An Unlikely Suitor

by Nancy Moser

  His words frightened more than excited her. When she’d come to America she’d been too young to understand the immensity of the voyage, but now, she felt as if traveling to Newport, traveling among the rich and powerful, was as daunting and life-changing as traveling to a new country. For the wealthy had created a kingdom for themselves, one with its own rules, rulers, and boundaries. One that was wary of all outsiders, invited or not.

  “Come, now,” Mr. Standish said. “This way.”

  They passed through a vast waiting room lined with tall oak benches that extended a full foot above any seated person’s head. Perched on each end were globed light fixtures that rose from the top of the benches the height of a man. The ceiling climbed to at least thirty feet, and the walls were decorated with half-columns and arched doorways. There was an echo in the room which accentuated the movement and conversations swirling about her.

  Lucy and Mr. Standish didn’t pause to sit down but continued through an archway to a vast exterior area of tracks and trains. It was open on the sides, but covered from the elements by a metal roof. The air was heavy with thick vapor from the steam engines, and the sound of trains coming and going was deafening: clacking and squeaking and the alarming sound of the trains’ whistles announcing themselves. As if anyone could ignore them. It was all rather frightening and Lucy immediately understood why people waited inside until it was time to board.

  Which it was.

  “There it is,” Mr. Standish said, taking her to a track nearby. “This is your train.” He sounded confident, but she noticed that he asked a train employee, just to be sure.

  Seeing the ticket, the man was suddenly attentive, and took the two bags from Mr. Standish. But when he saw Lucy, he looked confused. Obviously, she didn’t fit the image of a first-class passenger. Lucy knew what such traveling attire should look like, and though she was dressed in her new skirt and blouse sewn by the ladies, she was far from fashionable. To be so she needed a matching suit, heavy with soutache trim, gloves, and a hat with an abundance of ribbons and feathers, and probably a veil.

  Mr. Standish said a few words to the man, and he nodded.

  The steward was waiting for her. It was time to say good-bye.

  “Mr. Standish,” she said with a sigh. “Once again you’ve saved me, once again I’m in your debt.”

  “You have saved yourself, Lucy. Your tenaciousness, creativity, and work ethic will serve you well in Newport.” He took her hand and held it between his two. “Be confident and be yourself.”

  “I’ll try.”

  He reached a hand into his pocket and pressed some coins into her hands. “For food and gratuities along the way.”

  Gratuities? She’d never thought about that.

  Then he stepped back and tipped his hat. “Safe journey, Miss Scarpelli. Don’t worry a moment about anything here. I’ll watch over your mother and sister as if they were my own.”

  She felt her eyes grow misty, for she knew him to be a man of his word. Then she turned toward the steward and weighed her decision: she could act as if she belonged or cower in a corner. Making her choice, she walked toward the steward, trying to hold her chin erect, trying to look confident.

  The steward offered her a hand to climb the steps to the train car. “Now to the right, miss.”

  She entered a car that had to be as sumptuous as a Vanderbilt mansion. There was a carpeted center aisle with benches on either side, just wide enough to seat two. Benches faced each other, enabling intimate conversation between two couples. The seating was upholstered in a patterned velvet of navy, red, and green, with the upper portion of the back tufted and buttoned in a rich green to match. There were spaces above the seats that pulled down for small storage, and these—and the ceiling of the car—were painted with intricate patterns and scenes edged in gilt filigree.

  Her stomach clenched as she walked past other travelers, decked out in their finest traveling ensembles. At a glance she knew firsthand the quality and cost of their clothing.

  As they knew hers.

  She kept her head down and quickly found a seat facing the end wall. Hopefully no one would sit across from her. She hugged the armrest closest to the window. The steward stood in the aisle with her bags. “Are you comfortable here, miss?”

  “Very,” she said.

  “Then I’ll put your bags up here. Just ask for assistance if you need to get at them,” he said.

  She remembered the money in her hand and procured a coin for him. “Thank you.”

  He shook his head and said softly. “The gentleman took care of that, miss. And he asked that I take special care of you.” Then he tipped his hat and offered her a wink. “Relax and enjoy the trip, miss. If you need anything, anything at all, my name is Ralph.”

  Once again, Mr. Standish had gone above and beyond. She looked outside for him, but he was gone. A tinge of fear fell upon her, but she quickly shoved it away. She was safely on the train. Ralph had been assigned to help her. There was nothing to worry—

  A couple moved into the bench seat across from her. She panicked and wanted to move away, yet knew that would be rude. Maybe if she kept her gaze focused out the window . . . If only she’d brought along a book to read. That would have provided an excuse to avoid eye contact.

  “Hello,” the woman said.

  Suddenly, the words of Mr. Standish returned to her: “Be confident and be yourself.”

  Lucy gathered a breath, smiled, and answered. “Hello.” She purposely looked both the woman and then the man in the eye. “It’s a lovely day to be traveling,” she said. As if she traveled much. At all.

  “What is your final destination?” the man asked.

  “Newport.”

  “Really,” he said.

  Lucy’s confidence faltered until the woman said, “How wonderful. We’re traveling to Newport too.” She settled her small beaded purse into the space between herself and her husband, then put her gloved hands in her lap. “Since we are traveling companions, we should introduce ourselves. I am Mrs. Garmin, and this is my husband.”

  With a hint of reluctance, he tipped his hat, then looked away.

  “I’m Lucy Scarpelli. Very nice to meet you.”

  “Scarpelli,” the woman repeated. “What a lovely name.”

  Her husband raised an eyebrow and Lucy wondered if he was thinking of something derogatory. I-tie. Ginzo. Dago. Guinea. Tony. She’d heard them all.

  The conductor came through and asked to see their tickets. Although Lucy knew her ticket proved she belonged there, she was still nervous until he moved on.

  The train whistle blew and Lucy felt the car jerk into motion. She gripped the armrest.

  “Is this your first trip on the New Haven?” Mrs. Garmin asked.

  “This is my first trip on any train, anywhere.” With the words freshly spoken, Lucy wondered if she’d made a mistake being so honest.

  Then Mr. Garmin startled her by calling out across the railcar, “Joseph! You old goat.” He excused himself to talk to his friend.

  Mrs. Garmin edged toward the center of her bench. Lucy hoped her disapproving husband would spend the trip seated elsewhere.

  “There, that’s better,” she said. She was looking toward the far end of the car. Lucy turned around to see Mr. Garmin sitting with two other men. Mrs. Garmin went on to explain. “My husband comes out with me at the beginning of the season to see that the house is opened properly, but then he commutes back to New York during the week, and then to Newport for the weekend.” She smiled confidentially. “We would take a steamer from Long Island for the shorter trip, but I have never liked being on the sea for any length of time. The rocking of the train is tolerable, the rocking of the ocean is not.”

  “It’s nice he’s traveling with you,” Lucy said.

  Mrs. Garmin leaned forward as if sharing a confidence. “But it’s also very nice when he goes back to New York. You see, Newport is a very female environ. We let the men visit so we have proper dance and dinner partner
s, but for the most part, we are not particularly saddened by their absence.” She hastened to add, “I speak only for myself, of course.”

  “Of course.” But Lucy imagined Mrs. Garmin spoke for many wealthy women. What a life they had. As their husbands worked hard to pay for their lavish habits, all the women had to do was sit back and enjoy the benefits.

  Mrs. Garmin pointed at Lucy’s grip. “We are at full speed now, my dear. You can let go. We are perfectly safe.”

  Lucy relinquished her grip and found the feeling of speed was not as frightening as she’d imagined.

  “Over thirty miles in an hour,” Mrs. Garmin said. “We are indeed lucky to live in such a modern age. What would take days by carriage can be accomplished in six hours.”

  “We’ll be in Newport in six hours?”

  “Oh no, my dear. We’ll be in Wickford Junction. There we catch the steamer to travel the bay to Newport. But by later this evening you should be safely ensconced in your . . . Do you have family in Newport?”

  “No . . . I . . .” Lucy hesitated. Yet since Mrs. Garmin had shown a generosity of spirit in spite of Lucy’s obvious lesser status . . .

  The woman reached across the space between them and let her fingers touch Lucy’s knee. “It’s all right, dear. I’d love to hear your story. We all have a story, you know. Very few of us end up where we started.”

  Lucy was overcome by a swell of gratitude.

  And so she began . . . “Have you ever heard of Madame Moreau’s Fashion Emporium?”

  “I can’t believe the police haven’t caught that cretin, Bonwitter,” Mrs. Garmin said as she buttered her bread. “How fortuitous you’re leaving town. To live in such fear must be excruciating.”

  Lucy nodded and wiped a crumb from her bodice. “Mr. Standish has promised to watch out for my mother and sister, but evil men have ways of getting what they want.”

  Mr. Garmin cut a piece of steak and held it in midair as he answered her. “If he were bothering my family, I would hire a private investigator to weed him out and bring him to justice. The law is far too lenient with such men. They must be caught and dealt with now, before their crimes escalate into something more serious. Unfortunately, the latter is usually the way of it.”

  His wife put a hand on his arm. “Don’t say such things, my dear. You’re frightening Miss Scarpelli. After all, she still has family in harm’s way.”

  He chewed the meat, making his mustache dance. “Well, then. Yes. I’m sure your Mr. Standish is handling things just fine.”

  “I will pray for your family’s safety,” Mrs. Garmin said.

  “Thank you. I’d appreciate it.” She looked to Mr. Garmin. “As I appreciate this dinner, sir. It’s very kind of you to include me.”

  He blushed, set his fork down, and indicated for a waiter to take his plate away. “I’m just glad my wife has found someone to talk with.”

  Mrs. Garmin put a hand to her mouth, though she made no effort to lower her voice so her husband couldn’t hear. “It leaves him free to talk shop with the men.”

  He cleared his throat and rose. “If you ladies will excuse me, I shall continue doing just that.”

  “Of course, my dear.”

  “Again, thank you, sir. The meal was delicious.”

  “Yes, well . . .” He nodded and left them.

  “He’s very nice,” Lucy said.

  “He pretends to be gruff, but he’s not. I’m very blessed to have found love with the man I married.”

  It was an odd way of putting it, but Lucy understood. Marriage came first, and then—if the couple was lucky—love followed. It was like Rowena had told her during one of her fittings. She was supposed to fall in love with a man her parents chose for her. It was as if love were a goal to be claimed rather than a sentiment that claimed its recipients.

  Lucy did not agree. Love was not a noun, was not a thing: it was a verb, an action. A mode of being. It could not be forced, but rather it forced itself into people’s hearts, sometimes unawares.

  She thought of Angelo. . . . She had loved him, and the feeling had taken her by surprise. When she knew their future was impossible, her decision to stop loving him had only been accomplished with dogged determination, will, and pain.

  The waiter removed their dinner plates. “Would you ladies like to see the dessert selections?”

  Mrs. Garmin smiled and raised her eyebrows at Lucy. “Yes?”

  “Oh yes. Please.”

  The waiter brought a tray that held four choices. “This is our German chocolate cake, this a lemon sponge cake with raspberry sauce, and these last two are cheesecake with strawberries and an apple strudel. Your choice, ladies?”

  One of each? Lucy had never eaten any of them. She’d had chocolate but once, and the cake here had four layers of it. But she’d never had raspberries, and couldn’t imagine a cake made out of sponges or cheese. The strudel was the least exotic, as she had eaten apples before.

  “What if we choose two different items and share?” Mrs. Garmin said.

  “That would be perfect.”

  “You make the first choice.”

  “I choose . . . the German chocolate cake.”

  “And I choose the cheesecake, please.”

  As the waiter was leaving, two ladies stopped him in the aisle. “Can you bring our desserts to this table?”

  “Of course, ladies.”

  The women stood before them. Their eyes flitted over Lucy but landed on Mrs. Garmin. “How nice to see you again, Martha.”

  “Abigail.”

  The other woman made her greeting. “Do you usually come out this week?”

  “I believe last year it was a week later.” Mrs. Garmin waved a hand toward the chair her husband had vacated. “Please join us.”

  Abigail sat next to Mrs. Garmin, and the other woman sat on a chair beside Lucy. Lucy’s nerves, which had been soothed in the Garmins’ kind presence, were reignited.

  “So,” Abigail said. “Introductions, Martha. Who is your new . . . friend?”

  “Abigail, Frances . . . I am pleased to introduce you to Miss Lucy Scarpelli. Lucy, this is Mrs. Samuel Wilson and Mrs. Oscar Berkeley.”

  The ladies nodded. Slightly.

  Abigail spoke first. “Miss Scarpelli. You are traveling alone?”

  “I am,” Lucy said.

  “With no chaperone?”

  Mrs. Garmin spoke up. “Lloyd and I have taken her in. You see, she is on a very important mission—a mission of mercy, if you will.”

  “Indeed?”

  Lucy was very willing to let Mrs. Garmin take the reins of the conversation. “Miss Scarpelli is a very talented dress designer. She made the entire wardrobe for Mrs. Langdon and her daughter, Rowena, and—”

  “Oh my. Poor, poor Rowena. How is she doing?”

  It was a question set for Lucy to answer. “She is quite well. But unfortunately her clothing was damaged in transit and she sent for me to come and make the repairs.”

  “Oh my,” Mrs. Berkeley repeated. “It is just her luck. Nothing ever goes right for that girl.”

  “She is quite sweet,” Abigail said. “It’s so sad she has proven to be unmarriageable.”

  “Oh, she’s not unmarriageable,” Lucy said. “She hopes to become engaged this summer.”

  By the looks on the ladies’ faces, Lucy realized she’d said too much.

  “You know this for a fact?” Mrs. Berkeley said.

  “You never mentioned this to me,” Mrs. Garmin said.

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “I wonder if they’ve gotten the Fleming boy to propose. He’s had his wild time, and I know his parents have been wanting him to settle down. Maribel Yearling refused last year, and—”

  “Don’t the Astors have a cousin who lives overseas? I would think new blood would be the most likely to agree to marry her.”

  “No one will agree easily,” Mrs. Berkeley said. “With her . . . infirmity. There’s no guarantee she can ever have children, you know.”
>
  Lucy was shocked. “Why wouldn’t she be able to have children? It’s just her leg and hip that are . . .” She let her words fade away. Again. Too much. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t speak about what I don’t know.”

  Mrs. Garmin waved a hand. “Oh, why not, my dear? Do you think any of us know what we’re talking about?”

  Abigail looked peeved. “I know for a fact the Astors have a cousin.”

  “I’m not saying there isn’t a grain of truth in all we say here. But I would bet a diamond to a dollar that Miss Scarpelli has had more conversations with Miss Langdon than any of us ever have.” She gave each woman a look, expecting an answer.

  “I know her mother but have never spoken directly to Rowena,” Abigail conceded.

  Mrs. Berkeley offered a shrug as her answer.

  Mrs. Garmin nodded once. “So, then. We are pleased if Rowena has found a beau. Good for her. And good for Miss Scarpelli to be such a skilled seamstress that they trust her to make the ruined right.”

  “What is the name of your shop?” Mrs. Berkeley asked.

  My shop? Lucy decided not to nitpick. “Madame Moreau’s Fashion Emporium.”

  Abigail perked up. “I’ve been there! I had you make me a gown for the opera last season.”

  “Did you like it?” Lucy asked.

  “Very much so. Perhaps you designed—?”

  “No, no,” Lucy said, knowing at least a portion of the truth must come out sooner rather than later. “I’ve only worked there a short while.” She thought of correcting Mrs. Garmin’s description of her as a designer, but decided the extra leverage in status might be to her advantage. “But I know the work the designers do, and it’s of the highest quality.”

  “Which dress was it?” Mrs. Garmin asked Abigail. “The navy toile?”

  “The burgundy velvet.”

  The ladies ahhed in appreciation.

  “How long are you staying with the Langdons?” Abigail asked.

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t seen the extent of the damage.” Lucy wasn’t even certain how long she wanted to stay. Would her visit be wonderful? Or disastrous?

  “Might you be available if I have need of some alterations or repairs?”