Jennifer Shaw

Happy Valentine’s Week! I thought I’d try something new and post a piece of historical fiction for anyone to enjoy.

I wrote this novelette last year and, though I’m a better writer now, I still think it’s the most emotionally satisfying thing I’ve ever written, and I thought it would be fun to share it with you.

I will post Part II tomorrow and Part III on Friday.

I hope you enjoy it.

February 14, 1896

New York City

Archibald Percy’s toes had been cut off. At least, that’s how it felt. He glanced down at his fine leather boots, which he’d thought thick enough to withstand the inch of snow, but now they were damp and paper thin, and his feet were freezing. He wiggled his fingers inside his fashionable, flimsy gloves; they were burning too. Percy, Earl of Worcester, from the oldest, noblest family in northern England—not at all a warm place—ought to have known better. But, he did not think he’d be here in Central Park for quite so long, awaiting Miss Katherine Williams’s arrival.

The minutes ticking by carved an ever-deeper pit in his stomach. He peered up at the high ceiling of thin, gray clouds, behind which hung a wafer of weak sun, then over at the nearest copse of skeletal trees. Behind them, brick, stone, and even steel buildings rose in the distance like silent, stoic giants. At the forefront of this scene stood a group of impatient newspapermen. They shuffled back and forth in their long coats, rubbing gloved hands together and even bouncing on the balls of their feet. They were struggling to keep warm, too. He couldn’t see or hear them well, but he noticed their hunched shoulders and imagined their creased brows and heavy sighs. This was taking longer than everyone had expected.

If, however, the delay ran too much longer—into the ridiculous—their posture would change. They’d lift their shoulders and scan the entire park more carefully. Eager, then ravenous, to witness and record any humiliation, any scandal on this grand scale. Percy had learned this well in his short time in America. 

He looked at his manservant. “What time is it, Carter?”

The man released one hand from the object he held to check his pocket watch. “Twelve seventeen, sir.”

The servant’s breath steamed. He shivered, his cheeks and nose a raw shade of salmon. Still, ever dutiful, he held the ornate, rectangular Valentine Percy had commissioned from Paris, ready to present it to Miss Williams upon his master’s signal, if the lady ever appeared.

The Valentine was a true work of art, its palette edged with Hallette lace and featuring a Bouguereau painting impressive in its tiny detailing of warm-hued roses and two love birds. In the picture, the birds, delicate and pristine, flew toward each other against the backdrop of a lovely rendition of Ivers Hall, Percy’s family seat. But Percy hardly knew what was on the thing. It was just another item special ordered, an object necessary in his plan to acquire the Williams wealth his family needed if they were to revitalize their struggling estate.

He was aware, however, of the little door on which the birds were painted, the most special feature of this Valentine. It had a dainty golden clasp that, when opened, revealed a silk-laden compartment in which sat a box from Garrard’s in London. Within this box, nestled in a dark, plush cushion, was an exquisite engagement gift, a solitaire ring set with a large ruby from the Percy family stones, one of their few jewels left. 

That ring was the culmination of weeks of strategic courtship, and it meant everything to Percy. It was his key to a better future.

But Miss Williams had to cooperate.

She was supposed to be there at noon. That was their agreement for this show. They would meet in Central Park, and Percy would present his gift as he asked for her hand in marriage. Miss Williams would accept the ring, their engagement would be official—public—and they’d proceed into the golden, impressive coach that looked not unlike Queen Victoria’s, with its intricate scrollwork on the outside and bloodred cushions and curtains within. But only after Miss Williams also took the overflowing bouquet of roses and snowdrops from the liveried coachman and the box of Swiss chocolates from the postilion. From there, pulled by four Lipizzan horses, they would parade about the park enjoying the warmth of the interior, admired by the reporters and the few strolling spectators brave enough to bear the temperature at five degrees Fahrenheit.

Finally, Percy and Katherine would venture up Fifth Avenue to the Van Dusens’, who were throwing an engagement luncheon in their honor.  It would all be a glorious, romantic scene, beyond what was typical even of the beauty and luxury of their class. Fully witnessed by the press, the entire show would grandly announce to the world that one of the wealthy and powerful Williamses of New York was about to ascend into the British aristocracy. Old World prestige and New World money, a partnership that had yet to grow dull among those with the status to participate.

That was the production, rehearsed in countless preliminary words. The script upon which they were all to act.

Just yards away, the coach and its two liveried staff stood still, a ridiculous juxtaposition against the bleak cityscape. The gray dappled horses were almost motionless too, their plumed heads hung as low as their harness would allow. One shifted its weight forlornly from one hoof to another, its muzzle smoking in the cold.

Under his thin coat and Homburg hat, Percy had grown hot enough to perspire.

“Carter,” he said again, his voice as low as possible. “Get a note back to Mischa. She needs to know what’s happening. Write down that Katherine is not here.”

“Yes, sir.” Carter’s voice was quieter even than his master’s. With an impressive casualness, and still holding the Valentine, the manservant turned and crunched up the snowy path, back toward the motorcar hidden from view.  

Percy couldn’t help but make eye contact with the press. They were standing straighter now, stiller, focused on him. Their soft murmur had ceased, and the snowy expanse separating him from their assemblage lay vast and fraught.  

Percy’s mind spun. Regardless of Mischa Williams’s actual response, he ran through all the things he might say as soon as he’d received her reply. The young lady’s motor car had a flat tire, there was a problem with her day dress, she’d been kept back by a sudden family emergency. None of these seemed convincing. All such problems were easily solved or brushed aside in the context of such a momentous day. They might also suggest to the press that he, Percy, was not as important as he seemed. That he was simply a pawn to be treated as the Williamses liked, as their whims dictated. Perhaps…

“She’s sick,” he murmured to himself. Yes, that was it. Miss Williams was sick with a sudden headache, or a fainting spell due to all the excitement.

But, oh God… what if Katherine’s absence meant she was refusing him?

Percy’s thoughts flew away from the Williams family, away from America even, back to his home on those rough, cold meadows of northern England. He envisioned his crumbling manor house. He thought of his struggling tenants, the terrible condition of many buildings in the village. The poor attendance at the parish church—the villagers did not care for their rector, old and bitter as he was. The repairs needed on a local bridge. The struggling crops… he wanted to hire an agricultural specialist from Oxford to advise the farmers on all the latest techniques. He also wanted to employ an elite accountant to replace his steward, for he needed truly expert advice to bridge the gaps his classical education had left in his understanding of modern finances.

To complicate matters, the Prince of Wales had a taste for opulence and encouraged it among his courtiers; it didn’t seem likely one could gain much influence at court without it.

Percy had to figure out a way to turn everything around, and not just for himself.

One more generation of degeneration, and there might be no saving his line or—more importantly—the village that relied on it. His parents, wrapped up in their own ailments, vices, and melancholies, had been especially indifferent to him, which led to especially disinterested tutors and nannies, so he’d played on the village green as a boy far more frequently than his family ever suspected. He’d bounced about with many of the commoners’ children, and now those children were grown, with families and struggles of their own. Percy understood better than many of his class how tenants were, in fact, real people, actual human beings, who needed him to pull his social weight. It was his responsibility to take it all upon his shoulders, to lift them all up. But he was no Atlas. He needed help.  

Help meant money. Money he could not make on his own, not in his current situation.           

Katherine had to marry him. He needed her million dollar dowry.

He shook his head. He could not dwell on the entire wretched context, not right now. This moment, here and now in this bloody freezing park, was more important. He had to save face right now. That meant, first, buying them all more time.

Don’t get distracted.

You know what you ought to do.

Swallowing, he made his numb-footed way over to the reporters. Mustering all the wry English charm he could, he began chatting with them, reassuring them as the inevitable questions came.

“Where is Miss Williams, Earl Percy?”

“Is she still coming?”

“Is everything alright, Lord Worcester?”

“Has Mrs. Williams withdrawn her support?”

“Might an engagement not take place today, after all?”

The Americans fired one question after another, like darts in a game, and Percy masked the stings. God, their nasally, rhotic accent that made him want to wince every time he heard it, goddamn them all.

“Everything is fine, my good sirs!” He spoke in his pluckiest English voice, wielding it like a weapon. “Miss Williams will be along shortly. You know how ladies get.”  

He got a few of them chuckling about the delights of haggis and plum pudding, which he insisted New Yorkers would love if they would only try it while abroad.

“And I’m no Scotsman, so you know I’m objective. Perhaps…” he chuckled, scrambling, “Perhaps, if Miss Williams has changed her mind—God forbid—” He placed his hands theatrically over his chest. “I shall recruit the most talented Highland chef and bring these old Scottish delights to your great new city! An interesting enterprise that would be, would it not?”

If only that were an option.

Percy gritted his teeth against the inane chit-chat that went on and on, his grin paining his cheeks.

Then finally, finally…

Carter reappeared. It was 12:53 pm.

Percy allowed the manservant to join him where he stood with the journalists and took the note Carter handed him with a smooth, “My lord.”

Ignoring his tight stomach, Percy read it, feeling so much like an actor on a stage. How right Shakespeare had been.

We will find her. Go to luncheon. Tell all she will be along soon, there is no news yet re. engagement but soon. Likely to be announced there. Leave rest to me.

It was from Katherine’s mother, Miranda Williams. Or Mischa, as Percy had grown used to calling her. Her more formal, self-chosen American name felt wrong to those in her inner circle, which now included the earl. “Mischa” was much more fitting for this commanding woman, regally Slavic as she was.

In truth, she turned his stomach.

Percy took a breath. “Gentlemen.” His voice was sharp. He waved the note at them. “I must along to the Van Dusen residence now, where I am to meet Miss Williams, with the aid of a hot toddy, I might add.”

More chuckles.

“It seems,” he continued, sweeping his eyes around the park, “this frigid weather has made the lady change her mind about the romantic beauty of the great outdoors.”

Heartier laughter came from the lazier reporters. Others were already scribbling on their notepads.

“Good day.” Percy nodded to them all, signaling the end of their little press conference.

With that, the newsmen dispersed, muttering in a mix of tones, and the Earl of Worcester followed his directions from Mrs. Miranda “Mischa” Williams. Chauffeured in his open-air motorcar, he enjoyed a temporary relief even as he continued to shiver, dusting the nerves from himself like only so much February snow.

“Mischa’s extraordinarily capable,” he said to Carter, who nodded blankly as he steered the tiller of Percy’s new Duryea Motor Wagon, a gift from Mischa. It was always comforting speaking to Carter, who rarely said a word in return. It was like talking to a blander, more tranquil version of himself. “She’ll handle this.”

There was no way Mischa Williams would let her daughter refuse him. Mischa believed she needed Percy’s title as badly as he knew he needed her money.

“She’s far more powerful than her thin little bird of a daughter,” he added.

Wasn’t she?

Suddenly, Percy’s entire body felt terribly, achingly heavy, and fatigue dragged on his eyelids. If only he could excuse himself once he was at the Van Dusens’. Escape upstairs to a guest suite, close out the watery sun behind thick curtains. Lie down under a hefty blanket. Black out to everything.

He turned his thoughts instead to the Kentucky whiskey—the best thing about America—awaiting him in the Old New York parlor. That first drink, always the best, would warm his brittle English bones, helping him believe everything would be alright.

In that moment, Percy did not dream—nor would anyone else—that Katherine Millicent Williams, great American heiress of the Gilded Age, would never be seen again.

That, despite her mother arising from her luxurious bed where she’d fallen acutely ill the night before to retake the helm, despite her father’s greatest efforts, and later a lawyer’s, a private detective’s, and, finally, at long last, the New York City Police Department’s—little Katya Williams would never be found.

To be continued tomorrow, February 13th.