He knew that Paula was often uncomfortable in their new circumstances, that she would have preferred to live in a small country cottage with only a cook-maid to serve her. However, he wanted her to live like a queen, and he would not allow anything less.
“You have something to say, Mother,” he remarked, swirling the port in his glass. He sent her a quick, halfsided smile. “I can see it in your face. Do you have another lecture to offer about my fighting?”
“It's not about fighting,” Paula said, curling her workworn hands around the steaming teacup. Her gentle brown eyes surveyed him with both affection and admonition. “You're a good son, Zach, in spite of your wild ways. You have a good heart, and so I've held my tongue when you've kept company with whores and ne'er-do-wells, and when you've done things that you haven't even the sense to be ashamed of. But there is something I cannot be silent about, and I want you to mark every word I say.”
He adopted an expression of mock alarm and waited for her to continue.
“It's about Lady Holly.”
“What about her?” he asked warily.
Paula sighed tensely. “You will never have that woman, Zach. You must find a way to put all thoughts of her out of your head, or you'll bring her to ruin.”
Zachary forced himself to laugh, though the sound was hollow. His mother might not be educated or polished, but she was an intelligent woman, and he couldn't dismiss her words easily. “I have no intention of bringing her to ruin. I've never touched her.”
“A mother knows her son,” Paula insisted. “I see how you are with her. You can hide it from the world, but not from me. Zach, it's not right. You're not meant to be with her any more than a…a donkey should mate with a Thoroughbred.”
“I gather I'm the donkey,” Zachary muttered dryly. “Well, in light of your sudden talkative mood, tell me why you've never raised any objections before when I've spoken of wanting to marry a well-born bride.”
“You can have a well-born bride, if that's what you want. But Lady Holly isn't the one for you.”
“What's your objection to her?”
Paula considered her words with great care. “There's a streak of hardness inside you and me and even Lizzie—and thank God for it. It's the only reason we survived those years in the East End. But Lady Holly is soft all the way through. And if she marries again, she needs a man who is soft, too. A real gentleman, like her husband was. You'll never be like that. Now, I've seen a few titled women that I've thought would suit you well enough. Take one of those, and leave Lady Holly be.”
“You don't like her?” Zachary asked quietly.
“Don't like her?” Paula repeated, staring at him in surprise. “Of course I like her. She's the most gracious, kind creature I've ever known. Maybe the one true lady I've ever met. It's because I like her so well that I'm saying these things to you.”
In the silence that ensued, Zachary applied himself to finishing his port. The truth in his mother's comments was undeniable. He was tempted to argue the case with her, but that would force him to voice things he hadn't yet dared to acknowledge even to himself. So he gave her a brief, wordless nod, a bitter recognition that she was most likely right.
“Oh, Zach,” Paula murmured compassionately. “Be happy with what you have. Can't you learn how to do that?”
“Apparently not,” he muttered grimly.
“There must be a word for men like you, who reach too high…but I don't know what it is.”
Zachary smiled at her then, despite the leaden weight in his chest. “I don't, either, Mother. But I have a word to apply to you.”
“What is that?” she asked suspiciously, waggling a warning finger at him.
Standing and crossing the distance between them, Zachary bent to kiss the top of her graying head. “Wise,” he murmured.
“Then you'll heed my advice and forget about Lady Holly?”
“I'd be a fool not to, wouldn't I?”
“Does that mean ‘yes’?” Paula persisted, but he laughed and left the room without replying.
Ten
In the weeks that followed the episode of megrims, Holly became aware of some changes in the Bronson household. The most obvious difference was the attitude of the servants. Although their service had formerly been sloppy, inconsistent and indifferent, it seemed that they had begun to take a sort of collective pride in their work. Perhaps the result of Holly's discreet education of the Bronsons on what to expect from their hired help.
“I understand your reluctance, Mrs. Bronson,” Holly had murmured one afternoon, when the maids had brought a tea tray containing a pot of lukewarm water, a jug of offscented milk and stale cakes. “However, you must send it back. There is nothing wrong in refusing unacceptable fare.”
“They do so much work already,” Paula protested, already fussing with the tea service as if she fully intended to make do with it. “I can't put them to more trouble, and this isn't so bad, really.”
“It's terrible,” Holly insisted, smothering a frustrated laugh.
“You send it back,” Paula implored.
“Mrs. Bronson, you must learn to manage your own servants.”
“I can't.” Paula surprised Holly by catching at her hand and holding it tightly. “I used to be a rag-seller,” she whispered. “Lower than the lowest scullery maid who works in the kitchen downstairs. And they all know it. How can I give them orders?”
Holly regarded her thoughtfully, feeling a surge of compassion as she finally understood the source of the woman's timidity toward everyone outside the immediate family. Paula Bronson had lived in wretched poverty for so long that she did not feel worthy of the circumstances she now found herself in. The fine house with its rare tapestries and artwork, the elegant clothes she wore, the lavish meals and expensive wines, only served to remind Paula of her humble beginnings. Yet there was no way for her to go back. Zachary had raised his family to a level of wealth far beyond anything Paula had expected or imagined. It was imperative that Paula learn to change along with her circumstances, or she would never find any comfort or happiness in her new life.
“You're no longer a rag-seller,” Holly said in a purposeful voice. “You're a woman of means. You're Mr. Zachary Bronson's mother. You brought two remarkable children into the world and reared them with no help from anyone, and anyone with their wits intact will admire your accomplishment.” She returned Paula's grip with a strong one of her own. “Insist on receiving the respect you deserve,” she said, staring directly into the woman's troubled brown eyes, “especially from your own servants. Along this vein, there are many other things I intend to discuss with you, but for now…” She paused and tried to think of a curse word to give her statement emphasis. “Send the damn tray back!”
Paula's eyes rounded, and she put a hand to her mouth to smother a bubbling laugh. “Lady Holly, I've never heard you swear before.”
Holly smiled back at her. “If I can make myself swear, then you can surely ring for the maids and ask for a proper tea.”
Paula squared her shoulders in determination. “All right, I'll do it!” She hurried to the bellpull before she changed her mind.
In an effort to further improve the relations between the Bronsons and their servants, Holly arranged for a brief daily meeting with the housekeeper, Mrs. Burney. She insisted that Paula and Elizabeth be present, although both were reluctant to do so. Paula was still excruciatingly shy about giving directions to Mrs. Burney, and Elizabeth had little interest in domestic matters. However, they had to learn. “The business of household management is something every lady must attend to,” Holly instructed the two. “Every morning you must meet with Mrs. Burney and review the menus for the day, discuss what special chores the servants must perform, such as cleaning carpets or polishing the silver. Most importantly, you must go over the household accounts, make entries and arrange for necessary purchases.”
“I thought Mrs. Burney was supposed to handle all that.” Elizabeth looked disgruntled at the idea of deali
ng with such tedious business on a daily basis.
“No, you are,” Holly said, smiling. “And you may as well practice along with your mother, because someday you will have your own household to manage.”
To the Bronson women's amazement, their efforts were rewarded with far better service than they had been accustomed to. Although Paula was still clearly uncomfortable with giving directions to the servants, her skills were improving, and her confidence along with them.
The other significant change in the household routine was the behavior of its master. Gradually Holly realized that Zachary Bronson was no longer prowling back and forth to London every evening in search of revelry. While she wouldn't have ventured so far as to suggest that he had reformed, Bronson did seem quieter, calmer, a bit less callous and coarse. There were no further wicked dark glances or provocative discussions, no more near-kisses or disconcerting compliments. During their lessons, Bronson was sober and respectful as he applied himself to what she had to teach. He behaved perfectly even when they continued their dance lessons. And to Holly's dismay, Bronson-the-aspiring-gentleman had an appeal for her that went far beyond the pull that Bronson-the-rogue had exerted. She now saw many of the things he had kept hidden behind his sardonic, cynical facade, and she began to admire him more than she had ever dreamed possible.
He had a passionate interest in helping the poor, not merely by making charitable donations, but by increasing their opportunities to help themselves. Unlike other men of his extraordinary wealth, Bronson identified with the underclasses. He understood their needs and concerns, and he took action to improve their circumstances. In an effort to pass a bill that would shorten the workingman's labors to ten hours a day, Bronson had countless meetings with politicians and lavishly funded their favorite causes. He had abolished child labor in his own factories, and provided benefit funds for his employees, including pensions for widows and the elderly.
Other employers had resisted instituting such measures in their own companies, stating that they could not afford to provide such benefits for their workers. But Bronson was becoming so enormously rich that his success provided the best argument in favor of treating employees like men instead of animals.
Bronson used his companies to import or produce goods that improved the lives of common men, bringing affordable products to the masses, such as soap, coffee, candy, fabric and tableware. However, Bronson's business strategies were winning far more enmity than admiration among his peers. Aristocrats complained that he was trying to erase class boundaries and diminish their rightful authority, and they were almost unanimous in their bitter desire to see him brought low.
It was clear to Holly that no matter how polished Bronson became, he would never be welcomed into first society, only barely tolerated. She would be heartily sorry to see him marry a spoiled heiress who would value him only for his money and disdain him behind his back. If only there were some spirited girl who might share in his causes, who might even enjoy being married to a man of his intelligence and vigor. Bronson had much to offer a wife who had the sense to appreciate him. It would be a unique marriage, lively and interesting and passionate.
Holly had thought of introducing him to one of her three unmarried younger sisters. It would be a good match and certainly advantageous to her family to have such an infusion of wealth. But the idea of Zachary Bronson courting one of her sisters caused a deep stab of something that felt very much like jealousy. Besides, her sisters, being the unworldly creatures they were, would not be able to handle him easily. There were times, even now, when Bronson became overbearing and required a firm setdown.
The matter of the gowns, for example.
On the day that Holly had arranged to take Elizabeth and Paula to her own dressmaker, to order styles a bit more elegant than those they currently wore, Bronson had taken Holly aside and made an astonishing offer.
“You should have some new gowns made up as well,” he said. “I'm tired of seeing you in all that halfmourning—gray, brown, lavender…No one expects it of you any longer. Order as many as you like. I'll take care of the expense.”
Holly stared at him openmouthed. “Not only are you daring to complain about my appearance, you are also insulting me by offering to pay for my clothes?”
“I didn't mean it as an insult,” he countered warily.
“You know very well that a gentleman would never purchase items of apparel for a lady. Not even a pair of gloves.”
“Then I'll subtract the necessary amount from your salary.” Bronson gave her a cajoling smile. “A woman with your looks deserves to wear something beautiful. I'd like to see you in jade green, or yellow. Or red.” The idea seemed to spark his imagination as he continued. “I can't imagine a finer sight in the world than you in a red gown.”
Holly was not mollified by the flattery. “I most certainly will not order new gowns, and I'll thank you to spare me further mention of the subject. A red gown, indeed! Do you know what would become of my reputation?”
“It's already tarnished,” he pointed out. “You may as well enjoy yourself.” He seemed to enjoy her spluttering outrage at the comment.
“You sir, may…may…”
“Go to the devil?” he suggested helpfully.
She seized on the expression with enthusiasm. “Yes, go right at once to the devil!”
As she should have expected, Bronson ignored her refusal, went behind her back and ordered a selection of new gowns for her. It had been easy enough, as the dressmaker already had her measurements and knew her tastes.
On the day the boxes of finery arrived, Holly was livid to discover that fully a third of them were for her. Bronson had ordered just as many for her as he had for his mother and sister, complete with matching gloves, shoes and hats. “I won't wear any of this,” Holly declared, glaring at Bronson from behind a tower of boxes. “You've wasted your money. I can't begin to describe how vexed I am with you, sir. I won't wear a single ribbon or button from any of these boxes, do you understand?” Laughing at her annoyance, Bronson offered to burn them himself, if it would serve to restore her good humor.
Holly considered giving the garments to her sisters, who were of similar build and size. However, as unmarried girls, they were consigned to wearing mostly white. These were gowns intended for a woman, a worldly one at that. Only in private had Holly allowed herself to examine the gorgeously, beautifully made garments, so different from her mourning weeds or the styles she had once worn as George's wife. The colors were rich, the styles dashing and feminine, and wonderfully flattering to a woman with her full-hipped figure.
There was the jade-green Italian silk, with its full sleeves that narrowed to neat cuffs with cunning triangular points that lay over the backs of her hands. And the dark rose watered-silk promenade dress, with its matching broadbrimmed hat trimmed with delicate white lace. The lavender-striped morning gown, with crisp white sleeves and double-flounced skirt, and the yellow silk gauze with sleeves and hem thickly embroidered with roses.
Worst of all was the red silk, an evening gown of such impeccable simplicity and elegance that it nearly broke her heart to know that it would go forever unworn. The daring scooped neckline flowed into a smooth, unadorned bodice, while the skirts cascaded in a majestic fall of red, the shade somewhere between fresh apples and rare wine. The gown's only ornamentation was a red velvet sash trimmed with silk fringe. It was the most beautiful garment she had ever seen. Had the gown been made in a more circumspect shade, even some quiet dark blue, Holly would have accepted the gift, and propriety be damned. However, Bronson, true to form, had made certain it was a color that she could never wear. He did it for the same reason he ordered her plates of cakes: He enjoyed tempting her, and watching her struggle miserably with her conscience.
Well, not this time. Holly did not try on a single gown. Instead she ordered Maude to store them in an armoire, to be given away at some future date when the opportunity presented itself. “There, Mr. Bronson,” Holly murmured, turning
the key in the armoire lock with a decisive click. “I may not always be able to resist your infernal temptations, but in this matter, at least, I have succeeded!”
Almost four months had passed since Holly had come to reside at the Bronson estate, and now it was time to test the results of her patient tutoring. The night of the Plymouth ball had finally arrived. It would serve as Elizabeth's introduction to society. It was also an opportunity for Zachary Bronson's newly polished manners to be displayed to the ton. Holly was filled with pride and hopeful anticipation, suspecting that there were many in first society who would be pleasantly surprised by the Bronsons this evening.
At Holly's suggestion, Elizabeth wore a white gown trimmed with swaths of pale pink gauze, with one fresh pink rose pinned at her waist and another fastened in the piled-up curls of her hair. The girl looked fresh and graceful, her slender figure and considerable height lending her a queenly air. Although Zachary had given his sister many gifts of jewelry in the past, Holly had looked over the priceless array of diamonds, sapphires and emeralds and realized they were too heavy and expensive for an unmarried girl. Instead, she had selected a single pearl on a delicate gold chain.
“This is all you require,” Holly said, fastening the chain around Elizabeth's neck. “Keep your appearance simple and unspoiled, and save the extravagant jewels for when you're as old as I am.”
Elizabeth stared at their shared reflections in the dressing-table mirror. “You make it sound as though you're decrepit,” she said with a laugh. “And you look so beautiful tonight!”
“Thank you, Lizzie.” Holly gave the girl's shoulders a squeeze, and turned to glance at Paula fondly. “As long as we are spreading compliments, Mrs. Bronson, I must say that you look magnificent this evening.”
Paula, who was dressed in a forest-green gown adorned with sparkling beadwork at the neck and sleeves, nodded and smiled tensely. It was clear that there were a thousand things she would rather be doing than attend a formal ball.