Evening Star

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  EVENING STAR

  A Signet Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1984 by Catherine Coulter

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1011-5850-0

  A SIGNET BOOK®

  Signet Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  SIGNET and the “S” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: February 2002

  To Hilary Ross,

  with sincere thanks and appreciation

  Chapter 1

  Geneva, 1846

  “Giana, I must fix that bow in your hair, it’s hanging over your ear. And do hold still. We don’t want to be late. Charles will be here soon and we cannot keep my future husband waiting for his dinner.”

  Giana stood quiet, eyeing herself in the long Derber mirror as Derry patted the blue velvet bow at the back of her head and tugged at the cluster of black curls over her ears.

  Derry stood back, admiring her handiwork from several angles. “You’re lovely, Giana,” she said. But Giana was staring blankly at her in the mirror, paying no attention to her matching blue velvet gown.

  “Derry,” Giana said, “you have told me often enough how dashing Charles is, and that he loves you. But does he truly love you more than anything? Will he love you forever?”

  Derry Fairmount regarded her seventeen-year-old friend Georgiana Van Cleve with the indulgent air of a girl who was a year older and engaged to be wed.

  “Of course he loves me, you silly girl. And besides all that, he’s everything I could wish for in a husband—he is ever so handsome and distinguished, and he is quite wealthy. It’s true he lives in New York, though,” she added with a thoughtful frown. “My father is a dreadful snob, as only a Bostonian can be. But you’ve heard me tell you that often enough. Well, he saw last summer that dear Charles finds me quite to his liking, and has been busy, I can tell you, with all the marriage contracts and agreements. Boring stuff, but I suppose everything must be worked out before I return home.”

  “He won’t ever leave you, Derry? He will stay with you always, and you’ll never have to worry, about anything?”

  Derry’s happy smile stayed firmly in place, but she quickly hugged her friend. She knew Giana would miss her. And she knew that Giana, raised by nannies and governesses, looked to marriage for a sense of security, and of belonging, that she had never felt. Derry had visited Giana and her mother in London two years before, and although Mrs. Van Cleve was charming and beautiful, Derry had seen that her young friend was like a guest in her mother’s house, feted, but somehow separate and apart from her. “No, love,” she said. “Married to Charles, I’ll never have to be alone, nor will I ever worry. Someday, soon, Giana, you will have a husband and family of your own.”

  “I cannot imagine that,” Giana said. She wished more than anything that Derry were younger, and not about to leave her. She cocked her head to one side, watching Derry buff her nails, and said, “But, Derry, isn’t your Charles terribly old?”

  Derry laughed a full-bodied laugh abounding with life, a laugh that Madame Orlie and her minions had failed to contain.

  “Old? Well, he is thirty-something-or-other, which is not at all old for a husband, especially one as rich as dear Charles. Did I tell you that his only child by his first wife, a daughter, Jennifer, is only two years younger than I? Of course I did. I’m rattling on like a chirper. Think of the fun she and I will have, just as you and I do.”

  “But what if she doesn’t like you, Derry?”

  “Really, Giana, why ever should Jennifer not like me? I’m not a wicked stepmother.” The gay laughter bubbled over again. “Me, a stepmother. That concerns my mother, you know, and I must admit, it does give me pause, sometimes. But Jennifer, after all, is a daughter, not a wife, and the two are quite different. She will have no cause to dislike me.”

  “Yes, I suppose you are right,” Giana said. “But if one believes all the romantic novels, the stepdaughter must hate the new mother.”

  “Bosh,” Derry said. “Those books were dreadfully silly, but”—she rolled her eyes—“so very informative. At least I think they are,” she added, blushing slightly. Derry’s face took on a dreamy look, and slowly she began to dance around their room. “Boston was so beautiful that summer, and Charles so enjoyed waltzing with me.”

  Yes, Giana thought, feeling tears prick her eyelids, any man would want to waltz with Derry. She didn’t want to feel envious of Derry, truly she didn’t, but the thought of loving and being loved in return, of belonging to someone and never having to be alone again, was like a magical dream, a dream that had come true for Derry.

  “You are awfully quiet all of a sudden, Miss Van Cleve,” Derry said, drawing her imaginary waltz to a close.

  “I was just thinking,” Giana said.

  Derry merely laughed. “Remember when we first met, goodness, it was over three years ago. My ever-so-snobbish parents dumped me here in Geneva at Madame Orlie’s exclusive young ladies’ seminary to finish me off properly.” Her eyes twinkled. “They will be so disappointed. After all your good influence, I still haven’t achieved your clipped, starchy accent. You English—I think you are born speaking that way.”

  Giana’s twinge of envy dissolved under Derry’s laughter. She lowered her head and whispered, “You will leave in but three days, Derry, and I will be alone again.”

  “Nonsense, Giana. You will not have to put up with another colonial like me. Next week you will have a new roommate, a nice English girl, who, from what she told us in her very nice English letter, is blessed with a handsome brother. Who knows, perhaps he will be a prince charming.”

  “Unlikely,” Giana said, knowing that Derry was merely trying to cheer her up, and hating it. “There will be no one to tell you what to do,” she said suddenly. “You will have servants, and do just as you please.”

  “Yes, and eat cream puffs for dinner, if I like. Old Maevis would have a fit, I know, the dear old dragon.” Derry pursed her mouth tightly together and hunched her shoulders, doing a credible imitation of Maevis Danforth, their deportment teacher. “Like she sucks lemons.” Derry giggle
d.

  Giana smiled at her antics, as always, but the hated tears were still there, waiting for naught in particular to send them streaming down her face.

  “Come, Giana, whatever are you daydreaming about now? You really must stop that, you know. I’ve told you often enough that people will think you’re myopic, and we both know you’ve the eyes of an eagle.”

  “I will miss you, Derry,” Giana said.

  “New York is not the end of the earth, Giana. And it is not as if you were a poor little orphan. When Madame Orlie considers you fit to leave her poshy school, in what, a mere six more months?” She paused a moment, gazing about their dimity-curtained room that gave onto the magnificent prospect of Lake Geneva, then shrugged her elegant shoulders. “Well, your dear mama can send you to New York to visit me. It is only fair, after all, for I visited you two years ago in London. And I’m sure I can convince dear Charles to bring me to London, next year, say. There are dozens of banks in London, and Charles loves banks above all things. Now, Giana, you must smile, and be happy for me. Look, your bow has come loose again. Quickly, my love. Madame Orlie should be greeting Charles and Jennifer anytime now, and I wish us to be ready when she calls for us. Now, my girl, straighten your shoulders, I hear Lisette coming. Charles has doubtless arrived.”

  Their greetings were stilted in Madame Orlie’s severely formal drawing room, but no sooner were they tucked warmly into a carriage and on their way to the renowned Golden Lion than Derry was chattering gaily, gesticulating with only one hand, for the other was safely held by Mr. Charles Lattimer.

  Giana stared shyly at Mr. Lattimer whenever he wasn’t looking at her. He appeared to be everything Derry had rhapsodized about, and more. He was a tall man, slender and elegantly attired, with soft wheat-colored hair that was just beginning to gray at the temples—ever so distinguished—and light blue eyes that seemed aloof and cold until he smiled, which he did a great deal that evening. He was, Giana recognized, old enough to be her father, and Derry’s as well, but with his elegance, his polished manners, Giana soon came to believe that an older man such as he would only cherish his wife all the more. When he addressed an amusing remark to Derry, or lightly caressed her hand, Giana saw him as superb, the epitome of what a husband should be.

  When they arrived at the Golden Lion, Charles gracefully assisted the three young ladies from the carriage. He had procured a private dining room, and after settling them around an immaculately set dinner table, he beckoned the waiter and ordered champagne in flawless French.

  “Scandalous, sir,” Derry said, laughing.

  “Ah,” Charles Lattimer said, smiling down at his fiancée, “but we must celebrate, my dear.”

  “Champagne gives me a headache,” Jennifer said, the longest string of words she had yet spoken.

  “It makes Giana sneeze,” Derry said.

  “A toast,” Charles Lattimer said, raising his glass when the champagne had been poured. “To my beautiful bride.” His blue eyes seemed to caress each of them, and his smile widened. “I appear to be blessed with a veritable harem this evening. Never have I enjoyed the company of three such lovely ladies.”

  “I will see that you don’t in the future, Charles,” Derry said, quirking a blond brow at him.

  “My father always does just as he should,” Jennifer said. “And besides, you are too young to tell him what to do.”

  There was a brief, tense moment of silence, during which Giana wanted to smack Jennifer Lattimer’s face.

  To Giana’s relief, Charles Lattimer leaned back in his chair and said lightly, “A wife, my dear Jennifer, particularly one as young and lovely as Derry, can always tell her husband what to do. He is the most malleable of creatures, I assure you.”

  Giana took a drink of her champagne, and quickly sneezed. “I hope I am not leading to your moral downfall, my dear Miss Van Cleve,” Charles said.

  “Oh no, sir,” Giana said, feeling her face go warm.

  “We once sneaked in some champagne,” Derry said. “The gardener’s boy bought it for us. I must agree with Jennifer. After half a bottle, the both of us had splitting heads the next day. Madame Orlie thought we had both come down with the influenza and sent us back to bed.”

  Giana’s eyes rested on the sloe-eyed Jennifer to see her reaction, but there was none. She was playing with her food, her mouth sullen. Jennifer must, Giana thought, taking a ladylike bite of her creamed artichokes, resemble her dead mother, with those distant gray eyes of hers, so unlike her father’s.

  “My dear Derry,” Charles said, “you are telling me that two such well-brought-up girls indulge in such wickedness?”

  “Ah, our conversations were much more wicked, sir.”

  Giana shivered suddenly, not from any draft, for the parlor with its blazing fire was cozily warm against the cold winter night.

  “I hope you are not cold, my dear,” Charles Lattimer said, leaning forward in his gilt-armed chair.

  “Oh no, sir,” Giana said.

  “I do not believe,” Charles Lattimer continued, addressing the table at large, “that I should like to spend the winter in Switzerland. Much more snow than we suffer in New York, and the winds of the lake penetrate the thickest coat.” He turned toward Derry. “My dear Derry, since we will be married right after Christmas, I will tell you that I have already done some refurbishing of your wardrobe. I trust you will approve the sable-lined cloak.”

  “How absolutely decadent, Charles,” Derry said, laughing.

  “And how devastating on you, my dear,” he said, lifting Derry’s hand to his lips. He leaned closer to her and whispered something that neither Jennifer nor Giana could hear.

  To Giana’s surprise, Derry, always so clever and so sure of herself, stammered and blushed.

  “I feel a draft, Father,” Jennifer said suddenly. “And everything is drowned in thick sauces.”

  “You must become more worldly in your tastes,” Charles Lattimer said easily, leaning back in his chair. “I dislike provincialism.”

  “Would you like my shawl, Jennifer?” Derry asked her future stepdaughter.

  “No, thank you, Miss Fairmount,” Jennifer said. “If you caught a chill, Father would never forgive me.”

  “I trust I am not so heartless, Jennifer,” Charles Lattimer said smoothly, “but I would dislike having to postpone our wedding.”

  “No need for you to worry, Charles,” Derry said. “I never catch chills. You’ll find that I have a very healthy constitution. My dear Giana,” she continued without pause, “you have scarce eaten a bite.” Her eyes twinkled wickedly, falling for but a moment to Giana’s bosom. “You will never grow unless you eat.”

  Giana quickly forked a bite of stuffed veal into her mouth.

  Chapter 2

  London, 1847

  Aurora Van Cleve stared out of the bowed front windows that gave onto Belgrave Square. She watched the nannies in their starched gray uniforms gossiping quietly, their vigilant eyes on their young charges who romped in the lush green grass, some tossing a brightly colored ball around a circle to each other. Every couple of years, the young faces changed as the children grew too old to be taken to the park by their nannies, and new ones took their places. Odd that the nannies never seemed to change, save for the graying of their hair beneath their caps.

  She looked down at her hand and muttered at herself, for she had teased and fussed with a fingernail until it was jagged. Millie would be aghast when she saw it. The prissy old dear would likely scold Aurora as if she were still a child, and not a widow of forty.

  Dear God, what am I to do? Aurora turned away from the bowed windows and gazed about her library, the only really comforting room in her twenty-two-room barn of a house. She had seldom been allowed into the library until Morton died, and on these rare occasions when she had been commanded by her husband to appear, it had been to heighten his vanity by exhibiting his young and beautiful wife to his business cronies, as if reminding them that he, a man of the merchant class, had succ
eeded in aligning himself with the aristocracy. She had been his prize purchase, his most brilliant possession. How your colorless eyes used to stare at me, Morton, continually examining me for my worth to you. It had taken her months after he died to step into this dark paneled room with his musty books creeping up three walls, its heavy mahogany-and-leather furniture still permeated then with the smell of his pipe. Aurora looked about the room and smiled, shaking off memories of her husband, their bitterness dulled with time. Even his library, his man’s domain, had been hers for twelve years, and it was no longer the starkly masculine library of a man of vast business interests, but a warm, feminine room—her room.

  She gazed at the portrait of her and Giana over the fireplace, painted when Giana was but six years old. It had long ago replaced his portrait, buried now among discarded furniture and boxes in the attic. Giana looked a glowing miniature of her mother, even then. This beautiful child, her only child, had returned from her exclusive young ladies’ seminary in Switzerland a beautiful young lady, and a stranger to her. How could she have been so blind as to believe that Giana would grow up as she had always imagined?

  Aurora walked slowly to her delicate French desk and eased herself into a frivolous Louis XV chair with graceful gold-gilt curving arms, a chair that Morton would have despised. She looked down at a sheaf of papers that required her attention, but she soon pushed them aside. I can never forgive myself for what I did to her. There, she had admitted it, accepted the fact that it was she who was responsible for Giana’s frivolity and her young girl’s romantic foolishness. Aurora rested her head upon her hands and stared blankly before her, thinking yet again about the talk she had had with her daughter but two hours before.

  Giana had gazed at her sullenly, her pretty eyes narrowed. “Really, Mama, I have no interest in all of this,” she had said, waving her hand negligently toward the neat stacks of papers on Aurora’s desk. “You tell me you want me to become like you, to immerse myself in business, and spend my days dickering over money.”