by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris
“I know that. But life with me would hardly be a struggle.” Alfred tired of having to justify his position.
“Mother has this notion of reputation being supreme. And since, in her opinion, yours has a bit of a smudge—”
“I’d say it’s more of an ink stain.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“I’m not. I am simply a realist where your mother is concerned.”
James darted a glance down the hall as they headed to the side entry. “I’ll see what I can learn about this count. Surely his reputation isn’t completely stellar, despite the title. Perhaps if Mother can be persuaded that you are a better match, although title-less …”
“Thanks, James, for those thoughts. But I won’t try to undermine him. That would only paint me as more of a villain in your mother’s sight.”
As Alfred turned to leave, James called after him, “I know you’re the best man for my sister. We just need to convince Mother.”
Alfred waved and left through the door. Two paths sloped from the magnificent steps. One path led toward the carriage house and stables. The other led to the Wallingfords’ young gardens.
A lone figure sat on a bench underneath a small tree. Francesca. Alfred steeled himself on his first impulse to head toward the garden and instead intended to take the path to the carriage house. She looked up, in his direction.
He found his feet turning in the direction of the garden and his legs propelling him there as well. After the fiasco at dinner, no wonder Francesca sought refuge. When he reached her, he noted her red eyes and the rumpled handkerchief in her hand.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.
“You’ve been crying.” He settled next to her on the bench.
With the silence, they could hear the ocean nearby and a bird twittering away in a tree somewhere.
“I shouldn’t.” She dabbed at her eyes. “It won’t solve anything. But you must leave.”
“I’ll leave when I’m ready.”
“We are in full view of the side of the house. Anyone looking out the windows can see us.” Her gaze traveled to the great windows of Seaside that overlooked the garden. “Mother asked for a view of the terrace from her bedroom so she could look out on her roses. She may yet see us, instead. Or else one of her spies that work in the house may.”
“Very well. Perhaps we should stroll. Walk with me to the carriage house.” Alfred stood and offered her his arm, but she simply stared at it.
“I am afraid for you, Alfred.” She looked down at the handkerchief in her hands. “Mother made it very clear to me this afternoon that she is prepared to make trouble for you somehow. She wants to ruin everything you have worked for, and I feel as if I am to blame.”
“Why would you think that?” He gritted his teeth, not at Francesca, but at the very thought that Mrs. Wallingford would deliberately work against him. It was one thing to use her daughter as a stepping stone in society, but now to attempt to ruin him for good?
“Because try as I might, even though I am engaged to someone else, I cannot forget you.” With this, she stood and gripped his arm, and fresh tears streamed down her face.
He was in agony, trying to keep from pulling her into an embrace. “Francesca, you are not entirely to blame. Because I have not been able to forget you.”
Alfred allowed himself to use one of his thumbs to wipe a tear. Francesca moved her face ever so slightly and kissed his palm.
Then she stepped back. “Oh. I shouldn’t have.” With that, she took up her skirt and ran for the house.
Chapter 10
Alfred’s palm burned for the next two days, and the memory of Sunday followed him into the week. No matter how much he cared for Francesca, and no matter how much his business dealings brought him into contact with her father and brother, he had no need to spend more time in Newport than necessary. Except for Mother, who declared just before he left that she was sure she’d be “in sore need of a physician’s attention” before the summer’s end.
“Mother, if you require my presence, you may simply send word,” he’d said. But Alfred firmly believed that she didn’t want to be alone. Nor did he blame her. He did not want to face years of being alone, either.
With a word from him, Mother would likely begin sorting through her connections to see if one of them had an eligible daughter of marrying age. She would be a lovely, accomplished young woman who undoubtedly would not quibble at the arrangement—that is, if the Finley reputation and Mother’s idiosyncrasies did not deter the said woman’s family.
He looked at the papers on his desk, then at the city outside his window. Part of him wanted to return to Colorado and take Mother with him. Weren’t the springs there reported to have healing waters? Not that anything was really wrong with Mother, although she did have pneumonia over the winter and still became short of breath after walking too quickly.
“Your daily post, sir.” O’Neal entered his office.
“Anything of significance?” Alfred rose from his desk. He preferred to think of O’Neal as more of his assistant than a mere servant. He didn’t need a man to open doors for him and lay out his suits. He did, however, require someone to lend an extra hand and manage his schedule, which O’Neal did well, as had O’Neal’s father before him.
“A letter from Colorado may interest you.” He handed the envelope to Alfred.
“Thank you.”
O’Neal nodded and left the room.
Alfred sat down again and opened the letter.
Dear Mr. Finley,
We hope and pray this letter finds you well. We were sorry to have you leave us and can hardly believe it has been over a year already. But we know your mother needs you, and we think fondly of you often. Perhaps one day Mrs. Stone and I shall take a train east and visit you. The church is doing well, especially with the influx of new residents moving to the area.
We are thankful, too, that you advised us to purchase interest in the Lost River Mine. Even with our small share, we have received much blessing from a wise investment. Because of this, when Benjamin finishes school, we intend to send him to the university, and Betsy as well, who will read any book we give her. For that bit of advice, we are grateful to you.
Mitchell Hamm was wrong, of course, and I think he is merely jealous that his own efforts to mine silver have come up fruitless. We pray for him. The pursuit of instant wealth has consumed him, as it has many of us. The children ask about you often, and we tell them that mayhap we shall see you again, if not here, then on the other side of Glory.
We remain your friends and humble servants,
Herbert and Abigail Stone
Tempting, it was, to rejoin the Stones at their tiny but growing church in a mining town. There, the veneer of wealth was not as apparent as it was here among the people he knew and his father had known before him. But much as he prayed, he did not believe that returning to Colorado was the answer, even after he had sent O’Neal to inquire about the price of railroad tickets to Colorado for all of them—including Francesca.
To leave on impulse would be to destroy all his father had worked to build for him.
He leaned back in his chair until it squeaked. Mitchell Hamm had made trouble for him in Colorado, or had tried to. Alfred had been the greenhorn, wealthy outsider, and while the small community had grown to accept him, Mitchell had seen him as a threat for some reason. Alfred shook his head. He faced the same here. And he could not continue to live his life running.
The ballroom’s veranda at Seaside glowed with rectangles of light that shone through open doors. Francesca wanted fresh air. The dozens of partygoers cavorting on the dance floor of the latest cotillion had quickly raised the temperature of the room. All of them clad in the costume theme of the night—Ali Baba’s Arabian Nights—had filled the room with turbans and flowing cloaks. The late supper was being laid out buffet-style for the guests, so Francesca darted out to the veranda when the count was otherwise engaged in conversation.
Seaside could have an air of peace about it when not full of people as Mother had arranged for tonight. Francesca glanced down at the ring Philippe had given her at their engagement. Not a symbol of love, or even affection really. They barely knew each other. Business, of course. Business with her family. She should accept that.
Part of her knew she should try to think of the positive aspects of marrying Philippe, and if she let herself, she could almost forget Alfred for a few moments. Until a reminder returned, such as now.
Francesca leaned against the embellished granite railing and stared across toward the path that led to the sea. Footsteps on the stairs made her turn.
“There you are,” Philippe said. “Someone told me you had come to get some air.”
“It was hard to breathe inside, and I knew that no one would miss me for a few minutes.”
“Ah, but I did.” He moved closer, and she caught the scent of his cologne.
“I would have returned soon.” Francesca felt one of his arms encircling her.
“You are tres enchante in the moonlight, my Francesca.”
She looked at him, and he covered her lips with his. This was a man who knew how to kiss, and he probably had some practice in the activity, whereas she knew nothing except in the part of her imagination where she tried not to visit. Francesca pulled away.
“Did I do something wrong?” Philippe asked.
“I, um … I have never been kissed before. So I would not know.”
“Ah, I should have asked your permission first. But I could not help myself, with you standing there so beautiful at my side all evening. Tres enchante, as I have said.” He sounded penitent. “But, I must ask, did you like it?”
“I … I suppose part of me did.” She couldn’t ignore her pounding heart and didn’t want to lie to Philippe.
“What is wrong? Are you angry?”
“No, no.” Francesca patted his arm, now that she had freed herself of its hold around her.
“There’s someone else, Philippe. I care for someone else, and I did not know what my parents had planned. Our upcoming marriage, I mean.”
He made a noise that sounded almost like a grunt. “I see. So have you told your parents of your wishes, of this other one you care for?”
“They know my feelings.”
“I see,” Philippe said again. “And this knowledge did not change their minds. Well, then. A formidable opponent I have, unknown though he is. But I have one thing he does not.”
“And what is that?” She could scarcely believe the arrogance she heard in his tone.
“I will be the one marrying you, and I shall stay close enough so that you will have no choice but to give me your heart as well. Surely, I enter business with your father, but I am well aware of the benefits before me.” He offered her his arm, but as he did so, reached for her hand with his free one and pulled it underneath his arm. “And there is nothing this one you care for can do about it.”
“Of all the arrogant—”
“I am a realist, mon amour. I see you are angry, even though you say you are not. Do not make a scene in front of your guests as we go inside, s’il vous plaît.” He kept one hand tightly around hers as they climbed the stairs to head for the ballroom.
“You can be sure I will not make a scene, but if I did, you can be equally sure that all of Newport would talk about it for years to come. But I will do nothing to disgrace my parents.” Francesca smiled as they passed another couple seeking fresh air on the terrace. They reentered the ballroom, where a few guests lingered.
Victoria stood near the doorway that led to the hall. “There you are, Francesca. The late supper is ready. Are you all right? Your face looks pale.”
“I needed some air.” Francesca tried pulling her arm from the crook of Philippe’s elbow, but he held her tighter than a crab claw.
“And now, as you say, she is right as rain again.” Philippe smiled at Victoria and escorted Francesca from the ballroom.
“You need not hold so tightly,” she hissed as they stepped into the hallway. “I am not going to run away.” She nodded at the admiral and his wife on the way to Seaside’s dining room. At least physically she would not run. But in her imagination, Philippe would be invisible beside her for the rest of the night.
Francesca’s eyes were heavy with sleep, but she complied with Mother’s request and accompanied her to the sitting room. Her feet ached, and she longed to shed the new boots that had perfectly matched her gown. Their guests had left after consuming an early morning breakfast, and Francesca planned to slip upstairs to her bedroom as soon as Mother dismissed her.
Mother showed her to a cushioned chair. “Sit down, Francesca.” Then she rang a bell, and within a few moments, Mrs. McGovern, Elizabeth’s mother, appeared.
“Yes, Mrs. Wallingford.” The woman’s hair, probably once the color of Elizabeth’s, had been scraped into a tight bun. Her eyes looked tired, and she assessed Francesca with an even gaze.
Francesca matched her look and refused to squirm in the chair. She’d done nothing wrong lately that she could think of, and even if she had, this was not a reason to summon the housekeeper, who did Mother’s bidding and acted as Mother’s eyes and ears everywhere Mother did not go.
“I appreciate loyal employees, especially when they have my family’s interests at heart.” Mother smiled at Mrs. McGovern. “This is why I was distressed to hear of certain actions one Sunday afternoon, while I napped on the veranda.”
“All right. I’m still unsure of why you’ve brought me here and summoned Mrs. McGovern.” Francesca stood, not wanting to feel as if either of the two women had an advantage over her.
“Sit down, child.” Mother hadn’t spoken in that tone since Francesca was much younger, and had broken an antique vase.
Francesca complied.
“Are you prepared to tell me of your indiscretions?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Mother gasped. “Do I need to have you copy from the scriptures as you did when you were small, and select passages about lying?”
If Francesca weren’t already feeling the need to go smash a vase just now, she’d have laughed. “Mother. I honestly do not know what you are referring to. Please tell me, and if I have done something wrong, I will make amends and seek forgiveness.”
“Mrs. McGovern. Did you go to my bedroom on a Sunday afternoon but a week ago, to care for the linens?”
“Yes, Mrs. Wallingford, that I did.”
“Tell me what you witnessed.”
“Well, the room was warm, so I thought I would open a window to let in the breeze.” Mrs. McGovern glanced at Francesca. “I saw Miss Francesca in the garden. With Mr. Finley.” Francesca closed her eyes. Oh no. She’d warned Alfred, and she’d fled.
“And what did you see?”
“Mr. Finley touched her … in a way that wasn’t appropriate.”
“That’s not true.” Francesca stood. “In fact, he wasn’t the one who was anywhere near inappropriate. I was crying, and he wiped my tears—”
“Thank you, Mrs. McGovern. That will be all.” Mother inclined her head, and the housekeeper left.
Once the door had shut behind her, Mother continued. “So you do admit he touched you?”
“Alfred was not inappropriate. As I said, I was crying, and he wiped my tears with his thumb, Mother. That was all. If anything, I was the one being inappropriate.”
“What?”
“I kissed his palm. There! I admit it.”
Mother closed the space between them until Francesca could see her
pupils crackling.
“Didn’t I warn you? You are an engaged woman. You are spoken for. And yet you carry on like some—some—”
Francesca knew she could fill in some words for her mother, but chose not to. She braced herself.
“From now on, you shall never be alone except to bathe or sleep or tend to your toilette. I will allow you with Elizabeth, and you can be sure her mother will keep me informed of her actions. As the Finleys are family friends and we cannot ignore their connection, we will attend functions where they are present. But you will not be alone with him, and you will not speak to him nor send word to him in any manner.”
Francesca sank back onto the chair. “I understand.”
“Furthermore, you must focus your attentions on your future husband. At our fete it was clear the count could not take his eyes from you and wanted to be near you at every moment. Yet you treat him as if he were beneath you. Francesca, if you would make an effort, perhaps you would see that your father and I have not consigned you to a prison sentence.”
“Will you lock me in my room at night as Consuelo’s parents did?” She regretted the words as soon as they’d escaped her mouth.
“That can be arranged, if need be.” Mother went to the door and flung it open. “You may go now. And I shall send Elizabeth up to your room directly.”
Francesca clenched her teeth and marched from the room. She would not cry, nor would she knock over the grand palm tree Mother had moved into the entry hallway for the ball last night. Breaking something would only temporarily make her feel better, and it would be wasteful.
Her feet throbbed as she pounded up the unforgiving stairs. This house was cold, cold in the summer, and not from the stonework. She burst into her bedroom and tore off her attire. One of the seams protested and threatened to rip.
Francesca moved more slowly. She actually liked this costume, and had a feeling that Philippe had sent bolts of fabric from France for the gowns she now wore. She draped it on her vanity chair.
