The Mistress

She paused between Phoebe and Lucy. Under her breath, she said the word prism and left her mouth pursed. Miss Boylan taught that prism was the most becoming word a young lady could utter, for it caused the mouth to shape itself into a perfect bow, so attractive in company.

The trouble was, Phoebe and Lucy, rigorously trained by Miss Boylan, also said prism, and the three of them made the mistake of looking at one another.

Lucy burst out laughing first and Phoebe stayed sober the longest, but eventually they all erupted into gales of mirth. Trapped and exposed beneath the archway, they were unable to hide from the disapproval of long-nosed society matrons and haughty gentlemen peering at them through gold-rimmed lorgnettes.

“Oh, that went well,” Phoebe said, hiccuping away the last of her laughter.

“A most discreet entrée,” Lucy agreed. She linked arms with Kathleen. “We must proceed as if nothing has happened.”

“Welcome, ladies, welcome!” A jovial man in a beautifully tailored claw-hammer coat came forward, acting the host. “And your happiness is most welcome indeed.” He made a gallant bow from the waist. “I was afraid the evening was going to get stodgy on me, but you’ve rescued us from that.”

“Thank you ever so kindly, Mr. Pullman,” Phoebe replied with an effortless curtsy. “We’re honored to be included in tonight’s affair.”

“Everyone’s welcome.” He spread his arms to show off an impressively heavy watch chain anchored to a solid gold fob. “Do come in, come in.”

“Mr. Pullman,” Lucy said, “I’d like you to meet my friend Kate O’Leary from Baltimore.” She winked and dropped her voice to a whisper. “You know, the Learys of Baltimore. They have just recently arrived in town for an extended visit.”

George Pullman, famed entrepreneur whose palatial rail cars were described as “wonders of the age,” fixed a keen, assessing eye on Kathleen.

Her mouth went dry. Her bones stiffened to cold stone and her cheeks were touched with the fire of humiliation. What a fool she was, to think she could pull this off. She was about to be found out and publicly unveiled by one of the most famous men in Chicago. She wanted to turn and run, but she could not seem to move her feet. She did the only thing she could think of. Summoning her best smile, she sank into an oft-practiced curtsy.

“How do you do, Mr. Pullman,” she said with soft, precise diction. Not a trace of the Irish brogue that rolled unabashed through the cottage where she’d grown up. Not a flat, coarse vowel to be heard. Not a single waver of movement in the curtsy.

“Of the Baltimore Learys,” he said at last, clearly fooled by Lucy’s ruse. “My dear, you quite take my breath away.” He seemed sincere. Then, remembering himself, he added, “You all do. My compliments to Miss Boylan.” He moved on to greet someone else.

Kathleen didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she nearly burst, letting out a sigh of relief.

“I told you we’d fool everyone,” Lucy said, gritting her teeth in a smile.

“Humph.” Phoebe moved into the midst of the gathering like a ship under full sail. “George Pullman’s money is as new as the Sinclair fortune. It takes generations of refinement to hone one’s taste.”

Phoebe Palmer never missed a chance to remind anyone who would listen that “old” money was far superior to “new.” She considered it gauche for a family to get rich all in one lifetime rather than accumulating wealth over generations. Such things mattered to people like the Palmers.

Phoebe spent a moment scanning the crowd, her nose lifted high in the air. A hound on the scent, she sought out the most prestigious guests in the salon: Mr. Randolph Higgins, Mr. Robert Todd Lincoln, Miss Consuelo Ybarra, Mrs. Arabella Field. Then she focused on her quarry—Kim, Lord de Vere, son of the duke of Kilbride. A circle of fawning, fascinated Americans surrounded the carelessly, almost effeminately, toothsome young lord. Phoebe sought out Mr. Pullman to request a formal introduction.

Kathleen and Lucy exchanged a glance and had to struggle against another attack of the giggles. “Her great dream is to be a penny princess,” Lucy explained. “British peers with bankrupt dukedoms and such often come to the States looking for a rich girl to marry. Then they use the girl’s fortune to rebuild their estates.”

“And she allows this?” Kathleen could see no benefit in the deal for a young woman.

“See for yourself.”

Phoebe had turned herself into a simpering, self-ingratiating creature, begging for scraps at the skinny, chinless lord’s side.

“What is wrong with a nice red-blooded American millionaire?” Kathleen asked.

“The fact that he’s male,” Lucy said with a grin, always quick to air her views. In favor of universal suffrage, birth control, free love and equal rights for women, she made no secret of her radical ideas. Try as she might, Miss Boylan had not been able to lecture such notions out of Lucy Hathaway’s head.

“One day you’ll meet a man who will make you beg forgiveness for saying that,” Kathleen warned her.

“One day hell will ice over, too,” Lucy said. “But I don’t expect either event to occur in my lifetime. However, I was hoping to meet an interesting man tonight.” Her scrutiny fixed itself on Mr. Randolph Higgins. A newcomer to Chicago, he was tall, broad and almost inhumanly attractive. “I’ve been thinking of taking a lover. Just to see what the fuss is all about.”

Kathleen sucked in a shocked breath. “Really, Miss—”

Lucy clutched at Kathleen’s arm. “Heavenly days,” she said.

A chill of nervousness curled in Kathleen’s gut. “What?”

“It’s Philip Ascot.”

“What the devil’s he doing here?” Instinctively Kathleen hunched her shoulders, wishing she could hide. Philip Ascot IV was the fiancé of her mistress, Deborah Sinclair. Since Deborah was unwell tonight, Kathleen certainly hadn’t expected him to attend. She peered at the young man suspiciously. Not a single blond hair nor a thread of clothing was out of place. He smiled politely while greeting Reverend Moody, a white-mustached, bombastic man, the only one present who believed his purpose this night was to save souls.

“I’ll be found out for certain,” Kathleen said, deflating in her beautiful dress.

“Will you?” Lucy lifted one dark eyebrow. “Are you sure he’d recognize you?”

“I’ve worked for his fiancée for years,” she said. “He has seen me a hundred times or more.”

“Then we’ll simply have to brazen it out,” said Lucy. “Come on. Just act as if you own the place.”

Somehow, Kathleen found the poise to cross the room with a smooth, proprietary grace. Judging by the polite greetings drifting toward her and Lucy, she began to realize that she was carrying off the ruse. Mimicry had always been a gift of hers, helping her to absorb the same lessons in elocution, dancing, French and flower arranging her mistress had suffered through.

The difference was, Kathleen didn’t consider the lessons a punishment. She loved every moment of them. She loved knowing which fork to use, which foot to put forward in a curtsy, learning how to say pas de quoi and shaping her mouth around the word prism before entering a room. It all seemed so lovely and refined to Kathleen. She couldn’t fathom why Deborah detested her lessons so much. But then, her mistress had always been a quiet, circumspect young woman, overshadowed by her domineering father and, increasingly, by her high-society fiancé.

“Philip Ascot, as I live and breathe,” Lucy said, approaching the fair-haired man and holding out her hand.

“Miss Lucy,” he said, gallantly lifting her hand to his mouth. “You look fetching, as always.”

“This is my dear friend Kate from Baltimore.” Lucy took back her hand and presented Kathleen, pushing lightly but insistently at the small of her back.

Though she kept a social smile on her face, Kathleen felt sick. This was it. The moment of truth. Philip had only to take one look at her and he would recognize his fiancée’s maid. He would expose her right down to her homespun bloomers and the calluses on her gloved hands. Too late, Kathleen remembered that he had given Deborah the diamond-and-emerald earrings last Christmas.

Sweet Jesus and the bald apostles. She was in for it now.

Philip made a formal bow and took her hand. Through her peau de soie glove, she felt the brief touch of his lips. Then he lifted his gaze to hers. “Enchanted, Miss Kate. What a pleasure indeed to meet you.” He stared at her intently, a dashing smile on his face. But to Kathleen’s shock, there was not a flicker of recognition in that stare. Only…an interest that was just a shade shy of polite. As quickly as she could, she freed herself from his touch.

“We are quite surprised to see you here, since Deborah is ill,” Lucy commented. She had always been a plain-speaking sort; she got away with it because she was descended from a famous, blue-blooded family and was worth a fortune.

“Ill, you say?” He lifted an eyebrow. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.” He shrugged, dismissing the mention of the woman he was soon to marry. “Another fit of melancholia, I presume. I’ll look in on her tomorrow, perhaps.” With a broad, cold grin he turned his attention to Kathleen. “So how long are you with us?”

Kathleen wondered why she had never recognized the vaguely predatory air that lurked just beneath the surface of this man’s polished exterior. Perhaps, she realized with mild amazement, it was because she had never been the object of his interest before. When she was merely a maid, he paid her no more attention than a piece of furniture.

“Only a short while, Mr. Ascot,” she said evasively. “Now you must excuse us.” Without waiting for a reply, she took Lucy’s arm and steered her away. As they moved toward the refreshment table, her cheeks felt as if they were on fire.

“You’re trembling,” said Lucy. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve just had a rather rude awakening. I’ve been in the company of that man dozens of times, because of Miss Deborah. But he’s never even seen me before. He didn’t recognize these earrings, even though he picked them out. Not that I would want his attention, but it’s a wee bit disconcerting to know I attracted all the notice of a potted palm.”

“He’s an insufferable snob,” Lucy said, curling her lip. “I have never been fond of him.”

Neither had Kathleen, but she felt strange and hollow inside to know her existence was so insignificant to people like Philip Ascot. And he wasn’t the only one. Earlier, Phoebe had ignored the elevator operator. Lucy had accepted a glass of lemonade from the tray of a passing waiter with the same lack of regard. Lucy, who hadn’t a mean bone in her body, blandly smiled her thanks, but didn’t actually see the neatly dressed waiter, didn’t wonder what his name was, where he came from, whether his shiny shoes pinched his feet, or if he had a sweetheart or a wife.

To the upper crust, people like the waiter—even personal maids like Kathleen O’Leary—were ignored. Not out of malice, but out of sheer obliviousness.

Imagine going through life being invisible. As if she didn’t exist at all. The very thought chilled and horrified her. It was more than vanity that made Kathleen want to be noticed. It was a keen sense of survival. If she was invisible, how could her life possibly matter? She wished she could march through her days with the conviction of Lucy, or the self-importance of Phoebe, or even the quiet gentility of Deborah.

Instead, she found herself at an unhappy crossroads. Because of her education, stolen from the tutors and governesses hired for her mistress, Kathleen no longer fit in with the working classes. Yet due to the circumstances of her birth, she didn’t fit in with the privileged set, either.

Tonight, she decided, casting away the chilly shadows of doubt, tonight she would be a true lady, no one would be the wiser and Lucy would win her bet with Phoebe. Bolstered by that conviction, she resolved to set aside her doubts once and for all, and enjoy the evening.

She gave herself over to the experience, laughing and flirting with surprising ease and enjoyment. She met Mr. Cyrus McCormick, whose reaper works had made an even bigger fortune than Pullman’s Palace Cars. She exchanged pleasantries with Mrs. Asgarth, pretended to follow a lengthy gossip session delivered by Mrs. Cornelia Wendover and traded a promising smile with Andrew Ames, a slender, timid gentleman who owned a seat on the Chicago Board of Trade.

Even though it was the Sabbath, and the purpose of the evening involved the salvation of the soul, no one seemed to remember that. Helping herself to a flute of champagne, she took a drink, thrilled by the bubbly texture and tart flavor of it. Relaxing more by the moment, she began to feel truly accepted in the rare company of Old Settlers, estate tycoons, captains of industry and transportation moguls. She loved their power, their confidence, their unabashed flaunting of the fine things they owned. She admired the women in their Parisian gowns and Russian jewels. She envied the patina of culture that lingered on those who had spent time traveling abroad.

What a contrast this made with the society of her old neighborhood. In the West Division, there would be Mass on Sunday night, and afterward, perhaps a ceili with a fiddle band, plenty of cheap drink and dancing until everyone ran with sweat. As a small girl, she used to love a good ceili, but as she was drawn more and more into the orbit of the very rich, she had come to see the wild, Celtic celebrations as somewhat…barbaric.

Conscience-stricken by the disloyal thought, she plunged her hand into her reticule and secretly drew out her grandmother’s mass card. The painting of Saint Bridget, her face bright with a martyr’s glow, glared up at her accusingly. And what manner of colleen are ye, then, ashamed of yer own flesh and blood? Gran’s voice seemed as close as a whisper in her ear. With a start, Kathleen dropped the card on the carpeted floor.

Before she could retrieve it, the heel of a large foot, clad in a shining leather shoe with a gleaming white spat, came down on a corner of the card, pinning it in place.

Sweet Mary, she would burn in hell for certain, letting some tycoon trample her poor Gran.

The owner of the foot didn’t seem to know he was snuffing out a saint.

Kathleen wondered if she could slip the card out from under the foot without attracting his notice. Feigning a casual pose, she put out a dainty toe and attempted to drag the card toward her. No luck; the larger male foot held it pinned in place. She would have to stoop to pick it up.

Working as discreetly as a pickpocket, she unscrewed one of her earrings and dropped it on the floor.

“Oh, dear,” she murmured. “I’ve lost—”

The gentleman turned.

“—my earring—” She broke off and stared. It was him.

Black-haired, blue-eyed and utterly captivating, Dylan Francis Kennedy had the sort of face Kathleen pictured when she and Deborah stayed up late to read forbidden, romantic tales of chivalry and daring. A wealth of curling, glossy hair set off the chiseled masculine jawline. The artful curves of his cheekbones and gently cleft chin were echoed by the shape of a mouth that made Kathleen remember Phoebe’s description of him: delicious.

Unfortunately, at the moment, the delicious Dylan Kennedy stooped and picked up both the diamond earring and Gran’s holy card.

“Yours?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Thank you kindly, sir.” Brazen it out, she told herself. In one swift movement she slid the card into the reticule, not bothering to secure the drawstring. But before she could take back the earring, he held it away from her.

With a smile that struck her absolutely speechless, Mr. Kennedy said, “Allow me.”

Chapter Two

“Absolutely not,” Kathleen whispered after a long, awkward silence. She was aghast that this person would even consider such a thing. Letting a man put an earring on her, in a roomful of the best people in Chicago, would expose her as a fraud entirely. No proper lady would ever allow such a liberty. “Thank you for retrieving my earring. I shall retire to the powder room to put it back on.” She held out her gloved hand.

His smile, and the merry gleam in his eyes, should have warned her. “My dear young lady,” he said, “where is the fun in that?”

“Fun?” she squeaked.

“Isn’t that why you’re here?” He lifted an eyebrow, a dark curve that made him look more intriguing than ever. “For fun?”

Kathleen tried to gather her composure. In her fondest imaginings, she’d had clever conversations with dozens of men, had bantered and matched wits with people of breeding and quality. When no one was looking, she had practiced smiling, flirting, laughing, offering quips and amusing anecdotes. For the life of her, she could not think of one clever thing to say at this moment. But she was not about to let herself be struck dumb by a handsome man.

“I thought saving souls was on the agenda tonight,” she said. “That should be fun enough for you.”

“I’m a Catholic,” he said smoothly. “Not a sober, pinch-mouthed Protestant. They don’t believe in having fun. Not in this life, anyway.”

His admission stunned her. The highest ranks of society normally looked down upon those of the Catholic faith. Only a certain privileged few could admit to it and still keep their place in society. That was one reason Lucy had picked Baltimore as Kathleen’s fictional hometown. There, some of the oldest families were descended from venerable Catholic clans from centuries ago, which made them acceptable to socialites.

“Do I shock you?” he asked.

“Certainly not. Sir.” She deliberately emphasized the formal address. She knew that in this society, a person kept certain things secret. What could his blunt admission mean? That he knew the mass card for what it was and saw through her ruse? Or that he felt a genuine affinity for her because they had something in common?

His laughter was low and rich, a sound she thought she would never tire of hearing. “I beg your pardon. It’s unforgivable for me to indulge in an intimate conversation with you before I’ve even introduced myself.” His bow was perfectly correct. As if posing for a photograph, he leaned forward from the waist, one hand behind his back and the other held out palm up, as if in supplication. “Dylan Francis Kennedy, at your service.”

She wondered if it was better to pretend ignorance or to admit she had known who he was all along. No, she couldn’t do that. He’d ask where she had seen him before and she’d be forced to admit that she had been spying on him at the Sinclair mansion. “How do you do,” she said. “I am—”

“Kate.” He winked at her. “Your friend Miss Hathaway gave me permission to call you Kate. She said you were far too modest to demand a formal address.”

She narrowed her eyes, skeptical of his dashing charm. “For all the gossip I’ve heard about you, I would expect informality.”

“Now I am intrigued. What gossip?”

“That you are heir to a Boston shipping fortune, just back from a lengthy tour of the Continent,” she said.

“You must have seen that in the Tribune.”

“And that you are looking for a wife,” she added.

He laughed. “Ever since that nonsense was published, I’ve been inundated by ambitious matrons trotting out their rich daughters. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy a parade of maidens, mind you—” he winked at her “—but I think I’ve narrowed the scope of my search.”

She sniffed. “Then I shan’t tell you the rest. You’ll get a head swelled full of pride.”

He chuckled. “Did your gossips say what manner of wife I’m seeking?”

“No, but I heard you’ve left a trail of broken hearts scattered across half the continent.”

“Patently untrue. I am the one who is brokenhearted. In all my travels, I have been asking for the unattainable.” He smiled sadly. “A woman of rare accomplishment and depth,” he said. “One who has red hair, flashing eyes and knows all the words to the Ave Maria.”

“You are an unforgivable tease, sir,” she choked out, thoroughly intrigued.

He touched her elbow, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “I never tease. But don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Which secret?” she blurted out. She was usually in control of her tongue, but his touch, even the light cradle of his hand at her elbow, disconcerted her.

“There’s more than one?” He had the most alluring manner.

She bit her lip, thinking fast. Then she gave him the most dazzling smile she could muster. “Every woman has secrets,” she said. “The more, the better.”

He constantly seemed as if he were on the verge of laughter. “My dear Kate, I was speaking of your true identity.”

She gasped. “If you know my true identity, why do you still deign to speak to me?”

“Because I want to put this earring on you. And if there’s any deigning to be done, then it is you who has to deign because it’s clear to everyone in this room that you outrank me.”

“Outrank?”

“I knew you’d be too modest,” he gently chided her. “Lucy warned me.”

“She did?”

“Yes. She said you’d never flaunt your family tree nor the wealth that shakes from its branches like autumn leaves.” He chuckled. “You see? I am insufferably vulgar, mentioning bloodlines and money in the same sentence.”

“This is America,” she said, hoping her relief didn’t show. “We’re free to talk of anything we like.”

“And we do, don’t we?” Still seeming to hover on the brink of laughter, he gestured at the exalted company in the room. The men wore custom-tailored suits and boiled collars so crisp that the edges seemed to cut their necks, and the women progressed through the conversation groups as if in the midst of a competitive sport.

Dylan Kennedy’s suit, Kathleen observed, had the distinguished gentility of several seasons of age and wear, which made him look far more comfortable and natural in his role as lord of the manor. Not for him the spit shine and polish of new money, but the honored ease of generations of wealth. Next to him, even the English lord appeared bourgeois.

Then he did a most unexpected thing. Placing his hand under her elbow in a proprietary fashion, he guided her through an archway of the big salon to a smaller room with French windows flanked by garish faux marble pillars.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Sightseeing.”

“But I—” She broke off as he opened one of the tall, hinged windows, revealing a view that stopped her in her tracks. “Oh, my,” she said when she could breathe again. “That is quite a sight.” She took a step out onto the small, curved balcony. The windstorm that had been chasing through the city all evening blew even stronger now, howling between the tall downtown buildings and whipping up the surface of the lake like buckwheat batter.

From this perspective, facing south and east, she could see the curve of the river as it widened to join the vast, churning lake. Only a block or two distant, she noticed the dome and spires of the ornate courthouse, and beyond that, the gothic steeple of St. Brendan’s, the church of her girlhood. There, in a pious, sincere whisper, she had taken her first communion, accepted her confirmation and confessed her weekly sins. She expected that one day she would be married there under the gazebo in the little prayer garden, and buried there as well.

Tearing her mind from the moribund notion, she examined the perfect parallel lines of the streetlamps along Lake, Water and Randolph Streets. At the mouth of the river, giant grain elevators made ghostly silhouettes against the night sky. Every few seconds, the lighthouse at Government Pier lazily blinked its beam in her direction. And far to the south and west, the day seemed to linger, as if the sun had forgotten to set.

She smiled at the fanciful notion, thinking of her family in the West Division. Her mother would probably use the extra daylight to do chores. She was that industrious.