by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris
Mother bustled over to the chair next to Francesca. “Don’t get up on account of me. Last I knew, I wasn’t the queen. How are you feeling?”
“Much warmer, and drier, thank you.” She smiled at Mother, then looked up at Alfred. He moved to stand by Mother’s chair.
“No thanks to my son. I’m sorry we kept you waiting, or I would have seen to your tea myself. Poor manners.” She reached over and patted Francesca’s arm. “The rain still continues, and here we are. Alfie?” she called over her shoulder in a tone that nearly shattered his eardrum. “Oh, here you are. Sneaking up on us, are you? Well, you must give us ladies the grand tour. I haven’t seen this since it was a granite box, waiting for refinement.”
Alfred wanted to tell Mother that she was exaggerating, but thought the better of it. “Of course. I apologize for the lack of curtains. The seamstresses aren’t quite finished.”
Mother rose and tucked her arm through his. “So long as the fabrics are the same as the ones I chose in the spring, no matter. It wouldn’t do to have the wrong ones hung, now would it? Ladies, please join us, and bring your blankets if you need them.”
Elizabeth said, “Ma’am, if it’s all the same to you, I can remain here by the fire.” She looked down at her teacup, as if she realized her place once again.
Francesca joined them, and Alfred wished he could tuck her arm through his as well. She pulled the blanket around her shoulders as they started along the first hallway to the left.
Alfred led them into a room with a fireplace taller than him and wide enough to drive a carriage into. “This is the dining room.”
“Oh, how beautiful,” Francesca said. She stopped and stared at the now-completed mural. “Are those …”
“The Rocky Mountains, yes.” Alfred led Mother to one of the newly arrived chairs. “Here, Mother. You can try out one of the chairs while you look at the room.”
“You’ve outdone yourself, son. I feel like I can walk into that painting and climb that mountain. If it weren’t for my bad back, that is.” She settled onto the chair he’d pulled out for her with much display of groaning and not a little creaking. She scanned the room. “Service for sixteen. That’s enough for me, you, and your wife. Plus thirteen guests. Adequate.”
“Yes, I thought the service for twenty-four you had asked for at the beginning a little excessive.” He headed over to the fireplace. The stunning carved wood mantel was his favorite part of the room, besides the mural.
“My dear, this is a Newport cottage, and we are hardly excessive.” She waved him off, while Francesca’s beautiful laugh filled the room.
“Pardon me.” Francesca looked at Mother. “It is refreshing to hear someone speak their mind about how we conduct ourselves.”
“The truth can never be gilded. At least not for long.” Mother shot him a sharp glance, then flicked a look back at Francesca. “So, tell me about this man you are to marry.”
Alfred confirmed in his own mind that the house tour was a bad idea. In a private moment, he’d admitted to himself that he dreamed of having Francesca run this household. She and Mother got along splendidly, and Mother didn’t particularly care for most young women of their group and had even chased off a few by her demeanor.
“Well … what would you like to know?” Francesca moved closer to the dining table.
“What does he do? Is he here for the summer? I understand the engagement happened recently.”
“His name is Count Philippe de la Croix and—”
“Oooh, French, and a count to boot. Divine. Do go on.”
“I’m not sure exactly what sort of business he conducts, but he divides his time between Paris, London, and New York. He enjoys entertaining, where many men seem to have an aversion to it, and he is an accomplished horseman and a patron of the arts.” Francesca’s voice fell flat, and she looked over to where Alfred stood.
“A fine list of accomplishments, to be sure. Isn’t it, Alfred?”
“Yes, Mother. I have met the man on a previous occasion and find him most agreeable. Men consider him a formidable negotiator in business, and the women all adore him, and duly so.” The old anger bubbled inside him like the sea churning before a storm. “But he can only marry one.”
“Yes. How fortunate my parents made him an offer he could not refuse.” Francesca stood up straighter, her cheeks shot with red. A strand of honey-colored hair, now drying, stuck to her face. She pushed the offending strand away. Alfred understood more clearly her desire to disappear with him, especially when she looked at him like that.
Mother patted Francesca’s hand. “Child, they love you.”
“If they loved me, they would listen to me and not their bank account. Forgive my directness, Mrs. Finley. It is difficult to marry the rest of me away when my heart belongs to another.” Francesca bit her lip, and Mother squeezed her hand.
Alfred crossed the room and stopped himself before he pulled Francesca close and … he struck down the idea. She was engaged, he reminded himself.
Mother looked thoughtful, which may or may not mean a good thing. “My son, you say this count is adored by all the women.”
“I suppose he is. I have been too busy to notice his affairs, no pun intended.” He gripped the tall leather back of the chair in front of him.
“I don’t really know, either.” Francesca’s face paled. The look she gave Alfred reminded him of the expression she’d worn when her parents announced her engagement.
“Interesting,” Mother said. “I wonder if the man has any secrets.”
She wore that ponderous expression again, and Alfred wondered what thoughts spun inside his mother’s head.
Chapter 9
For the rest of the week, Francesca moved through her tasks mindlessly. Tennis at the Newport Casino. Another clambake given by the Williamses. Piano lessons. French lessons (a new endeavor). And all the while escaping Mother’s insistence that she start planning her trousseau. Mother had insisted that Francesca write the count a letter, which Francesca did; but she promptly tore the missive up and threw it away and went to study French some more.
Now on Sunday morning, she squirmed on the pew and tried to pay attention to the sermon. It didn’t help that someone’s hat blocked her view of the minister, who usually was as interesting to watch as he was to listen to. He didn’t merely read verses of scripture, but made them sound as if they were being spoken for the first time.
“Riches …” He drew out the s at the end of the word. “Riches are fleeting, temporary. One man may find himself king of the world one day, and the next day, possessing little more than a pauper’s inheritance. Yet the man remains the same….” He let the words echo off the walls with their stained glass windows. “Or does he?”
Wealth had not changed Alfred, at least in Francesca’s estimation. She let her wandering thoughts drift back to the rainy day earlier in the week.
The experience at Alfred’s house had left her exhilarated yet troubled. She had not spent much time with Mrs. Finley and was greatly surprised to see that the woman fared so well for one supposedly so ill. Francesca had found herself decorating his home in her imagination—one long hall filled with landscape paintings, the other hall filled with family portraits. The dining room was already perfect, even though the chandeliers had yet to be hung.
But Mrs. Finley’s questions about Philippe bothered her the most. To be sure, she had not seen him for nearly three weeks, and here it was Sunday again. Not that she had any strong feelings for him anymore, but he certainly hadn’t seemed to act like an engaged gentleman. However, her own words came back to her, about her parents making him an offer. If he merely gained a wife through a business transaction, so be it.
What if Philippe had someone else in mind? What would make a man forsake someone he loved to marry another? Money, of course. A good connection.
She bowed her head as the rest of the congregation did so, but her prayer was likely unique to her. Father above, give me grace to do what I must. I do
not wish to disgrace my family or Philippe, but it is so difficult. Show me the way. Because what I really want to do is run for those beautiful mountains that are painted in Alfred’s dining room. How can I love a man and honor a man who does not care for me?
“Fran, are you ready?” Victoria plucked at her elbow, and Francesca raised her head.
“Guess who will be dining with us today? None other than Alfred Finley and his mother.”
“How did that happen?”
“James invited them. I think he’s trying to solidify the old family alliance.” Her mother and Mrs. Finley in the same room again. She would have to see this. And try not to think too much about Alfred.
As Mother would have it, Francesca could not see Alfred at the noon meal, nor could she hear him very well. They were seated on the same side of the table, with Mrs. Finley and Mother between them.
James never wanted a quiet meal and therefore tossed out a question, not to Francesca’s surprise. “So, what did you think of the Reverend’s message this morning? About the deceitfulness of riches and the fleeting nature thereof?”
“James, are you addressing anyone in particular?” Mother asked.
“No, Mother. I am simply making conversation. Since it is the Lord’s Day, I think it bodes us well to consider the words we heard earlier, and if we might somehow apply them to our lives.” He stabbed his slice of meat, and his fork squeaked against the plate.
“Well,” Father said, “I am reminded every day that riches are fleeting by the manner in which your mother spends my money.”
Francesca ducked her head to the side and stifled a laugh. Father seldom spoke in such a manner, and she couldn’t tell if he was truly joking or not.
“Mr. Wallingford, we have money to spare, and our lives here require a certain appearance.” Mother huffed, and Francesca knew she probably glared at both her husband and her son. “We are the examples to the rest of the world of how, by hard work and God’s blessing and good fortune, one can live.”
James glanced at Francesca and gave her a look that said, Here, the lecture commences.
“I, for one, enjoy a well-appointed home,” Mrs. Finley interjected, “and yet I do not ever want to forget the life I once had. Many in our world are not so fortunate, and I feel I must do what I can, when I can, to help them.”
“Humph. I try to forget every single day the life I once had,” Mother said.
“I didn’t find it so bad.” Francesca gulped when she realized she’d spoken aloud. “I know I was very young, but I remember our home in Connecticut, not far from the sea. I loved helping you make the bread, and I still remember stitching my first piece.”
“Of course. You were but a child then.” Mother leaned forward, as if to see around Mrs. Finley, who seemed to be enjoying her roast beef. “The drudgery of chores was fun to you. You did not have to see, day after day, other homes and things you could not have.”
She wanted to melt into a puddle underneath the table. Didn’t Mother see how ridiculous her posturing appeared?
“This is why I want to start my foundation,” Alfred said. “Many families never have opportunities like ours. I want to give enterprising young men, and women, the chance to enroll in universities. The future is bright, and I believe God wants me to make a difference in the world by sharing what I have.”
Mother said nothing in response to that, and they finished the meal in silence. The plates and place settings were collected, as always, and Francesca excused herself. If not for Philippe, she would have wanted to take a walk with Alfred. If not for Philippe, Alfred would probably be speaking to Father.
The men went their way, and the women their own directions. Mrs. Finley thanked them for a splendid meal, and left for home, saying she needed a nap. Victoria took her leave as well, saying she felt like resting. Francesca wanted to follow suit but found herself headed with Mother toward the back terrace to catch some of the sea breeze, where Mother planned to commence reading aloud from the book of Proverbs in the book of verses that she carried.
As soon as they left the dining room, Mother began. “Do not ever refer to our meager beginnings in such terms again.”
“Mother, it was not my intention—”
“I hated being poor. If you think your tender years were humble, then you do not wish to know about my upbringing as well as your aunt’s. You never lived in a neighborhood one level above the poorhouse.” The air crackled with Mother’s words. “This is why my sister and I are trying to ensure your futures—yours and Lillian’s both.”
“My future will be secure, even without a count.”
“I am your mother, and I know best for you.” She stopped at the terrace doors, and Francesca nearly ran into her. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the looks between you and Mr. Finley. It is not going to happen. He is not going to marry you, take you away from here, squander your wealth, or both.”
“Marrying Philippe means I must live in Paris part of the year, so in a sense he will also be taking me away from here.” She didn’t bother to defend Alfred concerning the idea of squandering her wealth. The idea was ludicrous.
Mother yanked open the terrace door. “That is an entirely different matter.”
Francesca didn’t see how living an ocean away would be different than marrying Alfred—the thought made her dizzy—and living elsewhere, perhaps on his family estate on the Hudson River.
The fresh air outside diluted some of the acid from Mother’s words. Francesca sat on the nearest lounge chair, and Mother took the next one.
“Furthermore, if you continue to test me in the matter of Mr. Finley, I guarantee I can make life very, very difficult for him in our circle.” She opened her book of verses. “Now, I believe we left off at chapter four last week, so we shall begin there.”
Mother’s tone changed to one soft as rose petals as she read from Proverbs, and while part of Francesca knew the sacred words would do her good, all she heard was her pulse pounding in her ears and tasted her own angry words, unspoken. But more than the breeze chilled her at recalling Mother’s threat. What could she possibly do to Alfred?
A gull cried somewhere, and Mother read on, accentuating particular verses where she likely felt Francesca was lacking. Her words slowed, and then she yawned.
“Forgive me. I may have overindulged at dinner today.”
Francesca said nothing, but waited for Mother to continue reading. She glanced to the side. Sure enough, Mother’s head bobbed as she studied the page in front of her.
“For the ways of man are before the eyes of the Lord, and he pondereth all his goings …” Mother fell silent, and her head leaned back onto the lounge. A tiny snore escaped from her mouth.
The blue sky looked limitless today, as if any bird could fly straight to heaven. Today might be a good day to send another fervent prayer to the heavenly Father’s ears.
Please, help, Father God. I see no change in my circumstances, and I am losing hope. Before long, wedding plans will assail me, and for the rest of my life, I feel as if I will be swept along and become voiceless.
Mother’s snoring intensified, and Francesca’s fidgets took over. She left Mother lying on the lounge chair, her book of verses resting on her lap.
She didn’t want to return to the house, but instead headed for the gardens in the side yard. The new plantings had been skillfully nurtured by the gardener. Next summer they’d likely have roses, and Francesca wondered if she would be around to see them, or if she’d be in New York, or in a rental cottage while Philippe had a summer home built for them.
The hollowness inside meant she’d resigned herself to what would happen. She was sure of it. Francesca was never given to tears unless under extreme duress. She thought she’d been drained of every present and future tear when her parents announced her engagement to Philippe. Yet, sitting down on the low stone bench under a young tree, more fresh tears came, the kind accompanied by sobs.
“Please protect Alfred, Lord. He wants to do Your work. I
don’t know what Mother could possibly do, but her manner frightened me to think of what she might scheme. Even if it means Alfred and I will never be together, protect him. He’s had enough disappointment in his life.”
Francesca drew a handkerchief from her pocket. She could not go on like this. One thing she agreed with Mother on—a lady must never let her emotions master her. She prayed again for the strength to do the right thing.
“So the White Star Line has cut down on transatlantic travel time, and I daresay we’ll do the same with our shipping operation. Not just from China and here, but between New York and London as well.” Alfred shifted on the cushioned wingback chair. “Another market I’m interested in is Western imports.”
“You mean from Colorado, Texas, New Mexico?” James asked.
Alfred nodded. “James, it’s beautiful country out there. The local crafts and artisans are undiscovered talent. Any gallery in New York would be foolish not to sell their work. Not to mention the mines in Colorado have great potential.”
He paused, and the silence was punctuated by a loud snore from Mr. Wallingford, who’d been listening to the younger men talk.
“It’s not that Father’s uninterested, you know.” James looked apologetic.
“Of course not.” Alfred rose and stretched. “I don’t want to have overstayed my welcome, so I ought to be on my way now. Back to New York. Are you coming as well?”
“Yes, unfortunately. Victoria says she misses me when I’m gone. But I’m here every weekend, and sometimes for a quick overnight during the week.”
“Oh, to be carefree boys once again, without responsibilities. Life was simpler, was it not?”
“To be sure it was. But I like the benefits of adulthood.” James grinned.
They left Mr. Wallingford dozing in his great chair. The man likely dreamt of a world where his wife wasn’t spending his money.
“I’ll see myself out,” Alfred said in the hallway. “Side door to the stables, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.” James stopped walking for a moment. “And Al, don’t worry about Francesca. She’s going to be fine. Mother’s a bit … hard … on her. She doesn’t want her to have a life of struggle.”
