Chapter 1

The air smelled faintly of lavender and starch, yet it was thick with whispers, as Amanda had feared. She was met with an unwelcome sight: a former schoolmate, Antoinelle, known less for her wit than for her dulcet cruelty. She stood poised upon the fitting dais, receiving a final adjustment to an extravagant ball gown of gleaming crimson silk. The French modiste, Le Cler, an elegant sanctuary of silk and refinement, was as renowned for gossip as for its wares. Amanda stood still, collecting herself.

Standing amid such carefully fashioned illusions, Amanda’s thoughts drifted, as they often did, to her mother’s fervent warnings on matrimony.

“Amanda, my darling, you could bring scandal upon our family name. Don’t you see? I accepted your pursuit of education, but working? No suitable husband will want a wife who is not devoted.”

Ever mindful of propriety and position, her mother deemed it unsuitable, bordering on scandalous, that a young woman of Amanda’s station should entertain employment, let alone work at the family-owned bank.

Amanda twisted a loose thread on her sleeve, her chest tightening, then forced the thought aside. She was determined to preserve her independence, especially with the debutante season approaching, that veritable marriage market. There was no need to marry unless she chose to, and at present, she did not.

She drew in a steadying breath. Her heart quickened, her gloved fingers tightening at her sides. She had come only to retrieve her modest garment and had hoped to avoid the barbed tongues she knew might be present. Chin lifted, she made her way to the register.

“I’m here to collect my package. Under the name…Miss Lytchfield,” she said to the modiste behind the counter. The honorific tasted bitter. Miss. Not Missus.

A peal of laughter cut through the room. Amanda turned and caught sight of a familiar face, one she disliked, making a pointed remark. Her gown was plainly unsuited for a ball. The laughter, followed by remarks sharp as a winter draft, reached her ears.

“Amanda’s dress cannot be intended for the upcoming season. Why, it’s so plain, like a mere day frock, not a ball gown at all.”

The voice rose.

“You know Amanda Lytchfield. She’s educated.”

“So very high and mighty, is she not? She even deigns to participate in the season and professes to disavow marriage, referring to it as a constraint upon the spirit of women. I wonder if she shall ever find a husband, poor creature.”

The volume carried, ensuring all within earshot would hear.

Though stung, Amanda kept her composure against the snickering. Gathering her package, she made a swift exit, fleeing the cruel on-dits, only to be met by bitter cold, no match for the sting of gossip that clung to her. She adjusted her bonnet and scarf against the wind and quickened her pace along the frost-glazed avenue toward the bank. It would not do to return late from luncheon.

Crossing the familiar threshold, the tension eased from her shoulders. Here, among ledgers and accounts, she was herself. The quiet order soothed her, a welcome reprieve from society’s scrutiny. In her small office, she set aside her things, sank into her chair, and released a breath she had not realized she held.

Yet her thoughts lingered on what she had overheard. She resented the expectation that the coming months were ‘supposed to be’ about finding a husband for women of her age.

Her musings were interrupted as one of the tellers entered her office in an agitated state.

“Madame, might I trouble you to come to the counter? We have a customer issue.” He wrung his hands. “I deeply apologize for the intrusion.”

“What seems to be the matter?” Amanda asked, her tone calm.

“It’s Mrs. Wilson. She claims to have a bank box and wishes to deposit something, but the box appears to be in her husband’s name. Her name is absent from the card, and I explained that I could not grant access.” He handed her a file card bearing Mr. Wilson’s signature, the words Private—Mr. Wilson’s Use Only plainly inscribed.

Amanda studied it. “If she has a key, she is entitled to access.”

“That’s the difficulty. She does not have the key.”

Amanda rose at once. “I’ll come directly.” She gave the young man a reassuring smile.

She made her way to a locked room, unlocked it, and entered a space lined with filing cabinets. Opening a drawer, she searched through the cards for Mrs. Wilson’s record.

Mrs. Wilson and her husband sat on the bank’s board, and Amanda knew well Mr. Wilson’s contempt for her position. He had never concealed it.

“A position of authority should be reserved for a man,” he had once declared to Loyd, her father and president of the bank, offering no justification.

A single misstep might furnish him with cause to lodge a formal complaint. Amanda resolved to follow protocol with exacting care.

At last, she found it.

“Yes,” she murmured. Mrs. Wilson’s card had been erroneously filed amongst the M’s—her Christian name being Marian.

To Amanda’s profound relief, Marian Wilson maintained her own private bank box, entirely separate from her husband’s. It was Amanda herself who had recently instituted a new policy, permitting all patrons, including women, to rent bank boxes in their own right. This innovation, however, had been met with no small measure of disdain by Mr. Wilson, who had taken it upon himself to grumble to Loyd, Amanda’s father regarding Amanda’s growing influence over the bank’s affairs. “I desire the bank to be managed with propriety, and now a woman is dictating policy,” he had complained.

Securing the card, Amanda returned to the counter. Mrs. Wilson stood waiting, arms folded, foot tapping, her expression tight with impatience.

“Good morning, Mrs. Wilson,” Amanda said, meeting her with composure.

“Well, young lady,” Mrs. Wilson began, “I do hope you have an explanation for this absurdity. This young man knows nothing. He claims I do not have a bank box. I assure you, I most certainly do.”

“I must apologize for the inconvenience,” Amanda replied. “Your card was misfiled. I have located it and can assist you now.” She held it up.

Mrs. Wilson’s expression eased, though her tone remained sharp. “Very well. However, I appear to have misplaced my key and require access to my box.”

“Of course. Allow me a moment to retrieve the spare key.” She gestured toward a pair of upholstered chairs near the entryway. “Why not make yourself comfortable while you wait?”

Minutes later, Amanda returned with the key in hand. “Here it is,” she said, presenting it to Mrs. Wilson with care. “This is the only spare key to your box. I shall have another made for you, and will contact you once it is ready. For today, however, you may use this key, though it must remain at the bank. It’s kept in a secure location, and only I have access to it.”

Amanda, with a gentle touch, placed her hand upon Mrs. Wilson’s shoulder, her tone softening from its businesslike precision. “If you would be so kind as to follow me, I shall conduct you to the vault.”

Amanda led her to the secure room, unlocked the door, and guided her to the box. “When you are finished, please return the key to me before you leave.”

Later, Mrs. Wilson appeared at Amanda’s office and returned the key. Amanda invited her to sit, prepared for criticism.

“Amanda, I am obliged to you for resolving this morning’s difficulty,” Mrs. Wilson began. “However, you must appreciate the inconvenience I have endured.” She paused. “You are aware I am no ordinary customer. I sit on the board with my husband.”

Rising with an air of authority, Mrs Wilson bestowed a final remark. “Permit me to say this: to conduct business with a woman is a rare pleasure, indeed. However, you must be better than your male counterparts. No missteps shall be tolerated.” Having given her opinion, she turned with deliberate grace and departed, leaving Amanda with not so much as a moment to respond.

After a busy day at the bank, Amanda made her way home, carefully cradling the new dress she had collected during her lunch hour. Nearing Lytchfield House, and treading carefully along the frozen sidewalk that led to the family’s stately Victorian residence, she heard footsteps behind her. Turning, she met her father’s familiar countenance.

“Oh, Father! Did you enjoy your walk?” Amanda inquired.

“A fine walk, albeit a brisk one,” Loyd replied, his breath visible in the frosty air. His gaze fell upon the parcel she carried. “Ah, I see you’ve retrieved the garment you mentioned.”

Amanda’s face lit with a smile. “Indeed, I have. I mean to wear it to dinner this evening. It’s a rare pleasure to make a purchase with one’s own earnings.”

Her father’s expression softened, pride glimmering in his eyes. Amanda felt her heart warm at his approval. He had been steadfast in his support of her new role as vice president of Lytchfield-Moorings Bank, their family-owned establishment in the bustling heart of downtown St. Louis.

Side by side, they ascended the porch of the newly constructed mansion, stately and comfortably appointed, with every modern convenience of the age. Evelyn, their housekeeper, appeared at the door to greet them.

“Good evening, Mr. Lytchfield. Good evening, Miss Amanda. I trust the day treated you well?” she said, holding the door open against the biting chill. “Dinner shall be served shortly.”

“Good evening, Evelyn.” Father and daughter spoke in unison as they stepped indoors, grateful for the warmth.

Amanda set down her coat and parcel at the base of the staircase before hurrying to the kitchen, eager to assist. Already, her younger sisters, Clara and Charlotte, were bustling about under their mother’s direction.

Clara, the youngest, whom Amanda adored yet often found exasperating, wasted no time in pressing a basket of bath buns into her hands.

“Amanda, place these on the dining table, if you please.”

Rubbing her chilled hands together, Amanda furrowed her brow at Clara’s boldness. She had only just arrived home after a long day’s work. Yet, despite her irritation, she admired her sister’s audacity, a quality she both loved and lamented. Clara, with her pale hair, mischievous blue eyes, and charm as irresistible as it was deliberate, wielded her wit with startling sharpness. With a wry smile, Amanda accepted the basket.

“I shall indulge you this once,” Amanda said.

Clara grinned. “Why, dearest sister, I merely wished to afford you the pleasure of joining the fun.”

Amanda shook her head but smiled nonetheless. Meanwhile, Charlotte, the middle sister and Amanda’s confidante, transferred a dessert onto a glass cake stand destined for the dining room. Though delicate in appearance, Charlotte possessed an inner strength Amanda admired. She was traditional to a fault, hesitant to embrace the changes of the modern world, yet her gentle spirit was a source of comfort.

“How was your day, Amanda?” Charlotte asked, her voice soft.

“Save for one minor skirmish, it was quite pleasant,” Amanda replied with a faint smile.

With her sister’s request in mind, Amanda carried the basket into the dining room and arranged its contents neatly before returning to the kitchen.

“If you don’t mind, I shall retire to my room to freshen up before dinner. All seems well in hand here,” Amanda announced, casting a glance at Clara before sticking out her tongue in mock defiance.

Clara burst into laughter, pleased to have provoked her elder sister into a final display.

“Very well, dear,” their mother said, pausing as she retrieved a salad from the larder. “But do hurry. Dinner is nearly ready.”

Amanda ascended the staircase, taking two steps at a time, and hurried to her room. She donned her new frock and allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. The garment suited her figure well, and though it was loose fitting and comfortable, she felt a swell of pride in her purchase, despite the remarks made at the modiste. What did they know, anyway? she thought, before descending to the dining room.

She had anticipated her sisters’ comments on the dress but was met instead with silence. No one remarked upon it, unlike the young women at the modiste, which she found a relief.

As the meal progressed, Loyd cleared his throat. Silence fell, and he seized the moment.

“A letter arrived today from London,” he began. “It’s from your Aunt Fiona. She has extended an invitation for Amanda and Charlotte to stay with her and attend the Season.”

The announcement was met with astonishment. Janet straightened in her chair, her brow furrowing.

“Why, my darling?” she asked. “What reason could Fiona have for such an invitation? Why send the girls to London? We have our own Season here, with fine young men.” She hesitated. “A holiday would surely suffice?”

A surge of indignation rose in Amanda. “I see no need to journey to London to find a husband. I’m perfectly capable of finding my own match, should I desire one, here in St. Louis. This notion of a marriage market, Father, is that truly your intention for us? It’s an auction.” Her tone sharpened. “I would not willingly subject myself to the marriage mart, here or elsewhere.” She broke off, choosing not to press further.

Ignoring Amanda’s protest, Loyd turned to Charlotte. “And you, Charlotte?”

Charlotte hesitated. “It is a kind offer from Aunt Fiona, though I do not fully understand her reasons. Perhaps she knows eligible gentlemen. Beyond that, the opportunity to visit London and meet Father’s family is intriguing. But I share Amanda’s reservations. Any gentleman I meet must be willing to come here. I am not certain how I would feel about living in England, so far away.”

Clara, eager as ever, interjected. “But Mother, Father, it would be marvelous to travel to London, meet our relatives, and attend grand balls. Why not?”

Loyd smiled faintly, his expression firm. “Your mother and I shall discuss the matter further and provide our decision.”

Amanda’s gaze lingered on her father. She was not inclined to let the matter rest so easily. Yet this was not the moment. She sat, perplexed, considering her options.

The following morning, the Lytchfield household carried a charged energy. The invitation to London, though undecided, hung in the air. Amanda entered the dining room, her thoughts unsettled.

Janet, who had appeared weary the night before, now stood by the buffet with Evelyn, directing the morning meal. Plates of breakfast fare were arranged with care, and the scent of freshly baked scones filled the room.

“Evelyn, the scones, if you please,” Janet instructed. “These are a Moorings family recipe, my mother’s pride and joy.”

Amanda approached the buffet and filled her plate, watching her mother. Janet’s improved mood did not go unnoticed.

“Good morning, Mother.” Amanda held her tongue, choosing not to raise the subject just yet.

“Amanda, dearest, would you like coffee or tea this morning?” Janet asked.

“Coffee, Mother, thank you,” Amanda replied, taking her seat. As Janet poured, Charlotte entered, her expression expectant.

“Have you decided, Mother?” Charlotte asked. “Will we go to London?”

Clara swept into the room with dramatic flair. “Surely it must be all of us. Why should Amanda and Charlotte have all the fun? I should like to meet Aunt Fiona and attend some balls. Please allow me to go as well.”

Janet shook her head. “Clara, my darling, we’ve spoken of this. It is Amanda and Charlotte who have been invited, and such plans must be made with care. Now, please allow your father to speak.”

At that moment, Loyd entered, his presence commanding attention. He took his seat at the head of the table, composed and decisive.

“My dear daughters,” he began, folding his hands, “your mother and I have decided. After much thought, we believe it best that Amanda and Charlotte accept Fiona’s invitation. You will leave soon, so as not to miss too much of the Season. Fiona is prepared to guide you and is eager for your company.”

Charlotte let out a small breath, her smile reserved. “I’m excited to meet Aunt Fiona and see London.”

Amanda, however, felt her stomach tighten. “Father,” she said, “do you truly intend for us to seek husbands so far from home? What if we do not like it? Are we permitted to return?”

“Of course,” Loyd replied. “This is not a punishment, Amanda. It is an opportunity. If you find it disagreeable, you may return. But we would like you to accompany Charlotte. We hope you will enjoy the experience. You will meet your family in England. That is something.”

Clara groaned dramatically. “It’s dreadfully unfair!”

“Clara,” Janet said with firmness, her voice brooking no argument, “your time will come.”

Amanda turned her gaze to Charlotte, who seemed content. Yet her own mind raced. The thought of being paraded before London society like a piece of merchandise stirred her indignation, though she found herself at a loss to argue further. Everything appeared arranged, set in stone.

Charlotte’s eyes sparkled as Amanda studied her. Words hovered unspoken on Amanda’s tongue, for she knew any attempt at reason would fall on deaf ears. Charlotte, though sweet-natured and kind, possessed a resolute will. Once fixed, she was immovable, as steady as the roots of the Lytchfield lineage from which she sprang.

Clara, however, could suppress her frustration no longer. “And what of me?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Am I to sit idly by while those two venture to London, attending balls, parties, and indulging in all manner of diversions, while I remain here with neither company nor amusement? This will not do.” She folded her arms tightly, her lower lip pushed forward in a pout.

Janet lifted her gaze, a sharpness glinting in her eyes. “Dearest Clara,” she began, “it is not my wish for all my daughters to be away in London at once. As your father has explained, Amanda is the eldest, and it is proper that she accompanies Charlotte. You, my darling, will remain here with me. There must be one daughter at home.” She paused, her voice softening. “You may attend the local season. I should be heartbroken if all my daughters were to leave me at once.”

“But why may I not take Amanda’s place?” Clara pressed. “Amanda has no desire to go. Isn’t that so, Amanda?” She held her breath.

“Yes, let Clara take my place,” Amanda said, her tone quiet with resignation. “I have no objection.”

“Enough.” Loyd’s voice cut through the room, silencing further debate. He paused. “Amanda and Charlotte shall go together. Clara, you will go another time. For now, you will remain here with your mother. Perhaps you may visit her family in New York if the notion appeals to you. But as for London, the matter is settled.” He gave a curt nod and resumed his breakfast, dipping his toast into the yolk of his egg, wholly absorbed.

The room fell into tense silence. After a moment, the girls resumed their entreaties to Janet, attempting to sway her, but their father remained unmoved, ignoring the muted chorus of protest.

Presently, Loyd set down his fork and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “Amanda,” he said, rising, “would you like to accompany me on my walk to the office? I should like your company, if you care to join me.”

Amanda, eager to escape the strained atmosphere, rose at once. “Yes, Father,” she said, summoning what enthusiasm she could. “I’m ready.”

On the street, she quickened her pace to match his brisk stride. Perhaps, she thought, she might seize this moment to raise her concerns about London. A brief visit might suffice before she returned to her responsibilities.

They walked in silence, the morning hum of the city surrounding them. Amanda’s heart beat faster as she considered how to begin. Her father’s pace seemed swifter than usual, his expression unreadable. Intimidated by his silence, she hesitated, tension tightening her chest. At last, she drew a breath.

“Father,” she began, then faltered, coughing lightly before continuing, “might I speak with you about something?” After a pause, she added, “Could we slow our pace a little?”

Loyd slowed and glanced at her, his brow faintly furrowed. “Of course, my dear. What troubles you?”

“Father, I wish to discuss this trip to London,” she said.

He regarded her for a moment before continuing forward.

“Who will fill my position while I am away? I am concerned that my place at the bank may not remain if I am gone too long. Surely I should not be the one to accompany Charlotte. Am I unable to persuade you of the importance of this? Father, please allow me to see Charlotte safely to London, and then return home. Aunt Fiona is capable of chaperoning her without me, is she not?”

“Amanda, you need not worry, darling. I find your work and intelligence irreplaceable. While you are away, I will fill in where needed, and the clerks will assist me. When you return, we can discuss whether you wish to continue at the bank. If you do, I will accommodate you as before. Is that acceptable to you?”

Disappointment settled in her stomach. “If I decide to return,” she murmured under her breath.

She composed herself. Though dissatisfied, she at least had his assurance. Her father was a man of his word.

The following day, Amanda and her mother took luncheon together, a conciliatory gesture on Amanda’s part, at a modest establishment near the bank. The Rose Café, a quaint nook with lace curtains and known for its home-cooked fare, sat beside one of the many breweries that had sprung up throughout the city, owing to the growing German population.

“Mother,” Amanda began with deliberate charm, “after we have finished here, might we stroll over to Miss Mageon’s Millinery Rooms? I wish to procure something suitable for my voyage to England. Though St. Louis is not London, and our fashions lag a few years behind, I believe a fresh bonnet from Miss Mageon would lend my wardrobe a proper note of refinement.”

Her mother nodded. “That sounds perfectly fine, sweetheart,” she said, though her gaze had drifted across the street. Lifting a gloved hand, she gestured with mild exasperation. “I declare, there are more breweries in this town than grocers these days. The German influx has filled St. Louis with hops and sausages. First the French with their wine and cheese, now the Germans. Who, I ask you, shall be next? The Scots, with their bagpipes and oatmeal?”

“Mother,” Amanda chided, her tone touched with amusement. Eager to redirect her, she leaned forward. “Have you visited the new Southern Hotel downtown? I read they serve high tea. It would make a pleasant outing before I depart. And St. Louis now boasts more westward-bound trains than ever before. The city is growing in sophistication. I shall miss it while I am away. My only fear is that it may be unrecognizable upon my return.”

She glanced about the room, her gaze drifting to the bustle beyond the window, watching carriages pass to unknown destinations. Her expression softened, touched with quiet wistfulness.

“Shall we go, Mother?” she said at last, gathering her things. “I have little time before I must return to the bank, and I should like to choose a bonnet. Perhaps one for Charlotte as well. She has always fancied plum ribbon.”

Amanda settled the bill. They wrapped themselves in coats and scarves, the wind sharpening the chill. Arm in arm, they stepped into the afternoon. Washington Avenue, busy as a beehive, stretched before them. They crossed with purpose, disappearing into the warm glow of Miss Mageon’s Millinery, where feathers, velvet, and good taste awaited.