An Unlikely Suitor

by Nancy Moser

  And yet . . . she felt a wistful tug knowing that she would never run into her lover’s arms. At best she’d limp, clod, and stagger.

  She closed her eyes and tried to imagine meeting Edward and throwing her arms around his neck. How would it feel to have him pull her close, to actually feel his heart beating next to hers?

  There was a knock on the door and Sadie entered, carrying a bouquet of flowers. “For you, Miss Langdon. Just delivered.”

  Rowena’s spirits immediately rose. She brought the white flowers to her nose and was met with a biting, sweet smell, not completely pleasant.

  “There’s a note, miss.”

  Yes, of course. Forgive me for missing dinner with you. Yours truly, Edward.

  A smile came without effort.

  “Would you like me to put them in some water, miss?”

  “Of course.”

  Reluctantly, Rowena relinquished the bouquet to Sadie. Then she sat on the bench at the foot of her bed and read the note again. Oddly, the words seemed capable of issuing two meanings. The culprit was the “missing dinner” line. Was Edward missing having dinner with her? Or was he simply talking about being absent from their house for dinner? One was certainly more romantic than the other.

  And the flowers he’d chosen . . .

  She remembered a small book her mother had given her on her sixteenth birthday and retrieved it from a shelf. The Language of Flowers. She’d only had cause to use it one other time when she’d received a tussie-mussie of dandelions from a distant cousin. The book had said those flowers indicated coquetry, but Rowena, knowing her cousin, had determined they simply meant he was cheap and had pulled a bouquet from a neighbor’s lawn.

  Edward’s arrangement contained two types of plants: daisies and ferns. She found reference to the fern first. “ ‘Sincerity,’ ” she read. She nodded once, accepting that meaning with pleasure. Now to daisies . . .

  She saw its meaning. “Innocence?”

  It was nice, but hardly romantic. She thought of Lucy, off on her secret rendezvous with Dante. . . . That was hardly innocent.

  She knew Edward’s choice was a compliment, but she also wanted him to think of her in more . . . more assertive ways.

  Innocent?

  She checked the book again and scanned some of the floral meanings. Red roses were still the most meaningful with their message of passionate love. But even asters would have spoken of love. Or red chrysanthemums.

  She paged through and found some flowers with symbolisms she hoped never to receive: houseleeks meant “domestic economy” and red clover indicated “industry.” Innocence and sincerity were better than those. And a black rose? That was too far in the other direction, meaning “obsession.” Rowena never wanted Edward to be obsessed with her, just deeply, sincerely in love with her.

  Sincerely. Sincerity. The ferns . . .

  Sadie knocked, brought the bouquet into the room, and set it on the table by a chair. “They’re very pretty, miss.”

  With a snap, Rowena shut the book on flowers. “Yes, they are.”

  Lucy burst onto the Cliff Walk and turned right, nearly colliding with a couple taking a stroll.

  “Pardon me,” she said.

  They gave her odd looks and went on their way.

  Please help him be there. Please help him be—

  Lucy mentally pulled up short. Was she praying? About a man? It was ridiculous. God couldn’t be bothered by such a silly notion.

  She passed the place where she’d lost her footing, hugging the land side of the path. And then . . .

  She saw him. Her heart skipped a beat.

  He was facing the sea, his hands behind his back. His chin was held high as if meeting the view and the breeze head-on.

  She slowed her pace and quickly stroked stray hairs behind her ears.

  He heard her coming and turned. And smiled. And with that smile, she felt an unfamiliar tug inside. Had anyone ever smiled in such a way at seeing her? Had she ever felt so excited about seeing anyone?

  “Good afternoon, Miss Lucy. I was beginning to fear the worst.”

  “The worst?”

  “That you’d found me a bore during our previous meeting and had shunned me, leaving me to a lonely humiliation.”

  “No, and no,” she said. “You’re the most interesting man I’ve ever met, and if I would have missed our meeting, I assure you it would not be a rejection, but because of some extenuating circumstance.” She took a deep breath and suddenly feared she’d said too much. “Forgive me if I sound too forward. Since I was running late I’m not giving my mind time to think before I speak.”

  He laughed. “I’m glad for the condition, because your words ease my mind—and my ego. Now that we’re both here, would you care to walk?”

  She could think of nothing better.

  They strolled to the south, following the path along the ocean. To their right were the homes of the very rich.

  “There, that house with all the chimneys? It’s called Ochre Point Mansion.”

  “It’s interesting,” Lucy said. “It juts out, falls back, and the many different roofs . . .”

  “It’s built in the ‘Shingle’ style. See all the different types of shingles on the walls and roofs?”

  He took her along the Cliff Walk to the next house. “This one is Ochre Court. The style is French Gothic, with Renaissance elements in limestone.”

  Lucy nodded, having no idea what that meant.

  A few minutes later, they stopped in front of a sprawling red house. “There, that’s Vinland. Miss Catherine Wolfe lives there. I heard she was a large contributor toward the building of Grace Church in New York. I love the red brick, and the Romanesque Revival style.”

  Now she was really lost.

  He seemed to sense this, and changed his description to something more interesting. “It’s named for the spot where the Norsemen first landed, centuries ago. Miss Wolfe was also inspired by Longfellow’s story ‘The Skeleton in Armor’ about a Viking who built a tower to honor his love. I’ve heard there are many friezes and murals inside that depict Norse legends.”

  Friezes? Norse? Lucy didn’t want to admit her ignorance. “You seem to know a lot about architecture. Is that your vocation?”

  “If only . . .”

  By this admission she felt a connection. “I understand the desire for an education beyond one’s means. I would have loved to go to school.”

  “You never—?”

  She shook her head. “My parents taught me how to read and write, and my mother added what little bit of arithmetic I needed for sewing. But beyond that I know little of the world, history, or literature.”

  “But you’d like to know more.”

  His statement surprised her. “Of course. Who wouldn’t?”

  “From my experience, too many are content with knowing too little. They find learning a burden.”

  “I don’t understand such thinking. If I had the means and the—” Lucy suddenly realized she’d led the conversation down a path that revealed her poverty. Not that she wanted to pass herself off as a lady of means—oh, that she could—but she’d hoped to keep the details of her family background to herself. She wasn’t ashamed, and yet . . .

  “If you had the means and the . . . ?” Dante asked.

  “I . . . I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me.”

  “What can be wrong about a woman who longs to learn? I find the trait admirable.”

  “I’m glad. I simply don’t want you to think that just because my family is—” There she went again, telling too much. Maybe one of her father’s truisms would save her. “In regard to schooling, my father used to say, La pratica vale più della grammatica.”

  “Which means?”

  “Experience is the best teacher.”

  “I agree.” He paused and looked at her. “Was that Italian?”

  Lucy hesitated. Did he share the common prejudice against her roots? “Yes.”

  “So you’re Ital
ian?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suspected as much. Your coloring is lovely, and your eyes . . .” He looked away, embarrassed. “What’s your family name?”

  How she wished it were something Americanized like Smith.

  He stopped walking and faced her. “Lucy. Please. I feel you weighing every answer as if trying to decipher what I want to hear. I want to hear the truth about you. And knowing you, even as little as I do, I know the truth will be sufficient. The truth will be more than enough, a pleasure.”

  Lucy studied his face. His eyes were a gray-blue with yellow flecks, and his brow was pulled into an interesting furrow, evidence of his sincerity. Could she fully tell him the truth? Although he was dressed nicely, his apparel was not flamboyant or showy in any way. She guessed him to be a tradesman of some sort. And she? She too was a tradeswoman. A seamstress. What did her roots matter, anyway? Wasn’t becoming an American an act of moving forward rather than back? An act of achieving a dream?

  “I . . . my name is Lucia Francesca Scarpelli.”

  “Lucia.”

  “Lucy.”

  He shook his head. “Not Lucy. Lucia is lyrical.”

  Lyrical?

  “Are you from Newport?” he asked.

  “Oh no,” Lucy said. “I’m a seamstress.” She decided not to mention Madame Moreau’s. “I’m here temporarily, sewing some garments for a few of the ladies.”

  “You must be very talented. From what I’ve seen, the ladies of Newport are quite demanding, and the fashion ornate.”

  “As ornate as the architecture,” she said.

  He smiled. “I’m afraid we live in a time of conspicuousness. The Gilded Age, you know.”

  She shook her head. She didn’t know.

  “Haven’t you heard it called that? Mark Twain coined the phrase a couple of decades ago. He made fun of the rich and how everything was gilded. They seem to have an insane need to outdo each other—or at least to not be outdone.”

  Lucy nodded toward the houses they’d just passed. “Summer cottages they call them. Who’s fooling whom?”

  His voice turned thoughtful. “It’s sad.”

  “Sad?”

  “For the most part, the people of society weren’t born to it, they earned it.”

  “That’s a good thing, no?”

  “It’s a very good thing. I don’t begrudge anyone money if they’ve worked hard to get it.”

  She sensed he wasn’t finished. “But?”

  “But . . . instead of being content with their achievements, they seem to be in a constant state of trying to prove they are as good as the wealthy people in Europe. They strip entire rooms from estates overseas and reconstruct them here. They copy their architecture to match some castle or palace. They create a set of rules to rival any restrictions of old society as if to say, ‘See how we thrive with even more boundaries and limitations than you have endured?’ ”He shook his head mournfully. “We fought for freedom only to create our own prison of conformity. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Lucy was moved by his passion—and agreed with it. “So what kind of society would you create if it were in your control?”

  He smiled, but his eyes were still serious. “I would build houses with rooms meant to be lived in, not walked through to admire. I would set people free to be friends with whomever they chose. I’d help people achieve their dreams without caring if they fit into a formula set for them by others, and—” Dante looked at her and blinked, as if all he’d said had never been shared before. He hooked a finger in the collar of his shirt. “And I’d ban stiff collars for men and corsets for women, and declare it quite appropriate to only dress once for the entire day.”

  “You wish to put me out of business? For I thrive on women changing six times.”

  “Freedom demands sacrifices, Miss Scarpelli.”

  She loved how he shared his thoughts with her, and how those thoughts made her think more deeply than she was used to. In fact, she couldn’t remember ever having such a meaningful discussion with a man.

  A large wave broke on the rocks below them, sending spray upon the path. Lucy felt the reality of time passing. She needed to get back to the Langdons’. “I’m afraid I must go.”

  “Back to the sweatshop?”

  She knew he meant it as a joke, but . . . what would he think of her if he knew that’s the very place she’d worked for most of her life? “As you said, the ladies are very demanding.”

  “I can’t come here tomorrow, but will you meet me the day after?”

  Gladly. But facts overshadowed her wishes. “I’m afraid not.” Her mother and sister were coming that day, and with their arrival there would be more work and less time to stroll along the Cliff Walk. “I’m not sure when I’ll have time to myself again. Once I finish one project, they seem to find something else and—”

  “Sunday, then. They’ll have to let you go to church on Sunday and give you the afternoon free.”

  Would they? Lucy wasn’t so sure.

  Dante knelt beside a stone wall. He began digging around one stone in particular.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m making a secret place for us to leave each other notes. If we can’t coordinate our meetings, at least we can continue our conversations.” He pulled the stone free and brushed out a place inside. “There. Whenever you can, leave me a note and I will do the same.” He replaced the stone and stood, taking her hands in his. “I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know that just as you find me interesting, I find your company enchanting. I enjoy knowing you, Lucia Francesca Scarpelli, and I want to know you better.”

  She was moved by his words, but recognized that during this meeting she’d done most of the talking. “You learned about me today, but I didn’t let you tell me about your life. I know so little about you.”

  “Which provides more incentive for you to continue our correspondence via the stone in the wall.”

  Lucy nodded. She could think of nothing that would give her more pleasure.

  Lucy signed her name to the note: Lucia. There. She’d done it. She’d written a note to Dante.

  She scanned the words, letting her eyes fall upon a few phrases: I am pleased . . . you ignite my thoughts . . . hope that we . . .

  It was ridiculous. Who was she to say such things to a man? Any man, much less one she’d only talked to twice. A man who was far different from any man she’d ever met. Although she didn’t know his last name, she could be assured by his sandy hair and blue eyes that it did not end in a vowel. He was not a Romano, Lombardi, or Marino. She had not had much contact with men of different ethnic backgrounds, but would guess that Dante’s family had been in America far longer than her own. He had no accent to give his roots away.

  In Lucy’s world, Italians married Italians. Jews married Jews. Irish married Irish. A poor immigrant girl did not marry a businessman from any—

  Marry? Marriage? Lucy lifted the note and began to tear it in two. But with just a rip started, she stopped herself. She needed time to think about this.

  She folded the note into fourths and set it on the table. Then she put out the lamp and got into bed.

  The moonlight stretched across the room, up the table, and over the edge of the page.

  Lucy turned her face to the wall.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They’re going to work and sleep in here?” Lucy asked.

  Haverty, the coachman who’d originally picked her up at the dock, shoved a cot into the corner of the outbuilding. He stood and arched his back before giving her a scathing look. “You want your family to get special treatment like you? Who do you think you are? The Astors?”

  “No, of course not, but since my room is in the main house, I’d hoped—”

  “Hope all you want, Lucy; this is where the Langdons want them to be. And considering all the work me and the others had to do to clean out this space so you three can have a sewing room . . . it wouldn’t hurt you to be a little g
rateful.”

  She was grateful—to some extent. And yet she still wondered why they couldn’t find some larger room in the main house to set up their work space. To be ostracized out here, in this room attached to the groundskeeper’s house, was far from handy.

  Haverty set a couple straight-back chairs up to the table they’d use for cutting. “I’m waiting.”

  It wasn’t his fault. And he had done his best making it workable. “Thank you, Haverty. I do appreciate the help. I’m just worried what my little sister will say.”

  “She won’t take kindly to you being in the big house and her being out here?”

  “Uh . . . no. Sofia is a princess at heart.”

  He nodded toward the two cots. “She won’t feel much like a princess after sleeping on that thing.” He moved to leave, then stopped. “How old is she, anyway? And is she pretty?”

  Lucy pushed Haverty out the door, but his questions raised a warning flag. Sofia was fifteen but looked older. And she was pretty. Back in New York, Lucy had felt fairly safe because their apartment was right above their workplace. There was little chance for Sofia to wander or be faced with the usual temptations of youth. But here, isolated in this building that was close to the stables and the men who worked there and close to Hugh in the house . . . Mamma would have to keep a close eye on her youngest daughter.

  Lucy took inventory of the room. Her mother and sister would have to share a bath with the groundskeeper, Mr. Oswald, and his wife, and would take their meals with the middle-aged couple. The furniture in the room was sparse and merely functional. Two cots, three chairs, and a large table. At the far end sat a treadle sewing machine the Langdons had borrowed from some neighbor. Mamma was bringing sewing supplies and fabrics—hastily ordered from Madame Moreau’s supplier. There would be no room for error regarding the cutting, and no time—

  Time. Lucy only had a few hours before Haverty would go to the station to pick up her family. She could either rush back to her room and work on one of Mrs. Langdon’s dresses or . . .