But fingers of unease raked up her neck. People who were just like her were all around, so why did it feel as though she did not belong? As soon as she’d arrived, something deep inside pulled to return to Brooklyn, followed by a sharp twist of pain. Ben had left her alone in his bed that morning, and now she regretted her impulsive actions the night before. Had she made herself unwelcome in his home as well?
Dear Timothy, she thought,What is it like to be in love? To have champagne bubbling in my chest every time he is near me? It’s dreadfully inconvenient to want to spend every moment with another person, no matter how much I enjoy kissing him.
“An injustice, what is happening to the poor in this city.”
Rose lifted her gaze to the man standing at the center of a grand salon, holding court for a dozen or so guests. The royal atmosphere of the room suited his tone; one side of the masculine sitting room jutted out over sprawling gardens reminiscent of a miniaturized Versailles. Mahogany bookshelves soared towards the domed ceiling, every inch stuffed with leather-bound tomes inset with gold lettering. Large potted palms and lingering cigar smoke lent the room an earthy fragrance, and Rose winced upon seeing the head of a bear, captured mid-growl, mounted above the massive marble fireplace.
Everything was eerily familiar and yet not quite right, like a dream that was so realistic it was unsettling. The wood gleamed too brightly, the marble steps too straight and even. Nothing was worn or lived in; there were no nicks in the wood from an ancestor’s clumsy actions, the spines of the books appeared unbroken, and the stairs had not been compressed by generations of footsteps. She felt as though she had stepped into a museum in the future to witness an exhibit on high society before it became extinct.
Joining the semicircle of listeners, Rose directed her gaze to take in the man who must be Mr. Linden. He was tall and relatively wide; she noticed how the deft tailoring of his crisp gray suit enhanced his shoulders while diminishing his fleshy waistline. His hair had once been blonde but had faded into a sun-bleached wheat, shot to white at the temples. The fair skin held a flush high on his cheekbones and was well-lined, as though he spent most of his days laboring in fields and found himself surprised to be inside at a society function. His brilliant blue eyes crinkled when he smiled, and Rose found herself drawn to him, eager to hear what he would say next.
“The poor will never have the incentive to pull themselves into the light if they are constantly being given handouts by the leadership in this city.” Well-coiffed heads bobbed and murmured their assent as the man continued. “Men must learn a trade and be productive members of society. Empty pockets and a hungry belly are powerful motivators for any man.”
“But what about the children?” Rose released a smalleepof surprise as the words fell from her lips. A dozen heads swiveled in her direction, but the man standing at the center captured her gaze.
“Pardon?” he asked, his lips pulling up in a slight smile even as the skin around his eyes tensed.
“The-the children,” Rose repeated. “They experience empty pockets and hungry bellies; should they be required to work as well?”
He chuckled, the sound low and comforting, and Rose’s nerves settled somewhat. “Another incentive for their fathers to find employment of their own. No father wants to watch their child suffer.” He lifted his chin and directed his next comment to the group at large. “Perhaps dear old papa should buy a schoolbook instead of a mug of gin!”
The men guffawed, lifting their glasses of sherry, while the women tittered as they pressed their gloved fingers to their lips.
The champagne in Rose’s stomach shifted unpleasantly. “But sir—”
“Gentlemen,” he interrupted smoothly, “Mr. Astor informed me of a delightful new rifle he plans to bring to the Adirondacks. Shall we take a look?”
The men and women parted, scattering like leaves in a storm while Rose stood in place, confused as to what had happened, unease trickling up her spine. A moment later, horror struck—she had been deserted, left behind like an unwanted suitor. Her pulse thrummed, her nerves tingling as her lungs tightened. Had she been away from society for so long she was no longer welcome? Had she lost her ability to thrive in the world that created her?
“Pardon me, miss.”
Rose blinked back tears as she focused on the man standing in front of her. He gave her a lopsided smile and extended his hand, a flush rising in his cheeks. “I apologize for startling you. My name is Stewart Ruffgate. Mr. Linden’s personal secretary and aide-de-camp.”
“Miss Rose Wa—Stonecroft.” Rose rushed to cover her error as she reached out her hand. “How lovely to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine,” he said. Mr. Ruffgate was not altogether unpleasant to look at; with tawny hair slicked back from a narrow face, an aristocratic nose and weak chin, and a bearing that spoke of summering in the country and years spent at boarding school, he would have fit in easily at White’s or Oxford. “I must admit, I was curious when I heard your accent.” He smiled at her again, his slight blush charming her. “Mr. Linden is an excellent speaker, but few will cross an ocean to hear him. What brings you here today?”
The intensity in his gaze struck a nerve in Rose’s spine, and she weighed her response. What would this man want to hear? “I am visiting family in New York for an extended vacation. My cousin—or aunt—second cousin, perhaps?” She paused, looking towards the ceiling and twisting her lips, then shook her head and giggled. “I can never keep track of all these American relations!” She laughed again before placing her palm on Mr. Ruffgate’s forearm and holding it there. “Oneof them, and there aresomany, said I would adore hearing Mr. Linden.“ She widened her eyes. “I do hope I’m not intruding. My aunt–great aunt–third cousin, well, she passed on the time and direction, so I hope I’m not unwelcome.” She batted her eyelashes and tilted her face so her eyes would catch the light and glimmer.
Mr. Ruffgate looked bewildered as he blinked several times, and satisfaction bubbled in her chest. “Of course not, Miss Stonecroft,” he said when he recovered. “It is a delight to have you here.”
The tension released from her shoulders as she considered Mr. Linden’s aid. After their earlier encounter, she doubted the politician himself would pay her mind, but perhaps Mr. Ruffgate would provide the access she needed. “I was curious,” she said, taking his arm and steering him towards the next room, apparently an office space for Mr. Astor, “if you could tell me more about Mr. Linden’s feelings on the poor. New York is so pristine, and everyone seems to live comfortably.” She pressed her fingers to her sternum. “Are there truly poor people in this city?”
“Oh, my dear.” Mr. Ruffgate shook his head and laughed ruefully. “This city is chock full of degenerates. Criminals, too.”
Rose scrunched her nose up in mock disgust, but the revulsion in her gut was real. She paused next to a curio cabinet packed to the gills with small animals, each captured in lifelike detail and similar expressions of surprise and horror. “How awful. I’m certain my great-aunt—godmother—cousin twice-removed would be so dismayed to find people living in squalor. How fortunate to have a man like Mr. Linden leading the charge to help these poor people!”
Mr. Ruffgate gave her a condescending smile. “He is empowering them to make the choice to save themselves. For too long, this city has handed them everything—housing, food, education, jobs—and still people remainpoor. The only logical choice is to cut them off.”
“And then what?”
Mr. Ruffgate twisted his lips into a grimace. “Then… what?”
“When the poor have no food, no money…” She lowered her voice. “Will they not starve?”
He puffed out his chest. “Not if they find employment. It’s a simple solution, really.”
“But what about the women, the children? Are they to work, too?” Rose felt the powerful need to see Ben, to hold his hand and explain this logic to her, to help her understand how someone could be so misguided to believe such muck.
