Return to the Island: An utterly gripping historical romance

by Hewitt, Kate

  “Nonsense, my dear girl, you know you could never do that. In any case, I’ve barely started on all the things I want to show you.”

  “Barely started?” Ellen repeated with a laugh. “I’ve never been as busy as I have these last few weeks!” She’d been to the opera, amazed at the sheer scale of the production as well as the beauty of the voices, and attended several tea parties; to the Bronx Zoological Gardens and the huge department store, Macy’s, on Herald Square. She’d strolled through Central Park and wandered through the galleries of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, stopping in front of her own painting, hung, admittedly, in a distant, dusty gallery, but amazed nonetheless to see it there. Really, there had barely been a dull moment.

  “There’s still so much to do,” Elvira pressed. “You can’t possibly leave yet, Ellen.”

  Ellen smiled and murmured her thanks. It was hard to resist Elvira Frampton’s energized determination; she was like an ocean liner in full sail, bearing down on everyone with steely enthusiasm. You either had to get out of the way or get on board.

  “Shall we walk back?” Ellen suggested once they’d left The Plaza Hotel. Outside, it was a hazy day, a gentle breeze blowing down Fifth Avenue. The stifling heat had lessened a little with the onset of late afternoon, but her hostess still looked horrified.

  “Walk… but it’s nearly ten blocks!”

  “I haven’t done much walking since I’ve been here,” Ellen said with a smile. “And I want to get my strength back.” Although she’d toured much of the city, it had always been from the back of the Framptons’ gleaming Pierce-Arrow. She longed to stride down the city’s wide streets, taking in all the incredible sights, drinking in the city. She’d been an invalid for too long.

  “Oh, very well,” Elvira said, still looking slightly scandalized. “I suppose it is always beneficial to one’s health to take some exercise.”

  They set off down Fifth Avenue, passing the steel towers on every block that were to be the city’s first traffic lights, a development of which Elvira did not approve.

  “They look ghastly, don’t they?” she said as she and Ellen maneuvered past one. “And I shall miss the friendly police officers on every corner. But something simply must be done about the traffic. I read in the paper that it can take forty minutes to drive from Fifty-Seventh Street to Thirty-Fourth.”

  “Shocking,” Ellen murmured. There was only a handful of cars on Amherst Island, and traffic of any sort was never a concern. A pang of homesickness assailed her suddenly, and she wondered yet again when she would go home. If Elvira had anything to do with it, it wouldn’t be anytime soon. And as much as she missed the island, it was so pleasant to be in such congenial surroundings, with little to do besides amuse oneself, and nothing to worry about except what to wear.

  Back in the cool, dim foyer of the Framptons’ townhouse, their butler handed a letter to Ellen. “This arrived while you were out, madam.”

  “Thank you, Thomas.” Ellen smiled self-consciously, still unused to having servants wait on her. Her smile widened as she saw the Ontario postmark and Rose’s familiar handwriting. “Do you mind if I read this upstairs?” she asked Elvira.

  “Of course not, my dear. Dinner’s at seven. We’re dining in tonight.”

  “Thank you, Elvira.”

  Upstairs in her room, Ellen unlaced her walking boots and unpinned her hat. A glance in the mirror showed her flushed cheeks and wisps of hair framing her face; it had been hot outside, but her bedroom was deliciously cool, thanks to the electric ceiling fan that Ellen considered a marvel. Elvira’s husband had had the whole house wired for electricity twenty-five years ago, but it was still somewhat of a novelty to Ellen. Electricity had yet to come to the island, although there was talk of it happening soon.

  Ellen curled up in an armchair by the window overlooking Central Park and slit open the envelope, taking a moment to savor Rose’s beloved, loopy handwriting before she began to read.

  Dear Ellen,

  So much has happened and I’ve only written a few days ago! How funny it seems, to have so much news on our sleepy little island. I can only imagine how exciting your life in New York is, parties and balls and afternoon teas… I am so very happy for you, Ellen, for goodness knows how much you need and deserve a rest as well as a treat.

  But onto my news! You remember Jack Wilson, of course, the brother-in-law of poor Iris, and how he wanted to keep her children with him. He’d been going back and forth with the Ladies’ Benevolent Society for all these weeks, but they’d finally insisted the children were to go to the asylum in Kingston. They’d even booked the train tickets, and Mrs. Lewis was to take them, although I don’t think she even knows their names!

  Ellen paused in her reading, a frown puckering her brow as she imagined such a sad fate for the poor children. Caro would be furious as well as heartbroken, as would Mr. Wilson. It did seem so dreadfully unfair.

  Caro felt it was not to be borne, Ellen continued reading, as you can imagine, and she has suggested quite the surprising solution! Ellen, you will hardly believe it, but she and Mr. Wilson are to marry!

  The letter nearly slipped from Ellen’s fingers at this bit of news. Caro was to marry Jack Wilson, with his ruined face and taciturn manner, a man she barely knew? Ellen was too shocked for words, and yet at the same time she was hardly surprised at all. Caro had always been determined, to the point of orneriness, and she’d already shared with Ellen how unlikely it was for her to find a husband in these bleak times. Besides, she’d treated the Wilson children as her own. But… Jack Wilson! And yet of course Jack Wilson. Smiling, Ellen decided it made perfect sense.

  Of course it caused a bit of a scandal, mainly among the aforementioned ladies, whose noses were put out of joint at having their plans put awry. You’d think they almost wanted those poor children to be shipped off to an orphanage, but I can hardly think something so uncharitable about Christian women. In any case, the marriage is to take place at the end of the month, and they shall live, all five of them, at the Wilson farm. I asked Caro if she was certain, and she said she’d never been so certain of anything in her life! I do fear, Ellen, that she is marrying Mr. Wilson simply for the children’s sake, and not her own, but I pray in time the two of them will develop an affection for each other, and even a deep and abiding love, such as I knew with your Uncle Dyle.

  A pang of grief assailed Ellen at the memory of her beloved uncle, almost always with a mischievous glint in his eye and a ready smile on his face. Like her aunt, she hoped Caro and Jack could learn to love each other in time, with a deep, abiding love. Caro deserved happiness; she’d worked so hard, and the best years of her life had been given to the war, yet she’d never complained. Perhaps this sudden family—a husband and three children—would be her chance to find a new and lasting happiness.

  Ellen read on.

  In other news, Peter seems to be doing well at the military hospital. He has written several times and is learning new skills, even typewriting! I miss him every day, but I am so thankful he is getting the help he needs.

  We have not had any more bookings for the autumn, which is just as well since I’m not sure we could manage any, with you, Caro, and Peter all gone and the harvesting to be done! But don’t worry, Andrew, Gracie, Sarah, and I are coping quite well. In any case, we earned enough already to tide us over till winter, if we’re careful. Please don’t worry, Ellen, and don’t come rushing back! I am so happy that you are able to have this well-deserved rest.

  All my love, Aunt Rose.

  Ellen laid the letter in her lap, her unfocused gaze resting on the blur of green that comprised Central Park, now touched with reds, yellows, and golds. Gauze curtains ruffled in the breeze from the open windows, and the sounds of the city—both horses and cars, pedestrians and workmen, a policeman’s whistle or the blare of a car horn—were settling down as evening stole over Manhattan.

  Dinner was still not for several hours, and Ellen had time to read the novel Elvira had lent her�
��My Antonia by Willa Cather—and have a bath before getting dressed. All of it sounded wonderfully lazy and pleasant, and yet in that moment with Aunt Rose’s letter in her lap, all Ellen longed for was to be back in Jasper Lane, listening to the cluck of chickens and the slap of the screen door as the breeze came off the lake and twilight settled over the fields of golden green.

  With a sigh, she rose from her seat, tucking Rose’s letter away.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A week later, Ellen found herself standing on the edge of the Van Alens’ magnificent ballroom in a mansion even grander than the Framptons’ on Fifth Avenue. All around her, men and women laughed and danced; Ellen marveled at the women’s sleek hairstyles and new fashions—baggy dresses with hems that barely skimmed their ankles, and long ropes of pearls or beads that swung nearly to their waist. Ellen had never seen the like, and she felt more than a bit fusty in her dated gown from before the war, with its nipped-in waist and puffed sleeves.

  Elvira had practically insisted she buy something new, but Ellen had been adamant that this gown, from her time in Glasgow, would suffice. It wasn’t as if she needed a ball gown in her everyday life, and she could not justify the expense, even for Elvira, who could well afford it.

  This was her first ball since coming to New York, and just as she had at the beginning of her stay, she felt as gauche and out of place as she knew she looked. While she’d attended plenty of outings in the last few weeks, a proper grand ball was, Ellen realized, another prospect entirely.

  The Van Alens’ ballroom had a twelve-piece orchestra playing at one end, and a champagne fountain in the shape of a swan, the likes of which Ellen had never seen before, at the other. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park were bedecked with heavy satin drapes, and candles glimmered from every available surface, making the room stuffier than it already was, pressed close with bodies on a hot summer’s evening.

  With Elvira firmly ensconced in a group of matrons, Ellen had taken the opportunity to retreat to stand by the wall, where she could hopefully be ignored. It seemed easy enough; a few people had taken in her old-fashioned gown with a wry twist of their lips, but said nothing, and Ellen knew she was as good as dismissed. She didn’t actually mind and chose to slip out of the ballroom onto a terrace overlooking the mansion’s private garden, a small, verdant oasis in the middle of the city.

  It was cooler outside, the still night air like soft velvet against her heated skin, the evening wonderfully peaceful. Ellen waved a hand in front of her flushed face and let out a deeply held sigh of relief. She had enjoyed so many of the outings Elvira had arranged for her, but not, she decided, this one.

  “Now that,” a voice from behind her said in a tone of dry amusement, “was a sound I like to hear.”

  Ellen whirled around, her hand now pressed to her chest, her widened gaze taking in the sight of a dapper young man lounging in the open French windows.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No need to sound so frosty.” He smiled easily, his eyes glinting with ready good humor. “I only meant it is refreshing to think that a young lady feels as I do about these wretched balls, with everyone parading about as if they own the world, or at least the bit of it that matters.”

  Ellen eyed him uncertainly, loitering there as if he owned the world. He wore a white tie and tails, and his blond hair was brushed back from a pleasant, handsome face—blue eyes, straight nose, wide smile. He looked like one of the city’s privileged few, the highest echelon of society, a touch of arrogance to his slightly louche manner.

  “You don’t seem as if you are having difficulty enjoying the evening,” she ventured, her tone still a bit cool.

  “On the contrary, I find it quite excessively dull, which is why, like you, I am out here.” He stepped onto the terrace, and Ellen resisted the urge to step back. As charming as this man was, something about him felt a little reckless and far too assured.

  “Perhaps you should introduce yourself.”

  “Indeed I should. William Hancock Turner the Third.”

  “Goodness.” Ellen raised her eyebrows. “And here I am, plain old Ellen Copley.”

  “There is nothing plain about you, Miss Copley.”

  A blush warmed her cheeks and she looked away. This William Hancock Turner was far too forward, and yet she knew she was not entirely immune to his charms. After being ignored for most of the evening, it felt nice to be admired.

  “What do you do for a profession, Mr. Turner?” she asked.

  “A profession?” He looked amused. “How terribly quaint. I’m afraid I don’t have one of those, Miss Copley.” One blond eyebrow arched. “Are you disappointed?”

  “Disappointed?” Ellen considered his question. She knew far too many men who were desperate for gainful employment, men with mended boots and work-roughened hands and despairing eyes. Yet here was a man who clearly had as much money as he could want, and was simply looking for ways to spend it. But was it his fault? William Hancock Turner the Third had been born into wealth, that much was glaringly obvious, and she should not despise him for it. “A bit, I suppose,” she said at last. “Although I am not surprised that you don’t have any gainful employment.”

  “Touché!” he exclaimed with a laugh, one hand clutched to his chest as he pretended to stagger. “A double hit. I am mortally wounded.”

  “I didn’t mean—” she began, not wanting to offend him, but he simply smiled.

  “You are different than the usual vapid socialites, Miss Copley. Is it because you yourself have a profession?”

  Ellen blushed again. He made her sound like a snob in reverse. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “You are not from the city, though.”

  “No, I live in Canada, but I’m from Scotland originally.”

  “Which explains your charming if not easily distinguishable accent.”

  She laughed, enjoying his easy manner despite her intention not to. “I’m here visiting the Framptons. Do you know them?”

  “Only by acquaintance. How long will you be staying?”

  Ellen thought of Rose’s letter, and Elvira’s insistence that she accompany them to the Hamptons in a few days. “I’m not quite sure.”

  “Well,” William said, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary, “I hope it’s for a good while yet.”

  Ellen looked away, unsure how to respond to such bold flirtatiousness. She had not encountered it before, although she’d mingled with the wealthy and privileged when she’d been a student at Glasgow School of Art and engaged, ever so briefly, to Henry McAvoy.

  The thought of Henry sent a pang of grief through her. It had been seven years since he had died on the Titanic, and their relationship had been short and uncertain, due to the difference in their social stations. But he had loved her, Ellen had never doubted that, and in the long and lonely years since, she had wondered if another man would ever love her in the same way.

  A brush of fingers against her cheek had her startling. “I beg your—”

  “I’m sorry,” William said gently, “but you looked as if you were miles away, and it didn’t seem a very nice place.”

  Her cheek burned where he had touched it. “Where I was or what I was thinking is no business of yours,” Ellen said stiffly, “and I resent your forwardness, Mr. Turner. Goodnight.”

  Bristling with affront, she stalked past him into the ballroom.

  That weekend, the Framptons took the Pierce-Arrow out to Sands Point, where they were staying at the enormous, opulent Hempstead House, home of the famous Guggenheim family, who had made their fortune in mining and were known for their support of philanthropic causes.

  As the car pulled into the estate, Ellen could not keep her jaw from dropping. Hempstead House was more castle than house, with a crenellated roof and imposing tower, and had been built only seven years earlier, by the equally wealthy Gould family. Elvira had told Ellen on the drive out that the Goulds had not liked the house, so upon its compl
etion they’d sold the entire estate to the Guggenheims. Ellen could not imagine such reckless, lavish spending, tossing money about as if it were confetti, when so many struggled and starved.

  “Hempstead House is considered to have the best parties on the Gold Coast,” Elvira confided as seventeen house servants lined up for their entrance into the magnificent building. “We’ll have such fun, Ellen.”

  Ellen managed a faint smile. She knew she was quite out of her depth here; she had neither the wardrobe nor the confidence, never mind the desire, to take part in such an extravagant exercise. This was a far cry from afternoon tea in the Palm Court, or a tour of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Perhaps she could plead a headache and miss out on the evening entertainments, which she feared would emphasize the difference between her and her hosts all the more.

  The opulence continued inside the house, which was even grander than the castle-like exterior. Ellen paused inside the huge foyer with a Wurlitzer organ on proud display, the pipes stretching towards the vaulted ceiling.

  “Isn’t it magnificent?” Elvira whispered. “The pipes are only for show. The music is heard through spaces in the floor.”

  “I’ve never seen the like,” Ellen whispered back, which was certainly an understatement.

  Their hostess, Florence Guggenheim, greeted them with a flourish and kissed them on both cheeks in the European style before showing them to their rooms herself; Ellen’s room overlooked the Sound and was nearly twice as large as her bedroom back at the Framptons’, with an adjoining bathroom, a dressing room and private sitting room. The excess bordered on absurd. The Wilsons’ entire farmhouse was not as large as her suite, she realized. It made her homesick for the simplicity of life on the island, and all the people there.

  With several hours before afternoon tea was served, Ellen decided to walk down to the beach, visible from her bedroom window. She missed being close to the water, and as she slipped out of the house and wound her way through the gardens, she savored the breeze coming off the sea, possessing a tang of brine.