by Unrivaled
Married to Mr. Arthur, my life wouldn’t be much different than it was now, but I could have the satisfaction of seeing Standard’s efforts to ruin us blocked. Would that not be worth it? If I had to sacrifice my welfare for my father’s honor, maybe it was a sacrifice worth making.
Besides, Mr. Arthur wasn’t unhandsome. He was attentive to Mother. He was completely respectable in every single way. And I had to get married at some point, didn’t I? All my other school friends already had. Why shouldn’t I have some say in who I married? Why couldn’t I do the picking instead of being picked?
But then . . . shouldn’t I be happy about it? About him?
“It looks like old Alfred’s getting ready to propose.”
I jumped as a voice spoke from my side, and I turned to see Charlie Clarke. I didn’t see why he had to say it with such amazement. Did he think me unfit for marriage? I’d traveled the Continent, I knew three languages, and I was a distinguished graduate of both Mary Institute and Mr. Mahler’s dance academy. “I hope he does, because I mean to accept.”
If I had wanted to see jealousy in his eyes—which I was quite sure I did not—I might have been disappointed. What I did see was a stiffening in his jaw and a flash of . . . something . . . in his eyes. “Are you sure?”
I lifted my chin. “Why wouldn’t I be? It would be cruel to encourage hope in a man only to nip it once it started to flower.”
“You don’t really like him. I’d thought you might do him some good, but now, I’m not so sure.”
He’d said it so confidently, so matter-of-factly, that it made my blood boil. “Are you saying—what are you saying?” Was he saying I wasn’t good enough for Mr. Arthur?
He grasped me by the elbow and leaned so close I could see the prickles of whiskers on his chin. “I’m just saying that you might want to think this through.”
“Who are you to say whom I ought to marry? And what do you want me to do, Charlie? Wait for the ‘right man’? Bide my time and just—just—make candy in my kitchen until my father’s company’s been run into the ground? The right man is the one who can save it.”
“So . . . this has nothing to do with him? It’s about candy?”
“Who are you to talk? Everything you do is about Royal Taffy!” I wrenched my elbow from him and took a deep breath in an effort to calm myself. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Clarke, but I’ll marry whom I choose.”
“Don’t you think you should marry someone you want to be with? Someone you want to come home to? Someone you can’t wait to talk to at the end of the day?”
Yes, I did. What I wanted was a marriage like my aunt and uncle’s. But sometimes you couldn’t have what you wanted. “Mr. Arthur is a fine man. I will admit that I haven’t known him long, but I’m sure, in time—”
“In time! If you don’t like him now, then you never will.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Why wish for lemon meringues when you can only find lemon drops?”
“Are they really all that’s available?”
Mr. Arthur was the most eligible bachelor in town. And the only one I didn’t mind spending time with. I didn’t have the advantage of marriageable third cousins like Annie Farrell had or old school friends. “I wish you would tell me where to find an alternative!”
His pupils seemed to shrink, and for a moment I thought I’d caused him pain. But then I remembered who his father was, and I pushed away the thought.
“There could be a man right here, right now, who would love you with all of his heart if you would only give him a chance.” His voice was quiet, but intense.
“Here? At a university lecture?”
“A man who would speak up if he thought you might accept him.”
“And why wouldn’t I?”
“What if . . . what if he had a past? What if he weren’t quite what he seemed? If he’d . . . spent some time in jail?”
“You mean . . . you mean he’s a criminal?”
He said nothing.
“I’d like to see him try to talk to me!”
The corners of his mouth twisted in a sardonic smile.
“In any case, Mr. Arthur is the only man who’s presented himself. I’m already nearly twenty years old, Charlie, and soon my family will lose its business. Who will want to marry me then?” My goodness but my future was bleak . . . bleaker than I’d realized. And I didn’t thank Charlie Clarke for pointing it out to me.
“Any man with any kind of sense would want to marry you.”
He said it with such sincerity, such vehemence, that it nearly took my breath away. I could see how some girl might be deceived by his cool self-assurance. By those eyes that seemed to peer deep down into the soul. He’d probably had women back in Chicago swooning over his dark good looks and those tantalizing dimples. Longing to touch that jagged-looking scar on his jaw and basking in the familiar way in which he addressed himself to complete and total strangers.
“But why shouldn’t you marry someone you want to marry?”
It was the question I’d been asking myself. And I still didn’t have an answer. “Because . . . because there is no such man.” Tears choked my throat. Tears of despair. Of wishes squandered and dreams lost. “And if there is . . . I don’t know where to find him.” I turned from him then. I didn’t want him to see me cry. And I didn’t want him to come to my rescue. Not ever again.
I found an empty table far from Charlie Clarke. As I lifted my skirt to sit in a chair, I saw Mr. Arthur approaching. He waited until I sat before taking the seat beside me. “Surely you know why I’ve been so keen on getting to know you.” He handed me a cup of punch as he spoke.
He was going to propose! Panic rose and beat its wings against my stomach. He was going to propose, I was going to say yes, and we were going to be married.
He set his own cup on the table. Taking out his pocket watch, he sprang the cover and, after glancing at it, snapped it shut with a click. He looked at me, face placid, eyes serene. “I wish to propose that you marry me.”
I wasn’t looking for romance. I’d never been looking for romance. And in spite of what Charlie Clarke had said, I still wasn’t. Not exactly. But in that moment I realized I had been expecting something that sounded a bit less like a business arrangement and more like a romantic attachment. Or at least . . . a warm friendship. And though I didn’t have anything against learning in general, a lecture about impossible theories seemed an odd place to speak of marriage. “And why do you propose that I marry you, Mr. Arthur?”
He blinked and sat back in his chair. “I believe there are many good reasons.”
“Could you do me the favor of telling me what they are?” Maybe that would help me forget my conversation with Charlie and make me feel better about the prospect.
His brows drew together. “I find this highly unusual.”
I smiled what I hoped was an endearing smile. “Please, won’t you indulge me?”
A flush began at his neck and climbed up his face. “Of course. I wouldn’t want you to think me indifferent.” He leaned forward and drew my hand from the cup of punch, enclosing it in his own. I might have expected to feel some heat through my glove, but I felt nothing. “I’m an Arthur.” He looked at me, brow raised, as if hoping, I suppose, that might be enough.
“Yes. I’ve known that for quite some time now.” And really, that’s all that mattered, wasn’t it? His being an Arthur could help our family save City Confectionery.
“I’m of an age, Miss Kendall. It’s time for me to settle down.”
“Is there anything about your plans or your dreams, Mr. Arthur, that has to do with me in particular?”
“You’re a very nice girl!” He said it as if I might protest that I was not.
He might be surprised to find out that I wasn’t, considering that I had once held hands with Charlie Clarke at the airfield and had almost kissed him. “But don’t you think that if we’re to be married, there ought to be some sort of attachment between us?” Or . . . attraction?
“Do you?”
I hadn’t used to think so. I’d thought that I could marry any old person just like I might be able to make candy with any copper pot.
He released my hand. “I think that we could have quite a good marriage. I’m very agreeable. I’ve always been told so.”
He was. There was nothing at all wrong with him. But . . . that didn’t mean he was necessarily right . . . did it? Oh! Charlie Clarke ruined everything. Even my marriage proposals. But now that I’d broached the topic, there was nothing to be done but continue. “I think you’ll find that a girl would like to believe that she’s more than just a . . . just a girl . . .”
He blinked. “But . . . you are one.”
I was. Whatever point I had been trying to make seemed lost and rather silly now. “It’s just that . . . a girl wants something more.”
“Like what?” He was looking at me with interest, as if he really wanted to know.
“A girl would like to know that . . . she mattered.” I doubted that Mr. Arthur would ever look at me with anything other than that calm, serious, levelheaded look he had in his eyes. And I didn’t think him capable of ever raising his voice at me. Not like Charlie. Could I even . . . ? I wondered if I might be able to make him mad. To make him feel anything at all.
“A girl.” He took my hand. “You mean, you?” He was looking at me with a surprisingly keen glance.
I blushed. “Yes. I think I would.” Why shouldn’t I matter?
“Then put your fears to rest. I can’t think of a more suitable companion, and in time I’m quite certain that we’ll come to care very much for each other. Love has the best chance of growing when it has a foundation of mutual respect.” His ears had gone pink. “And I would consider it my duty as your husband to support your family as if it were my own. I know you must be concerned about your mother, considering your father’s illness.”
I felt a flush of shame sweep over me. I guess I’d just assumed that Mother could take care of herself. Mr. Arthur was a much better person than I would ever be. And he’d said what I had wanted to hear. So why didn’t I feel better about his proposal? I should be happy. I would be happy. I’m sure I just . . . needed . . . some time to get used to the idea. “Then I accept your kind proposal, Mr. Arthur.”
28
After Lucy and her mother had gone, Alfred joined me at my table in the corner. Apparently lectures by child geniuses were not to be missed. I was trying to hide from all the girls Augusta kept sending my direction. And I was trying to plug the hole that Lucy had opened up inside me. I don’t know why I’d been surprised at her words. What had I expected? That she’d welcome a man like me with open arms?
Alfred downed the rest of his punch and then set the cup on the table with a satisfied sigh. “That’s done, then.”
“What’s that?”
“I proposed to Lucy Kendall.”
Something inside my stomach clenched into a tight little ball. “And?”
“She accepted.”
Of course she had. Why shouldn’t she? As she’d said herself, who was I to say whom she should marry? “Congratulations.” I’d tried to hate the man, but there was nothing about him to dislike. I’d tried hard to find something, but he was so polite, so nice, that his worst enemy would have been forced to admire him.
“Thank you.” He was looking very calm for just having gotten engaged to the best girl in the whole city. He should have been whooping or cheering or clapping himself on the back.
“You should celebrate.”
“Hmm?” He was looking at the bottom of his cup as though he were wishing there were more punch in there.
I took it from him. “We should go celebrate your engagement. In style.” That’s what a man did for a friend, wasn’t it? Helped him celebrate?
I should have kept my big mouth shut back there. If Lucy was going to marry anyone, then it should be a man like Alfred. He was almost perfect. Irritatingly perfect. And the most irritating part was that there wasn’t anything wrong with him! They were perfect for each other.
I took his hat from his hand and put it on his head, then pulled him up from his chair and pushed him toward the door.
Nelson dropped us in Chestnut Valley. I picked a saloon that had the “Maple Leaf Rag” drifting from its door and walked into it.
Alfred stood in the doorway, looking uncertain. “I’ve never been in this place before.”
I waved him in. “It’s just like the rest of them.”
“I mean . . . I’ve never been in any of them before.” He took a hesitant step forward.
“Ever?”
“Never.” He looked as though he wished he could still say that.
“Where’s your spirit of adventure?”
“I don’t have one.”
Two mistakes in the same night: thinking Lucy might accept me for who I was and assuming Alfred was just a regular fellow who’d want to have a drink with me. I’d been wrong about them both. “Just . . . sit there for a minute while I order a drink.” I pointed to a table in a shadow by the corner. “Then we’ll go.”
He glanced toward the stage as he sat.
I ordered up a whiskey for myself and a sarsaparilla for him. When they came, I wasted no time in taking a drink, enjoying the satisfying burn as it went down my throat. Alfred was sitting at the table, straight as a ruler, hat perched on a knee. So much for celebrating. I swallowed a sigh as I joined him, vowing I wouldn’t let him hurry me along. A man ought to be able to appreciate his whiskey. As I set my glass down on the table, I admired its golden color.
The ditty the piano man was playing tinkled to an end.
I stomped on the floor along with the rest of the crowd.
Alfred refrained, sipping his sarsaparilla instead.
A girl pushed through a lopsided curtain and planted an elbow on the piano. She was dressed in a blue ruffly skirt and a blouse that was short on fabric and small in size. She reminded me of the Tribley Twins back in Chicago. Though she looked almost respectable, she had the same large round eyes and the same dark hair that she’d spun into a roll up on top of her head. Her mouth was a perfect red bow. “Let’s stay for this song. She might be good.” She had that look about her. And even if she wasn’t, she’d take my mind off Lucy.
Alfred eyed the door again.
“Just one song. I promise. Then we’ll leave.”
The piano man took a run up and down the keys with his fingers while the girl twirled the red rose she held in her hand. Then they launched into a song.
I am dreaming dear of you, day by day
Dreaming when the skies are blue, when they’re gray . . .
She’d turned to sing directly to us. Rather . . . directly to Alfred. No, that wasn’t quite right. She wasn’t singing; she was crooning.
That was two girls who couldn’t seem to get enough of him. What did he have that I didn’t? I took another swallow of whiskey.
Let me call you “Sweetheart,” I’m in love with you.
Let me hear you whisper that you love me too . . .
As the song drew to an end, the girl tossed her rose at Alfred.
He caught it, stared at it for a moment, then looked up at her. A silly grin was plastered across his face. “I’d . . . I’d better give this back to her.”
“She didn’t lose it. She threw it at you. On purpose.” The old throw-a-bone-to-a-wealthy-dog trick. I tried to take it from him, but he held on to it. I think he might have even growled at me. He strode toward the curtain and swept it aside, hat in one hand, rose in the other. I didn’t see him for another half an hour. And then, when he appeared, that girl was draped on his arm.
He was smiling down at her as if she were the best thing he’d ever laid eyes on. “This is Evelyn.”
I threw a glance at up her. I’d been wrong. She wasn’t like the Tribley Twins at all. She was old. She had to have been at least thirty.
Alfred was scowling, making gestures toward her with his chin.
; Good grief. I stood. “Pleasure.”
“She’s going to come to dinner with us.”
“We’re going to dinner?” Hadn’t he eaten back at the university?
He scowled again. Even-tempered Alfred Arthur was getting testy.
“Oh. Oh! Yes. To dinner.” I linked my arm through his. “We were going out to celebrate. Did you know Alfred, here, has just got himself engaged?”
She drew her arm from his and took a step away from him. “Congratulations.”
Alfred mumbled something.
“Congratulations is what I told him too. We came here to celebrate.”
“Then celebrate you should. I won’t keep you.”
“No. Don’t—” Alfred had caught her by the hand as she tried to leave. “Please, come.”
She looked at him for a long moment. Looked at me. “On one condition. You’ll have to tell me all about your new fiancée.”
She was a sly and sneaky one. I could tell.
I suffered through poached egg soup, broiled fish, and boiled beef at the Planters Hotel. And then I suffered some more as Nelson drove us all back to Chestnut Valley. When we dropped Evelyn at the saloon, Alfred got out of the car too.
I stuck my head out the door. “You don’t want to walk back to your place from here.”
He turned, walking backward. “It’s a bit early to be going home.”
Early? It was nearly midnight. Evelyn had already disappeared into the saloon. He was glancing over his shoulder at the door as if he’d like to follow her through it. The very same door he hadn’t wanted to enter just a few hours before. “Alfred: Go home.”
He saluted. “I’ll be fine.”
I had a bad feeling about this. A man engaged to a girl like Lucy shouldn’t be flirting with a saloon singer. But he wouldn’t be the first engaged man to do so. And who was I to try and defend someone’s honor? Alfred Arthur was a grown man. I just had to trust that he could look after himself. And that he’d come to his senses. Soon. Before Lucy found out about anything.