Chapter 7 #2
Elizabeth laughed again and marveled how he released the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.
She shouldn’t be unchaperoned, yet she didn’t want the evening to end, and sensed he didn’t want it to end either.
“I’m feeling benevolent, so why not take advantage of my generosity and have a tour before you leave?
” Without waiting for an answer, she led him onward through the French doors of the conservatory and down a long hall where a lone lamp shimmered on one of the small tables with light reflecting off the walls.
She swung open a set of Ghiberti doors into an English oak-paneled library.
Without touching him, she felt half of her had vanished.
“As you can see, we have an almost indiscriminate assemblage of Roman balconies. The wainscoting and recessed inglenook were made of Santo Domingo mahogany, and there,” she pointed, “is an eight-foot plate glass window.”
She watched him walk past chairs and sofas in plush peacock green that matched the tiled raised fireplace in ocher and blue. He stopped several times at the shelves boasting editions of famous authors in fine bindings, religious texts, and standard histories.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“It looks like an undertaker’s parlor.”
With a rueful expression, Elizabeth laughed. “I suppose it does.”
Certain books caught his attention, the sixty-six volumes on Napoleon and His Generals, Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, and lighter fair that included a ribald Life of Sir John Falstaff, Mrs. Jordan, the English actress, mistress to William IV, and A Burlesque Translation of Homer.
She looked at him from behind, at the hardened strength in his hands.
There was so much to disclose about a person from his hands.
For a moment, she visualized him hammering spikes in an endless path of railroad ties.
She remembered his face as he delivered her daughter, concentrated and severe and beautiful in its intensity… and the gentleness of his hands.
He pivoted, caught her studying him and raised a dark brow.
She felt heat raise to her cheeks, cleared her throat, and then to hide her embarrassment hurried ahead of him to a Japanese parlor with Chinese screens, and mother-of-pearl on every available surface.
This opened into a drawing room that took up the entire west side of the house with a seventeen-foot bay framed by Roman-red columns and gold-flecked frieze inset with stained glass.
Elizabeth glanced to Mr. Rourke, unable to hide her enthusiasm, and found him watching her like he did when she told her Aristotle story. He grinned.
Down a long hall, she waved to the paintings.
“We boast the largest private gallery in New York. There are four stories, five towers, an elevator, and acres of Flemish and Spanish tapestries and Oriental carpets.” She swung open another door.
“And an entire palace ballroom shipped over from Ghent.” She let down her guard and skipped across the vastness, twirling around to face him.
“Mother was furious with one of her critics who claimed, ‘I wish the Spencer’s didn’t retard culture so very thoroughly. They have entrenched in a sort of Thermopylae of bad taste, from which apparently no force of earth can dislodge them.’”
She took a drawn-out sigh, glancing around. “What do you think, Mr. Rourke?”
He looked at the corridor of gold-framed mirrors, myriad of crystal chandeliers, and zillions of cherubs flying across a robin’s egg blue sky. “There is no gulf between Pompeii and Paris.”
“You are too kind, Mr. Rourke. In truth, there is nothing articulated to moderate ostentatious patrician restraint.” And then she said, “What are your thoughts of the people you have met this evening?”
“I take my measure of every man I meet whether they are rich, poor, black, white, Chinese or any other ethnic group–all are the same to me unless they double cross me, then I’m merciless.”
Elizabeth widened her eyes. If betrayed, he’d be a formidable foe. “I would be remiss if I didn’t ask how your meeting went.”
“I have investors, thanks to you.”
“I had nothing to do with it.”
He looked at her sideways. Elizabeth felt something breathless and sensational—oh, really, she thought in sudden alarm, pushing aside the ridiculous chaos hammering in her heart. “What did you think of the meeting? Did they meet on good terms?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I’d rather a man be judged on who he is, rather than on his money and status, and the rest of that tomfoolery.”
She clapped her hands in a prayerful pose. “You have met men who walk downstairs to get to heaven.”
“I want to apologize for my remarks the other day,” he said.
She drew a circle on the marble floor with the toe of her slipper. “I suppose you can have your opinions.”
“After being in New York, and especially around these people, I can understand how one might strive to cover up an incident to survive.”
“I really don’t care what you think.”
“I think you are a good mother.”
She inhaled.
“She is an exact replica of you.”
She closed her eyes. “You won’t–”
“I told you before, I’d take your secret to my grave. Long ingrained in my southern roots is honor. I commend your volunteering at the orphanage to be close to your child. Courageous. Admirable.”
For the first time in a long time, she relaxed. “I accept your apology. I also wish to apologize for my behavior. I was—”
“Afraid,” he answered for her. “Let’s start over, shall we?”
Her throat constricted. He knew too much about her.
Any attraction would be forbidden and dangerous.
What he was offering her was a friendship.
Words accumulated, trapped by walls and ceilings.
The weight of what she needed to say rested heavily on her chest, suffocating her.
Oh, how she wished she was by that river where they’d first met, where her words would drift away.
She needed to confide in someone, but not now when they had just had an initial understanding of each other.
No, she would not ruin the moment. Finally, she nodded her head. “Friends.”
“Anyways, I want to thank you for your support for loans for my new business venture via your father and Dyer. That was very nice of you to help someone you don’t know.”
They were hardly strangers. “It was the least I could do–”
“I have some free time waiting for financial approvals. Why not plan activities with the children outside of the orphanage? Get them away for a while. It would be fun for them and give you an excuse to spend more time with your daughter. I could get the Fitzgeralds to chaperone. What do you say?”
“I’ve dreamed of getting the children and my daughter away.”
They walked side by side into the entry foyer and stopped. In the inelegant silence so much could be interpreted. For Elizabeth who compulsively verbalized, the stillness became awkward. She caught him gazing at her mother’s portrait.
“What do you think, Mr. Rourke?”
“I’m speechless.”
“That bad?” She burst out laughing, and then pointed a dainty finger at him.
“You are a diplomat. The first portrait is stored in the attic because mother thought it made her look fat. A most unfortunate circumstance is the second painting makes her look fatter. I’ve heard maids whisper the likeness gives them nightmares.
” She peered at him from beneath her eyelashes.
He flashed her a wicked smile. “I’ve never been to an opera before. Wouldn’t know what to do.”
“Are you asking me to be your chaperone?” She bobbed up on her toes, her eyes meeting his.
“You surprise me, Miss Spencer. I’d be delighted. I bid you goodnight.”