Some Like It Scandalous

by Maya Rodale

  “Intellectual?”

  “Accomplished?”

  “Disciplined?”

  “Motivated?”

  Daisy cringed on Theo’s behalf. True, he had never displayed an intellectual prowess that she was aware of (his precious Harvard attendance notwithstanding). And it was true that he had not any accomplishments, talents, or even hobbies of his own or apparent interest in acquiring any.

  As far as anyone knew, Theo lived and breathed dissipation. A life of leisure. Idle pleasures. How boring.

  “Our parents are keen on the match for . . . reasons,” Daisy explained and hoped she wouldn’t have to explain more. “He and I conspired and decided a pretend engagement will keep them from hounding us to be together. I only accepted his fake proposal when my mother chucked all my chemistry equipment because ‘I would not need it once I was busy keeping house.’ He only agreed when his father cut off his club membership and allowance.”

  “A fate worse than death according to the men in this town.”

  “It must be because of Saratoga.”

  Ah, yes. The Saratoga Scandal.

  The situation was endlessly, breathlessly discussed in shocked and horrified whispers among polite society. The newspapers were constantly reporting on the rumors. But it was all speculation. No one knew the true story. But what was known was bad.

  “I hope he told you the real story of what happened in Saratoga.”

  “We mostly avoid each other and when we are together, our time is spent bickering about who hates the other person most. There’s really no time to discuss the inside story on this summer’s greatest scandal.”

  She should have asked him about Saratoga. She had to get something out of this maddening arrangement.

  “What is the Saratoga Scandal?” Mrs. Sanders asked and there were gasps all around.

  “Do you not know?”

  “I’ve been at Dr. Jacobs’s for treatments. He forbids the news,” she explained. Mrs. Sanders was frequently away on extended treatments for a mysterious ailment. Privately, Daisy thought she was just trying to escape her bear of a husband, but would never say so aloud.

  “No one quite knows what has happened in Saratoga. But what is known is this—it involved an actress of some renown, a prized racehorse worth thousands of dollars belonging to a prominent politician, and a torn bedsheet.”

  The combination of actress, political figure, playboy, thievery, and sex was irresistible to society gossips.

  “Paul Revere has nothing on him.”

  “He broke multiple laws including grand larceny. His father let him languish in jail for a weekend before bailing him out.”

  “And then do you know what he said? ‘All in a day’s work.’”

  “As if he knows anything about a day’s work,” Daisy scoffed.

  “So he is not who we expected for you,” Harriet said.

  “He is not who I expected for myself. Were it not for circumstances . . .”

  “You could always refuse to wed at all,” Harriet said softly. Pointedly.

  The other club members fell silent, waiting and watching to see how Daisy might respond without insulting their friend and hostess, who herself had once chosen striking out on her own, penniless, rather than accept an unwanted match her parents had planned for her.

  Daisy felt a rush of shame that she was not so bold. But she also knew that her mother was right—if she was going to implore on propriety-minded society women to risk scandal to buy her product, she needed her own good reputation to smooth the way.

  “I will refuse to wed him, if it comes to that, no matter the consequences,” Daisy replied. “But I have a plan. We are merely conspirators. Convenient and temporary allies. Nothing more. Ever.”

  “Well, do tell us your plan.”

  “You are looking at it. Wearing it. I am going to sell this complexion balm. Once I get established and can support myself, I shall have no need of a fake fiancé. But until then, I need help. And that is where I hope you ladies come in.”

  “Do you need investment?”

  The Ladies of Liberty were known to pool their pin money and apply their membership dues to the support of female entrepreneurs. Their most recent investment had been the dress shop of Miss Adeline Black and it had been proven to be a success. The club was flush with funds.

  “No, I don’t need funds at this time. I have been saving my pin money in anticipation of this. But I do need good word of mouth.”

  This was no small request.

  Purchasing a product like this wasn’t done. For one thing it was so novel—nothing like it on the shelves—Daisy made a mental note that she also had to figure out how to get it on the shelves. In fact, she might even have to disguise it as a patent medicine. For another thing, it was verging perilously close to cosmetics, which were not worn by respectable women, as a rule. Blush, lip paint, kohl around the eyes—all marked a woman as wanton and disreputable.

  It was to be expected that the Ladies of Liberty would hesitate. Truly. Surely. Of course. But Daisy firmly expected that after a moment or two of consideration, they would realize that together, with their collective status and power, they could change the way something like a cosmetic was perceived. If it was successful, it would open up new avenues for female employment and entrepreneurship.

  They just had to change the world first.

  “I would but . . .”

  “It is somewhat scandalous to discuss. A woman’s toilette is such an intimate thing.”

  “But we are discussing it right now.”

  “We are a special group. I would hardly mention it with the ladies from church.”

  “It’s not like it’s lip paint or powders or whatever actresses like Annabelle Jones would wear.”

  Annabelle Jones was the other principle player in the Saratoga Scandal.

  “This is true. It is more discreet. We do all use something like this.”

  “I haven’t tried it yet and I can already tell it surpasses what my lady’s maid concocts for me.”

  Daisy began to feel something like despair at this tepid response. Some in favor, some not so much. But no one seemed ready to shout it from the rooftops.

  She had assumed that she could count on her lady friends to support her because . . . it was her. Their friend. And because of the sisterhood. And because she had created a magical potion that would make them feel beautiful. These were all excellent reasons and yet . . . Miss Parks was holding a jar and evaluating it through narrowed eyes.

  “I’m not afraid of vanity or scandal or personal conversation among friends,” Miss Parks remarked. “But I’ll say this. It’s not very pretty.”

  Not pretty.

  Of course. Words she knew by heart and hated with a passion.

  “I wouldn’t risk my reputation to be seen picking it up from a store display, for example. Daisy, if this is going to succeed, it needs to be so irresistible, so breathtakingly beautiful, that a woman will risk her most precious possession—her reputation—to be seen buying it. To leave it out on display on her dressing table, next to a silver brush and mirror from Tiffany’s. To rave about it to her friends.”

  Daisy glanced from lady to lady and saw from their expressions that the packaging wasn’t beautiful enough to overcome their reservations about being seen with it. And so they might use it—even now, she saw some ladies slipping the little jars into their purses and pockets—but they would not talk about it. They would not shout their love for it from the rooftops.

  Just like her, standing next to Theo. She was the old jar and he was the fancy, pretty thing from Tiffany’s. And that would be her fate for the rest of her life if she could not make this work.

  Chapter Seven

  The date has been set for the most unexpected wedding of this season. If all goes according to plan, Miss Daisy Swan will walk down the aisle to Theodore Prescott the Third in just two months. Having seen the couple together, one does have doubts.

  —The New York Post
r />   Delmonico’s Restaurant

  Fifth Avenue and Twenty-Sixth Street

  Mrs. Evelina Swan had the ghastly idea that Daisy, Theo, and their parents should enjoy some sort of evening entertainment together to bond them as families and, more likely, to show off that despite all expectations her unmarried daughter had snared the Four Hundred’s most eligible bachelor.

  It would also make the match that much harder to break.

  And so, both Theodore Prescott the Second and the Third were seated at a table with Evelina and Daisy Swan at Delmonico’s, the opulent restaurant that was widely regarded as the best and was the place for Manhattan high society to be seen. The maître d’, Pierre, showed them to a prominent table, visible to all other patrons.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Evelina began with an apology, “but Mr. Swan won’t be joining us this evening. Something came up with the brokerage firm. Mr. Prescott, I’m sure you understand how business trumps all other considerations.”

  Under his breath, Theo whispered, “He does.”

  “Pity, that,” the elder Prescott said. “I was looking forward to hearing more about it. The returns have been excellent and I’m keen to know his secrets. Not that I need them, of course. My friends and I have all benefited tremendously from his investments.”

  “Oh, he won’t spill those over dinner. He’d bore us ladies.” Evelina Swan gave a fluttering laugh.

  “I wouldn’t be bored by it,” Daisy replied. “I find business to be a fascinating topic of conversation.”

  “Daisy . . .” her mother warned.

  “Well, that makes one of the children, at least,” Theo’s father quipped.

  “Father . . .” Theo warned.

  Oh, this dinner was going to be splendid.

  There were multiple courses to be endured, of New York Clam Chowder and the special Delmonico’s steak. There was also wine, thank God. A waiter came around and filled everyone’s glasses and Theo immediately took a sip.

  “Oh, look at that woman’s dress,” Mrs. Swan pointed out. “What a ghastly color. What would you even call it? Some sort of purple or lavender, but that doesn’t quite capture it, does it?”

  “It is the color of a three-day-old bruise,” Theo said after a casual glance in the direction of the dress in question. “One wouldn’t think Worth would make such a dress.”

  “That’s precisely it! What a gruesome but utterly precise description,” Daisy’s mother enthused. “What an eye for color you have, Theo.”

  Daisy eyed Theodore Prescott the Elder over the top of her menu. There was no mistaking the tightening of his jaw, or the firm lines his lips displayed, as anything other than displeasure with his son. And that was putting it mildly.

  Daisy suspected that it was not the macabre description that bothered such a supremely manly, masculine man, but the ease with which his son arrived at such a perfect description of something like a woman’s dress. His son—his gorgeous son—had an eye for color, a flair for descriptive words.

  And, Daisy thought privately, excellent taste in his suits.

  A quick glance at Theo the younger—she could not be caught looking—revealed to her that he was well aware of his father’s opinion. The undercurrent of tension between father and son was nearly palpable. Daisy felt something like a pang of sympathy for Theo; while her mother despaired of her, she never disapproved of her. The distinction was slight, but made all the difference in the world.

  A subject change was in order and Evelina Swan, ever the gifted hostess, noticed it and handled it adeptly. With her most winning smile, she turned and said, “Tell me, Mr. Prescott, about the plans for your new yacht.”

  Mr. Prescott, delighted with this topic of conversation, spoke at length about his new yacht.

  Theo and Daisy took the opportunity to embark on a conversation of their own. Though theirs was more hushed, more urgent.

  “Now that we are engaged and everyone knows it, I think it’s time we start planning how to get out of it,” Daisy began and Theo’s bored blue eyes lit up with a spark of interest. He certainly was easy on the eyes.

  “It seems we do have a point of common interest after all,” he replied, as if they were merely discussing a shared hobby. “I suppose you have already come up with six different ways that all cast me in a horrible light.”

  “Wrong.” Daisy smiled sweetly. “At least seven. Please do not underestimate me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Do you want to hear the plan?”

  “I am waiting with bated breath.”

  “At the right time, we simply tell our parents that we have decided not to marry and that no force on earth could compel us.”

  Theo paused, expectantly, for a half second before he rolled his beautiful blue eyes.

  “Now, why didn’t I think of that?” he drawled. “Your genius is unparalleled, Daisy. That didn’t even occur to me—even with my Harvard education and first-rate tutors. Please, do tell how one determines ‘the right time’ because I’m ready now.”

  “Another week at least.” She shrugged.

  “Your specificity leaves much to be desired. It almost seems like you haven’t given this much thought at all.”

  “On the contrary. It’s a soothing, comforting fantasy as I fall asleep each night.”

  “You mentioned seven options. What’s the next one?”

  “Another option to bypass our parents would be to simply post an announcement in the newspapers.”

  He gave her a hint of a smile to signal his appreciation and approval of this plan. His eyes lit up with some thought. Daisy would never, ever admit it, but when he was thinking, she found him rather . . . attractive.

  “Theodore Prescott the Third and Miss Daisy Swan, together with their families, announce that the wedding will not be taking place after all,” he said.

  “Exactly. Very well phrased. You have a gift for words and phrasing.”

  He gasped in an exaggerated, dramatic fashion that immediately elicited a glance of disapproval from his father, who was clearly the stoic, inscrutable type who shuddered at any display of emotion either real or feigned.

  “Why, Daisy, was that . . . a compliment?”

  “Possibly. I must be losing my wits in my old age.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Gould, who descended upon the group in a cloud of silk, feathers, giant ropes of pearls, and a diamond-and-emerald brooch that could take an eye out.

  “How lovely to see the Swans and Prescotts dining together!” Mrs. Gould exclaimed. “Everyone has been talking about the wedding between these two . . .” Her voice trailed off as it was painfully clear that she meant to say “love birds” and stopped herself, as it was obvious they were anything but.

  Daisy considered more accurate descriptions of her and Theo: unconsenting adults, reluctantly conspiring enemies.

  As if her mother could read her thoughts, she leveled a warning stare across the table.

  “Now, tell me, where will the wedding be taking place?”

  “The ceremony will be at Grace Church, of course,” Mrs. Swan answered.

  Daisy and Theo exchanged a heated, pointed look. There will be no ceremony.

  “The ceremony will be intimate—just five hundred of our closest friends and family,” her mother continued.

  “Just five hundred,” Daisy remarked.

  “The ball to celebrate the engagement will be held in the ballroom of my mansion, of course,” Theo’s father said. “What did I build it for if not to celebrate my son’s nuptials?”

  Daisy rather suspected that he built it to impress everyone with his wealth and the length and width of his . . . ballroom. But she kept that thought to herself.

  “And what will happen after the wedding? Will there be a honeymoon? Of course you must go on a European tour or to Newport, at least.”

  Daisy and Theo exchanged another heated look: There will be no after the wedding. She sipped her wine, wondering at th
e strangely magical sensation of sharing a heated look with Theodore Prescott the Third. She told herself it was just the wine. Not the man.

  “We haven’t thought that far ahead,” Theo replied.

  “But Theo will come work for the steel business, of course,” his father said.

  “Of course,” Theo said dryly.

  “Why, Theo, that sounds hard,” Daisy said with a feigned sweetness.

  “It sounds like my personal nightmare,” he murmured.

  “I can just see you supervising all those long, hot, hard steel beams down at the factory,” Daisy continued. His eyes flashed at her suggestiveness. “All those strong men, working with their hands. Sweaty from exertions. I can just imagine you among them.”

  “I would be in an office. Bored out of my mind,” Theo said flatly. “If my father gets his way.”

  It was immediately clear to her that Prescott Senior wanted Prescott Junior to join the family business, regardless of the fact of how ill-suited his son was to the task and, more important, how much he clearly would rather drink poison or marry his mortal enemy than work there.

  “Doesn’t anyone want to ask me what I will do after the wedding?” Daisy inquired to the table.

  “What a silly question,” Mrs. Gould said with a laugh.

  “Darling, please.” Her mother’s cheeks colored with embarrassment. Daisy sipped her wine and tried to cool that familiar surge of frustration and anger at the unfairness of the entire world that expected her to do as she was told—as if she were a child or a silly woman and not a human with a heart and head of her own.

  Beside her, Theo noticed.

  “We all underestimate you, don’t we?” Theo asked in a low voice, for her alone.

  “You, my parents, the whole world. Welcome to being a woman.”

  “I may regret these words, but I might confess to owning some small measure of curiosity about your aspirations that clearly do not include marriage or motherhood.”

  “Why, Theo, are you taking an interest in me?” She gave a deliberately dramatic gasp. But truth be told, it was an interesting and not unpleasant feeling to have and hold Theo’s interest.