The most perfect specimen of a house in all of California will be this evening’s venue for the Viticulturist Association of California gala.
Scanning the Sacramento Bee while patiently waiting in the lobby for Kinsey, Scott’s attention rested on the reporter’s exuberant choice of words. Words, no doubt, echoing the gala host’s lofty commentary. Curiosity prevailed and Scott read on.
Mr. Leland Stanford and his wife will open their home beginning at seven o’clock. Invited guests will be treated to an array of gracious hospitality.
In the ballroom, a string quartet is set to entertain with selections from Mozart and Chopin. Mrs. Stanford has requested pleasant weather to allow an additional quartet’s performance in the mansion’s prize-winning gardens.
Scott grinned. If the good Lord’s smart he’ll honor that request.
“Does it happen often?” Seth settled back in his chair as he eyeballed the stairs leading to the hotel rooms.
“Does what happen often?” Focus remained on the Stanford article.
“Reading newspapers while waiting for the little lady to appear?”
“Sir, I can accurately summarize any printed current event taking place across this great country and parts of Europe.” Scott fished out a section of the Sacramento paper and handed it to Westcott. “I’ve found political editorials will painfully pass the time.”
Seth accepted the gifted gesture with a smile. “Tell me the wait is worth it.”
“I’ll let you be the judge.” A crystal ball wasn’t necessary to predict Westcott’s verdict.
Scott refolded the newspaper and continued reading. Past experience assisted in the calculation of remaining minutes before his cousin’s appearance. Ample time to finish Stanford’s front page rendition of grandeur.
Two of Sacramento’s finest head chefs will tempt guests throughout the evening with hors d'oeuvres, dainty dishes and the recently coined “appetizer.” The culinary delights, when paired with outstanding wines from the great state of California, will set a new standard for future festivities.
Scott’s stomach commented on its desire for culinary delights.
The evening will conclude with a bit of prestigious fun provided by Mrs. Stanford’s creative flair. Blue ribbons will spotlight the popular dishes served during the gala along with a “Best in Show” ceremony to highlight a vintage wine and the vineyard proprietor.
Squinted scrutiny deemed three words worth vocalizing. “Best in show.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Glancing up from the Sacramento Bee, Scott noted political editorials were no longer inflicting pain on his business partner. Westcott wore a wide smile of admiration as he rose to address the little lady in the emerald green dress making her way across the hotel lobby.
Newspapers were set aside. The verdict was in.
*******
The most perfect specimen of a house in all of California, indeed. Every window of the Stanford mansion displayed shimmering light from within giving it the feeling of a living, breathing entity. Flickering torches graced the massive staircase leading to the front entrance. Glimpses of the candlelit side gardens suggested the backyard grounds were equally impressive. An unseasonably mild evening had arrived in Sacramento to confirm Scott’s speculation. When Jane Stanford spoke, people paid heed - including God.
“How extraordinary!” Kinsey’s breathless observation summed it up perfectly.
Staring up at the mansion, Seth rubbed the back of his neck, placed his hands on hips and dropped his eyes down to the little lady. “Knowing the independent streak you possess, Kinsey Rose, there’s a good chance my words aren’t going to make me the most popular man in Sacramento, but I need to say my piece before we go in there.” Westcott’s expression of soft-edged sternness required respect without demanding it. “You’ll be surrounded by a lot of unfamiliar faces belonging to good people for the most part. For the most part. Which is why I’m asking you to stick close tonight.”
Scott dipped his chin, crossed his arms and allowed a slight grin to surface as Westcott continued.
“If you’re not on my arm tonight, little lady, then you’ll be in the company of this fine cousin of yours. It’s for the best. You agree, Scott?”
Serious reflection replaced the slight grin. “I think it’s a fine idea. Couldn’t have stated it any better.” An eyebrow raised in Kinsey’s direction.
“Now, if you disagree, Miss Furlong, that’s understandable and not surprising.” Seth shifted his stance. “We’ll just stand out here until we get things cleared up.”
“Westcott!” A gentleman crossing the street called out. “A quick word, if I may.”
Seth nodded and with a wave indicated he’d be over shortly while he gave a quiet explanation. “Roberts promised to have his decision on where his harvest will be processed next season. Let’s hope it's good news. This won’t take long.”
As Westcott walked away, an effective knuckle punch landed on Scott’s upper arm with his cousin’s declaration. “You men are in cahoots!”
“Cahoots?” Saying the word brought out Scott’s laughter while he rubbed the sting away from Kinsey’s assault. “No, little one. Us men are not in ca-HOOTS.” Laughter took hold again.
“Then please explain to me why Seth repeated almost verbatim your earlier request.”
“Well, venturing a guess, Freckles, I’d say the man wants to keep you safe as much as I do. So please explain to me what’s wrong with that.”
Scott then witnessed a phenomenon which had occurred only once or twice since the beginning of time - his little cousin lacked a response.
Seth nodded and shook hands with the man. His stride brought back contagious enthusiasm. “Good news! Roberts is with us.”
“Excellent.” Scott studied the guests arriving. “He’s the fourth. I believe we’ve succeeded in stopping a monopoly.”
“Well, stalling it, at least.” Westcott gestured toward a familiar silhouette climbing the steps. “Roberts mentioned West is getting wind of our cigar negotiating.”
“Ah, King George finally removed his head from Leland’s - “ Scott stopped short.
“Mr. Lancer,” Kinsey whispered. “The word you're seeking is derrière.”
“Indeed it is, Miss Furlong.” Scott glanced over his shoulders before leaning down and lowering his voice. “You see… Mr. West and Mr. Stanford are in… ca-hoots.”
*******
Every room of the mansion’s main floor boasted long tables laden with exotic cuisine displayed bite-sized on silver-tiered trays. There was enough fare present to feed a small country. Waiters offering sparkling glasses of wine maneuvered through the clusters of guests.
“Sirs. Miss.” A tray appeared to float on the servers one hand. “May I offer you a refreshment? Mrs. Stanford is featuring a full-bodied red from the Westcott Vineyard of Stockton.”
“Westcott, you say?” Scott examined the dark liquid closely.
Seth selected a glass, grinning. “I heard the grandson is a no-good scoundrel.”
“I heard they have a Boston mule for an investor.” Kinsey took a sip.
“I heard it’s their Aussie mountain goat a man needs to avoid.” Scott held up his glass as the two partners joined in. “Here’s to a scoundrel, a mule and a little mountain goat.”
“The charming Miss Furlong!” George West’s voice arrived a moment before the owner. “My evening is now complete.” Taking Kinsey’s free hand, West embraced it with his own. “My dear, these old eyes have missed your smile.”
“Mr. West.” Kinsey’s forced pleasantry missed the mark of sincerity.
“Ah. Please. Bless me with the honor of showing you this splendid home. And remember… it’s George.”
Seth reclaimed Kinsey's hand. “Oh, now, Geooooorge…”
Scott’s gaze shifted upwards to stifle a snort always brought on by his business partner’s rendition of their competitor’s first name.
“This little lady is gracing my arm tonight.” Seth’s hand-held wine glass motioned over West’s right shoulder. “Look around, sir. Plenty of lovely women here to assist in enhancing your good looks.” Westcott moved forward. “Miss Furlong, allow me the pleasure of introducing you to a few of our colleagues. Excuse us, gentlemen.”
George West’s tense jawline moved as if a horse’s bit was in his mouth. “I’d like to apologize, Scott, for suggesting you contact Phillip Westcott.”
“Apologize? Don’t you mean reconsider?”
“Yes. Perhaps I do. I understand there have been side-bar conversations with several of the owners. It seems I underestimated you, Lancer. You truly are Harlan Garrett’s grandson.”
Not taking the bait, Scott sipped his wine. “The way I see it you’re in good company, sir. Napoleon. Cornwallis. Lee. Great generals who underestimated their adversaries. Enjoy your evening, Mr. West.”
The dismissal only caused the bit to tighten in West’s mouth as he walked away.
Scott’s stomach insisted that his brain stop sparring and start searching for food. Unfortunately, his eyes intervened as he spied Seth, empty handed, heading his way. “She gave you the slip already?”
“No. Jane Stanford kidnapped the little lady.” Seth looked for a sign of judgment. “You want to argue with that woman?”
“Hardly.”
“Finally!” A very young yet well-endowed socialite captured Seth's arm. “Your sister decided to let go, Mr. Westcott. Allow me to introduce myself. Abigail Oxenford.” Abigail presented her hand to be gently taken and kissed. “That immature looking little thing latched to your side is your sister - correct?”
Taking Abigail’s hand, Seth guided it to a handshake. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, dear girl, but the fine woman latched to my side is not my sister. Her name is Miss Furlong and I have the honor of being her escort this evening.”
“Oh.” In a blink of Abigail’s eye, Seth Westcott became invisible as sights were set on
the man standing next to him. “Abigail Oxenford. I don’t believe we’ve met, Mr…”
“Dankworth.” Scott took hold of the lady’s hand. “Archibald Dankworth.”
“My! What an impressive name. Do you own a vineyard, Mr. Dankworth?”
“No. Just here for the free food and drink, ma’am.”
Scott didn’t even receive a blink but simply went up in a puff of smoke.
Observing Miss Oxenford move on to her next victim, Seth posed a question. “How much gauze do you think that little girl has stuffed in her bodice?”
Two empty wine glasses were replaced with refreshers - courtesy of a passing waiter.
“Hard to say.” Scott reflected. “However, I’m certain the gentleman who eventually unwraps that package will be greatly disappointed.” Taking advantage of the current wine-induced philosophical aura, an additional query was raised. “Westcott, are the debutantes growing younger?”
“Yes, considering the alternative would be we’re going older… which I find unacceptable.” Spotting Kinsey still in the clutches of Jane Stanford, Seth excused himself to rescue the damsel.
Scott’s empty stomach resubmitted its desire with a grumble. Approaching the nearest table overflowing with selections, a pause was needed to decide where to begin.
“May I recommend the lobster canapés?”
A brief sideways glance spurred mild annoyance. Another clingy, shallow, self-focused belle of the ball. Scott dug deep for a polite response. “Thank you, but no. I’m not fond of lobster.”
“Hmmmm. A Boston accent refusing lobster.”
Scott turned to give the girl his full attention. “Well, there are a few of us Bostonians who prefer a good thick steak over a crustacean that crawled out of the back bay.”
The young lady’s eyebrows raised with surprise. “A witty Boston accent refusing lobster. Sir, you’re quite a catch!”
“Miss, this Boston accent has endured many a social gathering so let me save you some time.” Scott’s hunger had gobbled up his patience. “I don’t own a vineyard and I’m not a catch.”
“Emily! There you are!” Mrs. Stanford beamed. “The guests are raving over your culinary creations. Palate perfection! Mr. Lancer! I see you’ve met Miss Browning.
The Arcade Hotel best pray their head chef never packs her bags for San Francisco.”
As Jane Stanford weaved her way through the crowded room, Scott felt heat rise in his face. “Ah… I owe you… an apology… you see… ” An embarrassed grin complemented stumbling words. “I thought you were a...”
“Mindless debutante?” The light-hearted tease delivered a slight pinch.
“I’d be grateful for a chance to start over.”
Emily pointed to the table. “Granted. But only after you try one of my lobster canapés.”
“Fair enough.” Scott plopped the small puffed pastry topped with buttered lobster into his mouth. Confusion clouded his creased brow. “That’s surprisingly good!”
“Thank you… I think.” A hand was extended. “Emily Browning. Head chef. The Arcade Hotel, Sacramento.”
The extended hand was accepted by another. “Scott Lancer. Cattle rancher. Lancer Ranch, San Joaquin Valley.”
“Cattle rancher? That explains the thick steak but not why you're mingling with socialites and viticulturists.”
“I must admit, Miss Browning, at times I struggle for a reasonable explanation for why I’m here.” Scott surveyed his surroundings. “I’m investing in the Westcott Winery and -"
“Westcott?!” Emily placed a hand to her chest. “Dear God. You’re one of Simon’s Vino Boys.” Eyes squinted. “Mr. Lancer, just how many roast beef sandwiches can you eat?”
*******
Over the next hour as Scott sampled savory bites of marinated chicken, dilled salmon and smoked cheeses, he learned Emily Browning had worked hard for her achievements and status.
“Most people believe a young woman’s place is in her husband’s kitchen, not a hotel’s. I enjoy proving them wrong. What about you, Mr. Lancer? What are your thoughts on this?”
“Well, most think a Bostonian is better suited to sip bourbon than brand cattle.” Scott smiled. “I understand your enjoyment of proving people wrong, Miss Browning.”
“Miss Browning!” A disheveled kitchen assistant signaled a problem. “You’re needed. Immediately.”
“Oh dear.” Emily rolled her eyes. “There goes a blue ribbon.” Her subtle smirk suggested the young woman placed little importance on blue ribbons. “Do you visit Sacramento often, Mr. Lancer?”
“Occasionally. But, perhaps it should be more often.” Scott held out his hands. “Now that I’ve acquired a fondness for lobster.”
*******
A cattle drive with pomp and circumstance. Scott observed Jane Stanford assemble her guests for the evening’s ceremonious finale. I dare the Sacramento Bee to print that accurate description.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Your attention.” Mrs Stanford clapped hands. “Ladies and gentlemen if we could quiet down.” The crowd’s murmuring dwindled under the watchful eye of its hostess. “Thank you. Before I award Best in Show I wish to recognize the man who made this glorious evening possible. Leland. Come. Say a few words.”
As Leland Stanford’s words went from few to several to many, Kinsey tugged on Scott’s sleeve and whispered. “I saw you talking at some length to a very lovely lady.”
“You did.” Scott prayed his hushed, direct reply would suffice female curiosity.
“Who is she?”
Evidently the Good Lord was exhausted from providing Jane Stanford good weather.
“Not now, Kinsey.” Scott didn’t want to join his little brother on his cousin’s project list.
“I simply wondered if -"
Applause for Leland’s few words silenced the little matchmaker. Scott smiled. It appeared the Good Lord did have the energy for one more miracle after all.
“There he is!” Kinsey’s hand squeezed Scott’s arm where her knuckle punch landed earlier. “I’m so proud of him.”
The cousins watched as Seth joined Mr. and Mrs. Stanford on the ballroom’s small platform. Leland held up a gold medal dangling from a red ribbon. “Ladies and gentlemen - Best in Show - Westcott Winery.”
********
Scott leaned on the railing of the mansion’s back balcony overlooking Jane Stanford’s gardens. Even though the crowd had thinned considerably the outdoor musicians continued to play. Below Kinsey waltzed with her business partner. Her pearl necklace has been replaced with a gold medallion on a red ribbon. Scott blessed the dancing couple with a smile of approval.
“Mr. Lancer.”
Turning, Scott discovered a smiling Emily Browning who proceeded to pin a blue ribbon on his jacket lapel.
“A blue ribbon?” A questioning eyebrow raised.
“The Blue Ribbon of Bravery, Mr. Lancer.” Emily’s grin hinted at a mischievous side. “You ate lobster.”
Pachebel’s Canon D drifted up to the balcony. Scott held out his hand.
“Miss Browning, may I have this dance?”
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