Glamorous Illusions Page 5

  I clung to the hope and promise in her words as I fretted over what was ahead, thinking about meeting half siblings for the first time, strangers.

  Would they welcome me? Begrudgingly let me in? Hate me? I was just glad Mrs. Kensington was dead and gone before I, her husband’s illegitimate daughter, came to join the clan. Maybe in her absence, the children wouldn’t feel quite so threatened…

  The cup cracked in my hand, a jagged edge splitting it in two. My mother and I stared at it for a long moment.

  “One less thing to pack,” she said, offering a resigned smile before turning away.

  CHAPTER 7

  Wallace

  The doctors decided it was best if Alan didn’t know what had transpired until he was well enough to tolerate it. The poor man would probably not understand for weeks that his daughter had been spirited off.

  Wallace paced and pulled the watch from his small vest pocket, checking the time again, trying to hide his agitation. Five minutes until the conductor called for them to board. He’d never missed a train yet, and today would not be his first. He was eager to get back to where he belonged, in Butte, see to his business before they met the family at the lake. He’d spent too long away as it was.

  At last Cora emerged from the private car, wiping the tears from her cheeks, blowing her nose in a handkerchief. So she’s bidden Alan farewell. Alma followed her out. They were ten steps away, on the other side of the platform, holding hands and weeping. Shortly, Alma would accompany her husband to Minneapolis. The woman still looked good to him, two decades after he’d sent her away. Still trim, and with that warm smile that lit up her brown eyes. Another man’s wife now, he reminded myself. He tried to train his eyes on their daughter instead. She was plainly flustered and upset, and he’d heaped a new grief upon her, wrenching her away like this. But there was no way around it. The time was now. He felt it in his bones. And when he felt something in his bones, nothing could keep him from acting.

  He’d thought about coming for her before. To at least propose the option of meeting her siblings so they could get to know one another. But once the tour plans were settled, he’d scanned the maps and the train schedules, tinkering with the idea of seeing to his other investments on the eastern slope—and coming to call. Alan’s failing health had galvanized him. Cora was better off with the Kensingtons now, a new era upon her. She’d take the tour, find healing in the distraction, then finish her education. Under his tutelage, she’d come into her own. Into her destiny as a Kensington.

  And if his surveyors had been right in their analysis of this region, he’d gain more than just his daughter…

  He stole a glance in her direction, saw that a couple of ranch hands on the far side of the platform did the same. She was beautiful, with hair the color of ripened wheat, fair and shining in the sun, and glacial blue eyes so eerily like his own. He’d always imagined her having Alma’s dark hair and eyes. But instead, they were his exact shade of blue. Felix had inherited them too. If any of his other children doubted Cora’s paternity, that alone would put the matter to rest.

  Wallace would see that she discarded her drab brown dress and bought some proper gowns and traveling suits in Butte. If he brought her to the lodge in what she wore now, everyone would immediately look down on her. Not that they wouldn’t anyway. Winning the family over would be like pulling copper from the big hill without a shovel. But just as he’d brought the state its first proper smelter, he’d find a way to help Cora find her place with the family.

  She was kin. His child. What was he to do? Sit back, allow her to struggle, when his other three had every single thing they ever dreamed of? He swore under his breath, laughing at the memory of her spirited responses the day before. Maybe she’d even teach her half siblings a thing or two.

  He checked his watch again and cleared his throat. Alma glanced his way, reached up to touch Cora’s cheek, and gave her a brave smile. Cora embraced her mother once more and then bustled past him, never meeting his eye as she boarded the train. Alma stepped toward him. “Watch over her, Wallace, won’t you?”

  He nodded gravely. “I will. What she has ahead of her will be the most difficult and wondrous experience of her entire life.”

  Alma’s brown eyes studied his. Her mouth was drawn. Alan and Alma’s train began to move; Wallace heard the whistle blow for his, the conductor crying, “All ’board!” But he stayed with Alma. “She’ll be safe, Wallace?” she asked, starting to walk alongside the slowly chugging train.

  “She will be well protected. Trust me.” He took her hand and helped her step onto the stairwell platform. She stood there for a moment, gazing at him, and then over at his train car, their daughter framed in the window. Then Alma turned and climbed the steps in a way that took him back twenty years to when she climbed into the coach that took her away, when her belly was just beginning to swell with child. When I knew I loved her, but had to give her to another man. For the sake of his marriage. His other children. For Cora’s sake too.

  Hat in hand, he watched until their train grew small in the distance.

  The conductor let out a low blow of the whistle as their train began to move in the direction of Butte. Wallace took hold of the handle and climbed up and in. Cora had found their seats, right by the window in the first-class car.

  Wallace sat down across from her, his hands folded over the end of his cane, between his knees. The cane was more for show than need, but Wallace thought it lent a rather distinguished air. Cora’s eyes followed her mother’s train, the caboose now sliding out of view.

  He’d done it. Collected my lost girl. He shook off the guilt that tried to settle over his shoulders, seeing the pain in her eyes, around her mouth. She’d be reunited with Alan and Alma soon enough. It was time she learned about and embraced her Kensington side and all that meant for her.

  They didn’t speak. He figured it’d be best if she addressed him first. He’d said enough. She undoubtedly needed time to unravel all she’d discovered. He closed his eyes as the hours went on, lulled by the swaying motion of the car and the rhythmic sound of wheels crossing one segment of track and then another and another. He dozed, feeling every one of his sixty-odd years as the pressure of the last days edged away.

  He woke to a servant setting a table between his seat and Cora’s, then jumped when he saw her empty seat. His heart skipped a beat, and he looked quickly around the car, putting aside the silly thought that she’d leapt from the train. She’s merely gone to the ladies’ lounge to freshen up before luncheon.

  The servant slid an impeccably white linen tablecloth across the small table, then, drawing from a cart, set it with sterling silver and crystal goblets. Even a small vase with a rose. The train line was clearly trying to better its image. Usually one got no such service except on one of the bigger lines. Dimly, he remembered his late wife telling him something of the sort—that the line had plans to upgrade its first-class cars. That’d been a year ago or so, not long before she died.

  The servant unfolded a napkin and set it across his lap.

  Cora arrived then, and the servant moved to pull out her chair. Wallace rose, but Cora did not look at him until seated, her own napkin across her lap. She took a drink of water from the goblet and declined the wine from the decanter when Wallace raised it in silent offering. “Your other children…” she began, eyes on the goblet as if she could see her siblings’ faces in it. She raised her eyes to meet his. “They will loathe me.”

  He considered her words. “The wind will be against you for a time. But stick with it, and you will win them over.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “So you believe that I can enter their circle—a girl raised on a dirt-poor farm miles from the nearest city—and we will be one big, happy family?”

  “Perhaps not happy. But it shall be tolerable, in time. I hope you shall invest yourself in the opportunity, regardless of how your siblings treat you. To see England, France…Austria, Italy. To complete your education, enter the social ci
rcles that are your birthright…Is it not every young woman’s dream?”

  She took another long drink of water and sat back as the servant brought them china plates laden with fried chicken, steaming mashed potatoes and gravy, and “haricots verts,” the man said.

  Uppity name for little green beans, Wallace thought.

  He never suffered such foolishness lightly. His staff knew to never refer to a foreign word if there was a perfectly good one in English. Consommé was broth, in his house. One needn’t put on airs just because one was wealthy. But with Cora being so fragile, so tender, he elected to hold his tongue for now. He didn’t wish to upset her with anything further, no matter how small.

  He hoped that bringing lowborn, sensible Cora into the mix might break his heirs out of some of their less admirable traits. He loathed the lack of a work ethic in Felix, Vivian’s overdeveloped sense of pride, and Lillian’s spoiled entitlement. Perhaps in the arrival of a new sibling, there’d be a sense of competition that would sharpen them all in some ways and mute the less desirable aspects.

  “Most young women I know dream of little more than marriage and children,” she said, so softly that he barely heard her. The question had lingered so long he had almost forgotten asking it. She chewed her bite of chicken as if she lacked the strength to swallow.

  “Do you leave behind a young man?” he asked, studying her. Perhaps he’d received less than complete reports.

  She shook her head, eyes on her plate. “I’ve never been courted.”

  He took a bite, considering how to respond. “That shall not be the case for long, my dear. You are a fine young woman, inside and out.”

  She met his gaze then, finally swallowing. A blush rose at her jawline—from what? His endearment? Or because he had given her a compliment? Soon afterward, she sent away her plate, apparently too upset to eat any more while Wallace finished every bite. It surprised him, knowing how little she’d had growing up. And now she pushed away a free meal? Well he remembered the days when he was lucky to get a full meal on his plate.

  Cora

  There was so much I wanted to ask him. About my mother. About their relationship. About his other family, his children. About what it was like when he first got to Montana, in the territorial days. About his stint as a US senator. But it all swirled around my head so fast that I couldn’t grab hold of one strand long enough to pull it from the ball.

  Thoughts of Mama and Papa made me feel even more dizzy. Would I ever see Papa again? That thought weighed upon me more than any other. He’d looked so frail, his eyes sunken into his head, that it still sent a chill down my spine. Yet Mama had insisted this was God’s provision.

  God’s provision? I scoffed at the thought. How could this pompous man across from me be sent by God?

  “You’re undoubtedly curious about the tour,” he said as the train neared Butte’s station later that evening.

  I blinked twice, thinking I’d like to know more about it, yes, but there were a hundred other things—

  “We’ll stay here in Butte for a bit. Tomorrow morning, you shall be seen by the family physician. Then your maid, Anna, will see to your wardrobe.”

  I glanced down at my plain brown dress. I supposed I did appear as one of his lesser servants. But a physician? “I’m not ill.”

  “Yes, well, the bear—the guide for your Grand Tour—insists that all who are to come have a thorough examination.” He waved me off, as if that was all he could say about such an indelicate subject. “Tonight, I must see to business. We shall dine together tomorrow evening, giving us time to become…acquainted. Then we shall board another train and head north. We’ll take a week upon the lake before the tour party departs.”

  “So soon?” I managed to say.

  “I believe it will be exactly right. Long enough for you young people to get to know one another, but not long enough for things to”—he paused, seeming uncomfortable—“come to a boiling point.”

  I eyed him quickly. “Distraction is key,” he said. “And you all shall have constant distraction on the Grand Tour—your minds occupied by the travel itself, by art, culture, language—so you do not dwindle into lesser conversations.”

  Lesser conversations. Such as my parentage. The thought of it made me blush furiously. Why, oh why, had my mother never told me? Given me the opportunity to prepare for this day?

  Our train was pulling into the station now. Mr. Kensington—my father, I reminded myself, though I highly doubted I would ever be able to call him Father—was still speaking of our itinerary. “… trains to New York and then embark on a steamship for the week’s crossing. And there,” he said, pausing, blue eyes twinkling, “the adventure truly begins, does it not?”

  I paused. “Somehow, I believe it already has, Mr. Kensington.”

  He raised his head and regarded me for a long moment then. “Indeed, it has.”

  It was ingenious, really. Sneaking me into town while the family was away. Mr. Kensington was greeted left and right, but apparently by mere acquaintances, no one important enough to introduce me to, regardless of their lingering glances. Or was it the other way around? That I wasn’t important enough to introduce? I burned with curiosity—how did he intend to explain my presence to the world?

  He seemed to be in a hurry. To get to his office? Or to squire me away?

  I tried not to gawk as we climbed into a finely polished red Great Smith touring car, driven by a man in uniform and smart cap. “Davis, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter,” Mr. Kensington said. I was stunned by his boldness and turned to look at him. “Miss Cora Kensington,” he continued. “She has been away for some time but is finally home with us. Cora, this is Davis, our driver.”

  The tall, thin man took off his hat and gave me a little bow. Still spinning over Wallace’s words, I belatedly nodded. Kensington? Was that how it was to be handled? I’d be plainly introduced as Wallace’s daughter? With the family name? I supposed I thought he might explain me away as a niece or a second cousin. Not be so…forthright. But then he was Wallace Kensington. Would anyone do more than blink and nod? At least to our faces?

  We pulled up to the grandest home I’d ever seen, upon the widest boulevard I’d ever seen. There were fine homes in Dillon, for sure, but none as large as this one. I glanced around to the hills above us, amazed again that there were no trees or grass for miles around Butte, although it was plain that many had tried to coax them to life. It was haunting, really—the dry, smelter-burned landscape and the massive, perfect houses lining the streets. As though someone had set a fancy town in the middle of a rocky, dusty desert.

  The “hill,” as they called it, rose above the heart of the city, riddled with mines and ramshackle houses and a steady stream of people traversing her roads, even at this late hour. But here, on Granite Street, were several blocks of houses as only my father and his companions could have dreamed it. Thirty years ago, this city had been full of tents and log cabins. Now there were two-and three-and even four-story homes of brick and finely milled lumber and tiles upon the roofs, glinting in the moonlight with flecks of copper.

  Davis drove us up to and then under the front portico. A butler, two maids, and a footman came out of the house. “Most of the servants are accompanying the children,” Mr. Kensington said, as if embarrassed by this slim accounting of servants.

  In quick succession they were introduced, bobbing in deference as they met the long-lost Kensington daughter. Their faces giving away nothing, as if this were an everyday occurrence. My eyes narrowed. Perhaps I wasn’t the first or last… If my father had been a philanderer once, what would have kept him from other dalliances?

  I shoved the ugly thought from my head—half drawn to the idea of not being the only black sheep in the family, half repulsed—and followed a maid to a corner bedroom upstairs. My father had introduced her as Anna, gruffly telling her to make appointments with the dressmaker and milliner as well as prepare to leave Butte in two days—she would attend me at the lake,
as well as in Europe. Anna accepted it all with hardly more than a blink and a bob of a curtsy. She was about my height, as dark in hair and eye as I was light. She eyed my dress and said, “Mr. Kensington has asked that your supper be brought to you in your room. After your long journey, you must be weary and need your quiet time.”

  I nodded, but exhaustion was the last thing I felt. Every nerve in my body, every portion of my brain, seemed taut, attuned to all that was new about me. I felt more awake than I had in weeks. As Anna shut the door, I walked around the room that was as big as our kitchen, sitting room, and one bedroom combined back home. I admired finely framed oil paintings, the textured paper on the walls, the elaborate carved ceiling molding atop fourteen-foot walls. The furniture was intricately carved, the rich red sheen boasting of cherry and mahogany. In front of a full-length mirror, I reached up to take the pins from my hair, tired of the sensation of pulling, tightness, when everything else in my life seemed to be tugging at me. I yanked ten out, placing the wires on a table and running my fingers through my hair, watching as it fell in waves across my shoulders.

  When I moved over to the leaded-glass window, I paused and looked out to the back of the property. I glimpsed Davis unloading our luggage with the help of another manservant, in what I assumed was a carriage house. But my eyes were drawn to the huge, old oak, the lone live tree I’d yet seen in this town.

  I was taking in the sparse leaves, noting how sickly they appeared, as if the giant was suffering, struggling to hold on against the ravages of time and smelter smoke, when I saw the dark-haired young man sitting beneath it. He leaned against the big trunk, eyes closed as if dreaming he were in the midst of a forest. He had fine features—a strong jaw, well-defined eyes and cheeks, wide shoulders. One hand rested on his thigh, and in the other hand, pressed against his chest, was a leather-bound book.