Journey to Victory, page 41
“Flattering as always.” Her mother smiled and shook her head at him.
“Not at all, my dear,” Mrs. Washington put in. “John, good evening.”
“My lady,” John replied as he bent over her hand. “Thank you for having us tonight.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t be a celebration if we didn’t have our dear friends with us,” the president’s wife said.
“Yes, Christiane,” Washington said. “I was just thinking this evening of the little party we had at Valley Forge on New Year’s Eve. Do you remember it?”
“Yes, Mr. President, that was the year—” Christiane stopped suddenly. Then she said quickly, “Our circumstances are certainly different tonight.”
“Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Washington picked up the thread.
Sarah tried to appear as though she had not understood her mother’s slip. President Washington had innocently touched the topic that her family had avoided all fall, the fact of Sarah’s illegitimate birth.
Fifteen years ago at Valley Forge her mother had been expecting her while in Philadelphia her father had served with the British army. Didn’t they think she could figure it out herself? After the ill-fated day this had become public knowledge, her father had explained patiently to her that she became legitimate when he and her mother had finally married. He seemed to think that made everything all right. Her fingers turned white and cold as she tightened her grip on her beaded reticule.
After Christiane promised President Washington a dance of his choosing, they made their way down the line. Sarah wondered if it were her imagination that the greetings they received after the Washingtons’ were perfunctory in the extreme. But no one dared to snub those welcomed by the Washingtons.
Then Sarah saw Hester across the room and smiled. Her friend was talking to a few acquaintances of theirs from the finishing school Sarah had been expelled from after last fall’s scandal. Sarah still burned with resentment toward her parents because she’d found out the truth in the most public and most painful way—in front of a crowd. And the young man she’d begun to care for had witnessed her public humiliation.
Now for a fraction of a second Sarah had the awful premonition that Hester might snub her. But Hester, dressed in a pink, frilled gown, caught Sarah’s glance, made a quick apology, and moved elegantly but swiftly to her side.
“Sarah,” Hester breathed and then she greeted Sarah’s parents.
“You young ladies don’t want to be troubled with parents tonight,” her father said with forced gaiety. “Go on and join your friends.”
Sarah, still feeling uncertain, allowed Hester to lead her away. They paused at the edge of the ballroom near two tall potted plants. Not yet sixteen and “out,” they were still more observers then participants here. Hester touched her friend’s arm in a delicate gesture she had obviously practiced well. “Eliot will be here tonight.”
“Eliot Farraday?” Sarah said, her lips brittle. This is what she’d hoped for yet dreaded.
“Of course, and he will speak to you.”
Sarah was lifted up and terrified at the same time. “How could you—”
“His cousin Lavinia told me. He thinks the scan—”
Sarah felt her face grow tighter.
“Anyway,” Hester went on, “he will speak to you.”
“Well, he needn’t do me any favors.”
“Oh, don’t be so difficult. You want him to, don’t you?”
“We will see,” Sarah replied calmly, but her pulse skipped a beat.
The two girls joined the rest of Miss Harper’s young ladies that had been fortunate enough to be invited. Sarah exchanged civil greetings with each of her former classmates. She also noted the schoolmistress across the room glaring at her. Feeling acutely out of place, she averted her eyes and listened to the other girls chatter politely.
“There’s Eliot,” Hester whispered in Sarah’s ear. “He’s being received.”
Without turning her head, Sarah cast her gaze toward the receiving line. She saw him. The top of the young man’s head came up to the president’s chin. His wavy black hair was pulled into a sedate club at the back of his neck. He was wearing a well-tailored suit of brown. For a moment Sarah let her eyes focus on the smooth line of his spine, and she almost stopped breathing.
“Students, please come with me. You need to visit the powder room,” Miss Harper said, startling Sarah. The three discomfited girls and Hester trailed after their guardian like chicks following a hen.
Sarah’s face burned. The spinster’s message had been clear: they should not be socializing with Sarah Eastham. The nearby dancers walked through another minuet. Eliot Farraday was partnering his mother.
***
Glancing over at the grandfather clock, Sarah saw that midnight was nearing. In a way it would be a relief since then the tension of this pins-and-needles evening would be nearly over. In another way, she hated for the party to end. How long would it be till she were invited to another? She realized she needed a few minutes away from the suffocating presence of so many disapproving faces. She was well acquainted with the mansion and found her way down the hall to an alcove with a window seat. For a few seconds she hid amid the bouffant sheers of the bay window. The candle sconce glimmered against the ivory wall across from her.
“Miss Eastham, good evening.” The sound of Eliot Farraday’s subdued voice raced through her, making the hair on the back of her neck prickle.
She turned and curtseyed automatically. “Mr. Farraday.”
He kissed her hand, but did not release it. “I have been hoping for an opportunity to speak to you this evening—privately.”
She stiffened at his last word.
“Not because I hesitate to show my admiration of you to all,” he hurried to say.
The moonlight on the cold, clear night poured over them. His handsome face was so close—winged eyebrows, strong chin, and luminous eyes. She could hear him breathing, and his larger hand still gripped hers, making her feel small and so feminine.
He continued, “But because I wished for a few moments with you—alone.”
Again his last word affected her. Abruptly she sat down, pulling her hand from his.
“I hope I have said nothing amiss.”
“No, of course not. Please sit,” Sarah said, taking herself in hand. “I was merely startled.”
“Certainly.” There was a pause while he pulled up his coat tails and sat.
Sarah was grateful for their isolation and dimness of the light. She could feel herself blushing.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Eastham, I feel so much the slight shown to you by Miss Harper. I feel it especially, since I am responsible, I fear.”
“Responsible?”
“Yes. You see, I don’t know if you noticed, but I often visited my cousin Lavinia at Miss Harper’s home.”
“Yes.”
“Well, after that day in New Jersey when...” His voice faltered as he referred to the day the scandal had begun. He began again stronger, “My mother said that she thought perhaps she ought to remove Lavinia from Miss Harper’s because of you. I am afraid I allowed myself to become a bit heated in my response. I let her know of my admiration for you and how unjust it was for you to be held accountable for something that happened so long ago—and especially in a time of war.”
“Oh?” She touched her neckline and, under her hand, she felt her heart pounding.
“In any case, it had just the opposite effect I wished for. I fear my mother stirred some of the other mothers, and you know the outcome.”
She sighed in reply.
“Miss Eastham, I am sincerely sorry. I wish to make a further confession, if you will permit me?”
“If you wish,” she whispered, short of breath.
“I did not visit Miss Harper’s to see my cousin. I came to see you.”
Now Sarah could not breathe at all. Without thinking, she touched his arm, as though to reassure herself that he was really next to her.
Eagerly he clasped his hand over her frozen fingers. “I have watched you all evening. Your proud chin has not dipped, even though your so-called friends deserted you.” With his other hand he lifted her chin. “You are a noble woman in the finest sense of the word.”
Sarah inhaled suddenly.
“And I have a favor to ask of you.”
“What?” she murmured, smiling at him in the moonlight and candle glow.
Still grasping her fingers, he stood up. “Miss Eastham, will you please grant me the last dance of 1793?”
Sarah’s lips opened in amazement. She was hardly able to believe her ears. He wanted to dance with her. But she had not come out yet. It was not done. But what did that matter? She was already ostracized. “Yes, I will dance with you.”
“Miss Eastham,” he responded in a rush, “you are wonderful. Come quickly. It has already begun.”
Hand-in-hand, they swept toward the music. Sarah flushed with excitement. They entered the hall and Eliot took her in his arms. As they danced, Sarah ignored the disapproving expressions around them. She was only conscious of his deep-blue eyes on her, his hand at the small of her back, the exciting, almost risqué music of the Viennese waltz. The glowing candelabras and sconces seemed to twirl by her, though she was moving, not they. Then the music ended, and church bells all around the mansion began tolling, chiming.
Still in a haze, Sarah curtseyed deeply and Eliot bent over her hand, his eyes glowing. “Thank you, Miss Eastham. Happy New Year.”
“And you, Mr. Farraday,” she replied with her whole heart. Around them there were many hurrahs, some kissing, and the singing of “Auld Lang Syne.” Eliot and Sarah remained frozen, in tableau, till finally Sarah remembered herself and rose. Still holding hands, they stood quietly amid the frivolity. Her parents were moving through the others toward her.
Then disapproving and thin-lipped Miss Harper was beside them. “Mr. Farraday, your mother is ill and needs you to escort her home.”
Eliot looked stricken with acute embarrassment, but gave the correct reply and excused himself. Sarah was alone, hollow and humiliated. She had taken the chance and would now suffer the consequences. Mrs. Farraday was not her friend.
Chapter One
Three years later
December 24, 1796
New Jersey
Sitting alone in her parents’ rear parlor on this bleak afternoon, Sarah suddenly felt buried alive. She cast her uninteresting book aside and drew in air. She’d seen no one but family for months now. The December gloom swallowed her up, and she gripped the arms of her chair, holding in all the despair that clamored to be released.
The holiday season always brought memories of New Year’s Eve three years ago, the last time she’d seen Eliot Farraday who’d been sent off to sea to keep him from her. Those memories in turn dragged back to mind the repercussions from that night and, finally, the subsequent foolish and disastrous decision she’d made to run away and start a new life in England by eloping and marrying Gerald Frathing, a man who had wanted only her grandfather’s inheritance. If I hadn’t been just a foolish girl, none of this—
The butler entered with the mail on a silver plate. She composed herself and thanked him, and he left her again alone. She shuffled through the few missives. One letter caused her a jolt. Moving to her mother’s secretary in the corner, she inserted the cool silver opener at the wax seal. And then stopped.
She studied the worn, creased, and smudged letter which had traveled across the Atlantic from their London solicitor. The last letter from that office had warned her of her husband’s duplicity. She’d thought she could leave the knowledge of her unwise marriage and her subsequent divorce behind her in England. For a price her former husband had agreed not to broadcast the news of their divorce. But Gerald had made sure the scandal followed her home. He’d reneged and sent the announcement of their divorce to several American newspapers which because of her family’s connection with the Washingtons had gleefully published the news. The subsequent scandal had cast her into the murky shadow outside of society. Could she expect good news from this letter sent from the same law office?
She steeled herself, gripping the silver opener. Yet she could not bring herself to open it, here alone in this empty house in the scant daylight. Her parents were delivering baskets of holiday food and gifts to the needy, and it would be hours or more before they returned.
No, she couldn’t face more bad news from London alone. And she couldn’t stay here another moment with her upsetting fears and memories. Her brother Jean Claude should be home, and in his sympathetic presence she could bear to open this letter which must have something to do with her former husband.
After tucking the letter into the hidden pocket of her simple blue dress, she went quickly to the back hall where her heavy gray wool shawl, lined bonnet, and matching woolen gloves were kept. She slipped off the elegant slippers she wore inside and slid her feet into fleece-lined wooden clogs.
She hurried down the frozen lane and then the road to the neighboring farm that had belonged to the Richardsons, a Quaker couple who had been like grandparents to her. They were gone now, and her brother and his wife had inherited the property.
When she reached the house—one of the few where she still felt welcome—she found no one home. Bereft, she stood in the kitchen, gazing at the plain furnishings, smelling the scent of dried apples, feeling the pressure of the letter in her pocket, the gray emptiness closing in on her. She turned and fled.
The cutting December wind swooped around the corner of the house and nearly snatched her breath away. She hurried out onto the road, heading for home like a swimmer heading for the shore.
Then she saw a man walking briskly toward her. Something about him struck her as familiar. “Good day?” Sarah called.
“Bonjour, madame,” he replied with evident holiday spirit, and in a voice she recognized.
“Your Grace!” Sarah greeted Louis Phillipe, Duc de Orleans.
“Yes, madame, it is I.” A somewhat portly man of medium height, only a few years older than she, he wore a thick, navy-blue great coat, a white muffler, and a fashionable beaver hat.
She was delighted to see him. The previous dreadful letter from England had coincided with their first meeting and, in the painful weeks that had passed since, his kind note, sent soon after, had meant so much to her. In this man she’d found a friend. She hurried toward him. “But where are you bound, sir?”
“To your home.”
“My home?”
“Yes, your parents invited me to spend the holidays with your family.”
Thinking she should have expected her mother to issue this invitation, Sarah merely nodded, tucked in her chin against the wind, and started walking beside him over the packed snow.
“When I received the invitation, I was unable to communicate my acceptance. But I have been able to come after all. I hope I am still welcome,” he said.
“Certainly.” Since the announcement of her divorce, she had avoided all but the closest friends and family, not wishing to experience again the humiliation inflicted on her during this man’s last visit to her parents. Perhaps that was why her mother had not mentioned inviting him.
Sarah was heartened by learning that he would be their guest. So many guests that usually came during the holidays would not be coming this year, because her parents had not invited them. This was their way of protecting her and, at the same time, not causing their prominent friends distress over refusing their usual invitations, all because of her blackened reputation. It was so unjust. She’d been duped and society expected her to just remain with the man who had taken advantage of her. No. The letter in her pocket nudged her, insistent.
“I’m sure my mother would have sent a carriage for you,” she said, picking up the thread of the conversation.
“I know she would, but I was able to secure transport myself nearby. I will walk the last few miles from the coach stop myself. And I find you as my companion, a pleasant boon.”
In spite of her heavy mood, Sarah smiled at the incongruity of a man who just a few short years ago was an heir to the French throne now walking to her mother’s house.
“I see your smile,” he said jovially. “You laugh to see a duke out walking. Dukes are not supposed to walk on a common lane.”
She blushed warmly and turned her face. “I’m sorry.”
“Do not apologize. I laugh myself, I enjoy to walk freely here. In Paris I am not permitted to walk the everyday streets. In New York I walk at will. The Revolution succeeds! I am liberated!”
Considering all this man had endured—fleeing the overthrow of the French monarchy and the guillotine that had claimed his father’s life, Sarah pushed away her doubts about her own future. She turned back to him. “How is your career as French tutor proceeding?”
“Excellently. Your mother has suggested many fine contacts for me. I am quite busy, enjoying myself and living comfortably in New York City.”
“Good. I am glad.”
“And I am glad of your mother’s invitation to spend Christmas with your family. I had others, but they merely wished to show me off like a prize lap dog. ‘See the tame heir to a vanquished throne.’ Your mother invited me out of friendship or, should I say, kinship?”
“Oh!” His frankness startled her. She slipped on the snow and he caught her arm and steadied her.
“Yes, do not worry. I will not reveal our tenuous family connection. A Federalist family with such a Gallic royal tie! It would be much more appropriate to a Jeffersonian family.”
Sarah smiled ruefully. Only family knew that her great-grandmother had been a courtesan at the royal court at Versailles. Sarah’s grandmother had been the fruit of that liaison, so the two families were distantly related by blood. “I see, you are in a devil-may-care mood today, aren’t you?”
“I am. It must be the anticipation of a week’s holiday. Yet there is something I must settle with you.”
“Yes?” She avoided a patch of ice.
“You use my title, but you also are titled. Lady Sarah, the granddaughter of an earl.”
