Marry Me (3 page)

Thomas bounced eagerly at the top of the stairs. “C’mon, Uncle Ray!”

Raymond sighed and followed his nephew to the nursery. Like many an old and stately home, the nursery was on the third floor, well away from where the parents lived. The curtains had been drawn back from the garret windows, the light of morning illuminating the Noah’s Ark painted on the green walls.

On a table in a corner of the nursery, covered in cloth, sat Thomas’ latest project. With careful hands, he rolled back the cloth to reveal a beautiful sailboat. The keel he’d painted black, but the sides and all the fine details were done in red and gold. Thomas tilted the boat up. “Isn’t she a beauty? Just a few more hours and she’ll be done for the race.”

Raymond smelled the familiar scent of magic. Not too strong to be obvious, but unmistakeably present. “Wh-wh-at’d you a-a-dd?”

Thomas yearned to include “modifications” to his boats. The first time he’d done it, he’d enchanted his boat for speed without paying attention to design. Sure, he won every race that day, but at what cost to the other competitors? Many a young fellow had gone home in disappointment.

Raymond had pulled his nephew aside for a bit of a chat. There was a fine line between enhancement and cheating. To enchant a boat for speed was not sportsmanlike. Magic should never be used to coerce people or cheat or anything like that. A gentleman’s character should stand on its own.

And Thomas, like the gentleman’s son he was, had listened. “I promise, everything’s crackerjack.” He upended the boat and drew his finger along the bottom seam. “Here, I enchanted it so the boat won’t tip. And in the black paint I sealed it up so she won’t leak. And that’s it.”

Raymond nodded his approval. Focusing on integrity was the best way to go. “Well d-d-done.” He clapped his proud nephew on the back.

“You coming to the race on Saturday?” The tone of Thomas’ voice indicated he would not take no for an answer.

Not that Raymond was planning on missing it. The Junior Regatta was a splendid day out where children were not shuffled off to their nannies and governesses, but allowed to socialise.

Raymond bade his nephew good luck and retreated from the nursery.

He found Mary in the front sitting room cutting catalogue pictures for her scrapbook. Mary loved pretty things. While she was affluent enough to afford anything that took her fancy, she never gave up her hobby of filling scrapbook after scrapbook with beautiful pictures. “Hello Raymond,” she said, not looking up from the precision of her scissors. Ever so carefully she edged a blue bouquet out of a magazine cover. “What brings you by today?”

From his pocket he pulled the heart he’d selected earlier. With a single finger he pushed it across the table toward his sister. “Sweet Girl!” it chirped.

“Oh,” she cried, picking it up. “Is that for me?” She covered it with her other hand, then revealed the heart to the light, where it chirped “Sweet Girl!” again. Mary laughed, as she always had whenever Raymond had enchanted little things for her as a child.

Raymond sighed. “I m-m-met s-s-omeon-ne.”

Mary, who’d been playing with the noisy little heart, looked up. She blinked at her brother. “A girl?” Delight spread across her face.

He nodded.

“About time,” Mary declared. “What is her name? Do we know her family?”

Oh dear. He should have anticipated she’d ask that. “D-don’t kn-now.”

“Then give me her name and I’ll tell you if we know them or not.”

Double oh dear. “I—I—” he stuttered, not sure how to put this.

Mary’s jaw dropped. “Wait. You don’t know her name? Haven’t even been introduced?”

This was awkward. How could he explain to his sister about this young woman he saw on the street one day? How she hid behind a lamp post and watched a protest. She wasn’t a radical, this young lady, otherwise she would have been in with them marching along. How could he explain her gentle features, her elegant limbs and those fine ankles? But what made his heart really flutter was when she gave her whole sandwich to that starving street urchin without a second thought for herself.

That was the sort of spirit a man could admire. Gibson Girls may be all fine and well in their beauty and boldness, but they had a certain hard edge that Raymond disliked. And then there were the Victorian remnants. Such blushing shrinking violets with nary a thought in their heads might have suited the men of his father’s generation, but this was the new century. Progress, and all that. No room for the weak or tepid.

This young lady did not seem weak. She seemed fascinated by life.

“I w-w-ant t-t-o find h-h-her again.”

Mary positioned the bouquet in her scrapbook. “What do you know about her?”

Raymond sighed in frustration. Mary rolled her eyes. She wagged a finger at the desk on the other side of the room. “There’s paper in there.” She picked up her scissors and resumed snipping.

Raymond fetched a nice piece of writing paper and a pencil. He tapped the pencil against his lips. What did he know about her?

She’s beautiful. That was a given. She has an interest in…politics? No, social issues. She’s smart enough not to get directly involved in politics. Politics could get tricky, if some of the skirmishes down at the Club on East 44
th
street were anything to go by. Men often resolved their differences in the pugilistic ring when they could not come to agreement over politics, finances or anything, really.

She came from a well-to-do family, if the quality of her hands and her clothes were any indication, but not so rich that she wasn’t above carrying her own lunch around.

She was thoughtful. She offered her sandwich to that boy. The whole thing. Someone of a higher station would have ignored him completely. Compassionate. Yes, that was her.

And she didn’t give Raymond the brush-off either. She accepted the little candy heart graciously and with honest delight. Yes. That’s what he loved most, the sheer joy at such a simple gift.

He slid his list over to his sister. She read it, her eyebrows rising. “Sounds like a real charmer. But how will you find her?”

Knock on every door in New York? Could do. Cross his fingers and hope for the best? Sheer dumb luck ruled their first encounter. He couldn’t rely on such a fickle thing for the rest.

“P-persiss-sstence.”

Okay, and some luck.

Still, did his heart have to beat so hard?

“Wh-wh-when I f-f-find her, h-h-help m-me?” On the back of the paper he pencilled big and bold, “Please?”

****

Saturday came, and with it, Guy Elliott. To Millie’s chagrin, he called at the house, arriving about fifteen minutes before the Moores were to depart.

He came with an armful of lilies. Surely one couldn’t go wrong with the innocuous flower of innocence. They looked out of place in front of his red-striped waistcoat and linen suit. He looked to be going out for a day of gay delights, whereas the lilies begged for an afternoon of quietude.

The maid answered the door. Flustered Mrs. Moore hurried up behind her, a smile plastered across her face. Did appearance mean so much to her mother?

“We did not expect you so soon,” Mrs. Moore panted, a hand to her ruffled bosom. Her gaze alighted on the lilies. “Oh, how lovely.” She stroked a petal. A wave of greasiness rippled off.

Millie shuddered at the top of the staircase. With a complete lack of grace, she clunked down the stairs, the carpet runner failing to hide her loud footfalls. “We’re not ready yet,” she said, fully dressed. Today Millie had chosen a white day dress with a pleated bodice, just right for promenading in Central Park on the first real spring day of the season. Her high button shoes of brown complimented the green sash at her waist. A matching green ribbon encircled the brim of her straw hat. Young, fresh, delightful, or so her mother had claimed.

Her words failed to unsettle Mr. Elliott. “I hope it will not take you too long to change into your red dress?”

Millie wanted to scream at him. What was wrong with what she was wearing? Nothing. Even her mother had approved.

The maid collected the lilies from Mr. Elliott. He instructed their vase to be placed in the front window. Lilies love the light, or so he claimed.

“See, I have brought you a gift.” From his pocket he pulled a red satin ribbon, one of the expensive kind. It had that same greasy aura of the flowers and all of his other gifts. She didn’t want to touch it.

Her mother gazed at it with wide eyes. “Ooh, how lovely.” Her fingers stole out and plucked it from Mr. Elliot’s fingers.

This startled Mr. Elliott. “Ah, let’s see what we can do with it for Miss Moore.” He couldn’t remove the ribbon from Mrs. Moore’s grasp fast enough.

Millie’s eyes narrowed. So that’s what was going on. Was her mother so desperate for her youngest daughter’s marriage that she easily fell prey to Mr. Elliott’s greasy charms?

What had he done to that ribbon?

Mr. Elliott held it out for Millie, but she refused to take it. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t match my sash.”

Or so she thought. Her mother also looked her up and down. “Oh Mildred, you know that won’t do.”

“Mother, you
know
I don’t have a red dress. Nobody wears red this year.”

Mr. Elliott shuffled his feet. “Green and red do not go together. We can’t be seen looking like this.”

Millie looked at her clothes once again. Really? Why was it so important they matched? It wasn’t as if Society dressed to complement one another.

Her mother’s hands flapped like drying sheets on a windy day. “Oh, go change into something pink. That will do nicely.”

“Pink?”

The barest of sighs escaped her mother’s lips. “Do you not have a pink sash?”

Well, yes. But Millie didn’t want to wear pink today. Today was a green day.

“Besides,” her mother said, upon further thought, “Thanks to Mr. Elliott’s earlier generosity, I may be able to suit you out.” Mrs. Moore’s fingers shooed Millie away.

To express her petulance, Millie clomped back up the stairs. It was a quick enough matter to swap the green sash and ribbon for a pink. Millie refused to change her shoes. If she was lucky, Mr. Elliott might not notice.

When she returned, suitably attired under protest, her mother had a surprise for her.

Mrs. Moore had crafted a corsage from the many bouquets scattered about the house. Every flower was red, with the exception of some baby’s breath for contrast.

To add insult to injury, the whole of the hideous bunch had been tied up with that nasty red ribbon. “Here.” She pinned the corsage neatly to Millie’s bosom. “That shall do most nicely.”

She admired her work. “Now, off you go. We shall see you down there, I dare say, assuming your father and your brother have loaded that boat properly.”

Millie stiffened. “I’m not going with you?” Surely her mother wouldn’t abandon her like this. Millie looked to Mr. Elliott in alarm.

Her mother turned away. “Go with him. I don’t know if there’ll be room in the carriage, what with your brother’s boat and all. Besides, the fresh air will do you good.” The look Mrs. Moore threw over her shoulder was coy.

Just like that, Millie was thrust into the unwelcome company of Mr. Elliott.

As they descended the steps to the street, he ran his finger along the brim of his hat, settling it into place over his wavy hair. With flourish, he offered his arm.

Millie glanced back to the house. Sure enough, her mother watched from the window, peeking from behind the curtain. Millie slipped a reluctant arm through Mr. Elliott’s. There was no way of getting out of it without making a scene.

Oh, how Millie wanted to make a scene!

Millie looked at today’s accessory, Mr. Elliott, and wondered if anyone would notice or care.

They’d notice all right. As he led her westward along the street, he made sure he smiled and nodded to anyone of consequence they passed. He even greeted a few by name, as if acquainted.

No one stopped to chat. The better-mannered men automatically tipped their hats as they hurried along their way and the women gave a small nod, no more than was considered polite to a stranger.

Millie’s cheeks flushed. Why did he have to greet every single person he saw? He might be enthused about the world, but the world turned him a chilly shoulder.

Millie spotted her friend Sarah approaching. Millie tilted her head down. They passed by as if strangers. A twinge of bitterness stung Millie’s heart. It was best that she not stop to chat than risk being asked what she was doing with Mr. Elliott.

How would she survive the day?

****

Raymond had been looking forward to the Junior Regatta purely for the company of his nieces and nephews. Today’s modern children were not as cruel as the companions he’d grown up with. None of them mocked him for his stutter. Granted, it could have been that they were taught to respect their elders—if not their peers—and none would dare mock the Chandler’s interesting uncle.

He intended to live up to his reputation. No sooner had the Chandlers arrived at the park than all the Chandler children’s friends gathered about him. Thomas set off with his older pals to admire each other’s boats, but the younger set stuck with Raymond.

Young Dandy Bellwether, one of Helen’s friends, came up to him with a gum wrapper in her hand. “Do a bird?” she asked.

He took the wrapper, gave it a few folds until it looked like a beak with wings. Then he blew on it and flicked it off his hand.

The bird flapped and soared about. Dandy shrieked in delight and clapped her hands. Several more children clamoured about him, fists of candy wrappers, napkins, and even scraps of newspaper, all hoping for one of “Uncle Raymond’s birds”.

Soon all of them danced about, with various creatures of the air evading their reaching grasps. Only after every child was occupied, did Raymond have an opportunity to join his sister beside the lake.

Mary feasted in style. A picnic had been laid out for the Chandler crowd, with a small folding table and several chairs, while the children would be content with a spread blanket. A maid set out select sandwiches.