for their morning meals in their mansion in the most exclusive neighborhood of Philadelphia. He was holding a newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
“Good morning, Papa.”
“Good morning, Lucinda,” he said and stood, never removing his eyes from what he was reading.
“Good morning, Aunt,” she said.
“Good morning, dear,” Aunt Louisa said as she contemplated the food on her fork.
Lucinda wandered to the buffet and chose her plate, waiting for the young man wearing the livery of another time, including stockings, white breeches, an embroidered red vest and coat, and buckled shoes, to fill her plate. Her father insisted all the household staff be attired not only formally, but in clothing from the previous century. But she did not complain. He was good to her, even though his insistence on formal behavior and mores was unfortunate and sometimes embarrassing.
Their current home and Chateau Vermeal in Virginia, where they’d lived until the previous spring, were decorated much like what her father remembered of the family’s homes in Spain and included some of the artwork from there. His and Aunt Louisa’s parents, Lucinda’s grandparents, a young couple both of royal blood, had somehow escaped the Reign of Terror in their remote locale and maintained their vast inherited wealth at the same time. But being prudent, and realizing that the changes in France, including the rise of Napoleon, would not be peaceful or profitable for the Vermeals, they began to ship priceless artwork and artifacts to Spain and amassed trunk after trunk of gold coins. Telling a few trusted neighbors and friends that they intended to enjoy a holiday in Italy, they had promptly sailed for Spain with the clothes on their backs and heavy trunks, not full of clothing and personal effects, but rather precious metal. Her grandpapa had reportedly said that replacing wardrobes would be the least of their problems.
They settled in the port town of Barcelona, where her grandpapa made a second fortune in shipping and her grandmother birthed two children. As a young man in the 1840s, her papa recognized the opportunities to expand his wealth in America and brought his French-born bride from a family visiting the city, to Virginia, raising tobacco and other crops, and straddled the coming Civil War by divesting himself of slaves and contributing gold and goods heavily to both sides. Marie Vermeal died giving birth to a boy when Lucinda was just two years old, and her brother lived only a few hours. Aunt Louisa was sent for to care for her brother’s daughter and dutifully put aside her own life to raise her niece. She was the only mother Lucinda could remember.
Lucinda took her seat while another young man helped her with her chair, his eyes appropriately downcast. The plate of her favorite foods was sat before her and steaming tea poured into the hand-painted china cup to her right. She dropped in one sugar cube and stirred.
“How is everyone this morning?” she asked.
Papa ruffled his papers but did not reply. Aunt Louisa stared at her.
“Is something amiss?” she said quietly to her aunt. “Something with Papa’s business?”
“No. I believe your father’s business continues to prosper. I recently met with his man of business, and my accounts continue to expand.”
Oddly forward thinking, Father had given his sister a share of the Vermeal companies’ profits since she’d come to America. Or perhaps she’d demanded it, knowing she’d be giving up her chances to marry and have children of her own. Maybe she wouldn’t have come otherwise. Lucinda had never had the courage to ask her, and didn’t her father always say it was crass to talk about money?
Lucinda sipped her tea and slathered the warm roll in her hand with apricot preserves, her favorite. She looked up when her father put his paper down in a rumble.
“What is it?” she asked to his stern face. He was rarely angry, but she thought he might be now.
“I blame your aunt.” He signaled the servants to leave the room.
“Blame her for what, Papa? What has happened?”
“There was nothing untoward about Lucinda’s behavior or mine,” Aunt said.
“Clearly, that is not the case.”
“What are you talking about?” Lucinda asked.
“I know you’ve done it, girl, there is no use acting the innocent. Not only did Gauteau visit me already this morning, but your aunt admitted as much!”
“Please tell me what you are talking about, Papa.”
“Do not turn on the tears, dear. I’m quite immune to them when it comes to the family’s honor.”
Lucinda took