Illusion. Emily French
him courage. He decided to push the point.
“Marry Sophy van Houten! That’s the answer! You’d get voting rights to her railroad stock, plus a wife who’d be no trouble at all. Always dutiful. Pretty manners. Good family.”
The silence in the room was more thunderous than sound. Seth Weston’s face was an unreadable mask; only the angry muscle flexing at the jaw admonished the banker. Minutes lengthened.
Matt tapped the desktop with his fingertips, brows creased in growing consternation. Finally, he sighed and continued. “I’ve known Sophy van Houten for years. Bright girl, no problem to her father. Old Nicholas used to keep her busy looking after...”
Marry Sophy van Houten! The words ringing in his ears, Seth Weston swallowed hard and tightly clenched his jaw to prevent an outflow of sarcastic words. Outwardly, his calm demeanor showed none of the disquiet he felt. The truth was he felt more than a little disgruntled. He felt off-balance. Marriage! Hell, he’d sooner roast in hell, or face a firing squad, than marry!
True, he could not remember ever having met Sophy van Houten, but the last thing on earth he wanted was a wife. If he needed a woman, he only had to take himself off to Greene Street. No need to saddle himself with a permanent fixture. A wife would demand more of him than he could give.
The war had turned him topsy-turvy. He was drained, an empty vessel. No, not empty. Filled with bitterness, like sour wine. Women were shrews anyway. He had yet to meet a woman who was loyal and loving, tolerant and resourceful, who was neither cold nor subject to fits of jealousy. There was no such creature.
Seth became aware, slowly, that the banker was still talking.
“—and Cornelius Vanderbilt would pay handsomely for that stock. Marry Sophy van Houten and you can clear the mortgage on the factory and introduce those innovations....”
Marry Sophy van Houten! Seth sucked a strangled breath through his teeth, made an impatient movement of his hand and slowly turned away from the window. With a quick, uneven step he made his way to one of the bentwood chairs flanking the banker’s desk.
“Vanderbilt already has control of the New York and Harlem Railroad,” he cut in curtly. “Moreover, I imagine Miss van Houten would have something to say about marriage to a broken crock of a man who plans to immediately sell off her stock. And besides—” he paused on the excuse of placing his long ebony cane on the desk and lowering himself into a chair “—I don’t think she and I would suit.”
Matt Tyson leaned forward, his face frowning and intent, rested his elbows on the polished mahogany surface and raised an eyebrow. “Why ever not? Told you, Sophy’s a nice girl, sensible, intelligent... and she has lots of other attraction.” He jerked his head meaningfully toward the iron door of the bank’s strong room.
“I’ve nothing against Sophy van Houten,” Seth hastened to assure the banker, a coolness in his voice. “She’s probably all you say, and charming company for a social evening. I simply do not wish to be married.”
Matt gave Seth a considering look. “Don’t misunderstand me, Seth.” He picked up a pen and rolled it round in his fingers. “You need the money Sophy can bring you. Marry her and you’ll retain your empire and your dream. A man with brains could come out of this mess richer than Midas.”
Seth winced, stretched out his legs and wearily leaned his head against the fanned back of his chair. “I know,” he said with a sigh.
The banker moved his head in a gesture of disbelief, and the skeptical look congealed into a baffled frown. “Hell, man, use your gray matter! I’ve known you since school. What’s happened to you?”
“Four years of a damn war that has divided this country so’s I don’t know how the scars’ll ever mend, a factory that leaks profits like a sieve, and a leg that is useless. That’s what’s happened.”
Matt could hear the edge to his friend’s voice, hard and sudden, like fine-honed steel. He knew Seth Weston was consumed with a deep anger. He also knew Seth Weston was no fool.
“You can’t turn back the clock, Seth. Count your blessings and you’ll find you still have more than most. The war’s over. We must repair the fabric of this nation. Even without Lincoln at the helm, I’m confident that Andrew Johnson can create a new and stronger Union.”
Seth’s mouth twisted faintly. “If he doesn’t fall out with Congress first. If he does he’ll limit his tactical choices for reconstruction.”
“At least you’ve got a choice.” Matt straightened up, his brown eyes serious. “I’m going to lay it on the line, my friend, and this is as painful for me to say as it is for you to hear. If you’re mule-stubborn enough to ignore my advice to marry Sophy van Houten, then the bank will be forced to foreclose on your mortgage.”
Seth stared. “What?” He had heard, but he didn’t believe his ears.
“No more credit, Seth. You’re overextended. Hard cash is what you need right now. There’s an heiress in Yonkers ripe for the plucking. Take her, or you’ll have to liquidate half your holding. You might not be poor, but it’ll be a long crawl back to where you are now.”
Seth heard the finality in the banker’s calm statement and repressed a shiver of rage. Without a word, he slowly uncoiled his vast length from the chair. He walked toward the door, gait slightly uneven. He was still three feet from it when he turned, leaning heavily on his cane. He could feel himself trembling as his mouth compressed with bitter fury. Danger simmered in the depths of his eyes, but his voice, when he spoke, was cool and controlled.
“I’ll call on Miss van Houten in the morning.”
As the door closed behind his friend and client, Matt Tyson leaned back and grinned. Seth Weston’s wrath was terrifyingly splendid. Such a man, seasoned to war, to hardship—and yes, even to women—was just what Sophy needed.
Over to you, Miss Sophy van Houten. Challenge an old dog, would you? Sophy deserved what was going to happen to her. Did she really think she could get away with blackmailing him? She needed to be taught a lesson. And Seth Weston was just the man to give it to her.
The door opened slowly to reveal a short, plump, middle-aged woman dressed in a plain gray gown with a white starched apron. In the middle of the room sat Sophy, dark head bent, lips slightly parted, writing. The scratching of pen on paper was the only sound to be heard as she entered a total on her inventory sheet with a flourish.
“What is it, Tessa?” Her voice was soft and calm, but sable eyebrows rose at the interruption.
Smoothing her apron with a reproachful gesture, the older woman set a vexed mouth, before she offered dourly, “Sorry to disturb ye, Miss Sophy, but there’s a gentleman downstairs says he’d like to see ye.”
Sophy van Houten lowered her head again to her journal, sighed and laid her pen aside.
“I’d hoped to finish my accounts this morning. He didn’t say what he wanted, I suppose?”
“No, I never asked.” Tessa’s voice was severe as she continued, “Ye’ll ruin your eyes with all that book work.”
Sophy’s smile was brilliant and an imp of mischief glinted in the gray eyes. “How old must I get, Tessa, before you will realize that I am no longer a green girl?”
Tessa’s round face shone with indignation as she remained standing close by the door. “None of your lip, young woman. Ye’ll always be a bairn to me. Shall I tell him to come back later, Miss Sophy? No respectable person comes visiting at this hour, or in this weather! It’s only ten minutes past the hour of nine! Positively indecent!”
A small smile touched Sophy’s lips at the servant’s impertinence. Tessa Fraser had a bad habit of thinking Sophy still needed a nursemaid. It came with twenty years of loving and caring.
“Don’t fuss, Tessa. I am not about to be ravished in my own house. This is 1865, after all. Show the gentlemen into the parlor, please. I’ll