Westward the Dream by Tracie Peterson, Judith Pella Page A

left to fulfill his commitment to his present job. With every passing moment, she realized Brenton was determined. There would be no changing his mind this time.
    â€œI’m going shopping,” she suddenly said. “There are a few things I need. Do you want to come along?”
    â€œNo, I can’t. But don’t go out alone. I’ll speak to Mrs. Clairmont and see if her gardener, Mr. Revere, can take you in her carriage.”
    â€œThank you. That would be very nice.”
    And so, within a matter of twenty minutes, Jordana was smartly seated in the rather worn Clairmont carriage, heading up Broadway to Washington Place. She’d not bothered to explain to her brother her intentions to see Caitlan. She had simply decided to take matters into her own hands, much as he had done in deciding their future. Perhaps in doing so, she could even resolve her problem with G.W.

    â€œIf you’ll wait here in the sun-room, Miss Baldwin, I’ll send Miss O’Connor to you. I do hope this isn’t a matter of concern for our household,” the Vanderbilt housekeeper boldly stated.
    â€œNo, I assure you it isn’t,” Jordana answered, refusing to tell the woman why it was she had need of visiting with a lowly chambermaid.
    Jordana saw the woman’s expression and knew she wasn’t pleased to have failed at getting the information. The woman reluctantly left Jordana to retrieve Caitlan, but before Jordana could even sit down, a gruff voice called out in greeting.
    â€œMiss Baldwin, I can’t rightly account for the last time I saw you in this house.”
    Jordana looked up to find the white-haired commodore himself staring at her from across the room. His cheek bulged from an obvious plug of tobacco, and his appearance, as usual, was rather unkempt. “I heard Lizzy say you had come, but I figured her to be wrong.”
    â€œYes, sir, it has been some time.” Jordana fidgeted with the ends of her purse strings.
    â€œWell, take a seat and tell me why in the—that is, why you refused to marry G.W. Poor boy is wastin’ away upstairs and tells me you won’t have him for a husband.”
    The commodore, well known for his lack of social refinement, not only talked crudely and swore often but also harbored no illusions of propriety. He simply pushed toward the goal he’d set for himself, which in this case was to receive some answers in the matter of his son’s love life.
    Jordana was unshaken. She knew many a man on Wall Street would rather cut out their tongues than offend this giant of their industry. But Cornelius Vanderbilt hardly seemed a threat to her.
    â€œThat, I would have to say, is strictly between G.W. and myself,” she replied. “I would very much like to see him.”
    The old man eyed her seriously for a moment. The look would have wilted a less worthy opponent, but Jordana held her own. “My son is a good catch. Are you addlebrained or dim-witted?” he questioned, ignoring her comment.
    â€œNeither, I assure you, sir. I simply do not wish to marry.” She moved closer to where he stood leisurely watching her.
    â€œG.W. always told me you were smart. Refusing to marry into a family with a fortune the size of mine doesn’t sound like a smart thing to me.” He glanced around him, then spied the spittoon and unleashed a stream of tobacco juice that narrowly missed Jordana’s skirt.
    â€œMr. Vanderbilt,” began Jordana, “I am fully in control of my faculties, if that is what concerns you. If you must know, I refused your son, first of all, because I do not desire to marry anyone at this time in my life. Secondly, I refused, because while I cherish my friendship with G.W., I do not believe myself to be in love with him.” She gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Does that answer your question?”
    â€œI suppose it does, but it’s still addlebrained,” the commodore said, spitting again