Francine was already sitting on the bench nearest the road when Betsy arrived. She’d brought a few slices of bread with her, and she was breaking off crumbs and tossing them to the pigeons that were gathering near her feet.
“Funny little things,” Betsy said, taking a seat next to her friend. “They act more like pets than they do wild creatures.”
“I imagine they’re becoming used to being around people,” Francine replied. “Ever since this park was built, they congregate here as though it belongs to them, and humans were created to bring them treats.” She held up her bread. “I’m well trained, you see.”
Betsy laughed. “Indeed you are.” She looked up at the brilliant blue morning sky, then down at her hands. “Thank you for meeting me. I’ve been wanting to talk to you ever since the other day, but there hasn’t been a minute.”
“Thank you for asking me.” Francine paused, and when Betsy didn’t say anything, she added, “What’s the matter?”
Betsy pulled in a long breath. “You asked me why I was hesitant about being a bridesmaid. You’re right—my weight has something to do with it. It’s not easy being larger than the other girls around you, even if you do have a pretty face, as I’ve been told dozens of times. I don’t like feeling left out at parties or overlooked at dances, but I definitely don’t enjoy being the center of attention. Standing up as your bridesmaid in front of a church full of people—well, that’s a lot of attention.”
She rushed on before Francine could reply. “But that’s not all. There’s something else, and I want you to know the whole story.”
“All right,” Francine said slowly. “I’m listening.”
Betsy couldn’t even look at her friend as she spoke—she was so ashamed. “My parents . . . well, my mother and father . . . you see . . . My father was a married man. I mean, he was married, but not to my mother. He never did marry my mother. Ever.”
“Oh.” That was all the sound Francine made, but it spurred Betsy to keep talking.
“My father was a lawyer, very well connected, and his wife was rather sickly. She wasn’t able to go to all his social functions, so he’d go alone and end up drinking too much. He met my mother at a party one night. She was one of the maids serving the food, and he followed her into the kitchen and chatted with her while she washed the dishes. From what my mother said, they were smitten with each other right from the start, but he couldn’t get a divorce without causing a horrible scandal, so they created another scandal instead.” It was an ugly thing that sounded even uglier as she said it.
“When my mother learned that I was coming along, my father set her up in a little house, the one where I live now, and he gave her a stipend. But then he passed away, leaving her to fend for herself and take care of me, so she took in laundry and did whatever tasks she could. It was difficult for her to find work, though, because gossip had flown through town like a tornado, and everyone knew who she was and knew who I was. His wife had found out about us, and she did everything in her power to make life miserable for my mother, including spreading even more tales, saying that perhaps my father wasn’t the only man my mother had lured into her trap.”
Betsy glanced over at Francine, who was listening intently. “When I started school . . . oh, it was horrible.” Her voice trembled. “The whispers were never-ending. The teacher kept the children from speaking to me about it directly, but it was always there, looming over us. And walking home from school, once we were off school property, the teacher couldn’t protect me.” It was getting harder to talk—her throat was tightening up against her emotions. “They would throw rotten apples at me as we walked past orchards, or snowballs during the winter. Over time, other things happened in town that pulled some of the attention off us, but things like that never really go away.”
“Oh, Betsy,” Francine said at last. “I’m so sorry.”
Betsy wiped tears off her cheeks. “I’m all right—mostly. I miss my mother terribly since she passed, but I have the house, and I have a good job, and I’ve been content for the most part. I do get lonely, but I find I’d rather be by myself than face whatever shreds of gossip are still floating around.”
“I’ve wondered why you don’t go out much,” Francine said. “I wish I’d known sooner—maybe I could have helped you more.”
“You’re not embarrassed to be seen in public with me?” Betsy asked with a wry chuckle.
“Why would I be? Gracious, none of this was any of your fault.” Francine reached over and tucked her arm through Betsy’s. “You’re my dearest friend, and that hasn’t changed. Not one bit. If anything, now I feel responsible for making sure no one ever mistreats you again.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible,” Betsy replied.
“Maybe not, but I can sure try.” Francine met Betsy’s eye. “You are a kind, loving soul despite everything that’s happened to you—no one should be allowed to treat you as anything less.”
“Thank you.” Betsy tried to fight back the new batch of tears welling in her eyes, but they won out, and she dabbed them with her handkerchief. Telling her story had been painful, but it was a relief to know that she hadn’t lost Francine’s friendship because of it. An ache was easier to bear when she didn’t have to do it alone.
Chapter Four
“Well, now. If it isn’t just the person I came to see,” Mrs. Morgan said as she bustled into Francine’s. She surprised Betsy by coming up to her and taking both her hands. “Do you have a minute, my dear?”
Betsy looked around. The restaurant only had a few customers and they all had their food, so she supposed she could spare the time, but . . . why? What could Mrs. Morgan want with her?
“Sure. Just let me tell Francine,” she replied. She showed Mrs. Morgan to a table, then slipped into the kitchen, where Francine was placing stacks of freshly washed dishes on the shelf. “Um, Mrs. Morgan is here, and she’s asked to speak with me. Is that all right? Can you keep an eye on the dining room?”
“Of course,” Francine replied. “Did she say what she needs?”
“No, and I can’t imagine what it could be. I’m a little nervous, actually. I hear she’s looking for volunteers for a fundraiser for the school. I’m terrible at things like that.”
“Well, go hear her out. Maybe it’ll be something simple, like making banners.”
“Oh, I hope not. I’m even terrible at making banners.”
Betsy smoothed down her apron, wishing she could smooth down her nerves as easily, and walked back out to the dining room. Mrs. Morgan was beaming at her before she even sat down.
“Mrs. Morgan, I know why you’re here, and I’m just going to come right out and say it,” Betsy started. “There’s really no sense in beating around the bush. You’re a lovely lady and I think what you’re doing is very admirable, but to be frank, I’d be terrible at it, and I think it’s best if you find someone else.”
Mrs. Morgan looked disappointed. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m quite sure. There are so many other girls in town, girls who have the skills necessary, and I just don’t. I wasn’t blessed in that regard.”
Mrs. Morgan sat back and looked at her. “Have you tried?”
Betsy exhaled. “Oh, yes. Multiple times. I think I’ve got it right, and then something happens and I end up making a mess of everything. I’d be far more trouble than I’m worth.”
“Oh, I seriously doubt that,” Mrs. Morgan replied. “I happen to think you’re worth quite a bit, my dear.” She reached over the table and patted Betsy’s hand. “I’ve always thought so.”
Betsy felt her cheeks growing warm. “Thank you, Mrs. Morgan. That’s such a kind thing to say. I promise you, though—you don’t want me. I appreciate that you thought of me, but . . . I’m not the one.”
“I see.” Mrs. Morgan nodded slowly. “You know, a great many have felt that way over the years, but once they give themselves a chance, they find that they’re actually more suited to it than they think. And if you run into diffi
culty, I’ll always be there to give some guidance. I don’t know everything, but I certainly have more years of experience than most people, and I’ve been known to help out a few people in a pinch.”
She just wasn’t going to give up, was she? Betsy sighed again. Maybe if she helped out just for an hour or two, Mrs. Morgan would see how inept she really was and would let her go with a thanks and a pat on the head. “I . . . I guess I could try,” she said at last.
“Oh, that’s wonderful! I’m so glad—the thing is this, Betsy dear. You were the very first person I thought of, and once your name was in my head, I couldn’t think of a single other person. If you had turned me down, I don’t know what I would have done.”
Betsy held up a hand. “Please understand, Mrs. Morgan. I said I’d try, but I can’t guarantee you anything. And you might change your mind—in fact, I’m rather certain you will. So let’s not wager too much money on this, all right?”
Mrs. Morgan was still beaming. “Of course not. That would be foolish. There are some things one should never bet on, and this is one. Now, are you free on Friday night?”
Betsy chuckled. “I’m always free after we’re done serving dinner. I have nowhere else to go.”
“Then come to the Tivoli Ballroom at eight o’clock, all right? I’ll have everything arranged, and I just know you’ll suit.”
The ballroom? That was an odd place to prepare for a fundraiser, but Betsy supposed it would be a good place to work on banners and put together the raffle baskets because there would be a lot of room to spread out the supplies. “I’ll be there,” she said, resigning herself to her fate. Someday she really needed to learn how to say no.
“Wonderful. And now I wonder if I could have some lunch.”
“Oh, of course. This being a restaurant and all.” Betsy laughed again and stood up. “Your usual?”
“Yes, please. I suppose I should branch out someday and give some of your other menu items a try, but when I already know I’ll be so happy . . .”
“I understand, and I’ll be right back,” Betsy said, smiling. Mrs. Morgan was rather vocal about being the restaurant’s biggest fan, and Mr. Romano delighted in dishing her up a giant plate of oregano-scented goodness whenever she came in.
“So? What did she want?” Francine asked when Betsy stepped into the kitchen to place the order.
“Just what we thought. I tried to tell her no, but she was so persistent. She doesn’t care that I’m lousy at these sorts of things—she said she’d help me fix whatever I ruin.” Betsy shrugged. “I’m supposed to meet up with her and the rest of the committee on Friday night at eight.”
“We’ll make sure you’re done by then,” Maria Romano said, overhearing the conversation. “It will be good for you to get out and make some new friends, Betsy. And the school is such a good cause. Think of all the children you’ll be helping.”
Betsy tried to think of it in that light, but still, a feeling of dread pressed down on her shoulders. Rather than helping the school, she’d probably end up spilling a can of paint all over the chalkboard or something. It would be just like her.
Well, she’d have to stay away from the chalkboard, then. Maybe that was the real reason why they were meeting at the ballroom—so no one could do any damage to the actual school building. That was probably very wise.
***
Bradley hadn’t been able to fall asleep—his mind wouldn’t let him. He kept wondering if he’d made a terrible mistake by reaching out to Mrs. Morgan. He also kept thinking about her question—did he want a wife or a governess? While it was true that he was only considering remarrying for Joey’s benefit, he had to look at this from all angles, and if he wasn’t ready to fall in love again, did he have any business getting married? He shook his head as he threw back the covers. He needed to think about something else—there was no point in cycling through the same doubts and worries over and over again. He was no closer now to answering those concerns than he had been before, and he was going to drive himself mad if he didn’t distract himself.
He sat down at the kitchen table with a few sheets of paper and a pencil, deciding that he might as well get started on the design for Mr. Stratton’s new house. The newlyweds would live in the big house until their own was built, and they said they were fine with however long it took, but Bradley knew better—the sooner they could move into a place of their own, the better. The elder Mrs. Stratton was a kind lady, hospitable to a fault, but staying with her wouldn’t be the same as having a house together.
Mr. Stratton had given some general guidelines for what he wanted, but he’d given Bradley free rein on most everything else. Miss Romano had only requested a roomy kitchen. With those generous boundaries, Bradley began to sketch. He had always wanted to work as an architect, but life had other plans for him. Now, though . . . now he was getting the chance to fulfill that dream.
He started with a rough drawing of the front of the house. That would kick off the creative process so he could then buckle down and figure out the details—square footage, the arrangement of rooms, and so forth. He drew a pleasant home with a wraparound porch and large northern windows. They didn’t want the house to be particularly big, just enough for their needs, but they did want it to have some character, and that was the sort of thing Bradley enjoyed most. He took a moment to sketch in some gingerbread detailing, wondering if they liked that sort of thing, and added some window boxes. After a moment of contemplation, he added a small room on the side that could be used as a sewing room or a library or a sitting room. Even a little house needed places to relax or entertain.
Once that was done, he grabbed another sheet of paper and his ruler. Now that he knew what he wanted the house to look like from the exterior, it was time to create the plans, but instead of outlining what he’d just drawn, he found himself drawing up plans for his own cabin instead. He’d add on another bedroom and make the living room larger—he could do that by taking out the section of wall on the east side and pushing it back. His pencil practically flew as he calculated the width and the height, where he would put the support beams, how he would place the walls . . .
Finally, he set the pencil down and ran his hand through his hair, making it stand up in front like Joey’s. Something was missing—something personal. He grabbed the pencil again and made another sketch, this one of a leaded-glass window that he would place in the new living room. It would be a picture of a lily, he decided. That would be difficult to construct, but he was sure he could find a craftsman to do it, and for some reason, it felt important, as though the house wouldn’t be complete without it. Only once it was drawn was he able to tuck the pages away and go back to bed, ready to sleep.
He’d finish drawing Mr. Stratton’s house later. For now, he was just glad that the churning questions in his brain had grown quiet at last.
Chapter Five
The restaurant had been particularly busy that Friday, and Betsy was worn out by the time Mrs. Romano sent her home. It was so very tempting to climb into bed instead of going to the fundraiser meeting, but she’d told Mrs. Morgan she’d be there, and she couldn’t go back on her word. She just wished she hadn’t given her word in the first place.
She took a few minutes to change her dress and freshen up. She still smelled just the smallest bit like marinara sauce, but that couldn’t be helped, and maybe if someone commented, she could use the opportunity to advertise for the restaurant. “Well, if you think I smell good, you should come try our spaghetti!” That wasn’t likely, but it amused her to imagine it.
Francine was right—she hadn’t been herself lately. She’d been having too many memories about the past and the unkind things people had said to her over the years, and it had stolen her sunny disposition from her. Well, enough of that. It was ridiculous to let something that had happened years ago ruin her life now, and she refused to dwell on it a moment longer. She would go to this meeting, make some new friends, hopefully learn how to be of use without causing the ballroom to floo
d or some other such disaster, and she’d be the best fundraising volunteer Mrs. Morgan had ever seen.
Straightening her shoulders, Betsy grabbed a basket from the kitchen shelf and started gathering things that might be useful—a pair of scissors, a jar of paste, a needle and thread . . . She wasn’t even sure what she should bring, but she didn’t want to show up empty-handed. Then she put on her hat, closed the door, and began the short walk to the ballroom, careful to avoid the mud puddles from the short rainstorm that had passed by earlier that afternoon. Now that the clouds had cleared, she could tell it was going to be a beautiful night, and she loved the smell of rain that still lingered in the air. Now worried about being late, she picked up her speed, her breath coming a bit quicker with the exertion.
As she approached the ballroom, she was surprised to see several carriages parked in the lane. It looked as though Mrs. Morgan had managed to gather up a good number of volunteers, and Betsy was glad of that. It would be easier to hide in a crowd.
She was quite out of breath by the time she opened the door and entered. She paused for a moment in the entryway to collect herself—she didn’t want to be seen huffing and puffing like one of Mr. Medina’s trains at the depot.
“Betsy! There you are!” Mrs. Morgan approached her, both arms extended as though she planned to give Betsy a hug on the spot. “I’m so glad you could come.”
Betsy noticed that Mrs. Morgan was wearing a rather lovely gown of emerald green, and she had some sort of feathers in her hair. That seemed a bit extravagant for a work meeting, but Mrs. Morgan always had been a bit unusual, and Betsy wasn’t about to criticize her. “Of course. I’m glad to do whatever I can.” She held up her basket. “And I came prepared. If something comes unglued or unstitched, I’m your girl.”
An odd look flitted across Mrs. Morgan’s face, but then she smiled. “I’m glad you’re so prepared. Hopefully, everything will stay just as it should. Now, are you ready to meet him?”
Bowing to Betsy (The Matchmaker's Ball Book 11) Page 3
