by Nancy Moser
She heard him approach and felt the air change behind her. When next he spoke she felt his breath upon her hair. “I didn’t want to be Edward DeWitt—Bartholomew Edward DeWitt. Like Romeo I wanted to rid myself of the name that came between us. Once I met you, I fell in love with you, and from that moment all I wanted to be was Dante—your Dante.”
Lucy turned and looked into his eyes. She wanted to pull her gaze away, but his eyes were so sincere, so deep. Within those eyes she saw a reflection of herself, and from the emotions that were welling up within her, she wondered if he saw the same within hers.
He took her hands. “Lucia, I regret the hurt I’ve caused you and Rowena, but I do not regret one moment we’ve had together. And I believe, with all my heart, that God brought me to the Cliff Walk that day, and He arranged our meeting because He desired it. I am meant for you and you are meant for me.”
He got down on one knee. “I ask now what I asked before. Lucia, my love, will you marry me?”
She drew him to his feet, and his face was pained with her supposed indecision. But then she put a finger beneath his chin, stood upon her toes, and gave her answer through a gentle kiss.
Yes, oh yes.
Epilogue
Sofia checked the mailbox and raced up the stairs of their apartment to read the latest letter from Hugh.
Mamma trudged up behind her. “Another one? I’m surprised the man has time to eat with all the letters he sends you.”
Sofia took no offense at Mamma’s words. Hugh’s letters had won Mamma over. Sofia often read passages to her, and loved the way her mother’s face softened, and her head nodded with appreciation.
And acceptance.
For Hugh had proven himself to be wise in his actions. After Sofia and her family returned to New York, he’d shared with Sofia an idea to talk to his parents about his passion: the sea and Sofia Scarpelli—in that order.
Sofia didn’t mind receiving second billing, for Mamma was right. They were both young. Even she was not impulsive enough to declare her love or seriously talk of marriage. There were things to work through first.
Once in the apartment, Sofia went into the bedroom she now shared with Mamma and closed the door. It was silly to close it, for there was nothing for Mamma to overhear. Yet this was her habit, to lock herself in a room to better hear Hugh’s voice within his words upon the page. Somehow, fully alone, she was not alone. For he was with her in spirit.
My dearest Sofia, my lovely matey:
The best of news! Because of you I’ve gained the courage I needed to talk to my parents about my future. I am not meant to work in an office but rather should work upon the sea. I want to use my arms and my back, not succeed upon the arms and back of my father’s efforts.
At first Father disparaged my words, but at your suggestion, I came prepared and told him of my plan to start a fishing business. If he would but loan me the money, I would buy a few boats, hire some crews, and earn a good living. He was impressed with my plan to pay him back, and has agreed on one boat—for now.
I am ecstatic beyond words! I never thought this was possible. And but for you, matey, I would never have found the courage to try.
How is your work? Do you enjoy having the extra responsibility of ordering supplies?
I am proud of you—proud of both of us. And before too long, I hope we can be together as true partners, man and wife.
Do you truly think your sewing skills could be used to mend sails and nets?
Send your mother my love.
Yours always,
Captain Hugh
There was a tap on the door. “Sofia? Is Hugh well? What does he say?”
Sofia gathered the letter and opened the door. “Let me read it to you. . . .”
“But I can’t do it, Morrie.”
He stroked the horse’s mane and looked down at her with disdain. “You know I hate those words, Ro. You promised once we were married they would never cross your lips again.”
She had promised, and she’d meant it. For she’d uttered the words I can’t do it too many times in the days, weeks, and months after the Vanderbilt ball—the night that had changed everything.
Her parents had been understandably upset by the happenings of that night. Although they’d not witnessed the dramatic exit of Edward, Rowena, and Lucy, the titterings of those who had seen skittered through the crowd of costumed guests, to their ears.
But Rowena’s parents had done their best to pooh-pooh the gravity of it all, and had laughed it off and stayed to enjoy the ball. And then Hugh had seen the Langdon servant bringing a note. . . .
Needless to say, when her parents had finally left the ball and returned home, they were not pleased that a despicable crime had been committed close by, the police had been in their house, and the victim was lodged in one of their guest rooms.
Never mind that Edward DeWitt, the man who was supposed to become engaged to their daughter, was sitting in their drawing room holding hands with the victim’s sister, or that their son was holding vigil at the victim’s bedside. The worst was finding out their daughter was down at the stables, in a coachman’s quarters.
Timbrook had been the one to find Rowena and Morrie together. Not that they were doing anything unseemly. They were sharing some coffee and cake with Mrs. Oswald, who’d been kind enough to bring it over.
After being summoned by her parents, Rowena uttered the awful “I can’t do it” for the first time, to which Morrie assured her she could for the first time, and for the first time he took a position by her side in full support.
The looks on her parents’ faces were in stark contrast to the frivolity of their costumes, and Rowena had experienced the odd sensation of being brought before the emperor and queen. She wouldn’t have been surprised to be sent to the Tower or fed to the lions in the Colosseum.
Morrie had been wonderful that night, spurring her with encouraging words to explain that Edward loved another, and by the way, so did she. And that other was not a man of society but a humble coachman she’d known her entire life.
Her parents were not amused.
Rowena couldn’t blame them. Their lofty plan of marrying their tainted daughter to the son of a business partner was crushed. The brunt of the blame fell on the DeWitt shoulders, but there was plenty left to pour across the Langdon name. And when Edward informed his parents he was marrying Lucia Scarpelli and there was nothing they could do to stop him, they’d kept their pride intact by disinheriting him in the way of so many scorned parents of society.
That he didn’t care offended them greatly.
A month later, when Hugh had sprung a surprise upon his parents, that he had feelings for Sofia Scarpelli, a sixteen-year-old Italian seamstress, and then offered them a second surprise soon after, that he didn’t want to work in the family business but wanted to be a fisherman, Rowena had thought her parents would die in a communal fit of apoplexy.
That the elder Langdons had been able to pull Hugh off from the edge into some semblance of wait-and-see had been a blessing for Rowena’s cause.
Which was?
To be allowed her freedom. In a burst of eloquence, Rowena had talked frankly with her parents. She did not have a long line of suitors waiting in the wings, nor would new ones likely be added because of the scandal. So why not let her marry Morrie Haverty, a good man who’d been a loyal servant for decades.
And it wasn’t as if Morrie didn’t have ambition. He’d been saving his money to buy a small horse farm in upstate New York. Surely her parents knew how much Rowena loved horses. . . .
And so, with there being no other suitable future for their daughter, her parents had said yes—or at least quietly surrendered.
She and Morrie had been married in a small ceremony with Joe the stableboy and Lucy as witnesses, attended by Hugh, Edward, Sofia and Lea Scarpelli, Mr. and Mrs. Oswald—and the Langdons. Whether Mrs. Langdon’s tears were caused by sadness or joy was left to interpretation.
Rowena surprised h
erself by not shedding any tears at all. She felt bad for her parents but had no regrets about choosing to marry for love. That she and Morrie would struggle to make ends meet, that their little farmhouse would struggle to give them enough hot water to take a bath, were facts Rowena accepted with little worry and much tolerance. She’d expected to miss her lovely clothes and lush house, but as Morrie fortified her with statements that “God will provide” and “God tells us to be strong and do the work,” she embraced the challenges of her new home, and found she awakened each morning with anticipation for the day ahead.
The reason for that was this: for once in her life, she had a purpose, a reason to get up each day that went beyond the social requirements of being a lady. On the farm—which she and Morrie had named Morwena—the two of them delighted in working side by side in the autumn air, and spending their evenings by the fireside, talking of the future, and wallowing in the blessing of their marriage.
“Ro?” Morrie broke through her reverie. “Bessie here is getting antsy, and so am I. If you’re going to be able to help with the horses, you need to ride them fully—astride.”
He was right, of course.
She yanked at the pair of Morrie’s trousers she’d put on that morning, which were cinched in with a rope and folded many times over the top to take up the length. Without the camouflage of petticoats and skirts she knew she looked like a sorry ragamuffin, an urchin on the street begging for pennies. To add to her ensemble, her blouse was her own—sans corset. The corset had been relinquished early on after she’d found it impossible to bend over to carry a bucket or brush the horses under the constraints of its prison.
She thought about balking at how ridiculous she looked today, but knew there was no one to see but Morrie, and he’d already assured her she was always beautiful—even after she’d fallen in the corral after a rain and had emerged a muddy mess. And oddly, she believed him. To him she was beautiful and so . . .
She was.
Rowena took a deep breath and faced the horse that used to be her friend. “All right. Help me up.”
Morrie helped get her strong foot in the stirrup, then virtually lifted her onto the saddle. Her bad leg found its place on the other side, and Morrie went around and adjusted the stirrup to a shorter length. He handed her the reins. “Press your thighs against her,” he said. “Do you feel her muscles?”
Rowena did and was encouraged by the melding of her muscles to Bessie’s.
“Now, then, you and Bessie can be one, just like it was when you were little.” He checked to make sure she held the reins securely. “Are you ready, Ro?”
Yes. No. She felt Bessie tense, ready to run.
“Ro, you can do this.”
She nodded. “I can do this.”
“Then do it!” He slapped Bessie’s flank and the horse took off.
Rowena nearly faltered, but then she heard Morrie yell, “Lean forward! Use your legs!”
As soon as she followed his directions, she felt Bessie’s power course through her and felt more powerful herself. She remembered the reins and pulled back slightly, taking control. Bessie responded and together they found a rhythm to their gallop.
And Rowena found joy.
As the wind whipped the hairpins from her hair she swung her head back and forth, giving it freedom. Memories of her childhood, riding just like this, with Morrie at her—
“Wait for me!”
As though filling out the memory, Morrie raced to catch her, coming alongside. “How is it?” he yelled.
It was perfect. Yet that word still didn’t fully express her emotions.
And then she knew the essence of what she was feeling. “I love you, Morrie!”
He offered her a wink, then dug his heels into his horse. “First one to the house wins!”
Rowena entered the race knowing she’d already won.
The waiter placed a cloth napkin in Lucy’s lap with a flourish, and did the same for Edward. Then he handed them menus, nodded, and left them alone.
“Are you certain we can afford this place?” Lucy whispered.
“Do you doubt my new job?” he said. “I’m on the road to becoming a full-fledged architect.”
Lucy was so proud of him for pursuing his passion. And prouder still for engaging a position with the budding architect Frank Lloyd Wright. “Do you like Mr. Wright?”
“He’s a bit curt, but his ideas are brilliant. To allow the function of a space to determine its form is revolutionary. That we Americans have been stuck copying European design instead of creating our own . . .”
The enthusiasm in his voice and the sparkle in his eyes told Lucy their move to Chicago was well worth it.
Not that they’d had much choice. After the scandal of choosing Lucy over Rowena, Edward’s parents had cut him off financially. He’d assured Lucy the loss of the money was of little concern, but she knew he hoped to one day mend the familial ties. Amor tutti fa uguali—love may make all men equal, but pride definitely came before a fall, and Edward was willing to forsake his pride to make amends. Someday. After he’d proven himself.
Their wedding day was bittersweet, with only her family, Morrie, and Rowena in attendance, but he’d done his best to assure her that all he needed was her love.
“Now, then,” he said, concentrating on the menu. “Shall it be duck à l’orange, chicken cordon bleu, or lobster thermidor?”
Lucy didn’t know what any of these dishes were, and actually, would have been content with a simple soup. She was tempted to tell him the reason for her distaste for anything too rich but was determined to wait.
Until she was sure . . .
The third weekend after moving to Chicago, Lucy and Edward walked the sidewalks of Michigan Avenue, enjoying the cool of the autumn day.
“But where will we live?” she asked him, not for the first time. “We can’t stay in the hotel much longer. Surely the expense—”
He patted her hand upon his arm. “I’ve told you I’ll take care of everything. Do you trust me?”
“Of course.”
“Explicitly?”
“I do.”
He craned his neck to see something ahead of them, then stopped. “I need you to close your eyes.”
“Close—?”
“Lucia . . . trust. Remember?”
She chided herself for having her trust be so short-lived. But she wasn’t used to letting someone else take care of things. Surrender was a struggle. She closed her eyes. “There. See how I trust you?”
He put his arm behind her waist and held her close. “Now walk.”
“Walk? But I can’t—”
“Oh, ye of little faith.”
Why was this so hard? She forced herself to take a step, and then one more.
“You fight me,” he said. “Relax.”
With a sigh she tried to ease her muscles.
“There. That’s better. One step, now another . . .”
“Where are you taking me?”
“It’s obviously a surprise.”
“I know, but—”
“Shush.”
They walked for what seemed like forever, but what was more likely less than a block. Then he turned her sideways. “Keep your eyes closed. Just a little longer. A little . . .” When he had her set exactly as he wanted her, he said, “Now! Open your eyes!”
She opened them to see a storefront with a large glass window for display. On the window was painted—
“No, Edward . . . it isn’t . . .”
“It is, my darling. Lucia’s Dress Shop. Just for you.”
She stared at the lovely gold lettering, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is mine?”
“It’s what you’ve always dreamed of, isn’t it?”
She faced him and bowed her head upon his shoulder. “You are what I’ve always dreamed of.”
He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her hair. “Come inside,” he said. “The surprise isn’t over.” He moved her to the door, letting her do th
e honors.
“Surprise!”
“Mamma?”
“Your first employee,” Edward said.
Lucy ran into her mother’s arms.
“But there’s still more.”
He led Lucy to a door that opened to a stairway. He went up first. “There’s a two-bedroom living quarters above the store. Enough for three.”
For a moment Lucy wondered how he knew, but then she realized he counted Mamma as the third. Once they reached the apartment and he showed them around, she lingered in an alcove off the kitchen.
“This space could be a guest room for Sofia when she comes to visit.”
Lucy shook her head. “Only if she’s willing to share it.”
Edward walked the length of the alcove. “There’s no need for her to share it. Your mother has her own room.”
Suddenly, Mamma stared at Lucy. Then she put a hand to her mouth. “Lucia? Really?”
Lucy nodded and began to cry.
Mamma took her in her arms and they rocked back and forth.
“Excuse me,” Edward said. “What did I miss?”
Mamma let go and Lucy went to Edward, taking his hands in hers. “We’re going to have a baby.”
She would never forget the look of surprise upon his face, nor forget the way he swirled her around in utter joy—before gingerly placing her on the ground, afraid for her condition.
“I’m fine,” she said. “We’re fine.”
“Il Dio è buono,” Mamma said.
She was so right.
God was very, very good.
Dear Reader
Igrew up in a sewing household. My mother made clothes for herself and three daughters. I didn’t have a store-bought dress until I was in high school. Prom dresses, wool coats, and even our wedding dresses were sewn by my mother. My sister remembers her prom date having to wait while Mom finished sewing her a matching wrap for her dress. Mom is the one who taught us to do our own designing too. It wasn’t unusual to take the sleeves from one pattern, the skirt from another, and the collar from a third. My first two jobs were as a clerk in a fabric store, and my first big purchase was a Pfaff sewing machine—which I am still using forty years later.
