An Unlikely Suitor (25 page)

Lucy moved to the door. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Langdon, I prefer to eat my dinner alone.”

“Ignoring her handicap will not make it go away.”

“I do not ignore it; I look past it.” She put her hand on the doorknob.

“Do you want to know how she was injured?”

Actually . . . She let go of the knob. “Certainly. If you’d care to share.”

He walked toward her, his hands in the pockets of his evening trousers. “My sister is a klutz. When she was thirteen she slipped while running on the family yacht and landed badly on her hip. She has no grace at all. Never has.”

“She exudes grace with every breath,” Lucy said.

Hugh’s eyebrows rose. “Well, well. She certainly has you under her spell.”

“There’s no spell involved,” Lucy said, reaching for the knob again. Opening it. “I see the truth in her, and total loyalty. They are the essence of her character.”

He walked past her, through the door, stopping so his shoulder grazed her own. From there he looked down at her. She could feel his breath upon her cheek. “Speaking of truth . . . don’t believe everything you hear about me, Lucy.”

The trick would be believing enough.

Rowena dunked her spoon into the shrimp bisque but took to her mouth little more than a coating.

She wasn’t hungry, and worse than that, she didn’t want to be there.

At least it wasn’t a large dinner party, just a few of her parents’ friends, and none of her own age, so she didn’t have to pay that much attention to the banter. Which was a good thing considering her mood.

Which was . . . ?

She dunked the spoon a second time in the soup, lifted it out of its drowning, then dunked it again. Memories of the painting fiasco dogged her thoughts.

Fiasco?

It was far too strong a word. She’d had the notion to expose Lucy to art. It wasn’t Lucy’s fault she possessed a natural talent for painting. It served Rowena right for being condescending about it.
See the rich girl enlightening the poor seamstress as to the finer things in life.

See the seamstress outshine the rich girl, which serves her right for being so patronizing.

Rowena fidgeted in her chair, gaining a look of warning from Mother. She gave up on the soup, setting her spoon down.

“Not hungry, my dear?” Mother asked.

“Not much.” She added, “But it’s delicious as usual.”

“Where is your Edward?” Mrs. Garmin asked.

My Edward?
And actually, she wasn’t sure why Edward had sent his last-minute regrets. She hadn’t seen him all day and had looked forward to his company at dinner. But late afternoon, he’d sent a note giving his regrets and saying he would stop by the house tomorrow. And they
were
going to the musicale at a neighbor’s home the coming weekend . . .

A musicale. Another place where Rowena would be faced with talents she didn’t possess.

Mrs. Wetmore set down her own spoon and audibly took a breath, her face beaming with obvious anticipation. “I have it on highest authority that Alice Vanderbilt is altering the format of her upcoming housewarming and coming-out party for her Gertrude, and turning it into a costume ball. Isn’t that marvelous?”

The look on Mother’s face showed otherwise. “And how are we to come up with costumes in two weeks?”

Mr. Wetmore leaned forward. “I would guess the short notice is so Alice will have the best costume, one that was designed and made months ago.”

There was a grumbling ascension among the men, and a mumbling resignation among the women. It was just like Alice to create a way for herself to be the queen of the ball. Two years ago she’d been costumed as “Electric Light” at her sister-in-law’s ball in New York.

“The Vanderbilts’ new home, the Breakers . . . not a piece of wood used in the construction,” Mr. Berwind said. He shook a finger to make a point. “They are not going to lose this house to fire like the last one.”

“I hear its very Old World,” Mr. Langdon said.

“Well, I think it’s ridiculous,” Mr. Havemeyer said. “I mean what style is it, anyway? Italianate or French or—?”

“Vanderbiltian,” Mr. Langdon said.

Amid the soft laughter, Mrs. Garmin set her spoon down with a clatter. “Well, ladies. What are we going to do about this? Alice has thrown down the gauntlet. We can’t let her costume overshadow our own.”

Mrs. Wetmore looked to her husband. “Are you certain we won’t be in town for this party?”

Her husband pressed a napkin to his mouth and cleared his throat. “I am certain.”

With Mrs. Wetmore out of the picture, Mrs. Garmin turned to the other women. “So? It’s up to us, ladies.”

Mother shook her head back and forth. “There simply isn’t time—as Alice well knows.”

“Actually . . . I’ve already got my seamstress on it,” Mrs. Berwind said.

“As have I,” Mrs. Havemeyer said.

Mr. Garmin turned to his wife. “We have the costumes from last year. Those will just have to do.”

Mrs. Garmin shook her head adamantly. “I will not be Cleopatra a second time.”

Like a bolt from heaven, Rowena had an answer.
Lucy can make our costumes.

Yet before she let the idea take flight, her hurt pride grabbed hold of its legs, forbidding its freedom. To let Lucy’s talent shine yet again? How could she choose such a thing?

How could she not?

“Why not ask Lucy to design and create our costumes?”

“Lucy?” Mrs. Garmin began to smile. “Ah yes, Miss Scarpelli. I had the pleasure of her company on the trip here. She is quite delightful.”

Of course she is.

Rowena’s mother looked confused. “But how did you travel
with
Lucy? She was in third class.”

Mrs. Garmin huffed a laugh. “I can assure you,
I
was in first class. And so was she.”

Rowena wanted to melt into a puddle under the table, and could have from the heated intensity of her mother’s look. She might as well admit it now in front of her mother’s friends rather than risk a private reprimand latter. “I paid for Lucy’s first-class passage out of my allowance.”

Her father leaned back to let the footman take his soup away. “Your allowance is for
your
use, daughter, not the use of a . . . a . . .”

“Friend?”

Mrs. Garmin came to her rescue. “I think it’s wonderful. And isn’t it also propitious? For now Lucy is here, and she is available to help us look smashing at Alice’s party. Do you think she’ll do it?”

With a glance to her mother, Rowena answered, “If I ask her to. She’s very creative.”

“Then count me in,” Mrs. Garmin said.

Rowena’s envious side chided herself for creating yet another way for Lucy to showcase her talents, but the side of her that cherished Lucy as a friend shoved the envy aside and took charge.

Friends helped friends be their best.

Lucy enjoyed this time of day. The night had taken away the sun, leaving her with the lesser light of the gas lamps for her work—which wasn’t enough. And so she was free to do nothing—at least until Rowena came up from dinner and needed help with her nighttime toilette.

Lucy extinguished the false light in order to see outside. She turned her work chair toward the window, and drew it close enough that she could lean against the sill to look out upon the night. She was glad the dressing room was on the ocean side of the house so the darkness wasn’t spoiled by the gas lamps lining the drive or the grounds. The back yard glowed with the reflection of the light inside, but not to the extent that the moon relinquished its prominence.

She saw its light sparkle on the water, and could even distinguish the horizon line where ocean met sky.

Once again Lucy remembered her father’s lesson about the horizon and stood in her chair, watching its line rise with her. She sat again and found herself smiling.

Her father, Dante.

Her hero this afternoon, Dante.

Would she ever see him again? Rowena had told her to return to the Cliff Walk, just in case. . . .

It was not a question of whether she
could
pursue seeing him again, but
should
she? She was a visitor in Newport—for a very short time.

But so were most of the people here, residents for six or eight weeks, then gone again, returned to their other life. Their real life. This place was a fantasy, a regal fairyland of gilded halls and glorious balls. It was a city of pleasure and position, of show and splendor. It was as different from her life in New York as diamonds were to glass.

Her thoughts turned to Mamma and Sofia. The same moon that shone upon Lucy shone upon them. But would they—could they—see it amid the tall buildings of the city? And surely they were already asleep, worn out from the strenuousness of their workday, needing to rest so a similar day could begin tomorrow.

Were they safe from Bonwitter?

The draw of the night was interrupted by her fear, and she lit a lamp in order to write them a letter. She’d been selfish to let her thoughts get distracted from their troubles. How were they managing without her to guide and protect them?

Lucy got out paper and pen and used a book as a surface to write upon.
Dearest Mamma and Sofia
 . . .

She was interrupted by the sound of Rowena returning. She set the letter aside and stood to greet her.

Rowena burst into the dressing room, her face alight. “Were your ears burning?”

Lucy had no idea what she was talking about. Ears burning?

Rowena laughed. “One of our dinner guests knows you.”

“Knows me?”

“Mrs. Garmin? She met you on the train?”

Lucy smiled. “She and her husband took care of me and helped me tremendously. She was here?”

“They both were.” Rowena turned her back toward Lucy so Lucy could start unbuttoning her dress. “And here is the good part. Mrs. Garmin wants you to make her a costume for Mrs. Vanderbilt’s costume ball.”

Lucy stopped her work and turned Rowena around. “She wants me to sew for her?”

Rowena beamed. “She saw my dress and Mother’s, and was so impressed with your work that—”

“But I didn’t do all the work. The other ladies at Madame Moreau’s did much of it, and—”

Rowena’s smile faded. “You can’t do it?”

“No, I can do it, but—”

“Because you also need to create a costume for Mother and me.”

Lucy’s thoughts fluttered with all that would be involved in three dresses. No, not merely dresses . . . “Costumes, you say? What kind of costumes?”

“The more elaborate the better. I would like to wear something from the Regency period, and Mother was thinking of a costume from Elizabethan times. And Mrs. Garmin mentioned wanting to be dressed as a very elaborate Hungarian gypsy.”

Lucy’s head shook back and forth, accepting and rejecting the immensity of it all. “When is this ball?”

“In two weeks.”

“But I—”

Rowena took Lucy by the shoulders. “You’ll do it, won’t you? It will be such a triumph for you, Lucy. If others see your work and appreciate it, who knows what could happen?”

She couldn’t say no.

Sleep would not come easy tonight.

R
owena was up with the dawn, her mind racing with thoughts of the dinner party the night before. She’d offered Lucy’s creative talents toward making three costumes for Mrs. Vanderbilt’s costume party. Her own envy at Lucy’s gifts had nearly kept her from sharing the idea, but luckily, loyalty had won out over petty jealousy.

For now at least.

She opened the curtains wide and let the sunrise and the sea inspire her. The clouds were low in the sky as if the sea had birthed them, and as they rose higher, they lost their newborn pinkness and grew blue and then gray.

Rowena was reminded of a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and recited a verse. “ ‘Love me with thine azure eyes, made for earnest granting; taking colour from the skies, can Heaven’s truth be wanting?’ ”

The colors of dawn were her favorite colors in all God’s creation, which was why she often chose them for her clothing. Happily, with her light skin and hair, they suited her.

An idea for her costume came to mind. The Regency era of history was rife with the pastels of the sunrise. What if she portrayed a character from one of Jane Austen’s novels? Her favorite was Elizabeth Bennet from
Pride and Prejudice.
And Edward could go as the romantic hero, Mr. Darcy.

Rowena retrieved some stationery from her desk and held pen to paper.

You’re not a painter, and you’re certainly not a sketch artist.

She had an image in her mind but hesitated. What if she couldn’t get it down on paper? What if it looked like a silly cartoon?

“So what?” she said aloud. She wasn’t creating a piece of art but simply illustrating an idea. Lucy would take it from there.

Her doubts eased at the knowledge that she and Lucy were working together in this. Comrades. Partners.

And so, the ink flowed.

Lucy was up with the dawn, her thoughts racing. Mrs. Garmin wanted her to create a costume? And two more for the Langdons?

During the night she’d made a mental list of the supplies she’d need, and the first thing she did upon waking was to start a new letter to Mamma, explaining the situation. If she could have it finished before Rowena woke up—

There was a rap on her bedroom door. Lucy panicked and realized she wasn’t even dressed, but there was nothing to do but answer. “Rowena, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize the time and—”

Rowena shook her head. “The time is far early, but I couldn’t sleep for thinking about the costumes.”

Lucy indicated her letter. “I’m writing my mother right now, telling her what supplies to send and—”

“Your mother is a part of an idea that just popped into my head. Why don’t you ask her to come here to help you?”

Lucy was shocked into silence.

“She’s a seamstress at the Emporium too, isn’t she?”

“She is,” Lucy said, “as is my little sister.”

“Then have her come too. They can bring the supplies with them.” Rowena tied the bow on her ruffled wrap. “If you tell them the type of fabrics you need, could they bring those too?”

Lucy was overwhelmed. Her legs felt weak, and she staggered to sit on her bed.

Rowena rushed to her. “Are you all right? I should have been more subtle this early in the morning. I
can
be more subtle, but—”

Lucy touched Rowena’s hand. “It’s . . . it’s just that ever since I got here I’ve been worried about them and—”

“Worried? Why?”

Lucy didn’t want to burden Rowena with their problems with Bonwitter again. There was nothing she could do about it anyway. “Remember that man back home who’s been bothering—”

“The rat man. What’s his name? I’ll have Father take care of him.”

A laugh escaped and Lucy quelled it. Did Rowena truly think her father could do what the police could not? “It’s a complicated matter. The police—”

“Police are involved? What else did he do to you?”

Oh dear. “It’s more what I did to him. If you remember, I arranged things so he was caught stealing from my employer. He lost his job and fled. Needless to say, I’m not his favorite person.”

“And with you out of town, you fear for your family.”

“Yes.”

“Then you
must
bring them here, for their safety
and
to help you with the costumes.”

It did seem like a feasible solution.

Rowena took Lucy’s hand and pulled her through the dressing room into her bedroom. “Come see the sketches I did of a costume I’d like to wear. I even have an idea for Mother’s. And Mrs. Garmin is coming over this afternoon to talk to you about hers.”

Was this really happening?

Sometimes Sofia regretted learning how to use a sewing machine. The machine made it audibly obvious when she was working and when she was not. And today she was not in the mood to work.

There was a subtle mood of unease in the workroom today, as if the other ladies didn’t like her anymore. Could she help it if Bonwitter kept targeting her? If Lucy were here, he would have harassed her. Sofia was an innocent in all this. She didn’t deserve Bonwitter’s stalking; nor did she deserve the hostility of her co-workers. Considering all this, she was in no mood to work, much less work hard.

The desire to escape into a book dogged her, demanding attention. Maybe if she slipped into the storeroom . . .

Her fear of seeing Bonwitter made her think twice. But after sewing two more seams, she chose escape over fear.

While the other ladies were busy discussing the neckline of a ball gown, Sofia nabbed her latest novel from a basket at her feet and went to the storeroom. She glanced toward the window and was relieved to
not
see Bonwitter staring back at her. Had she really seen him the other day? Or was it all in her imagination as the other ladies—

Sofia pulled up short. For there, on the floor, was one of her novels, torn to shreds.

Bonwitter!

Yet the scene confused her. She looked at the book in her hands, to the debris on the ground, and to the book again. Maybe this wasn’t her book at all . . . She knelt beside the pieces and saw the title:
Lovers Once But Strangers Now
. This
was
her book!

She stood and took a step back. Yes, it was her book, but worse than that, it was a book she’d last seen in her bedroom. Her mind raced through her memories, trying to remember if she’d ever even brought this book into the shop.

She hadn’t.

Which meant Bonwitter had been up in their apartment, in the room where she slept.

A wave of chills coursed through her, propelling her to race back into the workroom. “He was in our apartment! He was in my bedroom!”

All conversation stopped and Sofia could see by the ladies’ skeptical looks that they had already deemed her outburst another false alarm.

She put her hands on her hips and glared at them. “You don’t believe me? I have proof.” She pointed to the back room. “Come see.”

The workroom cleared out in parade fashion as the women followed Sofia to the storeroom, grumbling all the way. She stood over the remnants of her book and presented them with a wave of her hand. “See?”

Mrs. Flynn picked up a piece. “It’s a book all right, but who’s to say it was up in your apartment or—”

Sofia’s anger rose. “You’re calling me a liar?” She snatched up the portion that owned the title and turned to Mamma. “Wasn’t I reading this book the other evening?”

“You were.” Mamma looked at Mrs. Flynn. “Sofia is not a liar.”

Dorothy chose another scrap. “I think the main point is that Sofia would not rip up one of her own books. She loves those books.”

Finally, a champion. “Exactly,” Sofia said.

Dolly hugged herself and looked toward the alley door and window. “Does that mean everything she said was true? That Bonwitter’s been peeking in the window at us? That he’s coming and going as he pleases?”

They all looked to Mrs. Flynn to give the verdict. “I guess that’s exactly what it means. I’ll send word to Mr. Standish that the locks
must
be changed immediately.”

“Those on our apartment too,” Sofia added.

She nodded. Mrs. Flynn and the other ladies went back to work, but Dolly stayed behind and helped Sofia pick up the pieces of her book.

“I always believed you,” she whispered.

It was something.

Mrs. Garmin took Lucy’s hands and kissed both her cheeks. “It’s so good to see you again, my dear. Are the Langdons treating you well?”

Lucy glanced at Mrs. Langdon. “Very well. Extremely well.”

“I knew as much. For why would they not? Women with a talent such as yours must be cultivated like a fine orchid.”

Orchid?

Mrs. Garmin took a seat on a burgundy settee beside Mrs. Langdon. Rowena sat nearby, leaving Lucy standing awkwardly before them. She wasn’t sure what to do, what was expected of her.

“I . . .” She nodded at Rowena. “Miss Langdon created some drawings of possible costumes and—”

Rowena raised a finger. “Crude sketches that Lucy has since embellished.”

Mrs. Garmin rubbed her gloved hands together. “A collaborative effort. Bravo. Now let me see!”

Lucy handed the ladies their respective sketches. She spoke to Mrs. Langdon first. “Your daughter said you wished to portray a lady in waiting in Queen Elizabeth’s court.”

“You’ve always liked that era, Mother.”

Mrs. Langdon nodded.

Lucy resumed the commentary. “For your dress I was thinking of a deep olive velveteen with a pink satin in the underskirt.”

“What about the stiff collar they always wore?” Mrs. Garmin asked. “How will you ever make that?”

Lucy had thought it through. “I’ll starch lace and mold it into the required shape.”

“How ingenious.”

Rowena sat beside her mother. “I was thinking you could wear your emerald necklace in your hair, with the main bauble on your forehead. I have a picture of Queen Elizabeth wearing a jewel like that.”

“That’s entirely possible,” Mrs. Langdon said as she studied the drawing.

Mrs. Garmin raised a hand. “My turn!”

Lucy caught Rowena’s eye as she moved to Mrs. Garmin. They shared a smile. This was going better than they’d hoped.

“For you I was thinking of a rich paisley for a shawl and as a portion of the overskirt.”