Unrivaled (6 page)

Dreffs pushed aside the curtain and gave me a look-over. “Excellent. Now, I am going to tell you something that I expect you to remember.” He tapped at each of my coat’s buttons with his finger. “Always. Sometimes. Never.”

Always, sometimes, never . . . what?

“You must
always
button the top button of your coats. You may
sometimes
choose to button the middle buttons, but you must
never
, under
any circumstances
, button the bottom one.”

Well, then why was the fool thing there in the first place?

Mr. Dreffs added socks and handkerchiefs and several caps. He instructed me on what to wear to work, to the opera, to a dinner party, and to golf outings.

I hoped he didn’t expect me to remember.

He also chose three sweaters with a rolled neck style that I had always publicly scorned but secretly admired. “You’re to wear these with a pair of tweed trousers or knickerbockers. Never underneath a suit. And
never
with worsted.” He leveled a look at me over his glasses and then commanded me to repeat all of his advice. Next, he selected a plain though heavy pocket watch and three pairs of gloves.

An hour later, I was walking down Olive Street feeling as if St. Louis was paradise itself. Where else could a man be given a chance at a new life? I’d left Manny White and the past behind. I might have to work for my father, but that was all right. He owed me. And once I was able to put some money aside, once I figured we were even, then I planned to walk away. Just once, I wanted to leave him the same way he’d left me.

“Oh!” My handbag slipped from my wrist as I walked right into a man on Olive Street. The wide brim of my new mushroom-style hat had hidden him from my view.

His hand at my elbow was the only thing that kept me from falling.

“I am so sorry!” I looked up into the most delicious eyes I’d ever seen. They were like pools of the best milk chocolate . . . with caramel swirls at their center.

He lifted his hat. “A girl as pretty as you could never be at fault.” He flashed a dimpled smile as he stooped to pick up my handbag.

“I—”

“Lucy?” My aunt had continued on down the sidewalk without me, but now she was turning back. “Lucy?”

As I took the handbag from him, I smiled my thanks. Looking up into his eyes, there was something about the man that seemed familiar. I hadn’t met him before, had I? Surely I would
have remembered. I could never have forgotten those dimples or his eyes. I felt a blush warm my cheeks.

“May I help you?” My aunt stood before us, glowering, as if she were shooing away street urchins at the ancient forum in Rome.

The man retreated. “No. I’m sorry. I was just—”

I slipped my handbag back over my wrist, then put a hand to my aunt’s arm. “He was kind enough to help me after I walked into him. It was all my fault.”

He was already walking away.

“Thank you!” I nearly shouted as I said the words, but I wondered if he even heard me.

“I’m sorry, Lucy.” My aunt linked her arm with mine. “At first glance . . . well, I know we’re not in Europe anymore, but I find myself erring on the side of caution, nonetheless. Though, considering the way he was dressed, I ought to have known it was harmless.”

I tried to glance back over my shoulder, but the brim of my hat blocked the view. “It just . . . it seemed like I ought to know him. As if I’d met him somewhere before.”

“If you haven’t, and he belongs here, then I’m sure you will. We’ll have to ask your mother if any eligible bachelors moved to the city while you were gone.”

I felt like rolling my eyes. Eligible bachelors had been a frequent topic of conversation on our travels. And now that I was back home, I had hoped not to hear about them anymore. Besides, I had no time to think of bachelors. I had to come up with a new candy. And soon!

My aunt and uncle were staying for a week’s visit before continuing to their home in Denver. We all went to church
together on Sunday, and then on Monday my mother, my aunt, and I went to Vandervoort’s so I could be fitted for my Veiled Prophet Ball gown. My mother had ordered it several months before, when she had received the news, but only now was it ready for a fitting.

“What kind of dress is it?” I knew my aunt was only making idle conversation, but it brought to mind our fitting sessions at the couturier in Paris.

“It’s a semi-princess.” Mother seemed to answer with a strain in her voice.

“Of course.” Aunt Margaret’s reply was dismissive, but I don’t think she meant it to sound so rude. Everything was a semi-princess these days, with the long, sleek lines of traditional fitted gowns broken only by a seaming of the bodice and skirt together at the waist.

“With a square neck. And mousquetaire sleeves.” Mother seemed very proud of herself.

“Short sleeves?” Aunt asked with a quirked brow.

“Long.”

My aunt frowned.

“But the ball is in October—at night.” Mother seemed to send me a plea as she spoke. “There’s a fichu drapery at the waist. They said it was the very latest in modes.” The words came out as an appeal. As if she hoped I wouldn’t be disappointed.

I smiled, and that seemed to reassure her. I’d noticed, though, since I’d been back, that the very latest modes in America seemed slightly behind the latest modes in Europe. I wondered . . . “Is it . . . white?”

Mother looked at me as if I had suddenly lost all sense. “Of course it’s white!”

I’d traveled so far and seen so much in the past year . . . wearing a white gown seemed like a denial of all that I had
experienced and everywhere that I had been. As I walked into the store with them it seemed such a bother to have to concentrate on dresses and balls when there were more important things to be accomplished.

The dressmaker brought the gown out from behind a curtain with a flourish. “Only the finest for the Queen of Love and Beauty!”

Mother hushed him. “No one’s supposed to know!”

He leaned forward, reducing his voice to a whisper. “And no one does . . . except for me.”

“Is that marquisette?” My aunt was craning forward in her chair, evaluating the gown, which had been draped over the counter.

“It’s net. Over satin.”

“Oh. But wouldn’t a marquisette have worked better? It would be much more distinctive.”

The dressmaker’s brows had risen to dizzying heights. “Better for what? A summer gown?”

“A princess style in marquisette would have been much better suited to the occasion.”

Mother broke in to their discussion. “Perhaps in France, but we’re living in St. Louis, if you had not noticed.”

I let my thoughts wander as my mother and aunt exchanged opinions. Sitting in one of the glass counter cases was a sample of watered silk in a delicious shade of green. It reminded me of the pistachios we had tasted in Vienna. Maybe the new candy I created could have a base of pistachios. But what flavoring would go best with them?

Orange flower syrup!

My mouth began to water. Yet . . . maybe that was too exotic. What about . . . honey? I could make a pistachio chew with honey and nougat. But . . . I’d never even seen a pistachio before
I’d been to Europe. How expensive were they? Whatever else this new candy turned out to be, it needed to be inexpensive to make and easy to sell.

It couldn’t entail extra fuss and care. Which meant no chocolate.

But I could make a nougat. And so could the confectionery. Nougats were easy. Only water, sugar, and egg whites were needed. And honey and possibly pistachios as well. But . . . nougats weren’t very exciting. And my candy had to be something different. Something special.

My mother placed a hand on my arm. “Which do
you
prefer?”

They were all looking at me as if in expectation of a response. “Pardon me, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear the choices.”

“Next Monday or Tuesday?”

“For . . . what?”

“Your next fitting.”

It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. The important thing was the candy. I needed a candy that would truly stand out. One that would be noticed and remarked upon. It couldn’t be just another white dress worn to another debutante ball. I needed something no one had ever seen, or tasted, before.

My mother would have had me devote all of my time to practicing dances and to going about the city making calls had I not reminded her, nearly constantly, of her promise.

“But you are not to neglect your duties. This is a chance not to be missed, nor to be despised.”

“I don’t intend to miss it.” I was, however, beginning to despise it. But everything depended upon my attending . . . and upon the successful debut of the new candy.

I hurried up to my room after the morning’s calls and
exchanged my dress for a shirtwaist and skirt. Then I went down into the kitchen and helped Mrs. Hughes stir up the fire. I slipped on an apron and fastened it about my waist. “I’ll need the big copper pot today, Mrs. Hughes. We’re making candy.”

Our family’s cook had always been a willing participant in candy-making endeavors and our first tester of new sweets. But today she swatted my hand away when I reached for the pot. “Not until I’ve boiled my potatoes.”

“Please?”

“If you’re wanting to make candy, then maybe you should go down to the confectionery.” A hint of regret in her eyes softened the frown on her face.

The confectionery . . . where everyone had witnessed that final argument with my father. Better, perhaps, to wait. I sat on a stool and buttered a tray in preparation, then helped Mrs. Hughes peel the potatoes.

I wanted to try out my idea for a nougat to learn what it would taste like with a flavoring. The trick of it would be to have the egg whites whipped at the same time the syrup was ready. While I was waiting for the potatoes to boil, I found some rose water at the back of a cabinet that I’d once used with my father. It wouldn’t taste like orange flowers, but at least I’d find out if the texture was right. Next, I measured out a small amount of butter and set it on a saucer, sliding it onto the windowsill where it could soften in the sun. Then I separated eggs, collecting the whites into a bowl.

After Mrs. Hughes had drained the potatoes and washed out the pot, I put it back on the range and added sugar, water, and honey, stirring until the sugar dissolved and being careful to wipe away the forming crystals with a damp cloth.

I heard the screen door at the back of the kitchen yawn open and then slap shut. “Someone told me Lucy’s back.”

I felt my face break into a smile. “Sam!” I turned from my stirring.

“Lucy.” He tipped his cap up as he winked at me.

Of all the people I’d missed during my time on the Continent, Sam topped the list. The son of my father’s foreman, he had spent nearly as much time in the confectionery’s kitchen as I had. He delivered candy around the city for the company and did odd jobs around the house. Tall and rangy, he still moved with steady deliberation. And his pockets still bulged with packages of Fancy Crunch. At least his wrists no longer stuck out from his cuffs as if stranded there at the end of his sleeves. Or if they did, I couldn’t tell. He’d rolled his sleeves up, exposing muscled forearms I hadn’t known he possessed.

I took another look at him. Where had all the sharp angles and gangly limbs gone? He seemed to have grown into himself somehow. As he approached, I felt shy and rather . . . small. He’d turned into a man while I’d been gone.

I swallowed.

He smiled and that grin made up for all the uncertainty and awkwardness I’d felt at his approach.

“I’m making a new candy. Want to help me?”

“I don’t know, Lucy. Maybe I should come back some other time.” He was backing toward the door.

“Please?”

“How long is this going to take?”

“Not long. Not as long as toffee would.”

I gave him charge of the pot of syrup as I took up a whisk and began to beat the egg whites. My time on the Continent had done me no good at all. Though I changed hands, my arms quickly grew tired, and I had to ask Sam to trade with me.

As I lifted the spoon from the pot, syrup trickled from it in a thick thread. Almost ready. Taking the spoon out of the
pot, I let a few drops of syrup fall into a clear glass filled with water. Scooping out the ball that formed, I pressed it between my thumb and finger. It was getting hard, but I could still feel it give a little as I squeezed: time for the egg whites. “Can you bring that bowl over here, Sam? Quickly?”

He came over, holding the bowl against his chest in the crook of his elbow.

I grabbed a ladle from a drawer and dribbled a bit of syrup into his bowl. “Keep beating those. Don’t let up.”

“My arm is going to fall off! I thought you’d have given up candy making by now.”

Why had everyone assumed that my affection for candy was something I’d grow out of? “Just keep going.” I dribbled a little more.

“Are we done yet?”

“Not yet.” I took the bowl from him and beat the egg whites until they’d become stiff once more. I thrust the bowl into his arms and went to look at the still-boiling syrup. It needed to reach the hard-crack stage before I could add it to the egg whites.

I waited for the color to change, then dipped a spoon in and dripped some syrup into my glass of water. This time, when the syrup hit the water, it formed spindly threads. As I fished one out, it snapped in two. Perfect!

Wrapping a cloth around the handle, I elbowed Sam. “Set your bowl down for a minute but keep beating. I’m going to dribble this syrup into it.”

He obliged while I dribbled. Then I discarded the pot and set about beating the mixture in the bowl myself. After a while, it began to separate into ribbons as I pulled the whisk through it. “Can you do exactly what I say, when I say it?”

“Haven’t I always?” Though he mumbled the words, I heard them.