An Unlikely Suitor

by Nancy Moser

  Lucy weighed the quality of the light. “May I move a chair by the window?”

  “You may do whatever you need to do.” While Lucy moved the chair and got out the necessary supplies, Rowena retrieved the dress. Lucy got to work mending the sleeve.

  Although the work was tedious, Lucy felt none of that emotion as joy took over. Not only was she in Newport with Rowena, not only had she been invited there, she had been summoned because Rowena cared for her as a friend. Lucy had never had a real friend.

  She was the luckiest girl in the world.

  Ninety minutes later, Lucy buttoned the back of Rowena’s ivory voile top. Though bloused in front, it was cinched tight at the waist and neckline with embroidered bands. She remembered making twenty-two buttonholes for the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons that lined the back opening. She hated the task of buttonholes, especially in such delicate fabric, especially for a blouse that would remain hidden beneath a seersucker jacket. For no matter how warm the day, she knew Rowena would never remove it.

  Speaking of . . . Lucy retrieved the jacket with its peplum waist and large embroidered collar. She held it while Rowena slipped it on, then adjusted the wedge that corrected the height difference of her shoulders and puffed out the enormous sleeves to best effect.

  Next came the hat, which was small and flat but for rosettes and bows made from two shades of blue ribbon. Mamma had done a good job on this one, making it subtle but complementary to the rest of the suit.

  Bone-colored kid boots rounded out the costume. “How do I look?” Rowena asked.

  Lucy pointed to her own cheeks. “You’re pale. A picnic in the sun will do you good.”

  Rowena pinched her cheeks and bit her lower lip. “But surely you know it’s considered gauche for ladies of bearing to have a suntan. Although rosy cheeks are well considered.”

  “But why?” Lucy asked. “Surely showing evidence of being out in the sun and fresh air would be a good thing.”

  Rowena seemed a bit uncomfortable at the subject and merely shook her head. Then Lucy understood. “Is it because a darkened skin makes you look of lower class?”

  Rowena offered a pained expression. “These are not my standards, Lucy, but they are standards nonetheless.”

  Lucy felt a gulf open between them, one that could never be altered any more than the color of their eyes or hair. They were what they were.

  “Please don’t be sad,” Rowena said. “I meant no offense.”

  “I know you didn’t.” You didn’t. But that still didn’t remove the offense.

  Rowena headed to the door. “To make amends, I do have a surprise for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t have time to tell you right now. But when I get back . . .” She smoothed her skirt and gathered her gloves. “Well, then, I’m off. Wish me well with Edward.”

  Lucy set aside her hurt and sincerely offered Rowena her best wishes.

  Once she was alone, she turned back to the racks, chose another item, and returned to her mending.

  The total silence of the room quickly enveloped her. Silence was still a rarity. At home and at work she was always in the presence of others, and the sounds of the street were but a few feet away.

  Others . . . How were Mamma and Sofia doing? Was Bonwitter bothering them? Was Mr. Standish watching over them as he’d promised?

  If only they could be here and see this house. When Lucy had first been invited she’d placed an image in her mind of what the house of a wealthy person would look like, yet her imagination paled in comparison to the reality of this . . . cottage.

  Such a term was laughable. Why would they call these mansions cottages? Was it an inside joke? Or did it expose an essence of guilt for owning such places—such palaces—in the first place? Lucy would be embarrassed to have so much.

  Of course it was easy for her to say such a thing, since she did not have and would never have . . .

  She shook the thoughts away. Back to mending.

  Edward helped Rowena to a bench on the lawn and sat beside her.

  Then he giggled, stifling it with a gloved hand.

  She looked toward him. “What’s so funny?”

  He leaned back. “I dare not say.”

  “Then I dare you to say.”

  His eyes skimmed the eight others in their picnic party, all lined up neatly on a row of benches and chairs in the grass. “I’ve never attended a picnic where the participants sat in a neat line, nor one where servants set up tables with fine china and crystal.”

  Rowena looked down the row of top-hatted men with their spats and walking sticks, alternating with pastel-clad women—except for Mrs. Burnwald, who was still dressed in mourning. Rowena had never considered any of this odd. It was the way picnics were accomplished in Newport.

  “You’d prefer to sit on the ground and let insects infest your luncheon?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “I’ll fight any ant to the death if it dare attack my foie gras.”

  His tone was a concern. As an outsider it would behoove him to accept whatever mode of entertainment there be, in whatever form it was presented. “Do you mock us, Mr. DeWitt?”

  He put a hand on her arm. “I tease you. If you’d rather I didn’t . . . ?”

  Teasing. He was teasing.

  She put her hand on his, letting it linger. “You’re good for me. You make me see things with a lighter view.” She glanced back over the group, with their row of parasols at attention, even though the seating was situated in the shade. “When I was a child I used to go on less formal picnics, with hunks of bread and ham stolen from the pantry.”

  “Ah so. You are a thief?”

  “Actually, my friend Morrie did the thievery. I merely told him where the food was kept.” The memory took her away from the moment, and she smiled at the recollection of searching for lucky four-leaf clovers and feeding most of the bread to the birds.

  “Should I be jealous of this Morrie?”

  “Oh no, no. He’s just a very good friend.”

  “A friend who has the ability to make you smile with fond memories.”

  She felt her face grow warm, for her picnics with Morrie were but one of many happy times together.

  “You’re blushing. Was the young Morrie bold on this picnic?”

  Not on that one. But Morrie had delivered her first kiss. She’d been thirteen, and he two years older. He’d just helped her down from her horse where she was learning to ride sidesaddle when they’d suddenly noticed their close proximity and he’d leaned down to kiss her on the lips. She hadn’t known what to do, so had popped the tip of his nose with her hand. Which had led to his doing the same for her, and . . .

  “Hello? Rowena?”

  She blinked the memory away just in time to accept a glass of lemonade from a footman.

  Lucy rubbed her eyes. She’d been sewing for hours and the close handwork had taken its toll. She scanned the room for a clock, found none, but was certain many hours had passed. She set the dress aside and stood.

  When would Rowena return? Should Lucy be here when she got back, or could she go up to her room? Was that considered against the rules?

  She stretched her arms overhead and decided by the ache there and in her shoulders and neck that she would have to risk it. If someone stopped her, so be it. She could claim ignorance without lying.

  Lucy was glad there was a door directly from the dressing room to the hallway. To go through Rowena’s bedroom without her present would be uncomfortable.

  Luckily, the hallway was empty. Lucy paused a moment to gain her bearings. Which way to the stairs?

  She turned to the left and found the back stairs, but before she could begin her ascent to the next floor, a young man barreled up the stairway from the main floor and nearly collided with her. His trousers and shirt were covered with mud. She couldn’t imagine what a stableboy or gardener was doing amid the private quarters of the house, but merely lowered her eyes to move past.

  “Wel
l well, look what we have here,” the man said.

  She was amazed at his cheeky manner. “I am not a what, I am a who. Now, if you don’t—”

  He laughed and put a hand on her arm, stopping her escape. “Point taken. And so then, who are you?”

  The nerve of the man. She took a moment to blatantly take note of his messy clothes. “You’re getting mud on the carpets.”

  “Then clean it up.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He gave a little salute with two fingers to his forehead, then added, “I’ll see you later, Lucy. I’ll make sure of it.” He walked off, down the hall from whence she’d come.

  Lucy? He knew her name?

  “How do you know—?”

  He turned to a door, opened it, and smiled back at her. “I know everything that goes on around here. Everything. Ta-ta.” He entered the room and closed the door behind himself.

  Lucy was confused. He’d been messy like a servant, yet he’d entered one of the rooms as though he owned—

  She gasped at her obvious mistake. He belonged here. He was part of the family—was he Rowena’s wanton brother, Hugh? And to think she’d called him on his messy clothes.

  Taking a break in her room was doubly needed.

  Within the span of a few seconds, Lucy knew something was wrong. Her hat was gone from its perch on the dresser, the empty satchel that had held her clothing was missing from under the bed. She opened the drawers and found all her clothing gone too.

  “They stole everything!” She repeated the words as a question. “They stole everything?” Who would do such a thing?

  The need for answers dispelled her need for rest. Lucy headed belowstairs in search of Mrs. Donnelly or the butler, Mr. Timbrook. Spotting neither, she entered the kitchen.

  “Pardon me . . .” She couldn’t remember the cook’s name.

  “All right,” the woman said, looking up from cutting up a chicken. “I’ll excuse you. But what for?”

  Two kitchen maids laughed softly.

  Fine. She’d be the brunt of their jokes all they wanted, if only she could get her things back. “I went up to my room and found all my possessions gone.”

  “Yes, well . . .”

  “I know I’m new, but I will not be treated in such a manner. If this is some sort of joke . . .”

  The cook put down her meat cleaver and eyed Lucy with raised brows. “So being moved to the room of the lady’s maid, right next to Miss Langdon, isn’t good enough for you?”

  “What?”

  One of the maids spoke. “Care to tell us your secret? How do you rate coming here first class and getting moved next to the young mistress?”

  “What are you talking about?” Were they talking about the dressing room?

  Cook shrugged. “If you can’t find the room, that’s your problem. I have work to do.”

  No. It couldn’t be. “I just came from there and none of my things—”

  “You’re still accusing us of stealing?” Cook asked.

  “No, no, but . . .”

  Cook flipped a hand at her in dismissal. “Go on, then. Go back to your domain and stay out of ours.”

  Lucy suffered sudden regrets at her accusation. She didn’t want the servants to hate her. The consequences were troubling and unknown.

  “Get on with you,” Cook said. “Leave us peons to our work.”

  “I . . .” Lucy didn’t know what to say, so said nothing and left. She hurried upstairs, hoping she didn’t encounter anyone else who knew of her preferential treatment.

  She hesitated at the door to Rowena’s dressing room and knocked. When no one answered, she went inside. Her things were not inside. There had to be some other room nearby. Cook had said there was a room for the lady’s maid here.

  Lucy walked the perimeter of the room and saw no other door. Was she somehow supposed to sleep in here, amongst the clothes? Flummoxed, she put her hands upon her hips and sighed. It was then her gaze fell upon the opposite side of the room, where she spotted the top of a doorjamb above a rod heavy with dresses. She spread the clothes to either side and discovered a door. She opened it outward toward the next room, and entered. There, sitting on a bed, were her missing satchel and hat.

  The room was no larger than her bedroom back home, but the furnishings were of nicer quality. The bed had an oak head- and footboard, and the dresser was crowned with an oval mirror. A tan upholstered chair sat in the corner, and a small window overlooked the back lawn. The floor was covered with a blue and maroon oriental rug, and there were hooks on the wall for her clothing.

  The only odd thing about the room was that there was no door leading to the hallway. The only way in and out was through the door behind the dresses. And yet, as Lucy sat upon the bed, it made her feel rather safe. She was neatly tucked away in her own little space, far removed from the rest of the household.

  “I can be happy here,” she said aloud.

  “I’m glad.”

  Lucy started as Rowena’s voice came from the doorway. “You discovered my surprise. Are you pleased?”

  “It’s a lovely room.”

  “It’s a quirky room, hidden away as it is. And I will admit I had you moved here for personal reasons. I like the idea of having you close. I hope you don’t mind. I had your personal things moved while you were at breakfast. I should have told you before I left for the picnic. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  “I don’t mind a bit.” Lucy was glad she could be honest with her answer.

  Rowena dangled a key before her. “This is the key to my dressing room. You can come and go through there.”

  Lucy pocketed the key. Then she remembered where Rowena had spent the afternoon. “How was the picnic?”

  “Quite delightful. Come and help me out of this and I’ll tell you all the details.”

  Lucy’s stomach growled. And no wonder. She hadn’t eaten anything since the few bites at breakfast. Lunch had been bypassed as she worked on Rowena’s dresses, and now that it was dinnertime, she wasn’t sure what to do.

  After helping Rowena on with a dinner gown, she couldn’t find the courage to go down to the kitchen to dine with the servants. She didn’t feel up to enduring their disdain.

  If only there was some way to venture into the pantry, where she could grab a loaf of bread or some cheese . . .

  She suddenly remembered Rowena had ordered tea brought up late in the afternoon. Rowena had invited Lucy to join her, but Lucy had declined because it just hadn’t seemed proper. But maybe . . . if Rowena hadn’t consumed all of it . . .

  Lucy ventured into the dressing room, then tentatively into Rowena’s bedroom. There, on a table near the fireplace, was the tea tray. The tea water was tepid, but Lucy poured herself a cup. And the plate of scones held but one half left behind.

  Lucy started to devour it, then realizing it might be all she’d have for dinner, ate it slowly, savoring every bite. She licked her finger and smashed it against every crumb on the plate.

  So much for preferential treatment.

  “Ahhhh!”

  Everyone in the workroom looked toward Mamma. But where was she?

  There she was, under her worktable, half lying on the floor. Sofia knelt beside her. “What’s wrong, Mamma? What are you doing under here? Give me your hand.”

  Mamma pushed her hand away. “I dropped a tin of beads and went to pick them up and twisted my back. I can’t move.”

  Mamma ended up inching her way out from under the table, and with the help of the ladies, got to her chair. But when that position caused pain, and since it was the end of the day, Mrs. Flynn told her to go upstairs to the apartment so she could lie down.

  Tessie helped Sofia get Mamma up the stairs and to bed. Every movement, no matter how slight, made her groan.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” Sofia asked.

  Mamma closed her eyes. “I just need to rest. I need to let my muscles relax.”

  Sofia thought about the cleaning they did every nigh
t. “Don’t worry about the cleaning. I’ll do it.”

  Tessie piped up, “I’ll stay behind and help if you’d like.”

  It was a tempting offer, but after kissing a stranger the other day, after behaving so childishly, handling the cleaning on her own was a must. “Thanks, but I’ll be all right.”

  After getting Mamma a glass of water and setting some bread and butter close enough for her to reach, Sofia headed downstairs to clean.

  “Be careful,” Mamma said.

  Her words took Sofia aback. Careful?

  Oh. Bonwitter.

  She’d be alone in the shop. Although they hadn’t been bothered by Bonwitter for a while, he was still out there.

  Why had Mamma reminded her?

  Sofia locked Mamma inside the apartment and entered the empty shop, locking that door too. The silence rushed around her like a phantom taking her captive. She held her breath, not knowing what to do to break the awful spell.

  The truth was, she was rarely alone. Yes, she liked to go off to read, but she was always near others. She couldn’t remember a single time she’d been so utterly on her own.

  Light a lamp!

  She was rather ashamed to realize it had always been Mamma’s job to step into the dark lobby and light the gas sconces. I’ve been letting someone else take care of me even in that. . . .

  Once the lamps were lit, the fear abated, but only a bit. Sofia took care of the silence by making as much noise as possible. She began singing as she burst through the curtain to the workroom and lit those lamps. “ ‘East Side, West Side, all around the town. The tots sang ‘ring-around-rosie,’ ‘London Bridge is falling down.’ Boys and girls together, me and Mamie O’Rourke, tripped the light fantastic on the sidewalks of New York.’ ”

  She gathered the scraps and deposited them in the bin. But she needed a broom and the dustpan.

  They were in the back. In the storeroom.

  Another dark place. Sofia hummed and opened the door tentatively. Where was the lamp in here? During the day, the alley window provided light, and at night . . . Mamma or Lucy always lit the lamp.