Under a Gilded Moon(11)

For a moment, his attention dropped from her. He seemed to be measuring the arch of the stone bridge at the next bend, the precise layering of greens and maroons and golds of the plantings.

In anyone else, Lilli might have thought this showed a man of too little action. But in George Vanderbilt, grandson of one of the most merciless titans of business ever to have drawn breath, she found it peculiarly appealing.

Squinting, she examined a spot on a ridge ahead where a spiral of smoke melted into the fog. In the air swirled the smell of fire and ash in the distance.

“One or two cabins remain,” he offered, following her gaze. “Mountain families who’ve yet to sell to me—or my agent, McNamee.”

“And in your experience, Mr. Vanderbilt, do people always eventually sell what they love for enough money?”

Lilli could see the horrified expression Emily turned on her. But it was too late for a softer rewording.

As if mesmerized by the spiraling smoke, he nodded. “Yes. They do.” And he seemed almost sad with his own answer. “The last family here will, too, one day.”

Then, as if suddenly remembering his manners, he jolted forward, extending his hand to Lilli. “Again, forgive me. George Vanderbilt.”

Emily urged her horse forward.

“George, I’d like you to meet Miss Lillian Barthélemy, formerly of New Orleans. More recently of New York. I’m sorry to say her father, Maurice Barthélemy—I believe I wrote to tell you he was meeting us here—couldn’t join us today after all since he was called away quite suddenly”—her eyes shot sympathetically to Lilli—“and unexpectedly on business. Lillian, may I introduce my uncle, Mr. George Washington Vanderbilt II. Formerly of New York. More recently—and I envy him this”—her gaze swung now toward the mountains—“more recently, of here.”

George Vanderbilt took Lilli’s hand gently, as if not quite sure what to do with it. And she felt that strange drop of her heart rate again.

“Miss Barthélemy, I’m honored to meet you. Your aunt, Mrs. Wharton, has been a dear friend for years. Our taste in books runs much the same.”

“Ah, yes. Aunt Edith.” Lilli invested the title with all the affection due it. “The Charge of the Light Brigade, my father calls her, in intimate family circles.”

Vanderbilt smiled. “She is a woman who knows her own mind.”

“I’m afraid he’s accused me of being much like her.”

Emily cut her eyes at Lilli. Gave a single shake of her head.

But their host’s face did not change. “So much the better for you, then, Miss Barthélemy.”

So, then: here was Mr. George Washington Vanderbilt II. Intellectual. Shy. And unafraid of strong women.

“Mr. Vanderbilt, may I compliment you on the gait and conformation of your horse? I’m partial to warmbloods myself.”

“Ah.” His eyes lit. “You have an interest in breeding, then?”

Emily erupted in giggles. Lilli might have laughed, too, if their host hadn’t been so sweetly earnest. So apparently unaware what he’d asked.

“Oh, I think most of us do,” Lilli returned. “Under the right circumstances.”

Patting the neck of his warmblood, he turned in his saddle, and she saw she’d earned his approval. Not his affection, of course. Not yet. But his approval. And possibly interest. In so short a time.

Do ugly women, she wondered, earn a man’s trust so quickly?

George Washington Vanderbilt II seemed likely to prove an enormously interesting challenge.

One well worth pursuing.

No more whistles echoed from the station back in the village. Which meant the train must have arrived. Must be sitting there, its steam releasing with a shhhhh into the fog, great clouds of white billowing over the platform and into the woods.

The billowing white and the dark that could cover what would happen now.

What didn’t need to be seen.





Chapter 5

Kerry stared out at the billowing steam as if her future could be projected there, jerking and flashing onto the white, like moving kinetoscope pictures. All over the platform, ladies swished past in their tight satin waists and their swooping hats, gloved hands pointing out which leather-girded trunks were theirs. Gentlemen’s black bowlers and top hats bobbed about in circles—like a roiling kettle of pitch, Kerry thought.

Jursey leaped around the foot of the train’s stairs, his red froth of hair bouncing. “Them two top hatters back there,” he announced, “were some kind of briggity proud. I liked them others, though.” He looked from the reporter in one direction to both Bergaminis a few feet away.

Aaron Berkowitz offered his arm to Rema, just behind him. Leaning into him, she eased down to the platform. Even at her age, Aunt Rema was still as strong as an ox, Kerry knew—but she still liked the arm of a young man.

Tully was studying little Carlo Bergamini, dragging his left leg as he limped beside his brother. “How’d you go getting the gimpy leg?”

The child only turned large black eyes on her.

“A stumble,” his brother said. “Down the stairs.” He turned quickly away.

A lie, Kerry saw.

People only turn that swiftly away from their own words when it’s a lie. As if they can’t bear to face a mangled up truth of their own making.