//CLARA//
In the twenty-first century, I could have blocked a toxic relative with a thumb-swipe. In 1870, I had to sit in the drawing room and watch Aunt Cornelia’s glare sharpen until it was a wonder the upholstery wasn’t bleeding.
Two weeks had passed and Oliver’s visits were becoming a permanent fixture in the Guggenheim estate.
Today, he was explaining the latest adjustnts to the Linotype prototype, his hands sketching diagrams in the air. I listened, nodded, interjected with marketing strategies that made his eyebrows climb.
"Slow down," he said, laughing. "You want to offer the first fifty newspapers a discount if they sign a five-year exclusivity contract? That’s—that’s genius, but also slightly terrifying."
"I’m going to pretend you didn’t say slightly." I grinned. "I’m aiming for absolutely terrifying."
The sound of the door opening cut through our laughter. Higgins appeared in the doorway.
"Mr. Vanderbilt to call upon Miss Thorne."
Bartholow swept in, all polished charm. His eyes flicking to Oliver with a disdain so thick you could have carved it.
"Oh, I didn’t know you had a caller today, Eleanor." His voice dripped with disdain. "Mr. Whitfield seems to be monopolizing your social calendar. How... devoted of him."
Oliver started to stand, but I caught his sleeve and tugged him back down. He looked at , surprised, but I kept my eyes fixed on Bartholow as I spoke.
"Mr. Whitfield is a man of many talents, Mr. Vanderbilt. Being devoted is just the one you seem to struggle to recognize."
Bartholow’s lip curled. He turned his back on us, addressing Aunt Cornelia, who sat in her armchair like a vulture in silk.
"May I have a word with you, Cornelia? In private?"
"Of course, Bartholow," Aunt Cornelia said, her voice carrying all the warmth of a tomb. "Let us go to the library."
Before she left, she turned and fixed with a look that could have curdled milk. Her eyes traveled from my face to where my hand still rested on Oliver’s sleeve, and sothing ugly flickered across her features.
The door clicked shut behind them.
"I think she just murdered with her gaze," Oliver joked quietly, letting out a breath he had been holding. He touched his chest as if checking for wounds. "Am I still breathing?"
"You’re fine, Oliver. She just hates that I’m enjoying myself without her permission."
The door opened again. This ti, Casimir walked in like he owned the room and everyone in it, which I suppose was technically true. His hair was slightly disheveled, his cravat loosened as if he had been pulling at it. He stopped when he saw Oliver.
"Mr. Whitfield." He said it the way one might acknowledge a stain on a favorite rug. "You’re here again."
"Mr. Guggenheim." Oliver rose with that easy politeness that seed to co naturally to him. "Just going over so business with Miss Thorne."
Casimir’s eyes moved to the papers scattered across the table before settling on . I watched him take in the scene. Sothing moved behind his eyes, there and gone before I could na it.
I smiled at him, all innocence. "We were just discussing exclusivity contracts and market penetration."
His expression did not change, but I caught the almost invisible clench of his back teeth and the way his shoulders pulled back a fraction tighter beneath his coat.
"I’m sure you were." He kept his voice even, controlled. "And how is that progressing?"
"Oliver has wonderfully skilled hands." I leaned back in my chair and crossed one leg over the other, letting my skirt ride up just enough to be noticed. "Very precise with his demonstrations."
Oliver shrugged, completely oblivious to the undercurrent running through the room.
"I tend to ramble when I get excited about sothing. Eleanor’s been patient with ."
"Ramble away." I waved a hand. "I find enthusiasm terribly attractive in a business partner."
Oliver laughed, missing entirely the way Casimir’s posture went rigid and his fingers pressed white against his palms before he caught himself. I pretended not to notice either.
The door opened again, and this ti the air in the room changed before anyone even spoke.
Aunt Cornelia swept back in like a general returning from a victorious campaign. Bartholow trailed behind her with that smug expression he wore like cologne, and I could see exactly what had transpired in that library.
She had co to his rescue.
Casimir straightened beside , the mask sliding into place so fast I almost admired it. One mont he was a man barely containing himself. The next he was marble.
"I am afraid that Mr. Whitfield will have to leave."
She looked at sharply. Her tone was the one she used to tell a servant they had missed a spot. It was dismissive, condescending, and brooking no argunt.
"We aren’t finished." I did not dare give her an inch.
Her eyes narrowed. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard ." I held her gaze. "We aren’t finished."
"Eleanor." Her voice rose, cracking through the room’s forced civility. "You are being stubborn and incredibly improper. A lady does not entertain a man of questionable prospects in her drawing room for hours on end. It is unseemly."
Oliver stood, his face flushing. He glanced at , then at Aunt Cornelia, then at Bartholow.
"I—I apologize, Ms. Guggenheim." He gathered his papers with quiet dignity. "Eleanor, I should go. I wouldn’t want to sow discord."
"Oliver—"
"Good day, Mr. Whitfield." Aunt Cornelia’s eyes had already dismissed him.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Aunt Cornelia rounded on . "You will stop this. Imdiately."
I crossed my arms. "No."
Her face went red, mottled patches rising on her neck.
"No? You presu to tell no? I am the mistress of this house. You will do as I say."
"I’ll do as I please."
"You’ll do as you’re told!" Her voice cracked with fury. "You will spend your ti with Bartholow and you will rember your place."
Bartholow shifted behind her, adjusting his cuffs with practiced nonchalance. But I caught the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He had whined and complained until the old bat marched in to fix the problem for him.
I looked past Aunt Cornelia and fixed my eyes on him.
"Tell , Mr. Vanderbilt." My voice was silk over steel. "Did it chafe, having to run to my aunt because a woman wouldn’t give you her undivided attention?"
His smile faltered. "I don’t know what you an."
"Don’t you?" I tilted my head. "You arrived, saw occupied, and within minutes you had dragged her off to the library to whisper about how terribly neglected you feel. It must be exhausting, being a grown man who needs a chaperone to fight his battles."
"Eleanor!" Aunt Cornelia stepped forward. "You will not speak to Bartholow that way. He has only ever shown you courtesy and—"
"Courtesy." I laughed incredulously. "Is that what we’re calling it when a man runs to tattle because a woman dared to have a conversation that wasn’t about him?"
Bartholow’s jaw tightened. "I have only ever acted in your best interest, Eleanor."
"My best interest."
I rose slowly, calmly smoothing my skirts, letting him see that he mattered less to than the dust on the windowsill.
"How convenient that my best interest always seems to involve giving you exactly what you want. And when I don’t, you bring her." I nodded toward Aunt Cornelia. "Like a boy fetching his mother."
"That’s enough." Casimir’s voice cut through the room like a blade.
I turned to him. He stood rigid, caught between the won in his life, between duty and sothing else.
"She cannot speak to guests this way," Aunt Cornelia said to him, as if I weren’t standing right there. "She needs to be controlled. Reined in. If you won’t do it, soone else will have to."
Casimir’s jaw tightened and his eyes t mine for the briefest mont. I searched his face for so sign of what he was thinking, whether he ant it as an apology or a warning, but I could not tell.
"Eleanor."
Sothing cold and sharp lodged itself in my chest at the na he called . Eleanor, the ward. The responsibility. Not the woman he’d had against a bookshelf.
"Apologize to Mr. Vanderbilt. Now."
I stared at him, baffled. What the hell?
"For what? Telling the truth?"
"Eleanor." The edge of his patience showing thin.
I laughed bitterly. "Why, of course."
I turned to Bartholow and offered him my most polished, insincere smile.
"Forgive , Mr. Vanderbilt. I forgot myself entirely. Please, do continue running to my aunt whenever I fail to give you the attention you deserve. It’s terribly becoming on a man of your standing."
Bartholow’s face went red. Aunt Cornelia drew a sharp breath. I turned to her before she could speak.
"And you, Auntie, are absolutely right. I’ve been terribly improper. Entertaining a gentleman who does not et your approval? Discussing matters that don’t concern ? The scandal."
I pressed a hand to my chest in mock horror. "I’ll endeavor to rember my place from now on."
The silence that followed was deafening.
I looked at Casimir last. Let him see exactly how little his intervention had moved .
"Was that satisfactory, Uncle? Or shall I grovel further?"
He looked at with sothing flickering behind his eyes, but whatever it was died before it reached his lips.
I turned and walked out without looking back.
Fuck them all!
User Comments
0 comments from readers