An Unlikely Suitor

by Nancy Moser

  Sofia had suffered enough drama for the day with Mrs. Flynn arguing with Lucy.

  And Lucy had been worried about Sofia’s work?

  During the break for lunch, Sofia took her sandwich and slipped into the storeroom to read. Little Rosebud had just become homeless and Sofia was eager to see how she got out of her latest crisis.

  She spotted a space behind a grouping of three barrels and tipped them in order to squeeze into the spot. It was a perfect place for hiding away. She turned to the right page and was just beginning—

  When a chubby, balding man slapped his hands on the top of a barrel.

  “What are you doing out here, girlie?”

  Sofia put a hand to her chest, calming the beat of her heart. “You scared me!”

  His smile was crooked and revealed a row of bad teeth. “What do you have there?”

  Bonwitter. She’d seen him before, but not one-on-one. She put the book on the floor, near her back. “Just a novel.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m your boss, that’s why.”

  Considering Mr. Standish was her boss and Bonwitter was just the bookkeeper, she wanted to argue with him, but sensed it wouldn’t be the wise thing to do.

  His face grew stern. “Hand it over.”

  She had no choice. As expected, he read the title and laughed. “Little Rosebud’s Lovers? Isn’t that a bit racy for a young girl like you?”

  Sofia awkwardly got to her feet and smoothed her skirt. “I’m not so young.”

  She immediately regretted her words, for he made no secret of eyeing her figure. “I can see that.”

  Sofia felt her cheeks redden. Even though his features more closely resembled those of a neighborhood baker or butcher than someone to be feared, there was something about Bonwitter that made her stomach tighten and her nerves tingle. If only she could get out of her hiding place. Yet there was no way to leave with the three barrels and Bonwitter barring her escape. So she held out her hand, palm up. “My novel, if you please?”

  “I do not please.” To her horror, he held the pages before her and ripped them in two.

  “Don’t!”

  He tossed the pages onto a barrel. “Trash to trash. You’re here to work.”

  “But that was mine! You had no right.”

  He leaned over the barrels, placing his face inches from hers. His breath was foul and the skin around his nose blotchy. “I have a right to do whatever I please, girlie.” He traced a finger up her arm.

  Sofia pulled away, shoved a barrel toward him, climbed out, and ran back to the workroom.

  She’d never encountered anyone like Bonwitter. Weren’t evil men supposed to look evil, with dark hair and eyes, and a sweeping mustache? That’s the way they were always described in her novels. The fact that he looked more pudgy than wicked strangely added to his menace.

  Lucy saw her come in. “What’s wrong?”

  “Bonwitter ripped my book apart.”

  All the ladies looked up from their lunch, but instead of being outraged, they seemed resigned.

  Lucy noticed their attitude too. “He can’t do that,” she said. “Can he do that?”

  Tessie shrugged. “Who and what’s to stop him?”

  Certainly not Mrs. Flynn, for she clapped her hands and said, “Lunch is over. Back to work.”

  But as Sofia returned to one of the sewing machines, Lucy slid past and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

  Lucia Scarpelli, defender of the weak.

  Sofia Scarpelli.

  The weak.

  Lucy’s nerves were aflutter as she marched into the back room to confront Bonwitter. Yet how could she let his affront to her sister go unanswered? Chi pecora si fa, il lupo se la mangia. Those who make themselves sheep will be eaten by the wolf. Bonwitter was definitely a wolf of the nastiest kind.

  She found him holding a clipboard, checking things off a list.

  He raised an eyebrow. “May I help you?”

  “You can buy my sister a new novel to replace the one you ruined.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because you shouldn’t destroy other people’s property.”

  He crossed his arms and nodded, a smug smile on his face. “And who are you to tell me anything?”

  Suddenly, Lucy was at a loss. She had no rights here. No power. “Just leave her alone, all right?”

  But when she turned to leave, Bonwitter grabbed her arm and yanked her close. He dropped the clipboard and used his other hand to grope places he shouldn’t.

  With difficulty, she removed herself from his grasp. “Get away from me!”

  He was not put off so easily and moved closer, his hands ready. . . . The memory of his greedy touch propelled Lucy to action.

  She spotted a yardstick leaning against a stack of fabric bolts. In one motion she grabbed it and slapped it hard upon his hands.

  He shrieked.

  Unfortunately, his pain was replaced by anger and he lunged toward her. “You stinking dago. You can’t get away from—”

  The door to the storeroom opened. Mrs. Flynn showed her surprise at seeing them, and looked to Lucy, to Bonwitter, then to Lucy again. Finally, “Don’t you have some work to do, missy?”

  Lucy nodded and rushed past her into the workroom. She was unable to hear the exchange that passed between them, but knew Mrs. Flynn was well aware of Bonwitter’s penchant for cornering the seamstresses in the back room.

  Luckily, Bonwitter only came into the store a few times a week. Lucy had already noticed that the work atmosphere on the days he was away was like a sunny day compared to a day overcast with clouds.

  She returned to her table. The other women stopped their work. “So?” Sofia asked.

  She decided not to mention the groping. “I slapped his hands with a yardstick.”

  A few of them laughed. “Did it break?” Tessie asked.

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  Dorothy held a needle to the light and squinted as she threaded it. “Next time, try smashing it over his head. That’s what I’d—”

  “Shh.”

  The door to the storeroom opened and Mrs. Flynn returned. Would she make mention of Lucy’s encounter? Lucy was in enough trouble for talking with a customer.

  Mrs. Flynn walked behind Lucy’s chair, causing a shiver to course through her.

  “Next time a no will suffice, don’t you think?” she said.

  Lucy knew she should respond with a simple “Yes, Madame,” but the memory of Bonwitter’s hands propelled other words from her mouth. “Actually no, Madame. I will do whatever it takes to defend myself and my sister from the likes of him.”

  Mrs. Flynn yanked at Lucy’s shoulder, forcing her to turn and face her. “The likes of him disperses your wages, missy. I’ve calmed him down this time, but next time you’d better find another way—if you want to keep your job.”

  A fire stirred in Lucy’s belly. “But what about his job? If he’s the one acting out of turn, we shouldn’t have to suffer for it.”

  Lucy could hear the others take a breath. She’d gone too far. Again. She caught a glance from across the room where her mother sat making bonnets. Even Sofia gave her a warning look.

  Mrs. Flynn’s finger came within an inch of her nose. “You are not queen of the hill, missy, and you’d better—”

  A bell chimed from the next room, indicating they had a customer.

  “Watch yourself,” Mrs. Flynn said. She left the room to attend to the patron.

  “That was close,” Dorothy said. “Madame has fired many a girl for less back talk than that.”

  Lucy didn’t doubt it. From talking with Tessie and Dorothy, she knew in the past six months the shop had gained and lost at least a half dozen workers for a variety of offenses, real and imagined.

  “Lucia, come here, please.”

  Her mother beckoned Lucy to a corner where they could have some privacy. She knew what Mamma would say. She
always knew. But that didn’t mean Lucy could avoid hearing it. Her mother was . . . her mother.

  Once Lucy reached the corner, Mamma turned her back to the other workers and lowered her voice. “You are far too outspoken, and twice in one day?” she said. “This is a good job. We must keep it.”

  “So I’m to let that cad put his hands on me?”

  Mamma shook her head no, but seemed unable to give her answer verbally. “We must tolerate such things in order to survive.”

  Lucy despised this truth.

  When Bonwitter came into the room, Lucy wanted to look away. But she couldn’t. The way to beat a bully was to confront him—or at least look at him eye to eye.

  Upon seeing her stare, he hesitated just a moment before approaching her. But before he reached her, Mavis interceded. “Sir? We need some more muslin. I thought there were ten bolts in the storeroom, but we’re already down to four, and—”

  “Then you must have been mistaken,” he barked. “But I’ve already ordered ten more. They’ll be delivered tomorrow.”

  With that, he left them.

  Tessie put her hands on her hips and mimicked him, easing the moment.

  Mavis went back to work, cutting out a muslin pattern for a jacket. “I know there were ten bolts back there just a week ago. I don’t use that much, even if this is our busiest time.”

  “That’s because Bonwitter’s taking them home,” Ruth said. “Probably has them stacked up like a throne.”

  “Or he’s selling them for profit.” Lucy hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but the silence in the room told her others had thought of it too.

  “He wouldn’t dare,” Dorothy said.

  “He dares plenty,” Dolly said, implying more than muslin.

  “Exactly.” Lucy hatched a plan. “If Mrs. Flynn won’t fire him for abusing us, then maybe she’ll fire him for stealing. We just need to catch him in the act.”

  “How do we do that?” Dorothy asked.

  Lucy added that question to the other questions swirling in her head about Rowena’s alterations. . . .

  She wasn’t bored here. Not one bit.

  The one thing Rowena hated above all else was mingling. Mindless chitchat where neither party learned a whit more about the other, or at least nothing of consequence.

  Yet society demanded this very thing. Whether it be at a gathering for dinner, the opera, the races, a ball, or a reception for a funeral or wedding, all women of bearing were expected to smile, talk about nothing, and listen as if whatever was being said to them was essential to life as they knew it.

  And perhaps it was. For wasn’t that the definition of high society? A mingling of like-minded people with a common goal? Rich, like-minded people.

  Among the elite Four Hundred of New York City, the goal was fourfold: to celebrate and encourage each other’s egos, make more money than anyone else, show off that money as ostentatiously as possible, and intermarry and propagate so no one else gained a chance to infiltrate the hallowed halls of their divine community. It was all quite civil, in a maniacal sort of way.

  The butler announced Edward’s entrance into the Langdon drawing room. Edward came in holding his top hat in the crook of his arm. He offered Rowena a smile, clicked his heels together, and gave her a quick nod. “Miss Langdon. How are you this evening?”

  Horrible. I don’t want to go out to dinner with these people. Do you?

  She set aside her feelings and answered with her own slight dip and nod. “Quite well, Mr. DeWitt. And you?”

  “Actually, I’m quite hungry.”

  His honesty was pure refreshment and gave Rowena a bright inkling that perhaps, just maybe, there could be a true connection between them. What a joy it would be to find personal pleasure in the match and please her parents. And Edward’s.

  She suffered a small laugh at herself. All this speculation from Edward stating he was hungry?

  “Are you ready to go out, then?” he asked.

  “I am always ready for Lobster à la Newburg.”

  Edward laughed. “I do like a woman with an appetite.”

  She added another point to Edward’s scorecard.

  Wah-wah, nah-nah, blah-blah.

  The conversation around their table at Delmonico’s was as inane as she’d feared. Edward, having recently moved to New York City from Boston with his family, seemed immune to her source of annoyance. Even though he was a newcomer, he was quite able to banter with the rest of them. In fact, they appeared far more interested in him than in Rowena. Which wasn’t that much of a surprise. Ever since she’d come out—four years ago—society had accepted her presence with a nervous concession, as they would do with an eccentric aunt or a slightly senile uncle. Although no one ever—ever—spoke of her handicap, it was always in the room, a stigma preventing her from full entry into their sacred circle.

  She glanced at the clock on the mantel. Eleven-thirty. They’d been done with dinner for two hours, yet had kept the poor waiters busy with various requests for additional food, even though no one had eaten their meal in its entirety.

  Harriet Adams cupped her hands to her cheeks and exclaimed, “I just don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t attend every ball in Newport. If you gentlemen don’t keep me dancing, I’ll be forced to dance with my uncle Elijah, and he has two left feet.”

  “Maybe I’ll dance with your uncle Elijah,” said Reggie Cosgrove. “Since I have two right feet, together we’ll make a pair.”

  “Or go round and round in circles,” said another.

  “Poor man,” Harriet said.

  Harriet. Uncle. Poor. Rowena suddenly remembered something her father had told her that morning. “Have you read Harriet Beecher Stowe’s latest book, The Poor Life?” she asked the group.

  The room fell into complete and utter silence. Then Reggie said, “Harriet who?” He paused a short second, then burst into laughter. “Are you sure your uncle’s name isn’t Tom?”

  “And why would I want to read about anyone who’s poor?” Harriet said.

  More laughter. Rowena had reached her fill and stood. To his credit, Edward stood also. “I need to go home, please. If you don’t mind?”

  “Of course,” he said, and pulled out her chair.

  Harriet spoke first. “Don’t leave us, Rowena.” To Reggie she said, “Apologize to her, you oaf.”

  Reggie stumbled to his feet, plainly drunk. “Ah, come on, Rowena, I didn’t mean to run you off.”

  Rowena paused at the door and faced them. “Believe me, you do not possess the power.”

  She took Edward’s arm and exited the room accompanied by a bevy of oohs and laughter.

  Good riddance.

  Once in the carriage she had second thoughts. “I apologize, Mr. DeWitt. I usually am not so short with them, but—”

  “No, no, you did me a favor. Somehow they manage to be boorish and boring.”

  Edward was a gem.

  Chapter Six

  What are you doing?”

  “Shh,” Lucy said, getting out of bed.

  “It’s not morning, is it?” Sofia asked.

  “No, not morning.”

  It was the middle of the night. Lucy couldn’t sleep. Her thoughts twisted with her anger at Bonwitter and her frustration regarding Rowena Langdon’s clothes. Finally admitting she couldn’t change Bonwitter, her mind had free rein to think about helping Rowena.

  But Mrs. Flynn will be mad.

  Her ideas swelled, making the threat of Mrs. Flynn’s ire lose its bite. The ideas demanded full release, so she got up, dressed, and slipped downstairs and into the shop.

  She purposely left the lamps off in the front lobby and felt her way through the dark until she reached the curtain to the workroom. Only when it was fully closed behind her did she light the lamps.

  It was eerie being there alone. The silence was almost frightening.

  Almost.

  To dispel it, Lucy made some noise as she found Rowena’s outfits hanging in the wardrobe closet. There were
two dozen ensembles so far. There was no way she would have time to fix them all. But if her ideas worked and even one gown addressed Rowena’s unique body issues, then hopefully Lucy could work on the rest of them with the customer’s—and Mrs. Flynn’s—blessing.

  She found the day dress Rowena had been wearing when Lucy had offered her opinion. The skirt was a pale beige, settling somewhere between cream and tan. The bodice was a light yellow, accordion-pleated mousseline de soie, bisected with pearl buttons. The sleeves were of the current leg-o’-mutton fashion—voluminous from shoulder to elbow, padded with eiderdown, yet tight to the wrist. Just as the bustles of the eighties had grown ridiculous, these sleeves and the overt attention to the upper torso often went too far with layers of lace, festoons, and flounces threatening to choke. . . . Would fashion ever leave women alone and let them be comfortable in their clothes instead of making them look like some overwrought gewgaw? Did fashion designers ever ask women what they’d prefer? Who made these decisions?

  Men, most likely.

  Men or no men, comfort or no comfort, it was not in Lucy’s power to make such changes in the status quo. Nor did she have the time.

  Which was ticking by . . .

  She held the dress before her, seeing how the buttons lined up perfectly. It was made for someone with a conventional figure, not someone with physical issues.

  Lucy looked at the pinning Mrs. Flynn had ordered in her attempt to solve the problem. It would only pull the fabric off grain. Lucy’s solution was the best solution.

  And so, she set to work.

  The clock in the workroom read four. In the morning. The early morning.

  Lucy had finished Rowena’s dress and was pleased with the results. The true test would come when Rowena tried it on. Somehow, Lucy had to arrange to be in the room when that happened. She had to see.

  And take credit. Although she knew a truly humble person would let Mrs. Flynn accept the glory, Lucy also knew if she ever wanted to rise in her profession, she had to prove she could do more than hem other people’s work.

  Lucy set the workroom to rights again, and was about to extinguish the lamps when she decided to use the shop’s facilities. It would be better not to risk waking up Mamma and Sofia.