chapter 7
Tuesday, August 28
Gabrielle lay in bed against her down-filled, silk pillows and toyed with the end of her single French braid. From all accounts, Bret had changed since returning to Galveston. He was less cheerful and, though his manner was still considerate at heart, she recognized a growing impulsiveness beneath his brooding composure.
As a charming, confident man he had delighted an innocent young woman with his adventurous promise, but now his temperament appalled her with its pathetic lack of virtue. Gabrielle knew she was as much to blame for her curious feelings as he was, perhaps more, since her childish infatuation with him had not completely disappeared as she had hoped. Unbraiding the ends of her hair she rubbed the ends between her thumb and index finger to calm her nerves.
Infatuation. That’s all it ever was or could have been between them.
After Bret left, she had still been able to rise in the morning and, by all appearances, regain her self-control and good sense much to the relief of her friends and father already maddened by her tempest of vulgar outbursts and crying fits.
Bret’s last words still stormed through her mind. “You’re wrong, Gabrielle. It’s not too late for you. You’re worthy of a far better man than me, a man who will give you everything you cherish, desire, and deserve.”
In the gloomy months that followed his leaving, those words were the only light of truth he had left behind to help her find her way again. Only by the sheer force of indomitable spirit was she able to pull herself out of that soul-crushing abyss of despair, spurred by the realization that even love is capable of such a cruel betrayal of trust.
Until she heard the dreadful racket Saturday on Market Street, Gabrielle had—after two years—come to consider Bret as having passed into insignificance, waiting to be left behind with the arrogant century that had made him a sad, supercilious man desperately trying to maintain appearances of his family’s paling grandeur.
Their time together had been the careless and naive adventure of her first and only deep romantic love, but even then, under his public exuberance, she had sensed his hidden, private fears. Bret was the past and, if she wanted the new life she desired, her feelings for him would have to stay there entangled within the knotted fiber of their difficult relationship.
He was lost to her, a captive of his own disturbing moods and intense longing for something that remained a dark secret in his distant heart.
If he behaved as a gentleman, he might still be allowed into the periphery of her social circle, but never within its center. A successful gentleman’s wife-to-be needs to be wooed and won with pride. Anything less would be a mistake, and she could never allow that to happen again.
She brushed back her hair. Today would be perfect for the yellow bolero jacket and dress with the brown satin flowers. Gabrielle dressed quickly and strutted down the stairs to the parlor where she overheard Timothy DeRocha and her father discussing Bret’s drilling activities in Beaumont.
Timothy snapped to attention when Gabrielle entered. She admired his tanned face with its curved nose and brown eyes, but his voice was always servile in the presence of her father.
After exchanging mutual pleasantries, she listened patiently, encouraging each with a smile or a nod. A woman always found her most valuable information by letting men vent their irritation and argue with each other.
Gabrielle’s father scratched his moustache. “It appears Bret never sent word ahead to anyone here or his man, Philip, when he departed England for New York.”
Timothy smiled at her and adjusted his gold tie pin. “I believe he’s bankrupt, spent his entire inheritance abroad and now he has returned to scrounge off the good graces of his old friends and business partners.”
“No. There’s more to it,” Gabrielle insisted, surprised by how quickly she had voiced her private suspicion.
“Surely you don’t believe in his oil drilling scam in Beaumont?” Timothy asked. “I’d have more respect for him if he asked me for money to dig for the pirate treasure of Jean Lafitte.”
Gabrielle’s father frowned. “No, sir. Whatever money Bret had left has surely sunk into those empty holes with the remains of his family’s name.”
Timothy nodded. “That seems to agree with all the reports I’ve heard. The man is desperate. This fancy party of his is nothing but an elaborate attempt to swindle those who have loved and trusted him most.”
Gabrielle bristled. “You sound so certain, Timothy.”
Timothy looked at her as though she were an errant child. “Please, Gabrielle. You of all people should know I’m right.”
She wanted to say something in Bret’s defense but could only press her lips together.
“I made almost one hundred percent profit on my first shipment of cotton,” her father said, turning from the window. “And nearly two hundred percent on my first sale of steers.”
Timothy regarded her father with adoring veneration. “You are an example to us all, Mr. Caldwell. When a man risks everything to start a business and build a better life for his family, he deserves those rewards and more. But nothing is more valuable to a damn Yankee than his stomach, and he should be happy to pay for the privilege of letting us fill it for him. Isn’t that true, Gabrielle?”
“I would be happy to feed any man north of the Mason-Dixon if he helped me get the vote in return.”
The men stared at each other, then at the floor and shook their heads. Timothy coughed and covered his mouth with his clenched hand. “A gentleman certainly has to stay on his toes around you, Gabrielle. Women’s suffrage? What’s next? Lord, sir, how do you keep up with her?”
Gabrielle’s father tapped the bowl of his pipe on his palm, found it clogged and excused himself to get his cleaning kit from his upstairs study.
When his footsteps reached the second floor landing, Timothy cleared his throat and spoke in hushed tones. “You know I have complete respect for your father and his wishes, but I wish he would leave us alone more often.”
Gabrielle flashed a brief coy smile and stepped to the window. Already this business of having to choose between Timothy, Liam, and Hadlee was beginning to lose its attraction. Every prospect started with promise but after a few minutes of idle parlor chit-chat followed by the crafted casualness of a stroll down to the boardwalk, it was all she could do to keep from running headlong into the waves to revive her senses.
In the end, she always returned to her dressing table and dropped the lace-wrapped bouquets into the wastebasket. Would her meeting with Doctor Hellreich be something as easily tossed aside and forgotten too?
Timothy cleared his throat again. “I would like to sit down and talk with you, Gabrielle.”
She looked at the easy chair with plush comfort that always invited guests to stay longer than need be. “Father will be coming back.”
“Yes, but only after he feels he’s given us enough time to be alone.”
Gabrielle rubbed her middle finger against her thumb. “You say that as if it were an unwritten rule.”
“Your father only cares for your happiness as do I.”
“Do you suppose, then, that he might take time to find out what makes me happy?”
Timothy gestured with his hands. “Where in this magnificent home is there anything that doesn’t show the love of a devoted father for his beautiful daughter?”
Gabrielle had no ready answer to his question. She knew her father loved her in his way, and she adored him. She avoided Timothy’s penetrating gaze by adjusting the lace tablecloth on the rosewood table under the window. “It’s too hot inside for playing cards. I would like to go for a walk. I’ll see if father is ready.”
“Gabrielle? Please, I need to speak with you alone.”
She turned on her heel. “So what do you think about the seawall? I may not have any say in the matter, but I’m pleading with father to let me sit in on the discussions. I think the subject is fascinating.”
Timothy gazed at her for a moment longer. “I would like to accompany you—with your father’s permission of course—to the lecture on Thursday night. Doctor Hellreich sounds like the only man who understands how the twentieth century will bring powerful changes that will affect all our lives.”
Gabrielle stared at him, the ticking of the large clock the only sound in the room. “I understand that, Tim, but I don’t see why—Dear . . . Listen to me prattle on like an old ninny. I’ve completely lost track of the time. I promised to stop by and see how Hadlee is doing. Our friend has a touch of the fever.”
Timothy exhaled with noticeable frustration and glanced at the floor. “I see. As you wish.” He glanced at the grandfather clock near the fireplace. “Please give Hadlee my warmest regards. We all hope to see him at Bret’s party if he’s feeling up to it.” He lingered by her side in an uncomfortable silence. With out warning, he bent to kiss Gabrielle awkwardly on the cheek.
Gabrielle stepped away at the last moment, turning her head away to conceal her embarrassed blush.
Timothy cleared his throat and left the room.
Gabrielle waited for the sound of the front door closing then walked to the window and opened it. In the front yard across the street, a washing woman was folding laundry into a wicker basket.
From over the dunes came the faint crash of the rising breakers, and beyond the wharves and warehouses she pictured a ship riding at anchor with all its canvas spread to the first strong wind that could carry her over the waves.
To anywhere.
Anywhere but here.