“If you’ll follow me, Mrs. Longren.” The butler ushered her inside.
Eleanor stood with her husband in the mansion’s spacious front entry hall, receiving guests. She wore an eggplant moiré gown trimmed in creamy white Venetian lace that Hattie couldn’t help but admire. The gown’s rich fabric bespoke of the wealth Eleanor and her husband enjoyed, while its subdued color had been carefully chosen so as not to eclipse the outfits of her guests. Hattie knew she’d never possess a fraction of the social skill Eleanor so effortlessly exhibited.
She moved forward, injecting as much warmth into her voice as she could. “Eleanor, thank you for allowing me to attend this evening.”
Eleanor noted the dark green velvet trim on Hattie’s mourning gown, pursing her lips. “Hattie.” She inclined her head. “I believe my invitation included Charlotte. Is she not attending this evening?”
“I’m afraid my sister came down with a severe headache this afternoon and is quite indisposed,” Hattie lied.
“A pity. I’ll send my maid over presently with a powder that may ease her discomfort.”
“No … that is, no, thank you, Eleanor. Sara has already prepared a tincture for Charlotte, and she’s gone to bed for the night. I’m certain she’ll be fully recovered by morning.”
If Eleanor noticed her agitation, she didn’t remark upon it. “Very well, I’m sure you know what’s best.”
“Yes.”
“May I present my husband, Alexander? Alex, this is Charles Longren’s widow, the lady I’ve mentioned to you frequently of late.”
“Mr. Canby,” Hattie managed politely.
After a quick glance in the direction of his wife, Canby bowed over her hand. “Mrs. Longren. I hope you enjoy the evening we have planned.” She caught the barest hint of a twinkle in his eye. “The music promises to be entertaining.”
“Yes, I look forward to it,” she replied. Casting about desperately for an appropriate topic of conversation, she seized upon the design of the grand, three-tiered staircase behind them that was the talk of the town. “You must be quite proud of your home, Mr. Canby. The architecture is astonishing.”
“Why, yes, my dear!” Canby smiled, looking relieved. “Do note the eight panels of the domed ceiling—the frescoes of graces and nymphs depict the Four Seasons and Four Virtues. You’ll have to return for a visit during the first few days of a season—sunlight shines through the ruby glass of dormer windows, causing a red beam to point at the appropriate season—”
“Alice,” Eleanor interrupted firmly, glowering at her husband. “Please show Mrs. Longren into the parlor, where she can await the arrival of our other guests.”
Canby shot Hattie a rueful glance but remained silent. Hattie gave him a small smile of apology before turning away. Evidently her own contretemps with Eleanor were indicative of the manner in which she also treated her family members.
Hattie was shown into a lushly furnished parlor graced with a high ceiling decorated by stencils and elaborate murals. Because she was the first to arrive, she had a moment alone to collect her thoughts. She’d probably committed some small slight of etiquette, showing up exactly on time, but her nerves hadn’t given her a choice. She wanted the hours until she could slip away gone, the evening over. Concentrating on breathing deeply and evenly, she took in her surroundings.
Tall windows adorned with allegorical corner carvings of lions, doves, and ferns looked onto formal gardens. Groupings of velvet-upholstered, baroque-style furniture crowded the room, and on the farthest wall stood the largest music organ she’d ever seen in a private home. No doubt Eleanor had her own personal organist who played hymns each Sunday for the family.
Unable to remain still, Hattie paced around the ornate room, noting it contained no fireplace. Eleanor’s pronouncement to the world, Hattie suspected, that she could afford central heating and therefore no longer saw the need for wood fires. Stopping at a window, Hattie gazed out, trying to calm the pounding of her heart, which sounded unnaturally loud to her own ears. It wouldn’t do to faint, she silently chastised herself.
“Alexander commissioned the house’s interior finish work by his ships’ carpenters, as you know.” The deep voice came from behind her, chilling her.
She swallowed and turned from her view of Eleanor’s immaculate gardens. Michael Seavey stood inside the door of the parlor, elegant in his charcoal gray dress jacket and kid gloves, his pale eyes watching her the way a powerful cat watches its prey.
Think of Charlotte, she reminded herself, only of Charlotte. All that mattered was that he not learn of her plan for later that evening.
“It’s said that the design of the supporting structure for the hall staircase remains a secret even to this day,” he added, smiling slightly. “And Eleanor does love her secrets.”
“Stay away from me.” Hattie kept her voice low.
He strode across the room to stand before her, his demeanor too familiar by half. She held her ground. The gesture did not appear to be lost on him. He smiled. “I do greatly admire your spirit, my dear.”
She took a deliberate step backward, allowing him to see the revulsion she felt. An indefinable emotion flickered in his eyes, gone in an instant, then his expression turned neutral. He made a production of removing his gloves and lighting a cigar.
“I’m told we are to be entertained by the great Scott Joplin this evening,” he said lightly, obviously enjoying the acrid fragrance of the smoke.
“I doubt I’ll find Joplin’s music relaxing.”
“On that we agree.” He looked amused, clearly choosing to misinterpret her remark. “The jarring melodies that enthrall Antonín Dvořák elude me. Rumor is that the composer might use their essence in his New World symphony, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”
“Yes, though I’m surprised you took note. I don’t see you as a man of refinement.”
If her affront bothered him, he didn’t show it. He puffed on the cigar, then sighed. “I feel the need to impress upon you once again that I can help you, Hattie, if only you’ll allow me.”
“In return for the surrender of everything I hold dear, no doubt,” she replied bitterly.
He leaned toward her, keeping his voice low. “Say the word, and Charlotte is returned to you, unharmed.”
She remained silent. In the hallway, more guests had arrived, and she could hear Greeley’s booming voice, causing her stomach to knot even harder.
“Men have base instincts, Hattie,” Seavey murmured. “Ones that Charles may have chosen to shield you from during your brief marriage. And my men … well.” He spread his hands. “I can’t predict, nor can I control how long they will wait before acting upon those … instincts.”
“You bastard.”
He stepped closer, so close she feared she’d gag. “I’ve proposed a lucrative business alliance, one that will make you a rich woman overnight. And I can guarantee you’d enjoy my touch.”
“I don’t want your money. Or your hands on me.”
“Yes, I’ve come to that lamentable conclusion.” He straightened away from her. “You have the rest of the evening to decide. After that, it’s out of my control.”
She kept her tone cold, though fine tremors ran the length of her spine. “Do not approach me again, Mr. Seavey, or conventions be damned—I will scream this house down. And I will tell everyone what you’ve done to Charlotte. Do you understand?”
He sighed, inclining his head. “More than you do, my dear.”