Unrivaled (29 page)

It was the first of February, three weeks to the day of our wedding. I was trying hard not to think about it, but the note I held in my hand made it difficult. I couldn’t quite make sense of it.

The maid who had handed it to me had already gone back to sweeping the front hall, but she straightened and paused for a moment. “Did you . . . want anything else, miss?”

“Hmm? Oh. No. Nothing. Thank you.”

The note was written on electricity company letterhead in a bold but regular hand.

Meet me at Union Station. Leaving town on the 11:15 train for Memphis.

AA

Mr. Arthur had never sent me a note before. I hadn’t thought him the type of man to write love letters, but I hadn’t ever
expected to receive anything like this either. He wanted me to meet him at the train station?

Why?

Did he want to . . . elope? Mother’s comments about Julia Shaw echoed in my head. I could only imagine what people would say about me, the Queen of Love and Beauty, running off to get married. My cheeks burned. Maybe . . . he just wanted a small wedding. Nothing wrong with that. It’s what I wanted too. But wouldn’t it be better just to go to the courthouse? Surely people wouldn’t be half so scandalized about that.

Leaving town on the 11:15 train.

Eloping was supposed to be . . . well . . . it was shameful, but it was also supposed to be romantic, wasn’t it? It had to mean that he couldn’t wait one day more to make me his bride. Why else would he be in such a hurry? And didn’t that imply something about me? I should be flattered, really. I was quite sure that I wasn’t supposed to feel trapped and panicked and . . . and shamed.

It was probably due to the shock of it all. If I had woken knowing that today was to be my wedding day, I would be feeling differently. I would feel excited and happy. Perfectly blissful. I folded the note and put it into my pocket, sliding my hand along the banister as I walked up the stairs.

I was to be married. Today.

I had known I was
going
to be married. That’s what it meant to be engaged to be married. But somehow I’d never actually thought of becoming married. Of the actual being married to Mr. Arthur.

Alfred.

I’d have to call him Alfred now. I felt my chin start to pucker as I walked into my room. I shut the door behind me. I would
not
cry. There was absolutely nothing to cry about.

Meet me at Union Station.

I knelt beside my hope chest and pulled a package of caramels from its depths, peeled the cellophane wrapper from one of them, and thought about it all as I sucked on it. I couldn’t back out. Not now. He’d given me the chance, and I’d refused. I couldn’t change my mind.

Could I?

I trembled as I thought about it.

No. I couldn’t. Breaking the engagement at this point would be even worse than eloping. So that meant I was going to be married
now
. I swallowed the rest of the caramel, then looked around the room that had been my own for nineteen years. I had no idea what to do. There was a difference between thinking about getting married and going to get married, and I hadn’t understood that until right this minute.

I wished Sam were here.

But what could he do? Except tell me not to go?

In spite of all reason, I had a peculiar longing for Charlie Clarke. For a person who would, even for a moment, hide me from the world and hold me in his arms as if he treasured me. As if he cared for me. Understood me.

But that was foolish.

If he knew about Mr. Arthur’s note, he’d probably offer to drive me to Union Station himself.

I was caught between ruining my reputation or breaking an engagement . . . which would in turn ruin my reputation. I unwrapped another caramel. Really, they were some of the best caramels I’d ever had. They didn’t stick to my teeth, and once they had warmed in my mouth, they melted into a delectable cream. I plucked another from the package and popped it into my mouth as well.

If I wanted to slip away unnoticed, I couldn’t take too much
with me. I tiptoed down the hall and up the back stairs to the attic. There I wrestled an old Oxford bag from a heap of luggage in the corner. Back in my room, as I opened it, the handle slipped its fittings. I pushed it back into place while I contemplated what to pack.

I didn’t have much time.

A second dress, surely, for the wedding. I wouldn’t want to wear the one I’d traveled in. I’d wear my coat, but I’d need a pair of fresh stockings and extra shoes. Another pair of gloves. And something to sleep in. I grabbed my favorite nightgown, but then thought the better of it. Hadn’t I ought to take something better? If Mr. Arthur were going to see it?

Mr. Arthur
was
going to see it.

Alfred.

Alfred, Alfred, Alfred. I needed to call him Alfred now.

The thought made me want to hide in the closet.

Married people had to do . . . what they did . . . once in a while. A cold sweat prickled at the backs of my ears. I hoped it wouldn’t be too often. But how bad could it be? Rapturous embraces, passionate kisses, and that sort of thing. It must be pleasant or people wouldn’t do it, would they? Although . . . I could think of quite a few things people did that weren’t pleasant at all. They just did them because they had to.

My knees began to shake.

I stuffed another pair of stockings into the bag. It wouldn’t do any good to think about things too much. There would be time for all of that later. I fastened the bag, took one last glance around the room, and then tiptoed down the hall.

I paused as I passed Papa’s room. Should I . . . ? No. I’d only start to cry. I was going to be married. I was supposed to happy. And I would be . . . just as soon as I could. Once I got on the train, probably. Hopefully. Soon.

When I got to the platform, Mr. Arthur was already there. He was pacing in front of one of the cars. I faltered in my step for just a moment. Every girl should be happy on her wedding day, so I put a smile on my face, clasped the bag in front of me with both hands, and continued on toward him.

A look of relief crossed his face when he saw me. “Thank goodness! I didn’t think you’d make it.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the train. “There’s not much time.”

“I’m ready.”

An odd look crossed his face. “Well . . . that’s . . . good. That’s good.” He cocked his head as a frown creased his forehead. “Ready for what? Exactly?”

I raised my satchel. “For the train. The 11:15 for Memphis. That’s what you said.”

“Oh. Oh! You thought you . . . and I . . . ?”

What else had I been meant to think?

“The thing of it is . . .” He paused and licked his bottom lip. “The thing of it is, I can’t marry you.”

“What?”

“I can’t marry you because I’ve decided to marry someone else. We’re eloping. Today. Right now, as a matter of fact.”

“You can’t marry me.” I tried to make sense of what he was saying.

“I . . . don’t think it would be appropriate. Considering.”

He’d had me worry about extra stockings and nightgowns and then come all the way down to Union Station just to tell me he didn’t want me? “You couldn’t have written me a note?”

“I did.”

“Or stopped by the house on your way here?”

“I . . . couldn’t . . .”

“I thought we had an arrangement!”

“I know. I just—I didn’t know—I really have to go. The train’s about to leave.”

“You’re
leaving
me?”

“I’m sorry to be so rude about it all. That’s why I’ve put it out that it’s all my fault. I hope you’ll forgive me. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of shoulders to cry on once everyone hears how I’ve jilted you.”

I was being jilted?! “But I don’t—what am I supposed to do?” How was I supposed to marry the most eligible bachelor in town if he was eloping with someone else? “What happened to being agreeable? And thinking that we would come to care for each other? That love might grow with time?”

“I found that love, Lucy. Only . . . it wasn’t with you. I’m sorry. I would have sworn to you that it didn’t matter—but I’ve found, in fact, that it does. And it wouldn’t be fair to marry you if my heart belonged to someone else. Someday, I know you’ll understand.”

Understand!

“I hope you’ll forgive my leaving. I can’t stay, not after breaking our engagement. Society wouldn’t be very accepting.”

“But—but—” What was wrong with me? That’s what I really wanted to ask him. I didn’t like him, not in that way, but I wanted him to like me. So what was it about me that wasn’t worth jumping on a train to elope with? What couldn’t he bring himself to love?

He glanced over his shoulder at the train. “Don’t worry. I had a word with Charles. He’ll see that your prospects aren’t tarnished. He’s good at getting the word out.”

“Charlie
Clarke
?” Did he want me to thank him for that?

The train hissed a cloud of steam as the conductor walked the platform, shooing passengers onto the train.

“I really have to go. You’ve been wonderful about all this. Thanks.” He gave me a salute and then hopped onto the train. And not once did he look back.

“Lucy!”

She turned away from me, dropping her head, causing her hat to shield her face.

“Lucy Kendall!” I stood on the running board of the car as I hailed her outside Union Station. I couldn’t keep the dimples out of my smile. Alfred was out of the picture. Now was my big chance.

She stalked on, as if she was determined to ignore me.

I told Nelson to follow her.

Cupping a hand to my mouth, I shouted toward her. “Don’t worry. Alfred told me everything.”

As she came to a halt, her bag swung back to whack her in the knees. She staggered. “What exactly did he tell you?” Her face flushed an angry red.

I sprung down off the running board and took her by the hand. If she’d get into the car, then I wouldn’t have to shout at her. “He told me how he’d decided to elope with Evelyn. And
how he was going to break the engagement.” She wasn’t looking at me quite the way I’d hoped she would. “I was . . . I was thinking you might not want to walk home alone.”

As she stood there, glaring at me, her mouth fell open. She gasped. And then her eyes narrowed. “Who is Evelyn?”

I winced.

A shout went up from the steps of the station. “Yoo-hoo! Lucy Kendall—is that you?” Winnie Compton was waving a handkerchief in our direction.

Lucy started and lunged toward the car before I even had the chance to move. She threw the bag at me, ducked beneath my arm, and burrowed into the bench.

I told Nelson to drive on up to Vandeventer. As I put the bag on the floor and settled in next to her, she glared at me.

“You knew about this? About
her
?”

“I . . .” didn’t know what I should say.

She gasped and put a gloved hand to her mouth. “You’ve met her, haven’t you?”

“Really, I don’t think—”

She pierced me with a look. “This is all your fault.”

I put up a hand. “Now, wait just a minute—”

“Before he met you, Mr. Arthur was a nice man! He would never have snuck around with some—some other woman.”

“I’m not . . .
not
nice!”

“It’s not bad enough that you people steal our candy? You have to steal my fiancé too?”

“It’s not like that, Lucy. In fact, I thought it was good of him to warn me about this.”

“You would!” She sat there for a minute, mumbling to herself beneath that huge feathery hat of hers. “So tell me: Why did he tell
you
?”

I shrugged. “He saw the work I’d done with Royal Taffy, and
he knew if anyone could advertise it around the city that he was the one to blame, I was the man for it.”

“So you’re going to
advertise
me? As if I were . . . some piece of candy?”

“Don’t worry. It shouldn’t be too hard. You’re much sweeter than a piece of Royal Taffy.” I tried out a wink on her.

Her mouth clamped into a scowl as she clasped her hands around the handle of her bag.

“Listen. I’m really sorry, Lucy.”

She threw a look toward me. “You . . . you are?”

“Of course I am.” Though I was happy about the way things were turning out, that didn’t mean Alfred hadn’t done a bad thing by running off the way he had. Although her question seemed odd. “Why? Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?”

“I just thought . . .” Her glance grazed my lips, then shot away. “Never mind. Just . . . don’t talk to me.” She made a point of staring out the window.

“We should be friends, you and I.” We should be more than friends. “Especially since Alfred’s not here anymore.” I took her hand in mine.

Nelson pulled up to her house. For a moment her hand went limp in mine, but then she pulled it away. And her lips collapsed into a firm, thin line.

I put a hand to her cheek. “Tell me . . . can I hope there’s a chance for me? Now that he’s gone?”

She didn’t pull away from me, but I didn’t like the gleam in her eyes either. “Are you willing to stop trying to put us out of business?”

Business. For one blessed minute, I’d forgotten about all of that. Why did she always have to hold it over our heads? “I have to be honest with you, Lucy. There’s nothing you can do or I can say that will stop our fathers’ rivalry. At this point,
don’t you think the best thing to do is just . . . get out of the candy business? While you still can?” There was nothing to be gained by holding out anymore. I’d seen the figures. I’d read the reports. I’d walked the streets. There was hardly a packet of Fancy Crunch to be found in the city.

“So you think that just because my father’s dying you can—”

“No! It’s not like that.”

“Then you think the only way your father will be proud of you is if you destroy a dying man’s dream?”

“You’re not listening!” I only wanted to help her. I only wanted to have her. And I couldn’t do either of those things as long as she kept being so muleheaded.

“I’m trying to.” Her shoulders dropped as the corners of her eyes drooped.

I reached out to cup a hand to her face.

She put a hand to my chest as she looked up into my eyes. When she spoke next, it was in a whisper. “I want to know how a man who makes me feel the way you do can treat my dreams so poorly.” She closed her eyes. “But the only thing I understand is that your father matters more than mine does and that your wishes are more important than my dreams.”

She was going to be stubborn, then. I dropped my hand. “If you could just be reasonable, when this is all over—”

Her eyes flew open. “When this is all over, it may well have killed my father, Charlie Clarke. Why can’t you just—be somebody else!” She pushed open the door and yanked on her bag, only to wrench the handle off. It tipped onto its side, the mouth yawning open, spilling all of its contents.

I bent to collect them. “Let me help—”

“No. Please! I don’t want your help.” She stuffed a dress back into it. Stockings. Gloves.

I held out a dress to her.

She snatched it from me. “I would thank you to keep your hands off my—my—”

Of all the irksome, unbearable, irritating women! “Your nightgown?” I felt my eyes flash as I threw it at her.

She caught it. As she shoved it into her bag, she glanced up at my face. And then her mouth dropped into an
O
. She dropped the bag entirely, backing away from me, up the walk toward her house.

I bent and picked it up, offering it to her.

She didn’t move to get it. In fact, all she did was retreat farther up the walk.

“Lucy?”

“Don’t—” All the color had drained from her face. “Don’t . . . don’t touch me.”

“I just wanted . . .” I offered the bag to her again.

She wrenched it from my hand. “It’s you.”

I’d always imagined her saying those words, but in all my imaginings, she’d never said them with quite that note and horror and fear.

“Are you all right?”

“You—you—” Her teeth were chattering so hard I could hardly hear what she was saying.

“I what?”

“You killed that man. That poor man. The one who—”

As I reached for her, she took one last, long look, clasped the bag to her chest, and fled toward her house.

I pulled on her doorbell, I pounded on the door, I yelled her name, but the door never opened. If only she’d give me the chance to explain.

But she didn’t. And she probably never would.

How had she found out about Micky Callahan? And how was it that I’d imagined I would never have to tell her? That I could ever hope to hide something so terrible from a woman I had come to . . . to love.

Love.

What would Lucy do with the information? Would she tell anyone else? It didn’t matter. If Lucy had found out, then it was only a matter of time before everyone else did too. And what could I say? I might as well have killed him.

Nelson drove me back home, and I stayed around to help him wax and polish Louise. It was an afternoon’s worth of work, and it gave me something useful to do.

Things hadn’t gone at all the way I’d hoped. I was supposed to pick Lucy up at the train station, let her cry on my shoulder, and then help her get over her broken heart.

Dreams were for children.

“Careful there, Mr. Charlie. You’re going to rub the shine right off the brass.”

“Sorry. I’ll just . . .”

“Why don’t you give that rag to me and go on up to the house?”

I walked up the drive as the sun was setting and saw a shadow flit around the corner of the house. It was short and small. One of the street scamps? Leaving the drive, I followed it around the back of the house. As I did, I discovered something I hadn’t counted on. The scamp was a she. I caught up to her as she was reaching for the back door and grabbed her about the arm.

“Ow!” She tried to pull her arm from my grasp.

“I’d like to know what you think you’re doing!”

As she looked up at me, the porch light fell across her face. She had that same look of fear and terror that Lucy had.

I released her and stepped back. “Jennie?”

She blinked. “Mr. Clarke!”

“What are—why are you prowling around out here?”

“I . . . was . . . it was my afternoon off.”

“And you’re just now coming back?”

Her gaze dropped toward the ground as she lifted her chin. “What I do with my time is my own business.”

Of course it was, but the way she refused to meet my eyes made me want to make it my business. She wrenched the door open and disappeared up the servants’ stairs. I retraced my steps back to the front walk, wondering whether I should be concerned.