An Unlikely Suitor (8 page)

Harriet Adams cupped her hands to her cheeks and exclaimed, “I just don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t attend every ball in Newport. If you gentlemen don’t keep me dancing, I’ll be forced to dance with my uncle Elijah, and he has two left feet.”

“Maybe
I’ll
dance with your uncle Elijah,” said Reggie Cosgrove. “Since I have two right feet, together we’ll make a pair.”

“Or go round and round in circles,” said another.

“Poor man,” Harriet said.

Harriet. Uncle. Poor. Rowena suddenly remembered something her father had told her that morning. “Have you read Harriet Beecher Stowe’s latest book,
The Poor Life
?” she asked the group.

The room fell into complete and utter silence. Then Reggie said, “Harriet who?” He paused a short second, then burst into laughter. “Are you sure your uncle’s name isn’t Tom?”

“And why would I want to read about anyone who’s poor?” Harriet said.

More laughter. Rowena had reached her fill and stood. To his credit, Edward stood also. “I need to go home, please. If you don’t mind?”

“Of course,” he said, and pulled out her chair.

Harriet spoke first. “Don’t leave us, Rowena.” To Reggie she said, “Apologize to her, you oaf.”

Reggie stumbled to his feet, plainly drunk. “Ah, come on, Rowena, I didn’t mean to run you off.”

Rowena paused at the door and faced them. “Believe me, you do not possess the power.”

She took Edward’s arm and exited the room accompanied by a bevy of
ooh
s and laughter.

Good riddance.

Once in the carriage she had second thoughts. “I apologize, Mr. DeWitt. I usually am not so short with them, but—”

“No, no, you did me a favor. Somehow they manage to be boorish
and
boring.”

Edward was a gem.

W
hat are you doing?”

“Shh,” Lucy said, getting out of bed.

“It’s not morning, is it?” Sofia asked.

“No, not morning.”

It was the middle of the night. Lucy couldn’t sleep. Her thoughts twisted with her anger at Bonwitter and her frustration regarding Rowena Langdon’s clothes. Finally admitting she couldn’t change Bonwitter, her mind had free rein to think about helping Rowena.

But Mrs. Flynn will be mad.

Her ideas swelled, making the threat of Mrs. Flynn’s ire lose its bite. The ideas demanded full release, so she got up, dressed, and slipped downstairs and into the shop.

She purposely left the lamps off in the front lobby and felt her way through the dark until she reached the curtain to the workroom. Only when it was fully closed behind her did she light the lamps.

It was eerie being there alone. The silence was almost frightening.

Almost.

To dispel it, Lucy made some noise as she found Rowena’s outfits hanging in the wardrobe closet. There were two dozen ensembles so far. There was no way she would have time to fix them all. But if her ideas worked and even one gown addressed Rowena’s unique body issues, then hopefully Lucy could work on the rest of them with the customer’s—and Mrs. Flynn’s—blessing.

She found the day dress Rowena had been wearing when Lucy had offered her opinion. The skirt was a pale beige, settling somewhere between cream and tan. The bodice was a light yellow, accordion-pleated
mousseline de soie,
bisected with pearl buttons. The sleeves were of the current leg-o’-mutton fashion—voluminous from shoulder to elbow, padded with eiderdown, yet tight to the wrist. Just as the bustles of the eighties had grown ridiculous, these sleeves and the overt attention to the upper torso often went too far with layers of lace, festoons, and flounces threatening to choke. . . . Would fashion ever leave women alone and let them be comfortable in their clothes instead of making them look like some overwrought gewgaw? Did fashion designers ever ask women what they’d prefer? Who made these decisions?

Men, most likely.

Men or no men, comfort or no comfort, it was not in Lucy’s power to make such changes in the status quo. Nor did she have the time.

Which was ticking by . . .

She held the dress before her, seeing how the buttons lined up perfectly. It was made for someone with a conventional figure, not someone with physical issues.

Lucy looked at the pinning Mrs. Flynn had ordered in her attempt to solve the problem. It would only pull the fabric off grain. Lucy’s solution was the best solution.

And so, she set to work.

The clock in the workroom read four. In the morning. The early morning.

Lucy had finished Rowena’s dress and was pleased with the results. The true test would come when Rowena tried it on. Somehow, Lucy had to arrange to be in the room when that happened. She had to
see.

And take credit. Although she knew a truly humble person would let Mrs. Flynn accept the glory, Lucy also knew if she ever wanted to rise in her profession, she had to prove she could do more than hem other people’s work.

Lucy set the workroom to rights again, and was about to extinguish the lamps when she decided to use the shop’s facilities. It would be better not to risk waking up Mamma and Sofia.

Before she lit a lamp in the tiny room, she noticed something odd. Light was coming in through the wall. Lucy kept the light off and moved toward it. There was a small hole in the wall the size of a coin. She peered through it and saw the storeroom, where she’d left a lamp burning.

She stood upright, her thoughts rushing to uncomfortable places. Was Bonwitter spying on them while they were using the necessary? She shuddered. And looked through the hole again. Directly in view was their stock of muslin.

Then she got an idea.

Perhaps a great idea.

“Shh. Let your sister sleep.”

Lucy was vaguely aware of her mother and sister moving about the apartment, but sleep was a demanding master.

She dozed until she felt her mother put a hand upon her shoulder. “You must get up, Lucia. Sofia told me you worked through the night, but Mrs. Flynn will not accept tardiness, for any reason.”

Memories of her nocturnal busyness won out over sleep. She had to get to work to be there when Rowena and her mother came back for more fittings.

And then there was her plan regarding Bonwitter . . .

Lucy sped through her morning ritual and bested her mother and Sofia to the stairs.

“Maybe you should get less sleep more often,” Mamma said. “I do wish you’d tell us what you were doing.”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

When they entered the shop, the workroom was already abuzz. The beige dress was displayed on the cutting table, and Mrs. Flynn and Dorothy were examining it. “If you didn’t do this, who did?” Mrs. Flynn asked Dorothy.

“I did.” Lucy stepped forward.

Her boss looked skeptical. “When?”

“Last night.”

“All night,” Mamma added.

“How did you get in?” Dorothy asked.

Lucy produced the key. “We have a key so we can clean.”

Mrs. Flynn held the dress by the shoulders. “It doesn’t hang straight at all. Look at this, the bodice is off center.”

Lucy shook her head. “So is Miss Langdon. The dress will hang straight on her.”

Mrs. Flynn lowered the dress and eyed Lucy. “You ignored my wishes; you ignored the alterations we were set to make. You have no right to risk our customer’s patronage, not to mention the expense of the fabric and other materials.”

“It will work,” Lucy said.

Mrs. Flynn flashed her a look. “You’re willing to risk your job on this?”

Lucy felt a sharp pull in her stomach. Would it really come to that? If this one dress failed, would she lose her job? She’d made the alterations without being able to try the dress on Miss Langdon in the process.

Mrs. Flynn was waiting for an answer.

Lucy hedged. “The girl needs help. The normal methods of dressmaking won’t work with her, and—”

“You think I don’t know that?”

The other women in the room looked away and made themselves busy. Doubt slid front and center. Had Lucy made a horrible mistake?

The doubt let humility and regret have their way with her and Lucy found herself sincerely saying, “I’m sorry, Madame. My intentions were good, but I should have consulted you first.”

By the lift of her left eyebrow, it was apparent Lucy’s apology took Mrs. Flynn by surprise. “Well, then. You’re new. You didn’t know, but now you do. All designs must go through me.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Now, back to work, all of—”

The bell on the front door announced a customer. Mrs. Flynn left them.

“Lucky Lucy. That’s what we should call you,” Tessie said. “None of us have ever spoken to Madame like that.”

“And lived,” Mavis added.

Sofia rolled a length of ribbon into a circle. “You should have gotten me up. I could have helped.”

“Hush,” Mamma said. “You stick with the rules, young lady.”

Sofia tossed the ribbon onto a table, where it unwound and fell still. “But why does Lucy get to—?”

A stern look from their mother silenced her.

Lucy took up the hem she’d been working on the day before. As she sewed she thought about the dress she’d altered for Miss Langdon. She’d adjusted the hem after inserting a pocket full of padding on the skirt’s hipline. Another pad had been carefully hidden beneath the three ruffles of the mousseline at each shoulder. It was further disguised with a lapel of black guipure lace that matched a godet detail around the waist. If you didn’t know . . .

This
had
to work.

Timbrook entered the drawing room and announced, “Mr. DeWitt is here, Miss Langdon.”

Rowena immediately set her embroidery aside. “Show him in.”

She wasn’t expecting him. Or had she missed something on her calendar? Actually, since being so rude to the group last night at Delmonico’s, she’d feared he wouldn’t want to see her again at all.

Rowena put a hand to her hair and wished she were wearing her pink day dress instead of this plainer green one. She bit her lips, pinched her cheeks, and—

Edward entered the room.

He paused and nodded, and she did the same. “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said.

“Not at all. You are always welcome here, Mr. DeWitt. Please sit down.” She indicated a chair near her settee.

As he took his place she noticed a book in his hands. She couldn’t see the title because he placed it on his lap and covered it with his hands. She purposely kept her eyes away, to let him take the initiative.

He got right to the point. “I’ve come with a gift.” He handed her the book.

It was a copy of
Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

Rowena was taken aback, not certain if he was being kind or making fun of her by hearkening back to her comment about its author at Delmonico’s.

He must have noticed her reticence, for he quickly added, “It’s a favorite of mine, and since you’re obviously knowledgeable about the book and its author, I wanted to give it to you as a gift. I’m only sorry I couldn’t find
The Poor Life
, which you mentioned.”

She released the breath she’d been saving. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. DeWitt.”

“Please call me Edward. And may I call you Rowena?”

She felt a glow ignite from within. This was a very good sign. “Of course.”

Since an opening had presented itself, she brought forward an issue that had been bothering her. “I did want to apologize for my rudeness last night. For me to purposely provoke the group like that . . . it’s not like me at all.”

“Then why did you do it?”

She’d never expected him to ask. “I . . . I get weary of the nothingness of chitchat.”

He laughed. “Then I’d better fine-tune the subjects of my conversations. Would you like to talk about current events? I hear there’s a new country in the world: Formosa. Or would you rather talk about music? What’s your favorite opera? Apparently
Romeo and Juliet
will be at the Metropolitan this next season.”

Rowena felt herself redden, this time from embarrassment. “You’re making fun of me.”