It wasn’t as if she’d intended to land herself on the fringes of society, but in all honesty, she’d never aspired to travel within society in the first place. She’d always believed she’d walk through life at her father’s side, helping him run his many mining ventures and eventually taking over that running in the end, even though she was a woman.
Being a member of the fairer sex had never been an obstacle for her growing up, probably because she’d not been exposed to women much in her youth, her mother having died of a horrible fever when Permilia had been all of two years old. That unfortunate death had left her with only a father to care for her. Since George Griswold had never wanted to leave Permilia in the charge of a nanny or female relative while he’d traveled to grow his investment opportunities, he’d taken her along with him. That had provided Permilia with a vagabond lifestyle, filled with adventures, wonders, and a great deal of dirt, especially when she’d spent time in the mines.
Her schooling had come at the hands of a tutor, not a governess. And, while learning the feminine graces had been woefully neglected, she’d received an education worthy of any man, something she’d always assumed she’d put to good use when she’d be given the honor of managing the family business.
That assumption had come to a rather abrupt end when her father met, and then married, within a remarkably short period of time, the widowed Mrs. Ida Webster, a formidable lady one learned rather quickly not to cross—and a lady who staunchly believed a woman’s place was in the home, not traveling around the country participating in . . . business.
From the moment Ida had exchanged vows with Permilia’s father, Permilia had found herself taken firmly in hand and taken firmly out of the mining world by her new stepmother—a circumstance her father, traitor that he’d apparently turned, heartily approved.
Ida, regrettably, came from a long line of Old New Yorkers, fondly referred to as the Knickerbocker set, and as such, she was accustomed to traveling in the highest society circles. That meant that the mere idea of her acquiring a stepdaughter with no societal interests was not to be tolerated, hence the reason Permilia was introduced to society at the ripe-old age of nineteen.
That introduction had not seen Permilia gliding across the ballroom on the arm of one gentleman after another, but had, instead, seen her banished—and banished rather quickly, at that—to the wallflower section.
Her stepmother had not been pleased with what she proclaimed was a very sad state of affairs and had spent the ensuing years—of which there’d been quite a few—pondering the reason Permilia had not taken within the fashionable set. Ida had come up with a remarkably extensive list to explain Permilia’s deficiencies, including Permilia’s age, her intellect, her height, her unusual red hair, her lack of social graces, and . . . well, the list went on and on.
Since Permilia preferred to maintain a cheerful attitude, at least most of the time, and since contemplating the many deficiencies Ida kept compiling became somewhat depressing after a while, she’d taken to skulking around the edges of ballrooms, far away from her stepmother’s caustic tongue. That skulking had, surprisingly enough, led to a most intriguing opportunity and had provided Permilia with a much-needed distraction as she was forced to attend one society event after another.
She had great hopes, though, that she’d someday be able to abandon her distraction—once her father came to his senses and allowed her to return to the mining life she’d been intending to live, not the fluffy world of—
“What about Mr. Rutherford?” Ida suddenly asked, the question effectively pushing any other thoughts Permilia might have had straight out of her head.
“Are we speaking of Mr. Asher Rutherford, the owner of Rutherford & Company department store?” she asked.
“Indeed we are.” Ida gave a single nod. “I heard from none other than Mrs. Templeton that you’ve been seen speaking with that particular gentleman . . . twice.”
Lucy let out a hiss of obvious outrage, a sound Permilia was fairly certain young ladies were not actually supposed to make—and that Ida unfairly ignored. “You’ve held conversations with Mr. Asher Rutherford?”
Permilia shrugged. “I’m not entirely certain haggling with the gentleman over the price he was trying to extort for ice skates at the impromptu booth he’d erected in Central Park can truly be considered holding a conversation with the man.”
Two bright spots of color darkened Lucy’s pale cheeks. “You haggled with Mr. Rutherford—one of the most eligible gentlemen in society?”
“He wanted over five dollars for a pair of ice skates.” Permilia crossed her arms over her chest. “It was highway robbery.” She smiled. “He eventually took three dollars and some change from me—a sum I felt was more in line with what the skates were worth—which allowed me to enjoy a lovely day on the ice with my very good friend, Miss Wilhelmina Radcliff.”