by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris
“I have spoken to your father.”
“And?”
“I am a man in want of a wife, but she must be most suitable.”
“Oh, she must? What are the requirements one must meet?”
“She must be intelligent as well as beautiful, full of faith as well as laughter, compassionate as well as honest, impulsive as well as refined.”
“That’s quite a list.”
“One more thing, too.” Alfred took her hands in his. “She must always know her place.”
“Which is?”
“With me, as you are right now.” Alfred sank onto one knee on the sand. “My darling Francesca, there is nothing in my world that would make it more complete than if you would become my wife. No business transaction. Just you and me. Always.”
“Of course, of course.” She pulled him to his feet. “I would marry you whether you had millions or had nothing, no matter who your father is or what you own or where you live.”
“So you agree?”
Francesca nodded. “It has been my prayer this long time, that this day would come.”
“Then kiss me, and make our agreement complete.” And so she did.
Epilogue
June, 1896
Newport, Rhode Island
Darling, I can’t believe you wouldn’t have a New York wedding.” Mother fussed over the last details of Francesca’s wedding gown. “And not even in a church. It’s a miracle that the Times is covering the event at all.”
“Don’t fret, Mother.” Francesca studied her reflection in her bedroom mirror. One last look at Miss Francesca Genevieve Wallingford before she became Mrs. Alfred Finley.
“The reverend is more than happy to conduct the ceremony under heaven’s roof on our lawn.” She’d tried to talk Mother into agreeing to a seaside wedding, but Mother would not bend to that. Francesca figured the battle was not worth the struggle.
At least she and Alfred would be married within sight of the beloved ocean. Nearly two hundred guests waited on the lawn below for Francesca to appear—and that was the trimmed guest list.
The old whispers had died away after Mother’s scheming had been revealed, and the society mavens decided to leave the couple in peace. After all, it was whispered, hadn’t that sweet, young Francesca Wallingford been through enough, barely escaping being wed to that philandering count?
He and Lillian were gallivanting through Europe now. At least that was the last report Mother had heard.
Sometimes during the wedding planning, Mother would sigh and remark that she could have had a count for a son-in-law. But it seemed that having a happy daughter made life easier.
“I will go now, and let the guests know the service can commence.” Mother scurried away, her hat looking like a swan had somehow alighted upon her head.
Francesca took up her bouquet. Time to meet Father and walk to meet Alfred at the edge of their sea cliff, where a small, covered altar had been built for the occasion.
When the rear doors to Seaside opened, and Francesca saw the expanse of lawn dotted with chairs, and beyond that, the sea, her heart quickened. Surely, God had delivered her out of the fire, unscathed, through His Providence.
The violins and instruments of the small orchestra swelled, and the sound drifted across the breeze.
“Ready, daughter?”
“Yes, Father. I’m ready.”
She walked with him along the path, past their guests, and then Father released her to Alfred, whose eyes shone with love for her. All the worldly goods he could bestow on her meant nothing without that love. Perhaps the wealth would leave them one day, but so long as they had each other and the knowledge that true wealth could never be bought or sold, they would be the richest couple alive.
Alfred took her hand, and whispered, “I love you, Francesca Wallingford.”
“Alfred Finley, I love you, too.”
Note to Reader
While Marble House, the Breakers, Kingscote, and The Elms are actual “cottages” once used by the elite of Newport society at the end of the nineteenth century, Seaside and Tranquility exist only in the imagination. However, many of the Newport mansions disappeared over the years, and only a handful are left. I beg Alva and Consuelo Vanderbilt’s indulgence as I use parts of their true story here, as well as make room for Tranquility and Seaside along Newport’s famed Bellevue Avenue.
Also, Mrs. Oliver H. P. Belmont did not open the Newport County Suffrage League until the summer of 1912. However, who’s to say that ladies didn’t have the inclination to gather and discuss women’s rights and suffrage in 1895? The ladies’ suffrage movement had already taken hold in America by that time.
IN SEARCH OF A DREAM
by Pamela Griffin
Dedication
A huge thank-you to my critique partners, Theo and Mom.
And to my Lord, who removed the scales from my eyes so that I could see truth, I owe everything.
Prologue
Lyons’ Refuge, 1937
Clemmie Lyons toiled over her letter, her mind elsewhere, her heart playing betrayer with thoughts of …
Him …
Her dream …
A dream no longer …
“Stop it,” she chastised herself. “It’s been more than three years. He has his own life, a different life.”
He had a life all right; one that evidently didn’t include acknowledgment of her or her parents, who had practically raised him on their farm. They’d received not one call, not one letter or lousy word that he was still living and breathing. She knew he must be; they would have heard otherwise, since the Navy informed next of kin. His mother died giving him life; his father died in jail. He had no living relatives. Was he even still in the armed forces? It had been more than seven years since he entered them.
Clemmie blew out a frustrated breath and put pen to paper:
Really, Hannah, your offer for me to come visit couldn’t have come at a better time.
At least with such a diversion, Clemmie would be away from Lyons’ Refuge and all the persistent memories that nagged at her. She shook her head and went back to writing her letter:
Things aren’t hopeless here, despite the depression, since Grandfather didn’t invest in stocks, but I look forward to a change of scenery, regardless. It’s very gracious of your great-uncle to allow me to visit his estate for the rest of the summer. How fortunate that he also protected his investments and didn’t lose everything on that horrible Black Friday.
And maybe, if she did go to Connecticut, his face wouldn’t haunt her from every corner of the house!
Did I tell you we received a letter from Angel? She and her husband are well, as is little Everett. I remember when I learned that Roland was Vittorio Piccoli’s grandson I questioned Angel’s logic and sanity! But after visiting with them last summer, I can see why Angel is infatuated. He’s very nice. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what a monster his grandfather is, since he was the mastermind in the tragedy that befell your parents, with the loss of their first child and almost killing your mother! How terrible those days must have been for them!
But I digress; Tommy went to live at their farm two years ago, to help out—I think I told you? However, that’s not all—he’s fallen in love! Can you believe it? Our little Tommy? Strangely enough, it’s with Angel’s cousin, Faye, who’s been a frequent visitor to the farm. They were married last month. We only learned news of it when Angel thought to write us. I’m so thankful she did! Tommy was always such a horrible letter writer, much like Father.
And very much like Joel Litton.
Clemmie curbed the desire to throw her fountain pen across the room. Her behavior really was absurd. She’d barely thought of him these past years—well, not as often as in her childhood anyway. She’d been all of ten when he entered the Navy. And on his last visit home, near her fifteenth birthday, he’d had a girl hanging on his arm. Clemmie scrunched up her nose in distaste at the memory, but a faint smile soon tilted her lips.
>
Despite his being twelve years older and quite obviously the man about town—a true heartbreaker, from all the unattached young women she’d seen panting after him—Joel always had made time for Clemmie. He treated her as a kid sister, and his annoying habit of calling her “Carrottop” rankled, the older she grew. But even if he did tease, she tolerated such behavior to be near him. All the boys had teased her, but Joel had also shown kindness. He’d acted as if he enjoyed her sole company, what little of it she scrounged from his clinging female companions, and had treated her as if she mattered. Was it any wonder that she had developed a hopeless fascination for him as a child?
He’d been a true scoundrel and the original ringmaster of troublemakers at Lyons’ Refuge when her father first started the reform school. Joel had been a trial and a terror, in direct opposition to his angelic looks. Perhaps, in part, it was his wildness and devil-may-care attitude that had been the attraction for her then. Added to that, his princely features and heavenly blue eyes …
“Stop it, Clemmie! This is getting you nowhere fast!”
She threw the closed pen on the coverlet, congratulating herself that she didn’t send it smacking into the wall. Such half-buried memories wouldn’t be torturing her if she hadn’t run across a box of Joel’s things while looking through her trunk for items to pack. He’d entrusted her with his box of boyhood trinkets before he went into the service, in an effort to stem her tears at his departure.
“There, there, Clemmie,” he’d soothed, his hand going under her chin, his other wiping her eyes with his handkerchief. “It’s not like I’ll be gone forever, sweetheart. I’ll be back soon enough.”
But not to stay.
And obviously those few paltry furloughs home were to be the sum total of his appearances, thus ending his life and time at the Refuge.
Yes, a summer in Connecticut was looking better and better.
“You look rather like a dog in the manger.”
Clemmie started at the teasing voice that also held a note of concern. She realized she’d left her door ajar and turned to look at the dear woman who cooked for everyone at Lyons’ Refuge. She wasn’t her aunt by relation, but Clemmie regarded the sprightly woman as close to being one and addressed her as such.
“Aunt Darcy.” Clemmie wondered what she’d heard of her little outburst and how long she’d been standing there. “I didn’t hear you come up.”
Darcy moved into the room, worry lines marking her usually smooth brow. Youth could no longer claim her, but the only evidence of age were the silvering hairs among the dark ones crowning her temple. “What’s got you so upset, luv?”
She sat next to Clemmie, her gaze taking in the unfinished letter then straying to the cigar box Clemmie had beside her. No one at the Refuge smoked; it wasn’t allowed, and Clemmie wondered where Joel had found the box. Probably from her grandfather, who did smoke, to Mama’s consternation. Clemmie prevented her hand from straying to the box, hoping Darcy wouldn’t realize whose items it contained.
“I’m just in a melancholy mood. Late spring fever in the early summer, perhaps.” She tried for an offhand smile.
Darcy cocked her brow. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with you leaving, would it? You don’t have to go. Things aren’t so bad we can’t manage. With your grandfather’s aid and other supporters, we do quite well, I daresay.” Her smile lit the room, chasing away the clouds that had settled on Clemmie’s spirit.
“I know. But I want to see Hannah. We were closest in age, and I miss her. It’s been years. But … well, it’s my first time to step foot away from home. Ever.” Even during the outings her parents sometimes took with Darcy to New York City, the children always were left behind under the watchful eye of Brent—Darcy’s husband and the schoolmaster.
“A bit nervous, luv?” Darcy put a hand to Clemmie’s chin. “You’re a big girl now. Aye—more’n that. A young lady! Coo! I never thought I’d see the day. And I think it’s a good thing for you to see a bit of the world.”
“I feel guilty leaving when I know Mama depends on my help with the smaller children.”
“You shouldn’t feel the blame—none at all! You’re long overdue for a treat, and there’s plenty living here at the farm to help out.”
“I agree with Darcy.”
Clemmie turned toward the doorway and smiled at the woman whose looks she favored. She only hoped her hair darkened to the lovely auburn of her mother’s, now sprinkled with gray. Strange how while she favored her beautiful mother, Clemmie felt so plain.
“Don’t feel that you should stay, dear.” Her mother moved the cigar box and took the space on the other side of Clemmie. “If you don’t want to go, that’s one thing, and you mustn’t feel obligated. But it would be a golden opportunity for you to spread your wings. I fear, with you being my firstborn, I’ve coddled you severely. Your father would agree.”
Clemmie wrapped her arm around her mother’s waist. “I don’t mind, Mama.”
“Would you like to go see Hannah?”
Clemmie nodded.
“Then go with my blessing.”
A stampede of running footsteps clambered upstairs, making all three women face the door, where Darcy’s two youngest sons came to a sudden awkward stop, bumping into one another and almost falling.
“Mama! Aunt Charleigh! Come quick,” Roger blurted out. “That new boy is making trouble again. They’re outside fighting!”
“He gave Adam a bloody nose,” young Matthew piped up, almost gleefully.
“And Adam gave him a black eye.”
“The other boys are taking bets on who’ll win this time.”
Her mother and Darcy exchanged long-suffering glances and quickly rose. “Go tell your father and Uncle Stewart.”
“Yes, Aunt Charleigh!”
“And don’t you dare be gettin’ in on the gamble!”
“Yes, Mama!”
The two boys disappeared.
“He’s a terror, that one,” Darcy mused.
“Quentin is no worse than any other boys we’ve handled. Do you recall the fistfights Joel and Herbert used to get into?” At the mention of Joel, a brief, worried silence ensued, as it so often did. “And then there was Clint and anyone who looked at him cross-eyed, be it boy or girl,” her mother added quickly. “I still think it a wonder that he and Miranda are now married.”
“Aye,” Darcy said on a laugh mixed with a groan. “Those were days unforgettable. And you, Charleigh, always ready to tackle the impossible.”
Her mother laughed. “You’re one to talk! You were and still are the first into the fray—to jump at any unconventional new idea. Remember your initial endeavors to bring order to the Refuge? The fence-painting contest and the trip to the carnival?”
“I suppose I’m a bit gung ho at that. Brent tells me the same … though it didn’t turn out all bad. I wound up getting him in the bargain.” Darcy winked, and both women chuckled. “Time’s a wastin’, and I’m for certain both our men’ll need help issuing order among that brood, once they take care of those two rapscallions.”
“We’ll talk more about your visit after dinner,” her mother assured Clemmie.
Watching them go, Clemmie shook her head and smiled in wistful contemplation.
Just another crazy, mixed-up day at the Refuge.
She would miss her home and family, even miss the daily chaos that went hand in hand with keeping, raising, and reforming young hoodlums, as strange as that seemed. But Mother was right. And after hearing Joel’s name mentioned, she realized that if she was ever to embark on her own life, she needed to get as far away from memories of him as possible. At least for a little while.
For Clemmie, the time had come to grow up and put childish dreams far behind her.
Chapter 1
Clemmie stepped off the train, holding in a nervous breath. With wide eyes, she scanned the crowded platform of lively passengers, eager to spot a familiar face. She’d rarely left the farm in her entire life, and then no fa
rther than a few miles’ drive—to church, to her grandfather’s estate, to the central hub of their small town. The hustle and bustle of passengers leaving from and coming to this strange station unsettled her, much as it had in Ithaca, only there she’d had her parents’ company before her train departed.
Here, she was all alone.
She almost bit a hole through her lip before she caught sight of Hannah Thomas’s shining black hair and piercing blue-gray eyes. As pretty as ever, her friend waved and ran forward to greet her. The girls met halfway in a warm hug.
“I thought your train would never get here! You know me—so impatient.” Hannah laughed and hugged her again. “Oh, it’s so good to see you, Clemmie! It’s been ages and ages. I enjoy your letters, but togetherness is so much nicer, don’t you agree? I see your hair has gotten darker—you were right. And I think your freckles faded, too. Me, I can’t tolerate the sun, though Mama’s half-Polynesian. But I inherited my fair skin from Papa’s side of the family. Still it’s nothing like Bette Davis’s. I have photographs of her and other movie stars in my photo box—I’ll show you when we get home. Some of them are even signed! Oh, but listen to me carrying on! How’s everyone at the Refuge? Are they well? I can’t believe it’s been years since I’ve seen most of them!”
In her excitement, Hannah bounced from one subject to another like a runaway ball, and Clemmie smiled. It was nice to see some things never changed.
“Everyone’s well. They send their love. And you have the prettiest skin I’ve ever seen, so don’t complain.” And Hannah did. Flawless, without a freckle to mar it. Hannah also blushed prettily, like a pink rose, unlike Clemmie, who resembled something less attractive, like a tomato.
“You’re sweet to say so.” Hannah gave her a dimpled smile. “Oh look, there’s Papa! I was too excited to wait and ran ahead.” She grabbed Clemmie’s arm, pulling her along toward Bill Thomas, Brent’s brother. Clemmie marveled how the two men looked as if they could be twins, though Hannah’s father looked more like an outdoorsman, solid in physique with stronger, defined features.
