Duke of a Gilded Age Read online

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  Duke of a Gilded Age

  S.G. Rogers

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  Idunn Court Publishing

  Copyright Information

  Duke of a Gilded Age, Copyright © S.G. Rogers, 2013

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

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  This book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.

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  Idunn Court Publishing

  7 Ramshorn Court

  Savannah, GA 31411

  Published by Idunn Court Publishing, June 2013

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  This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this book can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.

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  Editor: Kathryn Riley Miller

  Cover Design: Lex Valentine

  Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my mother,

  Carolyn Scott Rogers,

  who always supported me…and taught me how to be a lady.

  Chapter One

  The Tenth Duke of Mansbury

  June, 1890—England

  THE ELDERLY HOUSEKEEPER escorted Mr. Oakhurst through Caisteal Park’s imposing entryway, past a walnut staircase with elaborately carved banisters, and down a wide corridor.

  “I’ve heard your daughter is to be congratulated on her recent engagement,” she said.

  “Ah, yes. Thank you, Mrs. Blount.” Mr. Oakhurst’s tone and somewhat grim expression revealed his feelings.

  “You’re not happy with the gentleman?”

  “To all outward appearances, Sir Errol seems a respectable sort, but he’s new to Mansbury and nobody knows him well.” Mr. Oakhurst shook his head. “I fear Annabelle has rushed into this engagement too quickly.”

  “Perhaps a change of scenery would do her good,” Mrs. Blount said.

  “That’s not a bad idea. An extended stay with my sister in London may give her a fresh perspective.”

  “London may not be far enough.”

  Just outside the paneled double doors, the housekeeper hesitated. “I’m sorry about the warmth inside the library, Mr. Oakhurst, but His Grace frequently feels chilled these days. He insists on having the fireplace lit, even though it’s June.”

  “I’ll manage, Mrs. Blount.”

  “His Grace has been in one of his moods,” she said, low. “The poor man wouldn’t eat anything yesterday or this morning.”

  “Did you send for a surgeon?”

  “His Grace wouldn’t let me. Perhaps you can make him see reason?”

  Mr. Oakhurst tapped his leather satchel. “I’m his solicitor, not a miracle worker. Nevertheless, I’ll do my best, Mrs. Blount.”

  The housekeeper pushed open the doors to the library. Septimus Parker, the tenth Duke of Mansbury, sat in front of a tall marble fireplace, facing the dying embers of a fire. An enormous oil painting was hung over the mantle, depicting the late ninth Duke of Mansbury, his now-deceased wife, and his two children, Septimus and Frederic Parker. In the portrait, Septimus was nearly a grown man and his younger brother was a baby.

  Mrs. Blount cleared her throat. “Mr. Oakhurst is here to see you, Your Grace.”

  When the duke made no indication he’d heard, the housekeeper exchanged a worried glance with Mr. Oakhurst.

  “Er…just ring for tea when you’re ready,” she murmured before disappearing down the hall.

  Mr. Oakhurst glanced up at the portrait as he approached his employer. The age difference between the two sons depicted therein never ceased to impress him. It wasn’t surprising, really, that Septimus and Frederic Parker had never been close.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” he said. “I’ve good news. I managed to trace your brother to America, where…oh, dear.”

  Shocked, Mr. Oakhurst sank onto the leather-covered footstool. From the blue pallor of his countenance and the stiffness of his posture, it appeared Septimus Parker had long since passed away.

  The ocean breeze, full of promise, whipped the ribbons on Belle’s straw hat to and fro. Beaming with excitement, she stood at the ship’s railing as the ocean liner sailed into the port of New York City. Although the transatlantic crossing had taken a little over a week, more than one passenger was on deck, eager for the journey’s end. All eyes were trained on the rapidly approaching landmark situated on Bedloe’s Island in New York Harbor. The graceful lines and dull copper color of the Statue of Liberty, dedicated a scant four years ago, was spectacular against the azure August sky.

  Her father joined her just then. “Now that is a pretty sight.”

  “Why, Lady Liberty is taller than Saint Mary-le-Bow Church in London!” Belle exclaimed. “She’s simply marvelous, isn’t she? Very inspirational.”

  “Indeed she is.”

  The tide was cooperative and their vessel sailed up the North River, amidst yachts, fishing boats, and steamships of all sizes. The skyline of Manhattan struck Belle as beautiful.

  “So many lovely buildings, don’t you think, Papa?” she asked.

  Mr. Oakhurst pointed. “That spire is the Trinity Church, and it’s the tallest structure in the city at the moment. But when the World Building is completed, it will be the tallest.”

  “Is that the domed one a little farther north? Why it’s touching the heavens!” She giggled. “Will clouds will ever get caught around the top, I wonder?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. And I expect very soon someone else will build something even taller. There’s a competitive spirit in this Gilded Age of America.”

  Belle gave her father’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Oh, Papa, I can’t believe we’re here at last. Thank you for allowing me to sail with you. I know you paid for my ticket out of your own pocket.”

  The attorney favored her with an indulgent smile. “I could hardly leave you home alone and unprotected while I sailed to America and back. The lovesick Sir Errol might have induced you to elope in my absence.”

  “Papa, Errol is a hopeless romantic who would never ask me to do anything so improper! He even gave me a packet of seven different love poems before I left, to open each morning at sea.” Belle sighed. “I wish he were here.”

  “I’m glad he isn’t.”

  She gave him a startled glance. “You don’t like him?”

  “It’s not that, Annabelle. My only concern is for your happiness.”

  “Errol makes me happy.”

  “How well can you know the man in a few short weeks? My dear, I worry you haven’t had the chance to meet many gentlemen. It’s my own fault, of course, for having chosen to be a solicitor and not a barrister. Then you could have been presented at court and moved in society like your mother did.”

  “The distinction between solicitors and barristers is completely unfair, in my opinion. Why should you be barred from the gentry class just because you get paid directly for your services, while barristers get paid through solicitors?”

  “Because payments to barristers are considered gifts. Fair or no, I’m considered to be ‘in trade’ and there’s nothi
ng to be done about it. Your mother married down when she married me, perhaps, but she married for love. We were very contented, and I’d like to see you similarly situated.”

  “Don’t concern yourself, Papa! If you’d been a barrister, you would have spent all your time away in London, pleading cases in court. Besides which, Errol is everything I desire in a husband. He’s high-minded, sophisticated, mannerly, has exceptional taste, and is in possession of a title. Furthermore, I met the Duke of Mansbury on several occasions. If he represents the Upper Tens of society, I’m content with far less.”

  “Septimus Parker was eccentric, and it’s sad, really, that he died alone. I regret I couldn’t locate his brother sooner.”

  “The Duke of Mansbury drove his only brother across the Atlantic Ocean with his ungenerous and spiteful nature, so it was his own doing!” She paused. “I suppose I should thank him, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His disagreeable disposition has resulted in an unusual adventure of which few could boast.”

  “Do you mean our quest to locate the eleventh Duke of Mansbury?”

  “Indeed I do, and a nobler cause was never undertaken.” Belle’s tone was serious but she ended her sentence with a wink.

  “That is so.”

  “Will Lord Frederic sail with us on our return voyage?”

  “I think we may dispense with his courtesy title now and call him His Grace. To answer your question, I can’t say for certain, since he didn’t respond to my cables. He and Lady Frederic may have extensive property to dispose of and therefore I can’t predict when he will finally take up residence at Caisteal Park. It’s quite possible you and I may sail back to England alone.”

  “I wouldn’t mind that in the least. I expect we’ll find the new Duke of Mansbury just as disagreeable as his elder brother.”

  Wesley leaned against a wooden pillar inside the tiny garden apartment, waiting for his mother to finish tying string around a large paper-wrapped bundle. She gave him a disapproving glance.

  “You shouldn’t slouch, Wesley.” Lady Frederic’s cultivated English accent was at odds with her inelegant surroundings.

  “If I don’t slouch, I end up hitting my head on the pipes.”

  “It’s your own fault for growing so tall.”

  “I can’t help it!”

  Lady Frederic flicked Wesley a teasing glance. “I’m not serious! Any mother would be proud to have such a tall, strapping son. You may have just turned twenty years old, but to me you’ll always be my little boy.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I think I’ve stopped growing.”

  “I certainly hope so, since I’ve let the hems out of all your father’s pants as far as I can.” She tied a bow in the string and gave the bundle a pat. “Deliver this to Mrs. Zinna, and don’t forget to collect for the week.”

  “All right.”

  Wesley tucked the bundle under his arm. The movement revealed an inch of bare, rawboned wrist sticking out past the frayed cuff of his shirt. His mother frowned.

  “Oh, dear. While you’re gone, I’ll see if I can find you a shirt with longer sleeves,” she said. “I’d like you to look presentable for our guest.”

  “So why is this English lawyer coming to see us? Is it just because Uncle Scrooge kicked off?” he asked.

  “His name was Septimus and that’s completely disrespectful!”

  Wesley’s shoulders moved up and down in a shrug. “Father disliked him and therefore so will I. Nevertheless, I hope he left us some money.”

  “Most assuredly his estate went to his own son. But perhaps he left your father an heirloom.”

  “An heirloom?” Wesley wrinkled his nose. “I hope it’s something we can sell or trade for food.” He headed for the door.

  “Be sure to stop by Lombardi’s on the way home to buy a tin of biscuits.”

  Wesley paused. “We can’t afford biscuits, can we?”

  “I’ll just have to economize somehow. Mr. Oakhurst will expect a certain level of gentility.”

  Wesley surveyed the apartment. “Then he’s coming to the wrong place.”

  His mother bit her lip and tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m doing the best I can.”

  Shame washed over Wesley and he hung his head. “I’m sorry, Mother. Look, the other day I ran into George Halverson, the supervisor at Palmer’s Dock. He was impressed with the muscle I’ve put on from slinging bags of rice and flour at Lombardi’s, and told me I could start working for him on Monday if I wanted to.”

  “No, you won’t!”

  “It would only be temporary until I begin my teaching job this fall. It pays far better than delivering groceries for Lombardi’s and you wouldn’t have to take in laundry anymore. Maybe we could even move to a better apartment.”

  “How could you even think of working at Palmer’s Dock after what happened to your father there? I forbid it.”

  Wesley scowled. “Fine, but you deserve better than this.” He twirled the bundle in the air. “I’ll be back with the biscuits.”

  “Don’t dawdle. Mr. Oakhurst’s last telegram said he’d arrive by two o’clock.”

  At the door, Wesley grabbed a cloth cap from a hook and slipped it over his thick brown curls. “I hope this lawyer fellow has a solid gold candle snuffer with him and not the family Bible.”

  “Oh, Wesley!”

  Unrepentant, he left the flat and mounted the short flight of stairs from the garden apartment to the sidewalk. The coal delivery cart was rolling past, and Wesley waved to the driver. “Ciao, Gino. Come stai?”

  “Non mi posso lamentare, Wes.”

  Wesley grinned. “Buono! Arrivederci.”

  After the cart passed, Wesley crossed the street, careful to avoid the fresh trail of manure left by Gino’s team of horses. Mrs. Zinna’s flat was a few blocks over, in Bensonhurst. As he walked through the neighborhood, he noticed a group of Irish boys—former friends—clustered on the sidewalk, playing jackstones. Wesley groaned inwardly. Today of all days, he couldn’t afford a fight. Unfortunately, he’d already been spotted.

  “Whatcha got there, Wes? More dirty knickers for your mummy?” sneered a stocky redhead.

  “I’d love to exchange insults with you, Liam, but I’m busy,” Wesley retorted.

  As Wesley turned a corner, he glanced back. Blast! The Irish had abandoned their game and were tailing him. He quickened his pace, and sped over to the next street, where a gang of Italian boys was playing kick the can. Wesley nodded to one of his old classmates.

  “Ciao, Sergio.”

  Sergio grinned. “Ciao.”

  When Wesley’s pursuers spotted the Italians, they dropped back into an alley. Wesley laughed and strolled unmolested the rest of the way to Mrs. Zinna’s apartment building. He dropped off his bundle and collected money for the past week, but when he stepped onto the street a few minutes later the Irish were waiting for him.

  “Thought you’d give us the slip, eh?” Liam said. “Where’s your silver spoon, pretty boy?”

  Wesley’s hackles rose, and he assumed a cocky swagger. “How’s that sister of yours, Liam? I hear she’s lonely for me.”

  “Shut your filthy mouth about my sister! Why would Colleen be lonely for the likes of wee Lord Fauntleroy?” sneered Liam. He knocked Wesley’s cap off his head and into the gutter.

  Wesley’s knuckles showed white. “Don’t ever call me that again.” He decked Liam with a wide right hook and turned to face the others.

  One down, four to go.

  The hansom cab rolled to a halt outside a rundown building on a dirty street. Mr. Oakhurst consulted his pocket watch. “It’s already ten minutes past two o’clock! I had no idea it would take so long to get from Manhattan to Brooklyn.”

  “This can’t be the correct address,” Belle murmured, aghast.

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  Belle stepped from the cab onto the sidewalk while her father asked the driver to wait. When Mr. Oakhurst moved toward the apartment b
uilding entrance, she caught his arm.

  “I believe it’s down there, Papa,” she said, pointing to a descending stone staircase.

  He peered at the number plate affixed to the wall. “I think you’re right.”

  Mr. Oakhurst followed his daughter down the steps. Before he could knock at the door, however, a woman opened it. Her worn black cotton gown hung off her rail-thin frame, and her hands were reddened and chapped.

  “Good afternoon. You must be Mr. Oakhurst,” she said.

  The woman’s unadorned dress, severe hairstyle, and work-worn hands were those of a housekeeper. Mr. Oakhurst handed her his business card.

  “Mr. Oakhurst and Miss Oakhurst are here to see Lord Frederic Parker. Is he at home, madam?”

  A faint blush stained the woman’s cheeks. “I’m Lady Frederic. Please come in.”

  Belle’s eyes widened, despite her effort to mask her surprise. She curtsied nevertheless, and stepped into the stifling hot apartment. The odor of detergent and starch assailed her nostrils and perspiration prickled at the back of her neck.

  “Please be seated,” Lady Frederic said. “Would you care for some tea?”

  Belle couldn’t think of anything she wanted less than a cup of hot tea. “No, milady,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, no,” Mr. Oakhurst said. “Forgive me, but could you tell me when your husband will return? I’ve come a long way to discuss a matter of urgent business with him.”

  Lady Frederic sank onto a rickety chair. “I couldn’t afford to send a cable overseas, Mr. Oakhurst. I’m afraid I have bad news.”

  She handed the attorney an official-looking piece of paper. As he read it, a gasp escaped his lips. “This is a death certificate!”

  “Yes, my husband was killed in an accident several years ago.”

  “How very dreadful for you!” Belle exclaimed.

  “I’m so sorry, milady,” Mr. Oakhurst said.

  “Thank you. His loss has been quite difficult to bear.”

  “I understand. I lost my wife—Belle’s mother—going on five years now.”