The castle keepers, p.1
The Castle Keepers, page 1
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
The Truth Keepers 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
Epilogue
The Memory Keepers Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
The Dream Keepers Epigraph
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
Authors’ Notes
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Also by the Authors
Copyright
Dedication
From Aimie K. Runyan
To Rachel and J’nell for bringing this project to life with me while we were all locked away. Your friendship means more than I can express.
From J’nell Ciesielski
To Aimie and Rachel
From Rachel McMillan
To my friends and coauthors Aimie and J’nell. Getting to know you during the creation of this collection was a true joy. I look forward to many more written adventures to come.
The Truth Keepers
1870
Chapter 1
~Rule No. 1~
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.
—William Shakespeare
New York City
February 1870
Beatrice examined her reflection in the mirror, and though she didn’t risk her mother’s ire by commenting on her own appearance, she knew she was ready to take the stage for one of the most important performances of her life.
Daddy wore his best tailcoat with mercifully fewer complaints than usual. For this, Beatrice offered silent thanks. She didn’t need her father’s grumbling and her mother’s resultant henpecking to rile her nerves. Her sweet-natured father’s grousing was a way of flirting with Mama, but Beatrice found it exasperating when it happened at important moments.
Tonight they would dine at the home of Caroline Astor. Mrs. William Backhouse Astor, the single most influential person in all of New York society. And Beatrice, if she ever wanted admittance to Mrs. Astor’s good graces, would have to be flawless. Her hope was that if she played the part well enough, she just might secure a proposal from Thomas Graham.
Thomas, who actually watched plays when he went to the theater rather than attending purely so he could be seen by those who mattered.
Thomas, who was the only company that felt superior to the company of her beloved journal, a pen, and a roaring fire in her bedroom.
Thomas, whose piercing gaze made her stomach wobble and her breath stop in her throat with the merest glance.
Thomas, who had spent a great deal of social capital to secure this all-important invitation in hopes of advancing Beatrice and her family in society. Beatrice hoped it was so his parents could have no objection to their forming an attachment beyond seeing each other at social events and in the gathering areas at the theater once or twice a week.
Thomas, who would be the great compromise: a position to please her mother and the potential for the honest-to-goodness love match Beatrice longed for but had never hoped to aspire to.
Until Thomas.
Befitting the event, Beatrice and her mother dressed in fine silks and tasteful jewels. Their ruffled bustle skirts were like sugary confections—flowing masterpieces of fabric, rather than meringue—that seemed to defy the very laws of nature. Their restrictive bodices defied nature as well, molding the shape of the wearer into the feminine ideal. Their hair was just as elaborate—a massive tower of braids and curls that took the skill of a sculptor to achieve. Their money was so new, it was practically fresh from the printer’s, but Mama knew full well how to spend it.
“You don’t think you’d do better to wear a bit of color, kitten?” Daddy eyed Beatrice’s cream gown with delicate gold beading. Mama’s was a lovely shade of royal blue with silver embroidery that accentuated the blue in her eyes, but the matrons tended to wear more vibrant colors than their daughters. Beatrice guessed the object was to make the eligible ladies look more like brides, so they wore shades as close to white as they dared on a day other than their wedding day. Creams, ivories, silvers, pale golds, and yellows. Occasionally a shell pink or a featherlight blue—anything to imply innocence and purity. “Why not one like the green you wore yesterday? Or that nice red one from last week? You look a treat, but I do like a punch of color.”
“Those are afternoon dresses, Morris.” Mama tucked her arm in his and patted his gloved hand. “The young ladies tend to wear more muted colors for evening attire.”
“Drab, if you ask me,” Daddy said. “But I suppose my opinion is the least important on the subject.”
Sarah Holbrook looked indulgently at her husband and prodded the party out the door. She barked a few orders to Robinson, the much-put-upon lady’s maid who looked after Mama and occasionally Beatrice.
Beatrice remained silent, knowing her mother’s tone with the staff earned her clucking tongues from the more refined of their acquaintances who always gave the guise of magnanimity to those in their employ. Mama mistakenly thought that kindness to the staff was a sign of familiarity that would make her seem common.
Mama was the classic American beauty with honey-blonde hair, sapphire-blue eyes, and perfect, even features, while Beatrice was too tall and her hair was too deep a chocolate brown to be fashionable. Thankfully it was abundant enough for the latest hairstyles. And no one could deny Beatrice’s complexion was as enviable as her mother’s. Beatrice’s gray eyes with flecks of blue, she had to admit, were a source of pride.
Daddy was of humble birth, having been born to tenant farmers and lured west by the temptation of the California gold rush. He was one of the lucky few who hit the mother lode, and luckier still to have married Mama. She had pressed him to invest the money in railroads rather than squandering it on fleeting luxuries. The investments were a booming success, and by the time Beatrice was three, they moved from their lavish home in San Francisco to New York so they could make their mark on society. More than anything in the world, Mama wanted to leave behind the memory of her impoverished beginnings and find true acceptance in the most elite circles of New York.
Mama had told Beatrice—on the rare occasions she was willing to speak about her girlhood—how poor they’d been. How cast out she’d felt. She’d read about New York in magazines and dreamed of going there and being welcomed by the finest families. It was never Beatrice’s dream, or Daddy’s, to become pillars of New York society, but Mama had made it their chief aim in life nonetheless. It was as though admittance to balls and fine dinners would somehow erase the years of privation.
“Your opinion matters a great deal, Daddy,” Beatrice assured him. “I wouldn’t dare pick a riding ensemble without consulting you.”
Daddy rewarded her with a kiss on the forehead. For whatever refinements he lacked, he was as skilled a sportsman as any in New York’s elite circles. The Holbrooks only lacked the luck, socially speaking, of people like the Fishes and Astors who came from old, established fortunes. They were, to use Caroline Astor’s term, arrivistes. But Daddy had taught Beatrice how to ride when she was barely able to walk, and he’d always gifted her with lovely riding habits in hopes that she wouldn’t lose interest in their mutual pastime. There was no danger of that, but she let him indulge her anyway.
Daddy kept up jovial small talk on the ride to the Astors’, but Beatrice was too busy swallowing back bile to give him more than a cursory response. Every social outing brought her nerves to the brink of their limits. It grew worse and worse as each engagement carried increasingly more importance in advancing the family’s social position and improving Beatrice’s marital prospects. And as the stakes grew, Mama became more and more overbearing where Beatrice was concerned. Each clip-clop of the horses’ hooves sent her stomach churning, and she could do no more than concentrate on her next breath if she was to arrive at the Astor home with her wits intact.
Mama hissed a few reminders about decorum at Daddy, who, as always, took them in indulgent stride.
They were ushered inside by the butler and found the orderly receiving line moving efficiently. Mrs. Astor greeted them with the same formality tempered with the barest trace of warm cordiality she extended to everyone. Caroli
ne Astor was, of course, the most splendidly dressed woman in the room. She wouldn’t have stood for anything else. Beatrice had seen the pictures of the social maven as a young woman when she’d been fresh like dew on a rose. It was hard to reconcile that image with the formidable woman who stood before them. She wore a gown of steel silk (and a gaze to match) that would have overpowered a lesser woman, but there wasn’t a gown in existence that would have dared to overpower the Caroline Astor.
The simple truth was that the keys to the gates of New York society resided squarely in the Astor matriarch’s pocket, and she clenched them tight, admitting precious few to her fashionable inner circles.
Beatrice escaped the receiving line without incident and saw Thomas. He had a flute of champagne in hand and was deep in conversation with some Astor relation Beatrice didn’t know who always wore an expression of vague boredom but who seemed pleased enough to be in Thomas’s lively company.
Thomas looked up and his eyes locked with hers. He’d noticed her glancing in his direction. A faux pas. She didn’t play coy and pretend she hadn’t seen him but rather nodded in his direction, allowed a delicate smile to pull at her lips, and continued to scan the room.
She wanted to stare into the deep-brown pools of his eyes. His irises flecked with gold caught even the least glimmer of light and could hold her captive for hours. She wanted nothing more than to run her fingers through his thick black hair, but she could not let him know this. She couldn’t be aloof, for no man wanted to waste his time with a woman who couldn’t be won, but nor could she be too effusive.
Mama often called it a game of cat and mouse, and her mother wasn’t wrong. It was made all the more challenging when the mouse had to keep the hunt exciting when she wanted nothing more than to be caught.
In mere seconds Thomas appeared by her side. As in many great plays, the truths weren’t in the words spoken but rather in the ones left unsaid.
“So lovely to see you here at last, Miss Holbrook,” he said. I’m so glad Jack was able to weasel an invitation out of the old windbag.
“Thank you, Mr. Graham. I was delighted at the invitation. Making new acquaintances is one of the true joys in life, is it not?” I never thought she’d ask us. She’s a miserable old crone, isn’t she?
“Mrs. Astor is the finest hostess New York has ever seen. You’re in for a treat.” She’s a nightmare. “You’ll do me the honor of allowing me to introduce you and your parents to the room, won’t you?” I desperately want to show you off.
“Of course, we’d be glad to meet your friends.” That’s precisely why I’m here.
For twenty minutes Thomas escorted Beatrice from guest to guest, introducing her as though she were an important dignitary come all the way from the other side of the globe to spend the evening in their company. He radiated pride as her hand rested in the crook of his arm. She had to work hard to keep her smile from being too broad and her expression too animated when he was in such proximity.
A man might not be able to sense when a woman was too enthusiastic about him, but one had to be more guarded with the mothers. They were far more observant than their husbands and sons, even if they led the men to believe otherwise in order to puff up their egos.
“I’m afraid we’re to dine on opposite sides of the room,” Thomas said as the dinner chime sounded, the regret in his voice ringing sincere. “I’d very much hoped to talk to you in more detail about the performance of Hamlet from last week. I thought your take on the performance was quite insightful.”
“We shall simply have to delay that pleasure for another time, then.” Beatrice rewarded him with a genuine smile.
He returned the gesture and bent low to her ear when he thought no one was looking. “You look positively sublime, my sweet.”
His words were spoken so softly, she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined them. His breath was warm against her ear, and she could smell the heady tinge of champagne on his lips. Had they been alone, she would not have been able to resist brushing her own against them to taste it for herself.
She prided herself in keeping a serene countenance, but to keep the color from her cheeks in such a moment was beyond even her greatest attempts at self-control.
Mrs. Astor’s dinners were, as one might expect, the epitome of Knickerbocker graciousness. There was no unnecessary affectation beyond the gleaming, polished silver candelabra and fine china. The house was grand enough, the food elegant enough, to stand for themselves.
Daddy was seated near William Astor, the patriarch of the family, which was a particular honor. Why the family had been given such an attention, Beatrice didn’t know for certain, but she was sure Thomas had used his Astor ties to encourage Lina Astor to pay them special attention that night. It was, after all, an audition.
Thomas, though seated several tables away, saw where Beatrice and her family were situated and nodded his approval to her. Beatrice gave herself a reprieve of her rule about daydreaming while in public and took a few seconds to imagine a crowd like this one assembled for her wedding to Thomas. She pictured the starched white tablecloths and sparkling crystal. What would her mother insist upon for the gown? Satin? Silk? Perhaps velvet if they were married in winter.
Mama cleared her throat and Beatrice snapped back to attention. How does she know? It was a constant wonder to her. Mama seemed to have an otherworldly knack for knowing when her daughter’s attention wandered.
The food was served by attentive footmen. Dazzling arrays of oysters served as the hors d’oeuvre. Scalloped, fried, broiled—prepared in any way the Astors’ chef could contrive.
Beatrice took one of each sort of oyster, knowing that sampling each offering would be the polite thing to do. The only option she wasn’t keen on trying was the raw one, so she decided to try it first. She summoned her courage and tipped the shell so the contents would slip into her mouth as she saw the others do. It tasted positively foul and smelled vaguely of sulphur, but she managed to swallow without making a face. A mercy, since Mama was watching her discreetly as she held a conversation with a Mrs. Twombly. The stylish matron held Mama enraptured with her discussion of her recent trip to France and England with her husband and two daughters.
For the next three hours Beatrice absorbed the conversation, partaking just enough that she didn’t appear dull or overly timid. Her nerves were quaking like spindly tree branches in the wind, but she was confident it didn’t show too badly. She hoped it was just enough to make her appear charmingly demure. If her mother noticed her disquiet, Beatrice would be treated to a lecture about self-control later. There was no convincing Mama that her constant critiques only made Beatrice’s anxious nature hover even closer to the surface.
She ate a few more of the oysters, all of which tasted much better for being cooked, no matter the method. Then the footmen came forth every half hour or so with mutton and barley consommé, chicken breasts, beef filets, foie gras, and several kinds of salads. Each was a work of art in miniature. Perfectly seasoned, perfectly presented. Caroline Astor never would have stood for less.
Beatrice took only small portions of each but was already reaching her limit of comfort, owing to the restrictive steel boning in her corset. A footman set a plate of delicate candied fruits and petit fours before her. There wasn’t a French pâtissier in existence who wouldn’t have looked at the arrangement with pride. She took a small bite of one of the petit fours—this one was a miniature lemon cake topped with a tiny violet made from sugar. The first seconds after it touched her tongue were pure bliss, but then the sugar became unbearably cloying.
Dread filled Beatrice when she realized she was going to be ill. One of the oysters must have gone bad, and Beatrice was going to suffer for it.
The nausea hit suddenly and with the force of one of the nor’easters that took New York to its knees. Sweat beaded on Beatrice’s forehead and she began to shake.
“Mama, I fear I am quite unwell.” Beatrice tried to keep her tone as low as she could without being so rude as to whisper.
Mama studied Beatrice’s face, which must have been chartreuse with nausea. “Have some water, dear. I’m sure that will right you.”
