An Unlikely Suitor (17 page)

“I can’t believe the police haven’t caught that cretin, Bonwitter,” Mrs. Garmin said as she buttered her bread. “How fortuitous you’re leaving town. To live in such fear must be excruciating.”

Lucy nodded and wiped a crumb from her bodice. “Mr. Standish has promised to watch out for my mother and sister, but evil men have ways of getting what they want.”

Mr. Garmin cut a piece of steak and held it in midair as he answered her. “If he were bothering my family, I would hire a private investigator to weed him out and bring him to justice. The law is far too lenient with such men. They must be caught and dealt with now, before their crimes escalate into something more serious. Unfortunately, the latter is usually the way of it.”

His wife put a hand on his arm. “Don’t say such things, my dear. You’re frightening Miss Scarpelli. After all, she still has family in harm’s way.”

He chewed the meat, making his mustache dance. “Well, then. Yes. I’m sure your Mr. Standish is handling things just fine.”

“I will pray for your family’s safety,” Mrs. Garmin said.

“Thank you. I’d appreciate it.” She looked to Mr. Garmin. “As I appreciate this dinner, sir. It’s very kind of you to include me.”

He blushed, set his fork down, and indicated for a waiter to take his plate away. “I’m just glad my wife has found someone to talk with.”

Mrs. Garmin put a hand to her mouth, though she made no effort to lower her voice so her husband couldn’t hear. “It leaves him free to talk shop with the men.”

He cleared his throat and rose. “If you ladies will excuse me, I shall continue doing just that.”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Again, thank you, sir. The meal was delicious.”

“Yes, well . . .” He nodded and left them.

“He’s very nice,” Lucy said.

“He pretends to be gruff, but he’s not. I’m very blessed to have found love with the man I married.”

It was an odd way of putting it, but Lucy understood. Marriage came first, and then—if the couple was lucky—love followed. It was like Rowena had told her during one of her fittings. She was supposed to fall in love with a man her parents chose for her. It was as if love were a goal to be claimed rather than a sentiment that claimed its recipients.

Lucy did not agree. Love was not a noun, was not a
thing
: it was a verb, an action. A mode of being. It could not be forced, but rather it forced itself into people’s hearts, sometimes unawares.

She thought of Angelo. . . . She
had
loved him, and the feeling had taken her by surprise. When she knew their future was impossible, her decision to stop loving him had only been accomplished with dogged determination, will, and pain.

The waiter removed their dinner plates. “Would you ladies like to see the dessert selections?”

Mrs. Garmin smiled and raised her eyebrows at Lucy. “Yes?”

“Oh yes. Please.”

The waiter brought a tray that held four choices. “This is our German chocolate cake, this a lemon sponge cake with raspberry sauce, and these last two are cheesecake with strawberries and an apple strudel. Your choice, ladies?”

One of each?
Lucy had never eaten any of them. She’d had chocolate but once, and the cake here had four layers of it. But she’d never had raspberries, and couldn’t imagine a cake made out of sponges or cheese. The strudel was the least exotic, as she had eaten apples before.

“What if we choose two different items and share?” Mrs. Garmin said.

“That would be perfect.”

“You make the first choice.”

“I choose . . . the German chocolate cake.”

“And I choose the cheesecake, please.”

As the waiter was leaving, two ladies stopped him in the aisle. “Can you bring our desserts to this table?”

“Of course, ladies.”

The women stood before them. Their eyes flitted over Lucy but landed on Mrs. Garmin. “How nice to see you again, Martha.”

“Abigail.”

The other woman made her greeting. “Do you usually come out this week?”

“I believe last year it was a week later.” Mrs. Garmin waved a hand toward the chair her husband had vacated. “Please join us.”

Abigail sat next to Mrs. Garmin, and the other woman sat on a chair beside Lucy. Lucy’s nerves, which had been soothed in the Garmins’ kind presence, were reignited.

“So,” Abigail said. “Introductions, Martha. Who is your new . . . friend?”

“Abigail, Frances . . . I am pleased to introduce you to Miss Lucy Scarpelli. Lucy, this is Mrs. Samuel Wilson and Mrs. Oscar Berkeley.”

The ladies nodded. Slightly.

Abigail spoke first. “Miss Scarpelli. You are traveling alone?”

“I am,” Lucy said.

“With no chaperone?”

Mrs. Garmin spoke up. “Lloyd and I have taken her in. You see, she is on a very important mission—a mission of mercy, if you will.”

“Indeed?”

Lucy was very willing to let Mrs. Garmin take the reins of the conversation. “Miss Scarpelli is a very talented dress designer. She made the entire wardrobe for Mrs. Langdon and her daughter, Rowena, and—”

“Oh my. Poor, poor Rowena. How is she doing?”

It was a question set for Lucy to answer. “She is quite well. But unfortunately her clothing was damaged in transit and she sent for me to come and make the repairs.”

“Oh my,” Mrs. Berkeley repeated. “It is just her luck. Nothing ever goes right for that girl.”

“She
is
quite sweet,” Abigail said. “It’s so sad she has proven to be unmarriageable.”

“Oh, she’s not unmarriageable,” Lucy said. “She hopes to become engaged this summer.”

By the looks on the ladies’ faces, Lucy realized she’d said too much.

“You know this for a fact?” Mrs. Berkeley said.

“You never mentioned this to me,” Mrs. Garmin said.

“I . . . I . . .”

“I wonder if they’ve gotten the Fleming boy to propose. He’s had his wild time, and I know his parents have been wanting him to settle down. Maribel Yearling refused last year, and—”

“Don’t the Astors have a cousin who lives overseas? I would think new blood would be the most likely to agree to marry her.”

“No one will agree easily,” Mrs. Berkeley said. “With her . . . infirmity. There’s no guarantee she can ever have children, you know.”

Lucy was shocked. “Why wouldn’t she be able to have children? It’s just her leg and hip that are . . .” She let her words fade away. Again. Too much. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t speak about what I don’t know.”

Mrs. Garmin waved a hand. “Oh, why not, my dear? Do you think any of us know what we’re talking about?”

Abigail looked peeved. “I know for a fact the Astors have a cousin.”

“I’m not saying there isn’t a grain of truth in all we say here. But I would bet a diamond to a dollar that Miss Scarpelli has had more conversations with Miss Langdon than any of us ever have.” She gave each woman a look, expecting an answer.

“I know her mother but have never spoken directly to Rowena,” Abigail conceded.

Mrs. Berkeley offered a shrug as her answer.

Mrs. Garmin nodded once. “So, then. We are pleased if Rowena has found a beau. Good for her. And good for Miss Scarpelli to be such a skilled seamstress that they trust her to make the ruined right.”

“What is the name of your shop?” Mrs. Berkeley asked.

My shop?
Lucy decided not to nitpick. “Madame Moreau’s Fashion Emporium.”

Abigail perked up. “I’ve been there! I had you make me a gown for the opera last season.”

“Did you like it?” Lucy asked.

“Very much so. Perhaps you designed—?”

“No, no,” Lucy said, knowing at least a portion of the truth must come out sooner rather than later. “I’ve only worked there a short while.” She thought of correcting Mrs. Garmin’s description of her as a designer, but decided the extra leverage in status might be to her advantage. “But I know the work the designers do, and it’s of the highest quality.”

“Which dress was it?” Mrs. Garmin asked Abigail. “The navy toile?”

“The burgundy velvet.”

The ladies
ahh
ed in appreciation.

“How long are you staying with the Langdons?” Abigail asked.

“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen the extent of the damage.” Lucy wasn’t even certain how long she wanted to stay. Would her visit be wonderful? Or disastrous?

“Might you be available if I have need of some alterations or repairs?”

“Of course. I’d be happy to be of service.”

Their desserts arrived, a lovely frosting to their conversational cake.

“It’s just through that door, to the right,” Mrs. Garmin said.

Lucy had been embarrassed to ask where the necessary was, but after their large meal it had become essential. Sure enough, at the end of the next car was a door with the proper signage. She went inside and was surprised to see a commode and a sink in a setting as sumptuous as the rest of the train. There was even a roll of paper on a holder, something she’d never seen before. How odd that a train would be so modern.

She looked at herself in the mirror and was appalled to see a spot of food had fallen on her blouse. She wished the ladies had said something, yet she knew doing so was a delicate matter.

After cleaning the spot, she exited the necessary and returned to her original seat. Mrs. Garmin was nowhere to be seen, nor was her husband. It was just as well. Lucy could barely keep her eyes open. As the day was far from over, it would be advantageous if she could manage even the smallest of naps.

She removed her hat and placed it in her lap, then leaned her head against the back cushion. The movement of the train rocked her to sleep—and sweet dreams.

T
he needle broke.

Sofia uttered an epithet, which caused some of the ladies to giggle and Mamma to flash her a look.

“Want to learn some Irish cuss words, Sofia?” Tessie asked.

Mamma answered for her. “She most certainly does not. She’s just a child.”

Mamma’s words repeated themselves in her mind.
“She’s just a child, a child, piccolina. . . .”

Without consciously choosing to do so, Sofia pushed her chair back, sending it toppling backward. She faced the room. “I am not a child! I’m a grown woman. Stop treating me like a baby.”

A moment of silence was interrupted by full laughter.

“Baby Sofia.”

“Want some help, little girl?”

Heat rushed into her face, making her feel as if she would burn up if she didn’t get some air. She stormed from the workroom, through the lobby, and onto the street—where she ran into a man pulling a cart.

He grabbed her arms, righting her. “Whoa there, lass. What’s yer hurry?”

Surprised to hear the youth in his voice, she turned toward him, found him nice looking, and took his head in her hands, kissing him fully on the lips.

He pulled away but kept hold of her arms. “Well, now, lassie. What e’er sent you into my arms, I’m thanking God for it.” He started to pull her close again when—

“Sofia!”

Mamma stood in the doorway of the shop, her eyes wide. She pointed at the spot in front of her. “Come here. Now!”

The man let her go, tipped his cap to Mamma, and shrugged. “Sorry, lass. But e’en I ain’t brave enough to go against anyone’s mamma.”

Sofia heard laughter all around and realized she’d gained an audience. Why had she kissed him? She’d never kissed anyone. To have her first kiss be wasted on a stranger—a stranger who reeked of sweat and smoke?

She strode toward Mamma but didn’t stop in the spot indicated. She needed to get off the street. Once inside she would deal with Mamma’s wrath.

Mamma closed the door behind them. Sofia saw the briefest glimpse of heads through the curtain, then saw them disappear into the workroom. She whispered to her mother. “I’m sorry, Mamma. It was a stupid thing to do, but—”

Thankfully Mamma kept her voice low, her breath hot in Sofia’s ear. “I’m sorry if I called you a child, but that’s no reason to hurl yourself onto the street and kiss—”

Shame washed over her, and Sofia flung herself into the comfort of Mamma’s arms.

Mamma shushed her and murmured soft words. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Sofia removed herself from the embrace, shaking her head. She couldn’t say it without sounding exactly like a child.

“Lucy?” Mamma asked.

Sofia looked into her mother’s soft eyes and found safety there. “I’m nothing compared to her.”

Mamma’s eyebrow rose, indicating this wasn’t what she’d expected to hear. She took Sofia’s hands in hers, squeezing hard. “You are not Lucy and she is not you, and that’s the way God meant it to be. Being the oldest forced your sister to find her way, to find her strengths. Perhaps being the youngest has prevented you from your own discovery. Or perhaps you’ve liked letting Lucy be in charge?”

“I don’t like—”

Mamma’s look stopped her interruption. For hadn’t Sofia enjoyed being the youngest, the little girl to Lucy’s mature woman? Hadn’t she benefited from Lucy’s dependable care?

She began again. “I don’t want to be that little girl anymore.”

“Then grow up.” Mamma kissed her forehead and linked her arm in Sofia’s.
“La pratica vale più della grammatica.”

Since Italian was her second language, Sofia wasn’t sure what that meant.

Mamma translated. “Experience is the best teacher.”

Sofia nodded but wasn’t sure how to gain experience.

It all sounded rather frightening.

Lucy lurched forward and awake.

“We’re here,” Mrs. Garmin said.

“We’re at Wickford Junction,” her husband corrected.

Lucy pressed her back against the seat and rubbed her sore neck. After a deep breath in, then out, she asked, “Can you give me instructions as to where I go next to catch the steamer ship?”

“We can do better than that,” Mrs. Garmin said. “Mr. Garmin has insisted you accompany us to our shared destination.”

Lucy noticed Mr. Garmin roll his eyes and knew it had been his wife who’d done the insisting. “Thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you.”

The next hour was spent transferring to the Newport and Wickford Railroad, which took them to the Wickford harbor, where they boarded a steamer for the seventy-five-minute ride to Aquidneck Island and Newport.

Lucy spent the entire boat ride at the railing, looking over the water of Narragansett Bay. She vaguely remembered standing at the railing as a little girl, crossing the vast Atlantic. That trip had taken days, and this, but a little over an hour. And yet she was making the same sort of journey, leaving one land for another, one known way of life for something completely new.

She took a break from the view of the water and turned around, leaning her waist against the railing. Although Mr. and Mrs. Garmin had gone out of their way to guide her from the train to the steamer, once on board, they’d left her on her own. Perhaps with Newport so close, they’d felt the need to gently withdraw from their association. What could be tolerated amid the close confines of a train car would not be allowed within the circle of Newport society. And so walls had been erected in preparation for their going ashore.

So be it. Lucy had been the one to gain from their friendship—no matter how short-lived. And once in Newport she would gain her own society at the Langdons’.

Lucy saw Mrs. Wilson walking on the deck with her husband. She smiled. “Hello, Mrs. Wilson.”

The woman nodded slightly, then looked away.

“You know that girl?” Lucy heard her husband ask.

“She’s just a seamstress the Langdons have called in.”

“Ah,” he said, as if that explained her entire existence.

Just a seamstress.
When the ladies had discussed her talent during dessert, they’d given her the impression she was admired, that she had a talent worthy of merit.

Lucy turned to face the sea, relieved it accepted her without judgment.

The wharf was crowded. Lucy searched the crowd for a friendly face. Surely the Langdons had sent someone to meet her. Surely they would be looking for her. If only Rowena had come . . . After her long day of travel, Lucy longed to see a friendly face.

People bustled around her, all seeming to know where they were going. She spotted the Garmins moving toward a carriage. She wished Mrs. Garmin would look her way. She would have felt ever so much better to have parted with a smile. But the woman entered the carriage, never looking back.

Lucy’s attention was drawn to a young man wearing a short-collar shirt, a brown vest, and a cap. He carried a sign:
L. Scarpelli
. She resisted the urge to run to him. Instead, she raised a hand. “Sir? Sir?”

Their eyes met and he gave her an appraising look. “Lucy Scarpelli?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He touched the brim of his cap. “Haverty. I’ve been sent to fetch you to the Langdons’.” He took her satchels, led her toward a cart, and helped her into the seat beside him. Watching other ladies from the train get into fine carriages accentuated the gulf of their status.

So be it.

Haverty expertly made his way through the congested harbor and onto a residential street. The homes they passed were pleasing and Lucy said as much.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet. These are but shacks compared to where we’re heading.”

“The Langdons have a large home?”

He laughed. “Larger than large. But the thing is, here in Newport they’re called
cottages
. Millions of dollars, dozens of rooms, and gold dripping off the walls.” He glanced at her. “You impressed yet?”

“Only if you’re telling me the truth.”

“You can be the judge of that.” He pulled on the reins and yelled at another carriage that had cut him off. “Stupid tourists. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.”

“What’s a
tourist
?”

“Someone who comes visiting and thinks they own the place. It’s not just the rich who come to Newport in the summer. The town swells up like a boil on a horse’s—” He glanced at Lucy. “You get the picture.”

Lucy held on to the side of their bench seat for her very life. Although she was used to traffic in the city, there was a certain wildness to the traffic here, as if everyone was in a hurry to get their holiday started and didn’t care whom they ran over in the process.

“Do you live here all year round, Mr. Haverty?”

“Just Haverty. Nope. I’m with the Langdons in New York the rest of the time. Come down here a few weeks before the family to get things ready, and’ll go back a few weeks after.”

Since Haverty seemed willing to talk, Lucy decided to ask him more. “Can you tell me about the family? Is Miss Langdon well? Is there anything I should know to help me get along while I’m here?”

“Snoopy little thing, aren’t ya?”

“I prefer to say I’m inquisitive. I’m coming in blind and simply wish to know the lay of things.”

“Knowledge is power; that’s for certain,” he said. “Let’s see if I can get it in a nutshell. Miss Langdon’s gentle as a fawn in the forest, kind to everybody, not demanding at all. She’d lay down her life for a friend, though I can’t say as others would do the same for her.”

“She doesn’t have any good friends?”

“Can’t say as I’ve been too impressed with any of the young ladies she’s forced to hang around with. Just because she’s different . . .”

Oh. That.

He changed the subject. “She has one brother, Hugh, who’s as opposite from Rowena as a wolf to a sheep. Hugh thinks he’s king of the world—a jolly king. He doesn’t take much seriously.” He gave her another look. “If I was you, being a pretty girl and all, I’d stay clear of him best you can.”

Wonderful. Another Bonwitter. “Any other advice?”

“Work hard and stay invisible.”

Lucy didn’t understand. “As I’ll be repairing Miss Langdon’s clothing, I don’t see how that’s possible. Besides, she invited me here.”

“You’ve never been a servant, have you?”

“I’m still not a servant.”

He laughed. “Well, then, you’re going to have a time of it, ain’t you?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You’ll see.”