Page 6 of Wild Lily
“No, sir,” Lily told him. She didn’t love the man.
“Or you?” He turned to Marianne.
It was her cousin who favored nursing and who had mourned the injunction not to aid the doctor and his patients, even as she seized the opportunity to move to Baltimore and live with the Hannifords in style and comfort.
Marianne shook her head in resignation. “I won’t return, sir.”
And Lily understood that. Marianne was many things. A widow of thirty, a genteel lady of education and breeding, a former mistress of a four-hundred-acre farm near Spotsylvania, a caring nurse of Confederate soldiers wounded on her land, she was all that. But Marianne was also a woman who wanted to laugh again, a lady who yearned to forget the wounded and dying whom she’d tended, and a very accomplished artist who longed to sketch and paint far away from the turmoil of war and pestilence. She did not like conflict of any kind. And she appreciated that her maternal uncle had welcomed her into his family and into his home when she was without hope or hearth. He had granted her a yearly income of fifteen thousand dollars for the rest of her life, in honor of her mother, the dead sister whom he’d loved dearly. Banking the money, she spent little of it and could count herself wealthy in her own right. She owed her Uncle Killian her own allegiance and cooperation and would not risk his disfavor.
“Thank you for that,” he said.
Her cousin nodded.
He was silent for a long moment while he examined them. “Very well. We have a deal. One year for you, Lily. And for you, Marianne, my largesse, for as long as you behave discreetly.”
His lips spread in a strained smile. “Now go. I understand from Foster you have a fitting at Worth’s.”
Lily breathed in relief. “We do.”
“Well, then spend my money. Buy everything you love. Buy some of what you hate. I told Worth’s assistant weeks ago that the sky was no limit. You’re both to have everything you need for the Season.” He nodded toward the door. “I have an appointment in an hour. I must prepare. So the two of you must get out.”
“Thank you, Papa.” Lily beamed at him, giddy at the reprieve, delighted she hadn’t had to use her father’s own indiscretion here in Paris against him to win her case.
“I am grateful, sir,” said Marianne.
“Good. Go.” He waved them off. “And prove it to me.”
They hastened to leave him.
“We must have our coats. Our hats. Where is the comtesse?” Lily was rattling on, nerves jumping inside her as she surveyed the hall. “She should be here by now to accompany us to Worth’s.”
The Comtesse de Chaumont was an impoverished comely widow whom her father paid handsomely to introduce them to Paris customs and the cream of French society.
But the vast foyer was empty, save for Foster who awaited them with a frown.
Lily’s heart was pounding like a mad thing. She’d survived. Bargained. Won! The prize far off, but nonetheless a victory. But soon they’d go to London where men by the droves would dance upon her and kiss her hand. Aside from her sizable dowry, she hated to think why they’d bother. She was passably good looking with ink-black hair, a firm figure and pale blue eyes with rather thick lashes, but she’d seen much lovelier girls. More stunning women.
Yet other aspects of her life had preceded her appearance in any London drawing room. Those were not flattering. ‘The Blockade Runner’s Daughter with a Dowry Fit for a King’ declared one English gossip sheet, describing ‘Black’ Hanniford’s business interests in the City. Another called her ‘The Millionaire Cowgirl’ and ran a sketch of her riding a bull, her hand in the air as if she were busting a bronco. She was no porcelain doll to pour their tea and smile like a simpleton in their parlors. She had intelligence and health and a desire to spend her days doing something useful. That might not be nursing, but it definitely was not acting like an aimless, spoiled creature with feathers for brains.
“I can’t believe he agreed to my condition,” she said to her cousin as Foster fetched their coats and parasols from the hall closet. “I know you think I’m mad, but I had to try again.”
“And you won!” Marianne smiled at her with twinkling green eyes. “Amazing.”
“I always feared I’d walk down the aisle with a bouquet comprised of my newly beloved’s tailor’s bills.” The smile on Lily’s face disappeared as she leaned over to whisper. “Now I bet the publisher will not dare put in a cartoon of Papa with his French mistress.”
Marianne smoothed the skirts of her day dress. “How right you are.”
Foster approached. The butler’s long face was a cipher. He’d been recommended to them by the Jeromes, whose daughter Jennie had married the second son of the duke of the Marlborough a few years ago. Mister Jerome had said that Benjamin Foster excelled at smoothing the path for American families in Europe. The servant understood the challenges of etiquette, but he was also discreet, a vital asset to those attempting legitimacy among the old aristocracies.
Marianne turned toward the mirror and checked her hat and her long platinum curls dangling from her elaborate coiffure. “I plan on telling anyone who’ll listen how he earned his money.”
Lily fingered a ribbon hanging from her red velvet toque. “It’s not the kind of story they’re used to.”
“Definitely not,” Marianne said, her forest-green eyes wide with pride. “They’re for those who claim supremacy by an accident of birth. Men who rise to power by packing others off to the guillotine. They don’t understand men who rise from poverty to wield a fortune. Isn’t that right, Foster?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lily sighed. “Nor do they understand women who don’t want to be the doyennes of high society.”
