by Dina Sleiman
“I know of your reputation, Miss Cavendish. All of your reputation.”
Her face went hot, and she pressed a hand against her cheek. “So sorry to trouble you, then.” She turned, shoved through the door, and walked away.
Rushing down the street to remove herself from him with all due haste, Constance couldn’t help but wonder to which reputation he referred—her father’s shame or her own outlandish behavior. For all of it was true. Had Molyneux himself been swindled by her father? Not likely, but perhaps a client or two of his had been. At least he couldn’t know the worst.
No one knew. Not even Mama. Not even her sisters.
Constance feared she might never outrun the stigma of that fateful day. Richmond had not been far enough to escape it. They should have gone north, or south. But Mama could never leave her beloved Virginia behind. She felt safest here near Papa’s sister, Serena, although the woman had done little enough for them.
Somehow, someway, Constance must set things right.
* * *
Resisting the urge to slam the bowl of steaming potatoes onto the dinner table, Constance passed them to Mr. Franklin with a tight smile instead. He gazed wistfully at her through his spectacles and came near to spooning his second helping onto the blue linen tablecloth instead of Mother’s best, flowered china. The set was one of the few possessions they’d managed to keep.
Mother! How dare the woman? She knew Constance had no interest in Mr. Franklin, or in any male for that matter. Knew she had sworn off men when the young bucks of Prince George County spurned her after Father’s downfall. That she had determined to start a business and help her family on her own.
But, of course, that was not the entire story.
“I must thank you all again for inviting me to supper.” Mr. Franklin, the schoolmaster from Pennsylvania, crooned at Constance from an alarming proximity.
All? She nearly spoke the word aloud.
“I simply can’t get enough of your fine company. The lovely Misses Cavendishes.” He laughed at his own banal wordplay as he raised his spoon with his left hand, crushing his elbow against Constance’s. She missed the expansive accommodations of Cavendish Hall, although the appeal of that doomed lifestyle had faded long ago.
The ladies tittered along with Mr. Franklin, except for Constance, who was fed up with his advances and left-handed bumbling and was still seething over Molyneux’s cold rejection that afternoon. She steadied herself with a deep breath, remembering to be thankful they had dinner while so many starved in Europe.
Constance glanced out of the corner of her eye in an attempt to decipher what on earth Mother might be thinking. Mr. Franklin was so…medium. Medium height, medium brown hair, and nondescript features. He had less than a medium income, no doubt. How could Constance even consider him after being all but betrothed to Rob—She cut the thought short.
The old Gingersnap rose up within her and shot Mother a glare. But as she spotted the weary woman, old beyond her years, Constance regretted it, going so far as to mouth the word sorry.
Mother raised a graying brow. “Is something the matter, Gingersnap?”
She offered a wry smile. Mother always knew when that side of Constance reared its ugly head. “Nothing at all, Mother—except that nickname. As you are well aware, it no longer suits.”
“Oh, give a mama what small pleasures she can find in life. More dinner rolls, Mr. Franklin?”
Patience passed him the basket. “I maintain my submission of Kettle Head as a fitting replacement.”
Felicity and Grammy shared a laugh over that. “Kettle Head,” Felicity squeaked in her mouse-like voice. At fifteen, Constance had been bold, brash, and carefree. She hated to see the harder toll life had taken on her youngest sister. At least Patience, at nineteen, retained her former spirit.
“Precisely. Doesn’t her hair bring to mind a bright copper kettle, Mr. Franklin?” Patience took a bite of her potatoes without cracking a smile.
“Kettle Head?” Mr. Franklin jerked toward Patience. Had he been wearing a sword, no doubt he would have brandished it in defense of Constance’s honor.
“Patience takes great pleasure in making me the object of her humor.” Constance pushed the succulent beef and sweet carrots about her plate, having little appetite that evening. The peppery scent drew her not at all.
“You must forgive their sisterly teasing, Mr. Franklin. It’s a long tale.” Mother shook her head with a grin.
“Please, do tell it.” Mr. Franklin set down his fork. “I so love your family stories.”
Of course. Anything he might use as ammunition to capture Constance. Le sigh, she thought, wanting nothing more than to let the gingersnaps fly and pitch a Molyneux-worthy fit.
Mother patted a dab of gravy from her lip with a linen napkin and began, “You see, Mr. Cavendish thought Constance the perfect name for a daughter born in a new nation near the coming turn of a new century.”
Mr. Franklin did not so much as blink at the mention of her father. If one thing might be said in Franklin’s favor, it was that he never held Papa’s sins against them. Of course, he hadn’t met the Cavendishes until long after the scandal.
Mother continued. “But deep down I knew this girl would never be a Constance. Mothers have instincts about such things, you know.”
“To be sure,” the genial Mr. Franklin agreed.
“And when I saw her beautiful copper hair, I regretted not naming her Scarlett or Garnet—or Ruby, perhaps.”
Patience broke in. “But Kettle Head didn’t grow a sprig of hair until she was a year old.” She flashed her dimple at Constance. “By then it was too late.”
“But by which time,” Mother picked up the story, “we had grown well aware of the fiery temper that matched her hair. When I heard that ginger biscuits had been dubbed gingersnaps by some witty baker, I knew I must claim the title for her at once. Mr. Cavendish laughed and laughed. The name caught hold, and by her coming out, the entire county knew her as such.”
“While all three of the Cavendish daughters do have the loveliest red hair, I must say I’ve never found Miss Constance to be anything but levelheaded and soft-spoken.” Mr. Franklin made cow eyes at her from mere inches to her right.
Constance turned her head and attempted to blink away the disturbing impression. She would save every penny to buy a larger table if she thought for one moment they could navigate around it in this tiny room. “As I said, the name no longer suits, although even I must confess that once upon a time it was quite true to my nature.”
“And as I said, Kettle Head is much more fitting to her copper curls. If anyone’s hair is ginger, it’s mine.” Patience patted her chignon.
“Kettle Head.” Felicity echoed the name again and giggled.
Seeing the girl laugh so lifted Constance’s spirits. Most days she was too quiet by half.
“Kettle Head it is, then.” Constance reached across the table to pat Felicity’s hand. “I have no objection.”
“If you all insist, I won’t be the one to naysay the decision.” Mr. Franklin’s comment suggested he thought himself a member of the family with a right to vote on such issues.
Constance held in a snort. Nothing could be farther from the truth.
The way he leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands behind his head, and groaned seemed to solidify his presumed familial standing. “What a wonderful meal. Miss Cavendish, you are a splendid cook.”
Constance coughed into her napkin before he could catch her with his bovine eyes again. If Mother hadn’t sprung him on her at the last minute, she would have been sure to overpepper the roast to scare him off.
But when she looked at her poor, tired mother, all resentment melted away. If Constance were honest with herself, she knew what Mama saw in Mr. Franklin: A future son-in-law, a lonely bachelor from far away who longed for a family, and a man who accepted their lowly status with grace. Someone who would, no doubt, prove a better provider than Constance.
She had failed them. Failed them
all.
But no longer.
She dared not bring up her latest idea in front of Mr. Franklin. He’d be the first to dissuade them. But this plan would work. It simply must.
“Mr. Franklin, would you care—” Mother began.
“What Mother means to say,” Constance interrupted, “is thank you so much for dining with us this evening. While we’ve enjoyed your company immensely, we’ve all had a long day and should retire soon.” One peek at Mama would confirm the truth of that. The longer he stayed, the longer Constance would have to wait to propose her idea, and she was nearly bursting already. “Would you care to visit again sometime?” She didn’t mention that she intended to be several counties away long before “sometime” arrived.
Pushing her chair from the table, Constance stood, leaving Mr. Franklin no choice but to gather his napkin and rise to his feet as well.
“Of course. Thank you all.”
Constance took his elbow and led him toward the front porch of their small townhouse. At least Aunt Serena had helped them manage to secure a place on the outskirts of the “right” side of town when they had lost the plantation. The street stood quiet and peaceful this time of night.
Much as she no longer enjoyed breaking hearts, having had her own heart shattered, Constance thought she should put matters to rest once and for all. “Dear Mr. Franklin,” she began in an attempt to soothe the blow.
He grabbed her hands in his own clammy ones. “Dear, dear Miss Cavendish.”
She pried them away and gripped the cool porch rail. “What I mean is, I fear my mother has given you a mistaken impression. I have no desire to seek a…that is to say…I am content with my station in life.”
“Never say so! Can’t you see what an ideal match we would make? Both interested in education, both desiring the best for your family.” He looked as if he might go on, but truly, what else was there? They held little in common. “You are still a young and vibrant lady. I won’t stand by and allow you to resign yourself to spinsterhood so soon.”
“Oh Mr. Franklin. You force me to say what I wish not to mention. I’m afraid I do not share your affections.”
“But I have affections aplenty for both of us. Let us not rush into anything. Give me time to win your heart.”
Constance took a deep breath. She had nothing to answer that. And if her employment situation progressed as she wished, it wouldn’t matter anyway. “Well then, good night, Mr. Franklin.”
“Good night, Miss Cavendish.” He leaned toward her.
She stepped back and offered him her hand. Not flat for a kiss, but sideways for a friendly shake. Although it was unmannerly to do so, it was preferable to receiving his caress upon her skin.
He took her hand and shook with too much gusto. “Of course, then. Until we meet again.” Tipping his hat, he tripped backward down the steps before turning to walk toward his room around the block.
Constance closed the door from inside and sagged upon it, banging her head backward against it and giving into the briefest outburst of emotion while no one witnessed her actions.
She would not resort to a loveless marriage to save the family. She would save them herself. They wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for her headstrong rebellion. Surely God had finished punishing her for the misdeeds of her youth by now. Her changed demeanor must have earned her a reprieve, perhaps even a shred of forgiveness.
No, she could never marry Thaddeus Franklin. Her initial reasons for desiring Robert Montgomery might seem shallow and childish in retrospect, but time had proven no man could take his place. To this day he invaded her innermost thoughts. And because he cast her aside when she needed him most—and because she vowed never to forgive him—marriage was no longer an option.
Her plan simply must work.
She banged her head a few more times before arranging her features into a bland expression and returning to the cramped dining room.
CHAPTER 2
“I have something to share with you all.” Constance laid her needlework on her lap. In the evenings the entire household curled together in the tiny parlor to help Mother and Felicity finish their sewing for Madam Whitby’s dress shop. Tonight she worked on a short, apricot spencer for overtop the gown of some fortunate young lady. The relaxed moment before the crackling fire seemed ideal to broach the matter pressing on her heart. She leaned forward on the brocade settee, another relic of their former life.
“Does your announcement have something to do with Molyneux?” Patience rested her head on Constance’s shoulder for a moment. “When you returned sullen and silent, I assumed matters went poorly.”
“No, things did not go as I hoped. But…” Constance clapped her hands together to ensure their full attention. “While there, I learned of an opportunity—one that I hope to seize, one that could make a true difference for us.”
Mother blinked up from the fabric held too close to her face. So much sewing wreaked havoc on the poor woman’s eyesight. She shook out her hand, no doubt stiff from so many long hours at the task. “Well, what is it? Why the grand introduction?”
Constance bit her lip as she fought down apprehension. “It might involve a bit of a risk. And a bit of a change. But it could be precisely the chance we’ve been needing.”
“Enough of the mystery.” Patience bumped her with an elbow. “Do tell.”
“There is a Mrs. Beaumont of Charlottesville in desperate search of a dance instructor and willing to pay an exorbitant sum.” Constance held her breath, awaiting their response.
For a moment no one spoke. The idea took time to sink in, to be certain. It would raise a myriad of complications, which Constance had not dared to examine at this point.
“And Molyneux offered to send you? To recommend you?” Patience asked.
“Not at all.” Constance stared down at her hands. “He snubbed me as usual. But I witnessed his tirade about the nerve of that woman. He plans to suggest she come to Richmond, but I thought I might find a way to approach her myself.”
“Mrs. Beaumont.” Mother placed her needlework on the side table. “I know a Mrs. Beaumont. We arrived from England about the same time in similar circumstances. I’ve crossed paths with her on a number of occasions over the years. Let me think now.” She tapped a finger to her mouth. “Aye, I recall. She was Mrs. Montgomery at the start.”
The name Montgomery crashed in Constance’s head like a cymbal and continued to reverberate as Mother chattered. But Constance could not bring herself to speak.
“An innkeeper’s daughter from Manchester, although from her airs you’d think her the child of a duchess. When her first husband passed, she married Beaumont. Aye, she’s from Charlottesville. She had twin daughters the same age Felicity was. That I remember for certain. They played together once when we visited Serena. Yes, yes. She was a charming woman, sweet children. I remember now. We reminisced about life in England all the afternoon long. Why, I could send her a letter or, better yet, have Serena write one.”
Felicity pushed back her reddish-blonde hair and frowned. “Constance can’t leave us.”
Grammy gave Felicity a squeeze. “I assure thee she’d return, darling.”
Constance still struggled to form a coherent thought in the wake of hearing Montgomery’s name. Dare she ask?
Patience spoke before she had a chance. “We mustn’t let this opportunity pass, Felicity. We can’t keep working ourselves nearly to death. The plan was for me to tend shop and you and mother to sew while Constance built up a business that could support us and allow us to relax a bit. Maybe open that school. We’ve all been burning the candle at both ends.”
“Precisely.” Constance nodded in agreement. That was precisely why it did not matter if her Montgomery was related to this Mrs. Beaumont.
“In fact,” Patience said, “I don’t think we should wait on a letter at all. If these girls are Felicity’s age, their mother must be desperate. Every person of quality simply must be an expert at dance. They might be re
ady to launch into society any moment. By the time a letter gets there and back, she could find someone else. A visit in person is more apt to produce a positive result.”
“Nay, Constance can’t just run off. Why, they’re practically on the frontier.” Mother and Patience discussed her as though she were not in the room.
Fair enough as thoughts of Robbie and libraries, not to mention waltzes, kisses, and stabbing pains of betrayal all flooded her as she struggled to remain in the present moment.
“A letter will do,” Mother concluded. “I assume she’s waiting for a response from Molyneux. Too bad he won’t recommend her.” Mother scanned the ceiling and then turned her attention to Constance. “You know, I believe we have another connection we could use. I think her son might have been that handsome, young Montgomery who courted you in Prince George County.”
Constance could not push an answer past the growing lump in her throat.
Patience laughed. “Oh Mother, she had so many beaux. How could you possibly tell them apart?”
“I remember this one. He came to dinner on several occasions. Aye, he was from Albemarle County as well. I recall we did discuss his mother. Perhaps he’ll remember your exceptional skill on the dance floor, Constance. Please tell me you were kind to him. What was his name now? Richard…Raymond…”
“Robert.” Constance managed to rasp out the word.
“Yes, of course, Robert. And you were rather fond of him. Weren’t you?”
“Yes.” Constance’s face felt cold. Surely all the blood had drained to her toes. Mother continued chirping as Grammy and Felicity looked on. But Constance could no longer decipher the words.
“Oh, that Robert Montgomery,” Patience whispered and placed a hand on Constance’s back to rub small soothing circles. Only Patience knew Robbie had all but proposed—and that when Constance had gone after him, begging him to marry her and save them from ruin, Robbie had crushed her heart.
But she could not worry about that now. Constance hadn’t seen Mother so animated in months. Even Felicity glowed at the prospect, now that she had adjusted to the idea.
