The Lady and the Robber Baron Read online

  Jennifer had never seen such a thing. Part of her did not believe it possible. “So, what do we do?”

  Chane grinned. “We relax. We’re trapped here.”

  “Are you a warlock?” she asked suddenly.

  Chane laughed.

  “Well,” she said, laughing, “you have to admit that you seem to get more help from the elements than any man I’ve ever known. Theaters burn down. Ships freeze in the ocean. Almost anything is likely if it serves your purpose.”

  His healthy skin had been reddened by the icy winds, and his green eyes twinkled with good spirits. He smiled at her with such love, joy, and warmth that she almost wept. Then the cold seeped into her bones and she shivered.

  “Seen enough?” he asked.

  Jennifer nodded. Kincaid opened the door to their cabin, scooped her inside, and closed the door. “How am I going to get back to town?” she asked.

  “It’ll go one of two ways. Either the ice will break up quickly and we can sail into the inner harbor, or it’ll get thick enough to walk on.”

  “That could take days.”

  “This happened in Boston harbor fifty years or so ago. The captain was just telling me about it. Ships were stuck for weeks.”

  “I can’t be stuck for weeks.”

  Chane looked up at the ceiling. “You hear that, God?” His voice was stern and threatening. Jennifer laughed in spite of herself. Chane was doing it again. Acting as though even God might listen to his nonsense. She was accustomed to witty, outrageous men. Her mother had surrounded herself with them. But she had never met a man like Chane Kincaid. His sense of humor was different. She had not yet figured it out, or him. He was always surprising her.

  “Don’t be cross with me,” he said gently. “I know you’re upset, and with good reason.”

  “I’m not cross.”

  “Of course not. Your face only looks like a thundercloud.”

  “I have to get back into town.”

  “Everyone is entitled to a honeymoon. We can let the captain marry us here, and we’ll honeymoon until the ice either thaws or thickens.”

  “I never said I would marry you…”

  “You’re carrying my baby. You can’t marry anyone else.” Gently, he pulled her close and kissed her. The warmth and taste of his mouth awakened a hunger in her that had nothing to do with physical desire. It had happened one other time, when she had held a tiny baby and smelled its sweet, powdery smell, and something deep inside her jolted awake.

  “Don’t kiss me like that,” she said, burying her face against his soft woolen coat. Snowflakes had melted, leaving it slightly wet.

  “How do you want me to kiss you?” Chane lifted her chin and looked at her as if her answer were the most important thing in the world. Jennifer tried to hang onto her decision, but even as she spoke she could feel it slipping away.

  “My father asked our attorney, Mr. Berringer, to file a legal suit against you three months before he died. He claimed you cheated him out of millions of dollars. My brother thinks you bankrupted my father and caused him to kill my mother and himself.” Jennifer couldn’t believe she had blurted that out after so long. It seemed a betrayal of Peter.

  “I never even met your father.”

  “According to the Manhattan Times Record—”

  “We might as well get comfortable.” Chane led her to the bed and sat her down on the edge of it. “This is going to take a while,” he said, resigned. “My grandfather bought the St. Paul and Pacific Railroad from your father for four million dollars. Then he realized he’d bought himself a problem. He called me in and said if I could untangle the mess he’d bought, he’d give me a half interest in it. I spent eighteen months trying to keep the railroad running while I settled with everyone from the Knights of Labor to the suppliers. My hair almost turned gray. You see this silver at my temples? After I’d placated hundreds of people, a few senators and congressmen, the entire labor force of six cities along the route, and their labor unions, I had to take on your father.”

  “You didn’t cheat him?”

  “No.” It was Chane’s opinion that Reginald Van Vleet had cheated his grandfather by selling him railroad bonds representing a legal snarl, not a working railroad as implied in the purchase agreement, but he was not cruel enough to tell that to a dead man’s daughter.

  Jennifer digested that for a moment. “I’m confused. Why is my parents’ attorney still probating the estate as a bankruptcy? Even though you paid our debts, we have no money to maintain the household. He’s letting us live there as a courtesy until they finish the inventory.”

  “Ward Berringer is not a man of impeccable reputation. I wouldn’t believe everything he said,” Chane warned.

  “My father must have trusted him.”

  Chane grinned. “You believe everything you’re told, don’t you?”

  “Usually.”

  “You’re going to be fun.” He grinned. His eyes sparkled with challenge.

  “Well, because you’re worried,” he said, “I’ll have Tom Wilcox look into it. If your father died bankrupt, it was for some other reason. My grandfather paid four million dollars for that railroad. He didn’t get it as a gift.” He watched her for a moment. “We’ll be married as soon as the captain can arrange it.”

  “I’m a ballerina.” She groaned. “I can’t marry.”

  “You’re about to be a mother. You can’t not marry.”

  “It isn’t fair!” she snapped. “I’ve studied for twelve years and I’m just now beginning to reap the rewards for all my hard work. I might have starred in London. Now I’ll miss my chance.” Tears of anger welled up and spilled down her cheeks. She wiped furiously at them as if they were one more sign that her body was out of control. The angrier she became, the more she cried. Finally, she gave up and buried her face in her hands and just cried.

  Chane had never realized before what pregnancy meant to a woman. Seeing Jennifer struggle with it brought the hardship home to him. She was a gifted artist about to be put out of business by her body engaging itself without her permission in the act of creating life. Many professions could be carried on without the body’s help. He could still design buildings from a wheelchair if he had to. But Jennifer could not dance with a big belly.

  He felt such tenderness for her suddenly. He had wanted her so desperately that he’d blithely given her his seed, as if it would be a blessing to her as well as to him. He might have ruined her. At the very least he had taken a beautiful, talented, spirited ballerina and used her like a broodmare. She could as easily die in childbirth as bring forth a healthy baby.

  This realization chilled him. If he could, he would undo what he had done and set her free. His shame was so intense he couldn’t speak or move.

  Her shoulders shook with her weeping. Finally, her tears slowed. His own burden lifted enough that he could pull her into his arms and comfort her. “Jennie, love, please don’t cry. Don’t take it out on yourself. Take it out on me. I deserve it.”

  Like a little girl too stunned to understand, she rubbed her eyes and looked at him. “What?”

  “I didn’t realize what I was doing to you. God, Jennie, I’m so sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I didn’t mean to…”

  Amazed, Jennifer looked up at him. His eyes were filled with misery. He gathered her into his arms. “I don’t deserve you, Jennie. I’ll never deserve you, but I promise you, if you marry me, I’ll always take care of you and our baby. I’ll do anything.”

  Jennifer sniffed. “Always?”

  “I swear it on my grandmother’s grave.”

  Her mind had resisted thinking about marriage as a solution to her problem. It resisted the whole idea of a baby, but if she didn’t marry him, she would have to take the cotton-root-bark tea.

  In her mind she saw a tiny duplicate of Chane curled in her womb. If she drank the tea, it would die. Her stomach knotted in revulsion. She wouldn’t be able to do it. She probably wouldn’t be strong enough to have a baby ou
tside of wedlock, either.

  “If I ever find out that you had anything to do with my parents’ deaths, I will kill you,” she said, sniffing back tears.

  “If I ever find out that you married me for my money, I’ll kill you,” he said, grinning.

  “I’m not joking.”

  “I know. But I’m not worried. I had nothing to do with it.”

  Jennifer sniffed. “I guess I will marry you.”

  Chane held her away from him. “What?”

  “I guess I will…”

  “Marry me?”

  “I guess…”

  With a sinking heart he realized that she did not love him with the same passion and intensity as he loved her, but he felt certain he could inspire whatever feelings in her he wanted once she had made a commitment to him. “You won’t be sorry, Jennie. I promise you.”

  “It isn’t fair, though.”

  “Life is not supposed to be fair, love. Otherwise we’d all be rich and male, and the species would die after one generation.”

  “I’m scared, Chane.”

  “I know, sweet, I know, but I promise you I will take care of you.”

  “What if you don’t? What if you forget that you ever loved me?” She sniffed and gave one of those soft, shuddering breaths children take when crying themselves to sleep.

  Tenderness overwhelmed him. “I won’t. I can’t. You’re like a part of me. I’ll always, always, always love you.”

  “I wish I didn’t feel so scared.”

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll protect you.” He lifted her chin and kissed her until she relaxed in his arms.

  “You won’t forget?” she asked softly. He had never seen her so sweet or so vulnerable.

  “I won’t forget,” he said gently.

  “Okay, then.” She looked like a person headed to the guillotine, not the wedding chapel.

  “You won’t be sorry, love.”

  Jennifer felt almost certain she was making a mistake, but felt it was a necessary one. She was miserable without Chane, and probably would be equally miserable married to him and raising his children instead of dancing. But her body had made the choice when it accepted his seed and let it grow.

  There was only one thing that made marrying him seem to make sense, besides the baby. And it was a phrase she had heard long ago, which was used in a primitive culture that had no word for the term “love.” Their nearest equivalent was “beautiful of the heart.” Even the sight of Chane’s craggy, angular face caused a feeling in her that could only be described as beautiful of the heart.

  They were married at noon. The wind howled outside the captain’s cabin, almost drowning out the words of the ceremony. Augustine cried, and Jennifer could barely speak the words. The captain kept clearing his throat. Chane looked so solemn and so handsome it almost hurt to look at him. When it was over, he bent down and kissed her tenderly.

  Jennifer hugged Augustine, who wept discreetly into her handkerchief.

  “I wish your brother could have been here, ma’am. He would be so…” Augustine’s voice trailed into silence.

  With a start of remembrance, Jennifer finished the sentence for her: so…furious. Oh, God, what had she done? Marrying her brother’s worst enemy. And without even telling him…

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning Jennifer Van Vleet did not show up at practice. Bellini asked several of the girls about her, but no one seemed to know where she might be. He went to Kincaid’s office to ask him, but he was not there.

  That evening Simone went to Jennifer’s house, knocked at the door, and waited in miserable silence. Her coat was not heavy enough for the icy wind that whipped her skirts and bit into her legs, and more importantly, she was terrified of the reception she would get from Peter.

  At last the door opened. A tall, sterile-looking old man in severe black garb peered out at her. He seemed to resent having to open the door but was trying to hide that from her. Finally, he stepped back and motioned her inside. She complied, and he slammed the door against the storm. “What may I do for you?” he asked.

  Simone appreciated that he had trusted her enough to let her in without first knowing her business. She doubted he remembered her. She had not been to the house in years.

  “Is…is Jennifer here?”

  “Mistress Jennifer is away.”

  “Is…Mr. Van Vleet here?”

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  “Simone…Marcelline.” She hated giving him her name, because Peter probably would not see her if he knew it was her.

  He nodded and started slowly up the stairs. Above the golden, intricately carved sideboard a portrait of Vivian Van Vleet, seated on a low Louis XV stool, looked blithely down on Simone. The entry hall was bigger than her entire flat. A fireplace crackled. Simone walked to the fire and held her hands toward the heat.

  Footsteps sounded softly. Simone’s heart raced. She turned and saw Peter pause at the bottom of the steps and then walk across the thick carpet to her side.

  He looked as if he had just come home. His hair gleamed as if it were wet, his coat, which might have been hastily pulled on, looked damp as well.

  “Is it still snowing?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Her body felt hot, then cold, then hot again. All he had to do was speak to her and a fever started that seemed to wipe out her common sense. She had no reason to love Peter Van Vleet, but she did. His cool, incredibly blue eyes looked at her as if waiting for her to speak. His sensuous bottom lip had a small, almost imperceptible flat place, as if someone had touched it when he was very young and left an impression there. She tried to remember how his lips had felt, if she had felt the flat place when he kissed her, but her heart pounded so hard she could remember nothing.

  Her body felt that something momentous was about to happen. Simone knew she would not be equal to it, just as she knew she was not really a dancer, the way Jennifer was.

  “I was worried about Jennifer…” she said. Her voice sounded odd and small, as though about to betray her great agitation.

  Peter held his hands toward the fire. His wrists were strong and manly. Even in wintertime his fine skin held its healthy color. He didn’t look at Simone. “She went to Washington D.C. I expect her back—”

  “We expected her, too—” Simone realized she had interrupted him, and embarrassment caused her voice to dwindle into silence.

  “—this morning, actually, but she didn’t come,” he continued, his voice husky and rich. “She should have wired—” he said, realizing he had interrupted her and stopping abruptly.

  “—yesterday. She missed the performance last—” she stopped just as abruptly.

  “The weather has been beastly. Her boat may have washed ashore somewhere—”

  “Bellini had to substitute—” Words kept jerking out of her mouth, interrupting him. Simone stopped speaking. She was incoherent. She was not making sense. He would think her an imbecile for coming here on such a weak pretense.

  Peter had stopped speaking also. The silence stretched out. Finally, Simone said, “I guess I had best be going.”

  “It’s cold out there. Would you like some hot tea?”

  Part of her wanted to stay with him however she could, even when he offered things out of obligation. But part of her still had pride.

  “No thank you. I must be going. I just wanted to be sure Jennifer was all right.”

  “I’m sure she is. She took Mamitchka. Augustine would never let anything happen to Jenn. She would let me know if they had a problem of some sort. I trust her.”

  “Well, thank you for letting me warm myself.”

  “Have you a ride back to the Bricewood?”

  Simone searched his eyes. He had the most wonderful eyes she had ever looked into. They took her breath away. She wished she could say no, but she had asked the cab driver to wait for her. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  Peter walked her to the door, opened it for her, took her arm a
nd helped her down the icy steps, across the sidewalk, and into the cab. Simone imagined she could feel the warmth of his strong hands through her thick coat. She felt giddy by the time she turned to face him. Again his fine blue eyes looked directly into hers.

  “Thank you…”

  “I’ll tell Jenn you stopped by.”

  “Thank you.”

  The cabriolet started with a jerk and a loud crack as ice formed between the wheel and the street broke free. Simone waved. Peter turned and walked carefully up the steps, which had iced over again since their morning salting. His broad shoulders tapered into a lean waist and he carried himself like a young lord. Simone especially loved the way his head balanced on his sturdy neck, the angle of his strong chin…

  The cab turned the corner. The Van Vleet house was now out of sight. Simone leaned back and covered her face with her hands. He had been nice to her! He had treated her like any decent person who had called on his sister. Her heart raced and pounded. Perhaps he didn’t hate her.

  Cautiously, Chane opened one eye. Jennie had come out of the small toilet adjoining their stateroom and had sat down in the rocking chair beside the potbellied stove in the middle of the cabin. She glanced over at him, and Chane simulated the deep breathing of sleep.

  Thus assured of her privacy, Jennie leaned back in the chair and smiled. She rocked a few times, lifted her nightgown, and put her hands on her flat little belly. “You’re lucky to have such a smart father,” she said to the baby. “I didn’t realize you were a baby yet. I hope I didn’t frighten you. I wouldn’t hurt you for anything in the world. It was just that I didn’t know you were there yet.”

  She rocked a moment. “Maybe I just didn’t realize it was time to stop being selfish. Ballerinas are a selfish lot. We think our aching backs and our aching toes are the center of the universe. It’s a way of life. Maybe you’ll grow up to be a ballerina. Then you’ll understand. Or maybe you’ll be a horseman like your uncle Peter. Or maybe a robber baron like your father.”