An Unlikely Suitor

by Nancy Moser

  She entered and took a sharp left, which allowed her to remain out of sight from anyone walking down the hall. But within moments, her fear of discovery faded into the thrill of discovery. The volumes before her weren’t like her cheap dime novels, with flimsy covers and minimal pages. These were thick tomes, bound in leather, with gilt lettering and decorative detail on the spines.

  Some titles piqued no interest: Western Civilization, The Mechanics of Pulleys, and The Complete Works of Sophocles. But others . . .

  She chose one called Little Women, opened to the first page, and read:

  “Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.

  “It’s so dreadful to be poor,” sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.

  “I don’t think it’s fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all. . . .”

  Sofia was hooked and backed into a chair, where she read three pages. Only the sound of voices brought her out of the story and into the fact that she was sitting in the Langdons’ library, reading one of their books.

  She started to put it back on the shelf but desired the story enough that she simply moved the two books on either side of Little Women’s space toward the middle and tucked the novel into the folds of her skirt. She had to read this book, but she couldn’t do it here.

  Sofia paused at the doorway, listened, and finding the voices to be from farther up front in the house, slipped into the hallway, where she scurried toward the back stairs.

  But then . . .

  “Miss Scarpelli!”

  It was the butler’s voice, coming from the front end of the hall.

  She turned around, but the movement caused the heavy book to move out of its hiding place. She quickly put it behind her back.

  He strode toward her. “What do you have there?”

  She pulled the book around front and clutched it to her chest. “I was just going to my room to read.”

  He held out his hand. Now she was in trouble. There was no way she could ever claim this fine book as her own. She decided no explanation was better than a feeble one. She gave him the book.

  Timbrook read the title and harrumphed. “It sounds decadent.” Then he nodded toward the library. “And you stole it.”

  “I did no such thing. I simply borrowed it, to read.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You? Read?”

  It was beyond insulting. “Yes. I. Read. A very lot, if you must know.” More than you.

  He grabbed her upper arm and pulled her down the hall toward the front of the house. “You will make your excuses to the mistress. Let’s see what she wants to do with your pilfering.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “That won’t be necessary, Timbrook.”

  They both turned around to see Rowena’s brother standing near the doorway to the library. He motioned toward Sofia. “Come, Miss Scarpelli. Retrieve your book, and then come back to the library. There was another book I wanted to show you that you might enjoy.”

  Back to the library? Had he been in there the entire time?

  In taking the book from the butler, Sofia could feel the nettles flow off Mr. Timbrook into the air between them.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Hugh,” Timbrook said. “I didn’t know she was in the library with your blessing.”

  Hugh motioned for Sofia to join him—which she was very willing to do. “And in my company. Someone has to read all these books,” he said. “And it’s certainly not me.” Once Sofia was safely in the library, Hugh added, “Thank you for your diligence, Timbrook. That will be all.”

  Sofia took a position on the far side of the room. Hugh came inside and closed the sliding doors behind him. She sensed Hugh was wild and was used to getting his own way. She would rather deal with Mr. Timbrook and Mrs. Langdon than be in here alone with him.

  “Well, now,” he said with a grin.

  She held the book against her chest. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  He strolled into the room, tracing a hand over the top of the chairs. “Assistance? I think it was far more than that, Sofia. I saved your hide.”

  She didn’t like his attitude. “I didn’t need saving. I wasn’t stealing the book; I was merely borrowing—”

  “Same thing.”

  “No it’s not. As you stated, someone has to read these books.”

  “Touché.”

  “What?”

  He went to the shelves and pulled out a book. “Here. Read this one.”

  She read the title. “The Three Musketeers?”

  He put one arm curved behind his head and thrust his other out toward her. “En garde! Touché! All for one, and one for all!”

  She still didn’t know what he was talking about.

  He put his arms down. “Read the book. It’s all about honor and valor and love.”

  It sounded like her kind of story. But beyond that, she’d caught him in a lie.

  “You’ve read the books in here.”

  He put a finger to his lips. “It’s best people don’t know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then they’d expect something of me.”

  “But don’t you want people to expect—?”

  He swept his arm toward a couch. “Please. Sit.”

  Sofia sat and Hugh fell upon a chair nearby, slumping into its cushions, his hands taking the armrests captive.

  There was an awkward moment when they simply looked at each other. Ordinarily, Sofia would have been the first to look away. But this time, she felt oddly emboldened and stared back, eye to eye.

  And, oh, such handsome eyes . . .

  Finally, he waved a hand and said, “You win, you win!” He shook his head. “I thought you were supposed to be the meek little sister.”

  She felt her ire rise. “Who said that? Did Lucy—?”

  Hugh raised his hands in the air. “Don’t fire! I surrender.”

  Sofia felt foolish for overreacting, yet she hated that Lucy had portrayed her as . . . as . . .

  What she was.

  “What happened?” Hugh asked. “I didn’t mean to quench your fire.”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “I don’t like living in my sister’s shadow either.”

  His candidness surprised—and pleased her. “You feel you’re in Rowena’s shadow?” she asked.

  He pulled a footrest close with a toe, then crossed his ankles upon it. “Completely enveloped.”

  “But you’re the heir.”

  “But she’s the martyr.”

  Sofia remembered hearing the story of Rowena’s accident, and how she’d hurt herself saving Hugh. If he didn’t say more, she wouldn’t bring it up.

  “Did you know I caused her injury?”

  She was surprised he’d continued with the subject. “How did you do that?”

  “I was being reckless on the boat and nearly slipped overboard. Rowena saved me. She’s a hero, she’s my messiah, and I’m scum on the bottom of a boat.” He shook his head, as if removing himself from a bad memory. “Yes indeed, she’s the good child, the virtuous child, the loyal and obedient child.”

  “And you’re . . . ?”

  “Not.”

  Sofia empathized with him. “Add capable, trustworthy, and dependable, and you have my sister.”

  “And you’re . . . ?”

  She smiled. “Not.”

  He pushed the footstool away and stood. “Would you like to go for a sail?”

  “A what?”

  “Would you like to go sailing with me in my sailboat?”

  Sofia remembered seeing the boats sailing in the harbor. . . . “I’d love to.”

  “Take your books upstairs and grab a hat. I’ll wait for you outside.”

  Her mind raced with a hundred reasons why she shouldn’t go, but she knew she would be dissuaded by none of them. He opened the library doors, then looked back to her. “Are you coming?”

  Oh yes.

  Sofia was impr
essed. Down at the harbor Hugh seemed to know everyone, from the scraggly fishermen to his fellow yachtsmen. Gone was his cockiness. Evident was his love of all things seaworthy and of the sea. He stopped at a cart and bought sandwiches, apples, and a glass flask of beverage. Then he took her hand and led her to a short pier between two sailboats. The boats were much larger in person than they’d seemed from the steamship.

  He helped her aboard. “Here now. Watch your step.”

  The boat rocked precariously and she nearly panicked.

  “Sit,” he said. “And relax. You’re safe with me.”

  She believed him. The way he untied the ropes that held them to shore, pushed them free, then hoisted the sails . . .

  “You’re as adept with the boat as I am with a needle,” she said.

  “That’s right. You’re a seamstress. Perhaps I’ll commandeer you to mend any rips in the sails.”

  She would like nothing better.

  Apparently he was waiting for a response. “As the mate you’re supposed to salute and answer, ‘Aye aye, Captain.’ ”

  She complied, feeling a bit silly but enjoying the feeling. When was the last time she’d allowed herself to be silly?

  Hugh turned the sails to capture the wind and the boat headed out into the bay. The wind whipped against Sofia’s face, forcing her to put a hand to her straw hat.

  Hugh called out from the back of the boat. “How do you like it?”

  When she turned around to answer, the wind caught her hat and pulled it away from her head. She saved it from the water and placed it safely under her seat. Her hair pulled free from its knot and she turned toward the wind again, giving it full rein.

  Hugh’s laughter gave her permission to lift her face to the current, close her eyes, and raise her arms in the air. “I’m flying!” she yelled.

  I’m free.

  The boat was anchored in a quiet cove, the sail down. It rocked gently. Sofia surrendered to its soothing rhythm and took a bite of her apple. “My father worked on the docks,” she said.

  Hugh unwrapped the paper from his sandwich. “He was a fisherman?”

  She shook her head. “He handled the goods coming off the ships. The docks killed him.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m guessing the docks didn’t kill him, the work did. But, oh, what a way to go.”

  His comment surprised her. “Surely you don’t relish hard work.”

  He smiled and lifted an arm, making a muscle. “Au contraire, mademoiselle. I am a man of muscle, not mind.”

  She couldn’t imagine any wealthy man working up a sweat.

  “What? You don’t believe me?”

  “It’s just that . . . what about your father’s business? Doesn’t that involve office work?”

  He put a finger to his nose to indicate the rightness of her statement. “Which is why I’m completely supportive of Edward marrying my sister. With Edward at the helm, perhaps I will be allowed to . . .” His voice faded, as did the sparkle in his eyes. “Hold on. A wave . . .”

  Sofia braced herself for the rocking caused by the movement of other boats in the main channel. Then she asked, “So what would you like to do for a living? If you had your choice?”

  He shrugged, but she could tell there was an answer to her question available; he simply didn’t choose to share it with her. Which made her sad.

  “How about you, Sofia? If you could do anything, be anything, what would that be?”

  No one had ever asked her that. It had always been assumed she would be what she had always been—a seamstress.

  When she didn’t answer he asked, “Do you enjoy sewing?”

  It was her turn to shrug. “It’s something I can do.”

  “Have . . .” He faltered, then tried again. “Have you ever wondered why you’re here?”

  “In Newport?”

  “Here.”

  “Why do I exist?” It was such a serious question.

  “Exactly.”

  She thought a moment, then said. “It frightens me. Most of the time I feel very small and useless. Back home there are so many people around, all the time, all hurrying about doing something, that I can’t imagine God has much use for me. I’m hidden away from His sight. I’m not even important in my own family.”

  “You’re important to me.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “I’m not actually. And to answer my own question, I’ve thought about it a lot. Surely I’m supposed to do more than work in an office. We only have one life, so shouldn’t it mean something? Shouldn’t the world be better for us living? But how do I affect the world by making elevators? What does that really matter?”

  Sofia let the boat tip her gently left, then right, and with the movement an answer came to her. “Perhaps your worth—our worth—isn’t measured by what we do to make a living, but in . . . living?” Sofia felt silly saying something so serious. It wasn’t like her.

  But Hugh applauded. “Bravo, matey. Well said. So to my original question I ask another. How do you want to accomplish that living?”

  Sofia’s thoughts flitted through her wishes and desires. Oddly there weren’t that many to choose from. Which made her say, “I’m willing to do whatever comes my way. I’d like some adventure. And a husband who thinks I light up his world. I want children and a—” She realized how personal her answer had become and felt herself blush.

  “Your answer is my answer,” Hugh said softly.

  She stole a look at him and found his eyes fully locked upon her. For the second time that day she held his gaze. “Simpatico,” she whispered.

  He nodded once. “Soul mate.”

  She looked away—reluctantly.

  È perfetto.

  Dante was there, standing at the corner. Lucy had second thoughts—until he looked toward her. And smiled.

  And life was good again. Very good.

  Dante extended his hands to her, and when they met, he pulled Lucy close to kiss her cheek. “Finally, we meet again!”

  She stepped back, relinquishing his touch. She would not be so easily appeased. “Actually, I saw you this morning.”

  He looked away for but a moment, but in that moment, she could see his discomfort. “I was with my parents.”

  “So I noticed.”

  He attempted a smile. “You were with your mother and sister?”

  “And the rest of the servants.”

  Dante nodded once, then retrieved a basket at his feet. “I have brought refreshments.”

  He wasn’t going to escape so easily. “Your family is rich.”

  He set the basket down. “It’s not a character flaw.”

  “It is a surprise,” she said. “Never, during any of our conversations, did you imply you were one of the . . . the . . .” She didn’t know how to say it.

  “I never said I wasn’t.”

  Lucy stomped a foot and walked away from him, taking refuge along a hedge.

  He nodded to another couple who walked by, then joined her. “What does it matter?” He tried to take her hand, but she kept it by her side. “I have never felt such a tie to a woman as I feel with you—as I felt with you from the first moment we met. I love hearing about your family and your roots.”

  “But I’m poor.”

  He stepped back and placed his hands at his sides, palms out, presenting himself. “And I’m here. Of my own free will. Because I want to be.”

  “That’s what Rowena said.”

  His arms fell to their normal position. “Rowena?”

  “Rowena Langdon. The woman I’m sewing costumes for.” He had an odd look on his face. “You know them. Of course you know them,” she said.

  He reached for the basket. “Of course. You mention costumes . . . for the Vanderbilts’ ball?”

  With a start, Lucy realized he might be going to the ball, that he was probably invited. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged, but she knew his true answer. “Will you be going?” he asked.

&n
bsp; A laugh escaped.

  “Enough of that,” he said. “I told you I had an excursion planned and I will not disappoint.” He bent his elbow, offering her his arm. “Shall we?”

  Her objections to his social standing fell away. If he didn’t care, why should she?

  Lucy raised her chin, closed her eyes, and let the wind from the trolley ride caress her face.

  “You’re an outdoor girl, aren’t you?” Dante asked.

  She opened her eyes. “I don’t think so.”

  He shook his head. “You are. I saw you on the Cliff Walk, and now, relishing the breeze. Most women would be worried about their hair, but not you.”

  Was her hair out of place? She checked and tucked a multitude of stray strands behind her ears and into her hat as best she could.

  He pushed her hand down. “Don’t. Leave it. I like the windswept look.”

  She left her hair alone. “Do you always say the right things?”

  “Maybe you simply make everything I say right.”

  Lucy laughed. He was amazing. Unlike so many men she knew who were argumentative, Dante had the ability—nay, the talent—to dispel conflict and make things good and easy. In this way he was superior to the other Dante, her father, who’d had a boisterous temper.

  The other Dante?

  Suddenly, Lucy remembered that Dante wasn’t his real name. “Since we seem to be clearing the air today—”

  “Amid the clear air.”

  “Amid the clear air . . . what is your real name? Bartholomew . . . ?”

  His face turned serious. “My name is Dante.”

  “No, it’s not. I gave you that name when—”

  He shook his head adamantly. “Please, Lucy. I love the name because you gave it to me, because it has meaning for you, because it was your father’s name. It has a far deeper meaning than my own name. So please. Continue to call me Dante.”

  He seemed so sincere, so concerned. What would it hurt?

  “Fine,” she said. “I proclaimed you Dante before, and Dante you shall remain.”

  His face brightened once again, and he pointed out the window. “We are almost there.”

  “Where is there?”

  “Easton’s Beach.”

  Unlike many of the others at the beach who wore full outfits for swimming, Lucy stood with her skirt raised to her calf, her feet bare. Dante stood next to her, his trousers safe, his feet firmly planted in the sand.