by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris
“I’m actually starting a philanthropic foundation.”
“Foundation, shmoundation, m’boy.” He blew a puff on his cigar. “What do you plan to do?”
Alfred explained about the foundation and the need for educational reform as a means to better all young people, not a select few, and thus improve the quality of life for everyone.
“And that’s why I’m determined to use my assets for the common good.”
“With a speech like that, you ought to run for office and not be holed up knocking elbows with us stuffed shirts.” The man had a glint in his eye. “Tell you what. You start finding some of those young people who need a hand, and I’ll talk to my banker about a contribution.”
“You will?” Alfred hadn’t expected this. His original target had been Octavius Millstone, a manufacturing giant who was now debating something with Mr. Vanderbilt by the fireplace—judging by the way he gestured, nearly striking someone’s head with his waving arms.
“ ‘Course I will.” Reginald’s face took on a more serious expression. “I had a hardworking father who brought us here when we were wee ones. He always wanted us to do better than what he did. I was the only one who did. Don’t want you giving money to any slackers, though.”
“You can be sure these students will be hard workers and ambitious.” Alfred shook Reginald’s hand. “You’ll hear from me again about this matter. Thank you, thank you very much.”
The supper hour arrived at last, and to Francesca’s delight she had a seat across from Alfred. The gentleman to his left kept him engaged in conversation, but Alfred would glance in her direction from time to time. The woman to his right wore a resplendent headdress that made her look quite like rooster’s plumes sprung from the crown of her head. The sight must have amused Alfred as well, for his eyes danced with merriment.
The empty seat beside her became occupied, but Francesca merely sensed someone settling onto the large chair. She wondered if they’d required assistance, as she had, to push the massive piece of furniture up to the table.
The man wore a fine suit, and Francesca appreciated that as her gaze moved from his arm to his face.
Count Philippe de la Croix.
“Mademoiselle Wallingford, I was hoping to see you this evening.” The rich tones of his voice made her want to lean closer to listen, but she stopped herself.
“It is good to see you, Count de la Croix. And thank you again, for the kind gift of the paint set. I’m afraid I haven’t had the opportunity to use them yet.” Francesca remembered how she’d exclaimed over the store that carried artists’ supplies while strolling Paris streets with the count. Was it barely two months ago? It seemed a lot longer than two months. But then, she hadn’t become quite as reacquainted with Alfred as she had now. Much more than reacquainted. Alfred was talking to the gentleman beside him, but she caught his eye, and he smiled at her.
Then Alfred’s gaze traveled to the count, and his smile faded almost imperceptibly.
The count was laughing at something someone had said, and Francesca tried to see who occupied the seat on the other side of him. She caught a flash of sapphire-blue silk and glimpsed ebony curls against alabaster skin.
“Francesca, dear cousin.” Lillian leaned forward in her chair. “It appears we have the best two seats at supper tonight.” She looked up at Philippe through her long eyelashes.
Before Francesca could reply, Philippe said, “No, it is I who occupy a coveted chair. The two most beautiful debutantes in the room, and both from the same family.”
A trilling giggle from Lillian.
“Thank you, Count de la Croix.” Francesca refused to further contribute to the man losing his hearing, as Lillian just had.
“Please, it is Philippe. As it was in Paris, Francesca.”
Somehow his hand had grown closer in proximity to Francesca’s left hand that rested on the table beside her salad fork. His little finger touched hers, and she wanted to draw her hand to her lap.
“Very well. Philippe it is.”
“Pardon, Francesca. Un moment.” He turned to listen to something Lillian had said.
When Francesca glanced toward Alfred, his chair was vacant.
“Mr. Finley was called away,” said the woman wearing the rooster plume headdress.
“Oh, I hope nothing is wrong.” Francesca thought he might have let her know he was leaving, and not departed like this, without a word. But they had not come together, and he was not bound to inform her of his actions. Had he noticed Philippe’s attentions? She did not return them, and she chided herself on being a silly girl to think that Alfred cared at all. In that manner, anyway.
Chapter 6
Francesca had no way to send word to Alfred to inquire about how he fared, so she asked James about him after the ball, as they rode home in the carriage and yawned all the way back to Seaside.
“I am not sure,” James said. “He did not speak to me before he left. He did, however, look like a thundercloud as he passed by us where we sat.”
“It’s the count, I’m sure of it.” Victoria echoed Francesca’s yawn. “On the way to supper, he did admit that he hoped the man was seated as far from you as possible. I think he’s a little jealous.”
“Jealous?” Francesca echoed. “But I did nothing….”
“It’s not you. It’s the count, of course. He is clearly interested in you. Remember those paints he gave you in Paris, and even the night of that ball. You know which one, when you brought Elizabeth—”
“Don’t remind me.” She still regretted the foolish action.
“You made some sort of impression on him.”
“Well, I’m not trying to. Really. A count?”
“I warned Alfred that day we went sailing,” James said. “Mother is plotting something, but neither she nor Father will be specific.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Francesca bit her lip.
“With Mr. Finley opening his home, we must have a larger gala,” Mother said one morning later as she looked up from her writing desk in the parlor. “And we will make sure not to invite Mrs. Alva Vanderbilt.”
“Why aren’t we inviting Mrs. Vanderbilt?” As soon as Francesca asked, she knew the answer. Mother had learned the social dance well.
“She has not come to call yet this season. While it is true our family was included in her gala activities two weeks ago, I want to show her that we are to be reckoned with.”
Francesca focused on the envelope in front of her. If she wasn’t careful, she’d pen the wrong spelling of the street name. Her hand ached, and she set down her pen and rubbed the muscle around her thumb.
She should send up a prayer for thanks that she was born to such a family, to such a hardworking father and loving mother and brother. But ever since her father’s ship—or ships—had literally come in, Mother had transformed somehow.
A long time ago, Mother would sew and cook and bake. But now other people saw to such tasks that Mother deemed mundane. Francesca wasn’t sure she cared much for the change.
“Will you be inviting Alfred and his mother?”
“Of course.” Mother’s pen moved efficiently over the paper in front of her. “We want them to recognize that Seaside is the latest jewel of Newport. But that does pose a quandary for me.”
Francesca finished writing the address on one envelope, then blew on it as she’d been taught. “How so?”
“There will be enough unattached women at the fete as well, but I would not dare insult any of the other fine families by insinuating that Alfred would be suitable for their daughters.”
“You don’t mean that, do you?”
“Well, he certainly is not invited for your benefit.”
“I am sorry. I was not assuming—”
“However, if I invite less than the best families of Newport, word will circulate that we Wallingfords are substandard.” Mother lifted her letter to the light. “Mr. Finley, how I wish you hadn’t come to town.”
Francesca hel
d her tongue. Directly confronting Mother never worked. She started on the next address. “You are inviting Mr. and Mrs. Wrentham, and their daughter and son?”
“Yes. I suppose they are in New York at the moment, so we must use their city address.”
Francesca nodded and scanned Mother’s address book for the correct entry.
“I know! We shall, of course, invite my sister, and her daughter Lillian. Perhaps she will be suitable for Mr. Finley. As best I know, my sister has not found a match for Lillian.”
“I … I can’t say as I see that Lillian and Alfred would make a good match.” Francesca detested the tone of her voice and how it betrayed her. She tried to keep her pen even on the paper.
Mother made a most unladylike grunt. “Romance has nothing to do with a good match. In our circle, we cannot think of such superficialities. Our choices are few. But Lillian has a tidy trust. Not to the caliber of yours, I am sure, but she would bring a fine contribution to any union.”
Francesca fought to remain in her seat. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. Ever since Paris and Count Philippe’s ball, either she felt happy or vexed, and very little in between. Instead of giving in to the urge to run from the room, she imagined walking along the sea walk. Father’s promised path to the sea had given her many happy hours. She pictured herself watching the waves, the wind lifting her hair. She would look up and see someone walking toward her on the sand, the sun illuminating the red in his hair….
Mother’s sigh made her look up.
“Are you all right, Mother?”
“I … I … This gala is for you as well.” Mother reached for a handkerchief and discreetly dabbed her eyes.
“This makes you cry?”
“Only for happiness, dear daughter.” Mother rose from her chair and moved to where Francesca sat with her lap desk. “Please, stand so I can hug you.”
A hug? Francesca stood and placed the lap desk on her chair, then received her mother’s embrace. It was not her birthday, nor Christmas. She could not remember the last time her mother had hugged her.
“Francesca, your father and I have done everything for you and your brother’s sake. One day, James will run Wallingford Shipping. As you know, we have a trust laid up for you, that you will carry to your marriage one day. I know it is merely money, but it symbolizes our love for you.” Mother returned to her chair and sat down at the desk.
“I do appreciate what you and Father have done.”
“You know that your life has been far, far different than my and my sister’s lives. My mother was a seamstress, and she wanted me to be a schoolteacher. My father was a tradesman. And your father was from obscure beginnings as well. But God has smiled on us, and we never want you to worry for your future.”
“Mother, I know I shall be well taken care of.” The now-familiar feeling of a noose surrounded Francesca’s neck. She picked up her lap desk and took her seat. What was Mother trying to say, exactly?
“All the same, I trust that this upcoming fete will ensure that.” Mother smiled now. “But I’ll say nothing further. This fete will outshine anything we’ve done yet here at Seaside.”
Francesca stood on the balcony of her bedroom, which overlooked the lush green lawn. A stream of carriages led to the front porte cochere of Seaside. Somehow Mother had arranged for new uniforms for the stable hands, so they looked like livery men wearing white powdered wigs from long ago.
Here came the stream of peacocks. Few of these people probably cared for her, and most of them she barely knew. But most had come to see the latest jewel on Newport’s Bellevue Avenue so they could repeat the story to others who had not been on the privileged list. One man, his suit rather plain yet neat, alighted from a carriage and paid the driver. He stood on the driveway and craned his neck to look at the magnificent structure.
Francesca recalled her own first reaction to seeing the fine summer home her father had commissioned construction on not quite two years before. This man pulled a notebook from his pocket and a stump of pencil, and scribbled something down. A reporter. Mother had mentioned a special guest. But a reporter had never attended any of the Wallingford social functions before. Not that Francesca knew, anyway. She left the balcony. She might as well submit to the rest of her beauty regime before she made her appearance to the guests.
“Miss Fran, the iron is hot.” Elizabeth stood by the vanity and its empty chair. “Are you ready?”
“Whether I want to be, or not.” She tried to give Elizabeth a confident smile, moved to the chair, and sat down. She stared at her reflection, framed by the gilded wood of the looking glass. Alfred’s phrase echoed again in her mind. Bird in a gilded cage.
“Miss, you’ve been outside often of late, and your hair feels dry,” Elizabeth said as she brushed Francesca’s hair, which tumbled past her shoulders. “We must use a treatment for it one quiet evening.”
“If … if you would like to do so as well, I would not prevent it.”
“Ah, but I have too many duties in the evening, and my mother and father require my assistance in our quarters. I would not have the time to sit and wait for my hair to dry afterward.” But Elizabeth’s smile was wistful.
Francesca thought of Alfred’s proposed foundation. “Elizabeth, have you ever wanted to attend a university?”
Elizabeth wound a lock of Francesca’s hair tightly around the hot iron. Her cheeks flushed pink. “No, miss. To me it is no use to want something I cannot have. I don’t believe I am much good at book learning, although one time I might have wanted to be a teacher. I love children.”
“I see.” She didn’t bother to mention Alfred’s foundation. Elizabeth was a realist and “knew her place,” as Mother would say. She had no more freedom than Francesca did.
Soon, Elizabeth had created a series of curls that she brushed out, and pulled Francesca’s hair into a high pompadour. Tears came to Francesca’s eyes, much as they had when her hair had been styled as a little girl. She had learned long ago that such tears did not hasten the end of the torture. But tonight’s tears came because, although Francesca had means and wealth that her maid did not, the means and wealth meant nothing to her freedom.
Once Elizabeth had ceased from securing Francesca’s hair with combs, Francesca reached for her bottle of favorite perfume. A knock sounded at Francesca’s door, and then it opened.
Mother breezed in, her newest silk gown fitting her form well, and nary a hair out of place. “You are nearly ready?” She clutched a flat velvet box. “All of the guests are seated, and you must make your entrance for our early supper before the orchestra begins.”
“I’m ready. But Mother, I don’t understand. I have already been presented to society. And I noticed a reporter outside the door earlier. What is happening tonight? This party isn’t just a grand opening for Seaside.”
Elizabeth stepped back a few discreet paces as Mother joined Francesca at the vanity.
“Please, sit down, my dear.” Mother gestured to the cushioned chair.
Francesca took her seat and noticed the frown line between her eyebrows. She smoothed it. But her nerves jangled.
“Here. Jewels for our jewel.” Mother opened the box, and Francesca sucked in a breath. A necklace of topaz that matched the blue of her eyes, each topaz edged with winking diamonds.
“Oh. Mother.” Francesca touched the necklace. “So beautiful.” The part of Francesca that adored comforts and baubles won out. Money brought beauty, she’d learned. And oh, what beauty in that velvet box. She willed herself to enjoy the beauty of the gemstones for a few moments.
“Here.” Mother fastened the necklace, which lay perfectly against Francesca’s neck. “He’s right. The color is perfect.”
Francesca turned to look at Mother instead of her reflection. “Who’s right?”
Mother’s touch on Francesca’s hair was softer than the brush of a butterfly’s wing. “The necklace is not from your father and me.”
And should Alfred venture to give her somethi
ng so grand, Francesca knew her mother would never allow it. She guessed at who had given her the necklace, and forced a smile. But her body went numb.
“Are you comfortable, Mother?” Alfred asked as he took his own seat at the long dining table that filled the length of the room at Seaside. He estimated it seated about thirty guests, and he knew for sure that others would arrive for the after-supper dancing.
“Yes, yes.” She waved off his attention and touched the comb tucked into her graying hair. Diamonds caught the light from the chandelier. “The Wallingfords have outdone themselves with this elegant home. Methinks they tried to best you, my boy.”
“Perhaps they have.” He studied the massive mirrors that lined one wall of the dining room, the other side of the room lined with doors that opened to face the sea, much like the dining room at Tranquility. A frescoed ceiling—imported from Italy and reinstalled here at Seaside, he’d been told—glowed in the lights from below. Alfred glanced at the faces nearest him.
The Wallingfords had seated him and Mother close to the head of the table, where three place settings remained empty. Probably for Mr. and Mrs. Wallingford and Francesca. Alfred nodded at James across the table and a few seats closer to the empty chairs. Mother turned to speak with someone next to her, a family member of the Wallingfords, Alfred guessed.
A lone chair waited at the end of the table next to Count de la Croix. So he’d been given one of the coveted spots closest to the family, with Alfred near enough to see all that would be said and done. After the day of sailing and the picnic with James, Victoria, and Francesca, Mrs. Wallingford’s message was clear: He was still not good enough for her daughter.
“Mr. Finley, isn’t it?” A young woman seated across from Alfred asked. Her hair, dark as ink, had been caught up in the latest style, and her lavender dress contrasted with her green eyes. The tip of her nose formed a point that almost made it seem as if she smelled something disagreeable. But her smile was pretty enough.
