by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris
“Yes, it is. Forgive me, I know I have seen you before, and if we have met, I regret that I don’t recall your name.”
“Lillian Chalmers. Francesca is my cousin.” She blinked, her long lashes fluttering.
“Oh, yes. I believe we have met before.”
“Paris, this spring. We attended some of the same functions.”
“Mother loves to be out and about, and I, of course, must see to accompanying her.”
Lillian gave a soft giggle, and her earrings wiggled. “Surely that is not the only reason you attend balls.”
“Miss Chalmers, you are quite right. I do enjoy speaking with charming young ladies as yourself, especially after being confined in stuffy meetings most of the week.”
She flicked a gaze toward the head of the table. “It is fortunate that our hosts are not present to hear you speak in such a manner. I’m surprised you are here at all, actually.”
He appreciated her candor. “I am well aware of at least one of their opinions about me. But I am not deterred. So, have you seen much of this grand home?”
“Nearly every inch. Auntie Wallingford made certain that Mother and I saw it all, before we returned to our summer residence in town.” Again her gaze traveled in the direction of the empty seats.
Count de la Croix inclined his head toward them both, and Lillian turned scarlet. A secret affection for the man, or merely a response to acknowledgment from one so well bred? Alfred couldn’t guess.
The man seemed amicable enough when they had spoken in Paris and had even seemed interested in the foundation Alfred had determined to launch, although the count was not sure if he would be able to contribute.
Motion at the dining room entrance made the diners look in that direction and rise. Francesca stood with her parents in the doorway. Her dress looked opalescent in the gaslights and candles. Something brilliant and blue flashed at her neck. She appeared as if she were going to be sick, but smiled at the roomful of people.
The three of them walked to the head of the table. Mrs. Wallingford extended her hand to the empty chair next to the count, and Francesca moved to stand behind it. The count pulled Francesca’s chair away from the table. As she sat, she looked down the table of guests, and her gaze settled on Alfred.
He remembered his first hunting trip with his father, and the doe they had seen in the woods. The creature froze when they happened upon it, and it wore an expression much like the one Francesca wore now, before it disappeared. Francesca looked down at the place setting before her.
Mr. Wallingford remained standing, as did his wife, while the dinner guests sat down.
“Thank you, guests, for gracing our home with your presence this evening. Please enjoy all that we have to offer you. Before supper begins, my wife and I would like to share some news with you.” He glanced at Mrs. Wallingford, resplendent in a purple gown and wearing a headdress that reminded Alfred of a peacock’s tail. Her face glowed like the sun in the August heat.
“God has blessed our family, to be sure. And we in turn are happily including you this evening. Seaside was built to be a place of cool respite for us during the warm summer months, and we plan to entertain on a scale such as this for many summers to come.
“As you know, our daughter, Francesca Genevieve Wallingford, has joined the ranks of society this spring, and we have carefully considered her future.”
She paused, and with the pause, cast the beam of her smile at Francesca, whose fingers curled around a salad fork. Her lips sealed into a thin line, and her chest moved almost imperceptibly as if she struggled to breathe. Francesca glanced at Alfred, then away again.
The glance tore at his heart, and his pulse roared in his ears.
“We are proud to announce that by this time next year, we shall have a son-in-law, Count Philippe de la Croix.”
Alfred’s pulse was drowned out by the smatter of applause that echoed off the dining room ceiling. His hands clapped as if he were a puppet, and someone else forced them together and apart again.
Francesca and the count rose. He took one of her hands in his, and she looked up at him and smiled. But the fork remained tight within her grip.
Chapter 7
Francesca lost track of how many days she had wept. Her eyes hurt, her eyelids swelled and rimmed with red. While it was true the count had turned her head in Paris, she didn’t want to marry him. She rolled over on her bed and stared at the wall covered in hand-painted fabric. The blue normally soothed her, but even it could not put a salve on her aching heart. The food on the tray that rested on her vanity chair remained untouched.
“A more ungrateful daughter never lived.” Mother’s earlier words still hung in midair, like a banner gracing Francesca’s bedroom.
True. She ought to be thankful. The count was not an ogre, nor did he seem cruel. Had her heart been unclaimed, the sweet kindnesses that Philippe had shown her the night of the Parisian ball would have made her his forever. She remembered how he’d made her feel in Paris, taking her breath away.
Worse, the lovely jeweled necklace that matched her eyes so perfectly had not been an indulgence of her parents. That exquisite treasure had been selected by Philippe in New York, before he traveled to Newport. And undoubtedly the sight of her wearing the necklace had told him what he wanted to know. Even now it winked at her, from its castoff place on her bureau. The ring that had been passed through generations of Philippe’s family lay next to the sparkling necklace.
“I tried. Dear Lord, I tried. But how can I force myself to accept these plans?” The words fought past her parched lips. She had not prayed much of late, when it seemed like so much was out of her hands. Everything, in fact.
Even her wardrobe. Mother wouldn’t let her select even a simple gown, now that she was pledged to be married to a count. Why, that was European nobility, and one must look the part.
Francesca had mentioned at the time that one could put a dress on a cat and that wouldn’t make the feline a countess. She’d simply been scolded for impertinence and reminded of her earlier unwise actions regarding Elizabeth.
If she couldn’t even select her own apparel, she didn’t know how God could move upon her behalf. In the fairy tales, the prince would ride in and save the day. But now, because of her wealth and apparent status, her life had been scheduled and planned, and she was expected to go along with the whole thing.
“It’s good business, Fran,” was all Father would say. “The count has strong holdings throughout Europe, and this will only help expand our shipping business.” He could not give her an adequate answer when she asked why she had to marry in order for such an alliance to occur.
A knock sounded at her bedroom door.
“Go away.” Francesca hated the tone in her voice, but there it was.
“It’s James.” The door swung open, and he entered the room. Once he closed it behind him, he moved the tray from the vanity’s chair and set it on top of the vanity’s top.
“Have you come to drag me back to my senses?”
“No, I’m not strong enough. Victoria’s worried about you.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” Francesca pulled her dressing gown more tightly around her and sat up on the bed. “I know what Mother and Father did, they did out of love. It certainly explains her odd actions while we were addressing invitations. But there’s … there’s someone else I can’t forget. Or … I don’t know how.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. And so is he.”
Francesca’s pulse jumped. “And he was there that night at supper, and saw it all up close. I’m sure Mother saw to that with the seating arrangement. I couldn’t even look at—at him. What he must think of me.”
“Fran, Alfred knows that none of this was your doing.”
“But surely, I didn’t try to win anyone’s affections, let alone the count’s. While it’s true I enjoyed getting to know Philippe in Paris, I returned here … unsure. And we made no promises to each other. I had no expectations.” She sighed. “That a
lso explains why what Elizabeth and I did was such a disaster. Mother was especially angry because she didn’t want her plan to unravel.”
“I’m sure you’ve thought everything over a hundred times in the past three days.” James rose and walked to the door that led to the balcony, and threw it open. “Do you see? The day is beautiful, and your beloved ocean waits but footsteps away. Take a walk, pray, and paint. You love to do both.”
“You’re right. And life is going on without me whether I want it to or not.” Francesca joined James at the open door and inhaled the fresh air. She’d missed it, lying here in her luxurious blue cave.
“Have a little faith. You are not wed yet.” James tugged a strand of her hair like he had done when she was small. “The best thing you can do for all of us, and yourself, is to pick up and keep going.”
Francesca nodded. Part of her wanted to seek the solace of the bed, but part of her knew James made sense. She could change nothing by her weeping except perhaps give herself a worse headache and make her eyes look redder, not to mention her complexion.
“Could you send for Elizabeth, please? I need to get ready.”
“That’s my Fran. I’ll ask her to come straightaway.” James planted a kiss on her forehead before leaving.
She smiled at her brother and went out onto her balcony. The noon hour had come and gone, so the heat of the day would soon be past. She would find her new paints, and the wooden box that held her supplies, and head along the path to the sea walk.
By the time Elizabeth arrived, Francesca had pulled together an outfit—not one of Mother’s preferences, in all likelihood, but at least she was dressed. Now to see about her snarled hair.
“You haven’t brushed your hair in days, have you?” Elizabeth frowned and tried to get the brush through Francesca’s hair.
“No, I’m afraid I haven’t.” She looked at her reflection in the mirror. “I honestly didn’t care. Please, do what you can.”
“I’ll do my best.” Elizabeth worked in silence after that, and Francesca felt like her hair was being yanked out by the roots.
Francesca reached back and touched the brush. “The kinks won’t come out. If you could just help me put it up, I think that’ll be fine. I am just going for a beach walk.”
Elizabeth nodded and reached for some hairpins. Normally they would keep up a pleasant chatter, but ever since the ball, words would not come. At least on Francesca’s part.
She might as well speak up before the chance was lost yet again. “Do you think I’m foolish, Elizabeth?”
“Whatever for?” Elizabeth’s hands made quick work of restraining Francesca’s hair.
“My engagement. I shouldn’t have been so upset. Perhaps any other unattached woman in the world would have been happy at my sudden change in circumstances.”
“But, Miss Fran, you are not any other unattached woman in the world.”
Francesca pondered that for a moment before continuing. “What if you had the chance to wed a count? What would your family say? Would they be happy for you? Or mourn the day?”
Elizabeth looked wistful. “Every woman has happy dreams, I think. But I would not venture to dream to wed a count.”
“If you were, though. If you knew your family would be well cared for, your future secure. If every night of your life could be as grand as that ball we attended?”
“Part of me would think myself foolish to squander a chance like that. My parents have worked hard all their lives, and if I should have the means to make life easier, I might try.” Then Elizabeth frowned. “But money can come, and it can go. It’s the people behind the money that we’re left with.”
“True, very true.” The thought made her miss Alfred all the more, to hear his voice and engage in lively conversation. “Thank you for being so honest with me.”
“You are welcome, Miss Fran. There. I think this will be passable.” Elizabeth stepped back. “Are you going to walk alone?”
“Yes. I’ll take Father’s beach path and stroll for a while and paint. If anyone asks, I shall be back by suppertime.”
“Of course. Did you require anything else, miss?”
Francesca studied her face in the mirror. “A wet cloth, perhaps, or something to put on my eyes to help the swelling. They are still quite puffy, and I shouldn’t want anyone to notice if I encounter anyone on my walk.”
“I’ll bring something back right away.”
After Elizabeth had returned with a cool, wet cloth, and Francesca was satisfied her eyes no longer looked quite as red, she put on the hat she’d worn sailing. Such a happy day seemed a lifetime ago, not a mere two weeks.
She descended the staircase and prayed all the while that no one would see her leave or pester her with more questions. The solitude of a walk appealed to her, and the family should be grateful that she at least decided to don fresh clothing, put up her hair, and make herself presentable. Although Mother would probably question the presentable part.
Francesca made it out the side door, and to the wide expanse of green lawn she called freedom. She found the path with its flat stone pavers that led over the ridge and down toward the edge of the beach. What a lovely clambake they’d had on the Fourth of July. Father had come from New York for the day, and it seemed as if the clock’s hands had spun backward, to a time when she wore her hair in braids and James wore knickers.
The handle on her paint box dug into her fingers, and she shifted it to the other hand. The small easel she toted under her arm cut into her side. Maybe she should have asked someone else to come with her. She turned to face Seaside, which loomed across the lawn behind her. Its commanding presence could be seen clearly from the ocean. She turned her back on the spectacle of architecture and, instead, continued along with God’s creation before her.
She reached the sand and would have been tempted to shed her boots but thought better of it. Light danced on the waves, and a boat bobbed on the surface of the water, looking much like a toy boat might from this distance.
Francesca perched on a rock low enough for her to sit on and drank in the salty freshness of the air. Smart brother, her James. While her situation hadn’t changed, it seemed smaller under the wide expanse of blue sky with silky, white clouds painted across it. The sky touched the ocean, its deep greenish blue swirled with dark gray and occasional spots of white from breaking waves.
She needed to paint this and capture the atmosphere. On a rainy day, or even days darker than the few she’d just lived through, just seeing the colors reproduced in paint would do her good. Or perhaps someone else would derive enjoyment from the painting.
The Master Artist had created beautiful surroundings with His palette. But Francesca didn’t much care for the colors used to paint her life at the moment, despite their golden cast. Francesca assembled her easel and set her paint box on the nearest rock. She might as well create something where the colors were of her own choosing.
Gulls cried as they flew overhead, darting over the waves and then swooping closer as if to see what Francesca was doing. Fortunate birds. They had no knowledge of where their next meal would come from, but they soared without a care. Francesca wished she could sprout wings, too, and join them.
Enough. Her gloomy thoughts made the very idea of painting a chore, when normally she could lose herself in painting and forget where she was. Francesca took up her brush and covered the top portion of her board in blue paint. Now to mimic the ever-changing clouds.
She bit her lip and concentrated. Of all the settings she’d painted, she had never painted her beloved ocean before. Now it appeared on the board in front of her. Then came the sand, and the rocky shoreline. A few figures walked along the beach. She didn’t know whether to paint them in, or leave the seascape empty of people. She paused, her brush inches from the board.
A shadow slanted over her right shoulder.
“Francesca.” Alfred’s throat hurt, just saying her name. He had walked longer than he’d planned. Mostly he started walking to s
ee if Mother would be able to make the journey to the sea walk once he moved her to Tranquility.
Francesca turned and looked up at him, shading her eyes from the sunlight with one hand. “Alfred.” A kiss of blue paint smudged one cheek, and the fingers of her hand that held the paintbrush bore a variety of paint colors. The expression in her eyes tore at his heart.
“You’re looking well.”
“I … I had to get out and paint.” She glanced at the picture on the small easel. “I’ve remained in the house ever since the other night.”
Alfred looked out at the waves keeping up their incessant beat on the shoreline. “This is a good place to be. I’m looking forward to getting Mother moved to Newport.”
“How is she?”
“She’s had a good summer, and I know the air here will do her good.”
“I think I should like to live here all the time.” Francesca smiled, but not the full smile Alfred knew so well. “I would never tire of the view.”
“Nor I. But I know you will have new responsibilities, as I do.”
She nodded, and a few strands of her hair escaped their pins. “I didn’t expect this, Alfred.
Please don’t think I knew when we went sailing, or even the night of Consuelo’s ball when the count sat beside me at supper. I knew Mother was scheming, but I never dreamed her schemes would bear fruit. Not like this.”
“That never entered my mind for a moment. Not at all. When I saw you the other night, at supper, I saw the shock on your face.” He didn’t mention the sensation that surged through him of wanting to clear the table of its finery in a fell swoop, take Francesca by the hand, and whisk her away from Seaside and the confinement she must feel.
“I don’t know that I shall like winters or summers in Paris.”
“Perhaps the count will purchase a home here, or build one for you, so you can be close to your beloved ocean.” The words tasted sour on his tongue as he spoke them. The very idea of Francesca married to someone else and living nearby …
“I suppose.” The wind whipped her soft words away from her. “I am not aware of all the plans.”
