An Unlikely Suitor (34 page)

He helped her aboard. “Here now. Watch your step.”

The boat rocked precariously and she nearly panicked.

“Sit,” he said. “And relax. You’re safe with me.”

She believed him. The way he untied the ropes that held them to shore, pushed them free, then hoisted the sails . . .

“You’re as adept with the boat as I am with a needle,” she said.

“That’s right. You’re a seamstress. Perhaps I’ll commandeer you to mend any rips in the sails.”

She would like nothing better.

Apparently he was waiting for a response. “As the mate you’re supposed to salute and answer, ‘Aye aye, Captain.’ ”

She complied, feeling a bit silly but enjoying the feeling. When was the last time she’d allowed herself to be silly?

Hugh turned the sails to capture the wind and the boat headed out into the bay. The wind whipped against Sofia’s face, forcing her to put a hand to her straw hat.

Hugh called out from the back of the boat. “How do you like it?”

When she turned around to answer, the wind caught her hat and pulled it away from her head. She saved it from the water and placed it safely under her seat. Her hair pulled free from its knot and she turned toward the wind again, giving it full rein.

Hugh’s laughter gave her permission to lift her face to the current, close her eyes, and raise her arms in the air. “I’m flying!” she yelled.

I’m free.

The boat was anchored in a quiet cove, the sail down. It rocked gently. Sofia surrendered to its soothing rhythm and took a bite of her apple. “My father worked on the docks,” she said.

Hugh unwrapped the paper from his sandwich. “He was a fisherman?”

She shook her head. “He handled the goods coming off the ships. The docks killed him.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m guessing the docks didn’t kill him, the work did. But, oh, what a way to go.”

His comment surprised her. “Surely you don’t relish hard work.”

He smiled and lifted an arm, making a muscle. “
Au contraire, mademoiselle
. I am a man of muscle, not mind.”

She couldn’t imagine any wealthy man working up a sweat.

“What? You don’t believe me?”

“It’s just that . . . what about your father’s business? Doesn’t that involve office work?”

He put a finger to his nose to indicate the rightness of her statement. “Which is why I’m completely supportive of Edward marrying my sister. With Edward at the helm, perhaps I will be allowed to . . .” His voice faded, as did the sparkle in his eyes. “Hold on. A wave . . .”

Sofia braced herself for the rocking caused by the movement of other boats in the main channel. Then she asked, “So what would you like to do for a living? If you had your choice?”

He shrugged, but she could tell there was an answer to her question available; he simply didn’t choose to share it with her. Which made her sad.

“How about you, Sofia? If you could do anything, be anything, what would that be?”

No one had ever asked her that. It had always been assumed she would be what she had always been—a seamstress.

When she didn’t answer he asked, “Do you enjoy sewing?”

It was her turn to shrug. “It’s something I can do.”

“Have . . .” He faltered, then tried again. “Have you ever wondered why you’re here?”

“In Newport?”

“Here.”

“Why do I exist?” It was such a serious question.

“Exactly.”

She thought a moment, then said. “It frightens me. Most of the time I feel very small and useless. Back home there are so many people around, all the time, all hurrying about doing
something
, that I can’t imagine God has much use for me. I’m hidden away from His sight. I’m not even important in my own family.”

“You’re important to me.”

“You’re too kind.”

“I’m not actually. And to answer my own question, I’ve thought about it a lot. Surely I’m supposed to do more than work in an office. We only have one life, so shouldn’t it mean something? Shouldn’t the world be better for us living? But how do I affect the world by making elevators? What does that really matter?”

Sofia let the boat tip her gently left, then right, and with the movement an answer came to her. “Perhaps your worth—our worth—isn’t measured by what we do to make a living, but in . . . living?” Sofia felt silly saying something so serious. It wasn’t like her.

But Hugh applauded. “Bravo, matey. Well said. So to my original question I ask another. How do you want to accomplish that
living
?”

Sofia’s thoughts flitted through her wishes and desires. Oddly there weren’t that many to choose from. Which made her say, “I’m willing to do whatever comes my way. I’d like some adventure. And a husband who thinks I light up his world. I want children and a—” She realized how personal her answer had become and felt herself blush.

“Your answer is my answer,” Hugh said softly.

She stole a look at him and found his eyes fully locked upon her. For the second time that day she held his gaze.
“Simpatico,”
she whispered.

He nodded once. “Soul mate.”

She looked away—reluctantly.

È perfetto.

Dante was there, standing at the corner. Lucy had second thoughts—until he looked toward her. And smiled.

And life was good again. Very good.

Dante extended his hands to her, and when they met, he pulled Lucy close to kiss her cheek. “Finally, we meet again!”

She stepped back, relinquishing his touch. She would not be so easily appeased. “Actually, I saw you this morning.”

He looked away for but a moment, but in that moment, she could see his discomfort. “I was with my parents.”

“So I noticed.”

He attempted a smile. “You were with your mother and sister?”

“And the rest of the servants.”

Dante nodded once, then retrieved a basket at his feet. “I have brought refreshments.”

He wasn’t going to escape so easily. “Your family is rich.”

He set the basket down. “It’s not a character flaw.”

“It
is
a surprise,” she said. “Never, during any of our conversations, did you imply you were one of the . . . the . . .” She didn’t know how to say it.

“I never said I wasn’t.”

Lucy stomped a foot and walked away from him, taking refuge along a hedge.

He nodded to another couple who walked by, then joined her. “What does it matter?” He tried to take her hand, but she kept it by her side. “I have never felt such a tie to a woman as I feel with you—as I felt with you from the first moment we met. I love hearing about your family and your roots.”

“But I’m poor.”

He stepped back and placed his hands at his sides, palms out, presenting himself. “And I’m here. Of my own free will. Because I want to be.”

“That’s what Rowena said.”

His arms fell to their normal position. “Rowena?”

“Rowena Langdon. The woman I’m sewing costumes for.” He had an odd look on his face. “You know them. Of course you know them,” she said.

He reached for the basket. “Of course. You mention costumes . . . for the Vanderbilts’ ball?”

With a start, Lucy realized he might be going to the ball, that he was probably invited. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

He shrugged, but she knew his true answer. “Will you be going?” he asked.

A laugh escaped.

“Enough of that,” he said. “I told you I had an excursion planned and I will not disappoint.” He bent his elbow, offering her his arm. “Shall we?”

Her objections to his social standing fell away. If he didn’t care, why should she?

Lucy raised her chin, closed her eyes, and let the wind from the trolley ride caress her face.

“You’re an outdoor girl, aren’t you?” Dante asked.

She opened her eyes. “I don’t think so.”

He shook his head. “You are. I saw you on the Cliff Walk, and now, relishing the breeze. Most women would be worried about their hair, but not you.”

Was her hair out of place? She checked and tucked a multitude of stray strands behind her ears and into her hat as best she could.

He pushed her hand down. “Don’t. Leave it. I like the windswept look.”

She left her hair alone. “Do you always say the right things?”

“Maybe you simply make everything I say right.”

Lucy laughed. He was amazing. Unlike so many men she knew who were argumentative, Dante had the ability—nay, the talent—to dispel conflict and make things good and easy. In this way he was superior to the other Dante, her father, who’d had a boisterous temper.

The other Dante?

Suddenly, Lucy remembered that Dante wasn’t his real name. “Since we seem to be clearing the air today—”

“Amid the clear air.”

“Amid the clear air . . . what is your real name? Bartholomew . . . ?”

His face turned serious. “My name is Dante.”

“No, it’s not. I gave you that name when—”

He shook his head adamantly. “Please, Lucy. I love the name because you gave it to me, because it has meaning for you, because it was your father’s name. It has a far deeper meaning than my own name. So please. Continue to call me Dante.”

He seemed so sincere, so concerned. What would it hurt?

“Fine,” she said. “I proclaimed you Dante before, and Dante you shall remain.”

His face brightened once again, and he pointed out the window. “We are almost there.”

“Where is there?”

“Easton’s Beach.”

Unlike many of the others at the beach who wore full outfits for swimming, Lucy stood with her skirt raised to her calf, her feet bare. Dante stood next to her, his trousers safe, his feet firmly planted in the sand.

“Are you ready? Because here it comes!”

The ocean rushed to meet them and Lucy squealed at its coolness. As it retreated, the sand around her feet filled in the gaps, making her sink deeper into its captivity.

“You like it?” he asked.

“It’s wonderful!”

“See? Just as I said. You are an outdoor girl.”

Perhaps she was. How would she know? All her memories were of Mulberry Street, where the tenements were tall, the streets narrow, and every space congested. She’d taken a few walks in Central Park, but even the trek there was a luxury. For when did she have free time? From the moment she was five years old she’d worked in the sweatshops six days a week and had spent Sunday with her family at church and inside the house. Or in good weather out on the stoop with the other families of the neighborhood.