she could. Mrs. Astor would not ask if she loved Sheridan. That was entirely beside the point.
The matron did not look pleased with Alana's answer. Like a general redirecting the troops, she took another course. Her face softened, and she grasped Alana's hands. "The Van Alens have such a grand history." Impetuously, with genuine feeling, she said, "There aren't many of us old New Yorkers left. You can't do anything foolish, Alana. There won't be any Knickerbockers at all if we don't preserve ourselves. You know our motto: Nous nous soutenons . 'We support ourselves.' Ourselves, " she emphasized.
Alana stared down at their clasped hands, all the emotional turmoil she'd suffered the past few days rising to the surface. Caroline Astor had caused her problems. This very attitude of self-preservation and exclusivity had thrust her into Sheridan's lion's den. And though the Irishman was the most ostensibly wicked soul in all of this, there were others.
With as much conviction as she had in her heart, Alana said, "These parvenus are going to get in—it's an inevitable eventuality. All this trouble—for what? Something that's going to happen, no matter what you do. Trevor Sheridan just wants to speed things up."
Mrs. Astor dropped her hands. Her eyes narrowed. "That man is . . . crude, Alana."
Alana wanted to nod her head in agreement. Sheridan was certainly that. Peeking out from beneath his stiff formality lurked a hedonistic spirit, born of the streets or born of Erin, she did not know. She only knew that it was there, pacing beneath his veneer like a giant cat in a cage. "What you mean is, that man is Irish, and you cannot accept that." Alana saw no point in avoiding the obvious.
Mrs. Astor closed her eyes as if praying for strength. "They're out there. Right now, Alana. Shall I show them to you?" The matron's eyes flew open, and she stared at her. "There are Irishmen right now working on the Nicholson pavement on Mercer Street. Shall we drive by them? Is that what you want for your husband, a man no better than a common laborer? A man most likely blessed with the manners of an animal, who strays from woman to woman, leaving evidence of his prurient behavior in the city's orphan asylums?"
The last thing Alana wanted was to defend the man. Sheridan was causing her so much anxiety, she wanted to curse him from the highest summit. But the fabric of her character would not allow her to do that in this instance. If the attack on Sheridan had been personal, she might have applauded it. That arrogant, manipulative devil deserved a good dressing-down. But when criticism of him was stated like this, simply because of his background, she couldn't abide it. "Trevor Sheridan is not a shantyman . You cannot compare him to the brawling, drunken louts you see paving the streets."
"He's not a shantyman now, but he was once," Mrs. Astor pointed out, annoyance coloring her pugnacious features.
"Even the Astors were poor once." Alana didn't want to get into this battle, but now that she had parried, she saw by Mrs. Astor's face that there was no turning back.
Anger created two cherry-colored spots on her cheeks. "The Irish drink," the matron snapped.
"Knickerbockers drink—some even too much," Alana answered, thinking of the night her uncle thrust her into this tangle.
Caroline Astor was not a woman to dally around the point. She looked Alana in the eye and said, "The girl Mara, Sheridan's sister, was born in New York. When the Sheridans immigrated through Castle Garden, they were listed as a widow and two young sons. There is only one conclusion to be drawn from that."
Alana didn't want to show it, but there was no hiding her shock. She could hardly believe it. Mara Sheridan, with her lovely piquant face and her stunning black hair, was nothing like the image of illegitimacy Alana had conjured. She thought back to that beautiful young girl she'd met in Olmsted and Vaux's Greensward months ago. Bastards didn't wear blue velvet cloaks
The matron did not look pleased with Alana's answer. Like a general redirecting the troops, she took another course. Her face softened, and she grasped Alana's hands. "The Van Alens have such a grand history." Impetuously, with genuine feeling, she said, "There aren't many of us old New Yorkers left. You can't do anything foolish, Alana. There won't be any Knickerbockers at all if we don't preserve ourselves. You know our motto: Nous nous soutenons . 'We support ourselves.' Ourselves, " she emphasized.
Alana stared down at their clasped hands, all the emotional turmoil she'd suffered the past few days rising to the surface. Caroline Astor had caused her problems. This very attitude of self-preservation and exclusivity had thrust her into Sheridan's lion's den. And though the Irishman was the most ostensibly wicked soul in all of this, there were others.
With as much conviction as she had in her heart, Alana said, "These parvenus are going to get in—it's an inevitable eventuality. All this trouble—for what? Something that's going to happen, no matter what you do. Trevor Sheridan just wants to speed things up."
Mrs. Astor dropped her hands. Her eyes narrowed. "That man is . . . crude, Alana."
Alana wanted to nod her head in agreement. Sheridan was certainly that. Peeking out from beneath his stiff formality lurked a hedonistic spirit, born of the streets or born of Erin, she did not know. She only knew that it was there, pacing beneath his veneer like a giant cat in a cage. "What you mean is, that man is Irish, and you cannot accept that." Alana saw no point in avoiding the obvious.
Mrs. Astor closed her eyes as if praying for strength. "They're out there. Right now, Alana. Shall I show them to you?" The matron's eyes flew open, and she stared at her. "There are Irishmen right now working on the Nicholson pavement on Mercer Street. Shall we drive by them? Is that what you want for your husband, a man no better than a common laborer? A man most likely blessed with the manners of an animal, who strays from woman to woman, leaving evidence of his prurient behavior in the city's orphan asylums?"
The last thing Alana wanted was to defend the man. Sheridan was causing her so much anxiety, she wanted to curse him from the highest summit. But the fabric of her character would not allow her to do that in this instance. If the attack on Sheridan had been personal, she might have applauded it. That arrogant, manipulative devil deserved a good dressing-down. But when criticism of him was stated like this, simply because of his background, she couldn't abide it. "Trevor Sheridan is not a shantyman . You cannot compare him to the brawling, drunken louts you see paving the streets."
"He's not a shantyman now, but he was once," Mrs. Astor pointed out, annoyance coloring her pugnacious features.
"Even the Astors were poor once." Alana didn't want to get into this battle, but now that she had parried, she saw by Mrs. Astor's face that there was no turning back.
Anger created two cherry-colored spots on her cheeks. "The Irish drink," the matron snapped.
"Knickerbockers drink—some even too much," Alana answered, thinking of the night her uncle thrust her into this tangle.
Caroline Astor was not a woman to dally around the point. She looked Alana in the eye and said, "The girl Mara, Sheridan's sister, was born in New York. When the Sheridans immigrated through Castle Garden, they were listed as a widow and two young sons. There is only one conclusion to be drawn from that."
Alana didn't want to show it, but there was no hiding her shock. She could hardly believe it. Mara Sheridan, with her lovely piquant face and her stunning black hair, was nothing like the image of illegitimacy Alana had conjured. She thought back to that beautiful young girl she'd met in Olmsted and Vaux's Greensward months ago. Bastards didn't wear blue velvet cloaks
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