A Practical Arrangement

by Nadja Notariani

  “I must have fallen asleep,” Evangeline admitted guiltily.

  “Mother sent me to tell you dinner is ready.”

  Setting aside her knitting, Evangeline stretched, her neck stiff from resting awkwardly against the chair.

  “All that sniping at Mr. Masterson has worn you out,” Melody prodded, mischief alight in her blue eyes.

  “Mr. Masterson is tiring, indeed,” Evangeline replied coolly. “I'm thankful he and Mr. Lane have left.”

  “Well, I am not,” Melody pouted. “I thought their company invigorating. And I dare say you enjoyed yourself as well. Even if you refuse to admit it.”

  “One can hardly enjoy the company of a person depraved.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Melody asked, wrinkling her brow.

  “I mean, Melody, that a man such as Mr. Masterson is wont to say or behave in whatever manner he deems most likely to beguile his victims.”

  “Victims?” Melody laughed. “I hardly think his acquaintances believe themselves victims, Evangeline. In fact,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “those victims claim him to be quite accomplished.” Melody arched her eyebrow wickedly.

  “Melody!” Evangeline censured her sister. “I don't care to hear of Mr. Masterson's rumored abilities. Frankly, I am surprised you would give ear to such nonsense.”

  “Oh my, Evangeline. What transpires between a man and a woman is hardly nonsense. It is lovely...and pleasurable.” A soft lilt tinged Melody's voice, her expression demulcent.

  “Enough. Please,” she whispered, voice small and soft. Evangeline went very still, eyes closed.

  “Evangeline,” Melody worried, her tone gentle, concerned, “are you afraid of being with a man? Is that why you don't want to marry?”

  Evangeline suppressed a shudder. Of course she was afraid, but not in exactly the way her sister believed. To be married would give a man the right to touch her – whenever he wanted. Images flitted through her thoughts, her mother's vivid descriptions slamming into her, unwanted, unwelcome. Grabbing. Touching. Uncontrolled.

  Lie still. It is over soon enough.

  The thought of having no control was beyond her limits.

  “Let's go down to dinner, Melody.” Evangeline knew what was coming. She winced, but Melody embraced her anyway.

  “Oh, Evangeline.”

  Dinner held no appeal after her exchange with her sister. Why couldn't her father forget all this marriage business!

  Because he wants to make sure I am taken care of, she acknowledged, fondness for her father softening her anger.

  “Such amiable young men,” Opal observed. “And Mr. Lane was near to taken with our Melody!”

  Melody fluttered her lashes, her pleasure at the comment unhidden. “We enjoyed one another's company,” she added.

  “Certainly you did,” Opal affirmed. “What young man would not enjoy being in your company?”

  “What of you, Evangeline?” Albert probed. “Did you have a pleasant time?”

  “It was tolerable, although I am not sorry it is ended.” She pushed her food around the plate.

  “Evangeline, dear,” Opal chided, “Mr. Masterson was quite a gentleman, gracious and attentive to you when I'm sure he would have preferred your sister's company.”

  “Mother!” Melody gasped.

  “Well, honestly! We all know how Evangeline can be. What man would endure her biting words when he could converse with someone of your sweet disposition?”

  “Mrs. Grey, that will be quite enough,” Albert censured harshly, invoking tearful theatrics from his wife.

  “Why must you speak to me so cruelly? I've only spoken the truth!”

  “I said enough!” Albert shouted, sending Opal from the room in the throes of weepy drama.

  Evangeline would certainly be needed in her mother's room later. Summoned was more like it. And of course, she'd be reminded it all came about because of her. Difficult Evangeline. Trying Evangeline.

  I am not Melody!

  She didn't want to be Melody. Why couldn't her mother accept her for who she was?

  “Evangeline,” Albert said, rising and rounding the table. He beckoned her to follow him with an outstretched arm. “Sit with me in the study.”

  She followed, desperate to know what he had to speak that he couldn't in front of Melody. With a backward glance, she saw her sister's pitying look.

  Of all the nonsense!

  Squaring her shoulders, she followed, pulse thumping, eyes ablaze.

  * * *

  Thomas swilled the last of his brandy, savoring the spicy warmth spreading downward to fill his chest. His companions, well into their cups, engaged the company of various women milling about. He was about to do the same. After a four day absence from the club, Thomas was eager for female companionship.

  “Thomas!” the eager blond giggled. “You're back!”

  “So I am,” he smiled. This would be too easy.

  “Why didn't you find me?” the woman sulked a moment. “You said you would,” she breathed, settling in Thomas' lap.

  He grinned. “I didn't give you permission to sit.”

  She pouted prettily. “You don't want me? Don't say you are still preoccupied with Mrs. Preston,” she teased, shifting against him suggestively. “Did you buy me anything while you were away?”

  Thomas covered her hand, which was wrapped in his hair. “I am not sure you want me at all,” he teased salaciously. “In fact, I believe there are only two things you want – my wallet and a certain part of my anatomy.”

  She grabbed his hands and placed them over her generous breasts. “Hmm,” she smirked.

  “Easy.” He stilled, removing his hands.

  “You're terrible to tease me.” The pout reappeared.

  “I want to hear what you've done while I was away,” he stated.

  The blond scoffed. “What ever for?”

  “I'm curious,” he smiled, attempting to engage a spark, to ignite the banter he'd enjoyed over the last few days.

  “Same things as always. I shopped. I spent. I waited for you to come back.” She shifted again, a transparent diversion.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why me? You are a beautiful woman. Why not one of the others?”

  The young woman looked empty, blank. Then she smiled impishly. “To test the rumors.”

  “What rumors would those be?” As if he didn't know. He yearned for a clipped reprimand, a simple set down, a too steady gaze that challenged, saw through him. He found none of these forthcoming.

  “The ones that say you can give me pleasure like I've never had.”

  “Any other reason?”

  She frowned. “What other reason should there be?”

  “Up you go, sweetheart.” Thomas sat the confused woman on her feet.

  “Are we going upstairs now?” she asked, relief palpable in her voice.

  “Not tonight.” He let her down as easily as he could, circumstances being what they were.

  “What? Why not?”

  “It is a mystery even to me.” He sighed then. “I am, regrettably, out of sorts it appears. Perhaps another time.”

  “Oh! You are a terrible tease, Thomas. But I see through your game, you devil, you. I warn you; I may not be available another night.”

  “I'll have to tempt fate, my dear.”

  The comely blond sauntered away, quickly occupied by more frivolous company. Thomas shook his head, uncertain at his own actions. Instead of losing himself in lust with a soft, eager, compliant beauty, he strolled toward the doors, preoccupied with thoughts of the prim, rigid, and ever-so-non-compliant Miss Grey.

  * * *

  Loud voices seeped through the thick, well-constructed walls of Grey Manor. Evangeline wished to be anywhere else, a place where she wouldn't hear the angry, muffled arguing, nor the discernible words proving the cause of the discord.

  Her.

  Hurtful phrases lobbed carelessly behind closed doors escape
d, seeking her, finding her relentlessly.

  “You take little care with my feelings, Mr. Grey, but I doubt you speak to your mistress so. She could send you away! Me? A poor wife with no say must endure! It is too much!”

  “Opal,” Albert roared, “cease this talk at once. I'll allow no more of it.”

  More muffled barbs swirled in the next room, conjuring memories from long ago. Evangeline sagged, an unguarded moment of forgetfulness laying her bare. Would it never change?

  “Tea is here, Mother,” Evangeline announced softly, busying her hands over the tea cart.

  “I cannot think of tea or any other pleasurable activity,” Opal lamented. “Your...your father is a brute!” Shudders wracked her frail shoulders, a new torrent of tears freshly loosed.

  “Father?”

  “Oh, Evangeline! Take some good advice. Never love a man.” Opal grabbed her, digging her fingers into her slim arms.

  Evangeline raised frightened eyes, her body stock still at the familiar bite of bruised flesh.

  “You ought to be afraid,” Opal warned quietly, “A husband's words are cruel; his hands are worse.”

  “Father hurts you?” Evangeline whispered, horrified at the words she heard, at the shattered safety of her young world.

  “That is what husbands do, Evangeline.”

  The memory haunted her; the event changed her, shaped her irrevocably. Pulling herself back to the present, Evangeline straightened. The words from beyond her room blunted, no longer sharp and cutting, her mother's cries softer. Never had she witnessed her father harm her mother in any way. He'd always been gentle with her and Melody. Yet she harbored fear just the same. Too often she'd felt the sting of her mother's words, the ache left from her harsh hands, seen the bluish marks on her arms after being reminded how cruel her father was.

  All were hidden inside her heart and beneath her sleeves. Being held in any manner conjured the helpless sensation of those memories. Even within the tender arms of her sister, Evangeline cringed, awaiting the blessed freedom of release to quell her discomfort. She could never be a good wife, could never endure a husband handling her as her mother did. No. He'd do far worse to her. She shivered. Unclenching her hands and drawing a steady breath, Evangeline Grey reprimanded herself.

  No good would come of pitying herself or wishing things to be different. Each passing week brought near the inevitable. To choose a husband was for the beautiful and flirtatious. Her father would, in the end, choose for her. The thought was both comforting and dread inspiring. She'd have to make the best of it. Secret hope stowed, hopes of amiable companionship and distant politeness, Evangeline called for Corinne to help her ready for bed.

  * * *

  Evangeline rubbed her hands together, December's icy chill invading triumphantly, forcing out autumn in favor of winter. Bare branches glistened with frosty sparkle under the bright, deceptive sunlight. Wriggling her toes in her shoes, she combated the stinging prickle as heat warmed frozen digits.

  “Come near the fire. Hurry and warm yourselves,” Mrs. Francine Davis urged. “It's a crisp afternoon for certain.”

  “Thank you,” Evangeline chattered, her stuttered shivers easing in front of the massive fireplace.

  “You are most welcome, Miss Grey.”

  Francine Davis, a portly woman with straw colored hair and soft brown eyes helped to unwrap the frozen young women, handing their heavy shawls to a maid, who carted them away.

  “Please warm them for when they depart,” she instructed, the maid bobbing her head in understanding. “Take a few moments, please,” she invited, returning her attention to Evangeline and Melody. “We're in no rush.”

  Another lady arrived, sending Mrs. Davis off at once in welcome. Mrs. Preston sat in the parlor, a rose hued room, pretty and serene. In addition, Mrs. Verla Rhodes and her daughter rested on the diminutive settee, the poor furniture piece surely groaning under the former's bulk. Mrs. Davis, daughter Fiona in tow, and the jovial Mrs. Townsend re-entered the parlor, the good natured Francine shooing them toward the blazing hearth as a hen routs her chicks.

  “The fire will warm your blood in no time!” Mrs. Davis assured. “Tea will be served shortly.”

  Melody and Evangeline found their places in side-by-side, pink velvet chairs, Evangeline stroking the soft material before folding her hands in her lap. Well aware coveting a grave sin, she could not help but think she would have chairs exactly like these should she ever have the opportunity. It was admiring, she informed the censuring voice in her heart. Only admiring.

  “Who has completed a project?” Mrs. Davis questioned.

  All hands offered a bundle except for Augusta Preston, who was slower in her stitches; however, none balked because she turned out wonderfully crafted pieces.

  “It is only fair we choose a special recipient for Mrs. Preston's shawl, ladies. At our next meeting we will nominate and select the lucky woman,” Mrs. Davis announced.

  Augusta had the decency to smile prettily at the compliment.

  “It should be a grown woman, a hard worker who would never gain something so fine,” Evangeline offered. “I don't think it should go to a younger daughter as it would be more honoring to a mother.”

  The women all agreed, Evangeline's sensitive observation appreciated.

  “Well, I won't see the Turner woman have it,” Verla Rhodes huffed. “An insolent woman she is. Thinks too highly of herself as it is.”

  As much as it pained her to agree with anything Mrs. Rhodes said, Evangeline had to concede the point. She did not do so aloud on principle.

  “We've twenty days remaining. Can everyone finish in time? My Fiona has finished both her shawls and would be glad to offer aid where needed.”

  Fiona smiled. “I do not mind at all,” she offered shyly.

  “Perhaps if you have some scraps left over from other projects you could make an infant's blanket,” Evangeline suggested. “The newest addition will arrive over winter in the Braedon home.”

  Fiona beamed. “I'm sure I can find enough to do that! May I look through your odds and ends too, Mother?”

  “Of course! What an excellent idea,” Mrs. Davis agreed heartily. “Soon enough I hope to have such an occasion to make one myself.”

  All eyes turned to her.

  “Our son has offered for Miss Katherine Dorrence, and she has accepted!”

  Congratulations resounded in the parlor. Having business on their Christmas project settled, the ladies ventured into talk of the upcoming wedding.

  “Oh! Mrs. Davis! When is the happy event to take place?” Opal inquired.

  “Mrs. Dorrence has not informed me yet, but she hopes for a spring wedding,” Mrs. Davis replied.

  “Spring weddings are lovely,” Opal agreed. “Perhaps I shall have the good fortune to host a spring wedding for my Melody.”

  Evangeline cursed the slow heat spreading up her neck and face. Why couldn't her mother allow Mrs. Davis her day without attempting to turn attention to Melody? She glanced at her sister, whose cheeks matched her own. Poor Melody! Evangeline, for all she endured at their mother's hands, did not envy her sister. Melody bore a different burden, but just as awful. At least her own burden was private; Melody's was bare to the eyes of all.

  “That would be lovely, Mrs. Grey,” good natured Mrs. Davis responded with ease. “Is there a gentleman paying attentions?”

  “Mr. Jonathan Lane was quite taken with my Melody when he visited with Mr. Masterson. They have already made arrangements to visit us again just before Christmas.”

  Evangeline refused the frown that threatened. She'd not give Mrs. Rhodes the satisfaction. Instead, she affixed her gaze on Melody, commiserating silently in a flash. Her sister surprised her then, her tone too eager.

  “When?” Melody breathed excitedly. “Why did you not tell me?”

  “And she, as you can see, is equally impressed with Mr. Lane,” Opal continued knowingly.

  “Did you say Mr. Masterson?” Augusta inquired, her sh
arp blue eyes alive with interest. “Pray tell, Mrs. Grey, when was this?”

  “A few weeks past, Mrs. Preston.”

  Opal Grey chatted on unaware, Evangeline noted with dismay, of the undisguised scrutiny of Mrs. Rhodes' keen stare.

  Oh, Mother! Please stop talking!

  But barring an act of nature – or the hand of Providence – Evangeline braced for what would, no doubt, go on.

  “Are you well acquainted with Mr. Masterson, Mrs. Preston?” Opal paused her explanations to ask.

  “Quite,” the woman replied slyly. “Mr. Preston had a number of business dealings with that gentleman.”

  “I see. Well, you must know what a polite young man Mr. Masterson is. Very good natured. And quite wealthy. He has much to recommend him.”

  Mrs. Rhodes scoffed. “That man is a scoundrel, Mrs. Grey. His reputation alone should bid you warning to protect your daughters.”

  “Mrs. Rhodes,” Francine Davis tempered, “Mrs. Grey would never welcome any person she deemed a danger into her home. Do not be insulting.”

  Verla turned her full-jowled face to Mrs. Davis, disapproval spread across its width generously. “Don't be hasty to dismiss me, Mrs. Davis. Mr. Masterson would compromise any young woman in his path given the opportunity.”

  “Surely you exaggerate, Mrs. Rhodes,” Mrs. Davis sputtered.

  “Mr. Masterson behaved a gentleman in my home. His aunt and uncle are dear, dear friends of ours. I cannot tolerate any more malicious gossip against them or their nephew.”

  The atmosphere hung tense and thick in the Davis parlor, all awaiting some thing to alleviate the awkward moment and restore balance.

  “Melody's sweetness and Evangeline's good sense will ward off any ill intent, and we all know the Platte family's good name and respect.” Olivia Castille spoke up before the moment could spoil the afternoon with lasting effect, soothing the ruffled feathers of both parties in a single breath, Evangeline admired.

  Tea arrived, the fragrant brew lulling the group as easy chitchat consumed the hour. As they wrapped in the warmed shawls and tucked the roasted potatoes into their pockets to keep warm on the carriage rides home, Mrs. Davis blustered about.

  “Now remember, Mrs. Grey, we will all meet at your home on the morning of Christmas Eve, dear, before loading up and delivering the garments to Reverend Oakley. He will distribute the garments after the children's sermon.”