Unrivaled (22 page)

After Lucy and her mother had gone, Alfred joined me at my table in the corner. Apparently lectures by child geniuses were not to be missed. I was trying to hide from all the girls Augusta kept sending my direction. And I was trying to plug the hole that Lucy had opened up inside me. I don’t know why I’d been surprised at her words. What had I expected? That she’d welcome a man like me with open arms?

Alfred downed the rest of his punch and then set the cup on the table with a satisfied sigh. “That’s done, then.”

“What’s that?”

“I proposed to Lucy Kendall.”

Something inside my stomach clenched into a tight little ball. “And?”

“She accepted.”

Of course she had. Why shouldn’t she? As she’d said herself, who was I to say whom she should marry? “Congratulations.” I’d tried to hate the man, but there was nothing about
him to dislike. I’d tried hard to find something, but he was so polite, so nice, that his worst enemy would have been forced to admire him.

“Thank you.” He was looking very calm for just having gotten engaged to the best girl in the whole city. He should have been whooping or cheering or clapping himself on the back.

“You should celebrate.”

“Hmm?” He was looking at the bottom of his cup as though he were wishing there were more punch in there.

I took it from him. “We should go celebrate your engagement. In style.” That’s what a man did for a friend, wasn’t it? Helped him celebrate?

I should have kept my big mouth shut back there. If Lucy was going to marry anyone, then it
should
be a man like Alfred. He was almost perfect. Irritatingly perfect. And the most irritating part was that there wasn’t anything wrong with him! They were perfect for each other.

I took his hat from his hand and put it on his head, then pulled him up from his chair and pushed him toward the door.

Nelson dropped us in Chestnut Valley. I picked a saloon that had the “Maple Leaf Rag” drifting from its door and walked into it.

Alfred stood in the doorway, looking uncertain. “I’ve never been in this place before.”

I waved him in. “It’s just like the rest of them.”

“I mean . . . I’ve never been in any of them before.” He took a hesitant step forward.

“Ever?”

“Never.” He looked as though he wished he could still say that.

“Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

“I don’t have one.”

Two mistakes in the same night: thinking Lucy might accept me for who I was and assuming Alfred was just a regular fellow who’d want to have a drink with me. I’d been wrong about them both. “Just . . . sit there for a minute while I order a drink.” I pointed to a table in a shadow by the corner. “Then we’ll go.”

He glanced toward the stage as he sat.

I ordered up a whiskey for myself and a sarsaparilla for him. When they came, I wasted no time in taking a drink, enjoying the satisfying burn as it went down my throat. Alfred was sitting at the table, straight as a ruler, hat perched on a knee. So much for celebrating. I swallowed a sigh as I joined him, vowing I wouldn’t let him hurry me along. A man ought to be able to appreciate his whiskey. As I set my glass down on the table, I admired its golden color.

The ditty the piano man was playing tinkled to an end.

I stomped on the floor along with the rest of the crowd.

Alfred refrained, sipping his sarsaparilla instead.

A girl pushed through a lopsided curtain and planted an elbow on the piano. She was dressed in a blue ruffly skirt and a blouse that was short on fabric and small in size. She reminded me of the Tribley Twins back in Chicago. Though she looked almost respectable, she had the same large round eyes and the same dark hair that she’d spun into a roll up on top of her head. Her mouth was a perfect red bow. “Let’s stay for this song. She might be good.” She had that look about her. And even if she wasn’t, she’d take my mind off Lucy.

Alfred eyed the door again.

“Just one song. I promise. Then we’ll leave.”

The piano man took a run up and down the keys with his
fingers while the girl twirled the red rose she held in her hand. Then they launched into a song.

I am dreaming dear of you, day by day

Dreaming when the skies are blue, when they’re gray . . .

She’d turned to sing directly to us. Rather . . . directly to Alfred. No, that wasn’t quite right. She wasn’t singing; she was crooning.

That was two girls who couldn’t seem to get enough of him. What did he have that I didn’t? I took another swallow of whiskey.

Let me call you “Sweetheart,” I’m in love with you.

Let me hear you whisper that you love me too . . .

As the song drew to an end, the girl tossed her rose at Alfred.

He caught it, stared at it for a moment, then looked up at her. A silly grin was plastered across his face. “I’d . . . I’d better give this back to her.”

“She didn’t lose it. She threw it at you.
On purpose
.” The old throw-a-bone-to-a-wealthy-dog trick. I tried to take it from him, but he held on to it. I think he might have even growled at me. He strode toward the curtain and swept it aside, hat in one hand, rose in the other. I didn’t see him for another half an hour. And then, when he appeared, that girl was draped on his arm.

He was smiling down at her as if she were the best thing he’d ever laid eyes on. “This is Evelyn.”

I threw a glance at up her. I’d been wrong. She wasn’t like the Tribley Twins at all. She was old. She had to have been at least thirty.

Alfred was scowling, making gestures toward her with his chin.

Good grief. I stood. “Pleasure.”

“She’s going to come to dinner with us.”

“We’re going to dinner?” Hadn’t he eaten back at the university?

He scowled again. Even-tempered Alfred Arthur was getting testy.

“Oh. Oh! Yes. To dinner.” I linked my arm through his. “We were going out to celebrate. Did you know Alfred, here, has just got himself engaged?”

She drew her arm from his and took a step away from him. “Congratulations.”

Alfred mumbled something.

“Congratulations is what I told him too. We came here to celebrate.”

“Then celebrate you should. I won’t keep you.”

“No. Don’t—” Alfred had caught her by the hand as she tried to leave. “Please, come.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Looked at me. “On one condition. You’ll have to tell me all about your new fiancée.”

She was a sly and sneaky one. I could tell.

I suffered through poached egg soup, broiled fish, and boiled beef at the Planters Hotel. And then I suffered some more as Nelson drove us all back to Chestnut Valley. When we dropped Evelyn at the saloon, Alfred got out of the car too.

I stuck my head out the door. “You don’t want to walk back to your place from here.”

He turned, walking backward. “It’s a bit early to be going home.”

Early? It was nearly midnight. Evelyn had already disappeared into the saloon. He was glancing over his shoulder at the door as if he’d like to follow her through it. The very same door he hadn’t wanted to enter just a few hours before. “Alfred: Go home.”

He saluted. “I’ll be fine.”

I had a bad feeling about this. A man engaged to a girl like Lucy shouldn’t be flirting with a saloon singer. But he wouldn’t be the first engaged man to do so. And who was I to try and defend someone’s honor? Alfred Arthur was a grown man. I just had to trust that he could look after himself. And that he’d come to his senses. Soon. Before Lucy found out about anything.

“I’m getting married, Papa.” I had only just been proposed to, so the words sounded strange. It was like being back in my Italian language class in Florence and learning to say “I love you.” Though I’d repeated the words after my tutor, they’d held no real meaning.

My father reached out his hand toward me.

I knelt by the side of the bed and offered him mine. What little color he’d regained since I’d returned to St. Louis had disappeared. His breathing had become shallow and labored. I was more worried now than I had been back in September.

He squeezed my hand. “I only wish I could walk you down the aisle.”

“Maybe by then you’ll be able to. It’s only going to be a small wedding.” At least . . . I hoped it would be.

“Who is it? Or did you tell me and I’ve forgotten?” He laid his head back down on the pillow.

“Alfred Arthur.”

“Alfred . . . oh.” The smile left his face.

“What? You don’t like him?”

“He’s just so . . . sensible. Though I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just that I had hoped for someone with a little more . . . spirit. Someone more like a cinnamon drop than a butter mint.”

“He’s very agreeable.”

“I know he is . . . but . . . don’t you ever wish he’d be disagreeable? Just so you could . . . I don’t know . . .” He sighed. “Never mind.” He ran a hand across his eyes. “I haven’t been thinking clearly, lately. Of course you should marry him, Sugar Plum.”

“He’s a very good catch.”

He smiled. “You sound more like your mother every day.” He sighed. “That’s good. You should listen to your mother. I should have listened to your mother.”

“Papa—”

“I should have. She’s smart. Smarter than I ever was. If I hadn’t spent all our money . . . if I’d never signed . . .” His eyelids drooped and his chin dipped toward his chest, but then he blinked his eyes wide.

Signed what? “What did you sign?”

“What?”

“You were talking about signing something.”

He sighed. “What’s done is done. Don’t worry your pretty head about it.” He tried to hide a yawn in his shoulder, but I saw it and rose.

“You don’t have to leave.”

“I should let you sleep.”

He yawned again and this time he didn’t bother to hide it. “Maybe I should.”

Mr. Arthur came over the next afternoon. Alfred. I ought to think of him as Alfred. But Alfred sounded so . . . familiar. More familiar than I wanted to be. We sat, the three of us, in the parlor. Mr. Arthur—
Alfred
—presented me with a ring. It was a large square-cut diamond that glittered as he pushed it up onto my finger.

Did it have to be so big?

He and Mother discussed wedding plans as I sat there and stared at the ring on my finger. It seemed so permanent. And the way it sparkled—as if it couldn’t stop announcing the fact that I’d become engaged—was truly horrid. I wondered if people would treat me any differently. I wouldn’t be Lucy Kendall for much longer. Soon I would Mr. Arthur’s wife. I tried to stop the twisting of dread in my stomach, but I couldn’t. And then a thought occurred to me. “Won’t—won’t the Veiled Prophet people be upset if I get married? I’ve only just been crowned.”

Mother patted my hand. “I’ve already thought of that. And I’ll meet with them this week. Considering your father’s condition, I’m sure they’ll understand.”

My father’s condition. Of course they’d understand that I’d want to get married soon . . . before he died. A chill crept up my spine.

“Anyone would understand that.” Mr. Arthur smiled at me.

“Thank you . . . Alfred.” I said his name just to try it out. To see what it would be like. I supposed I would have to say it on a regular basis. At least I would once we married. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. I might as well begin practicing now.

Mother’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “I think the twenty-second would be fine. What do you think, Lucy?”

I blinked to find both Mother and Mr. Arthur staring at me. “About . . . ?”

“About the date of the wedding. What do you think of February twenty-second?”

“February?”
That seemed awfully soon.

“Weren’t you listening?” Mother didn’t quite frown as she spoke, but worry furrowed her forehead just the same.

“I had hoped it could be small.”

“Absolutely not.” Now Mother was frowning. “What could we expect people to say if you were married so quickly and so quietly? And besides, I’ve been dreaming of your wedding for years now. I want you to have everything that I didn’t.”

Mr. Arthur’s ears had gone pink. “I think . . . perhaps your mother is right.”

She consulted the tablet upon which she’d been writing. “I’ll reserve the church for the wedding on the twenty-second. We’ll have the reception at the Planters Hotel afterward.” She looked up at me. “I had always hoped to have it here, of course, but we need to spare your father the fatigue of all the noise and activity.” She turned her attentions to Mr. Arthur. “We’ll see the printer this week about invitations, and I’ll write up an announcement for the newspapers. Unless you would rather do so, Mr. Arthur?”

“Ah . . . no. No. I don’t think so. Well, I . . . had better . . . I should go.” He’d taken a handkerchief from his pocket and was swabbing his face as if he were sweltering. As if it were July instead of December.

Mother looked at me, brow raised, and gestured toward the front hall.

I rose and escorted him toward the door. “Thank you, Mr. Arthur. Mr. . . . Alfred. Thank you. For coming by.”

“It was my pleasure, Miss Kendall.” He put his hat on and tipped it at me before walking out the door. I wondered if he’d still tip his hat once we were married. I wondered if he’d ever
call me Lucy. And I wondered, too, how it would feel to be introduced as Mrs. Alfred Arthur. If anyone would make fun of my new name the way I had once made fun of his.

The next morning Mother took me back to Vandervoort’s to consult with the dressmaker about my wedding and reception gowns. We lunched at a tea room, then went on to Planters Hotel to discuss plans for the reception. Twelfth Avenue was decorated for Christmas, with pine trees lining the walkways and an enormous tree set up in the middle of the intersection with Washington Avenue. I ought to have been in good cheer.

The manager invited us into the dining room, where we all sat down to go over the arrangements. He and Mother talked about when the reception would start and how long it would last. Whether the ladies’ dining room or the Moorish room should be reserved and what to use for decorations. They talked about hothouse orchids and Boston ferns. Smilax and red roses.

“You’ll want the cake table in the middle, of course.”

Mother nodded.

“And the cake done in the new way? With pillars separating the two layers?”

Mother agreed.

“Can the cake be chocolate?” I didn’t like to make it, but I didn’t mind eating it.

She looked at me, brows tilted in exasperation. “A chocolate wedding cake? Chocolate is for children.” Mother turned to the manager. “We’ll have a normal wedding cake, two layers, with pillars.”

“Fine.” He noted something in his notebook. “That’s fine. We’ll decorate with orange flowers and ivy.” The manager tapped
his pencil on the menu he had set before us. “Shall we discuss the rest of the food?”

I let them decide how many courses there would be and what would be served. Then the manager cleared his throat. “We can deliver upstairs whatever remains. Unless you prefer a different arrangement . . . ?”

Mother looked toward me before glancing away. “I . . . am not sure what Mr. Arthur has planned. I had assumed they would be leaving that afternoon by train—”

“He’s already arranged for a room that night.”

That seemed odd. “For what?”

They both turned toward me.

The manager’s face had colored. “He’s reserved a suite for the night of the wedding.”

“Oh.” I had forgotten that I wouldn’t be going home afterward. “Oh!” And I hadn’t realized that I would be staying here. With him. “I . . . need . . .” I made some sort of excuse before I fled from the room.

I couldn’t breathe. Could a person die from not breathing? Just as the world began to turn white around the edges, my lungs opened up and I swallowed a mouthful of air with a great
whoosh
. I sat in the nearest chair, concentrating on breathing in and breathing out.

In, out. In, out.

Everything would be fine.

In, out. In, out.

All I had to do was get married.

In, out. In, out.

Even Julia Shaw had gone and eloped while I’d been away. How hard could getting married be?

In, out.

It wasn’t easy trying to save the company by myself. I wished there were some other way to do it.

In, out.

I wished there were no Charlie Clarke.

In, out.

But if wishes were candy, then I would be eating all the Royal Taffy I wanted.

In.

Wishes were for children.

Out.

And I wasn’t a child anymore.