The Lady of Bolton Hill

Chapter 3





Finally back in Baltimore after two weeks at sea, Clara braced herself for an evening in which she was, lamentably, the main attraction. The mayor of Baltimore lived in an imposing mansion built from blocks of rough-hewn granite that looked as if they had been carted off from an ancient castle. Torchlight flickered along the walk leading up to the house, and the interior was illuminated with massive chandeliers. The reason for this evening’s soiree was ostensibly to welcome her back home, but Clara knew the real reason the glittering circle of high society would be here tonight. The Reverend Lloyd Endicott was still one of the most influential religious leaders in the country, and currying his favor by attending a party in his daughter’s honor was essential for the politicians, socialites, and captains of industry in Maryland. Florence Wagner, the mayor’s wife, would have offered up her firstborn child in exchange for hosting the festivities. People were always eager to court her father’s favor, and as the most colossal social climber on the east coast, Florence Wagner was thrilled down to her pearl-encrusted satin pumps to host the party in Clara’s honor.


“Don’t look so nervous,” her father said from the carriage seat opposite her. “I know you are looking forward to this as much as having a tooth extracted, but all the right people will be in attendance tonight. If you wish to relaunch your writing career, these people will be excellent connections.”

Clara adjusted the pleats of silk that flared from the wasp waist of her evening gown. The overskirt was a simple turquoise brocade, but as it gathered back to a carefully draped bustle, a splendid underskirt of embroidered silk charmeuse was revealed in the front. With her hands encased in white kid gloves up to her elbows and the fine boning of her corset keeping her rigidly erect, Clara was oddly grateful for the added bit of confidence the structure of her ensemble provided.

The carriage drew to the front of the mayor’s house, and Clara tried to force a smile to her face. “I know you are right,” she said. “It has been so long since I’ve been home and I won’t really know anyone here.” She felt like a stranger in Baltimore, with little memory of anyone outside of her immediate family. And Daniel, of course.

Of all the people in Baltimore, Daniel Tremain was the one she was most curious to see again. Even though Daniel had become a powerful industrialist, her father said Daniel rarely attended society functions. “That man just doesn’t fit in,” Lloyd had said, and Clara could easily believe him. Daniel had always been too brash and opinionated to blend in with the Byzantine manners of high society.

“I wish Clyde could be here tonight,” Clara said. “It would be nice to know at least one other person.” As a man who had spent the last decade working as a missionary doctor among Indians on the reservations of the American West, Clyde tended to look askance at all the “social nonsense of Baltimore” and had remained at home.

“It is not so important for Clyde to be here,” her father said. “After his visit here he will be heading straight back to the Navajo reservation in Arizona Territory; that is where Clyde will make his mark in this world, not among the blue bloods. And even though you may not relish taking part in tonight’s sort of entertaining, a journalist can’t afford to pass up these opportunities. You’ve made me very proud with your work in London, and with the right connections, I know you can do equally splendid work here in America.”

And that was what she wanted more than drawing her next breath of air. Some might think it strange for a woman to be so driven to succeed, but her father had planted the seeds of ambition in her before she had even stopped sucking her thumb. God had put her on this earth for a purpose, yet in the weeks since she had been banished from England, she had done nothing but nurse her battered soul and wallow in regrets. She needed to find a new way to make a life-affirming contribution to the world, and since her father was one of the few men in the entire country who was willing to publish the writings of a woman, Clara knew she had to get back to her writing.

The disaster in London was no excuse for this self-indulgent malaise that had been plaguing her. If she ever hoped to regain any level of pride in her work, she was going to have to walk through those imposing front doors and try to pretend that she was not an utter failure. Clara squared her shoulders and forced her chin up a notch. Self-confidence could be feigned, even though she felt as charismatic as an oyster.

Florence Wagner swept into the foyer the moment Clara set foot inside the mansion. Poured into a slim-fitting sheath of sapphire Dupioni silk, Florence’s petite little body was topped by a mass of tightly curled red hair with jeweled combs strategically placed like a crown around the top of her head. “Clara, darling,” the woman drawled as she rushed forward with outstretched hands. One would have thought they were long-lost friends, although Clara had been a girl of only sixteen when last she set foot in Baltimore. “Welcome back home, my dear.” She turned outward to face the crowd of assembled people. “Everyone . . . here is dearest Clara Endicott, just back from London.”

Heads swiveled and gentlemen raised monocles to inspect her. Everywhere Clara looked she saw stunningly attired women, appearing like glorious butterflies draped in watered silk and satin gowns while diamonds winked from throats and fans wafted in the jasmine-scented air. The elegant notes of a string quartet played in the distance. Clara was overwhelmed with an odd sort of dissonance. Was it only a month ago when she was trapped in a dank stone prison? It did not seem possible for such splendor to exist on the same planet as the cell where she had lived with Rosina and Nellie.

Florence took Clara’s arm and led her forward into the group. “Come along, my dear. Simply everyone in Baltimore has turned out to welcome you home. Let me introduce Senator Bronson to you.”

Clara murmured a few pleasantries to the senator, but her gaze was sweeping the room. Was it possible that Daniel Tremain might be among the “everyone” who had come this evening? Even though her father had said Daniel rarely indulged in such events, perhaps he would have come in order to see her again? She wasn’t even sure she would recognize Daniel today—the boy who was the center of her childhood crush was always dressed simply in trousers and a plain shirt, whereas all the gentlemen in this room were wearing black cutaway jackets with starched white collars riding high on their necks. No longer a gangly teenager, Daniel would be a full-grown man. There had to be more than one hundred people in the room, but none of them resembled Daniel. Her shoulders drooped just a fraction. His absence was to be expected, of course, but still . . .

Florence kept Clara moving around the perimeter of the foyer, introducing her to dozens of people whose names she had little hope of remembering. “Clara, may I present Mr. Joshua McAllister,” Florence said as they approached a young man who dared to buck fashion by wearing a scarlet silk vest amid the sea of black frock coats. “Mr. McAllister runs two of the cotton mills down in the southern part of the city. He is quite the up-and-coming young man.”

Mr. McAllister bowed over Clara’s hand. “Enchanted, Miss Endicott. I’ve read about your work in London and was most impressed with your accomplishments. Those poor children . . . terrible, terrible. What a relief it must be to have all that nonsense behind you and be back in the bosom of your family.”

Clara was not quite sure how to respond. “I’m most pleased to have a chance to visit with my father once again, yes.”

“Quite impressive work for a woman,” Mr. McAllister continued. “Of course, one would expect nothing less from one of Lloyd Endicott’s children. I expect now you will want to settle down and get married, yes?”

Actually, marriage was the last thing Clara wanted. While in London she had suffered a disastrous broken engagement. Another romance would not be welcome, but she could hardly say as much into the eager face of Joshua McAllister. Throwing herself into her work as a journalist had been what salvaged her battered pride when Nicholas Spencer had broken off their engagement in London. Clara had agreed to marry Nicholas for all the wrong reasons—she knew that now—but at the time he abandoned her it had been a crushing blow. “I still have hopes of resurrecting my journalistic career,” Clara said. “I’m hoping to write for my father’s publication, The Christian Crusade.”

Mr. McAllister appeared to be pleasantly surprised. “Quite right. Quite admirable. In fact, I myself would welcome the opportunity to get to know your father a little better. What a gift to the country that man is.” As Mr. McAllister continued to sing praises about Reverend Endicott, Clara was not quite sure if he was trying to court her or her father. Not that it really mattered. She was here only to meet as many people as possible in order to begin forming the necessary connections for her work.


They continued speaking for a few more minutes until their hostess came to retrieve Clara. “Well, that seemed to go quite well,” she gushed. At Clara’s quizzical expression, Florence continued, “Mr. McAllister stands to inherit quite a fortune in a few years. And he is a divine wit, and from the best of families.” Florence leaned closer and lowered her voice. “And he is quite the most eligible bachelor in the city. You don’t mind if I play at a tiny bit of matchmaking, do you?”

Clara’s eyes widened. Obviously, gossip of her broken engagement had not reached Baltimore, or people would not be hurling eligible gentlemen in her path. Whenever a woman was unceremoniously dumped by her fiancé, people looked askance at the jilted woman, no matter who was to blame for the demise of the engagement. “I’ve just returned to town,” Clara hedged. “I’m hoping to get settled and spend some time with my brother before participating in any sort of romantic entanglement.”

Florence perked up at the mention of Clara’s brother. “Is Dr. Endicott back in Baltimore?” she asked, looking as stunned as if Queen Victoria herself was about to descend upon the town.

Clara shook her head. “He is here, though not yet ready to be making social calls.”

“My goodness,” Florence breathed. “Your brother was in town three years ago when he came to testify before a congressional panel in Washington . . . something about the plight of the poor Indians. He garnered quite a bit of attention from our young ladies. Is there any hope he could be persuaded to stay a bit longer in Baltimore? After all, he need not sacrifice his entire life for the heathens. Perhaps it is time he settle down amongst civilized people.”

Clara was embarrassed to confess she knew very little about Clyde’s intentions these days, but she certainly knew he had a much better opinion of the people he lived among than to consider them heathens. “I think you will have to put that question to Clyde when you see him,” Clara said.

It was surprising, but the very mention of her brother’s name caused a group of young ladies to cluster about Clara and Florence like honeybees drawn to a particularly delicious flower. “Dr. Endicott? Coming back to town?” The voice belonged to a gorgeous woman with piles of blond hair amassed atop her head. She looked beautiful enough to be a Greek goddess.

“Clyde Endicott?” another woman demanded. “I don’t believe it! Where is he?”

A third young lady pushed her way forward to stand directly before Clara. “Is it true? Your brother will be coming back to town?”

Clara looked at the faces of the half dozen young ladies, all breathless in anticipation of her answer, and wondered how Clyde had convinced them he was anything but the most annoying human being to ever walk on the face of the earth. “Yes, Clyde is back in town, but only for a very short visit.” Clara was beginning to understand Clyde’s instructions to his father that his visit was to remain strictly a family affair. If he inspired this frenzy of delight among his admirers, no wonder he hoped to get in and out of town without notice. Clara was already beginning to feel claustrophobic with the crush of young women breathless for news of Dr. Clyde Endicott.

“I knew he could not stay away,” the Greek goddess said. “Miss Endicott, you simply must host a tea party to welcome your brother back to town. That poor man cannot be permitted to return to the wilds without a chance to meet some ladies of his own class.”

Another lady began waving her fan over her heated face. “I declare, it is impossible to look at that man and not want to be the woman who finally tames him. He is the most delicious male specimen . . . or at least he will be when someone finally civilizes him. He must not be allowed to escape again.”

Now it was Clara’s turn to blush. Her older brother was many things, but delicious was never a word she would have used to describe him. And yet, the mere mention of Clyde’s name was apparently enough to fuel a lengthy discussion of the various eligible young men in Baltimore. The girls clustered around Clara as they contrasted Clyde’s ruggedness with the safety of Joshua McAllister’s comfortable life as owner of a cotton mill. A number of other men’s names were tossed into the mix as the ladies debated the merits of each. Baltimore appeared to possess an endless supply of eligible bachelors who caused rounds of gushing, cooing, and fervent speculation.

And then the Greek goddess brought a stunned halt to the conversation. “What about Daniel Tremain?” she asked. “More than any other man I’ve ever seen, I daresay he is the mystery I would most like to unravel. Piece by mesmerizing piece.”

Apparently, even the mention of Daniel’s name was enough to stop all conversation. After a moment, Florence Wagner regained her breath. “Elizabeth Ginallette, you know that man is not suitable company. It is easy to see how young, foolish girls may find him attractive, but there is a reason he never attends social functions such as these. That man is as dangerous as a rattlesnake.”

Miss Ginallette persisted. “I heard he donated a fortune to build the new Opera House. A man who funds such things can’t be all bad, can he?”

“He may throw his money around, but that doesn’t make him a gentleman,” Mrs. Wagner warned. The stiffness in the woman’s voice rubbed Clara the wrong way. Was it merely that Daniel had come from poverty, while these esteemed young ladies came from generations of blood bluer than a summer sky? Daniel had worked harder than any man she ever knew, including Clyde and her father, and it was not right that a woman of privilege would cast aspersions on him because he was not born in the right part of town.

“I knew Daniel Tremain before I left for London,” Clara said. “He was a brilliant young man and never the least bit ungentlemanly.” All the women swiveled their heads to stare at her.

“You’ve actually spoken with him?” Miss Ginallette asked. The awe in her voice sounded as though Clara had made contact with a deity.

“Yes, of course,” Clara said. “I considered him a friend.” It seemed such a paltry word—Daniel had cried in her arms the night his father was buried.

“I saw him at his sister’s wedding last year,” one of the ladies said, “but no one I know actually worked up the nerve to speak with him. He was wickedly attractive but seemed so frighteningly remote.”

Mr. Wagner, the mayor of Baltimore, joined in the conversation. In contrast to his tiny wife, Mayor Wagner was a huge man whose wide belly was decorated with a thick gold watch chain. “That’s because his entire life has been spent in a laboratory scheming ways to make a fortune and ruin Forsythe Industries,” he said. “Tremain never comes out of his fortress unless he can lob a bomb at someone, preferably Alfred Forsythe. Then he disappears back into his lair to plot some other form of world domination.”

“World domination?” Clara could not hide the skepticism in her voice. “That seems a little high-flying for this corner of Baltimore.”

The mayor’s eyes turned flinty. “You must understand, Miss Endicott, our way of life is now entirely dependent upon the smooth operation of the railroads. Tremain doesn’t own many railroads yet, but he’s in the process of acquiring them. And those he does not own, he already controls by granting or withholding access to the technology that makes railway transportation affordable. He is a robber baron with a stranglehold on the industry and is perfectly willing to use it to punish competitors he dislikes.”


Clara’s gaze darted around the lavish interior of the mayor’s home, filled to capacity with the town’s leading entrepreneurs and trendsetters. Everyone she had met in this room had been born into a world of silken sheets and had breakfast trays delivered at the dawn of each day. What would people like this understand of abject poverty? “Perhaps if Daniel Tremain were welcomed into gatherings such as these, he might not seem so intimidating,” Clara said.

Mrs. Wagner raised her chin but lowered her voice. “It has been many years since you left Baltimore, so you may not be familiar with what has transpired since you’ve been gone. Daniel Tremain is as warm and compassionate as a spider. Gold-leaf invitations could be hand-delivered to the man, and he’d toss them into the trash bin.”

“Not true,” the Greek goddess said. “Every time I’ve gone to a performance at the new Opera House, I have seen him in attendance. He always sits in the very back row.”

“Yes, and he arrives and leaves alone,” Mrs. Wagner said dispassionately. “Heaven forbid he should stay five minutes after a performance and actually speak to someone.”

Clara stood a little straighter. “I don’t believe a lack of social graces automatically correlates to evil-minded intentions.”

“Of course not,” the mayor agreed. “But if you lived in this city last year, you would have had a front-row seat to watch Tremain’s spitefulness in action. Alfred Forsythe spent a fortune building a college for this town. He bought the land, paid for the construction of classrooms and dormitories. It was to be called Forsythe College and would have been a fine addition to this city. Just before they began hiring a faculty for the college, Tremain stepped in to scuttle the whole project. He found some old title that said the land had been ceded to an Indian tribe back in the 1790s. That tribe had long since disappeared from the area, but Tremain hired a lawyer and argued the case in court. The judge ruled that until the descendants of the original title holders could be found, nothing could happen to that land. No college, no sale, nothing. Those buildings sit empty today because Daniel Tremain will stop at nothing to ruin Alfred Forsythe.”

A quick glance at the faces of the other women confirmed what the mayor had said, and Clara fought the urge to wilt. Daniel’s very name seemed to inspire hostility, but Clara no longer knew Daniel well enough to defend him. The aloof stranger they described bore no resemblance to the young man she had once idolized.

In the years since those days, Clara had met famous composers, known literary success as a journalist, and traveled the world. And yet, those stolen hours with Daniel remained her most cherished memories of sheer, unmitigated happiness.