“It matters to me.” Chauncey felt a trickle of sweat snake downward between her breasts. “He was given a Christian burial,” she said numbly. “No one said anything. Not even Dr. Ramsay.”
“I wasn’t about to announce to the vicar that your father’s death wasn’t a tragic accident! Indeed, my dear, it was just that. Dr. Ramsay agreed with me. The overdose of laudanum . . .”
“Why, Uncle Paul? Why did he do it?”
His eyes fell to his slight paunch, held in by a stiff-clothed waistcoat. “I had prayed that I would never have to tell you this, Chauncey.”
“I cannot believe that he would take his own life because of a few bad investments!”
“Not just that. It’s a rather involved story, my dear.” He paused a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. He saw the determination on her face, and said quietly, “Very well, Chauncey, if you must know. In the summer of 1851, your father met an American here in London, Delaney Saxton by name. Saxton was looking for investors. It seemed that he was quite wealthy, having made a fortune in gold in California, but he wanted to increase his wealth. He struck a deal with your father. Your father insisted that I and Saxton’s English solicitor, Daniel Boynton, arrange for the transfer of twenty thousand pounds to Mr. Saxton. I should have realized that your father had mortgaged everything to raise the money, but I didn’t. Boynton and I drew up papers to protect your father’s investment. If the quartz mine, a sure thing according to Saxton, did not produce the amounts of gold he had promised it would, Saxton agreed to sign over partial ownership of another operating gold mine to your father. He showed proof of the gold mine’s profitability. Saxton left England several months later. We heard nothing, absolutely nothing. Your father was growing desperate. Some two months before his death, Saxton’s solicitor informed me that Mr. Saxton had written to tell him that the quartz mine your father had invested in had not produced the gold expected. Saxton then refused to honor the agreement. Your father took it very badly.”
“But that is incredible, Uncle Paul, unbelievable!”
“Not really, my dear. I must admit that I was somewhat skeptical about the entire business, but your father . . .” He shrugged. “He claimed that this Saxton had influential friends here in London. He trusted him.”
“Just who are these influential friends?”
“I don’t know. For some reason, your father refused to tell me who they were. I, of course, wanted to pursue the matter with them, but he insisted he would take care of it.”
“Obviously they refused to help him. What about Saxton’s solicitor, Boynton? Surely he must have known!”
“Again, my dear, I cannot tell you. You see, poor Boynton died several weeks before your father, of apoplexy.”
Chauncey stared at him blankly. If only, she thought vaguely, if only she had been her father’s son, she would have been allowed to help him. She said slowly, “You sound as if you do not believe there ever was a quartz mine, Uncle Paul. That this was all a swindle.”
“I think it quite likely. I fear we will never know.”
“But what about the law? Why was nothing done about it?” Her voice rose shrilly.
“My dear Chauncey, Delaney Saxton lives in San Francisco, a city in California. It is many thousand miles distant. Believe me, once your father admitted to me that he would lose everything if Saxton weren’t made to honor the agreement, I notified a banker friend of mine in New York City. He made inquiries, but could not discover anything. To continue would have cost a great deal of money. Neither your father nor I had it. There was nothing left, you see.”
Chauncey closed her eyes a moment. Why hadn’t her father confided in her? Didn’t he realize that she would have done anything for him? To take his life because of money . . . to leave her alone, at the mercy of her aunt. She felt a niggling anger at his cowardly behavior, but firmly quashed it. He obviously was not thinking clearly. He obviously assumed that she would wed Guy Danforth. She laughed, a harsh, rasping sound. “And there is still no money,” she gasped. “Not any! And this crook, this abominable villain, Saxton, goes free!”
“Chauncey, my dear, you are overwrought. You must calm yourself. I was an unthinking fool to have told you!”
She swallowed the rising hysteria. The world had never seemed more bleak than it did at this moment. She said aloud, “And I shall likely become a shop girl, sewing bonnets.” She laughed again. “It is unfortunate, Uncle Paul, but I can’t sew!”
“Chauncey, please. You will remain with your aunt and uncle. You will marry soon. In time, all this will fade, and you will forget. You will see.”
Chauncey stood up, her shoulders squared, her back rigid. “No, Uncle Paul, I won’t forget, ever.”
Paul Montgomery looked at her distraught face. So proud and so helpless. She likely would not forget, but it wouldn’t help her. No, he thought, nothing would help her, ever. He said not another word, merely escorted her from his office.
2
Chauncey could only stare openmouthed. “This is for me, Aunt Augusta?”
Augusta presented her with a wide, toothy smile. “Of course, my dear Elizabeth. It is your birthday, is it not? All this black you’ve been wearing, well, it’s time for a change. We want to raise your spirits, my dear. I don’t believe your dear father would have wanted you to go about for more than six months in such dismal clothes.”
Chauncey was filled with a sense of unreality as she fingered the lavender silk gown. Aunt Augusta smiling at her? Giving her gifts? The world had taken a faulty turn! She stared blindly about her aunt’s drawing room with its ponderous dark furniture, heavy fringed draperies, and the endless supply of bric-a-brac that filled every nook and cranny. “Such a scourge to dust all those things!” she could hear Mary saying.
“You will look very beautiful, cousin,” Owen said, moving toward her. “Though you are lovely just as you are.”
Chauncey raised her eyes to Owen’s face. He was gazing at her with the most sincere of expressions. But he is lying, she realized. He dislikes me heartily!
Uncle Alfred cleared his throat, but at a look from his wife, he kept silent.
“Dear Elizabeth,” Aunt Augusta said slowly, “I realize that the past six months have not been particularly . . . pleasant for you. Your poor father’s death came as a dreadful shock. I will be honest with you, Elizabeth. Your uncle a