Evening Star (Star Quartet 1)

Chapter 1

Geneva, 1846

“Giana, I must fix that bow in your hair, it’s hanging over your ear. And do hold still. We don’t want to be late. Charles will be here soon and we cannot keep my future husband waiting for his dinner.”

Giana stood quiet, eyeing herself in the long Derber mirror as Derry patted the blue velvet bow at the back of her head and tugged at the cluster of black curls over her ears.

Derry stood back, admiring her handiwork from several angles. “You’re lovely, Giana,” she said. But Giana was staring blankly at her in the mirror, paying no attention to her matching blue velvet gown.

“Derry,” Giana said, “you have told me often enough how dashing Charles is, and that he loves you. But does he truly love you more than anything? Will he love you forever?”

Derry Fairmount regarded her seventeen-year-old friend Georgiana Van Cleve with the indulgent air of a girl who was a year older and engaged to be wed.

“Of course he loves me, you silly girl. And besides all that, he’s everything I could wish for in a husband—he is ever so handsome and distinguished, and he is quite wealthy. It’s true he lives in New York, though,” she added with a thoughtful frown. “My father is a dreadful snob, as only a Bostonian can be. But you’ve heard me tell you that often enough. Well, he saw last summer that dear Charles finds me quite to his liking, and has been busy, I can tell you, with all the marriage contracts and agreements. Boring stuff, but I suppose everything must be worked out before I return home.”

“He won’t ever leave you, Derry? He will stay with you always, and you’ll never have to worry, about anything?”

Derry’s happy smile stayed firmly in place, but she quickly hugged her friend. She knew Giana would miss her. And she knew that Giana, raised by nannies and governesses, looked to marriage for a sense of security, and of belonging, that she had never felt. Derry had visited Giana and her mother in London two years before, and although Mrs. Van Cleve was charming and beautiful, Derry had seen that her young friend was like a guest in her mother’s house, feted, but somehow separate and apart from her. “No, love,” she said. “Married to Charles, I’ll never have to be alone, nor will I ever worry. Someday, soon, Giana, you will have a husband and family of your own.”

“I cannot imagine that,” Giana said. She wished more than anything that Derry were younger, and not about to leave her. She cocked her head to one side, watching Derry buff her nails, and said, “But, Derry, isn’t your Charles terribly old?”

Derry laughed a full-bodied laugh abounding with life, a laugh that Madame Orlie and her minions had failed to contain.

“Old? Well, he is thirty-something-or-other, which is not at all old for a husband, especially one as rich as dear Charles. Did I tell you that his only child by his first wife, a daughter, Jennifer, is only two years younger than I? Of course I did. I’m rattling on like a chirper. Think of the fun she and I will have, just as you and I do.”

“But what if she doesn’t like you, Derry?”

“Really, Giana, why ever should Jennifer not like me? I’m not a wicked stepmother.” The gay laughter bubbled over again. “Me, a stepmother. That concerns my mother, you know, and I must admit, it does give me pause, sometimes. But Jennifer, after all, is a daughter, not a wife, and the two are quite different. She will have no cause to dislike me.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right,” Giana said. “But if one believes all the romantic novels, the stepdaughter must hate the new mother.”

“Bosh,” Derry said. “Those books were dreadfully silly, but”—she rolled her eyes—“so very informative. At least I think they are,” she added, blushing slightly. Derry’s face took on a dreamy look, and slowly she began to dance around their room. “Boston was so beautiful that summer, and Charles so enjoyed waltzing with me.”

Yes, Giana thought, feeling tears prick her eyelids, any man would want to waltz with Derry. She didn’t want to feel envious of Derry, truly she didn’t, but the thought of loving and being loved in return, of belonging to someone and never having to be alone again, was like a magical dream, a dream that had come true for Derry.

“You are awfully quiet all of a sudden, Miss Van Cleve,” Derry said, drawing her imaginary waltz to a close.

“I was just thinking,” Giana said.

Derry merely laughed. “Remember when we first met, goodness, it was over three years ago. My ever-so-snobbish parents dumped me here in Geneva at Madame Orlie’s exclusive young ladies’ seminary to finish me off properly.” Her eyes twinkled. “They will be so disappointed. After all your good influence, I still haven’t achieved your clipped, starchy accent. You English—I think you are born speaking that way.”

Giana’s twinge of envy dissolved under Derry’s laughter. She lowered her head and whispered, “You will leave in but three days, Derry, and I will be alone again.”

“Nonsense, Giana. You will not have to put up with another colonial like me. Next week you will have a new roommate, a nice English girl, who, from what she told us in her very nice English letter, is blessed with a handsome brother. Who knows, perhaps he will be a prince charming.”

“Unlikely,” Giana said, knowing that Derry was merely trying to cheer her up, and hating it. “There will be no one to tell you what to do,” she said suddenly. “You will have servants, and do just as you please.”

“Yes, and eat cream puffs for dinner, if I like. Old Maevis would have a fit, I know, the dear old dragon.” Derry pursed her mouth tightly together and hunched her shoulders, doing a credible imitation of Maevis Danforth, their deportment teacher. “Like she sucks lemons.” Derry giggled.

Giana smiled at her antics, as always, but the hated tears were still there, waiting for naught in particular to send them streaming down her face.

“Come, Giana, whatever are you daydreaming about now? You really must stop that, you know. I’ve told you often enough that people will think you’re myopic, and we both know you’ve the eyes of an eagle.”

“I will miss you, Derry,” Giana said.

“New York is not the end of the earth, Giana. And it is not as if you were a poor little orphan. When Madame Orlie considers you fit to leave her poshy school, in what, a mere six more months?” She paused a moment, gazing about their dimity-curtained room that gave onto the magnificent prospect of Lake Geneva, then shrugged her elegant shoulders. “Well, your dear mama can send you to New York to visit me. It is only fair, after all, for I visited you two years ago in London. And I’m sure I can convince dear Charles to bring me to London, next year, say. There are dozens of banks in London, and Charles loves banks above all things. Now, Giana, you must smile, and be happy for me. Look, your bow has come loose again. Quickly, my love. Madame Orlie should be greeting Charles and Jennifer anytime now, and I wish us to be ready when she calls for us. Now, my girl, straighten your shoulders, I hear Lisette coming. Charles has doubtless arrived.”

Their greetings were stilted in Madame Orlie’s severely formal drawing room, but no sooner were they tucked warmly into a carriage and on their way to the renowned Golden Lion than Derry was chattering gaily, gesticulating with only one hand, for the other was safely held by Mr. Charles Lattimer.

Giana stared shyly at Mr. Lattimer whenever he wasn’t looking at her. He appeared to be everything Derry had rhapsodized about, and more. He was a tall man, slender and elegantly attired, with soft wheat-colored hair that was just beginning to gray at the temples—ever so distinguished—and light blue eyes that seemed aloof and cold until he smiled, which he did a great deal that evening. He was, Giana recognized, old enough to be her father, and Derry’s as well, but with his elegance, his polished manners, Giana soon came to believe that an older man such as he would only cherish his wife all the more. When he addressed an amusing remark to Derry, or lightly caressed her hand, Giana saw him as superb, the epitome of what a husband should be.

When they arrived at the Golden Lion, Charles gracefully assisted the three young ladies from the carriage. He had procured a private dining room, and after settling them around an immaculately set dinner table, he beckoned the waiter and ordered champagne in flawless French.

“Scandalous, sir,” Derry said, laughing.

“Ah,” Charles Lattimer said, smiling down at his fiancée, “but we must celebrate, my dear.”

“Champagne gives me a headache,” Jennifer said, the longest string of words she had yet spoken.

“It makes Giana sneeze,” Derry said.

“A toast,” Charles Lattimer said, raising his glass when the champagne had been poured. “To my beautiful bride.” His blue eyes seemed to caress each of them, and his smile widened. “I appear to be blessed with a veritable harem this evening. Never have I enjoyed the company of three such lovely ladies.”

“I will see that you don’t in the future, Charles,” Derry said, quirking a blond brow at him.

“My father always does just as he should,” Jennifer said. “And besides, you are too young to tell him what to do.”

There was a brief, tense moment of silence, during which Giana wanted to smack Jennifer Lattimer’s face.

To Giana’s relief, Charles Lattimer leaned back in his chair and said lightly, “A wife, my dear Jennifer, particularly one as young and lovely as Derry, can always tell her husband what to do. He is the most malleable of creatures, I assure you.”

Giana took a drink of her champagne, and quickly sneezed. “I hope I am not leading to your moral downfall, my dear Miss Van Cleve,” Charles said.

“Oh no, sir,” Giana said, feeling her face go warm.

“We once sneaked in some champagne,” Derry said. “The gardener’s boy bought it for us. I must agree with Jennifer. After half a bottle, the both of us had splitting heads the next day. Madame Orlie thought we had both come down with the influenza and sent us back to bed.”