idea of something as frivolous as a ‘pleasure garden’ was abhorrent to him. Worse, he’d been abominably seasick on the voyage over from Boston. The ferry ride over the gentle swells might have seemed far more violently rolling to him than to Grace and her mother.
“Are you feeling all right, Papa?”
“Never better.” He swiped his bald pate with his handkerchief. The boat trip hadn’t ended a moment too soon. Grace knew the only thing Homer Makepeace detested more than tardiness was weakness, so he wouldn’t show any if he could help it. “Let’s not dawdle. We agreed to meet your cousins at 9:00 sharp.” Homer consulted his filigreed pocket watch. “That gives us less than a quarter hour to find them in this confounded press.”
“Never fear.” Minerva took her husband’s arm and led him up the stone steps. “I know exactly where they’ll be.”
Once they reached the gate, Grace’s father grumbled at the admission price. “3 shillings and 6 pence. A piece! I thought you said it was only a shilling to get in here, Min.”
“Hush, dear. Someone might hear you,” her mother scolded. “Times change and so do prices. Besides, it’s not as if we can’t afford it. And this is all for Grace, remember.”
Her father’s expression softened a bit. He snugged Grace close and planted a quick kiss on her forehead. “Anything for my baby girl.”
I’m not a baby , Grace wanted to cry. And truthfully, this whole trip and the nonsense of seeking a titled husband was her mother’s wish. If not for lure of lovely cathedrals and museums and the throbbing city of London itself, Grace would have been quite content to remain in Boston.
Minerva’s blood was blue on her mother’s side and she never let anyone who’d listen forget it.
“Your great-grandmother was the daughter of a real English viscount,” she often told Grace. “But she married down—a commoner, in fact, and then she followed him to America.”
Grace thought the tale oozed romance, but all her mother saw in the story was the loss of status. Minerva was determined to recapture her family’s toplofty standing through a brilliant match for Grace.
What her father made of all this, Grace wasn’t sure. Homer Makepeace was born the son of the cabinetmaker, but through his own hard work and ingenuity had risen to become one of the wealthiest men in Boston. He’d built a lovely brownstone on Beacon Hill for them and showered his wife with every possible indulgence.
But more pearls than cover Heaven’s gate wasn’t what she wanted.
“I’ll buy the girl a title if that’s what it takes to satisfy you, Minerva,” Grace had overheard her father offer in exasperation one night after they thought she’d gone upstairs to bed. “God knows I’ve got the chinks for it.”
“Homer,” her mother had said reprovingly, “people of good breeding find the discussion of money distasteful.”
“People of good sense don’t. And even people of good breeding need money, though they are often incapable of making it for themselves. Mark my words. The size of my wallet will see to our girl’s future sooner than all the good breeding in the world.”
Grace had tiptoed on up the stairs before she overheard something she didn’t wish to know her parents believed of her.
Like how gawky and awkward she was. And how difficult it would be for her to catch the eye of a member of the aristocracy without the requisite social charm. Or the way she danced as if springs were attached to her feet. And on the subject of her feet . . . honestly, had any young lady of quality ever suffered from such large feet as she? Her brothers always said she ought to be able to walk across the Charles River on them.
Her father had called off the boys and joked that Grace, like the new Statehouse going up, needed a “good foundation” but she never found it funny. The list of her shortcomings was endless.
Fortunately, her father’s pockets were equally
“Are you feeling all right, Papa?”
“Never better.” He swiped his bald pate with his handkerchief. The boat trip hadn’t ended a moment too soon. Grace knew the only thing Homer Makepeace detested more than tardiness was weakness, so he wouldn’t show any if he could help it. “Let’s not dawdle. We agreed to meet your cousins at 9:00 sharp.” Homer consulted his filigreed pocket watch. “That gives us less than a quarter hour to find them in this confounded press.”
“Never fear.” Minerva took her husband’s arm and led him up the stone steps. “I know exactly where they’ll be.”
Once they reached the gate, Grace’s father grumbled at the admission price. “3 shillings and 6 pence. A piece! I thought you said it was only a shilling to get in here, Min.”
“Hush, dear. Someone might hear you,” her mother scolded. “Times change and so do prices. Besides, it’s not as if we can’t afford it. And this is all for Grace, remember.”
Her father’s expression softened a bit. He snugged Grace close and planted a quick kiss on her forehead. “Anything for my baby girl.”
I’m not a baby , Grace wanted to cry. And truthfully, this whole trip and the nonsense of seeking a titled husband was her mother’s wish. If not for lure of lovely cathedrals and museums and the throbbing city of London itself, Grace would have been quite content to remain in Boston.
Minerva’s blood was blue on her mother’s side and she never let anyone who’d listen forget it.
“Your great-grandmother was the daughter of a real English viscount,” she often told Grace. “But she married down—a commoner, in fact, and then she followed him to America.”
Grace thought the tale oozed romance, but all her mother saw in the story was the loss of status. Minerva was determined to recapture her family’s toplofty standing through a brilliant match for Grace.
What her father made of all this, Grace wasn’t sure. Homer Makepeace was born the son of the cabinetmaker, but through his own hard work and ingenuity had risen to become one of the wealthiest men in Boston. He’d built a lovely brownstone on Beacon Hill for them and showered his wife with every possible indulgence.
But more pearls than cover Heaven’s gate wasn’t what she wanted.
“I’ll buy the girl a title if that’s what it takes to satisfy you, Minerva,” Grace had overheard her father offer in exasperation one night after they thought she’d gone upstairs to bed. “God knows I’ve got the chinks for it.”
“Homer,” her mother had said reprovingly, “people of good breeding find the discussion of money distasteful.”
“People of good sense don’t. And even people of good breeding need money, though they are often incapable of making it for themselves. Mark my words. The size of my wallet will see to our girl’s future sooner than all the good breeding in the world.”
Grace had tiptoed on up the stairs before she overheard something she didn’t wish to know her parents believed of her.
Like how gawky and awkward she was. And how difficult it would be for her to catch the eye of a member of the aristocracy without the requisite social charm. Or the way she danced as if springs were attached to her feet. And on the subject of her feet . . . honestly, had any young lady of quality ever suffered from such large feet as she? Her brothers always said she ought to be able to walk across the Charles River on them.
Her father had called off the boys and joked that Grace, like the new Statehouse going up, needed a “good foundation” but she never found it funny. The list of her shortcomings was endless.
Fortunately, her father’s pockets were equally
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