Harte's Desire Part 1

Harte's Desire.

by Cambria Smyth.

To my other mother.

Who loves romance novels as much as I do.

Prologue.

Borden's Landing, New Jersey.

July 1880.

No one would ever tear it down, would they?

Amanda Harte quickly dismissed the troubling thought as she gazed with pride at the magnificent three-and-a-half story mansion she and her husband, Chester, built over several long years of construction.

It would stand for generations, wouldn't it?

Heavens, Amanda muttered to herself. Is this all pregnant women do? Worry about the future?

She strolled along the moss-covered brick path leading to the gardens behind the house. The mansion's eighty-acre setting, with its breathtaking view of the Delaware River and Pennsylvania beyond, still took her breath away.

Both of their families, like many from Philadelphia, had spent countless summers in Borden's Landing, escaping the hot, sultry city to the tranquility of this small riverside town in New Jersey just thirty miles to the north. Chester was a talented entrepreneur who found success in every business venture he undertook and, as his wealth grew, he and Amanda decided to settle in New Jersey year round and build a home there.

Naturally, Chester hired one of the best Philadelphia architects to design the mansion. Amanda found its fas.h.i.+onable style a bit too ostentatious for her tastes, but Chester loved it, and that's all that mattered to her. Actually, she'd enjoyed filling its twenty-five rooms with elegant and costly furnis.h.i.+ngs, adopting the cluttered, overstuffed look of the day for her own.

She loved to tease Chester about the mansion's fifteen bedrooms, saying it was going to take lots of making babies to fill them up. She doubted, though, they'd need more than a couple of them because she'd had such a hard time conceiving this, their first child, after ten long years of trying. However, they enjoyed entertaining and had plenty of overnight guests, including family, during the summer months. Still, it was a lot of rooms to fill.

Amanda strolled among the hundreds of rose bushes she'd planted after they moved in two years ago. Their heady fragrance, mingled with the fresh breezes coming off the Delaware River at the foot of their property, never failed to enrapture her. She'd created a spectacular terraced garden behind the house, taking advantage of the site's natural slope down to the river and its exposure to the afternoon sun on which her roses thrived.

Every now and then, she stopped to pluck a faded flower here or a dead leaf there. The rose garden was her pride and joy, and her pa.s.sion for the sweetly-scented blooms was surpa.s.sed only by her love for Chester.

She delighted in helping the gardener maintain the dozens of varieties she'd chosen after much studying. In fact, she was an avid horticulturist, albeit an amateur one, and hoped to enter some of her best specimens in a flower show the following summer. The bushes needed another year to mature and settle in to their fairly new surroundings. The focal point of the garden was an octagonal, wrought iron gazebo, an anniversary present this year from her husband made in a fanciful design of ivy and roses.

The gathering afternoon heat sent rivulets of perspiration down Amanda's chest and back, staining the bodice of her full length, taffeta day dress. She hurried over to the gazebo, scooted under its protective canopy, and savored the cool, inviting shadows there. Earlier in the day, she and Chester had posed in front of it for Theodore Baxter, a local photographer. Chester insisted their anniversary be doc.u.mented for posterity and what better way than to capture the moment by camera?

She plopped down unceremoniously on an iron bench under the eight-sided roof, opened a small fan hanging from the chatelaine around her waist, and waved it vigorously. Since conceiving, she felt drained and fatigued every day at this hour, and the summer heat only made it worse.

Leaning back, she stared with unrestrained pride at the palatial mansion. It had been Chester's idea to name it Harte's Desire. She chided him for being so vain, but was quick to forgive him when he insisted it was she he truly desired.

Surely Harte's Desire would survive for centuries.

Amanda sighed. With a child on the way, perhaps it was natural to be concerned about the legacy left to one's children. Hadn't several friends confided how much more emotional they were during these nine precious months?

She leaned back against the cool metal and closed her eyes.

Of course, Harte's Desire would stand for centuries.

Chapter One.

Borden's Landing, New Jersey.

Early May, more than one hundred and thirty years later.

He'd promised revenge.

Libby Reed shuddered in remembrance as she pulled up to the ma.s.sive wrought iron gates marking the entrance to Harte's Desire. Once proud, but now hanging forlornly from loose hinges, the open gates were rusty and weathered from decades of neglect. A new sign on one of its ornate rails hung in sharp contrast, s.h.i.+ny and freshly painted. Libby read with dismay the words proclaiming this the site of another Darnell project.

Darnell. Christopher Darnell. Those memories were not easily forgotten.

How ironic he was now her neighbor.

How unsettling she would be meeting with him, here at Harte's Desire, in less than an hour.

Why did she ever agree to do this? A promise was a promise, and she kept her promises. Would he keep his?

He couldn't possibly recognize her. Thankfully, they'd never met face to face. And since she last bested him--well over three years ago--she'd changed her appearance and her name. Once closely-cropped, her blonde hair was now well past shoulder length and she'd traded in the wire-rimmed gla.s.ses for contacts. Taking her transformation one step further, she'd even shed twenty pounds of excess weight at the local health club.

She didn't look at all like the Libby Chatham he'd sworn to avenge, she a.s.sured herself. Since her divorce, she'd gone back to her maiden name Reed. And, she used her given name of Elizabeth these days. It was more professional. Only family and close friends still called her Libby. Surely, her secret would be safe.

Shaking the troubling thoughts aside, Libby drove through the sagging gates and followed a narrow, shade-dappled lane leading to the mansion.

Despite her anxiety, she was filled with the excitement and antic.i.p.ation of a small child on Christmas morning. Today she would get her first look inside the house which had captured her imagination and curiosity for as long as she could remember. Her grandparents had lived on five acres next to Harte's Desire for most of their lives, so she'd been raised on the mansion's history, lore, and legends.

How many times had she listened to Pop-Pop Reed tell its story? Would the famous rose garden still be there? And its unique, octagonal gazebo? Was the house, built by Chester and Amanda Harte in 1878, as magnificent as Pop-Pop remembered? Harte's Desire wasn't visible form the road, so its condition was unknown. And the river view...was it as spectacular as Pop-Pop described?

Grandma Reed often reminisced about playing in Amanda's garden as a child and would talk about the great number of prizes Amanda's roses took in local flower shows. Libby continued down the lane, lost in her reverie, until a rut in the lane jolted her back to the present.

Libby was amazed that owners.h.i.+p of the mansion had stayed within the family for so long. Its most recent occupants had been the well-known, but rarely seen, Harte sisters. Granddaughters of Chester and Amanda, they inherited the house after their father's death because he was the Harte's only child. Eccentric spinsters and recluses, they chose to lead a cloistered life in Harte's Desire, rarely venturing forth from their slowly deteriorating mansion.

Libby vividly remembered the gossip that flew around Borden's Landing after the last sister died six months ago. No one had been inside the building for years, and the townspeople speculated on its future. It was rumored there were no direct heirs, but some distant relatives were eventually located. Having neither the finances nor the interest to restore Harte's Desire, they put it up for sale.

And that was when, and how, Christopher Darnell came to Borden's Landing, she thought bitterly.

Who hadn't heard of the infamous Mr. Darnell, the most powerful real estate developer in Philadelphia?

New buildings were his trademark. He never, ever restored or rehabilitated old or historic ones, adapting them for modern use. Darnell buildings were slick, modern, and always futuristic. There was never an allusion to earlier architectural styles, no gingerbread or fanciful embellishments of any kind. Sleek and polished, his structures were as individual and apart from the others as the man who erected them.

The papers never mentioned a family, she recalled. No wife or children, but his name was often cited on the society pages. Probably a doddering widower, she mused, albeit a rich one, squiring Main Line dowagers to parties, horse shows, and charity dinners.

Although she'd never met Christopher Darnell, they had clashed several times in the past, always with a historic building standing squarely between their opposing points of view.

Like the Commerce Bank & Trust Building. It occupied a prime corner in downtown Philadelphia and was a well-known historic landmark. Darnell had taken an option on the five-story Beaux Arts style building several years ago with the intention of razing it to build a 20-story office tower. Hearing of his plans, Libby-an architectural historian-quickly organized a coalition of local store owners, neighborhood residents, and historical society members who stormed the planning board meeting when Darnell's demolition permit was being heard.

Loudly protesting the imminent loss of their beloved landmark, the group successfully argued to save it. Darnell, refusing to consider rehabilitation as an alternative, let his option expire. Libby then spearheaded a fundraising drive to purchase the building and restore it. Today, it was a thriving artists' cooperative with a gallery and restaurant on the first floor and much-sought-after studios on the upper floors.

Everyone was happy with the outcome. Except Christopher Darnell.

Later, Libby fought him over two other historic buildings and won, always galvanizing the community to contest Darnell's plans.

After Libby saved the third building from his clutches, Darnell announced it was the last time she would interfere with his plans and succeed. On the next occasion, he would stop at nothing to defeat her. As far as he was concerned, it was open warfare and she was the enemy.

He promised revenge.

Libby's throat constricted at the memory of his threat.

Rounding a curve, Libby came upon the red brick mansion and gazed in wonder at the fantasy Chester and Amanda Harte built so many years ago. She spent several minutes reverently admiring the arched windows, granite corner stones, paneled double doors, and airy, open porches. Ornate chimneys pierced the skyline while a magnificent five-story tower dominated the mansion's facade. Its mansard roof was covered with patterned slate tiles and had bracketed dormers. Although suffering from years of neglect and badly needing a coat of paint, Harte's Desire was in original condition, miraculously unaltered.

And, it was all slated for demolition.

Libby grimaced as she imagined the wrecking ball laying waste to the finest example of Second Empire architecture on the New Jersey side of the Delaware River.

As she shook her head with regret, several strands of wavy blonde hair broke free from the bun she'd casually gathered on top of her head this morning. Tucking the wayward strands behind her ears, Libby hastily decided she'd better let her hair down before the meeting. She couldn't take any chances he might recognize her.

Libby would have relished opposing Christopher Darnell, the new owner of Harte's Desire, again. The challenge of saving another historic treasure from the horror wrought by his greedy schemes would have been thrilling and the victory sweet. Despite his threat to the contrary, she knew she could have bested him again.

But she was too late to save Harte's Desire.

And now that she had seen Harte's Desire in all its uninhibited glory, she realized that her meeting with Darnell later this morning signified his triumph, not hers. Refusing to yield to the intense feelings of defeat was.h.i.+ng over her, Libby got out of the car and decided to tour the grounds before facing him.

The house had been perfectly sited on the highest part of its eighty acres. Ancient oaks, elms, and holly trees surrounded Harte's Desire with a protective awning and the mansion had a commanding view of the Delaware River flowing lazily behind it. It was a romantic setting, one of the few Libby realized, that remained undeveloped along this side of the river.

As she walked around the grounds to the rear of the house, Libby was disappointed to discover that the rose garden Grandma Reed so fondly recalled had suffered greatly over the years. Although the hybrid teas, grandifloras, and climbers were still there, they hadn't been pruned or cultivated in decades and sprawled in a natural riot across the terraced garden. Wooden trellises were decayed and broken, and a huge brick patio sprouted an indeterminate number of weeds. The ornate wrought iron gazebo, the focal point of the garden, was little more than a rusted pile of metal with an equally forsaken grouping of benches underneath. What had been a showplace in the late 1800's now lay in overgrown and abandoned ruin.

Libby wandered through the remains of the garden, following a small flagstone path that led to a charming, two-story carriage house. It was designed in the same style as Harte's Desire, although on a smaller, but still generous, scale. Peeking inside one of the ground floor windows, Libby discerned three horse-drawn carriages and an old sleigh amid several empty horse stalls. The interior seemed well preserved, but like everything else she'd seen so far, neglected and shabby.

She strolled along the flagstone path back up to the main house and approached the large double doors of the main entry. Gathering her courage, she took a deep breath, rang the bell, and waited.

The doors opened slowly, creaking on hinges desperately needing to be oiled. An elderly woman with a welcoming smile spread across her pleasant face stood before her, looking at Libby inquisitively.

"Hi, I'm Elizabeth Reed," Libby explained. "Mr. Darnell is expecting me for a meeting this morning and I apologize for being here a bit earlier. I was hoping to look around Harte's Desire before I met with him."

"Yes, Miss Reed, we're expecting you. I'm Edwina McElroy, Mr. Darnell's secretary. Please, come in." She was openly friendly and ushered Libby into the great entrance hall.

"Look around all you want. We've had lots of curiosity seekers through here since Mr. D. bought it. Everybody wants a gander at this place. You said on the phone the other day that you're with the historical society?" Libby could see by Mrs. McElroy's skeptical appraisal that the woman was having a hard time picturing Libby, who was in her late twenties, as an avid and active member.

"Yes," Libby replied, "I'm here to ask a favor of Mr. Darnell. If he's not ready to see me yet, would it be possible for you to show me the mansion?"

"Well, Mr D.'s upstairs right now, and I'd love to give you the grand tour, but I've got a proposal that he says has to get in the mail today. He moved his offices here, temporarily you know, while he gets this project underway. So feel free to look around all you want. I'll be in the butler's panty--my 'new' office--if you need me."

With a smile, she turned and headed down the hall.

Libby gazed around the entrance foyer, awed by its enormous size and sheer magnificence. A ma.s.sive semi-circular staircase wound gracefully from the first floor to the upper stories. A finely-crafted stained gla.s.s window hung at a landing midway up the staircase, throwing kaleidoscopic patterns of colored light onto the floor and walls.

She wandered through most of the rooms on the first floor--the kitchen, several drawing rooms, the dining room which had been converted into an office, the grand ballroom, and the library. Libby was delighted to find that, like the outside of the mansion, the interior and its furnis.h.i.+ngs were remarkably intact, having survived the past hundred and some years with surprisingly little change. But everything was in desperate need of restoration.

The s.p.a.cious main drawing room was the most remarkable and it instantly captured her attention. Everything in it was covered with roses. Wallpaper, upholstery, paintings, hand-decorated porcelains--every surface imaginable had roses on it.

The room, done in a bold green and pink cabbage rose wallpaper, immediately enveloped her in a sense of comfort and belonging. It was filled with over-stuffed Rococo Revival style sofas and chairs placed into several well-composed groupings. Before the fireplace sat an ottoman, covered in the same rose-motif Brussels carpeting that lay over the floor. Nearby was a lounge, upholstered in burgundy horsehair and topped with an array of odd-shaped pillows adorned with needlepoint roses. What-not shelves were filled with pots, fans, and pictures, and a table next to the lounge was delightfully cluttered with a family alb.u.m, a cigar box veneered with sea sh.e.l.l rosettes, and an arrangement of dried flowers under gla.s.s that included an abundance of roses.

Libby carefully picked her way through the crowded room to more closely examine the huge fireplace dominating the far wall. She hesitated slightly before running her hands gently over its marble mantle, letting her fingers revel in the fine craftsmans.h.i.+p of its intricately carved flowers and leaves. Softly, she traced the delicate roses and miniature buds interspersed with finely wrought tendrils of ivy. As the focal point of the room, the elaborate mantelpiece was especially spectacular, Libby decided, and the rose and ivy motif was unusual for the time period.

The carvings were wonderfully cold to the touch, despite the warmth of the beautiful May day outside. "Carrera," she whispered, noting the smooth, polished white surface; it was the finest marble money could buy in 1878, but she hadn't expected anything less in Harte's Desire.

In fact, what little she had seen so far exceeded even her expectations. The grand staircase, high-ceilinged rooms with ornate plaster medallions, parquet floors, carved wooden moldings and trim. Every room, every detail in the magnificent twenty-five room Victorian-era mansion was grander than the next.

Returning her attention to the exquisite marble mantel, she sighed. She knew she had made an enemy in Christopher Darnell, although they had yet to meet face to face.

Until today, that is, she reminded herself.

Darnell had sworn to avenge Libby Chatham, not Elizabeth Reed. Somehow, he must never learn the truth, she vowed.

Although she was too late to save Harte's Desire, she was here with another request. One that he might deny. And, if he knew who she was, would certainly deny.

Chapter Two.

He watched her from the shadows of an arched doorway in the rear of the drawing room.

Christopher Darnell was having a bad day. The phones weren't working, the surveyors hadn't shown up yet, and he'd taken a very cold shower in a very ancient upstairs bathroom because the hot water heater was broken. Old buildings, he thought with disgust; was it any wonder he hated them?

He'd been on his way to the bas.e.m.e.nt to deal with the offending heater when he glimpsed an unfamiliar woman enter the main drawing room. Curious, Chris decided his confrontation with the water heater could wait while he politely, but firmly, dealt with yet another visitor to Harte's Desire.

With a determined stride, he headed through the drawing room doorway to accost her, when he stopped abruptly, his attention captured by the shapely figure examining the mantel piece.

Other visitors had marveled over the building as they wandered its many rooms, but none had taken the time to examine any of its details as closely as she was doing, he noted. Chris tore his gaze from her exploring fingers and let it settle on her lithe, curvaceous figure, taking in the well-worn work boots, slim-fitting jeans, and brightly colored T-s.h.i.+rt. Her hair was caught up in a bun dangerously close to coming undone, with tendrils of honey-colored hair springing free from their confines.

She's probably just another historical society member, he decided, although from behind she appeared to be much younger than the others who visited this week. "Hysterical society" was more like it, he mused. They'd earned their reputation as old ladies in tennis shoes, h.e.l.l-bent on saving every obsolete building for posterity. In fact, he was meeting with one of the old bats in an hour or so. A Miss Elizabeth Reed, his secretary informed him this morning.