She hated that it bothered her. But it did.
She couldn’t have said why she had gone, only felt the need—as if somehow Matthew could ease the knot that lodged so tightly in her throat.
And the truth remained: At night it was Matthew’s broad chest that she dreamed of, not Jeffrey’s. It was the memory of Matthew’s kiss that woke her—disturbed her. But she was going to marry Jeffrey, wanted to marry Jeffrey, she told herself firmly. He made her feel cherished, normal. Like the lady she wanted to be.
And when Jeffrey said, “Mother is going to love you,” she wanted his words to be true.
They pulled up in front of a house that would be considered tiny compared to wealthy Boston standards, tucked into a small street on prestigious Beacon Hill. The glass-paned windows, like many in the area, had turned a light shade of violet from exposure to the sun. No one knew why the glass had turned colors, but no one replaced it. It was beautiful and unique to this part of town.
Squaring her shoulders, she pulled her woolen shawl close, then picked up the skirt of her beautifully cut blue silk gown and allowed Jeffrey to help her down from the carriage.
The front door was answered by a stooped butler, his face lined with age, his hands swollen and curled.
“Your mother is expecting you, sir,” the man said, his demeanor haughty, his voice imperious.
He led them to a drawing room. Finnea took in the small house. Though everything was meticulously clean, it was impossible not to notice that the once beautiful rugs were worn, their edges frayed. The flocked wallpaper was no longer flocked, and a few of the windows were cracked. But despite the cracks, there was not a speck of dust nor a single smudge on the panes.
The drawing room was small and filled with all the trinkets that had become so popular during the last few decades. Shelves full of music boxes and row after row of small framed portraitures. Collections of thimbles and china dolls. Large flowing ferns in every window and potted palms in the corners. Finnea didn’t dare turn too quickly for fear of knocking something down.
For the first time she wondered where Jeffrey lived, where they would live. The thought of living in this house made her grimace. But surely not. There would be no room.
“Hello, Jeffrey.”
A woman stood in the receiving parlor like a queen at a ceremony. She was tiny, much like her house, but didn’t look at all close to her seventy years. The woman was dressed in a voluminous gown of stiff brown taffeta, her shoulders covered with an autumn-colored paisley shawl. She wore a single brooch on her high, prim collar, and her fingers were crowded with gaudy baubles, much like the room. And her face, milky white with two bright spots of rouge on either cheek, made her look like a porcelain doll.
“Jeffrey, dear,” the woman said, extending her tiny hands to her son.
Then the woman turned her attention to Finnea, the smile that had curved across her porcelain features melting away. “And who have we here?”
Finnea barely contained her surprise.
“This is Finnea, Mother. Finnea Winslet.”
The woman raised a charcoal-penciled brow, her demeanor much like the butler’s, but didn’t say a word.
“Mother,” Jeffrey added with a fond chuckle, “I told you we were coming today.”
Regina Upton’s lips pursed as if she’d taken a bite of something distasteful. “Well, it hardly matters if you said anything before or not, dear. What matters is that you are here now.”
Jeffrey kissed his mother’s cheek indulgently. “I can’t imagine why you’re behaving this way.”
His mother straightened, pulling herself up to her full four feet eight inches. “Which way is that, Jeffrey? I’m happy you brought your little friend.” She turned to her guest, her sharp eyes running the length of Finnea. “So tell me, Miss Winslet, what brings you to my home?”
Finnea’s mouth all but fell open, dread ticking to life in her breast like a mantel clock. But she was saved from answering when Jeffrey sternly tsked at his mother.
“You know perfectly well why she is here. To have tea. We discussed this.”
“I thought you said you were bringing that wonderful Seton woman. Melvin Seton’s daughter, if I recall correctly. You know, when Melvin was alive he was quite partial to me.” Her hand fluttered at her neck. “I’m certain he would have asked for my hand if your father hadn’t asked first.” She sighed her smile. “I had gentlemen callers every day. Dozens of them, really.” She focused on her son. “I think that Seton woman is so very nice.”
“Mother,” he said, his tone stern. “It’s Miss Winslet who is here.”
Regina turned back to her once again, her face set in a polite facade. “Yes, of course. If only Jeffrey had told me you were coming. But no matter. Come, let us sit down.”
Jeffrey’s smile thinned; then he showed Finnea to a quaint little love seat. But just when he started to sit next to her, his mother said, “Jeffrey love, could you please help me with this chair. I’m feeling a bit frail this morning. It is so trying getting old.”
The anger left him in a rush and he laughed, taking his mother’s hand. “You don’t have a frail bone in your body, Mother. And you certainly don’t look older than a maiden.”
The compliment made her look years younger, like a schoolgirl with a crush. “Don’t be silly,” she said with a chirping giggle. “Maiden, indeed.”
But it was clear she was pleased—at least she was until her gaze caught Finnea. Jeffrey’s mother sat up straight and motioned to the chair next to her for her son to sit.
Jeffrey gave another little laugh and shrugged at Finnea, then sat next to his mother.
Pleased, his mother looked back at Finnea. “Now, what is your name again?”
“It’s Finnea, ma’am. And it is a pleasure to meet you.” She forced the words from her mouth.
“Yes, of course. Odd name, Finnea. Sounds Gaelic. Is it a family name? Jeffrey is named after his father, God rest his soul, and his father before him. An old family name. The Upton ancestors came over on the Mayflower. Who is your family, child?”
“Mother, this is Finnea Winslet, Nester’s sister.” He shook his head and chuckled. “Stop acting like this.”
“Oh yes, the girl from Africa.” She looked away dismissively. “Jeffrey, I’ve been invited to Sarah Chambers’s music soiree on Monday. You’ll be able to take me, won’t you?”
“I’ll be at work on Monday, as well you know. But you can take the carriage. I’ll catch a hired hack downtown. Maybe you would like to take Finnea with you.”
Mrs. Upton looked her over, really looked at her for the first time. Finnea sat very still. Her unsuitability drifted through the proper, overstuffed Victorian room like a foul breeze from the harbor. Finnea sensed it, felt it like a slap of disapproval across her face. Her sun-golden skin was mostly a memory now, but even the rice powder couldn’t give her the translucent white of all the women she had met.
Regina smiled, her lips parting like fissures in ice, her pale gray eyes as cold and as biting as the winter wind outside. “Take Miss Winslet with me?” She turned to her son. “I hardly think that is appropriate, Jeffrey. The invitation is for family.”
“Which is exactly what Finnea is about to become. Remember?”
“Ah yes, you did mention an engagement. Though I was certain it was to that nice Seton woman.”
“Mother,” he warned.
Regina Upton sat very still and let her displeasure simmer through the room. “Perhaps Miss Winslet and I should go to the party.” She patted her son’s hand. “You are right to suggest it. Now, I know you have to get back to work. And I would love to spend time with my future daughter-in-law. So why don’t you run on ahead.”
Jeffrey’s face eased, though Finnea could hardly believe it. The last thing she wanted to do was stay here with this woman by herself. She didn’t think for one second that Regina Upton really wanted to spend time alone with her future daughter-in-law. No doubt she wanted to malign her without her son to interrupt.
“I had better be going as well,” Finnea said.
“So soon? You just got here. And look, Phillips has just brought in the tea,” Regina said, her china-doll face looking truly sad and disappointed.
And when Jeffrey encouraged her to stay, Finnea didn’t know how to refuse. Perhaps she could win the woman over. A true lady would at least try.
Jeffrey left the house and headed for the waiting carriage. Just when he would have jumped inside, he heard his name called out. Looking up, he found Penelope hurrying toward him, wrapped in a fine ermine coat and matching hat.
“Jeffrey!”
“What are you doing out in this cold? And where is Nester?”
“I don’t know where Nester is, but I was just at Diana Greenway’s house and when I came out my carriage was nowhere to be seen. Do you mind terribly giving me a ride home?”
“No, of course not. You live on Marlborough Street, don’t you?”
“Why, yes, I do.”
Jeffrey gave quick instructions to the driver, then helped Penelope in, and they settled across from each other. She sat back and sighed, pulling her thick lapels of fur close around her body. “When will this horrid weather ever cease? I hate to think of the months we have left of piles of snow that will only get higher and dirtier.”
Jeffrey chuckled. “Finnea is just about at her wit’s end over this weather as well. I know she’ll be thrilled when spring comes so she can get out of the house more.”
“Finnea,” Penelope said, her tone questioning, “not able to get out? Surely you’re mistaken. She’s hardly ever at home.”
“That’s impossible! She is nearly always there when I call.”
“But you’re at the office most of the day.” She chuckled. “You men. Always thinking that women just sit at home when they aren’t with you.”
“Well, I… I guess I didn’t think. Perhaps she does get out on occasion.”
“More like every day. In fact”—she glanced down at her kid-gloved hands that lay politely in her lap before she glanced up at him—”I was under the impression that she has been visiting her friend Mr. Hawthorne most of the time.”
“Mr. Hawthorne?” he asked, his tone stiff. “Bradford Hawthorne?”
“Well, no. It’s Matthew Hawthorne she goes to see.”
Tension sizzled through the close confines of the carriage. “How do you know this?” he demanded.
She sniffed delicately into a fine lace handkerchief. “I’ve seen her myself. Mr. Hawthorne lives on Marlborough, a few doors down from me.”
“Why didn’t Nester tell me?”
“Actually, Nester doesn’t know.”
“You should have told him the instant you realized!”
“Then what would Nester think of me, telling on his sister like that.”
“He needs to be informed.”
“Perhaps, but why don’t we keep that to ourselves. No sense in getting everyone worked up. I’m sure if you have a little talk with Finnea the problem will be solved quickly enough.”
Phillips brought a tray of tea items into the parlor and placed them on the table next to Mrs. Upton. “So, you want to marry my son,” the older woman began without preamble.
Finnea studied Regina Upton and saw no malice. “Yes, I do. Your son is a wonderful man.”
“Yes, he is. I raised him to be a wonderful man. An important man. His father always had dreams that he would take his rightful place in society.”
“And he has. He is fine and upstanding.”
“Yes,” the woman said dryly, all signs of the giggling maiden gone. “But an upstanding man needs a genteel wife.”
Finnea felt her palms grow moist.
Regina made a great show of serving tea, pouring cream and sugar without bothering to ask, then handing Finnea a cup. Finnea concentrated on being as graceful as she could. But just when she took a sip, Mrs. Upton asked, “Do you think it at all possible that you could make my son a genteel wife?”
The tea was hot, burning Finnea’s tongue. Surprise as well as heat made her jerk back. She gasped as tea splashed down the front of her gown, staining the silk.
Regina raised a brow. “Are you always so graceful?”
Finnea fluttered with a napkin, trying to blot up the tea.
“Perhaps you’d like to go upstairs and tidy yourself,” the woman said.
Mortified, Finnea set the napkin aside. “Yes, thank you.”
The serving maid showed Finnea to the upper regions of the house. Regina watched her go. Seconds later, the front door opened and Jeffrey strode into the parlor.
“Where is Finnea?” he demanded.
“What is wrong, son? You look furious.”
He quickly searched the room, then looked at his mother hard. “You are avoiding the question. Did you run her off?”
“What if I did?” she asked with a pout.
He strode into the room with demanding steps. “Damn it, Mother, how could you?”
“Who said I did anything! She is an odd one, Jeffrey. I deserve better.” She smoothed her skirt. “You deserve better.”
Jeffrey held his patience, but barely, the reason he had returned momentarily forgotten. “That odd one is part owner of the company I work for, as well you know. And when I marry her, I’ll gain control of her shares.”
“As a member of the board of directors and vice president of Winslet Ironworks you already have control of those shares. You told me so yourself!”
“Not for long. If Finnea is not engaged by the end of this day, the control of her shares shifts to Nester.”
“What?” Regina demanded.
“It’s true. William Winslet sent a copy of his new will to America just before he died.”
Jeffrey leaned forward, his gaze intense and unrelenting. “This is my chance. I’ve been at Nester’s beck and call for the last three years. I ran this business when no one else cared. William only cared about Africa. Nester was too young. I made Winslet Ironworks what it is today. And by marrying Finnea, I’ll no longer have to kowtow to the blasted man.”
Regina’s knotted fingers fidgeted with her handkerchief. “Then you don’t love her?” she whispered like a simpering belle.
“Love her? Who could love her with her outlandish ways? But I want her! I want to marry her. In fact, I think you should send a note over to her house this instant to apologize for whatever you said to run her off.”
“She didn’t run me off, Jeffrey. I’m right here.”