An Unlikely Suitor

by Nancy Moser

  Rowena was bored to death. She missed Edward. As was oftentimes the case with the men of the families, they arrived from the city on the weekend, taking short and numerous breaks from the work that made all this luxury possible. Morrie was around, but the two times she’d tried to see him, he’d been busy.

  And so she sat alone, looking out to sea, wishing for the absent company of Edward.

  And Lucy.

  Her mother’s words returned to her: “You can’t be friends with a seamstress, especially not an Italian seamstress.”

  How silly was that? Her own grandparents had been immigrants from England. Her grandfather had opened a clock store, which had been the impetus for her father to garner an interest in how things worked. That her family had succeeded beyond any expectation, that they’d built this grand house in Newport, should make them sympathetic to people like Lucy who were just starting out, people who were using their God-given gifts to an amazing degree.

  Mother came out on the veranda, her calendar book in hand. “Oh, there you are, dear. We need to go over the invitations we’ve received so there are no mistakes.”

  A mistake would be to accept the wrong invitation in lieu of the right one, to a better house, invited by a better family.

  Rowena stopped her rocking. “Actually, I’m quite content doing nothing.”

  Mother sat in the settee close by. “Nonsense. We are not here for you to relax.”

  Rowena let a laugh escape.

  “I amuse you?”

  “No, no. Never that.”

  She felt her mother’s eyes, but was allowed her indiscretion, for they both knew Mother was never amusing, rarely witty, and possessed the sense of humor of a hawk peering out for its prey.

  Mother opened her date book. “You will be blessedly busy this season, dear.”

  Busy. Busywork. That’s what these parties were. Rowena got nothing out of them and offered nothing to them. Perhaps when Edward arrived there would be some relief, but . . .

  If only Lucy were there. How Rowena would love to show her the sights. To see Newport through Lucy’s eyes would bring her much delight.

  Her mother was going over the dates and times, but Rowena had stopped listening. It was appalling that Lucy wasn’t welcome there as a friend, yet odd that she would have been embraced if she were their servant. How—

  Suddenly, Rowena got an idea.

  “Rowena?”

  She must have gasped or made a sound, for her mother looked at her with a modicum of alarm. Rowena smiled sweetly. “What were you saying about Wednesday afternoon?”

  Rowena pretended to listen, but her mind whirled with other possibilities.

  Rowena yanked at the lace around the neckline.

  The stitches gave way.

  As did Rowena’s heart, for it was pounding wildly.

  She moved to the next dress and tore the sleeve from the bodice.

  And then another. And another.

  After more than a dozen outfits were damaged, Rowena stepped to the center of her dressing room, her breath heaving in short fits.

  She sat on the large ottoman to collect herself.

  It was not an easy task, for as she looked across the rows of gowns edging her dressing room, the full implication of her actions took hold. She did need Lucy’s help now, for who better to repair these awful injuries to her clothing?

  She imagined her mother’s voice: “But how did this happen, daughter? And why didn’t you notice it earlier? And why were only your clothes—?”

  The last question spurred her to action. If she was going to present the scenario that their clothing was damaged in transit from New York, it would make no sense that only Rowena’s garments were affected.

  I have to get in Mother’s closet.

  She cracked open the door leading from the dressing room to the hall and peered out. She looked to the left. Sadie was entering her brother’s room next door, her arms full of fresh linens. She looked to the right.

  The coast was clear.

  Rowena entered the hallway and strode quickly toward her mother’s bedroom. Hopefully Mother was still downstairs working on their social schedule. She knocked on the door and, receiving no reply, went inside.

  Mother’s adjoining dressing room was even larger than Rowena’s, with dress racks encompassing three walls. She rummaged through the racks searching for dresses from Madame Moreau’s. The tug of a bodice seam on one, the tear of a cuff on another, the—

  “Rowena?”

  Her heart plummeted to her toes and her face grew hot. She turned toward her mother and put a hand to her chest. “You frightened me.”

  Mother looked askance. “What are you doing in my dressing room?”

  Rowena’s thoughts rushed toward a logical answer. She pulled out the last dress she’d damaged. “Look at this.”

  Mother stepped forward and examined the tear. “How did this happen?”

  “I don’t know,” Rowena said. “But I was going to wear one of my dresses from Madame Moreau’s this morning and found similar damage. Quite a few of my outfits are torn in some way. It got me wondering whether yours had suffered a similar fate.”

  Her mother looked through the rack to Rowena’s left and pulled out the dress that had already met Rowena’s yank and tug.

  “How could this happen?”

  Rowena shrugged. “I remember Lucy telling me about an employee at the dress shop who got fired because of Lucy’s courage in catching him in the act of stealing. Remember the basket left on the stoop? It had a rat in it.”

  Mother shuddered. “You think he damaged our clothes as a way to get revenge on Lucy?”

  “I know of no other explanation.” That I can share.

  Mother continued looking through her clothes, but Rowena stopped her. “Don’t bother yourself with this. I’ll go through the racks. So far I’ve found nearly twenty outfits with damage.”

  Mother turned toward the door. “I’ll call Margaret and get her started on the repairs.”

  Rowena stepped toward her mother, stopping her with a hand. “I don’t think Margaret’s skills are of a level to do more than sew on a button. Remember how she blundered the hem of your blue lawn?”

  Mother’s eyes darted, as if she was mentally going through the staff who might have the talent—

  Rowena intervened before she came up with a name. “I have a solution,” she said.

  “Then say it.”

  “Let’s bring Miss Scarpelli here. Since she was instrumental in the creation of the dresses, she’ll be able to repair them with an expertise beyond any other servant who pretends to know how to wield a needle and thread. Besides . . .” Rowena peered at the floor, trying to look pitiful. “With the custom alterations she made to my outfits, I would not feel comfortable handing them over to someone who isn’t aware of why some extra padding is here, or a tuck is put there.”

  Mother was eyeing Rowena in a way that made her feel wholly uncomfortable. Did she suspect the truth?

  Finally, she spoke. “Of course the fact that Lucy is your friend, that you wanted her here in the first place . . .”

  Rowena took her mother’s hands in hers. “I won’t deny the solution pleases me on more than one level, Mother. And I know you were right in refusing my request to have Lucy come here as a guest. But now, she would be here as a worker, as a seamstress.”

  “A seamstress only.”

  “Of course.” The fluttering in Rowena’s chest was far different from the experience a mere half hour before. The joy she would experience if her mother would let Lucy come . . .

  Rowena met her mother’s pale gray eyes and added, “Please, Mother?”

  Her mother’s eyes flashed with a hint of hardness before she nodded. “Write up a note and I’ll have a telegram sent. I will not have her come by steamer, though. It is far too luxurious.”

  “I’m sure the train to Wickford Junction will be fine, and then the short boat ride—”

  “Tell Hugh to arrange it.�
��

  Rowena kissed her mother on the cheek. “Thank you, thank you, Mother. You’ve made me very happy.”

  “And solved the problem of the torn dresses.”

  Rowena couldn’t hide her smile. “Of course. That too.”

  “First class, Wena? For a seamstress?”

  “Please, Hugh?” Rowena said. “Just do it. I’ll pay the difference from my allowance. Lucy is more than just a seamstress, she’s a good friend. I’d really like her to be pampered a bit for her inconvenience.”

  He buttoned a vest over his striped shirt. “So Mother doesn’t know about this?”

  “She knows Lucy is coming. She gave her approval for that. But no . . . she doesn’t know about first class.” She appealed to her brother’s rebellious side. “It will be our secret. I’ve kept enough of yours.”

  Hugh threaded a bow tie around his collar. “I suppose I could—”

  She grabbed his face, kissed him on the lips with a loud whack, and walked to the door. “I love you, brother!”

  He called after her, “This Lucy must be someone pretty special to deserve all this trouble.”

  “Any threats from Bonwitter today?” Tessie asked Lucy.

  Lucy sighed dramatically. “What have I asked all of you?”

  Tessie shrugged. “Not to ask about it anymore.”

  “Because?”

  “Because you’re sick of wasting another moment of your life worried about such a disgusting, despicable, disgraceful, desperate, dumb, disgusting—”

  “You said disgusting twice,” Lucy said. “And I believe you added a few more nasty traits to my previous list.”

  “I could add more,” Tessie said. “That was only the D’s.”

  Lucy tied a knot in her thread. “The point is, I’m done with him.”

  “Until he does something else.”

  “Tessie!”

  “All right, all right.”

  Dorothy looked up from her sewing. “Work, Tessie?”

  The girl reluctantly returned to her table. Lucy felt the same reluctance, not because she wanted to talk about Bonwitter—because she truly was trying not to think about him—but because she was having trouble concentrating on the dresses she was making. They were pretty enough, and the fabric was luscious enough, but she had no personal stake in them. Once again, she was merely a seamstress. What difference did it make whether she was stitching on a collar, a cuff, or some trim upon a train? She’d been spoiled working on Rowena’s wardrobe. Each item had offered Lucy a challenge, and each solution had rewarded her with a dose of satisfaction. Why, she hadn’t even met the woman who would wear the dress she was working on today. An anonymous wearer would take her work and waltz away into the city.

  Waltz. During one of Lucy’s conversations with Rowena, Rowena had talked about how much she wished she could waltz properly. She’d said the one-two-three, one-two-three sashay and swirl made dancers look as if they were flying. But Rowena was unable to dance well in her condition. Lucy had never heard of such a dance, and Rowena had said, “I would love to teach you, and watch you sweep around the ballroom in the arms of some dashing partner.”

  Talking about such things was a lark, yet Rowena had a way of making it seem possible.

  But Lucy was not one to daydream. Why waste thoughts on scenarios that were unattainable? She might as well dream about being the Queen of Sheba.

  And yet, when Lucy closed her eyes, with a little effort she could imagine herself in one of the gowns she’d made, with long gloves up to her elbows and jewels at her neck and ears. She would gaze into the eyes of her dance partner, and he would smile back at her, his blue eyes sparkling at the sheer joy of it.

  Blue eyes? Where did that come from? Italians had brown eyes. Blue-eyed men were as inaccessible as . . . as . . .

  Waltzes, gowns, gloves, jewels, and dance partners.

  Mrs. Flynn was headed toward the foyer to see who’d come in the front door when a young man peeked his head through the curtain.

  Mrs. Flynn was sent on her heels, a hand to her chest. “Young man! You frightened my heart into my toes.”

  He came fully into the room and removed his cap. “Sorry, ma’am. Telegram?”

  Mrs. Flynn took it, but the boy didn’t leave. He seemed to enjoy the bevy of females, and grinned at the lot of them. Sofia grinned right back. He was tall and lanky, and very cute.

  Mrs. Flynn physically turned him around. “Go on now. You did your duty. Shoo.”

  He tipped his hat, winked at Sofia, and left. Mrs. Flynn waited to hear the door’s bell tinkle before she addressed the issue of the telegram.

  “I can’t remember the last time we got a telegram,” Dorothy said.

  Sofia didn’t want to sound stupid but had to ask. “What’s a telegram?”

  Dorothy thought about it a moment. “I don’t rightly know but for the fact one person can send a message to another without going through the mail.”

  Dolly raised a hand. “My family got one once to tell us Uncle Harry died. All the way from Virginia.”

  Leona shushed them. “What’s it say, Madame?”

  But Mrs. Flynn wasn’t opening it. She was staring at the envelope.

  “Madame?”

  The woman collected herself, then walked over to Lucy. “It’s for you.”

  A series of gasps stirred the room.

  “Me?”

  “Who died?” Dolly asked.

  Sofia mentally listed faraway family members and glanced at Mamma—who looked worried. Had something happened to her aunt and uncle or her cousin Vittorio?

  Lucy dispelled her worry with logic. “If it was a death in the family, it would be addressed to Mamma, not me.”

  “Then it must be good news,” Tessie said.

  Sofia’s relief was replaced with envy. Of course it was good news. It was addressed to Lucy, wasn’t it?

  Mrs. Flynn slapped the telegram onto Lucy’s table. “Here it is. Good or bad.”

  Lucy removed a folded note as Mamma and Sofia moved close to see.

  “What’s it say?” Dolly asked.

  The three of them read it silently and Mamma quickly put a hand on Lucy’s arm. Sofia could only shake her head in disbelief.

  “What?” Dorothy asked. “You must share.”

  Lucy read the note aloud: “ ‘Wardrobe ruined. Come to Newport immediately. Ticket at train station. Leave tomorrow 10 a.m. I need you. Rowena Langdon.’ ”

  Mrs. Flynn took the telegram away to see for herself. “What does she mean her wardrobe is ruined?”

  “I don’t know,” Lucy said. “That’s all it says.”

  Sofia felt as though the rest of the room had pulled away and she were standing alone, witnessing the moment from afar. Lucy was going to Newport? She’d been invited there by Rowena, a wealthy patron? How could this be? Why did Lucy constantly get the breaks?

  Tessie ran to Lucy and took her hands. “That’s not all she said. She wants you to go to Newport on the train. Immediately! Newport!”

  “I’ve never been to Newport,” Ruth said.

  “You’ve never been out of New York,” Leona said.

  “Neither have you.”

  Neither have I.

  “Have you been on a train before, Lucy?” Dorothy asked.

  “Never.”

  “It will be an adventure—though I have no idea how long the trip will be.” She looked around the room. “How far is Newport from here?”

  No one knew.

  “I’m sure it’s hundreds and hundreds of miles away,” Tessie said. “So that means hours and hours on a train.”

  “I’ve heard they’re very loud and bumpy,” Dolly said.

  Sofia hoped so.

  “I’ve heard they go up to thirty-five miles an hour,” Ruth said. “I would be afraid of going so fast.”

  Sofia wouldn’t be afraid. It would be exhilarating.

  “Do they have food on a train?” Mamma asked.

  “And they must have . . . you know.” Te
ssie nodded toward the necessary.

  Lucy laughed. “I don’t care about the answers to any of your questions. I’m going to Newport. I’d go by donkey cart if need be.”

  “You can’t go.”

  Mrs. Flynn’s pronouncement halted the room.

  “Why not?” Lucy asked.

  The bell on the door caused Mrs. Flynn to lower her voice as she turned toward the lobby. “You have work to do here, Lucy. The Langdons’ wardrobes are complete. It is not our responsibility to repair them after the fact. We’ve done our—”

  Mr. Standish came through the curtains. “What’s not our responsibility?”

  Lucy hurried toward him, and Sofia hated that her sister had every right to do so. She was a special friend of Mr. Standish, and Rowena Langdon.

  Sofia was special friends with no one.

  Mrs. Flynn began her explanation. “We were just talking—”

  Lucy held the telegram toward him. “Pardon me, but I just received this urgent telegram from Rowena Langdon.”

  Mrs. Flynn flashed Lucy a look, but Lucy was oblivious, giving all her attention to Mr. Standish. He read the note, then looked up. “Her wardrobe is ruined?”

  Mrs. Flynn stepped between them. “I assure you, the clothing we delivered to the Langdons was in perfect condition. We would never give a customer something that was in need of repair.”

  “I’m not accusing you,” Mr. Standish said. “But apparently, in the process of moving the garments from here to Newport some damage was done.”

  “A lot of damage,” Lucy said, pointing to the note. “She says ruined.”

  “I am not disparaging Miss Langdon’s assessment, but I would imagine they are not ruined as much as damaged in some way. Otherwise, she would be ordering a complete new wardrobe.”

  “Ruined or merely damaged, Lucy cannot be spared,” Mrs. Flynn said.

  “Are you indicating someone else should go in her place?” Mr. Standish asked.

  Mrs. Flynn faltered.

  He continued. “The telegram was addressed directly to Miss Scarpelli, and didn’t the Langdons previously request that Lucy be in charge of Miss Langdon’s fashion?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But?”

  “Lucy is new here. Her experience is limited and—”