by Nancy Moser
His words wounded her and she embraced him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She could feel his heart beating wildly.
He didn’t return her embrace but gently pushed himself free. “I accept your apology, for how can I do otherwise when the truth is being spoken?”
“But, Hugh . . . if only you’d try to do something to improve your reputation. Perhaps then, Father and Mother would—”
There was another knock on the door and their mother entered. Her face revealed her shock at seeing Hugh present. “Son, daughter . . . I’ve come to check on your list, Rowena.”
She lifted it from the table as evidence. “I’m working on it.”
“And you, Hugh? Have you made your packing list?”
He shrugged. “Lists are overrated.”
She was taken aback. “Nonsense. You don’t want to arrive in Newport without the necessities, do you?”
Hugh patted down his chest and the pockets of his robe and said, “It appears I have those.” He strode to her, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “Good night, Mother.” With a backward glance, he added, “Wena.”
Mother shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with that boy.”
“He’s trying,” Rowena said.
“Trying to do what? Cause us heartache and embarrassment? Cause us worry and frustration?”
Rowena had no words in his defense. To change the subject she offered her mother the list for her approval.
And, of course, received it.
Chapter Eight
Sofia!”
Sofia awakened from her bad dreams of Bonwitter to find Lucy already gone from their bed.
The outcry was repeated. “Sofia! Mamma!”
Her dreams rushed to meet reality. Was Lucy hurt? Had Bonwitter hurt—?
Sofia found her sister at the living room window, pointing to the street below. Sofia took a look. “What? I don’t see anything.”
“Exactly,” Lucy said. “Where’s Mr. Standish? Where’s the policeman?”
Sofia shared her first awful thought. “Bonwitter killed them.”
“Enough, piccolina,” Mamma said as she expertly twisted her long hair into a bun. “They’ve been watching over us for a week now. Night and day. We will be safe at work—if Bonwitter’s even a true threat to us.”
“Oh, he’s a threat,” Lucy said.
“How do you know?” Sofia asked.
“How do you not know?”
Lucy had a point, and Mamma was also right. They were safest in the workroom filled with many women.
The sooner they got there the better.
The bell on the door jangled and Mrs. Flynn motioned to Lucy. “Come. It has to be the Langdons.”
It was. Mrs. Langdon led the way, carrying a basket lined with cloth. Were they bringing a special gift? Greetings were exchanged and then the basket was handed over.
“Merci,” Mrs. Flynn said.
“Oh, don’t thank us. We found it outside, on the stoop.”
With another glance, Lucy noticed that the fabric covering the contents of the basket was muslin. Her nerves stood on end. “Let me take that,” she said, heading to the workroom. “I’ll be right back.”
Mrs. Flynn gave her a quizzical look, but let her go.
Lucy brought the basket to the main worktable. Ruth objected. “Move that thing. I’m trying to cut—”
“It was by the front door. I think it’s from Bonwitter.”
The women tentatively moved forward to see.
“How do you know?” Tessie whispered.
“It’s just a feeling.”
“Open it,” Dorothy said.
“Carefully,” Sofia said.
Ruth handed her a pair of scissors. “Use these to move the fabric aside.”
Their caution added to her own, and Lucy slid the scissors under one of the edges of fabric and flopped it back.
A red X appeared.
The women gasped.
“It is from him!” Tessie said.
Sofia cowered behind her mother. “Don’t open it!”
Lucy had to. She had to see. She used the scissors to open another flap of the muslin, and saw another red X. The impact of seeing them had faded, but the implication had not. He’d found her out. There would be no convicting him now.
With the opening of the third flap, Lucy could see what was inside. She quickly covered the contents and carried the basket toward the back.
“What’s in it?” Tessie asked. “I didn’t see.”
“You don’t need to see,” Lucy said. “It’s a dead rat.”
“But why?”
“Because I ratted him out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m taking this out to the alley.”
She left the women discussing it without her. Although she’d appeared strong for their sake, the sight of the red X’s and the rat shook her mightily. Yes, she’d done a good thing getting Bonwitter out of the shop, and had attempted another good deed in getting him convicted for theft. But since he’d been able to talk himself out of the charge and had moved to who knows where . . . she’d put herself and everyone at the shop in danger.
After dumping the entire basket in the garbage she leaned against the doorjamb and closed her eyes. I’m sorry for putting everyone in danger, but I’m not sorry for turning him in. She opened her eyes a moment. Should she be sorry for that? Had she overstepped her position?
Mamma appeared at the door. “Come inside. Madame says the Langdons are waiting.”
Lucy had forgotten all about the customers. She rushed through the workroom and paused but a moment at the curtain to try to capture some calm, some confidence. Then she applied a smile and entered the lobby.
“Oh, there you are,” Rowena said. “Is everything all right?”
Rowena was already wearing a pale yellow evening dress Lucy had altered. “That’s my question for you. Do you like the dress?”
Rowena turned toward the mirror. “Very much. Once again, you’ve done just the right thing.”
At least in this.
Rowena stood very still while Lucy arranged a lace flourish on her blouse and attached a blue ribbon choker with flat bows that marked the back of her neck.
“The blue of the ocean sky,” Lucy said. “If this ensemble doesn’t bring to mind the essence of summer, I’ll never sew another stitch.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Rowena studied her image. The pink satin in the oversized puffed sleeves was tucked into elbow ruffles of scalloped lace. A flat lace collar dipped low in a V, and the bodice was covered with a sheer lace overlay that flounced over a blue satin waistband. The skirt wasn’t gathered at the waist but folded in deep pleats, and the fabric was a floral sateen of blue and pink flowers.
Lucy pulled the pouf of the sleeves to even better advantage. “You’re as fresh as a summer garden. Your fiancé will swoon at the mere sight of you.”
Although Rowena loved the outfit, and indeed found it perfect for Newport, it was perfect. It was lovely. Looking past the dress to the girl wearing it . . . making Edward swoon? “I fear I don’t possess the capacity to make men swoon, no matter what the fashion.”
Lucy gave her a chiding look. “You mustn’t say such a thing. You have a fuller beauty than anyone I’ve ever known.”
Rowena put a hand on Lucy’s arm and looked into her deep brown eyes. “You are a true friend. Not truer than many, truer than any.”
Lucy placed her own hand on top of Rowena’s. “As you are to me.”
As if on cue, they both glanced toward Rowena’s mother. For she would not approve . . . in no way would approve. How sad that friendship was constrained by rules and class rather than emotion and need.
Lucy stepped away to look at the skirt and blouse. “That’s the last one. You are fully prepared to take Newport by storm.”
Rowena smiled. Briefly. For now their time together was over. She would be going to Newport for six weeks. Lucy would be left behind, working. Rowena had learned more ab
out Lucy than she knew about any of the society friends she’d known for a lifetime, and she’d shared more about herself. They’d chatted like two sisters, talking about fashion, men, and families. They’d talked about being frustrated with various aspects of their lives, longing to be happy, and wanting to feel they had worth.
Soon Rowena would be off to Newport for the rest of the summer. Hopefully, in the autumn she’d return to the shop, needing a new set of clothing for the New York social season, but until then . . .
Rowena leaned forward and whispered for Lucy’s ears alone. “I wish you could come with me.”
Lucy suffered a laugh and immediately covered it with a hand. “If wishes were horses . . .”
“Then beggars would ride.”
When Lucy went back to the workroom to get Madame to wrap things up, Rowena approached her mother. “Could I ask a friend to go to Newport with me? You’ve said so in the past, but I’ve never brought anyone.”
Mother adjusted her gloves. “ ’Tis rather late notice, dear. And who were you thinking of?”
Rowena hesitated, and in that hesitation her mother looked past her, to the workroom, and back into her eyes. “No. Absolutely not.”
“But we’ve grown so fond of each other, Mother. I’ve shared things with Lucy that I’ve never shared with another—”
Mother stood. “Which was an error on your part. We’ve always taught you to be polite to everyone, respectful of your elders, and considerate to those of lesser rank, but you cannot socialize with them, Rowena. You can’t be friends with a seamstress, especially not an Italian seamstress.”
“But we are friends.”
“You’re mistaking her professional attention with friendship. I assure you she does not expect to be invited anywhere within your circle. In fact, I suffer to say she would be mortified to find herself in such a situation. Do you wish to cause Lucy discomfort?”
“No, of course—”
Mother waved a hand, dispelling the issue into the air between them. “Then I’ll hear no more of it. Lucy has provided a service to us; she has achieved what no seamstress has previously accomplished. Yes, you should feel gratitude for her insight, but she is being paid for her services. And honestly, I know she’d rather have the money. They all would.”
Rowena looked away, gazing at the curtain that hung between Lucy and herself. But with her mother’s words the curtain gained substance and became solid. It was an unyielding rampart, fortified to keep them apart.
The delight in the new wardrobe faded with the loss of a friend.
Lucy moved a piece of pasta around her plate. And around.
“You’re not eating.”
“I’ll eat your portion if you don’t want it,” Sofia said.
Mamma intervened. “You will do no such thing.” She turned back to Lucy. “Are you worried about Bonwitter?”
Always. But instead of admitting it, Lucy shrugged. “I’m sad.”
“About?”
“Not seeing Rowena again.”
Mamma blinked as though the subject had never come to mind. “You can’t be friends with her, Lucia. It’s like asking a queen to be friends with a washerwoman.”
Lucy took offense. “I’m far from being a washerwoman, and Rowena is far from being a queen.”
“She’s rich.”
“That is neither her doing nor her fault.”
Mamma sighed and looked toward the window as if gaining supporters there. “The world does not work the way we wish it to, daughter. It never has and never will.”
Lucy set her fork down, her appetite fully gone. “The ways of the world could change,” she said. “Rowena and I spoke as friends, shared things that only friends share.”
“What kind of things?” Sofia asked.
“Private things.”
“Like what?”
“Sofia.” The tone of Mamma’s voice made her hush. “Even if Rowena wanted to be your friend, Mrs. Langdon would move against—”
“But what if she likes me?”
“She would move just as I would move against the very same friendship. For the sake of my daughter, to protect her—to protect you—from pain.”
Lucy knew it was no use arguing. She also knew what Mamma said was true.
But that didn’t mean she had to like it.
Lucy bolted upright, yanked out of sleep.
She held her breath and listened.
“Lie down,” Sofia said, adjusting the lone sheet they used in the summer heat.
Lucy got out of bed. She moved into the main room as if the slightest noise would—
“Lucy?” Mamma whispered.
In the moonlight, Lucy saw she was also awake and was sitting upright on her mattress.
Lucy tiptoed to her side. “Did you hear it too?”
Mamma nodded and looked toward the door.
Lucy hadn’t had a chance to settle on the source of what had awakened her. But to know that someone was outside their door . . . Last time it had been Mr. Standish, but even he would not come calling in the middle of the night.
Mamma attempted to stand, and Lucy helped her. It was then she saw the glint of a knife blade in Mamma’s bed. She pointed at it.
“Get it,” Mamma whispered.
Lucy got the knife and put it in her hand as if to defend. It was an odd feeling to grip it so. Together they moved to the door. Lucy put her ear to it, held her breath, and heard . . .
Nothing.
She stood aright. “Whoever was here, I think they’re gone.”
Mamma wiped her hands upon her nightdress, crossed herself, then let one hand move to the knob and the other to the key sticking out of the lock. Her breathing was labored and Lucy wished she could have both roles in what was about to happen—to throw the door open, and to charge at whoever dared intrude upon their home.
Mamma looked at her and mouthed, “Uno, due . . . tre!”
She turned the key and yanked the door open.
The darkness revealed nothing.
Knife poised, Lucy held her breath. She was afraid to peek around the corner to see down the stairway. The dark stairway.
There was no sound, which meant the intruder was either gone or waiting in the shadows. They needed light, but the stairwell light was at the foot of the stairs. She whispered to Mamma, “Bring a lamp over.”
Mamma went to the kitchen table and Lucy heard the striking of a match. Then Mamma came close with a kerosene lamp.
With one hand still on the knife, Lucy held the lamp high and risked a look down the stairway.
It was empty.
She allowed herself to breathe and stepped onto the landing and—
Slipped!
The knife flew out of her hand and down the stairs, Mamma rescued the lamp, and Lucy landed hard, sprawled upon the landing and the first step.
Which was wet.
She lifted her foot and spotted something greasy upon it. Her hand was covered in the same goo, a grease . . .
“Animal grease?” Only then did her senses allow her to confirm the substance. “Mamma, move the light over here.”
As Lucy attempted to stand without sliding farther down the stairs, Mamma held the lamp over the dim space. “All the steps are covered with grease. Every one.”
“You could have been killed,” Mamma said.
“I think that was his intent.”
Sofia appeared at the door. “What’s that stuff all over?”
“Grease, à la Bonwitter.”
She stepped back. “He was here?”
“We both heard him.” Lucy motioned for them to go inside.
Mamma inspected Lucy’s nightdress. “It’s ruined.”
“Better the dress than a leg or a back.”
“Take it off.”
Lucy shook her head. “I might as well leave it on. If we’re ever going to get out of here, the stairs need to be cleaned.”
“But shouldn’t the police be shown?” Mamma said.
She rubbed her hip,
which surely would be bruised. “I’ll offer my nightgown as evidence—and my bruises if they wish for more. Now help me get a bucket of hot water, some soap, and a brush.”
Lucy made good work of it. The smell of the animal grease was horrible, and the slimy feel on her hands made her long for a very hot bath.
And a very long sleep.
Once again, she was working alone. If it wasn’t staying up all night working on Rowena’s clothes to help her look beautiful, it was catching Bonwitter in the act. Or venturing off into strange parts of town to find her family lodging, making the deal for an apartment and jobs, then coming over to clean the place. Once again, alone.
She stopped scrubbing and arched her back, feeling very much the martyr. Why did she have to do everything? Why did she have to take charge of all the problems of the world? Why did she . . . ?
Lucy let the words be spoken. “Why do I always have to be the hero?”
Overwhelmed in body and mind, she sat on a step, grease and all.
Was this need to do a good trait or a fault? A strength or a weakness?
She used to live for the times when Papa would take her face in his hands and tilt it upward. He’d look into her eyes and say, “Well done, Lucia. You are a gift from God.” And then he’d kiss her forehead. Oh, how she missed him.
Her hand moved toward that forehead now, but Lucy stopped its movement before it plastered grease on the one portion of her body that the awful stuff hadn’t tainted.
Grease. If she didn’t clean it up, no one would.
She got back to work.
Chapter Nine
Rowena sat in a wicker rocker on the veranda facing the sea. A vast expanse of lawn divided her from the actual ocean, but she could see miles of water beyond the green— water stretching out to meet the sky.
They’d been in Newport for two days now, and Rowena had already attended one dinner party, one afternoon tea, one tennis match, and a visit to the Astors’ home, Beechwood, to pay homage to Caroline Astor and acknowledge her peerage over Newport—and New York—society.
