An Unlikely Suitor (13 page)

“She would move just as I would move against the very same friendship. For the sake of my daughter, to protect her—to protect you—from pain.”

Lucy knew it was no use arguing. She also knew what Mamma said was true.

But that didn’t mean she had to like it.

Lucy bolted upright, yanked out of sleep.

She held her breath and listened.

“Lie down,” Sofia said, adjusting the lone sheet they used in the summer heat.

Lucy got out of bed. She moved into the main room as if the slightest noise would—

“Lucy?” Mamma whispered.

In the moonlight, Lucy saw she was also awake and was sitting upright on her mattress.

Lucy tiptoed to her side. “Did you hear it too?”

Mamma nodded and looked toward the door.

Lucy hadn’t had a chance to settle on the source of what had awakened her. But to know that someone was outside their door . . . Last time it had been Mr. Standish, but even he would not come calling in the middle of the night.

Mamma attempted to stand, and Lucy helped her. It was then she saw the glint of a knife blade in Mamma’s bed. She pointed at it.

“Get it,” Mamma whispered.

Lucy got the knife and put it in her hand as if to defend. It was an odd feeling to grip it so. Together they moved to the door. Lucy put her ear to it, held her breath, and heard . . .

Nothing.

She stood aright. “Whoever was here, I think they’re gone.”

Mamma wiped her hands upon her nightdress, crossed herself, then let one hand move to the knob and the other to the key sticking out of the lock. Her breathing was labored and Lucy wished she could have both roles in what was about to happen—to throw the door open, and to charge at whoever dared intrude upon their home.

Mamma looked at her and mouthed,
“Uno, due
 . . .
tre!”

She turned the key and yanked the door open.

The darkness revealed nothing.

Knife poised, Lucy held her breath. She was afraid to peek around the corner to see down the stairway. The dark stairway.

There was no sound, which meant the intruder was either gone or waiting in the shadows. They needed light, but the stairwell light was at the foot of the stairs. She whispered to Mamma, “Bring a lamp over.”

Mamma went to the kitchen table and Lucy heard the striking of a match. Then Mamma came close with a kerosene lamp.

With one hand still on the knife, Lucy held the lamp high and risked a look down the stairway.

It was empty.

She allowed herself to breathe and stepped onto the landing and—

Slipped!

The knife flew out of her hand and down the stairs, Mamma rescued the lamp, and Lucy landed hard, sprawled upon the landing and the first step.

Which was wet.

She lifted her foot and spotted something greasy upon it. Her hand was covered in the same goo, a grease . . .

“Animal grease?” Only then did her senses allow her to confirm the substance. “Mamma, move the light over here.”

As Lucy attempted to stand without sliding farther down the stairs, Mamma held the lamp over the dim space. “All the steps are covered with grease. Every one.”

“You could have been killed,” Mamma said.

“I think that was his intent.”

Sofia appeared at the door. “What’s that stuff all over?”

“Grease, à la Bonwitter.”

She stepped back. “He was here?”

“We both heard him.” Lucy motioned for them to go inside.

Mamma inspected Lucy’s nightdress. “It’s ruined.”

“Better the dress than a leg or a back.”

“Take it off.”

Lucy shook her head. “I might as well leave it on. If we’re ever going to get out of here, the stairs need to be cleaned.”

“But shouldn’t the police be shown?” Mamma said.

She rubbed her hip, which surely would be bruised. “I’ll offer my nightgown as evidence—and my bruises if they wish for more. Now help me get a bucket of hot water, some soap, and a brush.”

Lucy made good work of it. The smell of the animal grease was horrible, and the slimy feel on her hands made her long for a very hot bath.

And a very long sleep.

Once again, she was working alone. If it wasn’t staying up all night working on Rowena’s clothes to help her look beautiful, it was catching Bonwitter in the act. Or venturing off into strange parts of town to find her family lodging, making the deal for an apartment
and
jobs, then coming over to clean the place. Once again, alone.

She stopped scrubbing and arched her back, feeling very much the martyr. Why did she have to do everything? Why did she have to take charge of all the problems of the world? Why did she . . . ?

Lucy let the words be spoken. “Why do I always have to be the hero?”

Overwhelmed in body and mind, she sat on a step, grease and all.

Was this need to
do
a good trait or a fault? A strength or a weakness?

She used to live for the times when Papa would take her face in his hands and tilt it upward. He’d look into her eyes and say, “Well done, Lucia. You are a gift from God.” And then he’d kiss her forehead. Oh, how she missed him.

Her hand moved toward that forehead now, but Lucy stopped its movement before it plastered grease on the one portion of her body that the awful stuff hadn’t tainted.

Grease. If she didn’t clean it up, no one would.

She got back to work.

R
owena sat in a wicker rocker on the veranda facing the sea. A vast expanse of lawn divided her from the actual ocean, but she could see miles of water beyond the green— water stretching out to meet the sky.

They’d been in Newport for two days now, and Rowena had already attended one dinner party, one afternoon tea, one tennis match, and a visit to the Astors’ home, Beechwood, to pay homage to Caroline Astor and acknowledge her peerage over Newport—and New York—society.

Rowena was bored to death. She missed Edward. As was oftentimes the case with the men of the families, they arrived from the city on the weekend, taking short and numerous breaks from the work that made all this luxury possible. Morrie was around, but the two times she’d tried to see him, he’d been busy.

And so she sat alone, looking out to sea, wishing for the absent company of Edward.

And Lucy.

Her mother’s words returned to her:
“You can’t be friends with a seamstress, especially not an Italian seamstress
.
”

How silly was that? Her own grandparents had been immigrants from England. Her grandfather had opened a clock store, which had been the impetus for her father to garner an interest in how things worked. That her family had succeeded beyond any expectation, that they’d built this grand house in Newport, should make them sympathetic to people like Lucy who were just starting out, people who were using their God-given gifts to an amazing degree.

Mother came out on the veranda, her calendar book in hand. “Oh, there you are, dear. We need to go over the invitations we’ve received so there are no mistakes.”

A mistake would be to accept the wrong invitation in lieu of the right one, to a better house, invited by a better family.

Rowena stopped her rocking. “Actually, I’m quite content doing nothing.”

Mother sat in the settee close by. “Nonsense. We are not here for you to relax.”

Rowena let a laugh escape.

“I amuse you?”

“No, no. Never that.”

She felt her mother’s eyes, but was allowed her indiscretion, for they both knew Mother was never amusing, rarely witty, and possessed the sense of humor of a hawk peering out for its prey.

Mother opened her date book. “You will be blessedly busy this season, dear.”

Busy. Busywork. That’s what these parties were. Rowena got nothing out of them and offered nothing to them. Perhaps when Edward arrived there would be some relief, but . . .

If only Lucy were there. How Rowena would love to show her the sights. To see Newport through Lucy’s eyes would bring her much delight.

Her mother was going over the dates and times, but Rowena had stopped listening. It was appalling that Lucy wasn’t welcome there as a friend, yet odd that she would have been embraced if she were their servant. How—

Suddenly, Rowena got an idea.

“Rowena?”

She must have gasped or made a sound, for her mother looked at her with a modicum of alarm. Rowena smiled sweetly. “What were you saying about Wednesday afternoon?”

Rowena pretended to listen, but her mind whirled with other possibilities.

Rowena yanked at the lace around the neckline.

The stitches gave way.

As did Rowena’s heart, for it was pounding wildly.

She moved to the next dress and tore the sleeve from the bodice.

And then another. And another.

After more than a dozen outfits were damaged, Rowena stepped to the center of her dressing room, her breath heaving in short fits.

She sat on the large ottoman to collect herself.

It was not an easy task, for as she looked across the rows of gowns edging her dressing room, the full implication of her actions took hold. She
did
need Lucy’s help now, for who better to repair these awful injuries to her clothing?

She imagined her mother’s voice:
“But how did this happen, daughter? And why didn’t you notice it earlier? And why were only your clothes—?”

The last question spurred her to action. If she was going to present the scenario that their clothing was damaged in transit from New York, it would make no sense that only Rowena’s garments were affected.

I have to get in Mother’s closet.

She cracked open the door leading from the dressing room to the hall and peered out. She looked to the left. Sadie was entering her brother’s room next door, her arms full of fresh linens. She looked to the right.

The coast was clear.

Rowena entered the hallway and strode quickly toward her mother’s bedroom. Hopefully Mother was still downstairs working on their social schedule. She knocked on the door and, receiving no reply, went inside.

Mother’s adjoining dressing room was even larger than Rowena’s, with dress racks encompassing three walls. She rummaged through the racks searching for dresses from Madame Moreau’s. The tug of a bodice seam on one, the tear of a cuff on another, the—

“Rowena?”

Her heart plummeted to her toes and her face grew hot. She turned toward her mother and put a hand to her chest. “You frightened me.”

Mother looked askance. “What are you doing in my dressing room?”

Rowena’s thoughts rushed toward a logical answer. She pulled out the last dress she’d damaged. “Look at this.”

Mother stepped forward and examined the tear. “How did this happen?”

“I don’t know,” Rowena said. “But I was going to wear one of my dresses from Madame Moreau’s this morning and found similar damage. Quite a few of my outfits are torn in some way. It got me wondering whether yours had suffered a similar fate.”

Her mother looked through the rack to Rowena’s left and pulled out the dress that had already met Rowena’s yank and tug.

“How could this happen?”

Rowena shrugged. “I remember Lucy telling me about an employee at the dress shop who got fired because of Lucy’s courage in catching him in the act of stealing. Remember the basket left on the stoop? It had a rat in it.”

Mother shuddered. “You think he damaged our clothes as a way to get revenge on Lucy?”

“I know of no other explanation.”
That I can share.

Mother continued looking through her clothes, but Rowena stopped her. “Don’t bother yourself with this. I’ll go through the racks. So far I’ve found nearly twenty outfits with damage.”

Mother turned toward the door. “I’ll call Margaret and get her started on the repairs.”

Rowena stepped toward her mother, stopping her with a hand. “I don’t think Margaret’s skills are of a level to do more than sew on a button. Remember how she blundered the hem of your blue lawn?”

Mother’s eyes darted, as if she was mentally going through the staff who might have the talent—

Rowena intervened before she came up with a name. “I have a solution,” she said.

“Then say it.”

“Let’s bring Miss Scarpelli here. Since she was instrumental in the creation of the dresses, she’ll be able to repair them with an expertise beyond any other servant who pretends to know how to wield a needle and thread. Besides . . .” Rowena peered at the floor, trying to look pitiful. “With the custom alterations she made to my outfits, I would not feel comfortable handing them over to someone who isn’t aware of why some extra padding is here, or a tuck is put there.”

Mother was eyeing Rowena in a way that made her feel wholly uncomfortable. Did she suspect the truth?

Finally, she spoke. “Of course the fact that Lucy is your friend, that you wanted her here in the first place . . .”

Rowena took her mother’s hands in hers. “I won’t deny the solution pleases me on more than one level, Mother. And I know you were right in refusing my request to have Lucy come here as a guest. But now, she would be here as a worker, as a seamstress.”

“A seamstress only.”

“Of course.” The fluttering in Rowena’s chest was far different from the experience a mere half hour before. The joy she would experience if her mother would let Lucy come . . .

Rowena met her mother’s pale gray eyes and added, “Please, Mother?”

Her mother’s eyes flashed with a hint of hardness before she nodded. “Write up a note and I’ll have a telegram sent. I will not have her come by steamer, though. It is far too luxurious.”

“I’m sure the train to Wickford Junction will be fine, and then the short boat ride—”

“Tell Hugh to arrange it.”

Rowena kissed her mother on the cheek. “Thank you, thank you, Mother. You’ve made me very happy.”

“And solved the problem of the torn dresses.”

Rowena couldn’t hide her smile. “Of course. That too.”

“First class, Wena? For a seamstress?”

“Please, Hugh?” Rowena said. “Just do it. I’ll pay the difference from my allowance. Lucy is more than just a seamstress, she’s a good friend. I’d really like her to be pampered a bit for her inconvenience.”

He buttoned a vest over his striped shirt. “So Mother doesn’t know about this?”

“She knows Lucy is coming. She gave her approval for that. But no . . . she doesn’t know about first class.” She appealed to her brother’s rebellious side. “It will be our secret. I’ve kept enough of yours.”

Hugh threaded a bow tie around his collar. “I suppose I could—”

She grabbed his face, kissed him on the lips with a loud
whack
, and walked to the door. “I love you, brother!”

He called after her, “This Lucy must be someone pretty special to deserve all this trouble.”

“Any threats from Bonwitter today?” Tessie asked Lucy.

Lucy sighed dramatically. “What have I asked all of you?”

Tessie shrugged. “Not to ask about it anymore.”

“Because?”

“Because you’re sick of wasting another moment of your life worried about such a disgusting, despicable, disgraceful, desperate, dumb, disgusting—”

“You said
disgusting
twice,” Lucy said. “And I believe you added a few more nasty traits to my previous list.”

“I could add more,” Tessie said. “That was only the D’s.”

Lucy tied a knot in her thread. “The point is, I’m done with him.”

“Until he does something else.”

“Tessie!”

“All right, all right.”

Dorothy looked up from her sewing. “Work, Tessie?”