Galveston Between Wind and Water - By Rachel Cartwright Page 0,21
find her way again. Only by the sheer force of indomitable spirit was she able to pull herself out of that soul-crushing abyss of despair, spurred by the realization that even love is capable of such a cruel betrayal of trust.
Until she heard the dreadful racket Saturday on Market Street, Gabrielle had—after two years—come to consider Bret as having passed into insignificance, waiting to be left behind with the arrogant century that had made him a sad, supercilious man desperately trying to maintain appearances of his family’s paling grandeur.
Their time together had been the careless and naive adventure of her first and only deep romantic love, but even then, under his public exuberance, she had sensed his hidden, private fears. Bret was the past and, if she wanted the new life she desired, her feelings for him would have to stay there entangled within the knotted fiber of their difficult relationship.
He was lost to her, a captive of his own disturbing moods and intense longing for something that remained a dark secret in his distant heart.
If he behaved as a gentleman, he might still be allowed into the periphery of her social circle, but never within its center. A successful gentleman’s wife-to-be needs to be wooed and won with pride. Anything less would be a mistake, and she could never allow that to happen again.
She brushed back her hair. Today would be perfect for the yellow bolero jacket and dress with the brown satin flowers. Gabrielle dressed quickly and strutted down the stairs to the parlor where she overheard Timothy DeRocha and her father discussing Bret’s drilling activities in Beaumont.
Timothy snapped to attention when Gabrielle entered. She admired his tanned face with its curved nose and brown eyes, but his voice was always servile in the presence of her father.
After exchanging mutual pleasantries, she listened patiently, encouraging each with a smile or a nod. A woman always found her most valuable information by letting men vent their irritation and argue with each other.
Gabrielle’s father scratched his moustache. “It appears Bret never sent word ahead to anyone here or his man, Philip, when he departed England for New York.”
Timothy smiled at her and adjusted his gold tie pin. “I believe he’s bankrupt, spent his entire inheritance abroad and now he has returned to scrounge off the good graces of his old friends and business partners.”
“No. There’s more to it,” Gabrielle insisted, surprised by how quickly she had voiced her private suspicion.
“Surely you don’t believe in his oil drilling scam in Beaumont?” Timothy asked. “I’d have more respect for him if he asked me for money to dig for the pirate treasure of Jean Lafitte.”
Gabrielle’s father frowned. “No, sir. Whatever money Bret had left has surely sunk into those empty holes with the remains of his family’s name.”
Timothy nodded. “That seems to agree with all the reports I’ve heard. The man is desperate. This fancy party of his is nothing but an elaborate attempt to swindle those who have loved and trusted him most.”
Gabrielle bristled. “You sound so certain, Timothy.”
Timothy looked at her as though she were an errant child. “Please, Gabrielle. You of all people should know I’m right.”
She wanted to say something in Bret’s defense but could only press her lips together.
“I made almost one hundred percent profit on my first shipment of cotton,” her father said, turning from the window. “And nearly two hundred percent on my first sale of steers.”
Timothy regarded her father with adoring veneration. “You are an example to us all, Mr. Caldwell. When a man risks everything to start a business and build a better life for his family, he deserves those rewards and more. But nothing is more valuable to a damn Yankee than his stomach, and he should be happy to pay for the privilege of letting us fill it for him. Isn’t that true, Gabrielle?”
“I would be happy to feed any man north of the Mason-Dixon if he helped me get the vote in return.”
The men stared at each other, then at the floor and shook their heads. Timothy coughed and covered his mouth with his clenched hand. “A gentleman certainly has to stay on his toes around you, Gabrielle. Women’s suffrage? What’s next? Lord, sir, how do you keep up with her?”
Gabrielle’s father tapped the bowl of his pipe on his palm, found it clogged and excused himself to get his cleaning kit from his upstairs study.
When his footsteps reached the second floor landing, Timothy cleared his throat and spoke in