An Unlikely Suitor (18 page)

Rowena’s boredom was at an end. Today Lucy was arriving, and yesterday Edward had arrived. Although she was still required to attend numerous social occasions she would have preferred to skip, the attending would be made far easier knowing Edward would be present at most.

Rowena looked across the grass at the other two couples who’d accompanied her and Edward to watch the sailboat regatta. She and Edward had taken their place upon the grassy knoll overlooking Narragansett Bay first, and she expected the others to sit close by.

But they didn’t do that. She watched as Winnie Rutherford pointed to the grass a good twenty feet away, instructing her companion to lay the blanket there. The other couple sat beside them, leaving an awkward patch of green as testament to their rudeness.

And Rowena’s and Edward’s ostracism.

She felt bad for Edward. Since his family was new in Newport, they were suspect. The bastions of society were high and wide, and there was no guarantee of acceptance no matter how much money one made—or displayed. Why, just the other night at Delmonico’s, her friends had talked to Edward as if he were one of them. But today . . . Acceptance into society was fickle. Further proof could be seen in the case of Mrs. William K. Vanderbilt, who had been ostracized since her divorce the previous spring. Such a thing was simply not done, but Rowena had heard her mother say that though they wouldn’t invite Alva to
their
house, they probably would go to a party Alva was having later this season. The presence of the Duke of Marlborough was the draw. Apparently, Alva was arranging for her daughter, Consuelo, to marry him.

There were others who kept tabs on who was in and who was out: Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish, Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt II, Mrs. Hermann Oelrichs, Mrs. William Backhouse Astor, Jr. . . . These ladies were an unofficial but recognized panel of judges who gave—or withheld—their favor at will. And whim.

Of course, Rowena’s position was not exactly solid. Her family was accepted because they’d been in Newport before the patriarch of all the Vanderbilt clan—the Commodore—had even thought about running a railroad, much less climbing any ladder other than the one in a train car’s berth. But Rowena knew her infirmity, along with her brother’s frivolous nature, tested their position.

If only she and Edward could have come here alone. But such private outings were not allowed at this point in their relationship, so she’d let her mother arrange the outing with the other couples. In truth, she disliked them as much as they tolerated her. But for them to be so blatant about it . . .

Rowena pretended to be preoccupied with her parasol, even though she knew it would open if she really tried. And oddly, as Edward stretched his legs out beside her, she noticed scuffs on his buff-colored shoes. But instead of thinking
He should polish them
, the shoes made her think of Morrie. Morrie’s shoes were never polished and often displayed a disturbing amount of dirt and grass. Yet she wouldn’t have it any other way. For by his shoes, Morrie always revealed a refreshing evidence of fully living. Being all staid and polished only revealed that a person was idle and had servants to help showcase that idleness.
Living
was a coveted trophy most of her set would never win. Caught in her memory, she moved the blanket aside so she could feel the grass.

“Would you like me to smooth the blanket?” Edward asked.

She smoothed it back herself. “I like the grass, the feel of it.”

“I’m more a city boy.” He took a deep breath but shook his head. “This fresh air . . . my lungs don’t know what to do with it.”

His comment was disappointing. Who could not like the soft musk of the grass, the rainbow of colors in Newport’s gardens, the sea air, the waves, the endless sky?

Unable to delay any longer, Rowena finally let her parasol open and looked absently at the other couples. It gladdened her heart that Winnie’s hair was frizzing in the humidity. So much for perfection. And there was a distinct amount of sweat on her companion’s brow, sweat that he tried in vain to eradicate by fanning himself with his straw hat.

Rowena felt her own trickle of perspiration course down her spine between skin and corset. Yet its presence gave her no distress. She loved the outdoors, and if she could have rid herself of this ridiculous corset, dress, and petticoats, along with the veil, hat, and parasol, she would have played the child, skipping over the knoll in her bare feet like she used to do with Morrie before convention, age, and injury ruined their fun.

The other couples talked amongst themselves, often behind upraised hands. Again, the utter rudeness astounded but did not surprise her. Rowena was glad the breeze took their words out to sea.

Odd that the upper crust saw no need for subtlety. When they wished to discuss a person, they did so with little or no attempt at hiding the act. As now. When Rowena looked in their direction, she usually found them with their heads together, talking in low tones, their eyes fixed on Edward and herself. It was very disconcerting.

On one such occasion, Edward noticed it too. “Are we entertaining enough for you, ladies? Or would you like me to dance a jig?”

Not waiting for their reply, he stood and did a funny little dance.

He received laughter from the others and gratitude from Rowena. When he returned to his seat on the grass, he said, “There. At least now I’ve chosen their attention.”

She was touched by his willingness to play the fool to gain her comfort. “Be assured they are not chattering to disparage you but to mock me, or rather what they consider the absurd idea of me
with
you. Or is it
you
with me?”

“Why are they so cruel? Haven’t they known you your whole life? Being from Boston, being new to New York and Newport, I should think
I
would be the subject of their rudeness,” he asserted. “I’ve heard my mother and father talk of the bolted doors of society and how difficult it is to pry them open.”

“But you are a handsome, eligible man, and charming besides. Those traits are very advantageous when it comes to being accepted by the younger set here. See the way Mary Grant is smiling at you? With one smile in return she could be yours forever.”

He turned toward Mary and waggled his hands beside his ears. Alarmed, she looked away.

“You’re fearless.”

“Foolish.”

“Guileless.”

He seemed to like that word.

The regatta played out before them, the tall ships and smaller sailing vessels cutting through the water of the bay with the ease of paint from an artist’s brush. The sails captured the wind’s magic, and Rowena was brought back to happy times aboard her family’s yacht, and even happier times on their small sailboat, where she and Hugh would bob and dance with the waves and wind. She’d taught Hugh how to sail, but now . . . only he enjoyed the privilege.

Rowena lifted her veiled face to the wind and closed her eyes. “Oh, to sail again . . .”

“So you like to sail?” Edward asked.

She regretted showing her interest. “I used to.”

“No more?”

“No more.”
Please don’t ask me. . . .

“What happened?”

And there it was. The opportunity or the curse of explaining her infirmity.

Rowena glanced at the other couples, who were thoroughly enmeshed in their own gaiety. She
could
tell Edward. If they were ever to be married, she
should
tell Edward.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said.

Which, of course, gave her the courage to do just that. “I loved to sail. Our family spent hours on our boat.”

“But . . . ?”

“I hurt my leg and everything changed.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too. Now, even if I felt inclined, I wouldn’t be able to keep my footing and balance. That experience, the exhilaration of having the wind caress my face, the sound of the sails popping taut, and the smell of the ocean spray . . .” It made her sad to think of it. “So be it. Life goes on.”

“I don’t like the sea.”

“What?” The fervor of her exclamation surprised her. “How can you not?”

His shrug was like a slap and his attitude far more hurtful than anything the other couples might have said behind closed hands. How could he shrug about the sea? What was there not to like? Suddenly, her pleasure at being able to share her love of sailing seemed tainted.

It was not aided by his next words.

“Perhaps your inability to sail will be a good thing, since I don’t like to sail.”

She found herself gawking at him. He looked at her, at first confused, then said, “That didn’t come out as I meant it to.”

Indeed. She turned her attention to the regatta, to those lucky people who were doing what she could never do again: ride the wind.

The Langdon home was set on the crest of a vast lawn and was reached by a drive through stone and wrought-iron gates. Lucy had never seen such an expanse of space belonging to one residence. In the city, buildings were close together and green space was sparse—except for Central Park, of course.

As it was dusk, the house seemed to glow with light. Its silhouette against the darkening sky revealed a myriad of turrets and rooftops.

Lucy must have made an audible sound, for Haverty chuckled. “Quite the cottage, eh?”

“Quite.”

Haverty bypassed the front entrance and steered the horses around to the side, near the back. “Here we are.”

Lucy was disappointed not to enter the house from the front. Surely this was a servants’ entrance. She knew she wasn’t society, but the Langdons had paid for a first-class ticket on the train and steamer. To be so blatantly put in her place upon arrival was distressing.

Haverty helped her to the ground and took her satchels down a few steps into the basement.

A girl in a maid’s uniform looked up from her sweeping. “Watch your feet, Haverty. I don’t need no dirt on my clean floor.”

“Are you saying I’m dirty?”

“Don’t I know it,” she said. She looked at Lucy. “Who are you?”

“I’m Lucy Scarpelli. I’m a seamstress. I was sent for in order to mend Miss Langdon’s wardrobe.”

“Well la-di-da, aren’t you the fancy one, being
sent for
and all that.”

“Enough grousing, Fanny. You’re just mad because it ain’t you. Where’s Mrs. Donnelly?”

“I saw her in the pantry, going over the order with Cook.”

“Come on, then,” Haverty said to Lucy.

Lucy knew she should have said something nice to Fanny like
“Nice to meet you,”
but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Hopefully Fanny’s attitude wasn’t universal throughout the house.

After a few twists and turns, they reached a huge kitchen that was as large as the Scarpelli apartment in New York—times ten. Two women were kneading bread. Both eyed Lucy suspiciously.

Haverty walked past them to a room replete with floor-to-ceiling shelves, stocked with all manner of food and baking supplies. A stout woman wearing a mobcap was counting boxes. A very slim woman wearing a striped blouse and plain skirt carried a clipboard and was marking off a list. Both stopped their work.

“Yes, Haverty?” the thin woman asked.

“This here’s Lucy Scarpelli, fetched from the dock.” He looked to Lucy. “This is Mrs. Donnelly, the housekeeper. She’s in charge.”

“Nice to—”

Mrs. Donnelly handed the clipboard to the cook and shooed Haverty and Lucy out of the narrow room. “Well, now. I trust your trip was satisfactory?”

“Very much so,” Lucy said. “It was very nice to be treated—”

Mrs. Donnelly shook her head. “I heard through the grapevine they bought you first-class fares. Unprecedented, that’s what it is. Apparently, you have Miss Langdon to thank for it.”

“I will thank her, then,” Lucy said. She’d already grown tired of defending her mode of travel. Could she help what class of ticket was purchased for her?

The housekeeper’s right eyebrow rose. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to settle in.”

“That would be nice.”

Mrs. Donnelly spoke to Haverty. “Up on three, the west corner.”

“Addy’s old room?”

The housekeeper flashed him a look. To Lucy she said, “You’re off the hook tonight, but I’ll inform the Langdons you’ve arrived. I’m sure they’ll send for you first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

“I suppose you’re hungry too.”

Starving. “I could eat something.”

“I’ll have Sadie bring you a tray. Now go. The rest of us have work to do.”

Whispers followed Lucy and Haverty out of the kitchen, as the bread makers exchanged opinions about this newcomer.

So be it. Let them talk. She wasn’t here for them. She was here for Rowena.