An Unlikely Suitor (28 page)

In Lucy’s world, Italians married Italians. Jews married Jews. Irish married Irish. A poor immigrant girl did not marry a businessman from any—

Marry? Marriage? Lucy lifted the note and began to tear it in two. But with just a rip started, she stopped herself. She needed time to think about this.

She folded the note into fourths and set it on the table. Then she put out the lamp and got into bed.

The moonlight stretched across the room, up the table, and over the edge of the page.

Lucy turned her face to the wall.

T
hey’re going to work
and
sleep in here?” Lucy asked.

Haverty, the coachman who’d originally picked her up at the dock, shoved a cot into the corner of the outbuilding. He stood and arched his back before giving her a scathing look. “You want your family to get special treatment like you? Who do you think you are? The Astors?”

“No, of course not, but since my room is in the main house, I’d hoped—”

“Hope all you want, Lucy; this is where the Langdons want them to be. And considering all the work me and the others had to do to clean out this space so you three can have a sewing room . . . it wouldn’t hurt you to be a little grateful.”

She was grateful—to some extent. And yet she still wondered why they couldn’t find some larger room in the main house to set up their work space. To be ostracized out here, in this room attached to the groundskeeper’s house, was far from handy.

Haverty set a couple straight-back chairs up to the table they’d use for cutting. “I’m waiting.”

It wasn’t his fault. And he had done his best making it workable. “Thank you, Haverty. I do appreciate the help. I’m just worried what my little sister will say.”

“She won’t take kindly to you being in the big house and her being out here?”

“Uh . . . no. Sofia is a princess at heart.”

He nodded toward the two cots. “She won’t feel much like a princess after sleeping on that thing.” He moved to leave, then stopped. “How old is she, anyway? And is she pretty?”

Lucy pushed Haverty out the door, but his questions raised a warning flag. Sofia was fifteen but looked older. And she was pretty. Back in New York, Lucy had felt fairly safe because their apartment was right above their workplace. There was little chance for Sofia to wander or be faced with the usual temptations of youth. But here, isolated in this building that was close to the stables and the men who worked there and close to Hugh in the house . . . Mamma would have to keep a close eye on her youngest daughter.

Lucy took inventory of the room. Her mother and sister would have to share a bath with the groundskeeper, Mr. Oswald, and his wife, and would take their meals with the middle-aged couple. The furniture in the room was sparse and merely functional. Two cots, three chairs, and a large table. At the far end sat a treadle sewing machine the Langdons had borrowed from some neighbor. Mamma was bringing sewing supplies and fabrics—hastily ordered from Madame Moreau’s supplier. There would be no room for error regarding the cutting, and no time—

Time. Lucy only had a few hours before Haverty would go to the station to pick up her family. She could either rush back to her room and work on one of Mrs. Langdon’s dresses or . . .

She patted the note in her skirt pocket. She hadn’t been to the Cliff Walk in two days. Dante had told her he couldn’t come yesterday, which was just as well, as Lucy had been busy helping Rowena dress for a special afternoon outing to a neighbor’s, plus she’d been occupied arranging for the sewing room and lodging for her family.

And she’d told Dante she couldn’t be there today, but . . . but she would like to leave him a note, have it waiting for him.
Il tempo viene per chi sa aspettare
. All things come to those who wait.

She’d reread the note written Wednesday night—the one she’d nearly torn up—a multitude of times. Today, almost without conscious thought, she’d put it in her pocket.

So now . . . note or work?

It was a surprisingly easy choice.

The Cliff Walk was especially busy, and Lucy, walking alone, stood out among the couples taking a stroll, arm in arm, the ladies shading themselves with lace-trimmed parasols.

She was rather surprised to see all status of strollers, from lower class in their simple clothing, to the very wealthy in high style and intricate finery. She remembered what Rowena had said about the owners of the mansions being perturbed about having the full range of society pass by. Apparently they lived to show off but wanted to choose whom to show off to.

When she reached the stone wall that held their hiding place, she was forced to feign gazing at the sea as a couple sat on the very wall, the woman’s skirt veiling the stones.

Lucy noticed the tone of their conversation change at her intrusion—which was just what she had hoped for.
Leave! Go somewhere else for privacy.

Eventually, that’s exactly what they did, adding snide comments about “rude people” under their breaths.

Lucy quickly sat upon the wall, inches to the left of the secret stone. She reached down as if adjusting some detail of her skirt, and gave it a little tug. To her relief it moved, but she was forced to sit upright when another couple strolled by.

The man tipped his hat.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

As soon as they passed, she looked both ways and determined the time would never be fully right. She had to take a chance. And so she reached down, pulled the stone away from the wall, and began to insert—

There was a note inside!

Lucy quickly set the stone at her feet and removed the note, inching herself to the side to conceal the open space. She slipped her own note between thigh and wall, and opened Dante’s.

My dear Miss Scarpelli,

To go two days without seeing you is pain indeed, and so I have done what little I could do and have talked to you on paper. ’Tis not the same (nor nearly as satisfying) but at least one side of our conversation can be shared. I will await your reaction in person, or in a note if that is all God and circumstance allows.

I have never—never I say twice and more if necessary—met anyone quite like you. The dialogue we have shared in our few meetings has far surpassed the lifetime of small talk I have previously endured with a myriad of acquaintances. For even those of the fairer sex I previously deemed interesting now pale in the light of your being.

We have begun to know each other, and that seed now planted demands full growth. I long for Sunday, at 2 o’clock. I will wait for you here, with the sea as my companion.

Yours truly,

Dante

Lucy pressed the page against her chest, surprised to feel the beat of her heart through the paper. The words he’d shared with her . . . No man had ever said such things to her, not even Angelo.

And yet . . . She folded his page, put it in her pocket, and removed her own note from under her thigh. Rereading what she’d penned two days before, she found their thoughts were as one. For she too mentioned the depth and breadth of the conversation and had braved saying she longed to see him again. She’d questioned being so bold, for until now her boldness had been reserved for practical matters, not issues such as love that seemed to defy all that was logical. But something in their time together, and in the feelings that lingered far after their time had ended, had led her to take the risk.

And now, to find the risk would be well received? The risk was reciprocated?

It was horribly frightening. And yet . . . She put her note to her lips and whispered into it, “For you, dear Dante,” and then slipped the note behind her skirt, into its rocky hiding place. She slipped the rock into place, locking her words away, for his eyes alone.

She hurried home, her hand sharing space with Dante’s note in her pocket.

“Mamma, come to the railing and see!”

But Mamma shook her head and sat as far away from the railing of the steamer as possible. She’d shown a surprising dislike for being on water. Hadn’t she traveled halfway around the world to get to America?

Sofia shrugged and turned back to face the wind. She for one was thrilled to be off that awful train and into the fresh air of the sea. When they’d first received the telegram inviting them to Newport, she’d assumed they would travel first class, as Lucy had traveled. But no. They’d ridden hours in a crowded train car, sitting on hard benches, shoulder to shoulder with working-class people traveling to Newport for a quick summer holiday before returning to the city to resume their grind.

The car had been hot, and conversation difficult with the windows open, letting in the loud
clackity-clack
of the train along the rails, along with a feeble bit of air. Sofia’s anger over the situation added fuel to the heat, and it had taken a strong dose of determination—and Mamma’s chiding looks—to make her say a prayer of contrition, and another of supplication that somehow she’d get over it and make the most of this opportunity.

For that’s what it was. A huge opportunity to see Newport and get away from the stifling heat of New York City, and the danger of Bonwitter’s lurking presence. She took to heart Papa’s saying “
A caval donato non si guarda in bocca
.” Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

A few hours into the trip, they’d grown hungry, and Sofia had asked the conductor the way to the dining car. Lucy had written home telling about the luscious sweets she’d eaten in that special place. But there was no such car for their class, and they’d had to spend their money buying stale sandwiches from a woman carrying around a basket. A cup of lukewarm water dipped from a barrel had been their only refreshment—and even that not very enticing after Sofia witnessed a little boy spit into the water.

Transferring their things from the train in Wickford Junction to the steamship had cost more money, and Sofia hadn’t even cared to see the room where her third-class ticket dictated she sit. Instead, she chose the rail and the wind and the view.

As they neared the harbor, she saw sailboats and was in awe. She’d never seen anything so beautiful and couldn’t imagine the peaceful feeling that must accompany the passengers. She waved at a boat nearby and was pleased when its white-clad skipper waved back.

Maybe she’d get a chance to sail in Newport.

The possibility encouraged her.

Once the steamer docked and Sofia and Mamma landed, a stocky blond man wound his way through the crowd toward them, his height a good six inches above the rest.

Sofia leaned toward Mamma. “I think he’s for us.”

As if he’d heard, his eyes fixed on her. When close enough he said, “Scarpellis?”

Sofia took the lead—and Mamma’s arm—and stepped forward. “Yes, that’s us.”