by Nancy Moser
“Fine,” she said, pushing her chair away from the sewing machine. As she walked toward the door, her arms tingled and she got a creepy feeling up her back. Logically, she knew he wasn’t there, but . . .
She walked into the storeroom and let her eyes adjust to the dimmer light. Maybe if she kept her gaze straight ahead and walked very quickly, she could get back before her courage left—
She turned toward a tapping on the alley window. There, with his nose pressed against the pane, was Bonwitter!
Sofia ran back into the workroom. “He’s at the window! He’s come to get me!”
Dorothy and Mrs. Flynn shook their heads in disgust and entered the storeroom while Sofia ran into Mamma’s arms.
“Are you sure you saw him?” Dolly whispered from the next worktable.
Sofia nodded with her head against Mamma’s shoulder. She let go when Dorothy and Mrs. Flynn came back into the room. “Did you see him?”
“There’s no one there. No one in the alley either,” Dorothy said.
“I even walked down to the street and looked both ways. He wasn’t there,” Mrs. Flynn said. “It’s your imagination run wild.”
“But I saw him!”
Mrs. Flynn shrugged. “I can’t have you screaming at every fly on the wall, girl. Get yourself under control.” She nodded to the room. “Everyone, back to work.”
They didn’t believe her? “But why would I make that up?” she asked anyone who would listen.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Leona said under her breath. “Perhaps so you can go home early? Or have time to go read one of your silly books.”
Sofia looked to Mamma for support, but even she pointed toward the sewing machine. “Best get back to work.”
“Surely you believe—?”
Mamma’s shrug was a wound to her soul.
There was a knock on the dressing room door. Good. Dinner. Lucy was famished.
She went to answer it. “I’m glad you’re here, Sadie. I was about to wither—”
“Hello.”
At the sight of the man she’d accosted because of his dirty boots, Lucy took a step back.
“Your dinner, mademoiselle?”
She collected herself enough to ask, “Where’s Sadie?”
“I intercepted her in the hall and asked where she was going.” He pressed past her into the dressing room and set the tray on the ottoman. “I think it’s time we were properly introduced. I am Rowena’s younger, but oh-so-handsome, brother. Hugh is the name. And you are the Lucy I’ve heard so much about.”
“What have you heard?”
He leaned toward her and made his eyebrows dance. “Don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with me.”
“What secrets?”
He ignored her. “So this is where you’ve moved.”
“Not here, but next—” She stopped herself from mentioning her actual sleeping quarters, hidden away as it was. “Yes, your sister wanted me close.”
“Good for her.” He winked. “And me.”
His very presence made her nervous—and oddly, a little angry. “Thank you. That will be all.”
He looked at her askance. “Is this how you dismiss all your servants?”
“I . . . no, of course, I just . . . I’m just hungry. So if you don’t mind?”
He strolled along the rows of dresses, letting his fingers skim every one. Did he know about her room? If not, she didn’t want him to discover it. He was coming distressingly close to the break in the dresses. He’d see the door and—
She tried to divert him. “So, Mr. Langdon. Are you in college or are you being groomed to take over your father’s business?” Whatever that is.
He stopped within inches of the opening in the dresses, took a quick glance, then looked at her. “Both.”
She sat beside the tray and took a roll, breaking it in two, desperate to divert him. “Would you like to share?”
He grinned, came forward, and took her offering. “Thank you.”
Lucy regretted her gesture, in that it prolonged his presence. “Won’t your family be waiting for you at dinner?”
“They’re used to me being late.”
Lucy could imagine they were used to Hugh exhibiting a myriad of faults.
“So, Lucy,” he said, “how are you finding life at Porte au Ciel?”
“Very well, thank you. I’m glad to be of service to your sister.”
He snickered. “Rowena needs all the help she can get.”
Lucy felt her dander rise. “Why do you say that? She’s extremely sweet and charming. She’s a good—”
“All traits that sound enticing, but traits that bore most suitors.”
“You don’t like women who are sweet, charming, and good?”
His eyes held an intensity that made her stomach tighten. “There are other traits more to my liking.”
It was her own fault for asking, and Lucy wanted him gone. “Your sister possesses traits most men would covet—beyond the ones I mentioned. She is courageous, determined, and—”
“And broken.”
Lucy moved to the door. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Langdon, I prefer to eat my dinner alone.”
“Ignoring her handicap will not make it go away.”
“I do not ignore it; I look past it.” She put her hand on the doorknob.
“Do you want to know how she was injured?”
Actually . . . She let go of the knob. “Certainly. If you’d care to share.”
He walked toward her, his hands in the pockets of his evening trousers. “My sister is a klutz. When she was thirteen she slipped while running on the family yacht and landed badly on her hip. She has no grace at all. Never has.”
“She exudes grace with every breath,” Lucy said.
Hugh’s eyebrows rose. “Well, well. She certainly has you under her spell.”
“There’s no spell involved,” Lucy said, reaching for the knob again. Opening it. “I see the truth in her, and total loyalty. They are the essence of her character.”
He walked past her, through the door, stopping so his shoulder grazed her own. From there he looked down at her. She could feel his breath upon her cheek. “Speaking of truth . . . don’t believe everything you hear about me, Lucy.”
The trick would be believing enough.
Rowena dunked her spoon into the shrimp bisque but took to her mouth little more than a coating.
She wasn’t hungry, and worse than that, she didn’t want to be there.
At least it wasn’t a large dinner party, just a few of her parents’ friends, and none of her own age, so she didn’t have to pay that much attention to the banter. Which was a good thing considering her mood.
Which was . . . ?
She dunked the spoon a second time in the soup, lifted it out of its drowning, then dunked it again. Memories of the painting fiasco dogged her thoughts.
Fiasco?
It was far too strong a word. She’d had the notion to expose Lucy to art. It wasn’t Lucy’s fault she possessed a natural talent for painting. It served Rowena right for being condescending about it. See the rich girl enlightening the poor seamstress as to the finer things in life.
See the seamstress outshine the rich girl, which serves her right for being so patronizing.
Rowena fidgeted in her chair, gaining a look of warning from Mother. She gave up on the soup, setting her spoon down.
“Not hungry, my dear?” Mother asked.
“Not much.” She added, “But it’s delicious as usual.”
“Where is your Edward?” Mrs. Garmin asked.
My Edward? And actually, she wasn’t sure why Edward had sent his last-minute regrets. She hadn’t seen him all day and had looked forward to his company at dinner. But late afternoon, he’d sent a note giving his regrets and saying he would stop by the house tomorrow. And they were going to the musicale at a neighbor’s home the coming weekend . . .
A musicale. Another place where Rowena would be faced with talents she didn’t posse
ss.
Mrs. Wetmore set down her own spoon and audibly took a breath, her face beaming with obvious anticipation. “I have it on highest authority that Alice Vanderbilt is altering the format of her upcoming housewarming and coming-out party for her Gertrude, and turning it into a costume ball. Isn’t that marvelous?”
The look on Mother’s face showed otherwise. “And how are we to come up with costumes in two weeks?”
Mr. Wetmore leaned forward. “I would guess the short notice is so Alice will have the best costume, one that was designed and made months ago.”
There was a grumbling ascension among the men, and a mumbling resignation among the women. It was just like Alice to create a way for herself to be the queen of the ball. Two years ago she’d been costumed as “Electric Light” at her sister-in-law’s ball in New York.
“The Vanderbilts’ new home, the Breakers . . . not a piece of wood used in the construction,” Mr. Berwind said. He shook a finger to make a point. “They are not going to lose this house to fire like the last one.”
“I hear its very Old World,” Mr. Langdon said.
“Well, I think it’s ridiculous,” Mr. Havemeyer said. “I mean what style is it, anyway? Italianate or French or—?”
“Vanderbiltian,” Mr. Langdon said.
Amid the soft laughter, Mrs. Garmin set her spoon down with a clatter. “Well, ladies. What are we going to do about this? Alice has thrown down the gauntlet. We can’t let her costume overshadow our own.”
Mrs. Wetmore looked to her husband. “Are you certain we won’t be in town for this party?”
Her husband pressed a napkin to his mouth and cleared his throat. “I am certain.”
With Mrs. Wetmore out of the picture, Mrs. Garmin turned to the other women. “So? It’s up to us, ladies.”
Mother shook her head back and forth. “There simply isn’t time—as Alice well knows.”
“Actually . . . I’ve already got my seamstress on it,” Mrs. Berwind said.
“As have I,” Mrs. Havemeyer said.
Mr. Garmin turned to his wife. “We have the costumes from last year. Those will just have to do.”
Mrs. Garmin shook her head adamantly. “I will not be Cleopatra a second time.”
Like a bolt from heaven, Rowena had an answer. Lucy can make our costumes.
Yet before she let the idea take flight, her hurt pride grabbed hold of its legs, forbidding its freedom. To let Lucy’s talent shine yet again? How could she choose such a thing?
How could she not?
“Why not ask Lucy to design and create our costumes?”
“Lucy?” Mrs. Garmin began to smile. “Ah yes, Miss Scarpelli. I had the pleasure of her company on the trip here. She is quite delightful.”
Of course she is.
Rowena’s mother looked confused. “But how did you travel with Lucy? She was in third class.”
Mrs. Garmin huffed a laugh. “I can assure you, I was in first class. And so was she.”
Rowena wanted to melt into a puddle under the table, and could have from the heated intensity of her mother’s look. She might as well admit it now in front of her mother’s friends rather than risk a private reprimand latter. “I paid for Lucy’s first-class passage out of my allowance.”
Her father leaned back to let the footman take his soup away. “Your allowance is for your use, daughter, not the use of a . . . a . . .”
“Friend?”
Mrs. Garmin came to her rescue. “I think it’s wonderful. And isn’t it also propitious? For now Lucy is here, and she is available to help us look smashing at Alice’s party. Do you think she’ll do it?”
With a glance to her mother, Rowena answered, “If I ask her to. She’s very creative.”
“Then count me in,” Mrs. Garmin said.
Rowena’s envious side chided herself for creating yet another way for Lucy to showcase her talents, but the side of her that cherished Lucy as a friend shoved the envy aside and took charge.
Friends helped friends be their best.
Lucy enjoyed this time of day. The night had taken away the sun, leaving her with the lesser light of the gas lamps for her work—which wasn’t enough. And so she was free to do nothing—at least until Rowena came up from dinner and needed help with her nighttime toilette.
Lucy extinguished the false light in order to see outside. She turned her work chair toward the window, and drew it close enough that she could lean against the sill to look out upon the night. She was glad the dressing room was on the ocean side of the house so the darkness wasn’t spoiled by the gas lamps lining the drive or the grounds. The back yard glowed with the reflection of the light inside, but not to the extent that the moon relinquished its prominence.
She saw its light sparkle on the water, and could even distinguish the horizon line where ocean met sky.
Once again Lucy remembered her father’s lesson about the horizon and stood in her chair, watching its line rise with her. She sat again and found herself smiling.
Her father, Dante.
Her hero this afternoon, Dante.
Would she ever see him again? Rowena had told her to return to the Cliff Walk, just in case. . . .
It was not a question of whether she could pursue seeing him again, but should she? She was a visitor in Newport—for a very short time.
But so were most of the people here, residents for six or eight weeks, then gone again, returned to their other life. Their real life. This place was a fantasy, a regal fairyland of gilded halls and glorious balls. It was a city of pleasure and position, of show and splendor. It was as different from her life in New York as diamonds were to glass.
Her thoughts turned to Mamma and Sofia. The same moon that shone upon Lucy shone upon them. But would they—could they—see it amid the tall buildings of the city? And surely they were already asleep, worn out from the strenuousness of their workday, needing to rest so a similar day could begin tomorrow.
Were they safe from Bonwitter?
The draw of the night was interrupted by her fear, and she lit a lamp in order to write them a letter. She’d been selfish to let her thoughts get distracted from their troubles. How were they managing without her to guide and protect them?
Lucy got out paper and pen and used a book as a surface to write upon. Dearest Mamma and Sofia . . .
She was interrupted by the sound of Rowena returning. She set the letter aside and stood to greet her.
Rowena burst into the dressing room, her face alight. “Were your ears burning?”
Lucy had no idea what she was talking about. Ears burning?
Rowena laughed. “One of our dinner guests knows you.”
“Knows me?”
“Mrs. Garmin? She met you on the train?”
Lucy smiled. “She and her husband took care of me and helped me tremendously. She was here?”
“They both were.” Rowena turned her back toward Lucy so Lucy could start unbuttoning her dress. “And here is the good part. Mrs. Garmin wants you to make her a costume for Mrs. Vanderbilt’s costume ball.”
Lucy stopped her work and turned Rowena around. “She wants me to sew for her?”
Rowena beamed. “She saw my dress and Mother’s, and was so impressed with your work that—”
“But I didn’t do all the work. The other ladies at Madame Moreau’s did much of it, and—”
Rowena’s smile faded. “You can’t do it?”
“No, I can do it, but—”
“Because you also need to create a costume for Mother and me.”
Lucy’s thoughts fluttered with all that would be involved in three dresses. No, not merely dresses . . . “Costumes, you say? What kind of costumes?”
“The more elaborate the better. I would like to wear something from the Regency period, and Mother was thinking of a costume from Elizabethan times. And Mrs. Garmin mentioned wanting to be dressed as a very elaborate Hungarian gypsy.”
Lucy’s head shook back and forth, accepting and rejecting the
immensity of it all. “When is this ball?”
“In two weeks.”
“But I—”
Rowena took Lucy by the shoulders. “You’ll do it, won’t you? It will be such a triumph for you, Lucy. If others see your work and appreciate it, who knows what could happen?”
She couldn’t say no.
Sleep would not come easy tonight.
Chapter Fourteen
Rowena was up with the dawn, her mind racing with thoughts of the dinner party the night before. She’d offered Lucy’s creative talents toward making three costumes for Mrs. Vanderbilt’s costume party. Her own envy at Lucy’s gifts had nearly kept her from sharing the idea, but luckily, loyalty had won out over petty jealousy.
For now at least.
She opened the curtains wide and let the sunrise and the sea inspire her. The clouds were low in the sky as if the sea had birthed them, and as they rose higher, they lost their newborn pinkness and grew blue and then gray.
Rowena was reminded of a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and recited a verse. “ ‘Love me with thine azure eyes, made for earnest granting; taking colour from the skies, can Heaven’s truth be wanting?’ ”
The colors of dawn were her favorite colors in all God’s creation, which was why she often chose them for her clothing. Happily, with her light skin and hair, they suited her.
An idea for her costume came to mind. The Regency era of history was rife with the pastels of the sunrise. What if she portrayed a character from one of Jane Austen’s novels? Her favorite was Elizabeth Bennet from Pride and Prejudice. And Edward could go as the romantic hero, Mr. Darcy.
Rowena retrieved some stationery from her desk and held pen to paper.
You’re not a painter, and you’re certainly not a sketch artist.
She had an image in her mind but hesitated. What if she couldn’t get it down on paper? What if it looked like a silly cartoon?
“So what?” she said aloud. She wasn’t creating a piece of art but simply illustrating an idea. Lucy would take it from there.
Her doubts eased at the knowledge that she and Lucy were working together in this. Comrades. Partners.
And so, the ink flowed.
