The author acknowledges kind permission to use the extract from the poem, “being in love,” by Heather Farmer (Of Dreams and Desires, 1993)
Chapter One
Yonkers, New York—September, 1865
“Did anyone ever tell you, you’re a mighty stubborn woman, Sophy van Houten?”
Taking several deep breaths to choke back the sobs that were threatening to well up in her throat, Sophy focused very hard on the street scene outside the window. She was not one of the indomitable van Houtens for nothing. She would give a good account of herself if she had to. Resist as long as she was able.
The van Houtens had always been proud. Their lineage could be traced to the settlement of Manhattan. As the only child of a wealthy industrialist, she had been given every material advantage, but she was not spoiled.
During the dreadful years of the war, she had put her talents to good use. She was not one of those women who had never faced anything more momentous in her life than a decision of accepting or refusing a proposal of marriage.
Sophy van Houten was known to be extremely fastidious. She had danced and dined her way through New York society without once having been tempted to wed. Now, circumstances beyond her control dictated that she marry, and with no further tarrying.
Her face darkened. “Why should I be forced into a marriage I do not want? They freed the slaves, but not the women!”
“Sophy!”
Shoulders stiff and squared, Sophy wrapped her arms protectively around herself. It was a posture she often adopted when she was upset. “Money! Money! It is not the ‘root of all evil,’ it is the cause of all distraction and worry! I hate men!”
“Nonsense!”
There was a tight feeling in the region of her heart. “It’s true. They’re all the same. Wanting to get their hands on me—or my money.”
“Sophy!”
She scowled. “I have no wish to be a social butterfly, nor am I cut out for constant charitable works. I want to be gainfully employed, using my God-given talents, though I am sure the stuffy old-fashioned financiers in Wall Street would not give me a job,” she added darkly.
Turning, she shot her companion a quick, questioning glance and then smiled crookedly. “A woman must know when to bend, or else she will surely break. I really have no alternative, do I?” Her chin rose defiantly. “I’ll get married, Aunt Ella, but it will be on my terms.”
“Sophy!” The other woman, perched like a nervous bird on the edge of a large wing chair, admonished her again in breathless apprehension. “Even though your father tolerated your idiosyncrasies, and understood your natural reluctance, he still wanted you to marry. The trustees are only doing their duty.”
Sophy spun impatiently and strode toward a large mahogany desk on the other side of the comfortably furnished room, which was lined with books and showed every evidence of luxury and wealth.
“Their idea of duty leads to constraint, and constraint stifles compassion. Have I no duty to myself? Why should I sacrifice my independence, be snared like a silly bird by that reptile word duty?”
Picking up an embossed letterhead, she marched across the Persian rug toward her aunt and ground out between set teeth, “Listen to this hogwash! ‘After due care and consideration of your proposition, the trustees do not consider your request for funds to be either expedient or for a worthy cause.’ What a load of drivel!”
“Now, Sophy, that is a wicked way to talk.” Ella van Houten could scarcely gasp the words. “Try not to be so...so passionate, dear.” Putting her hand against her chest, as if she feared she might have a heart attack, she said faintly, “You know that your uncle Schuyler and my dear brother, Heinrich, act only in your best interests.”
“Aunt Ella, it’s ridiculous. My uncles’ living will controls Father’s dead one. I am bound hand and foot by invisible threads, a conspiracy of those who profess to love me. You know I always looked after Father’s investments. He trusted me to make good any cash given to ‘worthy causes.’”
“I agree, Sophy, and you never once failed your dear father’s trust,” Ella van Houten replied wearily. Knitting her brow, the elderly woman continued, “Nicholas believed that whatsoever a man sows, that also is what he reaps, for the reaper and the plowman are one.”
Sophy crouched and added a log to the fireplace. “Don’t go all cryptic on me now, Aunt Ella. I know it’s vulgar to talk about money, but you know none of the men who offer for me so ardently would be at all keen if I were not a wealthy heiress,” she retorted, trying to keep her tone light. “I have rejected so many offers I have lost count, but not one heartbroken suitor was among them!”
Her aunt smiled pensively, feeling a tug of affection and appreciation for Sophy’s prosaic attitude. Rich, beautiful, witty but stubborn to a fault, naturally she had admirers in plenty, but so far she had refused to marry any of them. She had never said so, but Ella knew that her niece had hoped to marry for love.
It was a shame that women were so bound and restricted by custom and the laws of society. With her secret core of romance and color, and a lack of convention that distressed only the unimaginative, Sophy had much to offer.
Ella’s eyes softened. Sophy did seem very slender and frail in the firelight. The mass of shining hair, looped in a fashionable swirl, seemed too heavy for the finely molded head.
Yet there was something vital and vibrant in the contours of the face, the straight little nose, the arched eyebrows and generous lips. And the large eyes, dark gray with somehow a tinge of purple in them, were bright and intelligent.
“In that case, there is no reason for you not to marry one of them. Surely you will now take your trustees’ advice as to the eligibility of suitors?” Ella questioned dryly.
“Oh, but I have a plan!” Sophy rose to her feet and danced across the room, merriment in her eyes. The decision made, her spirits rose like bubbles in champagne, sparkling, invigorating.
“Those chauvinistic fuddy-duddies are kindhearted and well-meaning, but they are pigheaded, and confuse logic and emotion. What I intend to do is to have them approve someone I choose!”
Her aunt’s expression of patient disgust changed to one of suspicion. “What’s going on inside that head of yours, Sophy? What scheme are you cooking up now?”
“I shall travel to New York City tomorrow. If I tell Mr. Tyson that I will transfer the van Houten funds to Pierpont Morgan’s bank when I come of age if he doesn’t cooperate, he will soon produce a desirable suitor.”
Sophy spoke so violently that her aunt winced. Her niece was small and fragile, yet she was stalking the room and snarling like a tigress after its prey.
Ella realized the great mistake Sophy would make if she were allowed to pursue her fantastic scheme. A rare spirit, cursed with a strange uneasy restlessness, difficult to manage at times and unpractical to a degree, the girl needed an outlet for her pent-up passions.
She hesitated, then said in a low voice, “You have always said you had no wish to marry. A man whom you do
