The New England: ROMANCE Collection

by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris

  “I never thought I’d see …” Francesca started. But the man before her was now a stranger. His smile disappeared, and he appeared to assess her.

  “What brings you here tonight?” he asked.

  “My parents know the de la Croix family, and wanted to make sure the family was adequately represented this evening.” That was all the explanation she would give him before she knew the intent of his question.

  “So you have come on your own?”

  “No. My … Miss Elizabeth McGovern has accompanied me. And my brother and his wife are here, somewhere.” She should be the one asking questions. Not this pointless quizzing.

  “Interesting, Miss Elizabeth’s last name.”

  “Why is that?” Francesca’s pulse hammered in her throat. He knew. Would he tell James? This had been a bad idea, a very bad idea indeed, borne from idleness and dissatisfaction, and the consequences would be entirely her fault.

  “Is her family still in your family’s employ? I seem to remember her mother was wont to spoil the fun of the Wallingford children.” He glanced over her shoulder toward the glass door behind her. “But the fact Miss McGovern is here tonight. Is it customary for—”

  “The help to dress like one of the family?” The cool night air teased Francesca’s hot cheeks. “No, it is not. And her presence here tonight is truly none of your concern.”

  Alfred let out what sounded like something between a cough and a snort. “Really, you almost sounded like your mother. Did she scheme to make sure you were introduced to the count?”

  Francesca clutched her skirt. No wonder he’d gotten that scar as a young man. Served him right, taunting her that she was too inexperienced a rider to take the fence. Of course he followed her and landed up in a bush with some nasty cuts, but no one had ordered him to chase her on horseback.

  “I’m not privy to my mother’s schemes. If you must know, I am eighteen now and am capable of making my own decisions.”

  He shook his head. “So says the lovely bird in the gilded cage. And I am sorry for ruffling your feathers. I shouldn’t have spoken in that manner, after not seeing you for so long. My memories of our childhood are pleasant.”

  “As are mine.” Francesca could not think of what else to say, but unclenched her hands and smoothed her skirt.

  “When will you return to New York?” The moonlight showed his sheepish look. “Your family still has a city residence, don’t they?”

  Francesca took a deep breath. A gilded cage, indeed. “We will be departing Paris soon and travel to London; then we depart from London next week for New York. But this summer we’ll be in Newport. My father has overseen the building of our new summer cottage, Seaside, and the home is finished at last.”

  “My plans are nearly the same as yours. Construction on Tranquility is nearly completed, and it needs decorating and my mother’s attentions. So I am sure we shall see each other often.” With this, Alfred smiled, and she glimpsed the boy on the brink of manhood who’d teased her years ago.

  “I’m certain we shall.” She let Alfred take her hand. But then there was the count, probably still dancing a quadrille with Lillian.

  “There you are, my dear!” Victoria’s voice rang out across the balcony. “Mother said you would be coming tonight as well. And where is Elizabeth?”

  Alfred gave Francesca a pointed look, the corners of his mouth twitching.

  Now Francesca’s feet really hurt, and she couldn’t even run from her sister-in-law’s question.

  She turned to face her sister-in-law in time to see Elizabeth emerge from the ballroom, with James on her heels. Alfred was probably enjoying this spectacle.

  Francesca squared her shoulders and said, “James, I can explain,” just as she had many times in the past.

  Chapter 2

  Newport, Rhode Island

  June 1895

  Rain pounded the windows of Seaside’s library, and Francesca frowned as she stared through the drops streaming down the panes. She’d barely had a chance to see the new gardens or discover the path to the sea walk—a path that Father said he’d ordered constructed with her in mind. Her paints she’d brought from Paris still lay untouched in their case, a gift from Count Philippe.

  His attentions in Paris had made her head spin, but before her return to America, she’d seen a glance or two he exchanged with Lillian Chalmers. Probably after whispers that Francesca had brought her maid to his party. She wasn’t quite sure about the whispers, but the sound of Mother’s outrage no doubt carried for miles.

  Now Francesca’s head hurt at remembering seeing Alfred’s transformation from the image of a young man she’d carried in her memory. Propriety insisted that she not inquire about exactly what had sent him away so long ago. But their conversation suggested he wouldn’t have minded her asking. Yet his demeanor at the ball also made her feel like a spoiled child.

  Alfred’s words came back to her. A lovely bird in a gilded cage. Francesca moved from the cushioned bench upon which she’d reclined and paced the gallery’s balcony. Someone had lit a fire in the massive granite fireplace at the opposite end of the library’s lower level. Francesca preferred the seclusion, especially since the family’s return from Europe.

  “Father above, I thank You that Elizabeth has kept her position. Forgive my selfishness. I did not think about what would happen, should Elizabeth be discovered. She only wanted some fun, and I wanted to see the night through someone else’s eyes.” Francesca sighed. James had gone straightaway to Mother after the ball, and it was only due to Father’s intervention that Elizabeth’s entire family was not dismissed.

  “Nonsense. Good help is hard to find, and this is all because of Francesca’s high-spiritedness,” Father had said.

  Francesca had not seen Elizabeth in the week since the family had moved to Newport for the summer. All her mother would reveal was that Elizabeth would be assisting in caring for the family’s laundering “until further notice.”

  According to Mother, Francesca’s idleness was to blame for the whole fiasco, to be sure. Mother insisted on filling Francesca’s time with tennis lessons, luncheons, sailing, horsemanship, and art classes. The art classes and riding she didn’t mind so much, but although she enjoyed her various gowns and riding habits, the idea of changing her wardrobe several times a day made her want to don a bathing suit and run screaming down to the edge of the ocean.

  “Consuelo Vanderbilt will not outstrip you in her pursuits,” Mother had insisted.

  “Despite your deplorable behavior in Paris, we shall make sure you find an acceptable match.”

  But then Consuelo was a Vanderbilt, and even Francesca knew the Wallingfords’ bank account couldn’t outstrip the Vanderbilts’.

  “Yes, Alfred, you’re right.” Francesca stopped at the gallery’s railing and clutched the polished wood. She could still smell the oil worked into the grain, and the brass fittings that held the railing together gleamed. “My cage is gilded.”

  Eighteen and introduced to society meant her parents, especially Mother, had plans.

  “What am I to do?” Her voice echoed off the bookshelves and was only answered by the crackling in the fireplace. Perhaps if Mother’s intentions bore fruit, Francesca would wed the count. She would live in Paris, of course, and gain a title by their marriage. But what if the count’s enchanting manners made a polished cover for a dark heart?

  Francesca touched her throat as if a hangman’s noose had tightened its grip. The curious fluttering in her chest occurred again.

  She should appreciate her station in life. At church on Sunday, the minister spoke about remembering “the least of these.” Surely, she could help someone less fortunate than herself. But look how she’d tried to help Elizabeth. Now that had turned out to be a disaster. Perhaps the Lord had something else in mind, something more practical.

  The main door of the library opened, and men’s voices filled the room. Francesca had no way to exit, save the small, narrow staircase that led to the upper gal
lery. She took refuge again at her little cushioned bench. Perhaps during a lull in conversation she might sneak down the stairs and beg her leave discreetly.

  “So tell me, young Mr. Finley, what is so important that you would brave the weather to discuss with me today?” said Father. “You could have sent word and come another time.”

  Alfred! Now Francesca dared not leave, even discreetly. The memory of her humiliation in Paris made her cheeks burn even now.

  “As you know, we in this room have received many blessings from God because of our hard work.” This older Alfred sounded confident, as if he were addressing an equal. “It’s my determination to seek ways that we can benefit humanity.”

  “You’re quite right,” Father responded. “Although I like to think I had more to do with my success than the Almighty. Many men do not rise to a state such as ours, though they labor their entire lives. If labor must always lead to God-given success, then all who labor should live as kings. Yet one man still rises higher than another, and I feel it is more due to human effort than Providence.”

  “I am sorry you feel that way, as if financial numbers trump success. I know I have been gone these last several years, but in my travels I have met a number of people whose lot in life is not as ours, but all the same they have contentment befitting royalty.”

  “Shall we sit down? You, too, James. Victoria will keep, my son.” Father chuckled.

  Footsteps fell softly on the woven carpet that covered the parquet floor of the library, and Francesca guessed that the three men had taken their seats on the upholstered chairs, a pair that faced each other and the third that faced the fire.

  “Cigar?” Father asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  “Alfred, my old friend,” James said. “Tell us what has become of you all this time, and what has compelled you to return to our circle.”

  “A long story. You know why I left.” At this, Alfred hesitated, and Francesca heard only the pop of a burning log. “I thought it best to save my mother the shame, and spare her the ever-present reminders of the past by my very presence. Then word came to me just over a year ago that she had become ill, and I knew I could stay away no longer.”

  Mrs. Finley, ill? Francesca recalled the sweet woman who used to frequent the Wallingford home along with her son. After Alfred’s sudden departure, those visits stopped as well.

  Francesca crept to the balcony railing, where it met a corner of a bookshelf, and settled herself in the nook to watch. Unless one of them looked directly up to where she stood, they would not see her.

  “The people I spoke of, with success beyond that which is measured in dollars, lived simply. Reverend Stone and his wife first knew me as Alfred Wadsworth. Upon my arrival in Colorado, I used my mother’s name before her marriage. I did not wish to reveal my identity as Alfred Finley until I realized that no one in Colorado cared whether I was Finley or Wadsworth. I rented a room from the Stones, and all the while I remained under their roof, I observed that they lived richly.”

  The smell of cigar smoke made Francesca’s throat tickle. She swallowed. Alfred, renting a room and working as a laborer? But then he always cared for his own horse, and never thought himself above cleaning a stall, not like so many of those who never lifted a finger to care for their own mounts. Francesca’s own father had demanded she know the skills of horse care, in the event she was out riding and a mishap should occur. But the Finleys had fewer staff than most large households. She forced her attention back to the conversation and tried to clear her throat without making a sound.

  “… assumed control of my father’s affairs once his death had been confirmed, and I merely stepped into the position upon my return to New York.”

  “There are some who question your legal right to that position and its—shall we say, assets?” A tendril of smoke rose from Father’s lit cigar; Father’s right arm casually draped on the armrest, his figure hidden from view by the high-backed chair.

  “I would appear in any court of law if anyone dared contest that right,” said Alfred. He leaned forward in his chair, the fire making his dark hair glow. Francesca smiled.

  “Now, now”—Father gestured with his cigar—”no reason to be testy. I was simply making an observation, and you’ve no doubt considered that possibility with returning to New York. So, tell us about what you envision.”

  “I would like to use some of my resources to begin a foundation to help send young men, and even young women, from such families as the one with whom I lived, for university training.”

  A foundation, intended even to help young women go to the university? Francesca wanted to be leaning against the back of Father’s chair and asking questions herself.

  “You don’t say. I suppose you’ve come to me to ask for my support as well.” Francesca could see a smoke ring drift toward the ceiling and fade away.

  “Yes, actually. There are hundreds, probably thousands of young people who deserve a chance to have an education.” Alfred stood and moved to stand closer to the fire. He reached for a poker and jabbed at a wayward burning log.

  “I admit your idea sounds intriguing,” said James. “But how would we select who is deserving? And how would we know they would succeed and not merely be taking advantage of an opportunity for their own selfish reasons and not for the greater good?”

  “My son is right.” Father stood and faced the fire. “We would need to develop criteria for screening. They must be excellent scholars already, and must not be ruffians or rabble-rousers. They must be willing to work, as well.”

  “So you’re in favor of supporting this idea?” Alfred asked. He stared at Father, who glanced at the chair where James still sat.

  Francesca wanted to say, “Help him, Father! Say yes!” But she kept silent. The earlier tickle in her throat came back, and she fought back the urge to clear her throat. Would that she had access to her financial assets, she would ask the banker to send some of it to Alfred to help him begin his new venture.

  As it was, her throat rebelled and let out something between a squeak and a small grunt. Alfred’s gaze flicked to the balcony, and Francesca froze when his eyes locked with hers. He turned his attention back to her father.

  “Mr. Finley, I’ll have to say I would like to give this matter serious consideration.” Obviously Father hadn’t heard the noise. Francesca let out her breath.

  Alfred gave Francesca another glance, and this time she smiled at him and nodded. He looked down at the hearth. “Thank you, sir. It’s good to know you will consider joining me. I have seen both sides of the world. Like the Apostle Paul, I have been abased, and I have known abundance. And through those good people, I learned contentment.”

  James rose from his chair. “I’m glad you’ve returned, my friend. I regret we didn’t get to speak more until now. We’ll have to discuss this foundation in more detail. Perhaps others will join us.”

  Francesca realized Alfred wasn’t going to look up toward her again, so she moved back to her bench. The men chatted more about the sailboat James wanted to purchase, and Father remarked about the rain letting up soon and invited Alfred to stay for a cup of tea and join the ladies in the parlor. The library door opened, and the men’s voices drifted into the hallway; then the door shut again. Francesca made her way downstairs and tiptoed from the library.

  She nearly collided with Mother in the great hallway paved in marble. “Mother, you gave me a start.”

  “There you are, young lady. The seamstress is arriving soon for your fitting. I told her no matter what the weather, I wanted her here.” Mother’s sunshine-yellow gown fit her mood.

  “We have less than two weeks until our first party in our new home, and I will not be outdone by Mrs. Astor. Your father ordered tea in the parlor, but I told him we would otherwise be occupied. Besides, that Finley fellow is here, and I don’t feel like entertaining him.”

  Francesca ignored the barb about Alfred and tried not to grit her teeth. “About
the guest list. How many are coming?” Francesca knew Mother had been in a tizzy, preparing for a grand party to welcome the local residents of Newport to the Wallingfords’ new home, but the sting of her summer schedule had preoccupied her thoughts.

  “No less than one hundred. It’s about all we can prepare for on short notice, but I didn’t want to have too small of a guest list. Mrs. McGovern is contacting a florist, and I must give her a count for the caterer.”

  They passed the portrait of her parents, now hung on the wall where anyone could see it upon entering Seaside. The recently finished painting had taken most of the winter to complete, and Francesca had savored every moment of watching the artist work. Her mother considered painting a worthy avocation, but not to be pursued, as the career of an artist itself was equal to that of an actor or a musician.

  “Thank you, but I must be going.” Alfred and James entered the hallway from the parlor. Alfred shook James’s hand. “Perhaps I can return the favor and invite your family to join me for an outing.”

  An outing! Francesca wanted to clap like a little girl, but she felt Mother’s glare radiate across the hall and strike Alfred. But her old friend didn’t flinch.

  Father emerged as well and clapped Alfred on the back. “I understand you need to leave. The rain should be over soon.”

  “Mr. Wallingford, I require your assistance in the drawing room,” Mother said and nudged Father’s elbow. “Francesca?”

  “I’ll be right along, Mother.”

  “Very well. Don’t dally.” With that, her parents continued along the hall.

  James eyed her curiously, and he shot a glance at Alfred. “I’ll see you again soon.” He strode toward the grand staircase in the entry hall.

  “Miss Wallingford.” Alfred gave a slight bow and extended his arm for Francesca. She cast a look toward her parents at the other end of the hall. Mother’s arms moved like a windmill, and Father kept up a steady nod as they headed the other way.

  “Mr. Finley. I apologize for listening to your conversation earlier, in the library.”