The Mistress. Сьюзен Виггс

through the evening. It was a mass card from St. Brendan’s Church, printed in honor of her grandmother, Bridget Cavanaugh. The sturdy old woman had died three months earlier, and Kathleen ached with missing her. It seemed appropriate and oddly comforting to slip the holy card into her reticule, as if Gran were a little cardboard saint carried in her pocket. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I am as ready as a sinner on Fat Tuesday.”

      She and her friends slowly approached the salon, their footfalls silent on the carpet patterned with swirling ferns. Kathleen savored every moment, every sensation, knowing that memories of this night would sustain her through all the long years to come. She tried to memorize the plush feel of the thick carpet beneath her feet, which were clad in silk slippers made to match the Worth gown. She felt the rich, heavy weight of the emerald-and-diamond collar around her neck, and the tug of the matching earrings. She listened to the polite, cultured burble of conversation in the grand salon. To her, the mingling voices sounded like a chorus of angels. Everything even smelled rich, she reflected fancifully. French perfume, Havana cigars, fine brandy, Macassar hair oil.

      They reached the arched doorway flanked by tall potted plants. The breeze through an open window let in a hot gust of air, causing the ferns to nod as if in obeisance. The uncertain luster of the moon polished the spires and dome of the courthouse in the next block. Far to the west, the sky flickered and glowed with heat lightning. It was a night made for magic. Of that, Kathleen felt certain.

      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