Perfect Stranger

by Duncan, Alice

“Oh.” Isabel didn’t know what else to say to that comment, although she had a response all ready for Somerset when he bestowed his own compliments upon her.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” said Balderston. “But Mrs. Golightly is definitely better.”

  “Thank you.” Wondering what was taking him so long, Isabel peeked at Somerset. She was surprised to find him scowling hideously. “Why, Mr. FitzRoy, whatever is the matter?”

  “Nothing.” Somerset still scowled, though, and he turned and took a few steps away from her.

  Puzzled, Isabel put Eunice down and exchanged a glance with Loretta, who shrugged.

  Suddenly Somerset turned and stared straight at Isabel. “I think you’d be better off cleaning houses.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I’m glad you’re speaking to me again.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mr. FitzRoy. I wasn’t angry with you.”

  “You had every right to be.” Somerset gestured at a bare spot in Loretta’s garden. “What about right over there?”

  It was four days after Isabel’s audition at the Fairfield Hotel, and Somerset had come over to study Loretta’s grounds with an eye to landscape design. He had asked Isabel to help him and was surprised when she’d agreed. He had rather expected her to decline to see him. Slam the door in his face, even, because of his inappropriate comment after her audition at the Fairfield.

  But dash it, he’d almost suffered a spasm—if men did things like that—when that filthy Argentinean had stared into her eyes and pulled her so close to him that they might have been glued together. The tango was a shocking dance, and Somerset didn’t approve of it. Oh, he supposed it might be fine, if one were married to one’s partner, but to dance like that with a stranger . . .

  “I don’t know,” said Isabel, shading her eyes and squinting into the setting sun and interrupting Somerset’s train of thought. “What exactly is a yucca brevifolia? I don’t think we have them in England.”

  “I’ll have to show you.” Somerset congratulated himself on suggesting a cactus garden. He’d pored over all of his botanical books and, while he had discovered that there was a burgeoning movement to import cacti to Great Britain, he hadn’t found any references to yucca brevifolia growing there. Ergo, he had decided to plant a back border of them. “We should take a day trip to Golden Gate Park. There are lots of them there.”

  “I’d love to see it, and I know Eunice would, too. We’ve driven past the park several times. It’s huge.”

  “Perhaps we can visit the park on a Saturday afternoon.”

  As he expected, Isabel turned to see where her daughter was. Also as he expected, Eunice, wearing trousers this evening, and with her blond hair plaited into two long braids, sat cross-legged under a big incense cedar tree, reading a book by the light of the fast-fading sun. It wasn’t just any book, either. It was Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. And the kid was only six years old.

  “We will definitely take Miss Eunice with us. It will be an educational experience for her.” Not that she needed it.

  “And Miss Linden and Miss MacTavish, too? I know Miss MacTavish is interested in the park.”

  “Why not?” For a second or two there, Somerset had envisioned a pleasant day in the park with Isabel and Eunice. He should have known better. With a sigh, he walked a few feet farther away from Loretta’s back porch. “I really am sorry about what I said at the Fairfield.”

  “Please don’t think any more about it, Mr. FitzRoy. I understand that the tango can seem . . . um . . . surprising when one first witnesses it being performed.”

  Surprising was one word for it. It wasn’t the word Somerset would have chosen. Shameful, perhaps. Iniquitous. Deplorable. Fascinatingly decadent. Because he didn’t want to lose her good opinion, if she had one, he refrained from saying so, contenting himself with a mere, “Ah.”

  He heard her sigh and wondered if it had been a happy sigh or a sorrowful one. She didn’t seem particularly distressed about having to dance the tango in public with that slimy foreign fellow for pay. Rather, she seemed more pleased than anything, probably because she wasn’t faced with the prospect of working as a scrub-woman.

  Somerset guessed he could understand that. He didn’t like it, though. In fact, if she were Somerset’s sister or wife, he’d be inclined to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled and her senses cleared, and then demand that she take a course in nursing or something that was at least respectable.

  He supposed he had Loretta Linden to thank for the fact that Isabel found nothing innately unrespectable about dancing for a living. Damned free-thinking women. There ought to be a law.

  Loosening his grip on his pencil for fear it might snap, he controlled his profound outrage and spoke mildly. “Do you think Miss Linden likes roses?” He turned another page over in his sketch book, gazed appraisingly at the large, unbroken expanse of green grass, and tapped his teeth with the pencil, which was enduring a lot of abuse this evening.

  It was difficult to dislike Loretta Linden, even though she was a bad influence on Isabel. Somerset had to admit that she seemed to be a friendly, caring person. And she was doing all she could to help her new friends. Somerset supposed she shouldn’t be held accountable if one of her friends had selected a career of which he didn’t approve. The world was changing too blasted fast for his comfort, and he should probably attempt to update his attitudes. They were, after all, twelve years into the twentieth century.

  As soon as he thought about modernizing his thinking, his mind’s eye featured Isabel and Jorge Luis Savedra locked in the tango’s scandalous embrace, and his teeth started grinding again.

  “I don’t know,” said Isabel thoughtfully, making Somerset’s brain swerve back to the matter at hand. “I should think so. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like roses.” Isabel rolled up the tape measure with which she’d measured space for a garden shed. “She’s out tonight, at a meeting, so I won’t be able to ask her until about it she gets back.”

  “Is the woman ever at home?” Somerset asked, nettled. It was bad enough that Loretta was having such a drastic effect on Isabel; he couldn’t imagine anyone with this fabulous house being so uninterested in its decoration. Especially when her frequent absences were due to such unfeminine things as attending suffrage rallies and so forth. Why, the woman even orated on street corners, for the love of God. He’d only read about people like Loretta before he met her. He’d disapprove of her even more if he didn’t like her so well. She was a bad influence on Isabel, though. He was sure of it.

  Isabel, however . . . well, she was a perfect woman, in Somerset’s estimation. This evening she wore a plain dark plaid skirt and a white shirtwaist with a little plaid bow at the throat. Her hair had been raked away from her face and twisted into a knot that she’d pinned at the back of her head. She looked more like a schoolmarm than a woman who danced the tango with a strange and unwholesome foreigner for a living.

  “She’s quite the gadabout.” Isabel laughed indulgently, again jerking Somerset’s attention away from his brooding thoughts. “But she’s so interested in so many things, and she never participates in anything simply for pleasure. The causes she propounds are all for the public good.”

  Somerset almost snorted, but turned it into a sneeze in the nick of time.

  Isabel continued, “She loves her house and truly wants the grounds to be beautiful. It’s only that she doesn’t consider herself artistic. She’s depending on you for the artistry, or so she says.”

  “Hmm. I guess that makes sense. Better to rely on someone you trust than to depend on your own judgment if it tends toward gold brocade and crimson velvet.”

  “That sounds garish.”

  “It is.”

  “I don’t think Loretta has taste that theatrical.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t.” He was still faintly irked with Loretta, however. Somerset had been doing his very best work in the landscaping plans for her back yard and garden, but he could never fin
d the dashed woman at home.

  He’d come, thanks to a written invitation from Loretta herself, to dinner tonight with the express intention of working on his plans with her afterwards. Yet it was now afterwards, and there was no Loretta to say yea or nay to anything.

  Ah, well, at least he was here with Isabel. Life could be worse. He set pencil to paper and began to draw, putting his vision for her yard down in his sketchbook.

  As he drew, he continued to talk to Isabel. “Had Eunice started going to school yet?”

  “Yes. Loretta has a friend, Miss Pinkney, who runs a Montessori School, and she enrolled Eunice there.”

  Somerset frowned over his sketch. “I’ve never heard of a—what did you call it?”

  “A Montessori School. Named for Maria Montessori, who has developed a new and modern method of education.” Isabel gestured vaguely as if she wasn’t sure exactly what the new method entailed.

  “Oh. Well, that’s good, I guess. I’ve never heard of one before.”

  “I hadn’t, either, but Eunice seems to be thriving.”

  “She likes it there?” he asked as he drew.

  “She loves it.” Isabel paused, then said, “She still has terrible nightmares, though.” She shot a swift glance at her daughter, who was lost in her book. “About the sinking, you know. It has affected her profoundly.”

  Somerset glanced up from his drawing and shot a peek at Eunice. “I’m sorry to hear that. I have to admit that I’ve had a few bad moments myself, since that night.”

  “So have I. I think even Loretta is bothered by bad dreams sometimes.”

  “I expect we all relive that night occasionally.”

  With a sigh, Isabel said, “Yes.” After a short pause, she said, “But at least Eunice is enjoying school. She’s made friends, too, which is very important, I think.”

  “Very important indeed.” He wasn’t sure if he’d just lied or not. There seemed to be too dashed many modern ideas floating around in this particular Russian Hill abode for his peace of mind.

  “I suppose so.” Isabel sighed softly. “As for me, I sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever have control over my life again.”

  Somerset glanced sharply at her, surprised by her words. Yet, after thinking about them for only a moment, he understood. “At least Miss Linden is a kindhearted person and doesn’t expect you to do her bidding in order to earn her good will.”

  “Oh, yes. She’s very generous. And it’s not that I’m ungrateful . . .”

  “You needn’t say anything more. I know exactly what you mean. It’s hard to accept help sometimes.”

  “You can say that again. Loretta’s been an angel.”

  Somerset wouldn’t go that far. “I hope she likes my plans.”

  “I don’t know how she can not like them. They’re beautiful.”

  That pleased him. “Thank you.” He was relatively certain that Loretta would agree. She didn’t seem all that interested in how the work got done or what work was done, as long as something happened to her grounds and the end result looked good. After having known her for a few weeks, Somerset agreed with Loretta on her artistic talents. For all her qualities that were so greatly valued by her friends—and even Somerset, if he wanted to be honest-from what he’d been able to gather thus far, she didn’t have an artistic bone in her body.

  All of a sudden, Isabel said, “You know what I’d really like to do?”

  Again, Somerset stopped sketching and looked at her. “No,” he said, praying that whatever it was didn’t include dancing the tango with Jorge Savedra, “please tell me.”

  Color crept into Isabel’s cheeks, painting them the sweet blush of one of Somerset’s favorite roses, Mme. Pierre Oger. He caught his breath. “What I’d really love to do is run a dance academy where young ladies and gentlemen can come and learn the latest dance steps. Before they make their debuts into society, you know. It would be most respectable,” she added, sounding adorably stuffy about it.

  “My goodness.” Somerset never would have guessed. Operating a respectable dance academy sounded better to him than dancing with hundreds of strange men at the Fairfield. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you achieve your goal, Mrs. Golightly.”

  Mme. Pierre Oger gave way to the deeper, more embarrassed tint of Baronne Prèvost. “Thank you. You’re too kind to me. Everyone’s too kind to me.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Somerset gestured with his sketch book, hoping to relieve Isabel’s embarrassment. “I can appreciate Miss Linden’s interest in saving the world from itself, but I wish she’d at least look at my plans one of these days.”

  She accepted the change of subject with good grace. “She will. Don’t worry.” Isabel laughed again. She had a musical laugh, and Somerset was glad he’d coaxed it out into the open. “She’s a very busy person and belongs to a lot of organizations. Tonight she’s at a suffrage rally at the city hall. She’s hoping to be arrested.”

  “Dear God.”

  “It’s for a good cause,” Isabel said, sounding sure of herself.

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Well . . . yes, I do.” She lifted her chin. “I know I’m British and not even an American citizen, but the struggle is going on in Great Britain, too. In fact, Loretta was on her way back to San Francisco from meeting with the leading British suffragists when the Titanic sank.”

  “Aha.” That was noncommittal enough, Somerset hoped.

  Isabel went on, “It’s important for women to step up and demand their rights as human beings on an equal footing with men.”

  “Of course.” Good God, he wasn’t going to lose her to a bunch of causes, was he? Not that he had her to lose, but . . . well, he knew what he meant. The notion of Isabel Golightly orating on street corners for women’s suffrage was almost as repellent as the notion of her dancing with that dashed foreigner. “Er . . . do you go to suffrage marches and so forth with Miss Linden?”

  “Not yet.” Isabel lifted her perfect chin. “But I shall. As soon as I have time.”

  Good. Somerset relaxed. That meant she wouldn’t. From his perspective, Isabel had plenty enough to do already, with her job and her motherhood. “I see.”

  “And I do think most women are every bit as smart and capable as most men.” She cast another quick peek at her daughter.

  Somerset knew what she was thinking. It was his turn to laugh. “And some females are smarter and more capable than most men.”

  With a shrug, Isabel said quietly, “I’ll never understand it. No one else in the family is like that.”

  “Fluke of nature,” he said. “Come here and look at this.” As they’d chatted, he’d continued to draw, mainly to keep his mind from returning to the mental picture of a blushing Isabel dancing with that Argentine creature. He was happy with the result of his effort and held it out for Isabel’s inspection. He watched as she examined the drawing, and was pleased when her lovely blue eyes opened wide.

  “Oh, my, it’s beautiful! What’s this?” She pointed at a portion of the drawing of which Somerset was especially fond.

  “I thought the place could use a rose arbor.” He leaned over a trifle, breathing in the faint scent of lemon and ginger. Isabel always smelled wonderful. “I thought the arbor could be a restful place with a garden path strewn with cedar chips and delineated by trellises going through it and benches set here and there.”

  “It sounds beautiful. Can you imagine the aroma?”

  “Miss Eunice would enjoy reading in the rose arbor; I’m sure of it.”

  “Oh, my, yes.” She shook her head, as if in wonder.

  “There are some newly developed polyanthas that are excellent when grown on trellises. I think Cecile Brunner is a must. You can help me pick some other ones.”

  “I’d love to. Um . . . what’s a polyantha?”

  “A type of rose. It has a very strong scent and clusters of tiny flowers. Cecile Brunner is pink and has an absolutely perfect shape.” Not unlike Isabel, as a m
atter of fact. “It’s a gorgeous rose.”

  “It sounds perfect.”

  “We can see that one and others at the park, too. It’ll take a squad of gardeners to keep up Miss Linden’s grounds once they’re replanted, but she told me not to think about that.”

  Isabel’s eyebrows rose over her wonderful blue—perhaps the blue of Anchusa capensis?—eyes. Somerset imagined she was thinking how nice it would be to be able to afford a squad of gardeners to tend one’s garden.

  A disturbance at the back door caught their attention, and they both turned to look. Marjorie MacTavish, bright pink and looking frustrated enough to spit railroad spikes, burst through the door, closely followed by Dr. Jason Abernathy. Somerset grinned, knowing that Jason must have tweaked Miss MacTavish again. She made a splendid target for his sense of humor.

  “Marjorie,” said Isabel confidentially, watching her friends cross the porch, “is taking a refresher course in type-writing at the YWCA. That stands for Young Women’s Christian Association.”

  Somerset thought Isabel’s ignorance of the American idiom was adorable. “I thought there were YWCAs in England.”

  She considered it. “There might be. I don’t know. I don’t think there were any in Upper Poppleton.”

  “Probably not. Is she enjoying her job as Miss Linden’s secretary?”

  “I believe so. She says she finds the work satisfying.”

  “Ah. That’s good.”

  “And she’s teaching Eunice how to use the type-writing machine, too. Eunice wants to be a journalist, you know. Among other things.” She chuckled softly.

  “That’s right. And an elevator operator.”

  “And don’t forget biology.”

  “How could I? I remember she told me she wanted to be a biologist when we first met. It’s good of Miss MacTavish to teach her.” Somerset was pleased to learn that Marjorie MacTavish, who was quiet and withdrawn, except when she was furious at Jason Abernathy, had a softer side. He hadn’t anticipated that she’d be good with children, even un-childlike children like Eunice Golightly, but he’d apparently been mistaken.