by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris
“But you enjoy Paris. Think of all the painting you can do, the museums, the concerts.” Somehow Francesca being an ocean away appealed to him more, given the future plans.
Francesca glanced up and down the beach. “I don’t know if we should be talking. What if someone sees us, and they make a wrong assumption?”
“I am taking a walk. You are painting. We have known each other for many years. You have just become engaged to a count, and I am congratulating you, and we now speak of your future.” Liar. Alfred had no thoughts of congratulation. Perhaps commiseration.
Francesca wrapped up her paints. “I hear no congratulations in your voice. And if anyone sees us, they will not know what we discuss unless they hear us. But anyone can see that I …” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. She jammed her paint tray, still damp, inside the wooden box nearby.
“What is it?” He now stood close enough to see a few freckles on her cheeks.
She clutched his coat sleeve. “Please. Take me away, to the west, to Colorado. We can make plans and go by train. Show me those mountains you love, and buy me a ranch. We can find your minister friend, and he can marry us.”
Alfred looked down at her, saw the pleading in her eyes. He had nearly dreamed the same thing, of disappearing again like he had years ago to quiet the rumors and burn off his anger before he truly disgraced his family.
Little made him speechless, but the fact that she’d begged him to marry her made his head spin. “You … you don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Surely you can travel to New York when you must. Or what about mining?” She released his arm and started to pace. “Oh, and your mother. I know she’s been ill, and you don’t want to leave her. We can manage something.”
“We have obligations, Fran. We cannot just disappear and do as we please.”
“That’s very convenient for you to say.” She faced him, hands on her hips. “You’ve done that before. Why not now?”
“Because I can’t run anymore. The rumors may try to resurface, but I’ve learned. I can’t leave because I encounter opposition.” He wanted to catch hold of one of her hands, but thought better of the idea.
“Men.” She shook her head. “It is always the same. If I were a man—”
“You would still have difficult choices.” Alfred raked a hand through his hair. “Do you think the other night was easy for me?”
“What are you saying?”
“Part of me would love nothing more than to escape with you, to take you away from all this.” Somehow the distance had lessened between them. “But no good would come of it, not after a while.”
“So because of duty and honor, you would stand by to see me wed another?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Have you even tried to speak to my father about anything besides your foundation?”
“I must tread carefully, and truthfully, I was planning to talk to your father before the … the other night.”
“I really … I really wish you had, Alfred.”
“I know. But all is not lost. Not yet. Circumstances can change. You must have a little faith.”
“I want to, but there is nothing I can do.” Francesca sank back onto the rock she’d been sitting on. “And I am tired of doing nothing.”
“Dear, sweet Fran …”
“Please.” She spoke to the sand at the tips of her boots. “Please, call me Miss Wallingford. It would be better if we … get used to the way things are. And the way things will not be.”
“Very well.” Alfred nodded. “But have faith.”
She glared at the painting in front of her. “I don’t know if I can. But we can never speak like this again.”
Chapter 8
The gardens of Kingscote soothed Francesca’s spirits as she prayed and walked among the lovely greenery a week after seeing Alfred at the seashore. Was it only a week ago she had begged him to take her away and marry her? Oh, but her tongue had run off on her again. What must Alfred think of her now that she’d spoken so impulsively?
But after resigning herself to only think of Alfred as a friend, Francesca could finally sleep again. Mother remarked that Francesca was a lot more tolerable now that she was no longer experiencing “hysterics.”
Francesca felt so, too. Somehow if she pushed away the thought that she was to marry Philippe, a measure of peace came. But she could not deny that her life would change in unimaginable ways after she became the Countess de la Croix. She still, though, felt like the prayers she’d offered had struck the sky above her and drifted down again like lost feathers.
At least she hadn’t seen Philippe recently. He had disappeared after the ball her mother had given that fateful night.
She thought of his last words to her. “I should have thought that you would be happier.” Talking to her almost as if she were a spoiled child, indeed. The idea made her frown.
Elizabeth’s footsteps sounded on the path behind her. Francesca closed her leather-bound sketchbook and turned back to face her maid.
Elizabeth pointed to the darkening sky. “Miss, I believe we’re in for some rain showers.”
“I believe you’re right.” The afternoon heat had given way to clouds that rolled in from the sea. “Perhaps we should start home before we are caught in the rain.”
Elizabeth quickened her steps and joined Francesca at her side. Her maid had been a constant shadow since Francesca had deigned to go out in public after her engagement. If she was not with Victoria and James, Elizabeth would accompany her wherever she went. Had Mother guessed at her secret desire to flee? But she had not been locked in her room like Consuelo Vanderbilt.
The urge to flee did not assail her normally, but only during weaker moments, such as when the family’s carriage passed by the nearly completed cottage, Tranquility. Mother had mentioned at breakfast that she believed her old friend, Mrs. Finley, had arrived in town to see the home.
She’d said, “Imagine that, to consider occupying a home before it is properly finished and decorated. Almost vulgar, although I would hate to use the word to describe Mrs. Finley. I have known her too long. Although, considering past circumstances, it is not surprising.”
Francesca’s tongue was becoming sore, as much as she’d been required to bite on it during recent days. Which is why she’d ended up at Kingscote, strolling the grounds. Mrs. King had given them permission to visit, once she’d learned of Francesca’s artistic bent from her daughter, Gwendolyn. Now Francesca’s sketch pad had several pages of ideas for future paintings.
A few drops fell, and Francesca hugged her notebook to her chest. She and Elizabeth had a long walk home. Perhaps they should have asked for a carriage to be sent at a certain time, but it was too late to ask for one now. The breeze turned into a gust that pulled at Francesca’s skirts.
“Miss, I am sorry. Mother told me it might rain today. I should have listened to her and urged you to stay home.”
“No apology necessary.” More raindrops beat on Francesca’s shoulders and arms where her hat did not provide coverage. Poor Elizabeth wore a much narrower hat.
“Perhaps we should run?”
“Then if one of us slips and hurts herself, we would be far worse than we are now.” Francesca shivered. “And no one is home at Kingscote, or I should have sent you to the house to see if we could have assistance.”
Another gust of wind, and the beating rain was like needles. A carriage, far ahead of them, was traveling in the same direction. Francesca wanted to wave for assistance but doubted she’d been seen. Whoever was inside likely counted themselves fortunate to be sheltered from the downpour.
Puddles formed on the side of the road. Francesca wasn’t going to ruin her boots by tromping through muddy grass, although she guessed by their current state that a little mud would not make them worse.
A splashing sound made both of them turn around. Another carriage approached, its roof and trunk stacked with suitcases and satchels. It was pulled by a familiar-
looking pair of matched sturdy bays. Francesca nearly sighed with relief, but her heart fluttered. Her poor nerves.
She and Elizabeth stepped to the side as the carriage drew even with them and stopped. Alfred looked out the window.
“Ladies, please come inside at once.”
“Your carriage—the seats—we can walk.” Francesca didn’t realize how cold she was until she began to speak.
“Inside, now.” He swung the door open, and both Francesca and Elizabeth climbed inside, water streaming from their skirts.
An older woman sat next to Alfred on the seat. “My dear son, do you know these women?”
“Ma’am, I am Francesca Wallingford, and this is Elizabeth.” Francesca glanced at her wet hand. “I would shake your hand, but I’m afraid I’m not in the best state at the moment, for which I apologize. We were at Kingscote and got caught in the rain on our return home.”
“That is quite obvious, my dear.” She leaned forward, her dark skirt billowing around her. “Hmmm. You have your mother’s grace, but your father’s coloration and I daresay his demeanor.”
Francesca didn’t know if she ought to thank the woman, or not, so she kept silent.
“You, of course, probably don’t remember me, and I daresay I haven’t seen you since you wore your hair down. Of course, I’ll excuse the fact that you appear more like a drowned waif at the moment.”
A smile tugged at Francesca’s mouth. She liked the woman’s honest unpretentiousness.
“You’re quite right, Mrs. Finley.” Her only memories of Mrs. Finley were that the woman was opinionated and had a loud voice but a kind heart. “I should say that your son has built a lovely home so far. Judging by what I’ve seen on the outside, that is.”
Mrs. Finley looked at Alfred. “You haven’t had company yet? It seems to me as if you are dragging your feet at getting this house finished.” Did Alfred wince, or was it Francesca’s imagination?
“No, Mother. The furniture has arrived, and I’ve had it set up. But I wanted you to oversee where you wanted everything placed.”
“Quite right, quite right.” She sighed. “I’m just thankful I’ve lived long enough to see the home built, praise be to God. I think I shall live to see another year.”
“Of course you will.” Alfred took his mother’s hand. “I’ve already seen to fires being lit to make sure you are warm enough.”
“Well, then.” Mrs. Finley patted Alfred’s hand. “We must take these two young ladies by our home to ensure they are warm and dry as well. It would not do, would not do for us to leave them off at their home, dripping and soggy.”
In the space of ten minutes, they had arrived at Tranquility and entered its great entry hall. A fire roared in the main fireplace. Though the house was large, it seemed to welcome Francesca and Elizabeth.
Alfred had used few words as they entered the house, and he directed a few of his servants to bring blankets and prepare hot tea. His mother gave orders as well, for her bags to be brought to her suite of rooms. In the end, she sighed and followed the maids and carried two of her own satchels upstairs herself.
“I shall return,” she announced to them. “I must make sure the bags are in their proper order. Otherwise I know I’ll never find anything.”
Francesca smiled at her retreating form. She joined Elizabeth at the fireplace. The young woman shivered inside the blanket.
“Elizabeth, are you all right?” She touched her face. Not hot. Just damp, like her own.
“It’s just the cold, miss. That cold rain and wind. Once I’m dry, I shall be fine. And a cup of hot tea will help, too.”
Francesca tried to keep her own teeth from chattering as Alfred tucked a blanket around her shoulders. The tender gesture made her throat catch, and she wanted to take one of his hands that held her shoulders so gently. Worse, she wanted Alfred to take her in his arms, to warm her and keep her close. Oh dear.
Philippe. She must think of Philippe. Were it not for the rain and her concern for Elizabeth, she’d have run off right then. She forced herself to take in the architectural details of the home.
“Alfred, this is truly wonderful.” Francesca touched the carved stone of the fireplace.
“This isn’t marble?”
He shook his head. “Limestone, from Texas. The main structure is built of New Hampshire granite.”
“Your mother must be very proud of you.”
“I suppose she is.”
“She is a vivid woman and speaks her mind.”
“Oh, kind words about her. I’ve heard much worse.” He smiled at her, and then the expression faded. “Please excuse me. I’ll go see about those cups of tea for you both.” He nodded at Elizabeth before he turned on his heel and left them.
Elizabeth left the warmth of the fire and looked out one of the tall windows that ran the length of the entry hall. The bank of windows opened onto a lawn that faced the sea. “The rain is still coming down hard.”
Francesca nodded and shivered. “I wish it weren’t. Then we could leave.”
Footsteps from one of the hallways made them both look toward the sound. A young man, barely older than Alfred, came into view. He carried a tray with two cups. Steam rose from the tops and swirled above the man’s head.
“Miss Francesca, Miss Elizabeth, I have tea from Mr. Finley.” He nodded and smiled as he placed the tray on the long, low table in front of the fireplace. “Will you be needing sugar?”
“No, I will not.” Francesca picked up one the cups and let its warmth sink into her fingers and palms.
“Sir, I’ll be taking some sugar, but I can do it myself.” Elizabeth joined them, and as she picked up her cup, the man went to reach for it as well. Their fingertips brushed.
“I beg your pardon, miss.” The man’s neck bloomed red, and so did the tips of his ears. He stepped back as if he’d touched a hot fire poker.
Elizabeth’s face resembled the shade of a rose petal, and Francesca suppressed a chuckle. She’d have to ask Alfred about the young man. Then she reminded herself that the last time she and Alfred had talked, it was as if she’d cut off any familiarity with her friend. To be faithful to Philippe, she must.
“So how long has this been going on?” Alfred’s mother eyed herself in the looking glass, then remarked as if to no one in particular, “I’d have worn the blue dress, had I known we’d have company.”
Alfred leaned against the doorframe. “How long has what been going on?”
“You and the smart young miss downstairs. I may not be as young as I once was, but even I know what those looks mean.”
“Mother, honestly.” Alfred wished he’d never told Mother he’d pick her up himself from the train station, had never agreed to move her into the house this week. They would never have encountered Francesca and her maid on the road. The two would have arrived home, drenched like the rats Mother had spoken of and little worse for the experience. A twinge of guilt at their discomfort nagged at him, but Alfred stayed strong. He’d done well to keep Francesca out of mind, if not entirely out of sight, since they’d last seen each other. He had enough business in New York to keep him occupied, but here he was, playing the part of reluctant rescuer.
“Well, do I need to inquire about town, or call on the Wallingfords?” She turned and looked at him, her green eyes sharp. She was still a beautiful woman, even with her graying reddish hair.
“I would have liked to have married her, it’s true.” The admission, spoken aloud, had scratched at the wound on his heart. “But she has become engaged to someone else.”
“Someone else?” Mother shook her head. “How could you have let this happen, if you care for her so much? She is from a good family, with excellent prospects. And you two have a like faith. That, in our small circle, is nothing short of a miracle. Plus, she’s not hard on the eyes. She’d give you beautiful children.”
“Mother!” Alfred’s voice squeaked like it did when he was thirteen, and he felt about the same age. “You know it’s not that si
mple. Her intended is a French count, and the whole agreement was sealed up neater than a business transaction.”
“But he hasn’t won her heart, evidently.”
“I am not about to ruin my reputation, or hers, or what we’ve worked for, by overstepping my bounds.” He wanted to be honorable, but that day by the sea, he’d nearly agreed to whisking Francesca away.
“All is not lost. How long have they been engaged? I know you would not seek an illicit tryst or anything of the sort with her, so it can’t have been for long. I take it the engagement is more of a family arrangement, if she returns your feelings.”
“The announcement was made nearly two weeks ago. Didn’t you read it in the New York Times?” He’d burned his copy as soon as he saw the announcement.
“I suppose I read it, but I didn’t make the connection with us. Plus all that news about the Vanderbilts. We must make sure we are invited to the next ball, if possible.” She fingered her pearls. “My dear, where are our guests, and who is tending to them?”
“I sent O’Neal to fetch their tea from the kitchen and serve it to them.”
“But that’s my job! I’m the lady of the house. That man’s as nervous as a cat, and he’s probably spilt both cups over the poor girls—not that being wetter will harm their situation any—and he’s likely broken at least one of my china cups.” She pushed past Alfred and left the room. “You need to find him a wife.”
Alfred had a headache, but he followed Mother down the hall and to the main staircase. He had installed an elevator, but it wasn’t operational yet. As Mother didn’t quite seem to be ready for the wheelchair she claimed she needed, he didn’t see the urgent need just yet.
They found the two young women still before the fireplace in the great room, with O’Neal engaged in conversation with Elizabeth. Her easy manner had made him stop that incessant tugging at his collar. Extraordinary.
Francesca was seated on one of the large chairs that faced the fire and sipped her tea with a bemused expression on her face. Then, she rose from her chair when she saw them enter the room.
