Marry Me (2 page)

It was quieter here on this residential street, with its leafy trees and neatly manicured garden boxes outside the smart brownstone buildings. The only traffic was a horse-drawn delivery van outside her family’s home. “Morton’s Florist”, it said. Its back doors were open.

Oh no. Millie’s heart sank. Not again. Guy Elliott. When would he realise she wasn’t interested in him?

Two delivery men in smart white coats carried another lavish floral arrangement up the steps and into the house. How many more arrangements were inside? When it came to showing off, Mr. Elliott never did anything by halves.

As she passed the delivery van, she could feel it, the air of greasy desperation that emanated off all of Mr. Elliott’s gifts.

Slowly, she trudged through the open doors. The greasy feeling got worse.

The parlor was a riot of blossoms and bloom. Six flower arrangements filled every surface of the room, each one more ridiculous than the last. Two were squeezed in on the table, while another reposed on the sofa. Both chairs were taken. Their miasma cloyed about her. What has Mr. Elliott done to these flowers? Millie could not think straight.

“No, no,” cried the familiar voice of her mother, Mrs. Moore. “Over here.”

Morton’s men studied the overcrowded parlour. “The sofa, ma’am?”

Mrs. Moore, still dressed in her peach morning gown, flapped her hands in frustration, her lace sleeves wavering at her elbows. “Yes—No. Oh, I don’t know.”

Millie sighed. “Just put it down in front of the fireplace.”

Mrs. Moore’s countenance brightened. “Ah, there you are, my dear girl.” Her mother had her social face on. Her frustration at the unexpected bounty of flowers had been hidden away. “Look at how thoughtful Mr. Elliott has been—Oh, no!” she cried at the florists, her mask slipping. “Not by the fire. They’ll wilt there.”

Morton’s men paused, half-crouched.

Millie had had enough. “There will be fine. We can move them later.”

Down went the heavy vase with a chink on the fireplace tiles. They couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Millie couldn’t blame them. The flowers gave a decidedly unpleasant aura about the room.

Once they were gone, her mother relaxed her facade. “Have you seen so many flowers?” Her soft hand reached out to an iris, but stopped shy of touching its delicate petals. “Here he is paying you a compliment. And here,” Mrs. Moore’s hand hovered over a red tulip. “He loves you.”

Millie sighed. “Mother, I don’t think he knows what he’s sent.” She glanced over the multitudinous flowers. It was as if he’d waltzed into the florist and ordered one of everything. Look, there was a geranium—disappointment. And another vase sported a few marigolds among the rest—grief. What a maroon. Didn’t he know every flower had meaning?

But Mrs. Moore only saw what she wanted to see. “How lucky to have someone pay you court, after all this time. I was beginning to worry.”

This irked Millie. “I’m not on the shelf yet.”

Mrs. Moore paused in her sniffing of a hortensia to give her daughter a cold eye. “And how many more weeks will that be?”

Millie wanted to push a vase of flowers into the fire. “Really, mother. I’m only twenty-one.”

“And out for three years. Your sister was married at nineteen.” She fluffed up the flowers as if they were a cushion on the sofa.

“You were married at twenty-one.” She didn’t mean it to sound as snarky as she did.

Morton’s men were back, between them, a vase of nothing but roses. “And where should this one go?”

Her mother pursed her lips.

Millie waved her hand negligently at the florists. “Oh, just leave them in the hallway.”

But her mother was having none of that. “You can’t leave them there.” She pushed her way through the parlor to the door. As she passed Millie, she hissed, “I was engaged at eighteen.”

So there.

Mrs. Moore pushed out into the hallway to direct the florists. No doubt her mother wanted to display the flowers for all comers. Was Millie’s spinsterhood such a shame that Mrs. Moore had to flaunt this unwanted courtship? Was her value only in her marriageability? Given that, was a bad marriage better than no marriage at all?

A very sad thing to contemplate.

A knock rang out on the door. Millie slunk to it, expecting yet more flowers.

When she opened the door, she came face to face with the author of all this misery, Guy Elliott.

At first impression, Mr. Elliott struck one as a man-about-town. His pale sack coat had been finely tailored. Its padded shoulders lent him a little more broadness than nature had given him. His high-buttoned single-breasted waistcoat of red-striped satin seemed a little too gaudy for daytime calling, yet it matched admirably with the red band on his straw boater.

This hat he drew off his wavy blond locks. She should have closed the door, her hand resting on its edge. Half her heart wanted to close it now, the other half to slam the door in his face. Fear of her mother’s wrath stayed her hand. “I take it we have you to thank for this veritable forest?”

He beamed a precise smile, wide enough to show off his too-white teeth, but not so wide to betray his gums in enthusiasm. One could call him handsome, until further acquaintance.

Mrs. Moore returned, an apologetic hand stretched out. “Oh, my dear Mr. Elliott. Such thoughtfulness. Do come in.”

Mr. Elliott took the proffered hand. Mrs. Moore dragged him in.

Not that there was anywhere to sit down in the parlor, so full of his offerings it was. The warm scent of flowers filled the air, though some of that may have been the arrangement left too close to the fire.

While Mrs. Moore fussed over clearing a chair, Mr. Elliott spied his image in the mirror over the fireplace. He ran a hand over his wavy blond hair to smooth it back into place. He gave himself a genuine smile of admiration. For the first time since she’d met him, Millie saw who Guy Elliott truly loved.

“Here you are, Mr. Elliott,” beamed Mrs. Moore, sweeping the last of invisible dust from a chair. Its previous occupier—a floral arrangement—had been relocated to the floor. It was the only place left for it to go.

That smile turned into a condescending smirk as Guy pulled away from the mirror with reluctance.

Millie shoved the arrangement on the sofa over enough for her to squeeze in. The sofa had the advantage of being on the other side of the room, away from Guy Elliott. Also, he would not be able to join her, so full was the sofa.

Mrs. Moore slipped out on the excuse of needing to take some of the flowers for water. Millie wrinkled her nose; she’d been purposely abandoned.

These were the times Millie wished she could shout. She wanted to yell at her mother for her silliness. She wanted to berate Mr. Elliott for his wastefulness. Could she kick over a vase of flowers instead?

Instead, she smoothed out a wrinkle in her pale blue skirt. “You have been far too generous with your gifts, Mr. Elliott.” After all, he had not quite been courting her a month. “There’s enough flowers here for a funeral.”

Was that the barest of wrinkles on his forehead? “Or a wedding.”

Mr. Elliott was one to talk about weddings. Millie’s gaze narrowed. She knew exactly why Mr. Elliott was here. She was the wooden spoon, the condolence prize, the last chance saloon for Mr. Elliott. He had wooed and failed to win at least three other young ladies, each one smart enough to see him for what he truly was. Several of her acquaintances had had the good sense to wed men of fine character and old fortune, men who were
not
Mr. Elliott. All the New Money in the world would not make up for poor character.

She hoped she would be as wily as they. “I do not recall so many flowers at Ethel Westford’s wedding,” she remarked. That was the last wedding Millie had had the pleasure of attending last month.

Now Ethel Westford nee Merriman had been the last fair maiden Mr. Elliott had pursued. They said she’d nearly walked down the aisle with him, but had called off the wedding a good three weeks prior. Rumors abounded, as they do. What they were, Millie couldn’t recall, for nearly two months to the day of her jilting Mr. Elliott, Ethel walked down a different aisle with the very respectable John Westford, a younger scion of the affluent Connecticut Westfords. That alone sent all mention of Mr. Elliott out Society’s door. Being forgotten by Society must have stung him more than being jilted.

Mr. Elliott’s face froze when Millie mentioned the new Mrs. Westford; that wound was still fresh. Still, he recovered quickly. “I have come to ask you if you would accompany me to the Junior Regatta on Saturday afternoon.”

All these flowers just to ask her out? That’s a cheap trick. “I’m afraid we’re already going. Jonathan is one of the competitors, you know?”

He blinked in confusion. “Jonathan?”

“My younger brother.” The Junior Regatta was more a children’s event, but it drew its fair share of affluent families. The younger set raced little sailboats about one of the lakes in Central Park. Families brought picnics and made a day of it. Her brother had competed every year since he was old enough to sail a toy boat without breaking down into tears when it—as they all did—got stranded out in the middle of the lake and had to be rescued by rowers.

He sniffed and waggled his nose. “So you will be there. At the very least, I must ask you join me for a stroll.”

Ah. She walked into that one. There was no way she could avoid his company now. “If you wish.” What else could she say? All those flowers made her head feel dizzy.

Satisfied with her answer, he replaced his straw hat on his wavy blond hair and bid her good day. He cast a satisfied glance at the multitudinous flowers before making his departure.

Well, if one could call it a departure. Millie saw him to the door. “I shall see you on Saturday.” Wait. Why’d she say that?

“I’m glad,” he replied, lingering on the doorstep. Millie wished to slam the door in his face. “Oh, could I ask you to wear a red dress that day?” He stroked his red-striped waistcoat. “I think it would be charming if we matched.”

Millie blinked at him. Really? If he had the gall to dictate her wardrobe now when they were merely courting, surely he would be insufferable later in a deeper relationship. “I’m sorry. I cannot oblige you. I do not have a red dress.”

Nobody had a red dress. Red simply was not in fashion this season, being a bold color. Red might be suitable for a man, but not for a woman of fashion. Every lady wore white or pastels for daywear—comfortable cottons or crisp linens, now that spring was here. “I’m afraid I shall have to wear something else.”

Before he could protest, or worse, demand she wear something to suit him, she shut the door in his face. She darted back into the parlor and peeked at him through the curtains of the window.

Mr. Elliott stood there, surprised. Good. She’d discomfited him. Maybe he’d take the hint and go away.

But instead of striding off, he sauntered down the steps, pausing to straighten his cuffs. It was as if he had wanted to be seen on her porch. He tipped his hat for the pair of matrons who strolled by.

Finally, when he had no further excuse to loiter, he left with a slow, casual walk as if he’d not just had his nose tweaked.

Thank goodness he was gone. For now. If only she could be rid of him for good.

As Millie studied the bouquets, she wondered, where did the florist find such a vast range of flowers? Even with hothouses, flowers still had their seasons. Here was ivy—fidelity and friendship—entwined through the bouquet. And there were faithful violets. When Millie went to pluck one out, she discovered, not much to her surprise, that it was fake.

****

“Uncle Ray!”

Before Raymond had climbed the steps to his sister’s home, a passel of nieces and nephews barreled out the door. They must have been watching from the windows. Even Thomas, the eldest at fifteen, did not hide his enthusiasm. At least he had enough restraint not to dig through his uncle’s jacket.

Helen, who at eleven years should have known better, already had her hands in his outer pockets. “What have you brought us today?” She’d shoved her competition Jack and Ruth out of the way. Billie couldn’t even begin to compete with them. Essie, only three, still had trouble getting down the steps.

Raymond rescued the bag from Helen’s eager fingers. “Now, now,” he sang. “Wait y-your t-t-urn.”

They all bounced about him, eager for their uncle’s latest enchantment.

Raymond held the paper bag close and peeked inside, teasing the children. Immediately he shut the bag, more so not to give away his surprise. Helen squealed in anticipation.

As one, they cupped their hands, ready to receive the latest delight.

Fearing she’d wet herself, Raymond gave the first heart to Helen. The moment it landed in her hands, it squeaked, “Sweet Girl!” Helen laughed in delight. The younger children squealed as well.

Poor Thomas looked disappointed. “Love hearts? Those are for sissies.”

Poor lad. Hasn’t he figured out girls yet? Raymond dug through the bag until he found a heart suitable for Thomas’ manly inclinations. Into his nephew’s reluctant hand, he dropped, “Swell Guy”.

All right, the squeaky pitch didn’t sound very masculine, but Thomas gave a reluctant nod of approval.

Raymond doled out several more hearts to the delight of the younger set. “Can we eat ’em?” Ruth asked above the sentimental din.

Raymond nodded.

“Yay!” she stuffed the lot into her mouth.

“Hey!” chided Helen. “You’ll ruin your appetite.”

“Fffo?” Ruth replied around a mouthful of coloured drippy sugar. Already Essie had drooled brownish-blue saliva down her pinafore.

His uncle-ish chaos dispensed, Raymond asked Thomas, “Your m-m-m-other home?”

“Sure.” Thomas held out a surreptitious hand. Raymond slid him another candy heart on the sly. “But first, I gotta show you my boat. It’s almost done!”

Inwardly, Raymond groaned. His business here was not purely a social call. He had something he wanted to discuss with his sister Mary, something important. But Thomas had inherited the family talent. “All right.”

Mary Wilson Chandler lived the easy life of an Old Money wife. Even the Chandlers’ primary residence spoke of class and grace spanning generations. Thomas might have dashed up that most elegant staircase without a second glance, but Raymond couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of the carved wooden banister.