The Test of Gold Read online

In the mirror, Claudine arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Does your maman know?”

  Lindy shook her head.

  “Be careful.” Claudine shook a finger at her.

  “What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.” If her mother discovered Mr. Winthrop’s presence in the library, she would definitely forbid Lindy to go there. No one could know, including Claudine, normally privy to everything going on in Lindy’s life since becoming her personal maid ten years ago.

  Lindy closed her eyes and submitted to the soothing ministrations of Claudine’s hairbrush, thinking about Mr. Winthrop. Such a charming young man. Imagine taking classes at two colleges at the same time. Will he be in the library every day?

  Claudine finished brushing and tied Lindy’s hair with a fresh ribbon. “Voilà!” She stood back to admire her handiwork. “Now, what shall you wear for dinner?”

  “Oh, anything. The blue, I suppose.”

  Lindy stood, and Claudine unbuttoned the day dress and slipped it off, leaving Lindy in her unmentionables. She wrinkled her nose. “Mama said my corset strings aren’t tight enough.”

  “I tried to tell you this morning, chérie.”

  “I know.”

  But I can’t bear it so tight.”

  “You must if you’re going to be a fashionable young lady.” Claudine ran her fingers down the smooth basque of her own dress and spanned her waist with her hands. “You don’t want to look like une vache, do you? A—how do you say... a cow?”

  Lindy laughed. “Of course not. But I can’t breathe!”

  “It’s the price of beauty, chérie. Come now.”

  Lindy rose and took hold of the chair back. Claudine loosened the ties and pulled the chemise underneath smooth against the skin. “Ready?”

  Lindy braced herself as Claudine tightened the laces from top to bottom. “There.” Claudine gave a final tug and tied the laces. “Tout fini.”

  The simple, blue silk dinner dress went on next. “You’re charming, ma petite,” said Claudine. “Soon, we’ll be putting your hair up every day.”

  Lindy nodded. After the September debut marking her entrance into adulthood, society would consider her fully a woman and ready for marriage. Though, she’d begun to have doubts about her mother’s plan to marry her to a British aristocrat. Lindy checked the clock. Nearly seven. During the week, Papa insisted the staff serve dinner at seven o’clock, instead of the more fashionable eight.

  Lindy ran down the marble staircase and halted at the bottom. It wouldn’t do for Mama to see her running through the house. She entered the dining room as her father seated her mother. He smiled and held her chair out, then gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “How’s my girl?”

  “Fine, Papa.”

  Mama ran her sharp gaze over Lindy and gave an approving smile. “Very good, Evangeline.” She nodded at the butler. “You may begin now, Percy.”

  “Yes, madam.” He signaled the footman to bring in the soup.

  Percy served her mother first. Mama took a sip of the beef consommé and rolled it around her tongue as if tasting a fine wine. “Hmm. Too much salt. Tell Cook to use a lighter hand next time.”

  Percy nodded, his smooth-shaven face bland and imperturbable. “Yes, madam.”

  He ladled out the soup to Lindy and her father and then took his place against the wall.

  The consommé tasted delicious, rich, and redolent of fennel. Mama could find fault in anything.

  “Now, Otto.” Mama waved her silver soup spoon at him. “Have you remembered Evangeline and I are going to Paris next month for the ball gowns?”

  “Of course, dear.”

  “Have you checked on the flowers for the debut ball?”

  Otto nodded and spooned consommé at the same time.

  “Good. I’ve decided on roses, lilies, orchids, jasmine, and orange blossoms. White roses and orchids, of course.”

  Five different kinds of flowers. Mama liked to do things to the extreme.

  “Certainly, my dear. But...”

  Her mother’s head snapped around. “But?” She raised an eyebrow.

  Papa laid his spoon down. “Jasmine and orange blossoms will be nearly impossible to obtain in October.”

  Mama sniffed. “That’s why I’m telling you now, Otto. Surely some country has spring while we have autumn. South America? Don’t they grow that sort of thing down there?”

  Papa spread his fingers on the white tablecloth and paused, the ends of his mustache quivering. “But my dear, the cost will be prohibitive. Aren’t there other white flowers that will do? Chrysanthemums, perhaps? They grow in autumn, don’t they?”

  “Chrysanthemums?” said Mama in a withering tone.

  Papa blinked several times. “Well, maybe not chrysanthemums but perhaps—”

  “As if I would use chrysanthemums for my only daughter’s debut. The idea!” Mama glared at her husband.

  The butler silently withdrew. Poor Papa. Only her mother could reduce him to stuttering when she turned that flat-eyed glare on him.

  Lindy sat straighter. “I think mums would be perfect, Mama. Why not? They’re lovely.”

  Her mother’s lip curled. “The very word ‘mum’ is despicable. And what would you know about planning a debut, Evangeline?”

  Lindy shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Well then. I suggest you leave it to me.” She exhaled hard through her nose. “This is the most important event in the life of this family, Otto, your daughter’s debut into society. It must be perfect.”

  Papa sighed. “Yes, dear.”

  “I expect the jasmine and orange blossoms to be here the day before the debut.”

  Her father nodded and returned to his consommé, his face downcast.

  Mama tossed her head. “Sometimes, I think I’m the only person who truly cares about this family’s name and Evangeline’s marriage.”

  Lindy bit her lip. It always comes to this.

  Percy slunk into the dining room, carrying the salad course.

  “Stop that!

  Lindy dropped her spoon. “What?”

  “Biting your lip. So unattractive.”

  “I was thinking about something.”

  Mama frowned. “What?”

  Lindy shook her head and picked up her spoon. It usually didn’t do to confide anything to her mother. She had a habit of turning it around on a person when least expected.

  “Evangeline, answer me. What could you possibly be concerned about?”

  Why can’t Mama realize I have feelings, too?

  “Answer me.”

  Lindy hesitated. Mama had been young once. Could she understand my apprehension? “What if I don’t meet the right man? What if... I don’t like any of them?”

  Her mother burst out laughing. “Oh, Evangeline. We’ll meet the right man.”

  Lindy’s cheeks flamed. “Mama, I’m the one who must marry him. What if I don’t love him?”

  Papa choked on a bite of his salad.

  Her mother pressed her lips together. “That’s only in fairy tales, darling. If you’re fortunate, you’ll come to care for each other in time. Like your father and I did. Isn’t that right, Otto?”

  Papa swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “Yes, dear,” he croaked.

  Chapter 4

  The afternoon shadows had lengthened by the time Jack arrived home at his uncle’s brownstone on the Upper East Side. After leaving Miss Lindenmayer and getting completely turned around in the opposite direction, he had headed north, striding as quickly as he could manage, having no spare pocket money for an omnibus.

  He usually joined his mother for afternoon tea, but teatime had passed long ago. He gave a wide berth to two young boys throwing jackknives on the grass in a game of mumblety-peg and sprinted up the steps into the house.

  Their red-haired Scottish maid, Jenny, appeared to take his hat and coat. She folded it over her arm and lifted a ruddy eyebrow. “Himself wants ye in his study.”

  “Thank you, Jenny.”

  �
�Ye canna go in lookin’ like that, sir.”

  He followed her scandalized glance to his trousers, where mud clumps clung untidily to the black wool.

  “Wait here, sir, while I fetch ye a cloth.” She hurried away toward the kitchen. What did his uncle want with him now? He usually only saw his uncle at supper, and even then, the conversation dragged. Jack sighed. Nothing’s going to change any time soon.

  Jenny returned with a damp cloth, and over Jack’s protestations, swiftly wiped away the offending mud.

  “There,” she said, with a final flick of the cloth. “Aye, ye’ll do now.”

  “Thank you, Jenny,” he said, with all the dignity he could muster, and headed for the rear of the brownstone, where his uncle’s study overlooked a leafy courtyard. He knocked quietly.

  His uncle’s deep voice rumbled through the door. “Come.”

  Jack entered the study. A bailiwick of order and decorum, hundreds of books sorted by size and subject lined the walls. Not a spare pen nib or scrap of paper littered his uncle’s desk. The leather blotter lay squarely in the center, and the red lacquered desk objects – an ink blotter, a pen cup, a stamp box, and a letter opener—were lined up with military precision at the front of the desk, each item exactly four inches from the next. His uncle sat at his desk, crouched over a book, a pen in his other hand, and the inkpot lid open. “Ah, there you are, boy.”

  “My name is Jack, Uncle.”

  “Yes, yes, so it is.” He pushed away the book he’d been studying and picked up an envelope. “Sit down.” He peered over the top of his spectacles at Jack. “Your midterm marks have come in.”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “Sit, please.” Reverend Winthrop shrugged. “Not bad. Could be better.” He cast a steely glance at Jack. “Latin got the best of you, boy, hey?”

  Jack shrugged. “Not at all.” He grasped the handle of the ink blotter and absently rolled it back and forth on the desk. “I enjoy it.”

  His uncle frowned and pursed his lips, then stared pointedly at Jack’s hand.

  Jack dropped the blotter hastily.

  His uncle retrieved it and nudged the handle until it lined up perfectly with the other objects, restoring the careful symmetry of the desk.

  Then he scowled and shifted in his chair to scrutinize Jack. “I think you can do better. You’ve got to hold up the Winthrop name.” He sniffed. “Even if your father couldn’t.”

  Jack stiffened. His father had been dead for fifteen years, yet to this day, his uncle could never resist an opportunity to belittle him. He clenched his jaw and stood. “There is no need to castigate my dead father. I intend to do my best to honor the Winthrop name,” he said through gritted teeth. “Is there anything else?”

  “Tut-tut.” His uncle clicked his tongue with disapproval. “Always so proud and sensitive. You’ll have to get over that if you expect to follow me into the ministry.”

  The last thing I want to do is follow in your footsteps, Uncle. But this wasn’t the time or place to make such a statement. And his uncle wasn’t exactly a model of humility. Or sensitivity. “You’ll have to have some faith in me, Uncle. That is your area of expertise, is it not? Faith?”

  His uncle pursed his lips, and his eyes narrowed. “Don’t forget, I’m paying for your education.” He rapped gnarled knuckles on the desk. “And I always expect a return on my investments.”

  “Yes sir.” His hand touched the doorknob behind him. “Is that all, sir?”

  “How is the library at Lindenmayer’s? Meeting your needs?”

  “It’s excellent, sir. Everything I could hope for.”

  “Yes. Capital of Lindenmayer to offer the use of it.”

  “I met his daughter today.”

  Reverend Winthrop’s head swiveled around. “His daughter?” His eyes bored into Jack.

  “Yes, briefly. Apparently, she loves to read.”

  “Now, you listen here.” His uncle fixed him with a chilling stare. “You’ve no reason to speak to her. Avoid her at all costs.”

  “Uncle, we only exchanged a few words. I hardly think—”

  “Stay away from her.”

  “Whatever you say, sir.”

  His uncle waved a hand at him. “That’s all.”

  Why did every encounter with his uncle have to be so difficult? As if he was still a little boy and not a grown man. Jack exhaled hard. One year to go, and he would graduate. The sooner he finished school and could strike out on his own, the better. Until then, he would have to endure his uncle’s condescension.

  He took the stairs two at a time and headed to the spacious bedroom at the front of the brownstone. Softly, he knocked on the door. When no answer came, he pushed it open. His mother lay asleep, her slender form barely making a bump under the blue coverlet. He tiptoed to the bed.

  She lay on her side, her hand under her cheek and her hair in a long silver braid down her back. If it weren’t for the pallor of her skin and the color of her hair, she might have been a young woman. A faint smile curved her lips, and a pang went through his chest. Until a few months ago, she had been hale and hearty and fully committed to being Uncle Winthrop’s hostess and housekeeper.

  She woke then, and held her hand out to him, her smile deepening. “Hello, dear. How long have you been standing there?”

  He pulled a chair close and sat down. “Not long. I’m sorry I missed our teatime.”

  “That’s fine, son.” She sat up and pulled another pillow behind her. “I know you’re busy with your studies. Have you had a good day?”

  “My college grades arrived.”

  “And?”

  “My mark could have been a bit higher in Latin. Otherwise, I’ve done well.”

  “Then I’m sure Joseph remarked on that.”

  “He remarked on the Latin grade. And reminded me of my responsibility to bring honor to the Winthrop name.”

  “That sounds like your uncle.”

  “Pompous and didactic?”

  His mother shook her finger at him. “I know he can be rather heavy-handed at times.”

  “I’ll say,” muttered Jack.

  “But he has been good to us, son.”

  “I know, Mother. I don’t mean to criticize, but in every discussion we have, he always somehow manages to denigrate father.”

  His mother sighed. “It’s true there was no love lost between them. I remember well the arguments they would have.” Her gaze flicked to him. “And I don’t suppose it helps that the older you get, the more like him you look.” She reached out and gently brushed the troublesome lock of hair off his forehead, then glanced at the sepia photograph on her dressing table. “He had that same forelock.”

  His father’s serious face stared at him out of the silver frame. “I wish I could have known him.” The few memories of his father grew dimmer with each passing year.

  “He would have been so proud of you.”

  Jack patted her hand. “Enough about me, Mother. How’s the cough today?”

  “Better, I think. The new medicine is helping.”

  If only it were true. She’d lost so much weight her cheekbones looked like sculpted marble. And the hand she lifted to push away a tendril of hair appeared almost translucent. He could swear the sunlight passed right through it. But she hadn’t coughed once since he’d entered her bedroom.

  He took her hand, determined to be light and gay for her sake. “I met a girl today.”

  “Indeed!” The sparkle returned to her clear gray eyes, and she sat forward. “Tell me about her.”

  “She’s the daughter of the Lindenmayers. Her name is Evangeline.”

  “Hmm. One of the society people from the church.”

  “Yes. But she’s different.”

  “She must be, if she attracted your attention.” She smiled at him. “I know you don’t care for most of the young ladies at church.”

  “That’s true. But Miss Lindenmayer loves to read, and we had an interesting discussion about books. I think you’d like her.”


  “I’m sure I—” she broke off, snatched a handkerchief from her sleeve, and pressed it to her mouth. But not quickly enough for him to miss the bright red blood on her lips.

  He stood, helpless, as the coughing episode erupted. Her slender shoulders shook with the force of the spasm, over and over, until finally it waned, and she sank exhausted onto the pillow, gasping, her forehead beaded with sweat.

  The door burst open, and his uncle rushed in. “Anna!” He halted when he caught sight of Jack at the dresser, wetting a cloth with the water in the pitcher. “Are you—”

  She flapped her hand at him, not yet able to speak. His uncle plucked the wet cloth from Jack’s fingers and approached her. He took a seat on the edge of the bed and gently sponged her face.

  The sound of her ragged breathing tore through Jack’s chest, and he clenched his fists, wishing for the thousandth time he could do something to help her.

  “She’s fallen asleep,” his uncle said. “We must let her rest.”

  Jack leaned over and kissed her pale cheek. “I love you, Mother,” he whispered. “Sleep well.”

  Chapter 5

  The library door opened, and the whistled strains of “A Mighty Fortress is Our God” floated over to Lindy. Mr. Winthrop turned the corner a moment later, carrying a book under his arm. “Good morning, Miss Lindenmayer.” He nodded at the book in her lap. “Are you enjoying Ben Hur?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  A frown creased his brow. “Are you well?” His brows knit together. “You look a trifle pale.”

  Lindy fingered the cover of her book. A proper gentleman never remarked on a lady’s health or lack of it. But no one else in the house ever seems to notice anything amiss with me.

  Mr. Winthrop bit his lip. “Forgive me. That was presumptuous. I do hope you haven’t been ill.” He rolled his eyes. “There I go again. Please excuse me. I’ll leave you to your book.”

  He turned to go.

  “No, wait. Would you like to sit down?”

  “If I’m not interrupting you.”

  “Please.” She indicated the wing chair across from her. “May I ask how your mother is feeling?”

  He sighed. “About the same. She is consumptive, Miss Lindenmayer. Although my uncle has had the best physicians attend her, there seems to be little they can do for her horrid condition.”