by Janette Oke
She knew that Potter, with her rigid rules of what was right and proper, did not approve of the special status that was given the girl. Employees had no right to be served tea with the gentry, according to Mrs. Potter. There had been a time, even only a short time ago, that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth would have heartily agreed. But that was before she had met Belinda—before Belinda had tenderly and efficiently nursed her back to health.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had learned a new set of rules in the crude little prairie town. The rule of survival. There seemed to be no social status there, no class distinctions, and Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had discovered in Belinda an open, friendly, clear-thinking girl who would share her thoughts, her feelings, and her humor. To the older lady’s surprise she had enjoyed such exchanges. And now, back in Boston, she was not willing to give up what she had learned to appreciate.
She knew the whole arrangement was a mystery to Belinda. She also knew that her household staff must titter and talk and exclaim over Madam’s strange desire to treat the girl, an employee, as an equal—but in her own house, she was mistress. Let them talk and fuss, she told herself. They’d eventually get used to the idea.
She turned her attention back to the attractive face before her.
“The blue silk will look lovely on you!” she exclaimed, and Belinda looked surprised at her passion and abrupt change of thought. They had been discussing a novel.
Belinda frowned. “You know,” she said slowly, “things happened in such a flurry at thet—that dress shop,” she corrected herself, “that my head was swimming. I don’t even remember trying the blue silk on.”
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth just smiled. She knew Belinda might not have tried the dress. Madam Tilley was skilled at her profession. She would have known Belinda’s size perfectly by the time she had fitted a few dresses. The blue silk was in answer to one of Mrs. Stafford-Smyth’s specific instructions in the letter. But the dress was too expensive, too elegant, to be slipped over clients’ heads in the dressing room. Even in a place as refined as LeSoud’s.
“What time is dinner?” Belinda asked now.
“Seven-thirty,” answered Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, “but the guests shall be arriving around seven. I should like you to be with me in the formal parlor by seven o’clock.”
Belinda nodded.
“And I think we shall take our tea in my suite this afternoon.
We both will need to rest and prepare ourselves for tonight.”
Again Belinda agreed, though she hardly felt in need of rest.
“I thought I might take a book and spend some time in the garden now,” Belinda offered. “It’s such a glorious day—and the flowers are so pretty.”
“Thomas certainly does a nice job,” Mrs. Stafford-Smyth acknowledged. “He’s a good gardenah. Been with us for thirty-five yeahs. I don’t know what I shall do when he wishes to reti-ah.”
Belinda took her book and went to the gardens as planned, but she did little reading. The day was too beautiful, the flowers too enticing, the bees too busy for her to be able to concentrate on anything but the loveliness. She sat dreaming away her afternoon, enjoying the sights and scents around her.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of being introduced,” someone said near Belinda’s elbow, and she started in surprise and looked up.
A young man, his eyes deep set and dark mustache well trimmed, stood looking at her. Belinda noted his stylish clothing, and she could tell every item was carefully chosen—yet he managed to give an air of informality that she assumed was the appearance he wished to present.
And then Belinda recognized him as one of the grandsons whose portraits graced the rooms of Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. The two women had talked about the boys on occasion. Belinda smiled in greeting.
“I hadn’t heard ya—you were expected,” she said easily.
“S-h-h,” said the young man, placing a finger to his lips. “I didn’t send word on ahead. I wanted to surprise Grandmother.”
Belinda laughed softly. “And so you will. She . . . she will be caught completely by surprise.”
Then Belinda sobered. “I’m not sure but what she shouldn’t have some warning,” she continued. “She has recently been very ill, you know, and too much of a shock wouldn’t be good—”
“She’s used to us popping in and out,” the young man said with a shrug. “I shouldn’t think this will bother her much.”
Belinda noticed a strange accent in his speech. She couldn’t place it but assumed it had been picked up in his travels abroad. It rather intrigued her. There was something mysterious and pleasing about the man.
He tossed his jacket carelessly on the velvet green of the lawn and sat down on it, close to Belinda’s chair.
“You still haven’t told me your name,” he prompted.
“Belinda. Belinda Davis,” she replied.
“Miss Belinda Davis?” he asked.
“Yes. Miss,” returned Belinda and felt her cheeks flushing slightly under the intense scrutiny of the man.
They sat for a moment, and then Belinda spoke carefully. “You haven’t said whether you’re Peter or Frank.”
He laughed. “Dear Grandmother! She insists upon calling us the American version of our real names. I’m Pierre. ‘Peter,’ if you wish. I don’t mind.”
“I’ll call you Pierre if you prefer it,” she answered simply.
He smiled. “Pierre, then. I do prefer it.” Then he said, “I was told by that watchdog Windsor that ‘Madam is resting and not to be disturbed.”’ He mimicked Windsor’s voice as he spoke, and Belinda could not hide her smile. “How is Grandmother?”
“She’s doing very well now.”
Pierre seemed relieved at the news.
“So what are her plans? Is she going abroad for the winter as usual—or have you heard?”
Belinda shook her head. “I know nothing of plans that go beyond this evening’s dinner party,” she said.
“A dinner party? Oh, dear! How I dread Grandmother’s dinner parties. Such stuffy occasions they are, with all those octogenarians. Have you heard her guest list?”
Belinda found herself enjoying the exchange. She had some of the same feelings this young man was expressing, only she had hardly dared to think let alone say them.
“I’ve heard the list—but I don’t recall all of them. Let’s see . . . a Prescott woman.”
“Of course. Aunt Celia. She is always invited.”
“Aunt Celia?” said Belinda in surprise. “I hadn’t realized—” “Oh, she’s not really an aunt. We were just brought up to refer to her as such. She’s a good friend of Grandmother’s from many years back.”
“I see,” said Belinda.
“Go on,” he prompted.
“A gentleman to chat with Aunt Celia,” smiled Belinda.
“Mr.—Mr. Walls . . . ?”
“Walsh,” Pierre laughed. “Those two have been openly and shamelessly flirting with each other for thirty years. Don’t know why they haven’t done something about it.”
Belinda’s blue eyes opened wide at his frankness.
“And . . . ?” he urged.
“Two other couples . . . one is a judge . . . the other I don’t remember.”
“No young people?”
“I . . . I don’t know any of the guests. I have no way of knowing if they are young or old,” Belinda reminded him.
“Let me assure you,” he said as he stood from the ground and brushed gently at the sharply creased trousers, “none of them are under one hundred and five.”
Belinda could not hide the twinkle from her eyes.
“I’m tempted to sneak away before Grandmother discovers me,” he continued. And then he looked directly at Belinda. “You’ll be there?” he asked.
She nodded in answer.
“Then the evening will not be a total loss,” he said smugly. And with a slight smile, he gave her a nod and departed.
Belinda watched him go. How would Mrs. Stafford-Smyth feel about having her grandson ho
me? What kind of a person was he? Surely he had been teasing about his perception of his grandmother’s “stuffy” lifestyle. No one could help but love the house in Boston. The days ahead might turn out to be rather interesting, she told herself as she closed the book she hadn’t had a chance to read and stood to her feet. It was almost teatime and Mrs. Stafford-Smyth would expect her there.
Belinda was pouring tea when she heard a gasp and looked up quickly to see Mrs. Stafford-Smyth lift a lacy handkerchief to her lips. Following her gaze, Belinda turned to the door behind her and saw the young man standing there, a smile on his face.
“Hello, Grandmother,” he said. “I hear you have been ill.”
Belinda turned back to her patient, worried that the sudden appearance of Pierre might be too much for the woman. But after the initial surprise, she seemed to regain her composure.
“Petah!” she cried, holding out her arms. “Petah!”
He went to her and knelt before her. She reached out a hand to stroke his cheek, and he patted her arm affectionately. Belinda thought it all very touching.
“It’s so good to see you, deah. My, you’ve . . . you’ve become quite a man,” the grandmother offered with pride.
Pierre just nodded.
“And where is Frank?”
“Still in France,” answered Pierre. “He has a girl, you know.
He is rather smitten, I’m afraid. He sent his love.”
“Sit down. Sit down. Tell us all about yourself,”Mrs. Stafford-Smyth urged the boy, and then she turned to Belinda. “This is Belinda,” she hastened to explain.
The young man smiled and nodded. “I met Miss Davis in the garden,” he offered.
“Good! Good!” Then the woman turned moist eyes back to her grandson. “I’m glad you’ve come. It’s awfully good to see you . . . and Belinda needs some youngah company. You can accompany her to dinnah tonight. We’re having guests. Just a few old friends . . . but Belinda could use someone her own age. I don’t go out yet. She really has seen very little of Boston, and I wanted her to get to know the town. Of course we have been back only for a little ovah a week, but it would be so nice for her if—”
The young man chuckled and placed a restraining hand on his grandmother’s arm. “I promise, Grandmother. I’ll stay long enough to show Miss Davis the whole town. And I will be at dinner. And I will not run off and desert you without fair warning. Now—may I have some tea? I missed my lunch, and I’m starving.”
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth reached out and pressed her buzzer.
From the quickness with which he reached the room, Belinda wondered if Windsor had been standing outside in the hall.
“Bring anothah cup and more tea, Windsah, and have Cook make some sandwiches for Petah,” she ordered in an excited tone, then turned back to her grandson to ply him with questions and offer her own bits of news. Belinda had never seen her so animated.
This is good for her, she thought to herself. I’m glad he’s home. She must have missed him very much.
After what Belinda considered an appropriate time, she excused herself to her own suite. The two need time to get to know each other again, she reasoned.
Belinda found herself feeling both excited and anxious as she lifted the blue silk carefully from her wardrobe and laid it gently on her bed. She had never worn such a gown before. She caressed the soft material and then held a fold to her cheek. Ella would be coming any minute to fix her hair. She must hurry. She wanted to be ready on time. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was counting on her help in greeting guests as they arrived.
And then Belinda remembered Pierre. Maybe things have changed now . . . she pondered. Perhaps Mrs. Stafford-Smyth would want her grandson at her side to perform the role of host. Well, she could always slip out to the garden if she was in the way. She still would be ready, as she had been asked.
Belinda lifted the silk and let it slide down over her head and settle over her shoulders. She shrugged and shifted, puzzling as she attempted to adjust it. Something was wrong. The dress didn’t fit as it should. She hoisted it slightly, thinking it might be caught. It wasn’t. She could not understand it. She looked about. Perhaps there was a piece missing. Surely there was an accompanying neckpiece or an attached shawl. But there was nothing else on the satin-covered hanger. Belinda was still puzzling when Ella entered the room.
“What a beautiful dress, miss!” she enthused.
Belinda managed a smile, but she was still perplexed.
“But it . . . it doesn’t fit right. Look. The front of it. It’s scooped way down.”
“That’s the way it’s cut, miss,” explained Ella. “It’s supposed to be like that.”
Belinda was astounded. She wanted to argue . . . to protest.
“All the girls are wearing them like that, miss,” said Ella, no doubt responding to Belinda’s obvious bewilderment.
“Well, I won’t! I can’t!” stated Belinda firmly. “It’s most . . . most improper! Why, I’m . . . I’m indecent.”
Ella smiled and shook her head. “Why, it fits you real nice, miss. Madam will be pleased.”
Madam? Yes, the dress had been Madam’s doing. She had ordered it. Belinda had not tried it on before. She would surely have remembered such a . . . a . . . low-cut gown. She felt most uncomfortable in it. Why had Mrs. Stafford-Smyth ever purchased such a dress? Surely she had been unaware of its skimpiness.
Certain now that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had not known of the actual design of the dress, Belinda knew she must talk with her employer—quickly. She hurried down the short hallway that led to the older woman’s suite. She did not intend to appear at the dinner table wearing such a revealing garment, and she was sure that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth would not desire her to do so.
She stopped at the adjoining door only long enough to rap lightly and then went on in. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had Sarah rushing about the room in last-minute preparations.
Without saying a word, Belinda stopped in front of the older woman and slowly turned completely around so that she could see the dress, both the back and the front.
She had expected to hear a gasp of shock. Instead, a murmur of approval stunned Belinda’s ears. “Lovely! Just lovely. It was meant for you. Madam Tilley knew exactly what I wanted.”
Belinda whirled around to see shining eyes and a broad smile.
“But . . . but . . .” Belinda began and then realized her protests would not be heeded nor understood by the older woman. She will think I’m just a simple prairie girl who doesn’t know about such matters, Belinda thought, her cheeks burning.
“Now hurry, deah,” Mrs. Stafford-Smyth continued. “Petah will be waiting for us. He’s going to help us with the guests.” Her face was radiant.
Without another word Belinda returned to her own room and allowed Ella to pin her hair becomingly. She found a lace hanky that she tucked into the neckline, then removed it when it seemed to draw even more attention. She hoped the evening might pass quickly.
TWENTY - THREE
Pierre
Belinda stole down the stairs quietly, hoping not to be noticed. What else can I do? she debated with herself. My employer ordered the dress for me, paid for it, and told me to wear it tonight! It flashed into her mind that maybe she could have borrowed a shawl, but it’s too late now, she told herself grimly. Perhaps in the excitement of the expected dinner guests, she could slip in unobtrusively, and Mrs. Stafford-Smyth and her grandson would hardly realize she was there.
It was not to be. The minute the swish of her skirts at the door of the formal parlor announced her arrival, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth turned toward her. Her smile spoke even more than her words. She held out her hands to Belinda and urged her forward.
“Ah yes,” she said, slowly looking over the picture that Belinda made in her blue gown. “It becomes you. The colah is just right for your eyes. And your hai-ah—perfect! Ella does such a good job in styling.”
Pierre made no comment, for which Belinda was thankful, but she could feel his eyes studying her
carefully. Belinda felt dreadfully uncomfortable. With all the material in this full skirt, you’d have thought they could’ve spared a bit to cover the bodice, she continued to fret, but of course she did not voice her complaints as she moved away from their gazes in pretense of pouring punch.
“May I bring you a drink?” she asked Mrs. Stafford-Smyth.
“That would be nice, my deah,” the elderly lady responded and seated herself in a green brocaded chair opposite the entrance to the hall, facing the doorway and the guests when they arrived.
The Allenbys were the first to appear. He was a very dignified older gentleman, befitting his honored position. She was a wizened little woman, her face pinched and her eyes sunken and sharp. Belinda could feel herself withdrawing from the open stare of the woman. She learned quickly that Mrs. Allenby’s tongue was just as sharp as her eyes.
“And who is she?” Belinda heard her say to Mrs. Stafford-Smyth after their greetings were over. Belinda moved out of earshot so she wouldn’t have to hear her employer trying to explain their relationship.
Mr. Walsh arrived a few moments later, chuckling over some joke, and spent the entire evening laughing over one thing or another. Belinda did not pretend to understand his strange humor, but she did find him fairly pleasant company.
The Whitleys were admitted by Windsor at seven-thirty, the hour of dinner. He let it be known that he never had been one for pre-dinner chitchat. After all, wasn’t the purpose of dining together so one could visit over the meal? His wife said nothing, just looked a bit embarrassed by his blustering.
The minutes ticked slowly by with no moves toward the dining room, so the guests were aware that someone else was expected. Once or twice Mr. Whitley took his gold watch from his pocket and studied it openly.
Since the guests’ arrival, Windsor had taken over the duties of serving punch. Belinda knew without being told that she was now to allow things to proceed in “proper” fashion, and she withdrew to one of the matched green chairs.
Pierre eased his way over to where Belinda was fidgeting. “Isn’t this fun?” he whispered, with a slight nod toward the older guests clustered about talking of weather and health problems.
