Authors: Rachel Cartwright
“Philip,” Bret asked. “Are you certain that was Doctor Hellreich’s niece?”
“That’s what I was told, sir. Best you talk to Mr. DeRocha or the doctor himself.”
The fiddler dropped the curtain and shook his head at Bret.
Hadlee laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Seems our singing nymph has disappeared as quickly as she emerged.”
The fiddler counted in the next tune and the couples made their way back to the center of the ballroom floor.
“Bret?” Gabrielle called to him behind his back. He swung around and watched her sashay up to him until she stood only a few inches from his face. “If I can tear you away from this drunken riffraff, then perhaps you might be inclined to finally ask a lady to dance?” Gabrielle glanced back at the musicians. “Or, are you waiting to ask someone else?” she added without turning around.
Hadlee and Liam each brought their drinks quickly to their lips but it did little to hide their soused smirks. “And pray, fair lady,” Hadlee asked. “Who might that be?”
Gabrielle spun around, her eyes tight and narrowed in on Hadlee’s. Her right hand was lowered and clenched in a fist. “Hadlee Sterne Foster. If you weren’t a business partner of my father’s . . .”
Hadlee chuckled. “Ahh, Gabrielle. You sound like it’s a crime for a man to be successful.” He took a step closer to her. “And all I want to do is share it with those I care about most.”
Bret laughed and stepped between them. “Come now, Gabrielle.” He took her hand. “They’re playing ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas,’ and a flower as beautiful as you—” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Is still appreciated by a gentleman who knows his flawed life was once graced by feminine perfection and forgiveness.”
“There was a time, sir,” Gabrielle said, “when that might have sounded sincere coming from your lips, but if your eloquence now flows from alcohol then I would prefer that to the insults of your sobriety.”
Liam and Hadlee exchanged glances and looked down into their drinks.
“Never the less,” she eyed the other men with disdain, “since these other gentlemen believe they can impress my father more by talking to him than dancing with me . . .”
“That’s not fair,” Liam protested. “I was waiting until—” Hadlee stepped in front of his friend. “No, Gabrielle, you promised that I was next.”
Gabrielle raised her silk-gloved hand. “Seems I’ve had a change of heart. Forgive me gentlemen.” Her heart-shaped pendant rose and fell with each rise of her bosom. The entreating warmth of her brown eyes followed Bret as he led her onto the ballroom floor.
“Who was that woman?” Gabrielle asked calmly, her smile never faltering.
Aware of the inquisitive looks from his guests, Bret took gentle hold of her delicate waist and brought it closer to his. “I believe her name is Rebecca Armstrong. Doctor Hellreich’s niece.”
“He didn’t mention her when we met. She seemed to be in quite a rush to leave.” Gabrielle glanced back at the front door. “Some of your guests are quite upset that they didn’t have a chance to meet her and thank her for the delightful song.”
Bret wanted to say something more to Gabrielle but hesitated. For some unsettling reason the sudden arrival of the beautiful red-haired woman had rendered trite the unspoken words on his lips; then, conscious of his silence, he hurried to end the speculation about her prompt departure. “I understand she had a prior commitment this evening. I’ll make sure Philip explains to our guests.”
He raised Gabrielle’s hand and they stepped in time together to the sweet-sounding waltz. With every graceful turn around the ballroom floor, he would sneak a glance in the direction of the front door before returning to the strained smile on Gabrielle’s face.
“Have you lied to me again, Bret?”
“No. My business offer is firm and if only you would talk to your father—”
“Hush. I don’t mean that and I don’t want to talk about it anymore now.”
“Then what on earth?”
“Everyone is looking at us the way they used to. Have you been practicing with a young lady on the terrace, sir?”
Bret smiled. “I guess there are some wonderful things in life a man never forgets.” The eloquent glide of their dance steps around the ballroom made everyone pause and take notice.
“Only some? And what about the rest?”
“Gabrielle, please, I never . . .”
But it was already too late. The stars in Gabrielle’s eyes had withdrawn to join the night and the distance between their bodies seemed to expand with each gliding step until the music faded and there was only the beating of his guilt-ridden heart in his ears.
CHAPTER 12
Saturday, September 1
Bret leaned into the high-backed wicker chair in his sunroom, squinting his groggy eyes against the hard brightness of the morning rays streaming through the partially opened shutters.
His head was still spinning like the last waltz with Gabrielle but his thoughts were of another woman, enthralling him with an inexplicable force since the moment he saw her face.
Rebecca Armstrong—like an angel come down to earth, then gone again. He could still hear the haunting melody that had racked his sleep with dark dreams of another time and place.
Bret opened his eyes wide. The sunlight capered along the soft peach tinted walls, rippling in waves across the small oil portraits of his parents, painted shortly after their marriage.
His father, William, gazed back at him with the quiet dignity and strength he imagined the man must have always had in life. The bristling whiskers of his clipped beard made him look older than he actually was, an impression he no doubt valued when dealing in business with men twice his age.
Lorena, his mother, her hair parted down the middle and worn coiled over her ears, had been painted with a melancholic expression that seemed unusual to one so young, as if she was enduring something which removed her smile, but not her sincerity.
Her sad, searching eyes pleaded to Bret; the same eyes that had stared at him from her death bed four years ago.
He rubbed his temples and sipped his mint julep. The drink, when mixed with his medicine, was well appreciated on mornings like these.
A clean, Gulf breeze blew in through the open windows, carrying the fragrance of the many blossoms in the front garden. The aromatic scents helped to clear his head but did nothing to push the heavy weight he felt on his heart whenever he looked at those pictures.
“Mr. McGowan?” Philip stood in the doorway, dressed in a white shirt, gray pin-striped tie, and flannel pants. “Everyone is finished cleaning up the ballroom. The house is almost back in order, sir.” His butler turned to leave.
Bret stood. “Philip, wait. That woman from last night.”
“Sir?” Philip stopped and turned.
“You said she was Doctor Hellreich’s niece?”
Philip examined his cufflinks as if he were making sure they were still secure. “That’s what I heard, Mr. McGowan.” He looked up at Bret. “But what I saw was you waltzing with Miss Caldwell, much to the disappointment of Mr. DeRocha and your friends.”
Bret took a sip from his mint julep. “Everyone knows Gabrielle is a wonderful woman. We’re still good friends.”
“Sir, if you’ll excuse my being blunt. That Doctor Hellreich has been getting folks nothing but agitated at his meetings. You were there so you know I speak the truth. And I also know that Mr. Arley Caldwell, being one of the richest men in Galveston, also sits on the Cotton Exchange and Board of Trade along with his rich friends. Seems to me those are the gentlemen you should be concerned about impressing with your venture in Beaumont.”
The blood started to pound in Bret’s temples again. “I know how my father would handle business, but I only share a last name with him. I’m not the same man he was.”
Philip stood in front of Bret as though trying to block his way. “I’m not saying your father was a saint, sir. But in those bad times, he was the best of the lot around here. Took a long time for things to get better, just like between Miss Caldwell and you.”
He smiled. “Miss Caldwell has always struck me as a very understanding and forgiving woman. No matter what happened between the two of you before, and no matter how sour her words are sometimes, everybody knows she’s still sweet on you. You were both close once. No reason it couldn’t be that way again and more.”
Bret couldn’t deny that he still had a strong connection to Gabrielle, but it was one of friendship now and hopefully a profitable one for both of them. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.
“Perhaps you’ve had enough of your medicine for one day, sir.”
Bret opened his eyes. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Then maybe you’ll also judge that it’s time you stopped living alone in this big drafty house, Mr. McGowan. It’s not natural. You can smile, laugh, and throw all the parties you want, but in the end . . .”
Philip raised his eyes to the high, vaulted ceiling and gazed around. “I know you feel just as empty as this house. A man needs the love of a good woman, to hear his children laughing and playing.”
He put his weathered hand on Bret’s shoulder in that fatherly way he always had. “Fills that troublesome space in a man’s heart with something he never really knew before;
joy
, sir, and that’s the plain truth of the matter.”
Bret placed his drink down on the silver tray resting on the circular walnut table. The crystal vase next to the tray held withering yellow roses, their petals dry, some scattered on the table and floor.
Turning his back on his butler, he crunched the petals underfoot. “I have too much on my mind to even entertain the idea. I need Colonel Hayes to convince Mr. Caldwell and the others to take a chance on Spindletop.”
“That’s the point, sir. Do you think Miss Caldwell will look at you the same way if you turn up nothing but muddy water? To be sure, she’s a woman of fine character, Mr. McGowan, but she’s also practical like her father—something Mr. DeRocha, Mr. Dawson, and Mr. Foster are hoping will make her see clearly when it comes to her feelings about you.”
Bret spun around; the throbbing in his skull made him nauseous. “You walk a thin line, Philip. Sometimes I wonder why Mother always allowed you to speak so freely. Over the years she came to value your opinions over most others, but . . .”
He pointed at the older man. “I’ll seek your advice when I ask for it. My affairs are my own and don’t need to be commented on. Take care to remember that.”
Philip stared at Bret for a few moments. He lowered his head. “No offense intended, Mr. McGowan, and I apologize.” He looked up at Bret. “I only mention these things because your mother has been gone for some time, and I’ve been considering what to do next.”
He took the folded cloth off his forearm and held it in his hand. “In a few weeks I’ll be leaving to live with my oldest daughter and her family in Rosewood, Florida.”
“What are you talking about? Don’t I pay you enough?”
“It’s not the money, sir,” Philip answered, unperturbed. “Your family has always been a generous employer and I thank you for that.”
“Then what is it? What’s the problem?”
Philip averted his eyes and looked over to the wall where the oil portraits hung. “I promised your father I’d help take care of his family and do my best to make sure you grew up to be the kind of man he would have been proud of, and I tell you sir, I’ve done the best job I could.”
He stepped over to the circular walnut table and picked up the silver tray with the glass. “In exchange for my word, your mother and you have always treated me with respect and paid me well. But, sir, you’re the only McGowan left, so you have to decide now if your family lives on.”
Philip wiped the tabletop around the vase clean with the cloth. “After all these years, I’m tired, Mr. McGowan, and I want to spend my last years with my family. I can recommend a good, dependable man if you wish.”
Bret stared at his butler for a few moments, then sat back down in the wicker chair. “Thank you, Philip. After over forty years, I sometimes forget how accustomed we’ve become to each other’s honesty . . . and at the times one least expects it.”
Philip stopped polishing the tabletop. “And I appreciate that, sir. You know I value the privacy of our friendship. I’ve tried always to be proper and polite in front of your friends and business associates; just the way they would expect.” He smiled at Bret. “But you’re not like the rest, sir, and folks like me remember that.”
Bret glanced at the floor. Philip was right. In spite of all his chores and duties, he had taken the time to show Bret everything that his father never had the time or opportunity for; to properly ride a horse, fire a rifle, land the biggest fish, gut it, and cook it up for dinner, all these things and more—to be forthright as a man and understanding as a friend. “I need to clear my head from last night. I’m going for a drive.”
Philip scrutinized him. “Any place I should know about, sir?”
“I just need to feel the cool air on my face.”
Philip nodded. “As you wish, sir.” Holding the silver tray up with his hand, he walked past Bret toward the exit of the sunroom. He stopped on the first step and looked back. “This room needs fresh flowers, sir, I’ll make sure one of the boys cuts them from your mother’s garden before you go.”
Bret stood on the steps leading up to the Theogenesis Society Hall, admiring the intricate fluting on the front archway. Together with the stonework on the arches and abutment, the entire structure inspired quiet awe, as if one had discovered the last, untouched ruins of an ancient city. It was amusing to think that such an imposing fortress held such an alluring beauty inside.
He lifted the knocker and banged it firmly on the plate. He checked the neatness of his hair and the closeness of his shave on the metal’s burnished surface.
“Just a moment, please,” came a woman’s voice from the other side. “Who is it?”
“It’s Bret McGowan. I’m here to see Miss Rebecca Armstrong.”
There was a long pause.
“We don’t open until three o’clock on Saturdays. Doctor Hellreich isn’t in at the moment. His lecture begins at four o’clock sharp.”