no images yet for Nate; so this will have to do-- roses do represent love, don't they?
><><
San Francisco
September 10, 1905
Nate Hemstreet watched as his mother’s irritation grew when
ringing the bell wasn’t enough to get her the service she desired. He could
have said something, but he was studying her. She seemed to have forgotten he
was sitting at the other end of the library.
Terrence Cooke came through the door looking only at Eleanor
Hemstreet. Nate had become the invisible man. Fine, he liked that idea.
“You rang, madam?” Terrence asked with his usual polished
manners.
“Where is Mr. Hamilton?” His mother smoothed down the rich
purple brocade of her dress.
“I have not seen him since early this morning, madam.” Nate saw her purse her lips together and suppress whatever
she wanted to say.
“Thank you.”
When he had left, she rang the bell again. When he returned,
she said, “Pour me a brandy.” Terrence looked at her for a moment, perhaps
thinking ten in the morning was too early for liquor, or wondering why she
would not have gotten it herself from the sideboard only ten feet from her, but
he was too well trained. His face was expressionless as he handed it to her. Again,
he didn’t look at Nate. Terrence probably did know he was there. Not much got
by him. Nate wondered how much he had observed of the goings on in the
Hemstreet mansion.
“May I do anything else for you, madam?”
“No, nothing.” She sighed. “Just leave me alone.” She waited
until he closed the door, took a sip of the brandy, and then walked to the
window to look out at the city. Although his mother was not quite sixty, her
face looked older. He felt it was her dissatisfaction with anything or anyone. She
had one of the finest homes on Nob Hill. Ten bedrooms, modern bathrooms with
the finest fixtures, a parlor large enough to hold a ball, a table that seated
fifty in the dining room, a staff that… but it never was enough. She wanted
more. He saw the fury on her face and debated what would ever take that away.
Perhaps only death. Sad.
For the first time, she looked over at him. So, she had
known he was there all along. “Ah Nathan, and what have you been doing today?”
she asked sipping the brandy again.
He knew his riding outfit and the boot he had crossed over
his knee would have told her where he’d been, but she liked to control. She
wanted to force responses.
“Golden Gate Park,” he said.
“Was it nice there?” she asked, boredom in her voice.
“Very.”
As she stared at him, he wondered what she saw. Her
dissatisfaction with everything extended to him. As her only son, he never was
all she wanted him to be. He had quit minding years earlier.
“Did you ride with Miranda?”
“No, by myself.” Miranda Compton was his mother’s idea of
the ideal mate for her son. Her family’s wealth doubtless figured into that as
much as her comely figure. The problem was Miranda was an incredibly shallow
young woman, whose greatest interest involved finding a new ball gown. Nate
would sooner mate with a trained monkey.
He had not realized before but his mother clearly was dying
her hair to keep it the same gold it had been when she’d been girl. It didn’t
somehow work. Doubtlessly, her aging was bothering her, but it was one thing
she could not control even if she could attempt to hide it.
“She’s a lovely girl,” she said narrowing her eyes as she
moved to sit on the chair across from him “You and she would make beautiful
blonde babies. They’d probably be tall like you and your father, rest his
soul.”
“I am not interested in her or in marriage, Mother.”
She gave him a disbelieving look. “Not marriage to anyone?”
“I didn’t say that—just not now.”
“Are you interested then in the businesses? You know I had
hoped you would be, that you would be my right hand man, and then someday take
it over.”
“I know what you hoped.”
“You aren’t still moping over that girl are you?”
He knew whom she meant and smiled. She didn’t like to use
her name. “What girl?” he asked feeling a little mean himself.
“You know who I mean? That worthless accountant’s daughter.”
“You didn’t see him so worthless when he worked for you.”
“I didn’t know… didn’t realize until he killed himself that
he had been cheating us.”
“There is no proof of that.”
She looked away. “I wish…”
The tap at the door interrupted what she might have said. When
it opened before she could say enter, he knew who it would be. Only Thomas Hamilton,
his mother’s majordomo had that kind of arrogant confidence. He wondered what
the man held over his mother. While he was in the room with them, he’d never
learn. Hamilton went to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey before he
turned back to her. “I heard you had asked for me, madam,” he said with a
rather snide smile. He was portly but muscular, not nearly as tall as Nate, but
with his broad shoulders, he had a demeanor that caused men to back off, his
mother also.
“Nathan,” she said, turning to him, “would you mind giving
Thomas and me a moment of privacy?”
“No problem.” He rose and left the room,
shutting the door firmly behind him. He walked down the hall letting his boots
make enough noise to make them confident he had left, then he quietly returned
to the door. Whatever as going on, he wanted to know.
