Marry Me (4 page)

Raymond sank into one of the chairs with a sigh of relief. “B—busy things.” He meant the children.

Mary, comfortably ensconced in the other folding chair, swapped her parasol to the other shoulder so she could reach a sandwich. “Normally this is the time I would encourage you to start a family of your own, and so on.” She drew in a breath. “Any luck finding your mystery lady?”

Another regatta family set up their picnicking gear on the other side of the Chandlers. Mary called out a greeting. No doubt they would stop by later for a longer conversation.

“You know,” Mary continued, “The Moores over there have a daughter—”

But Raymond shook his head. How could he even begin to entertain the thought of yet another debutante when his heart was set on the lovely young thing he met the other day.

Then he saw her, out across the grass.

Her, with her elegance and grace as she turned her face to the sun.

He rose from his chair and pointed his finger. “Th-there.” Like most fashionable ladies of the day, she wore a white promenade dress, tied ever-so-neatly at the waist by a pink sash. She wore a corsage of bright red beribboned flowers that seemed out of place for an outing such as this. Who gave her those? The more he looked at them, the more wrong they felt.

Mary lifted up, peering to where he pointed. “Which one is she?”

Raymond sank back to his chair. Oh. The girl of his dreams had her arm through that of another man. His back was to them, so Raymond couldn’t see who it was.

She wasn’t interested in her current companion, for her gaze roamed over the whole of the park while he spoke with another couple.

His hand half-raised to wave at her. Then he dropped it. What if that was her beau? He certainly wouldn’t appreciate another man encroaching on his girl. “Neverm—mind.”

Then dream-girl’s companion, having exhausted his acquaintances over there, turned this way.

Oh no! Guy Elliott. She was with Guy Elliott? That preening, pompous fool? How disappointing. Surely her taste was not that bad.

Or was it?

It looked that Elliott was clinging to her more than she was clinging to him. She leaned away. Her arm might have been tucked in his, but the rest of her strained to escape.

Why was she with him?

Mary’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Mistaken?”

“N—no.” He pointed to the girl who had made his heart thump. “Co-cors-sage.” Hmm. Had Elliott given her that corsage?

Mary squinted in that direction. “Goodness,” she started, then, “Oh no. Not the one with Guy Elliott? You do not want someone with such bad taste.”

Oh? “How d-do you kn-now Elliott?”

Mary turned the question back. “How do
you
know Guy Elliott? I would not have expected you to move in the same circles.”

Every man worth knowing knew each other from the clubs on East 44
th
Street. Old school pals, men of business, scions of grand families. They hobnobbed at the Harvard Club, the New York Yacht Club, or DelMonico’s. Everyone who wanted to know the men worth knowing also hung about on East 44
th
.

Of course he knew him. “He’s a d-doorknocker.”

Guy Elliot was one of those men desperate to gain admittance into the polite circles of Society, yet for reasons of birth or lack of connections, was not readily admitted. Men of good character could prove their worth and thereby gain entrance.

Elliott was not one of them. Not for lack of trying, though.

“Oh,” Mary replied, squinting at the couple. “He is full of himself, is he not?”

Elliott loved to be seen, loved to be known, as if that’s all a man’s worth required.

The best thing to be said about Guy Elliott was he was a dilettante. The worst thing to be said about Guy Elliott could not be repeated in front of a lady, even his sister. All Elliott cared about was his reputation. He was all about the personality, with his fine clothes and wide smile. But Raymond knew it was character that made the man.

As a child, Raymond’s fists sometimes had to do the speaking for him, if any of his schoolmates thought to mock him for his speech impediment. They soon learned that Raymond’s fists did not stutter, but boxed true.

Later he enjoyed the sport at university and continued with the regime at the gymnasium in his club’s basement. Few men could beat Raymond. He’d earned his fellows’ respect.

He had not—nor desired to—earn Elliott’s.

“Oh dear,” Mary declared. “They’re coming this way.”

Raymond swallowed. Could anything be more awkward? The person to whom he wished to speak the most and the person to speak the least were both coming here. There was no way he’d be able to maintain a clear voice. He put a desperate hand over his sister Mary’s.

She was nonplussed. “What?”

“I-I c-can’t…”

Mary blinked at him. “What?” Then it dawned on her. “Oh. They’re not coming here.”

They weren’t?

Then Mary’s eyes widened. “Oh!” she cried. Her eyes twinkled. “Permit me to solve your mystery. Your lovely young lady is none other than Miss Mildred Moore, daughter of Herbert and Alice Moore.”

She had a name! Miss Mildred Moore. It sounded so poetic, though he would have a difficult time rolling it off his tongue.

His sister gestured with her head. “The family next blanket over. Our sons often race boats together.”

Raymond relaxed somewhat. Of course they’d be coming over here. He would not have to make conversation. Though he so wanted to.

Why did Elliott have to spoil everything?

Raymond patted his upper jacket pocket. The “Marry Me” heart he’d tucked in there on his and Miss Moore’s first meeting rested comfortably next to his chest, a talisman of hope for the future.

He sighed. Here she was keeping company with Guy Elliott, though goodness knew why. Did that mean he was her beau? Or was there some other sort of explanation? He adjusted his seat to face more toward his sister and change the conversation.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched them approach. Was that eagerness in her step as she nearly dragged Elliott to her family? Was she so ready to show him off to them?

“Raymond?” Mary’s voice broke through his irked distraction.

He shook himself. “P—pardon?”

Whatever his sister had asked him, she did not repeat. Instead, a knowing smile spread across her lips. “Would you like me to find out more?”

Now he was confused. Why did he let himself be distracted? “Aa-bout wh-wh-at?”

Her eyes simply flickered in the direction of the Moore’s picnic.

His face flushed. His gaze dropped to his hands clutched in his lap. He shook his head.

“Oh come now,” she chided. “Surely you are not going to give up all that easily.”

His shoulder lifted in a half-hearted shrug.

Mary leaned over to whisper. “I have never heard anything bad about Miss Moore. If she is indeed a victim of bad circumstance, I would much rather see her fail in a courtship with you, than succeed in a courtship with him.”

Really?

Raymond’s gaze flickered toward the Moores.

“Millie, dear,” her mother called out, loud enough to be overheard. “I thought you were…” her voice faded as Millie approached and she dropped her volume.

Millie clasped her mother’s hands as she leaned in for a filial kiss. Elliott remained very much on the perimeter of the picnic blanket. Like the Chandlers, the Moores had a small table and several chairs set up—not quite enough for extra guests.

Raymond couldn’t quite overhear the conversation between Miss Moore and her mother. It wasn’t exactly quiet out in the park, with children running free to the wind and the many voices of the strolling Society who’d come to watch the Junior Regatta.

He did hear Guy Elliott’s voice. “There were many people to say hello to. After all, I had to introduce your lovely daughter about.” He beamed a smile. Was that supposed to be charming? The plethora of teeth made Raymond shudder.

Miss Moore offered her own weak smile, her shoulders hunching.

Mrs. Moore’s voice rose above the background noise. “And where have you set your picnic blanket?” she asked Elliott.

Far away, Raymond hoped, so he wouldn’t have to watch the blighter court Miss Moore.

Elliott fiddled with his hat and muttered something too low for Raymond to hear.

Whatever it was, it didn’t please Mrs. Moore.

Miss Moore pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered something, also out of earshot.

Mary tapped Raymond’s hand. “You’re a terrible eavesdropper. Shall I make it easy for you and introduce you?”

“P-please.”

Alas, it was not to happen, for up came the rest of the Chandler family, all his nieces and nephews bouncing in excitement around Thomas carrying a dripping boat.

Charles Chandler, a capital fellow, bent over to give his wife a peck on the cheek. “All set. The boat has been approved and entered.”

Raymond locked gazes with his nephew. Thomas smiled and nodded knowingly in return. Good. If he were to win, it would be the honorable way.

After they smothered their mother with hugs, the younger Chandlers descended on a plate of sandwiches like hungry puppies. Only Thomas stood as he ate, his shifting feet betraying his excitement. What a conundrum for an adolescent boy: food or fun?

Raymond glanced over to the Moores’ picnic. Miss Moore had settled into one of the chairs. Elliott had no choice but to sit on the ground. He lounged about as casual as he could, as if he was happy to sit on the blanket. He was nattering on about something. His voice carried over to Raymond, but he had little interest in Elliott’s topic. Neither did Miss Moore, as she gave him only half an ear while her eyes scanned the crowd.

Raymond couldn’t help but smile. From his pocket he drew several objects—a small notepad, a stub of a pencil, and the bag of little conversation hearts. “Hello,” he scrawled on the back of a heart.

He fashioned a paper dart to carry his message and sent it drifting on its enchanted way.

Mrs. Moore missed it, so busy was she in her conversation with Elliott, and he, so wrapped up in his speech.

The heart-laden paper dart swirled around Miss Moore before settling into her lap, much to her surprise.

Her face lit up when she saw the little heart. She looked about for Raymond.

When their gazes met and she smiled at him, his heart warmed.

After a guilty glance to Elliott, she gave Raymond a little wave and mouthed, “Hello.”

Raymond’s next enchanted note settled onto her lap. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Moore. I am Raymond Wilson.”

She smiled as she read this note. This she carefully folded and tucked into her sleeve. Although she was seated, she spread her skirts and inclined her head in the way of a debutante’s curtsey.

His third note said. “Would you care for a stroll about the lake?” As she read it, he noted her lips quiver ever so slightly. The corners of that beautiful mouth turned up.

So wrapped up was she in her and Raymond’s conversation, that when Elliott addressed her, she jumped. Raymond’s note she crumpled up tight in her hand as if to make it disappear like a magician’s trick.

Raymond’s breath caught in his throat. Could he command the little paper note to fly away, should anyone else other than Miss Moore dare to read it?

No need, for as soon as Miss Moore gave Elliott an answer, his attention turned away from her. After all, in Elliott’s eyes, he was the center of attention, not her.

She looked up at Raymond with regret. “Sorry,” she mouthed.

The fourth note to land in her lap: “Don’t tell me you like that josser.”

Her reply: an enthusiastic shake of her head. Then she beckoned him over, ever so slightly, lest anyone else should notice.

Good enough an invitation for him.

Raymond all but hauled his sister to her feet. “Int—” his throat refused to finish the word. The noise of children reaching their fill of lunch didn’t help any, nor did the thought of having to acknowledge Elliott.

Mary’s protestation over the interruption of her lunch died when she saw the pleading look in her brother’s eyes.

“—troductions,” he managed to finish, with a desperate glance over to the Moores.

Mary knew. Mary, his sister, his boon companion growing up, she whose words made up for when his lacked, and he, in turn, had kept the less desirable swains at bay until the excellent Charles Chandler came along, Mary understood. “Come, dear brother. Your lady love awaits.”

Indeed, as they approached the neighboring picnic arm-in-arm, they were warmly welcomed by Mrs. Moore, who was more than happy to interrupt Elliott’s ongoing monologue.

Raymond’s attention was focused on the Moores, but he didn’t dare turn his back completely to Elliott. He saw Elliott stiffen in indignation and rise to his feet.

Mary had the situation completely in control. “My dear Mrs. Moore,” she gushed, taking the older woman by both hands. “So very good to see you on this beautiful day.”

Indeed, the day was lovely, with clouds scudding across an otherwise sunny sky, and only the faintest nip of cold in the gentle breeze. The joyful sound of people enjoying the lovely Spring weather rippled across the grass of the park. Indeed, some of the younger Chandlers had abandoned their lunch to dash across the lawn.

“Have you met my brother Raymond Wilson?”

He extended his hand. “H-hello.”

If Mrs. Moore noted his slight hesitation on the word, she was too polite to mention it. “Charmed,” she replied, holding out her hand old-school.

Raymond took it, but did not have the bad taste to plant a kiss on her knuckles. Such gallantry for a woman of Mrs. Moore’s respectability was over the top.

Elliott cleared his throat.

Before Mrs. Moore could tender further introductions, the rest of the Moore party arrived.

A boy, perhaps a year or two younger than Thomas, came dashing up. “Mama, Mama! My boat passed! I can race!”

Mr. Moore, Raymond presumed, followed at a slower pace. He was a man broadening in girth. He huffed as he carried his son’s toy boat, his fine trousers streaked from dripping water. With care, he set the boat down. Already, his son had delved into the picnic basket, much to the consternation of the Moores’ servant. Mr. Moore’s attention was not on his starving son, but the unexpected guest. “I say, Elliott. Didn’t expect to see you so soon. I thought you young folk would have taken off for the whole afternoon.”