by Unrivaled
29
“I’m getting married, Papa.” I had only just been proposed to, so the words sounded strange. It was like being back in my Italian language class in Florence and learning to say “I love you.” Though I’d repeated the words after my tutor, they’d held no real meaning.
My father reached out his hand toward me.
I knelt by the side of the bed and offered him mine. What little color he’d regained since I’d returned to St. Louis had disappeared. His breathing had become shallow and labored. I was more worried now than I had been back in September.
He squeezed my hand. “I only wish I could walk you down the aisle.”
“Maybe by then you’ll be able to. It’s only going to be a small wedding.” At least . . . I hoped it would be.
“Who is it? Or did you tell me and I’ve forgotten?” He laid his head back down on the pillow.
“Alfred Arthur.”
“Alfred . . . oh.” The smile left his face.
“What? You don’t like him?”
“He’s just so . . . sensible. Though I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just that I had hoped for someone with a little more . . . spirit. Someone more like a cinnamon drop than a butter mint.”
“He’s very agreeable.”
“I know he is . . . but . . . don’t you ever wish he’d be disagreeable? Just so you could . . . I don’t know . . .” He sighed. “Never mind.” He ran a hand across his eyes. “I haven’t been thinking clearly, lately. Of course you should marry him, Sugar Plum.”
“He’s a very good catch.”
He smiled. “You sound more like your mother every day.” He sighed. “That’s good. You should listen to your mother. I should have listened to your mother.”
“Papa—”
“I should have. She’s smart. Smarter than I ever was. If I hadn’t spent all our money . . . if I’d never signed . . .” His eyelids drooped and his chin dipped toward his chest, but then he blinked his eyes wide.
Signed what? “What did you sign?”
“What?”
“You were talking about signing something.”
He sighed. “What’s done is done. Don’t worry your pretty head about it.” He tried to hide a yawn in his shoulder, but I saw it and rose.
“You don’t have to leave.”
“I should let you sleep.”
He yawned again and this time he didn’t bother to hide it. “Maybe I should.”
Mr. Arthur came over the next afternoon. Alfred. I ought to think of him as Alfred. But Alfred sounded so . . . familiar. More familiar than I wanted to be. We sat, the three of us, in the parlor. Mr. Arthur—Alfred—presented me with a ring. It was a large square-cut diamond that glittered as he pushed it up onto my finger.
Did it have to be so big?
He and Mother discussed wedding plans as I sat there and stared at the ring on my finger. It seemed so permanent. And the way it sparkled—as if it couldn’t stop announcing the fact that I’d become engaged—was truly horrid. I wondered if people would treat me any differently. I wouldn’t be Lucy Kendall for much longer. Soon I would Mr. Arthur’s wife. I tried to stop the twisting of dread in my stomach, but I couldn’t. And then a thought occurred to me. “Won’t—won’t the Veiled Prophet people be upset if I get married? I’ve only just been crowned.”
Mother patted my hand. “I’ve already thought of that. And I’ll meet with them this week. Considering your father’s condition, I’m sure they’ll understand.”
My father’s condition. Of course they’d understand that I’d want to get married soon . . . before he died. A chill crept up my spine.
“Anyone would understand that.” Mr. Arthur smiled at me.
“Thank you . . . Alfred.” I said his name just to try it out. To see what it would be like. I supposed I would have to say it on a regular basis. At least I would once we married. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. I might as well begin practicing now.
Mother’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “I think the twenty-second would be fine. What do you think, Lucy?”
I blinked to find both Mother and Mr. Arthur staring at me. “About . . . ?”
“About the date of the wedding. What do you think of February twenty-second?”
“February?” That seemed awfully soon.
“Weren’t you listening?” Mother didn’t quite frown as she spoke, but worry furrowed her forehead just the same.
“I had hoped it could be small.”
“Absolutely not.” Now Mother was frowning. “What could we expect people to say if you were married so quickly and so quietly? And besides, I’ve been dreaming of your wedding for years now. I want you to have everything that I didn’t.”
Mr. Arthur’s ears had gone pink. “I think . . . perhaps your mother is right.”
She consulted the tablet upon which she’d been writing. “I’ll reserve the church for the wedding on the twenty-second. We’ll have the reception at the Planters Hotel afterward.” She looked up at me. “I had always hoped to have it here, of course, but we need to spare your father the fatigue of all the noise and activity.” She turned her attentions to Mr. Arthur. “We’ll see the printer this week about invitations, and I’ll write up an announcement for the newspapers. Unless you would rather do so, Mr. Arthur?”
“Ah . . . no. No. I don’t think so. Well, I . . . had better . . . I should go.” He’d taken a handkerchief from his pocket and was swabbing his face as if he were sweltering. As if it were July instead of December.
Mother looked at me, brow raised, and gestured toward the front hall.
I rose and escorted him toward the door. “Thank you, Mr. Arthur. Mr. . . . Alfred. Thank you. For coming by.”
“It was my pleasure, Miss Kendall.” He put his hat on and tipped it at me before walking out the door. I wondered if he’d still tip his hat once we were married. I wondered if he’d ever call me Lucy. And I wondered, too, how it would feel to be introduced as Mrs. Alfred Arthur. If anyone would make fun of my new name the way I had once made fun of his.
The next morning Mother took me back to Vandervoort’s to consult with the dressmaker about my wedding and reception gowns. We lunched at a tea room, then went on to Planters Hotel to discuss plans for the reception. Twelfth Avenue was decorated for Christmas, with pine trees lining the walkways and an enormous tree set up in the middle of the intersection with Washington Avenue. I ought to have been in good cheer.
The manager invited us into the dining room, where we all sat down to go over the arrangements. He and Mother talked about when the reception would start and how long it would last. Whether the ladies’ dining room or the Moorish room should be reserved and what to use for decorations. They talked about hothouse orchids and Boston ferns. Smilax and red roses.
“You’ll want the cake table in the middle, of course.”
Mother nodded.
“And the cake done in the new way? With pillars separating the two layers?”
Mother agreed.
“Can the cake be chocolate?” I didn’t like to make it, but I didn’t mind eating it.
She looked at me, brows tilted in exasperation. “A chocolate wedding cake? Chocolate is for children.” Mother turned to the manager. “We’ll have a normal wedding cake, two layers, with pillars.”
“Fine.” He noted something in his notebook. “That’s fine. We’ll decorate with orange flowers and ivy.” The manager tapped his pencil on the menu he had set before us. “Shall we discuss the rest of the food?”
I let them decide how many courses there would be and what would be served. Then the manager cleared his throat. “We can deliver upstairs whatever remains. Unless you prefer a different arrangement . . . ?”
Mother looked toward me before glancing away. “I . . . am not sure what Mr. Arthur has planned. I had assumed they would be leaving that afternoon by train—”
“He’s already arranged for a room that night.”
That seemed odd. “For what?”
/> They both turned toward me.
The manager’s face had colored. “He’s reserved a suite for the night of the wedding.”
“Oh.” I had forgotten that I wouldn’t be going home afterward. “Oh!” And I hadn’t realized that I would be staying here. With him. “I . . . need . . .” I made some sort of excuse before I fled from the room.
I couldn’t breathe. Could a person die from not breathing? Just as the world began to turn white around the edges, my lungs opened up and I swallowed a mouthful of air with a great whoosh. I sat in the nearest chair, concentrating on breathing in and breathing out.
In, out. In, out.
Everything would be fine.
In, out. In, out.
All I had to do was get married.
In, out. In, out.
Even Julia Shaw had gone and eloped while I’d been away. How hard could getting married be?
In, out.
It wasn’t easy trying to save the company by myself. I wished there were some other way to do it.
In, out.
I wished there were no Charlie Clarke.
In, out.
But if wishes were candy, then I would be eating all the Royal Taffy I wanted.
In.
Wishes were for children.
Out.
And I wasn’t a child anymore.
30
I was out for the third night in a row with Alfred. And Evelyn. I should have been at a Christmas concert, but I couldn’t stand to think of leaving the two of them alone. The way he kept looking at her made me afraid he would do something stupid.
Or ungallant, as he was so fond of saying.
He excused himself to go get Evelyn a drink.
She put an elbow to the table and leaned her head against her hand as she watched him. “You know he shouldn’t be marrying that girl.”
“I know.” I knew! That’s what I’d told Lucy.
“He doesn’t love her.”
And she didn’t love him. “It’s not about love.” At least that’s what Lucy had said. “It’s about candy.”
“What?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
She’d turned her big green eyes on me. “Why do you hate me so much?”
Who knew? I should be thanking her. If she could get Alfred to leave Lucy alone, she’d be doing me a favor. I once thought Lucy might be able to loosen him up a little, but he was so loose now he was in danger of leaping onto a stage and crooning a song himself. He didn’t deserve Lucy. With the best girl in the world on his arm, he seemed set on taking up with a saloon singer.
But I had a feeling that Alfred Arthur was one of those fellows who would never go back on a handshake. Or a marriage proposal.
Back in Chicago, I would have been cheering for a working girl like Evelyn. I would have wanted to see her snag a rich man. But now I knew the rich man. And Alfred was too nice—too good—to be waylaid by a girl with those intentions. Except that he wasn’t being so nice right now, was he?
And then again, his money was the reason Lucy wanted him too.
So which of them was worse?
And why did I even care?! Lucy wanted nothing to do with me anyway.
One thing was sure: Alfred couldn’t keep seeing Evelyn without consequences. Someone was going to notice soon. And once word got out, he’d be ruined. It wouldn’t matter that he was an Arthur, and no one would care that he was usually so dull and grim.
But most of all I was worried about what it would do to Lucy. She’d have no one but me to thank for the humiliation of having lost her fiancé to a saloon girl. And it would give her one more reason to hate me.
Evelyn laid a hand on my arm. “I’m not a bad person.”
She wasn’t. I’d revised my opinion over the past two nights. She was nice in the very same way that Alfred was nice. They’d be a perfect match if she weren’t a saloon singer. Though she’d been blessed with an angel’s voice, she’d been cursed with the inability to use it anywhere but in a place like Chestnut Valley.
“Is it so terrible to want to have someone to talk to? Someone who really seems to understand me? Someone who could look after me?”
When it came down to it, she only wanted the same thing that Lucy did. And I hated them both. Girls were nothing but trouble.
“We’ve become quite fond of each other. What’s so wrong with that?”
There were all kinds of everything wrong with that, that’s what was wrong with it! I was going to have to have a good long talk with the fellow.
“Isn’t she wonderful?” We were watching Evelyn sing from our table in the corner. Alfred, who hadn’t been in the habit of drinking anything stronger than lemonade, had just that evening decided he liked beer.
“She’s a saloon singer.” May Evelyn forgive me! But even she would say there was no point in denying the obvious. And she’d never tried to . . . which only made the whole thing worse.
“She doesn’t have to be. Not forever.”
I grabbed him by the collar, dragged him past the bar, through the kitchen, and then threw him out into the alley. “Get ahold of yourself!”
He stood there blinking at me as he swayed in the moonlight. “I think I’m—” He bent over, hands to his knees, and vomited. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his mouth. Then he looked around as if wondering what to do with it.
Why was it that rich people couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with their messes? I tore it from his hand and threw it into a garbage can.
“But—that’s mine!”
“Do you want it back?”
He gave the garbage can a leery look. “ . . . No.”
“Listen to me. If you don’t stop this right now, you’re going to ruin everything.”
“I hardly think that—”
I held up a hand. “Just listen. You’re engaged to Lucy Kendall. How could you even think . . . whatever it is that you’re thinking?”
“I’m not . . . I mean . . . I never intended—but what I feel for Evelyn—”
“What would Lucy say, seeing you standing here, declaring your feelings for some saloon girl?” Why was I defending Lucy Kendall? Why was I out here in the alley with Alfred trying to make him stay faithful to the girl I wanted? Curse Lucy Kendall. This was all her fault!
I put a hand to his shoulder. “You’re a reasonable fellow. What do you suppose all those folks at the symphony and opera and . . . and church would think of you spending your nights down here?”
He looked toward the saloon. Grimaced. “Right. You’re right. I don’t know what I’ve been doing. This is completely unlike me. Of course, you’re right. I can’t imagine . . .”
I could. I could imagine all sorts of terrible things happening.
“I should break things off with Lucy right now.”
Wait. “What?”
“It’s the only honorable thing to do.”
I caught him by his collar as he tried to walk past. “Wait just a minute. Are you telling me . . . ?”
“I’m an honorable man who’s been going about all this in a completely dishonorable way.”
That was better. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You can’t be engaged to Lucy and go around spending so much time with Evelyn. It isn’t right.”
“Which is what I’ve been trying to say. The only honorable thing to do is to break the engagement.”
“You mean . . . you’re choosing Evelyn?”
He straightened his tie, swiped a hand across his mouth, and squared his shoulders. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
Apparently my mouth had fallen open because I found myself closing it back up. “Just how many of those drinks did you have?”
He squinted up at the night sky. “One . . . two . . . three. I had three.”
“What you need is time. In a few hours the beer will wear off, and you’ll start thinking like yourself again.”
“I am thinking like my
self. I’m more myself than I’ve ever been.”
“It’s the beer talking. Believe me.”
He put a hand to his chest. “It’s not the beer. It’s my heart.”
“Hogwash! Now, are you coming or not?” I started down the alleyway toward the street.
He screwed up his jaw and raised his chin. “Not.”
“I’m warning you, Alfred!”
“I’m not coming. Besides . . . I left my hat inside.”
“You left your hat?”
He nodded. “Inside. I’ll just go get it. If you’ll pardon me . . .”
I hoped he would pardon what I was about to do. He hadn’t left me any choice. I did what I’d done back on the South Side when a fellow wouldn’t listen to reason. I hauled back my fist and then I popped him in the nose.
At least, that’s what I meant to do. But he ducked. Then he started bobbing and weaving like the best of prizefighters.
“Stop it, Alfred! Stand still.”
“Can’t. Boxing Team, Columbia University. Class of ’01. I was their best pugilist.”
I took a second swing at him.
He ducked again.
“Alfred Arthur! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” Evelyn called out from the saloon’s back door.
Though Alfred didn’t put his hands down, he stepped back, away from me, and shot a glance at her over his shoulder. “He said I shouldn’t be spending time with you.”
Evelyn put a fist to her hip. “And he’s perfectly right!”
I—I was?
“You mean . . . you don’t want me?” Arthur put his fists down. And then he stumbled toward her.
I was tempted to belt him one, but that wouldn’t have been polite. Not when his back was turned.
“Not like this. It isn’t right.” She pulled her lips into a firm, straight line that all the Miss Pirkles in the world would have been proud of. “Now.” She handed him his hat. “I want you to go home and think about what it is that you want.”