by Nancy Moser
Rowena was at her wit’s end. She let her hands fall into her lap. “This feels incredibly awkward, and I wanted it to feel comfortable, like two friends getting the chance to spend time together. Back in New York we talked like sisters.”
Lucy looked around the drawing room with its satin wallpaper, thick patterned rugs, and filigreed woodwork. “This is not New York.”
Ah. So that was it. “Actually,” Rowena said, “this room was supposed to evoke France. Father nearly died when Mother insisted the oak paneling be painted white. It doesn’t match the rest of the house at all.”
“It’s very . . . fancy,” Lucy said.
Rowena offered a laugh. “That it is.” And in hindsight, perhaps it wasn’t the first place they should have met. Checking her motives, Rowena asked herself if she’d chosen this room for its opulence. Was she trying to show off to her friend?
Perhaps more than a little. It was no wonder Lucy was acting formal and distant. “I know,” Rowena said, standing. “Let’s go up to my room. It’s much homier.”
But before they could exit, her mother entered the room. “Look, Mother, Miss Scarpelli has arrived.”
“None too soon.”
“I came as quickly as I could, Mrs. Langdon. And I’m eager to get to work.”
Rowena took Lucy’s hand. “That’s where we’re going now, Mother. I’ll show Lucy all that needs to be done.”
“You can’t cancel your picnic,” Mrs. Langdon said. “Edward will be there. He’s expecting you to come.”
“I won’t miss it, Mother,” Rowena said. “Lucy has assured me the seersucker will be repaired in time.”
Mrs. Langdon looked skeptical, but Lucy let Rowena pull her from the room and followed her up the stairs to the second floor. Rowena wished she was capable of running up the stairs but, as usual, moved slowly, lifting her skirt with one hand and holding the railing with the other. Each step gained the attention of both feet before she moved on to the next. It was incredibly tiresome.
But Lucy didn’t seem to mind the slower pace. While her feet did the walking, her gaze moved from left to right, up and down. Her interest made Rowena look at their home with new eyes.
The staircase and the walls along the way were a dark walnut. The spindles were intricately carved and so close together as to nearly be one piece of continuous wood. These same spindles had caused Rowena and Hugh no end of frustration as children when they’d tried to drop grapes or olives down upon their parents’ guests. Many a plump olive had found itself wedged in place.
The paneled walls extended two stories beyond the second, culminating in a stained-glass skylight featuring a woman floating among a puffing of clouds in a striking blue sky. Rowena and Hugh had named her. Hugh had suggested Gertrude—which was so not right—but Rowena had won out with Anastasia. Birds flew past Anastasia, carrying sprigs of flowers and leaves in their beaks.
Lucy paused at the railing on the second floor to look down, and then up. “It’s like being in a tunnel leading to heaven.”
“Father would be pleased to hear you say that. He named our home Porte au Ciel.”
“Gate to Heaven?”
Rowena was pleased. “You know French?”
“In this case it’s similar to Italian: porta al cielo.”
“Mmm. How lovely. I wish I could speak another language. My tutor tried to teach me French, but I have no talent for it whatsoever. As for the house, my grandfather built the first version forty years ago, then after he died, Father made it larger and grander—though this house is like a poor cousin’s barracks compared to the two Vanderbilt palaces that have sprung up in the past few years. Father has insisted he will do nothing to compete, that to do so would be gauche and so . . .” She realized she was talking too much. She opened a door off the wide hall that ran along three sides of the atrium. “Welcome to my abode.”
Lucy walked inside and smiled. “After seeing the other parts of the house, it’s not what I expected. It’s very warm and inviting.” She looked at Rowena. “It suits you. It matches your character. It’s very . . . right.”
Somehow the compliment bothered her. “I don’t feel very right. I think all sorts of bad thoughts.”
“I can’t imagine you doing any such thing.”
Rowena nodded, accepting full responsibility for this flaw. “Be assured I may do the right thing, but not always with a willing heart.”
“At least your actions are right. Most people don’t do much of anything.”
“You’re very kind.”
Lucy shook her head. “But I’m not. I’m rarely kind at all. My biggest fault is that I say what I think.”
“That’s a good attribute.”
“Not when I speak without thinking through how the other person may feel about it.”
Rowena remembered a quotation. “ ‘Discretion is the better part of valor.’ ”
Lucy stopped her exploration of the bird figurines on Rowena’s mantel. “I have no idea what that means.”
Rowena bit her lip as she thought about it, then burst into laughter. “Neither do I. But someone famous said it once.”
“Someone more famous and smarter than us.”
Rowena wagged a finger at Lucy, though she was smiling. “Don’t disparage my intelligence, Lucy. Without the full function of my body, it’s what I must lean on the most.”
Lucy offered the slightest glance at Rowena’s leg, making Rowena regret bringing up the subject. She knew Lucy was curious, but that was a discussion for another time. First things first.
“Actually, Mother and Father have the large bedrooms. I purposely chose this smaller one because I enjoy the golden tones of the oak.” She moved toward the fireplace and extended an arm toward the painting above the mantel. “Besides, how can I resist having a marriage scene from the Renaissance watching over me?”
Lucy peered at the painting, studying it.
Rowena offered commentary. “It looks like a formal Italian wedding with the men in long robes and the pages in tights.”
“Not like any Italian wedding I’ve been to.”
Of course not. It was a painting of aristocracy. Rowena chastised herself for bringing it attention.
But she’d kept the best for last. “Here’s my true inspiration.” She pulled the sheer curtains aside and thrust open the window to showcase her view. “See what you’re missing by having your window look to the west?”
Lucy leaned against the sill and took it all in. The breeze made wisps of her hair dance as the curtains fluttered.
“It’s the most lovely view I’ve ever seen.”
“To which I take absolutely no credit.” She remembered a verse she’d had to memorize for Sunday school. “ ‘By the word of the Lord were the heavens made; and all the host of them by the breath of his mouth. He gathereth the waters of the sea together as an heap: he layeth up the depth in storehouses. Let all the earth fear the Lord: let all the inhabitants of the world stand in awe of him. For he spake, and it was done; he commanded, and it stood fast.’ ”
“How beautiful.”
“I can’t take credit for that either.”
Lucy took hold of the finial on the footboard of the bed. “This entire home is like walking into a make-believe world. My family has lived in two rooms all our lives—and for years there were seven of us.”
“In two rooms?”
Lucy ran her fingers along the curved footboard. “Now there are just three of us in a three-room apartment. Now we have our own bathroom and running water and a bathtub. My sister makes good use of it too. She loves to read her books there.”
Rowena was shocked. “Now you have a bathroom?”
Lucy sat upon a fringed bench at the foot of the bed. “Until our present apartment above the dress shop, we lived in a tenement on Mulberry Street with dozens of other families. We got our water from a spigot in the hall, and had to go down five flights to use the necessaries in the alley.” She ran her hands along the sateen fabric, then looked up
at Rowena. “Does that shock you?”
Rowena sat on a chair near the fireplace. “Probably as much as all this shocks you.”
Lucy smiled. “This house is a lovely surprise and I’m very glad to be here, to see where you live. But I’m even more glad you never had to see where I lived.”
A measure of silence fell between them, but now, it was void of discomfort. It was as though a settling had occurred during their exchange, a calm water after the height of a wave and the pull of the ebb tide.
“Now, then,” Lucy said. “If you don’t mind showing me the clothes? Since your mother doesn’t want you to miss the picnic . . .”
“Because Edward will be there—along with a dozen others, of course.”
“I remember now. Edward is your intended.”
“As per our parents’ plan.”
“You wanted him to desire you.”
Rowena felt herself blush. “I believe I’ve made some progress in that department.”
Lucy grinned. “Do tell.”
“He has said kind words.”
Lucy’s face fell. “A brother can say kind words.”
True. “But he defended me when people were rude.”
“Which makes him a gentleman. But what about desire?”
Rowena hesitated, but only for a moment. She had wanted a confidante. “He kissed me.”
Lucy’s interest was renewed. “More than once?”
Actually . . . “Just the once.” She was quick to defend him. “But as you yourself said, he is a gentleman by nature. He would never take advantage.”
“Is that a relief or a disappointment?”
Rowena laughed nervously. “A relief, to be sure.”
“Oh.”
With Lucy’s reaction, Rowena rethought her answer. Perhaps it would be better if Edward did try to take advantage. If his desire for her grew, it would mean his need to marry her would increase also. But she couldn’t fathom the idea of defending her virtue against a man who was letting lust rule. Which begged the questions: Was their relationship at its proper place? Should she be doing something differently?
“Are you all right?” Lucy asked.
She regretted the transparency of her face. “Enough about Edward. You are here for the clothes. Come with me.”
Rowena opened a door on the fireplace wall that led to a large dressing room.
Lucy gasped.
Rowena tried to see it through her friend’s eyes. At the head of the room was a large window, hidden with discreet sheers, but on either side of the room were high rods upon which were hung all manner of clothes, most recognizable as coming from the Emporium, but some others besides. To their sharp right was a shoe rack that stood eight feet from bottom to top, lined with her boots and slippers. And on the other side of the door was a similar shelf unit that contained her hats, many displayed on hatstands to protect their shape.
Lucy strode to the center of the room, turning full circle next to a massive Tiffany-blue velvet ottoman. “You were wrong about the atrium,” she finally said.
“Wrong?”
“It’s not the reason this house is called Gate to Heaven. This is the reason!”
“And you are the creator, for most of its contents are the work of your hands.”
“You are too kind, Miss Langdon.”
“Rowena. Please, Lucy. Remember I am Rowena—at least when we’re alone.”
Lucy spotted the mauve seersucker suit and removed it from the rack. The sleeve was pulled from the bodice.
“Is it fixable?”
“Of course. Let me fetch my satchel of sewing supplies and—”
“One moment.” Rowena rang a bell.
Within a minute, her lady’s maid appeared at the door. “Yes, Miss Langdon?”
“Margaret, I would like you to meet Lucy Scarpelli, the talented clothing designer who created my wardrobe this season. She has come to make repairs—”
“Pardon me, miss, but I could’ve repaired the damage.”
“You have enough duties, Margaret. You don’t need me adding to your burden.” Actually, I will be glad for your absence.
Margaret only shrugged.
Rowena pointed to a suitcase near the window. “There. On your way out, would you please bring Miss Scarpelli her supplies?” She looked to Lucy. “I had them retrieved while you were at breakfast.”
Margaret’s gaze moved slowly from Rowena to Lucy, but she picked up the suitcase and set it at Lucy’s feet. With a thud.
“That will be all, Margaret. Lucy will attend me from now on.”
As Margaret left, Lucy asked, “Is she your lady’s maid?”
“In theory,” Rowena said. “But she much prefers helping my mother, hence my point in calling her in here today. Now, with you here to help . . . she’ll be relieved to be away from me.”
“Why?”
“She treats me like I’m unclean, as though my infirmity is contagious.”
“How silly,” Lucy said. “Back home I often see people with handicaps: a missing limb or a finger, or a growth on the face or hand, all far more obvious than yours. Never once have I considered these people contagious.”
“Ah, but society demands perfection.”
Sadie came to the open doorway and bobbed a curtsy. “Begging your pardon, Miss Langdon, but your mother wishes to see you in the morning room. She says to tell you it won’t take long.”
Rowena sighed and turned to Lucy. “I will return. Make yourself at home.”
Lucy was glad for the time alone in the dressing room. Although she’d worked on these beautiful gowns, to be in their presence as one luxurious whole elicited feelings she’d never had before. She was practically giddy.
She strolled past the shoes, choosing a dainty pair of ivory silk pumps that were complemented by a curve of brocade and satin piping. She lifted her skirt and held one against her own foot. It looked as though it could fit. The fun she could have playing dress-up. . . . She thought of Sofia. Her sister would dive into the clothes with fervor.
The hats were next to gain her attention. Lucy placed a wide-brimmed mauve hat on her head, tying the wide ribbon under her chin. She moved to the full-length mirror close by. The ostrich feather bowed with her movement. A hat like this could make the plainest woman feel pretty.
Lucy realized time was passing. Although she knew Rowena wouldn’t mind her innocent act of appreciation, she didn’t want anyone else to walk in on her play, so she returned the hat to its stand and began to examine the familiar items hanging around her.
One by one she pulled them out for examination and found the damage. Some lace pulled off and unruffled at a cuff, a side seam opened, a flounce dislodged, some buttons missing, a length of trim hanging loose. When she’d received the telegram telling her the entire wardrobe was ruined and she was needed immediately to make the repairs, she’d imagined damage caused by a trunk that had burst open in transit, or perhaps items shredded by carriage wheels or water damage or—
“Am I found out?”
Lucy turned to face Rowena. And then she knew. Her disjointed thoughts rushed to a single conclusion—the only possible conclusion. “You caused the damage?”
Rowena raised a hand, palm forward. “I confess.”
“But why?”
“You know why.”
Lucy did know, or at least suspected. Yet she couldn’t say it aloud in case she was wrong. It would be far too presumptuous.
Rowena said it for her. “I wanted you here, Lucy. With me. In Newport. During the fittings I became fond of you as a friend. And I guessed you felt the same about me. Was I wrong?”
Lucy slipped the dress back on the rack. “No, you weren’t wrong. I felt a deep connection with you from the start, one I’ve never felt with anyone but family.”
Rowena smiled and let out a deep sigh. “And so. As my dear friend, as the one person in the world who had the ability to make me feel pretty again, I didn’t want to lose contact. Now if you were of the same . . . if
you ran in the same circles as I, I could simply invite you to come here as my guest. But—”
Lucy said it for her. “But since I’m of the working class . . .”
“I had to be creative.” Rowena strolled past a rack of clothes, her fingers skimming the sleeves. “I hated to cause damage to these lovely garments in which you’d invested so much work, but I could see no other way.”
Lucy had another thought. “What of your mother? How did you explain the damage to her?”
“I detest that I had to lie, but lie I did. I told her it was obvious someone had broken into our trunks en route and had been rough with our clothes.”
“Our clothes?”
“I’m afraid I damaged some of hers too.”
Lucy was amazed by Rowena’s act. She never would have guessed her capable of such a thing. But then, a gap in Rowena’s story demanded attention. “Pardon me for bringing this up, but why would anyone damage your clothes? Why wouldn’t they just steal them?”
Rowena stopped all movement, her mouth agape. “I don’t know. That would have been the more logical thing to happen, wouldn’t it?”
Lucy laughed. “It’s clear you don’t have the mind of a thief—which is a good thing.”
“But Mother . . . did she see through my explanation as quickly as you did?”
“Obviously not.”
Rowena sat on the ottoman, her head shaking. “Or if she did, she chose not to say anything.” She looked directly at Lucy. “She knew I wanted you here. Could she have simply allowed my ruse?”
“I don’t know her. Could she have been so kind?”
Rowena considered this a moment. “If that’s so . . . why didn’t she tell me she knew?”
All Lucy could do was shrug. “Whether she knew or not, I’m very grateful to her for allowing me to come.”
Rowena shook her consideration away. “My mother is hard to understand. Sometimes she’s my champion and other times she works against me.”
Lucy thought of her own mother and could pinpoint moments when she’d felt the same way. “Perhaps that’s what motherhood is: being loving and being tough.”
Rowena looked at the watch pinned to her blouse. “She will be very tough with both of us if I’m not downstairs, dressed in the seersucker, in two hours.”
