by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris
“What a charmante town Newport is,” Philippe said. “And thank you for allowing your daughter to ride with me. It has been most … enlightening.”
“I am very glad you have had the time to spend together.” Mother beamed.
“Oui, I have discovered one thing today.” Philippe nodded. “Francesca and I do not see the need to wait nearly a full year before we wed. We should like to marry in January, after the New Year.”
Mother started fanning herself. “But the preparations … I don’t know if there’s enough time to do everything in that short amount of time.”
“Mother, we don’t have to marry in January.” Or anytime, for that matter. “This was not my idea.”
Mother gasped. “You would call the man you are to marry, a count, a liar?”
“It is more his idea than mine.”
Philippe merely stared at her with the darkened expression she’d seen at the ball.
“Anyway, since when has anyone considered what I want in this entire agreement? Marrying in May was unacceptable. January? Unthinkable. Anytime? Unimaginable.” Francesca ground the words out. “If you would please excuse me, I think the heat and sun have gotten to me. I must go lie down.”
She nodded at Mother and bowed at Philippe, then scurried to her room before she said anything worse.
Chapter 12
Welcome, ladies of Newport society, welcome one and all!” Mrs. Finley’s voice could be heard above the crashing waves as she stood on the lawn of Tranquility. “I am so glad each of you could attend today. We gather, not just for ourselves, but for women everywhere.”
Francesca stood beside Victoria among a group of nearly two dozen women. She wore Philippe’s family ring out in public today after Mother’s chiding that she needed to show her engaged status.
After the fiasco of the Sunday drive several days ago, Francesca had not seen nor heard from Philippe. Just as well. Mother had hit a frenzy of wedding planning now that they’d lost months in which to see to details. Francesca told her mother to choose whatever she wanted on such short notice.
“Hello, cousin.” Lillian sidled up to her. “I wonder what the old windbag speaks of today.”
“Lillian, hush. She means well, and I for one want to hear her.” Francesca shot her cousin a glare and adjusted the silk sash that hung over her shoulder. Mrs. Finley had given each woman such a sash upon her arrival that said VOTES FOR WOMEN in large letters.
Mrs. Finley continued, “I have asked you to come today, not merely for a day of ladies’ diversions, but also to consider our rights as women, namely the right to vote.
“God has given us minds to reason. While we are considered the weaker sex, weak does not mean weak in our minds. My body is failing, I know. There may come a day very soon when I shall not be able to move around as I wish. But my mind is strong. And I realize that we have a voice, that we women can make a difference, not just in our homes, which we run more efficiently than our men could—”
At this, a few of the women tittered. Someone said, “That’s for certain.”
“We have been blessed like few women have been in our era. We also have the power to influence generations to come and change the world. But to do so, we must learn that we have a voice, and with God’s help, we must use that power.” Mrs. Finley paused. Waves crashed on the beach. No one spoke.
Francesca nudged Victoria, then started to clap. Her sister-in-law followed suit, and soon most of the women were applauding Mrs. Finley’s words.
When the applause ended, someone spoke. “But I let my husband decide on such issues. I don’t really want to vote about matters I know nothing about.” A few women nodded, and Francesca tried to see who had spoken.
“Then my dear, I am very sorry.” Mrs. Finley shook her head. “I realize that many of you might feel this way, and I have no ill will against you. I only ask that you think of the great advances we have made, and the benefits that we women have reaped from our husbands’ efforts. But what about us? Are we lesser because we do not conduct business as they do?
“I assure you, every wife here who runs her household must oversee affairs similar to her husband’s. We have responsibilities as well, and we should want to voice our choices like our men do.”
Murmurs rose, competing with some applause. Clearly, Mrs. Finley had a divided crowd, and this made Francesca smile. The formidable woman probably thought most ladies believed as she did, and while Francesca had never thought much about suffrage, Mrs. Finley’s ideas were thought-provoking.
The woman’s ample cheeks flushed, and she dabbed at her forehead. “But I will not keep us any longer from our festivities. You can see the delicious clambake I have prepared for us, and the tables under the tent will be laid with all manner of delicious fare.”
Two chefs appeared and began removing clams and oysters from where they had cooked in a pit along with roasted ears of corn.
“Utterly primitive,” Francesca heard someone mutter. “An odder woman never lived.”
She might be unconventional, but Francesca found her rather endearing. Mrs. Finley huffed and puffed as she scaled the beach path with the other women.
Francesca touched the older woman’s elbow. “Mrs. Finley, are you feeling well?”
“A little dizzy.” She wiped her forehead again. “I should have known better than to start this too early in the day. But Mrs. Smithson has her cotillion tonight, and since I wanted a lot of ladies to attend today, I could not have scheduled my clambake later.”
“Everything smells wonderful.” But then Francesca always loved fruits de mer. Her mouth watered at the sight of lobsters procured for the occasion.
“Sweet, sweet girl you are.” Mrs. Finley patted her hand before darting to the nearest table. “Oh, Mrs. Astor, please do take this chair here. It will yet be in the shade for a while.”
The other women took their seats, and Mrs. Finley situated herself next to Francesca. She ensured that everyone had a place setting and a tall glass of lemonade, and the servers began presenting the delicacies to the diners.
Francesca had eaten three clams when Mrs. Finley asked, “Where is your mother today?”
“She was not feeling well, and said she was going to stay home and lie down instead.” Although Mother had seemed well enough at breakfast, and she had sent and received several messages throughout the course of the morning.
“I see.” Mrs. Finley’s lips sealed into a thin line. “I’m afraid, child, that my friendship with your mother was linked to our husbands. Dear Charles, I miss him so, had a good friend in your father. Our families have always been good allies.”
“But then Alfred left.”
“The stubborn boy with a hot head and a temper to match. I told him years ago to hold his head high. He wouldn’t listen to his father, or to me, of course.” She glanced at the rest of their tablemates, engaged in their own conversations. “Rumors die off if not given fuel.”
“I know you are happy he’s returned at last.”
“To be sure. What a gift this last year has been. Seeing as I don’t know how much longer my health will hold out.” Mrs. Finley commenced fanning herself, and she stood. “Ladies, after the luncheon, I shall be glad to escort you through my home, and then we shall have tea.”
But scarcely had the women finished their luncheon and talking than barely half a dozen remained. Mrs. Finley and Francesca were the only two who remained at their table, plus Victoria and three women at her table.
Mrs. Finley sighed. “I don’t suppose you will stay for the tour and then tea. You’ve seen it already, Miss Wallingford.”
“I don’t mind, if Victoria would like to stay.”
“Of course I’d like to stay. I haven’t seen the house yet,” said Victoria. “The tour will be a welcome relief from the heat of the day.”
“Oh, we must get you inside, given your condition.” Mrs. Finley stood. “It would not do for me to send you home ill because of the heat.”
She bustled the r
emaining women into the house and whisked them on a whirlwind tour. The clock chimed four o’clock as they reentered the main entry hall of Tranquility.
The other four women apologized about not staying for tea, but they must return home to prepare for Mrs. Smithson’s event. Victoria said she should really go back to Seaside and lie down.
“What about you?” Mrs. Finley looked at Francesca. “Are you going to desert me, too?”
“Francesca, don’t leave on my account,” Victoria said. “I can send the carriage back for you in an hour.”
“All—all right.”
“Don’t sound so eager to stay, my dear.” Mrs. Finley motioned to one of her maids nearby. “Mary, tea for Miss Wallingford and myself in the conservatory. There should be a good breeze, I daresay.”
Within twenty minutes, Francesca found herself seated across from Mrs. Finley. The woman poured tea for both of them then smiled.
“I suppose I should have ordered us lemonade. There’s certainly something comforting about tea, though.” Mrs. Finley held up the sugar bowl. “Sugar?”
“Yes, and cream as well.” Francesca put sugar in her tea and stirred.
“I have to say I’m disappointed by the recent turn of events, both for you and for my son.” The older woman frowned as she handed Francesca the cream. “Not many want to put up with a woman with strange ideas. Look at today, for example. Like rats leaving a sinking ship, and using the cotillion tonight for an excuse.”
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think, Mrs. Finley.”
“If there were another dear, sweet, sensible girl like you out there for my Alfred, I would be inclined to agree with you.”
Somewhere a gull cried as it likely soared on the breeze. “And if there were, Mrs. Finley, I would be both happy for Alfred to meet her and jealous of the young woman. You know the date of my upcoming wedding has changed.”
“No. I had not heard. Sometimes the latest news escapes me. You poor thing. How are you dealing with that?”
“I’m resigned to it, I suppose. I keep praying for an answer, for something to change. But no answers have come. My faith is worn a bit thin, I’m afraid.”
“I should tell you the whole story about Alfred, and maybe you will take heart.”
“He already told me some of it.”
Mrs. Finley continued. “Mr. Cromwell has been my friend since we were children. But we did not marry. Instead he went away to serve in the military, and I was home. There I met Alfred’s father, Charles, and we built a good life. Succeeded, in fact, as you can see. But there was always Mr. Cromwell.
“Looking back, I see now that people were bound to talk. But I could not let him go, even as a friend. I could have loved him, before Mr. Finley. There were times he came as a houseguest. Mr. Finley was always home, you understand.
“Maybe it was a servant’s whispers, I don’t know who. But then I discovered I was with child, Alfred of course, and he was born exactly nine months after one of Mr. Cromwell’s visits.”
“But that should mean nothing.”
“The similar hair color said plenty enough. But mind you, I was never unfaithful to Charles. Never. I held my head high and endured the unchangeable public opinion, but poor Alfred was the one who paid the price.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you are strong like me, and you can endure whatever the future holds for you.”
“Marriage to the count will be a rather permanent state to endure.”
“One day, though, you must choose. You must hold your head high and choose to forget Alfred and step fully into the life with that count. Every day you delay this decision will make it all the more difficult for you.”
“You want me to forget him?” Francesca’s throat caught. She had been round and round the scenario a number of times, and the very idea set her into the doldrums.
“Sometimes in life, we must forsake what we want in favor of what we know must be done. Trust me, I know.” Mrs. Finley sipped her tea. “I have never told anyone what I am about to tell you.”
Francesca braced herself. “What is that?”
“At one time, when Alfie was small, I was sorely tempted to leave the life I had with Charles and join Mr. Cromwell. He never asked me to, but I could tell in his eyes sometimes.” The older woman sighed. “I knew the cost to my family—and my faith—would be more than I wanted to pay. This is why the sooner you forget my son, the better off it will be for everyone.”
The woman’s words rubbed salt on Francesca’s wounded heart. “I don’t know how I can do that.”
As soon as he entered the Newport Men’s Club lounge, glances told Alfred something was wrong. Conversations ceased, and then whispers started. Surely his tie was straight, and his hair that was wont to stray was perfectly in place, just as any gentleman’s hair should be. He checked to make sure that nothing had dropped on his tie at breakfast.
James was the first to rise from a cushioned leather chair and approach him. He clutched some papers in his hand. “You will not like this. We must speak privately at once.”
“What is wrong?” Alfred remembered whispers about Mr. Cromwell and Mother.
“Outside. We can talk better there. Fewer ears.”
They strode along the corridor, and Alfred snatched the papers from James. Telegrams from Western Union. From Colorado.
He read enough to tell him that his world was about to crumble. Mitchell Hamm was claiming Alfred Finley, styling himself as Alfred Wadsworth, was securing investments for a proposed Silver Light Mine while he lived in Colorado. Then, he left the state along with his partners’ investments.
“This is preposterous.” Alfred ground out the words. “I have dozens of friends and associates in Colorado who will vouch for me. Even Reverend Stone and his wife.”
“But your foundation,” James said as they continued along their way. “What will this nonsense do to it?”
Alfred burst through the front door of the club and took a deep breath. He’d been raised to be a gentleman, and the last bit of fighting he’d done was some boxing while at the university.
“Did anyone else receive this telegram?” Alfred glanced at the address again. “This one was addressed to you.”
James nodded. “Worse, Father received one as well. As did Mr. Vanderbilt, who asked me about it this morning. Plus Octavius Millstone. I don’t know who else so far.”
“Mitchell Hamm is broke and bitter. He does not have the funds to send telegrams like this. Because I have a recent letter from the Stones, and they mention him specifically.”
“Someone has gone to a lot of trouble and expense to attack your reputation.”
“And I have a feeling I know who did. It must be someone who knew all of my contacts here in Newport. Mitchell has no way of knowing these people, nor would he have the wherewithal to find out this information without assistance.” Alfred wheeled around and reentered the club. “Someone inside must know where Count de la Croix stays while he is in Newport.”
“Do you think it’s de la Croix?”
“Yes, because I know his secret.”
“Secret?” James grabbed Alfred’s arm. “What exactly are you privy to?”
“I should have said something as soon as I knew, but two things prevented me. First, I didn’t want to make an assumption and be wrong. Second, even if I were right in my assumption, I did not think your parents would believe me. After all, I am the snubbed would-be suitor.” Alfred ran one of his hands through his hair, not caring that it stood on end.
“I would not think that of you. But go on. Tell me what you know.”
“While in New York, I passed by de la Croix’s residence one morning. Lillian Chalmers was leaving. I see no reason why she would be leaving at that hour, and not arriving. I assumed, well …” The words tasted vile as they left his mouth.
James paced the landing at the top of the club steps. “This is not good. My parents should know this, although I’m afraid Mother wo
uld find a way to blame Francesca for whatever de la Croix has done.”
“I thought of that, too. I do not wish to cause her more pain, but this knowledge troubles me.” Alfred regretted not going to Mr. Wallingford right away. “This is why I think the count decided to discredit me to make sure I never talked about what I saw.”
James stopped pacing. “But surely de la Croix is shrewd. I don’t believe he would attack like this unless he felt threatened. You’ve said and done nothing until now?”
“You are the first I have told.”
“Not even your mother?”
“Certainly not Mother.” Alfred shuddered inwardly. “There is no telling what she would do if she knew, and might only make matters worse.”
James looked thoughtful. “So de la Croix must think that if all this time has passed, and nothing has happened to him …”
“You’re right. Of course this means if de la Croix has left well enough alone—as long as I have been silent, that is—only one other person could have done this.”
“Mother.” James slapped his forehead. “Francesca told me she’d threatened to make trouble.”
“What she’s done is nothing short of slander.” Now it was Alfred’s turn to pace. Between the two of them, they’d likely carve a rut at the top of the club steps. “It is common knowledge now that I’d been in Colorado. I suppose she could have hired an investigator quickly enough, with the right financial carrot dangling in front of the fellow’s nose. And I imagine she paid Mitchell a pretty sum to draw up this ludicrous accusation.”
“But it’s enough to cripple our foundation before it begins.”
Wise as a serpent, harmless as a dove came to Alfred’s mind. “Either way, I need proof of who has done this to me, and I have an idea. You might not like it, though.”
“What is that?”
“Would Victoria examine your mother’s papers? Surely she’s left record of something in her desk, especially if she believes no one suspects her.”
“I don’t know that she would.”
As much as it hurt Alfred to say it, he did so anyway. “Maybe you could suggest to Francesca to start taking a deep interest in the wedding plans. She’s a smart young woman. If we have proof, perhaps we can confront your mother about what she’s done.”
