Mistress Suffragette

By Diana Forbes

A young woman without prospects at a ball in Gilded Age Newport, Rhode Island is a target for a certain kind of “suitor.” At the Memorial Day Ball during the Panic of 1893, impoverished but feisty Penelope Stanton draws the unwanted advances of a villainous millionaire banker who preys on distressed women—the incorrigible Edgar Daggers. Over a series of encounters, he promises Penelope the financial security she craves, but at what cost? Skilled in the art of flirtation, Edgar is not without his charms, and Penelope is attracted to him against her better judgment. Initially, as Penelope grows into her own in the burgeoning early Women’s Suffrage Movement, Edgar exerts pressure, promising to use his power and access to help her advance. But can he be trusted, or are his words part of an elaborate mind game played between him and his wife? During a glittering age where a woman’s reputation is her most valuable possession, Penelope must decide whether to compromise her principles for love, lust, and the allure of an easier life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penmore Press LLC
• Release date: Mar 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781946409065

Book preview

Corsets have filled as many graves as whisky.

Mary Livermore, Suffragist Leader, 1892 "

Dedication

Thanks to my husband, an ardent reader and steadfast champion of this project from page one.

Certificate

Acknowledgments

Seeing a debut novel through to publication takes a village. The mayor of my village is Susan Breen, without whose mentorship and gentle guidance this story would have languished. I would also like to thank my village’s aldermen, even if they are women: Sonia Pilcer and Thais Miller. Every village needs a Town Crier to bring forth the message: thank you, John Willig.

The residents of my village who read this novel during its many revisions include: Bruce Bowman, Adeli Brito, Elizabeth Fausalino, Lizzie Fetterman, Fran Green, Mary Hoffman, Alexis Jacobs, David Kozatch, Sheri Lane, Vicky Mendal, Ginny Poleman, David Rothman, Norm Scott, Phyllis Smith, Kara Westerman, plus the hundreds of writers I met in over a dozen writing classes at NYU, the West Side Y, and the Gotham Writing Program.

Some writers helped me defend my work against marauders who would raze it to the ground. Others provided pep talks and companionship as I vowed to cut the page length to a publishable form. Thank you, Elizabeth Robertson Laytin.

Some friends who are not writers endured numerous updates on the progress of this novel with a smile and a Jack Daniels Whiskey Sour. Thank you, Pam Arya and Bob Lupone. Once the architecture of this novel was put in place, Michael James, Christine Paige, and Midori Snyder of Penmore Press helped me shape the story and publicize it.

Chapter 1

Country Rules

Tuesday, May 30, 1893, Newport, Rhode Island

Imagine being sent to a party with a gun pointed at your head. You might look bewitching; you might wear a proper pale blue gown, with its gathered skirt and off-the-shoulder neckline. You might sport the perfect pair of ivory silk ballroom slippers. Your fiery hair might be dressed in coils and feminine curls.

But inside, underneath the pleats and the padding, knowing about your father’s possible ruin, I bet you’d feel frightened.

You might believe this to be your last party. You might sense your short life flash before your eyes—the leisurely days of riding horses till your thighs ached, the long nights of preparing French verb conjugations till your fingers cramped up, or helping the Ladies Auxiliary return stray cats to their owners.

Try as you might to shut your eyes to the hard facts, to the sudden unmooring of your destiny, you’d know that when friends asked how you were faring, you wouldn’t say much, hoping you might get by with some idle pleasantries or banalities about the weather.

So you can imagine how it was for me as our carriage crunched up the driveway to the first party of the season: the Memorial Day Ball.

Lamplighters hurried to spark the gas jets atop cast iron poles. The sky turned from bright pink to burnt orange.

We looked resplendent in spite of everything that had happened.

Our dressmaker had outfitted me in three different dresses before we’d decided on the pale blue one. My mother shone in a pearlescent evening gown that lit every curve. Svelte Father sported a waistcoat and tails. Even my younger sister had dressed appropriately for once. Tonight she resembled a prim schoolmistress, having donned a pink chiffon gown with a jewel neckline that exposed only her collarbone. Her Marie-Antoinette curls were brushed up and away from her face, lending Lydia an angelic innocence that hid her true personality.

Our carriage joined a long line of broughams and coaches filled with party guests. Snatches of laughter rippled through the air. I glanced out the window at the imposing Chateau-sur-Mer. While its granite exterior gave it the severe look of an army fortress, the inside of the mansion featured a small but exquisite ballroom.

Ever since the Breakers Estate had burned down in a horrific fire the year before, balls in Newport had been rare indeed. Rumors swirled. And as the weather warmed, gossips placed wagers. Two months, claimed one dowager. Others guessed six months. But the general consensus was longer. Due to Cornelius Vanderbilt’s insistence on making the replacement building fireproof, the new mansion on the Breakers’s property wouldn’t be ready for two more years.

To those of us reaching our season, two years felt like a life sentence.

As our carriage completed the last stretch of the pea-gravel driveway, we gaped at exotic trees. They looked like upside-down, green hoop skirts waving on top of spindly torsos.

Mother touched her pomaded chignon. I’m sure the Wetmores have their reasons for choosing such unusual-looking trees, she murmured between tight lips.

It’s to keep out the riffraff, Lydia chimed, blonde curls a-bounce. Riffraff like Penelope.

Now, Lydia, Mother chided, petting my nemesis’s small back, your sister doesn’t have many balls to look forward to, dear. You must leave her alone so she can concentrate on meeting a nice, eligible man.

And there it was—the invisible gun in my mother’s hand. Please find someone fast, Penelope. We are so disappointed in you. Other women your age seem to manage it just fine.

But there was a flaw in my mother’s logic: I had never met anyone at these balls whom I didn’t already know. If these potential suitors hadn’t deemed me worthy of courtship before, why would they now?

Eligible men preferred women with dowries, did they not?

We arrived at the porte-cochère. My father descended from the carriage, then extended his hand to help Mother first and then me. Lydia scrambled out of the cabin without any assistance, an etiquette gaffe the size of Europe. But for some reason the footmen who whisked away our carriage barely blinked.

As we entered the imposing façade, more footmen took our wraps, and I stole a quick look at myself in the mirror. Long, white, buttoned evening gloves hid fingernails bitten down to the quick. A beaded purse dangled from my wrist like an empty dance card. I knew that I was supposed to toss back my red coils, smile, and behave as if there was nothing more significant in my life than my being at this party. Instead, the festivities unfurled around me, and I felt like I was wearing an expressionless mask, though this was not the Masquerade Ball.

Still, if I could just survive this one night with my head held high then I imagined that the following morning would go a little smoother, and the day after, perhaps even a little better. And maybe a week hence I could look back and say, well, at least I survived. I might not be able to feign happiness, but I could work through my humiliation one day at a time.

Everything was handled with a sublime, syncopated orchestration. A portly, rabbit-toothed footman sporting a monocle with a diamond chain announced us: Mr. and Mrs. Phillip P. Stanton of Newport, Rhode Island.

My parents approached the party hosts. Practically overnight, my father’s spry gait had turned into that of an old man’s. My mother, tenacious and plump (it was a matter of conjecture whether she was pleasantly so), marched forward to greet the Wetmores, her flair for keeping up appearances holding up to perfection.

George Peabody Wetmore and his wife, Edith, stood under the chandelier in the anteroom. Father, looking rail-thin in a waistcoat that had just been taken in days earlier, bowed to George and then took Edith’s outstretched hand. Mother dropped her lowest curtsey.

The footman peered at me through his jeweled eyepiece and continued: Miss Penelope L. Stanton of Newport, Rhode Island. And Miss Lydia P. Stanton of Newport, Rhode Island.

Slowly I walked toward the Wetmores, taking care to emulate Mother’s low, deferential curtsey, but Lydia improvised. She short-curtseyed to both of the Wetmores, another faux pas, which they had the good manners to ignore.

Then, as a family, we entered the beautiful ballroom. Around us, pale gray walls and giant gilt-framed mirrors reflected the twinkling lights from the overhead chandeliers almost like a second set of constellations especially arranged for Society’s most illustrious citizens. But a drop of moisture brought in from the lawn on the sole of a slipper could turn the parquet floors into a sheet of ice, and I’d seen more than one dowager take a spill, heralding her social downfall for the rest of the season.

Tonight, however, no one needed to fear a social mishap: the skies were clear, the ground, dry.

And there by the gilded mirrors he stood. The very last person I cared to see in the universe, let alone at this party. How much had changed in a month! My thoughts returned to that devastating afternoon when I first started to learn how my life was about to change.

I was cantering down Bellevue Avenue toward home, the sound of my horse’s hooves punctuating the carpet of thick fog rolling in from the ocean. Around the corner, Sam’s buggy appeared, heading full speed in my direction.

Sam Haven! I shouted from atop my horse. Sam Haven, Sam Haven, Sam Haven, stop the carriage!

But my fiancé’s black buggy flew past me and thundered down the road. As the horses pulling his transport kicked up dirt into my face, even his driver failed to look my way.

Sam had deliberately ignored me that afternoon, and I’d be sure to return the favor now. Turning away from him, I noticed the wallflowers gathered in one corner of the room. I longed to head toward them—who better than this scorned group to sympathize? But then I remembered the invisible gun pointing in my direction, and stayed where I was—nearer the men.

The ballroom was small, but the Wetmores refused to be daunted by the logic of scale and capacity. They were famous for hiring the world’s largest orchestras and coercing them to perform outside. All windows and doors were left open and guests milled freely inside and out, with the effect that the party was in two rooms: the ballroom and the lawn.

Outside on the back lawn, a fourteen-piece orchestra took the stage while inside the Society matrons held court. The bigger the jewels, the newer the money, Mother always said, and tonight I spotted rubies and emeralds actually embedded in some of the women’s ball gowns.

I only hoped Mother wouldn’t have to sell off her jewelry.

Selling me off was the aim. Not an easy feat—considering that I was too tall, too red-haired, a bit gangling, and as bruised on the inside as a bad apple. (Just don’t let them see those bruises, dear, Mother had advised me a few days earlier in her ever-upbeat way.)

Mother’s first stop was the group of formidable ladies who were married to the founders of the Newport Country Club, due to open late in summer. The wives seemed content to gossip about this party. I heard murmurs of relief that this was not one of the themed balls for which the Wetmores were famous. An ebony-haired matron with a lorgnette quirked an eyebrow.

The Turkish party was wonderful, she rasped, until the genies came out of their giant bottles to mingle with the guests.

Oh yes, Mother agreed, joining ranks with her social superiors. Once a genie escapes from his bottle, it’s almost impossible to get him back inside.

Polite laughter rewarded Mother’s jest.

Genies grant wishes, don’t they? I asked to stunned silence.

I wished Father’s business had survived. I wished we could stay in Newport forever. I wished Sam had loved me. I couldn’t bear how he stood by the golden mirrors, genteelly waving his hand at Mother as if he were the Prince of England and our engagement had been nothing more than a casual misunderstanding among bridge players over a matter of bidding. As though his callous words hadn’t jabbed, like so many corset stays lodged into my torso.

Please know that I’m devastated, too. Your father represented my best business contact. Without him vouching for me, I may not be able to get a job at a bank. Indeed, all banks may go under, and perhaps no bank will hire. We’re in a Panic, Penelope. Do you have any idea what that word means?"

The musicians outside struck up a sprightly version of Handel’s Love’s but the Frailty of the Mind, a signal that dancing would begin soon. Famished, I ignored my corset’s unforgiving pinch and edged toward the buffet table. Mother yanked me back.

"Penelope, the foie gras is for the matrons, she reminded me. They don’t need to watch their figures. You do. Instead of eating, dance! You should be dancing."

She turned around to see if there were any eligible bachelors for me.

Her eyes lit on awkward Willard Clements. At his peril, he’d ignored the instruction of his private Dance Master and failed to practice any steps. By the age of thirteen, Willard’s clumsiness had reached epic proportions. He was now aged twenty-one with no improvement on the grace front. He half bowed to my mother but backed away from her. Waiters carrying trays balanced with champagne flutes dodged and scurried to avoid crashing into his rear end.

At this ball, country rules prevailed, which meant that any man in the room could ask a lady to dance without an introduction. As the music changed to Mozart, three men approached to fill out the dance card dangling from my wrist while ten men approached my sister. One man from my circle left to join Lydia’s group before he’d even signed my card. Annoyed, I crossed my arms, but Mother shook her head at me. Assets…display, she mouthed.

Mother clucked and bustled, doing her best to push certain eligible bachelors in my direction. I think she would have been happy to marry me off during the first dance if possible—before rumors as to why Sam pulled out of our engagement hardened into certainty. But in spite of the concerted efforts of my designated ambassador, my dance card remained only half full; and it was the later dances on the night’s program that were spoken for. This left me free for the first several dances, a fate that also left me vulnerable to the advances of any man at the party.

A lady cannot refuse the invitation of a gentleman to dance unless she has already accepted that of another; so when that wilting wallflower of a man Willard Clements asked, I accepted. He waltzed as if he had bricks on his feet. The conversation, like poor Willard, hobbled along.

Waltzes are difficult, Willard said, losing time. He stared down at his large feet.

Looking up at his thinning, beige hair and sweat-streamed face, I leaned in to steer him. It’s not hard if you keep count, I said, trying to help him master his unfortunate feet. It’s a box step, you see. One-two-three.

Oh, capital, he said. One-two-three. One-two-three.

Mother had instructed me to talk about dance instead of the dreadful economy. But it was deadly to talk about dance, and deadlier still to dance while talking about it! In spite of that I kept on, because any discussions about the economy might lead to prying questions about my father’s business. I’d been told to behave as if all rumors about my father’s reversal of fortune were a mere inconvenience, a summer storm amid a series of sunny days.

I had absolutely no idea how to do that. I had never been a convincing actress. I had always worn my feelings openly. Being told to contain them felt stressful, as if I were shutting myself off from my true nature.

I spotted my father at the far end of the room. His gray eyes appeared hollowed out and the skin under his cheekbones hung like a sail flapping in the wind. He barely nodded as he turned away.

I blinked back tears. One-two-three, I said.

Lurking at the fringe of a small group of men, the Chicago solicitor George Setton craned his head toward me. I was surprised that a man like him would be welcome at the Wetmore’s ball. He had appeared in our parlor a few weeks earlier like a dark carrion bird, just after I had learned of my father’s distress.

Now, watching Setton gaze at the turkey croquettes as if counting them up to include on a balance sheet, I recoiled. I looked away, hoping he wouldn’t see me.

Too late.

The hook-beaked solicitor cut in, so I had no choice but to latch onto him. I leaned forward, and narrowly avoided George Setton’s unfortunate nose. He edged away from me as we both eyed each other with distrust. Close proximity did not improve his other features: beady eyes, and thin lips that rested in a perpetual frown unless Lydia happened to be nearby. His hunched posture, possibly stooped from years of digging through people’s personal effects to appraise them, was not so easily remedied.

Tell me, Sir, I said, "why do you insist on supplying my sister with news from the Chicago Tribune?"

I see no harm in letting Lydia learn the truth about the world, as well as her father’s business affairs, Setton replied coldly.

He turned his torso and feet toward her, which threw off our steps. I yanked him back into his proper position. "And how is it your decision to make when my mother is so opposed?" I still could not believe that I’d caught him and Lydia reading the paper together just a few weeks before, against my mother’s explicit instructions. Mother insisted that hard news of any kind was disruptive to all matters with which young ladies should concern themselves.

Setton squared back his shoulders, and we both stiffly box-stepped to the strains of Blue Danube.

The music abruptly changed to 6/8 time, and those brave enough to continue had no choice but to perform the minuet—one of France’s most heinous exports. I always disliked the complex partner changes and found them disruptive to meaningful conversation. As George Setton toddled off to find my sister, I ignored my mother as well—and made a beeline to the crudités.

From behind the celery sticks, Sam Haven’s face appeared. I wanted to run out the door and hide in the garden. My eyes canvassed the room, searching for a gallant lad to save me from the advances of my former fiancé. Alas, none sprang forth, and by country rules, I was forced to accept Sam’s hand although he’d never accept mine.

The fact that we were distantly related seemed to give Sam a confident air that was impossible to ignore. Worse, recent events hadn’t left a dent in his appearance. Indeed, I half wished that Sam had been trampled by a runaway horse! The only saving grace was that I didn’t have to pretend with Sam. He knew I felt miserable, having been responsible for the condition.

You dance well, Cousin, Sam said, his faded blue eyes taking me in.

Thank you, I muttered.

I couldn’t tolerate him calling me Cousin. Not after that day in the Library when, moments after spurning me, he’d had the gall to suggest that we’d always remain cousins—good cousins.

Don’t frown like that, said Sam, spinning me in his false gentlemanly way. We’re family. And family is a haven in a heartless world.

Perhaps. But Sam Haven isn’t.

I didn’t want to be tortured anymore. I wanted to hang out by the deviled eggs like a normal spinster.

His ebony hair, combed back without a part, coordinated well with his waistcoat. I hated that I still felt physically drawn to him. He seemed unfazed by my discomfort. If anything, it bolstered his confidence.

Do you see that couple? he asked jovially, swinging me around.

I directed my eyes to a vibrant pair. The woman, long-haired, brunette, and well appointed with long strands of pearls and diamond earrings, wore a rose taffeta ball gown that put everyone else’s outfit to shame. Her dancing partner, very tall, clean-shaven, with large hands that anticipated her every move, twirled her about without effort. This couple could teach ballroom dancing, so graceful were they.

That’s Evelyn and Edgar Daggers, Sam said, thin lips scarcely moving as he warmed to his favorite topic, the genealogy of the 400. Her grandmother was a Spear, from the Spear-Sperry clan and her husband is one of the Van Alen Daggers. He said it in the reverent tone he reserved for royalty. They traveled here all the way from New York, he continued. Come. Let’s make their acquaintance. Maybe she’ll take you under her wing; and, meanwhile, I understand her husband’s a banker.

But I’m not going to New York.

He dropped my hand, then fumbled to retrieve it.

Where else would you apply for work—if it comes to that?

Work? The tutoring and the few classes I’d started to teach, Father had positioned as temporary.

Work: the occupation one takes up to support one’s livelihood if no one else will. He must have seen my dazed expression. Consider it hypothetical. Where would you work if you had to pay for your own room and board? Chicago? Philadelphia?

I felt my knees lock. "Phil-a-del-phia?"

It’s in the United States, he said with a laugh.

Boston, then, I snapped, if only to end the inquisition.

Oh, don’t go there, he said quickly.

I stamped my foot. Sam, for tonight, please, no more talk about the Panic.

Ignoring a problem doesn’t make it go away, he said with a flash of petulance. And please stop stamping your foot like that. You just made us lose time.

I’m not ignoring it. Mother forbids me to discuss it.

How convenient.

And there was that dreaded word again. You of all people have no right to speak to me about convenience, I said, bristling as I recalled his callous disregard for my feelings the day he’d broken off our engagement.

A chilling breeze whistled through the thin wooden slats and dust flew from the bookshelves of the Mercantile Library where Sam sometimes worked.

So, our attachment was nothing more to you than a marriage of convenience? I spat out. I gathered up my skirts, turning to go.

As I darted down the creaking steps of the Library, I heard Sam yell after me. I never saw it as a marriage of convenience! I saw it as an alliance!

Alliances are between countries, not people, I shouted back.

Chapter 2

Midnight Brings a Scandalous Proposal

After several spins around the floor with various unsuitable suitors, my shoes started to pinch. During an intricate dance involving partner changes, my partner fell ill, so I found myself alone again. Looking up, I saw Sam only a few feet away. Shall we sit this one out, Cousin? he asked. For his many faults, he still knew how to read me. We took an empty table for four out on the lawn. The table, just outside the mansion, offered a clear view through the large bay windows of the ball inside.

Due to the rampant fear of a Breakers-style fire, there were no candles on any of the tables; but even from the dim shadows, it was easy to see that Evelyn and Edgar Daggers were the toast of Newport Society. After an ebullient quadrille, the couple left the dancers. I noticed Edgar Daggers peering at the tables, which had started to fill. He looked quite a bit older than me—he had to be at least twenty-five.

Sam waved to him and his wife: this surprised me, as they were high Society. Perhaps even more surprisingly, they decided to join us.

Sam and I jumped up for the introductions.

Mrs. Daggers, I’d like to present my fifth cousin, Penelope Stanton, Sam said, bowing slightly.

So, pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Daggers. I gave her my lowest curtsey.

Mrs. Daggers smiled and clasped my hand. Likewise. But it’s not necessary to bow down like that to me. She laughed. Her voice tinkled like wind chimes as she said, Come, Edgar, darling, I’d like to present Miss Stanton and her fifth cousin. I’m so sorry, I didn’t catch your name, she said turning to Sam.

The fault is mine, Sam offered with a graceful half bow. Sam Haven.

The two gentlemen pulled out chairs for Mrs. Daggers and myself, helping us into our seats before sitting down.

As she turned to me, I caught the sweet whiff of Linden Bloom perfume, reminding me of lawn parties and parasols and other things that might be taken from me.

Your cousin’s manners are impeccable, she said.

In public, they are, I assented.

She laughed.

It’s a damned shame about your father’s ships, Mr. Daggers interjected, staring at me from across the small table.

You heard the news? I felt feverish and hoped an interrogation wasn’t imminent.

Word travels fast. Yes.

Dear, Mrs. Daggers said, blinking her heavily lidded eyes and pressing a glass flute in his hand, I’m certain Miss Stanton has better things to do than to regale us with stories about her father’s business. She motioned for her husband to drink his champagne, then flashed me an apologetic smile. She laid her hand on his arm. How was your meeting at the home for unwed mothers?

I’m thinking of donating them a building, he said.

My husband is too generous, she said, looking away.

Generosity is underrated, he replied, with an exaggerated bow.

I wondered if the Spears and Daggers were jousting in public or if this was more like an invisible sort of tennis game between them.

Sam attempted a topic change. I understand you attended Miss Graham’s finishing school, he said to her. Did you enjoy your studies?

Not especially, she answered affably, but it’s important for women to keep up with their education.

Sam lifted his flute to toast Mrs. Daggers. Yes, yes, he said, especially with the new interest in causes.

Causes? I asked, dumbfounded. I had been engaged to the cad for six months and never knew Sam cared for causes!

Sometimes a new cause presents a new opportunity, Sam said. At the New England Women’s Club last week—

Mr. Daggers snapped his fingers. Fascinating, he said. I felt his eyes linger on my face for a beat too long. Miss Stanton, where do you currently study?

Alas, my formal studies ended recently.

A pity, he said. Your father’s business mishaps have capsized your prospects.

He stared right through me, piercing my careful facade.

B-b-but I try to keep my hand in by teaching French classes as well as piano and German.

How delightful, said his wife with a magnanimous smile. She was a lady through and through, determined to make me, a stranger, feel at ease. Perhaps you’d be a candidate to teach at Miss Graham’s. She beamed at me through her kind brown eyes, oblivious to the fact that I loved to learn, not teach, and that the lessons I’d been forced to give would have happily vanished, had my engagement gone off as planned.

A wonderful idea. Sam clapped his hands. Is she looking for teachers?

She tapped her chin a few times as a footman poured a second serving of champagne. Why, I have no idea! But I’m happy to find out.

Sam winked at me as if my problems were over.

At that, I kicked him under the table—hard. He had no right to map out my future after he’d wanted no part of it.

Sam screwed up his face in pain as he doubled over the table. My studies take me to Boston, or I’d be looking for a job in New York, too, he squealed.

Would you, now? Mr. Daggers said, abruptly. He leaned forward on his elbows. I’m sure you’ll find something in Boston. But your beautiful, young cousin should look in New York. There are any number of positions at which she would excel.

My conversation with him seemed to happen on a second level, one I wasn’t sure I understood. His words were like hints veiled in innuendo—or was I imagining it all?

Ignoring her husband, Mrs. Daggers quickly riffled through her pink taffeta purse—custom-designed to match her amazing gown.

I don’t normally approve of handing out cards at social events, she said, handing me her calling card. But if you ever do get to New York, call on me. Most New Yorkers’ manners are atrocious. It’s the rudest city in the world, and I’ve traveled far. You’ll need help navigating it, and I’m happy to assist. Women should help each other out, don’t you think? she asked with an enigmatic half-smile.

Thanking her, I turned toward Sam only because I felt her husband’s dark eyes studying me. The wind picked up, and tiny bumps formed along my exposed skin. I was on the verge of asking Sam if I could borrow his jacket when Mr. Daggers asked me to dance. I looked at his wife, not knowing in this particular case if it was proper to accept.

She winked. Oh go ahead. It will give me a chance to get to know Mr. Haven.

Good luck with that, I thought, as her husband reached out a large hand to usher me to the dance floor inside.

Mr. Daggers carried himself with the sort of arrogance that comes only with fine schooling and early good fortune. His dark eyes suggested that he had accumulated a lifetime’s worth of secrets about men and women, and just maybe he’d be kind enough to spare you the details. But he also had a way of looking at me that made me feel as if I were the only woman in the room; and as he walked me across the floor, I felt prettier and more graceful. It was a heady feeling.

It didn’t surprise me that he was from New York with its tall buildings and formidable towers. He seemed to stand taller than other men, his shoulders were broader, and his voice, a shade deeper. There was more to him: more height, more depth, and more to be wary of, too. He was dark complected and had full, voluptuous lips like the pictures of a statue I’d once seen in a book Father had brought back from Florence. I wondered how many women this particular David had seduced and how quickly his victims had succumbed.

I glanced through the open windows at his wife. She waved at me in that animated way that people shout Bon voyage!

As Mr. Daggers’s eyes roved down my bodice, I felt like he was claiming me. We danced a slow waltz, and his arm wrapped around my waist as if to squeeze the breath right out of me. I felt his hand clutch at my back, then press against my dress at the precise spot where my corset was laced tightest. He was like a hunter honing in on his target. I found myself strangely excited being in his arms, but knew it was wrong to feel that way.

A full head taller than I, he gazed down at me for the entire waltz. Indeed, it seemed as if he and I were performing a different dance than the one dictated by the band. He barely moved his lips as his hips subtly pressed into mine. So, I take it you find yourself in reduced circumstances?

I forced a brave face. It’s my father’s business. I’m certain it will recuperate. Dear Lord, I hoped it would. Between the shipping business and the small bank Father was president of, hopefully he had enough wherewithal to survive the Panic.

Shipping ventures don’t come back quickly. The investors get impatient, and…. His hand stroked my back.

My father’s will.

Are you close to him?

I bit my lip. He keeps me at arm’s length.

You need someone who won’t. My key is yours, darling.

Had I misheard him? Was he inviting me to be his mistress, and doing it as casually as if he were inviting my family to watch the regatta?

My hands started to sweat inside my gloves. Using the slight change in tempo, I withdrew from him and looked over my shoulder back at his wife. She appeared to be in spirited conversation with Sam.

They predict the Panic will last a long time, Mr. Daggers said, taking me in his arms as we spun across the floor. "In New York, we’re closer to the news than you are. The railroads are overbuilt, and rumors abound that several will go out of business. There have