Her mother gazed at it with wide eyes. “Ooh, how lovely.” Her fingers stole out and plucked it from Mr. Elliot’s fingers.
This startled Mr. Elliott. “Ah, let’s see what we can do with it for Miss Moore.” He couldn’t remove the ribbon from Mrs. Moore’s grasp fast enough.
Millie’s eyes narrowed. So that’s what was going on. Was her mother so desperate for her youngest daughter’s marriage that she easily fell prey to Mr. Elliott’s greasy charms?
What had he done to that ribbon?
Mr. Elliott held it out for Millie, but she refused to take it. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t match my sash.”
Or so she thought. Her mother also looked her up and down. “Oh Mildred, you know that won’t do.”
“Mother, you know I don’t have a red dress. Nobody wears red this year.”
Mr. Elliott shuffled his feet. “Green and red do not go together. We can’t be seen looking like this.”
Millie looked at her clothes once again. Really? Why was it so important they matched? It wasn’t as if Society dressed to complement one another.
Her mother’s hands flapped like drying sheets on a windy day. “Oh, go change into something pink. That will do nicely.”
“Pink?”
The barest of sighs escaped her mother’s lips. “Do you not have a pink sash?”
Well, yes. But Millie didn’t want to wear pink today. Today was a green day.
“Besides,” her mother said, upon further thought, “Thanks to Mr. Elliott’s earlier generosity, I may be able to suit you out.” Mrs. Moore’s fingers shooed Millie away.
To express her petulance, Millie clomped back up the stairs. It was a quick enough matter to swap the green sash and ribbon for a pink. Millie refused to change her shoes. If she was lucky, Mr. Elliott might not notice.
When she returned, suitably attired under protest, her mother had a surprise for her.
Mrs. Moore had crafted a corsage from the many bouquets scattered about the house. Every flower was red, with the exception of some baby’s breath for contrast.
To add insult to injury, the whole of the hideous bunch had been tied up with that nasty red ribbon. “Here.” She pinned the corsage neatly to Millie’s bosom. “That shall do most nicely.”
She admired her work. “Now, off you go. We shall see you down there, I dare say, assuming your father and your brother have loaded that boat properly.”
Millie stiffened. “I’m not going with you?” Surely her mother wouldn’t abandon her like this. Millie looked to Mr. Elliott in alarm.
Her mother turned away. “Go with him. I don’t know if there’ll be room in the carriage, what with your brother’s boat and all. Besides, the fresh air will do you good.” The look Mrs. Moore threw over her shoulder was coy.
Just like that, Millie was thrust into the unwelcome company of Mr. Elliott.
As they descended the steps to the street, he ran his finger along the brim of his hat, settling it into place over his wavy hair. With flourish, he offered his arm.
Millie glanced back to the house. Sure enough, her mother watched from the window, peeking from behind the curtain. Millie slipped a reluctant arm through Mr. Elliott’s. There was no way of getting out of it without making a scene.
Oh, how Millie wanted to make a scene!
Millie looked at today’s accessory, Mr. Elliott, and wondered if anyone would notice or care.
They’d notice all right. As he led her westward along the street, he made sure he smiled and nodded to anyone of consequence they passed. He even greeted a few by name, as if acquainted.
No one stopped to chat. The better-mannered men automatically tipped their hats as they hurried along their way and the women gave a small nod, no more than was considered polite to a stranger.
Millie’s cheeks flushed. Why did he have to greet every single person he saw? He might be enthused about the world, but the world turned him a chilly shoulder.
Millie spotted her friend Sarah approaching. Millie tilted her head down. They passed by as if strangers. A twinge of bitterness stung Millie’s heart. It was best that she not stop to chat than risk being asked what she was doing with Mr. Elliott.
How would she survive the day?
****
Raymond had been looking forward to the Junior Regatta purely for the company of his nieces and nephews. Today’s modern children were not as cruel as the companions he’d grown up with. None of them mocked him for his stutter. Granted, it could have been that they were taught to respect their elders—if not their peers—and none would dare mock the Chandler’s interesting uncle.
He intended to live up to his reputation. No sooner had the Chandlers arrived at the park than all the Chandler children’s friends gathered about him. Thomas set off with his older pals to admire each other’s boats, but the younger set stuck with Raymond.
Young Dandy Bellwether, one of Helen’s friends, came up to him with a gum wrapper in her hand. “Do a bird?” she asked.
He took the wrapper, gave it a few folds until it looked like a beak with wings. Then he blew on it and flicked it off his hand.
The bird flapped and soared about. Dandy shrieked in delight and clapped her hands. Several more children clamoured about him, fists of candy wrappers, napkins, and even scraps of newspaper, all hoping for one of “Uncle Raymond’s birds”.
Soon all of them danced about, with various creatures of the air evading their reaching grasps. Only after every child was occupied, did Raymond have an opportunity to join his sister beside the lake.
Mary feasted in style. A picnic had been laid out for the Chandler crowd, with a small folding table and several chairs, while the children would be content with a spread blanket. A maid set out select sandwiches.
Raymond sank into one of the chairs with a sigh of relief. “B—busy things.” He meant the children.
Mary, comfortably ensconced in the other folding chair, swapped her parasol to the other shoulder so she could reach a sandwich. “Normally this is the time I would encourage you to start a family of your own, and so on.” She drew in a breath. “Any luck finding your mystery lady?”
Another regatta family set up their picnicking gear on the other side of the Chandlers. Mary called out a greeting. No doubt they would stop by later for a longer conversation.
“You know,” Mary continued, “The Moores over there have a daughter—”
But Raymond shook his head. How could he even begin to entertain the thought of yet another debutante when his heart was set on the lovely young thing he met the other day.
Then he saw her, out across the grass.
Her, with her elegance and grace as she turned her face to the sun.
He rose from his chair and pointed his finger. “Th-there.” Like most fashionable ladies of the day, she wore a white promenade dress, tied ever-so-neatly at the waist by a pink sash. She wore a corsage of bright red beribboned flowers that seemed out of place for an outing such as this. Who gave her those? The more he looked at them, the more wrong they felt.
Mary lifted up, peering to where he pointed. “Which one is she?”
Raymond sank back to his chair. Oh. The girl of his dreams had her arm through that of another man. His back was to them, so Raymond couldn’t see who it was.
She wasn’t interested in her current companion, for her gaze roamed over the whole of the park while he spoke with another couple.
His hand half-raised to wave at her. Then he dropped it. What if that was her beau? He certainly wouldn’t appreciate another man encroaching on his girl. “Neverm—mind.”
Then dream-girl’s companion, having exhausted his acquaintances over there, turned this way.
Oh no! Guy Elliott. She was with Guy Elliott? That preening, pompous fool? How disappointing. Surely her taste was not that bad.
Or was it?
It looked that Elliott was clinging to her more than she was clinging to him. She leaned away. Her arm might have been tucked in his, but the rest of h
er strained to escape.
Why was she with him?
Mary’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Mistaken?”
“N—no.” He pointed to the girl who had made his heart thump. “Co-cors-sage.” Hmm. Had Elliott given her that corsage?
Mary squinted in that direction. “Goodness,” she started, then, “Oh no. Not the one with Guy Elliott? You do not want someone with such bad taste.”
Oh? “How d-do you kn-now Elliott?”
Mary turned the question back. “How do you know Guy Elliott? I would not have expected you to move in the same circles.”
Every man worth knowing knew each other from the clubs on East 44th Street. Old school pals, men of business, scions of grand families. They hobnobbed at the Harvard Club, the New York Yacht Club, or DelMonico’s. Everyone who wanted to know the men worth knowing also hung about on East 44th.
Of course he knew him. “He’s a d-doorknocker.”
Guy Elliot was one of those men desperate to gain admittance into the polite circles of Society, yet for reasons of birth or lack of connections, was not readily admitted. Men of good character could prove their worth and thereby gain entrance.
Elliott was not one of them. Not for lack of trying, though.
“Oh,” Mary replied, squinting at the couple. “He is full of himself, is he not?”
Elliott loved to be seen, loved to be known, as if that’s all a man’s worth required.
The best thing to be said about Guy Elliott was he was a dilettante. The worst thing to be said about Guy Elliott could not be repeated in front of a lady, even his sister. All Elliott cared about was his reputation. He was all about the personality, with his fine clothes and wide smile. But Raymond knew it was character that made the man.
As a child, Raymond’s fists sometimes had to do the speaking for him, if any of his schoolmates thought to mock him for his speech impediment. They soon learned that Raymond’s fists did not stutter, but boxed true.
Later he enjoyed the sport at university and continued with the regime at the gymnasium in his club’s basement. Few men could beat Raymond. He’d earned his fellows’ respect.
He had not—nor desired to—earn Elliott’s.
“Oh dear,” Mary declared. “They’re coming this way.”
Raymond swallowed. Could anything be more awkward? The person to whom he wished to speak the most and the person to speak the least were both coming here. There was no way he’d be able to maintain a clear voice. He put a desperate hand over his sister Mary’s.
She was nonplussed. “What?”
“I-I c-can’t…”
Mary blinked at him. “What?” Then it dawned on her. “Oh. They’re not coming here.”
They weren’t?
Then Mary’s eyes widened. “Oh!” she cried. Her eyes twinkled. “Permit me to solve your mystery. Your lovely young lady is none other than Miss Mildred Moore, daughter of Herbert and Alice Moore.”
She had a name! Miss Mildred Moore. It sounded so poetic, though he would have a difficult time rolling it off his tongue.
His sister gestured with her head. “The family next blanket over. Our sons often race boats together.”
Raymond relaxed somewhat. Of course they’d be coming over here. He would not have to make conversation. Though he so wanted to.
Why did Elliott have to spoil everything?
Raymond patted his upper jacket pocket. The “Marry Me” heart he’d tucked in there on his and Miss Moore’s first meeting rested comfortably next to his chest, a talisman of hope for the future.
He sighed. Here she was keeping company with Guy Elliott, though goodness knew why. Did that mean he was her beau? Or was there some other sort of explanation? He adjusted his seat to face more toward his sister and change the conversation.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched them approach. Was that eagerness in her step as she nearly dragged Elliott to her family? Was she so ready to show him off to them?
“Raymond?” Mary’s voice broke through his irked distraction.
He shook himself. “P—pardon?”
Whatever his sister had asked him, she did not repeat. Instead, a knowing smile spread across her lips. “Would you like me to find out more?”
Now he was confused. Why did he let himself be distracted? “Aa-bout wh-wh-at?”
Her eyes simply flickered in the direction of the Moore’s picnic.
His face flushed. His gaze dropped to his hands clutched in his lap. He shook his head.
“Oh come now,” she chided. “Surely you are not going to give up all that easily.”
His shoulder lifted in a half-hearted shrug.
Mary leaned over to whisper. “I have never heard anything bad about Miss Moore. If she is indeed a victim of bad circumstance, I would much rather see her fail in a courtship with you, than succeed in a courtship with him.”
Really?
Raymond’s gaze flickered toward the Moores.
“Millie, dear,” her mother called out, loud enough to be overheard. “I thought you were…” her voice faded as Millie approached and she dropped her volume.
Millie clasped her mother’s hands as she leaned in for a filial kiss. Elliott remained very much on the perimeter of the picnic blanket. Like the Chandlers, the Moores had a small table and several chairs set up—not quite enough for extra guests.
Raymond couldn’t quite overhear the conversation between Miss Moore and her mother. It wasn’t exactly quiet out in the park, with children running free to the wind and the many voices of the strolling Society who’d come to watch the Junior Regatta.
He did hear Guy Elliott’s voice. “There were many people to say hello to. After all, I had to introduce your lovely daughter about.” He beamed a smile. Was that supposed to be charming? The plethora of teeth made Raymond shudder.
Miss Moore offered her own weak smile, her shoulders hunching.
Mrs. Moore’s voice rose above the background noise. “And where have you set your picnic blanket?” she asked Elliott.
Far away, Raymond hoped, so he wouldn’t have to watch the blighter court Miss Moore.
Elliott fiddled with his hat and muttered something too low for Raymond to hear.
Whatever it was, it didn’t please Mrs. Moore.
Miss Moore pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered something, also out of earshot.
Mary tapped Raymond’s hand. “You’re a terrible eavesdropper. Shall I make it easy for you and introduce you?”
“P-please.”
Alas, it was not to happen, for up came the rest of the Chandler family, all his nieces and nephews bouncing in excitement around Thomas carrying a dripping boat.
Charles Chandler, a capital fellow, bent over to give his wife a peck on the cheek. “All set. The boat has been approved and entered.”
Raymond locked gazes with his nephew. Thomas smiled and nodded knowingly in return. Good. If he were to win, it would be the honorable way.
After they smothered their mother with hugs, the younger Chandlers descended on a plate of sandwiches like hungry puppies. Only Thomas stood as he ate, his shifting feet betraying his excitement. What a conundrum for an adolescent boy: food or fun?
Raymond glanced over to the Moores’ picnic. Miss Moore had settled into one of the chairs. Elliott had no choice but to sit on the ground. He lounged about as casual as he could, as if he was happy to sit on the blanket. He was nattering on about something. His voice carried over to Raymond, but he had little interest in Elliott’s topic. Neither did Miss Moore, as she gave him only half an ear while her eyes scanned the crowd.
Raymond couldn’t help but smile. From his pocket he drew several objects—a small notepad, a stub of a pencil, and the bag of little conversation hearts. “Hello,” he scrawled on the back of a heart.
He fashioned a paper dart to carry his message and sent it drifting on its enchanted way.
Mrs. Moore missed it, so busy was she in her conversation with Elliott, and he, so wrapped up in hi
s speech.
The heart-laden paper dart swirled around Miss Moore before settling into her lap, much to her surprise.
Her face lit up when she saw the little heart. She looked about for Raymond.
When their gazes met and she smiled at him, his heart warmed.
After a guilty glance to Elliott, she gave Raymond a little wave and mouthed, “Hello.”
Raymond’s next enchanted note settled onto her lap. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Moore. I am Raymond Wilson.”
She smiled as she read this note. This she carefully folded and tucked into her sleeve. Although she was seated, she spread her skirts and inclined her head in the way of a debutante’s curtsey.
His third note said. “Would you care for a stroll about the lake?” As she read it, he noted her lips quiver ever so slightly. The corners of that beautiful mouth turned up.
So wrapped up was she in her and Raymond’s conversation, that when Elliott addressed her, she jumped. Raymond’s note she crumpled up tight in her hand as if to make it disappear like a magician’s trick.
Raymond’s breath caught in his throat. Could he command the little paper note to fly away, should anyone else other than Miss Moore dare to read it?
No need, for as soon as Miss Moore gave Elliott an answer, his attention turned away from her. After all, in Elliott’s eyes, he was the center of attention, not her.
She looked up at Raymond with regret. “Sorry,” she mouthed.
The fourth note to land in her lap: “Don’t tell me you like that josser.”
Her reply: an enthusiastic shake of her head. Then she beckoned him over, ever so slightly, lest anyone else should notice.
Good enough an invitation for him.
Raymond all but hauled his sister to her feet. “Int—” his throat refused to finish the word. The noise of children reaching their fill of lunch didn’t help any, nor did the thought of having to acknowledge Elliott.
Mary’s protestation over the interruption of her lunch died when she saw the pleading look in her brother’s eyes.
“—troductions,” he managed to finish, with a desperate glance over to the Moores.
Mary knew. Mary, his sister, his boon companion growing up, she whose words made up for when his lacked, and he, in turn, had kept the less desirable swains at bay until the excellent Charles Chandler came along, Mary understood. “Come, dear brother. Your lady love awaits.”
Marry Me Page 3
