gaslights wrapped in wisps of fog passed by as the car went up and down hills. Finally he recognized Nob Hill. “This is where I get off!” Doffing his silk top hat in farewell, he descended from the cable car amid friendly wishes.

He walked down misty, winter-darkened California Street toward his destination, the Ward mansion. After all the presentation parties held in the weeks following New Year's Eve, Mrs. Zebulon Ward always hosted the first formal ball.

Ahead, golden electric light radiated from inside the imposing, three-story stone Ward residence. Gleaming black carriages and motorcars lined up near the entrance. Arriving on foot would not add to Linc's consequence in the eyes of society. In the shadows of the high wrought-iron fence, he waited until the liveried footmen were busy helping two ladies from an opulent carriage. Quietly, he slipped from the shadows and followed the pair to the open double front doors.

He waited for the ladies to enter. When they had been relieved of their dark velvet cloaks, Linc stepped inside the huge foyer. The excited buzz of voices and bursts of laughter filled his ears. A footman relieved him of his cape and hat. He handed his invitation to another footman who carried it to the butler. The butler bowed, then read Linc's full name aloud to his hostess who headed the receiving line. “Mr. Lincoln Granger Smith Wagstaff.”

Linc bowed over Mrs. Ward's pudgy gloved hand.

“Lincoln, I just received a letter from your dear Aunt Eugenia
yesterday. I was happy to write back and say I would be seeing you tonight.” Wearing a dog collar of glittering diamonds, Mrs. Ward went on to make the debutante next to her aware of Linc's distinguished Boston Back Bay connections. She finished with, “Smiths have been bankers in Boston as long as there have been banks in Boston!” Linc worked his way through the line which consisted of Mrs. Ward's protégé, a shy motherless girl whom kind Mrs. Ward was bringing out this season, and Mr. Ward. Linc smiled to himself—certain that the words “banker” and “Boston” had escaped no one. Wouldn't it be amusing if someone approached him about a loan? After all, his stepfather's family's reputation and distinctions had very little to do with his own life. And he'd never before traded on anyone else's credit. Doing so made him feel like a quack selling snake oil. But his purpose did include hobnobbing with the wealthy, the people he needed for success. His research into who owned what and how much in California had led him directly to the people in this ballroom—especially one redhead.

Accepting a glass of ruby red punch from a waiter, he strolled through the gathering of San Francisco's top two hundred families. Though he wore the latest in evening attire, the glittering rubies, sapphires, and emeralds and shimmering brocade dresses made him feel like a country rube. He drifted to a place near the receiving line where he could observe the assembly while watching for his redhead to arrive.

In front of him, a knot of young gentlemen collected. Linc idly listened to their conversations.

One gallant with brown hair and freckles intoned in mock seriousness. “The 1906 San Francisco marriage mart begins tonight.”

“You marry, Archie? Who would have you?” The fair-haired man grinned at Archie.

“Sneer if you dare, Bower,” Archie replied in a theatrical tone.

A rakish-looking man with straight black hair stepped closer. “Finally looking for a wife, Bower?”

“None of your affair, Hunt.” Bower's words came out stiffly.

The obvious friction between the two men—Bower so fair and
Hunt so dark—piqued Linc's interest. He read the tension in the stiffness of their posture as well as the way they positioned themselves as though they were in a ring about to box.

Hunt asked in a snide tone, “Anyone you fancy in particular, Bower?”

Archie interrupted, “We all want to get another look at her. No mystery about that. They've kept the redhead under wraps for a year since her old man died—”

Redhead? So they wanted to see her, too? Would that interfere with Linc's plans for her?

“Died and left her a fortune. That should interest you, Hunt,” Bower said acidly. “Some need a wealthy bride more than others.”

Stung, Hunt took a hasty step forward. “What I do is
none
of your business.”

“You trifled with my sister for nearly a year. I won't forget that.”

Linc stirred uneasily. What kind of game was Hunt at? Any man misleading an eligible girl made himself suspect.

“I did nothing that I ought not. I didn't propose.” Hunt paused to dust an invisible speck from his sleeve. “We just didn't suit.”

The scornful edge to Hunt's words brought a faint flush to Bower's face.

“You two, stop it,” Archie urged in an undertone. “Look!”

Linc obeyed, too. Across the long room, a beautiful brunette in a fawn-colored gown was receiving Mrs. Ward's welcome. Hunt gave a barely discernible wolf whistle in approval.

“Is that Fleur Fourchette—that Southern belle who's come to live with her aunt?” Bower inquired.

“Right,” Archie replied. “She's from New Orleans, an old French family.”

Linc admired the brunette's pretty face and petite form, but briefly. This brunette didn't figure in his plan.

The three fashionable young blades moved away from Linc toward the receiving line. A small orchestra, arranged at one end of the ballroom, quietly played a piece by Haydn. Humming the tune in a near whisper, Linc watched the lovely Miss Fourchette smile
prettily as Archie approached her and motioned toward the dance card, dangling from her small wrist.

Linc judged Archie, Hunt, and Bower to be sons of men who'd made their money in the gold mines or railroads, now connecting the east and west coasts. Restless young men, finished with education and trying to find a place in the scheme of things, overshadowed by successful fathers. Why then did Bower accuse Hunt of needing a wealthy wife? Why had Hunt trifled with Bower's sister? Though none of this had anything to do with his reason for being here, Linc's newspaper reporter instincts stirred.

“Miss Cecilia Jackson.” The words had not been spoken louder than any of the other names, but it was the name Linc had been waiting for. His eyes snapped back to the imposing entrance.

His redhead had arrived. He moved forward to observe her. Her careful boarding school training was plain in her bearing. She moved like a diva making her first stage entrance. When she and her aunt reached the end of the receiving line, Linc overheard her starched-up aunt's final instructions. “Cecilia, remember your breeding. You are a cultured young woman, not a ninny-hammer like most of the girls here tonight.”

The debutante's gaze skimmed the dazzling room.

Electric lights blazed from crystal chandeliers. Bunches of pink roses dangled from the branches of the chandeliers above, making the room redolent as any rose garden in summer. Tall, rainbow-colored silk draperies hung between the columns that supported the mezzanine and ringed the grand ballroom on three sides. The setting was the perfect one for her loveliness.

And Miss Jackson's beauty hadn't been exaggerated. Her hair was that highly prized warm auburn; her white skin creamy and unblemished except for a tiny enchanting mole at the corner of her mouth. How many young men this night would dream of kissing that beauty mark? And her eyes weren't the expected blue or green of most redheads. Her eyes were a rich brown, the shade of brown sugar. Linc waited to see who would approach her first.

“Miss Jackson.” Archie bowed to her. “I'm Archie Pierce. We
were introduced at your come-out. May I have a place on your dance card tonight?”

She hesitated, smiling prettily at him. “How could I say no to the first gentleman to ask? I'm so afraid of being left a wallflower tonight.” As she said the words, she managed to smile demurely. As Miss Jackson rewarded Archie with his name on her dance card, Linc realized that, though young and inexperienced, her entrance had a studied, practiced flavor.

As Miss Jackson moved away from Linc, other men stopped her, obviously soliciting dances. Not invited to the presentation parties, Linc had expected Miss Jackson to be just another beautiful deb. But his redhead in the flesh disconcerted him. He went over the facts he'd gleaned about her. She was nineteen. She'd lost her father a year ago. Her mother was ill, so her Boston aunt lived with her as chaperone. She was the richest unmarried heiress in San Francisco.