Tempest
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Newport, Rhode Island
July, 1903
“Is it possible that I see monkeys, in costume, frolicking on this lawn?” Adam Raveneau’s tone was edged with sarcasm as he stopped just inside Beechcliff’s enormous scrolled gates. “Tell me that I’ve drunk too much cognac and that none of this is real.”
“What’s so terrible about a few dancing monkeys?” Byron Matthews countered. It had taken hours of persuasion to get Adam to not only visit Newport, but then to come with him to this lavish eighteenth century costume party. Now he feared that his friend might not continue on to the arched entrance where horse-drawn carriages were disgorging their richly-garbed occupants. It was true enough that Raveneau wouldn’t care for these wealthy, status-conscious Americans, but he had problems he could scarcely admit to, and Byron felt certain that solutions could be found here at Beechcliff.
Of course, Raveneau would probably not behave properly. His very costume was an indication that he did not intend to behave properly. Clad entirely in black except for a white stock deftly knotted round his strong, tanned neck, Adam was the image of a rakish eighteenth century pirate. He wore a tricorne hat over thick dark hair drawn back into a queue, and he’d grown three days’ worth of stubble to heighten his look of danger.
Byron sighed. “You could have chosen a more appropriate costume.”
“Appropriate? How dull.” He flashed a momentary smile, then stared off into the distance, listening to the ocean waves. Beyond the procession of carriages, the torchlit grounds, and the marble façade of the American chateau, there were cliffs that plunged to the starlit ocean. “I don’t belong here, you know. I ought to be out there...”
“Of course you belong here. You may have gambled away your fortune, but these people don’t need money. They’ll be more interested in your title.”
He snorted. “I’m merely a viscount, a title which Queen Victoria bestowed on me out of pity when I lost Thorn Manor. The greatest success of my life may have been charming the queen.”
“Queen Victoria was only one of your numerous conquests.” Byron wondered why he always felt as if he needed to persuade Adam to find a solution to his dilemma? With no money, and only a modest title and a tumble-down estate in Barbados to his credit, shouldn’t the answer be obvious? In the past, Adam had joked about marrying an heiress, but now he refused to consider the subject more seriously. Byron tried a lighter tone. “My friend, you are standing next to a fellow with a much shorter list of accomplishments than your own. The only reason I’m clutching an invitation to this ball is because my sister married the Duke of Aylesbury. I’m a penniless artist from South Dakota, for God’s sake!”
“Perhaps you ought to look for a bride for yourself and forget about me, hmm?” He knew that Byron meant well, but he didn’t want his help. As a monkey wearing a green coat with gold epaulets capered toward them, Raveneau drew his rapier and pointed it. “That animal’s clothes are exquisitely tailored.”
Byron wondered if he’d made a mistake, bringing Adam here tonight. All the signs were there: the undercurrent of irony in his voice, the twitch of his fine mouth, the flicker in his eyes. “You may be disillusioned with the upper classes in Britain and America, but I’ve seen the gleam in your eye when you talk about Barbados— and Tempest Hall...”
He purposely misunderstood. “Are they dispensing gold ingots as party favors tonight? Unless the answer is yes, I fail to see how this ball can benefit Tempest Hall.”
Light poured down Beechcliff’s wide steps to welcome them. “Adam, stop being so thick-headed.” The younger man caught his sleeve. “I’m talking about heiresses, with fortunes beyond imagining. There will be throngs of them here, and their mothers are seeking husbands with British titles. That’s the one advantage you still possess—”
“God’s blood!” Raveneau cut in with a piratical grin, “I b’lieve I’ve been insulted!” Then, looking toward the chateau’s upper stories, where lights burned in every window and mysterious shadows moved, he mused, “What devil stuck this insufferable notion of heiresses in your brain? I can’t imagine marrying an heiress, not even for the sake of Tempest Hall.”
“Carriages are turning down the drive!” Catherine Beasley Parrish announced as she peeked out her bedroom window.
“Come over here, my dear.” When her daughter had joined her in front of the mirror, Hermione lifted her pince-nez for a last look. “If the Duke of Sunderford doesn’t propose to you after our housewarming ball tonight, then I just miss my guess!”
“But Mother, I don’t want the duke to propose.” Even though Catherine knew it was futile to argue, she couldn’t suppress the words. “He is a toad.”
“You have been taught better manners than those.” Hermione was beginning to have her own doubts about Sunderford, who seemed no closer to declaring himself now than he had upon his arrival three long weeks ago. “Any other girl would be thrilled and grateful to have an opportunity to become an English duchess!”
The porcelain clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten, and the sound of servants’ footsteps came to them faintly through the walls. Guests were arriving, eager not only for the spectacle of an eighteenth century costume ball, but also for their first look inside Beechcliff. The opulent summer “cottage,” patterned after a French chateau and set on fourteen acres of oceanfront property, had taken nearly two years and three million dollars to complete. Although the Parrish family had moved in late in 1902, Hermione had saved her triumphant housewarming for the height of the Season.
“I’d better see that your father has powdered his wig properly,” Hermione murmured. “We mustn’t be late.”
She remained by her daughter’s side, however, surveying her critically in the gold-framed mirror. Catherine’s Marie Antoinette-style costume was a confection of lace-trimmed rose silk over an embroidered ivory underskirt. The bodice was cut low, but Catherine had insisted upon covering her breasts with a fine lace fichu. Diamonds shone at her throat and ears, and her hair was dressed in a cloud of upswept powdered curls.
Hermione found no fault with the costume, but she did wish that Nature had bestowed more generous gifts. At twenty-one years of age, Catherine was little more than five feet tall and frequently mistaken for a schoolgirl. Her rounded face was piquantly pretty rather than Gibson-Girl-elegant. Large expressive eyes, exactly the same shade of golden brown as her mass of hair, were her best feature. Hermione privately suspected that men were more apt to remark on Catherine’s wealthy father than her physical charms...
“I feel like a trussed chicken,” the girl complained softly.
“Nonsense. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable without that fichu constricting your bosom...”
“No! It’s hard enough to be paraded around at these marriage marts without being undressed, Mother!”
There was a knock at Catherine’s bedroom door and Isobel, her lady’s maid, admitted Jules Parrish. Ever-distracted on such occasions, the steel magnate enjoyed the pursuit of Italian studies rather than socializing during his leisure time. Tonight, in his Louis XV finery, he looked especially uneasy.
“I feel like a trussed chicken,” he muttered, “diamond-studded and powdered and completely humiliated.”
Laughing, Catherine lifted her skirts and ran to kiss his cheek, while Hermione checked her tiara in the mirror before joining them. “She’s just like you, Jules. You both delight in making my life difficult.”
“Doesn’t seem to get us anywhere, though, does it?” he murmured to Catherine as they started off down the marble corridor.
Their houseguest, the Duke of Sunderford, was emerging from his rooms at that very moment. He had managed to add considerably to his five-foot-five-inch frame by choosing a costume that included high-heeled blue shoes and a tall, sausage-curled bag-wig, but Catherine thought that he looked more preposterous than ever.
“Ah, it is the lovely Miss Parrish, is it not?” The duke, leaning heavily on a jewel-encrusted walking stick, looked her up and down as they approached.
The orchestra had begun to play in the ballroom downstairs and Catherine clung to her father’s arm, suddenly overcome by a sense of doom. As they prepared to descend the white marble staircase, Hermione gave her a penetrating smile.
“Dear Catherine, won’t this be a magical night? One can only imagine how it will end!”
The Duke of Sunderford was oblivious to the meaning of his hostess’s words. He was staring at the lavishly decorated foyer that lay below, wondering how much the exotic flowers, food, champagne, and the two orchestras had cost the Parrishes. There were expensive American Beauty roses everywhere one looked. Outdoors, flickering lights lit the grounds, musicians played on the lawn while pet monkeys scampered about, and an orange grove decorated one of the terraces. That sort of wealth could heat his bone-chilling Sunderford Castle in the winter...and much more.
He suppressed a sigh as he glanced at Miss Parrish. If he were going to marry an American, he’d hoped for a great beauty. Catherine didn’t have a swan’s neck like Consuelo Vanderbilt or the honey hair and blue eyes of Jeannie Chamberlain from Cleveland, Ohio. She was too familiar with everyone from the servants to her betters. Her opinions and laughter were both offered too freely. In short, Catherine Parrish was very American.
Chapter 1
Newport, Rhode Island
July, 1903
“Is it possible that I see monkeys, in costume, frolicking on this lawn?” Adam Raveneau’s tone was edged with sarcasm as he stopped just inside Beechcliff’s enormous scrolled gates. “Tell me that I’ve drunk too much cognac and that none of this is real.”
“What’s so terrible about a few dancing monkeys?” Byron Matthews countered. It had taken hours of persuasion to get Adam to not only visit Newport, but then to come with him to this lavish eighteenth century costume party. Now he feared that his friend might not continue on to the arched entrance where horse-drawn carriages were disgorging their richly-garbed occupants. It was true enough that Raveneau wouldn’t care for these wealthy, status-conscious Americans, but he had problems he could scarcely admit to, and Byron felt certain that solutions could be found here at Beechcliff.
Of course, Raveneau would probably not behave properly. His very costume was an indication that he did not intend to behave properly. Clad entirely in black except for a white stock deftly knotted round his strong, tanned neck, Adam was the image of a rakish eighteenth century pirate. He wore a tricorne hat over thick dark hair drawn back into a queue, and he’d grown three days’ worth of stubble to heighten his look of danger.
Byron sighed. “You could have chosen a more appropriate costume.”
“Appropriate? How dull.” He flashed a momentary smile, then stared off into the distance, listening to the ocean waves. Beyond the procession of carriages, the torchlit grounds, and the marble façade of the American chateau, there were cliffs that plunged to the starlit ocean. “I don’t belong here, you know. I ought to be out there...”
“Of course you belong here. You may have gambled away your fortune, but these people don’t need money. They’ll be more interested in your title.”
He snorted. “I’m merely a viscount, a title which Queen Victoria bestowed on me out of pity when I lost Thorn Manor. The greatest success of my life may have been charming the queen.”
“Queen Victoria was only one of your numerous conquests.” Byron wondered why he always felt as if he needed to persuade Adam to find a solution to his dilemma? With no money, and only a modest title and a tumble-down estate in Barbados to his credit, shouldn’t the answer be obvious? In the past, Adam had joked about marrying an heiress, but now he refused to consider the subject more seriously. Byron tried a lighter tone. “My friend, you are standing next to a fellow with a much shorter list of accomplishments than your own. The only reason I’m clutching an invitation to this ball is because my sister married the Duke of Aylesbury. I’m a penniless artist from South Dakota, for God’s sake!”
“Perhaps you ought to look for a bride for yourself and forget about me, hmm?” He knew that Byron meant well, but he didn’t want his help. As a monkey wearing a green coat with gold epaulets capered toward them, Raveneau drew his rapier and pointed it. “That animal’s clothes are exquisitely tailored.”
Byron wondered if he’d made a mistake, bringing Adam here tonight. All the signs were there: the undercurrent of irony in his voice, the twitch of his fine mouth, the flicker in his eyes. “You may be disillusioned with the upper classes in Britain and America, but I’ve seen the gleam in your eye when you talk about Barbados— and Tempest Hall...”
He purposely misunderstood. “Are they dispensing gold ingots as party favors tonight? Unless the answer is yes, I fail to see how this ball can benefit Tempest Hall.”
Light poured down Beechcliff’s wide steps to welcome them. “Adam, stop being so thick-headed.” The younger man caught his sleeve. “I’m talking about heiresses, with fortunes beyond imagining. There will be throngs of them here, and their mothers are seeking husbands with British titles. That’s the one advantage you still possess—”
“God’s blood!” Raveneau cut in with a piratical grin, “I b’lieve I’ve been insulted!” Then, looking toward the chateau’s upper stories, where lights burned in every window and mysterious shadows moved, he mused, “What devil stuck this insufferable notion of heiresses in your brain? I can’t imagine marrying an heiress, not even for the sake of Tempest Hall.”
“Carriages are turning down the drive!” Catherine Beasley Parrish announced as she peeked out her bedroom window.
“Come over here, my dear.” When her daughter had joined her in front of the mirror, Hermione lifted her pince-nez for a last look. “If the Duke of Sunderford doesn’t propose to you after our housewarming ball tonight, then I just miss my guess!”
“But Mother, I don’t want the duke to propose.” Even though Catherine knew it was futile to argue, she couldn’t suppress the words. “He is a toad.”
“You have been taught better manners than those.” Hermione was beginning to have her own doubts about Sunderford, who seemed no closer to declaring himself now than he had upon his arrival three long weeks ago. “Any other girl would be thrilled and grateful to have an opportunity to become an English duchess!”
The porcelain clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten, and the sound of servants’ footsteps came to them faintly through the walls. Guests were arriving, eager not only for the spectacle of an eighteenth century costume ball, but also for their first look inside Beechcliff. The opulent summer “cottage,” patterned after a French chateau and set on fourteen acres of oceanfront property, had taken nearly two years and three million dollars to complete. Although the Parrish family had moved in late in 1902, Hermione had saved her triumphant housewarming for the height of the Season.
“I’d better see that your father has powdered his wig properly,” Hermione murmured. “We mustn’t be late.”
She remained by her daughter’s side, however, surveying her critically in the gold-framed mirror. Catherine’s Marie Antoinette-style costume was a confection of lace-trimmed rose silk over an embroidered ivory underskirt. The bodice was cut low, but Catherine had insisted upon covering her breasts with a fine lace fichu. Diamonds shone at her throat and ears, and her hair was dressed in a cloud of upswept powdered curls.
Hermione found no fault with the costume, but she did wish that Nature had bestowed more generous gifts. At twenty-one years of age, Catherine was little more than five feet tall and frequently mistaken for a schoolgirl. Her rounded face was piquantly pretty rather than Gibson-Girl-elegant. Large expressive eyes, exactly the same shade of golden brown as her mass of hair, were her best feature. Hermione privately suspected that men were more apt to remark on Catherine’s wealthy father than her physical charms...
“I feel like a trussed chicken,” the girl complained softly.
“Nonsense. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable without that fichu constricting your bosom...”
“No! It’s hard enough to be paraded around at these marriage marts without being undressed, Mother!”
There was a knock at Catherine’s bedroom door and Isobel, her lady’s maid, admitted Jules Parrish. Ever-distracted on such occasions, the steel magnate enjoyed the pursuit of Italian studies rather than socializing during his leisure time. Tonight, in his Louis XV finery, he looked especially uneasy.
“I feel like a trussed chicken,” he muttered, “diamond-studded and powdered and completely humiliated.”
Laughing, Catherine lifted her skirts and ran to kiss his cheek, while Hermione checked her tiara in the mirror before joining them. “She’s just like you, Jules. You both delight in making my life difficult.”
“Doesn’t seem to get us anywhere, though, does it?” he murmured to Catherine as they started off down the marble corridor.
Their houseguest, the Duke of Sunderford, was emerging from his rooms at that very moment. He had managed to add considerably to his five-foot-five-inch frame by choosing a costume that included high-heeled blue shoes and a tall, sausage-curled bag-wig, but Catherine thought that he looked more preposterous than ever.
“Ah, it is the lovely Miss Parrish, is it not?” The duke, leaning heavily on a jewel-encrusted walking stick, looked her up and down as they approached.
The orchestra had begun to play in the ballroom downstairs and Catherine clung to her father’s arm, suddenly overcome by a sense of doom. As they prepared to descend the white marble staircase, Hermione gave her a penetrating smile.
“Dear Catherine, won’t this be a magical night? One can only imagine how it will end!”
The Duke of Sunderford was oblivious to the meaning of his hostess’s words. He was staring at the lavishly decorated foyer that lay below, wondering how much the exotic flowers, food, champagne, and the two orchestras had cost the Parrishes. There were expensive American Beauty roses everywhere one looked. Outdoors, flickering lights lit the grounds, musicians played on the lawn while pet monkeys scampered about, and an orange grove decorated one of the terraces. That sort of wealth could heat his bone-chilling Sunderford Castle in the winter...and much more.
He suppressed a sigh as he glanced at Miss Parrish. If he were going to marry an American, he’d hoped for a great beauty. Catherine didn’t have a swan’s neck like Consuelo Vanderbilt or the honey hair and blue eyes of Jeannie Chamberlain from Cleveland, Ohio. She was too familiar with everyone from the servants to her betters. Her opinions and laughter were both offered too freely. In short, Catherine Parrish was very American.