by Nancy Moser
Then she saw him dip his handkerchief in a birdbath. He returned, wringing it out. “I’m afraid it’s not the cleanest water, but the wetness should help wipe away the worst of it.”
She took it and dabbed at the scrape. “You shouldn’t have trespassed like that. What if someone would have seen you.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I could have been arrested for stealing bird water. I wonder what the penalty is for that grievous offense.”
She allowed herself a laugh. The atmosphere of this land of wealth had intimidated her past common sense. Why should anyone care if someone stepped a few paces upon their lawn? Yet, even as she made this rationalization, she knew they probably did care, and in a worst-case situation, there could be repercussions.
Lucy was used to being the best of her class, an achiever, a woman in control. Yet here she belonged to no class and had very little con—
“I lost you there,” he said.
“Sorry. I was thinking.”
“Be careful with that. It can get you into trouble, especially in this city of frippery, finery, and falderal. It’s all about the show and the spectacle. What the eye can see and the ear can hear.”
“But never what the mind can think?”
“It’s best not.”
She laughed again, then realized she needed to get back. Rowena may have returned from her luncheon. “I must be going.”
He helped her to her feet and she tested the pain in her leg by putting her weight upon it.
“Would you like me to help you home?”
That would never do. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine. I’ve felt worse.”
“Ah. A veritable trooper. An admirable trait.”
Lucy felt a wave of pleasure that she’d impressed him. “Well, then . . .” She extended her hand. “Thank you for your heroics.”
“Any time. And since we’ve faced death together, I do believe we should exchange names.”
“I’m Lucy.”
He clicked his heels together, then shook her hand. “Bartholomew—”
“Bartholomew? That’s not a very heroic-sounding name.”
“Then what shall I be called?”
Lucy knew little of heroic men and couldn’t answer.
“Perhaps Odysseus or Achilles?”
She’d never heard of them.
“Or, I know,” he said. “How about Shadrach, Meshach, or Abednego?”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Perhaps a little. But I assure you, these were all heroic men. So choose a name, perhaps a name that means something to you.”
The only name that came to mind was Dante, her father’s name. “Dante.”
“Dante Alighieri? The great Italian poet?”
Lucy had never felt so ignorant. This man seemed to know everything, and she nothing. “Dante, my father. He was the most heroic man I ever knew.”
He studied her a moment. “Your father was very lucky to have such a loyal and appreciative daughter. I hope one day my children will look upon me in such a way.”
Lucy felt herself redden. The conversation had veered into a place too personal. She really needed to get back to the Langdons’, so she turned and tapped him on one shoulder and then the other. “I hereby declare from this day forward that you—being a hero—shall be called Dante.”
He bowed low, sweeping his hat far to one side. “I am honored, Lady Lucy.”
She attempted her first curtsy, then turned back the way she had come. Once on her way she glanced over her shoulder and saw him standing there, looking after her.
The sensation was quite pleasurable.
“Where have you been?”
Lucy pulled up short at the foot of the back stairway.
Margaret, Rowena’s reluctant lady’s maid, stood before her, arms crossed.
Lucy wasn’t sure whether to bow to her and be contrite, or stand tall and take a stand. She decided on a bit of each.
“I needed some fresh air, and my eyes needed a rest from the close handwork.” She looked up the stairs. “Was I needed?”
Margaret hesitated. “You should be here.”
“I am here. Now.”
Margaret’s nose twitched before she spun on her heel and walked away.
Add another enemy to Lucy’s list.
Rowena appeared in the corridor leading to the front of the house, wearing a blue smock over her dress. “I thought I heard your voice. Come with me. I’ve got a project for the two of us.”
Lucy followed Rowena into the wide corridor of the main floor, and back to the rear veranda, where two easels were set up, one boasting a blank canvas and the other a partial landscape.
Rowena handed Lucy a paintbrush and a flat piece of wood with a hole in it. “Have you ever painted before?”
It was a laughable question. When in her life would she have had the opportunity or the inclination to paint a picture? “Never,” she said.
“Then it’s time you gave it a try. Mother has blatantly stated that all young ladies need to learn to be artistic.”
Lucy had other things on her mind. She looked over the stone balustrade to the lawn and the sea beyond—the sea that had nearly taken her prisoner. If not for Dante.
“What do you think of my feeble attempt?”
Lucy transferred her gaze from reality to representation. She could see remnants of the scene on the painting in progress, though there was something off about the proportions.
“Wear this,” Rowena said, bringing forward a green smock for Lucy’s use. She helped button it in the back, then showed Lucy a wooden box full of tubes, each wrapped with a colored band. “And here are your colors. Just squeeze a little paint onto your palette and begin.”
Lucy had to laugh at Rowena’s swift instructions, as if just like that, by wearing the correct costume and holding the correct tools, she would instantly become an artist.
“What?” Rowena asked. “You won’t even try?”
“Of course I’ll try. But don’t expect much.”
“That’s what I tell my mother every day. Now . . . consider the view.”
Lucy did just that. And yet it was a strange experience to look upon something with the intent of reproducing it.
“Come, now,” Rowena said, taking up her own palette and brush. “Just begin. You can’t get it wrong—at least not really.”
Lucy wasn’t certain about that, but she looked at the horizon where blue met blue, and noticed the blue of the ocean was slightly darker. The sea was benign at this distance, a powerless swath of color.
She began at this joining of sea and sky and enjoyed the feel of the stroke as paint met canvas and left behind evidence of her intent. When she needed a lighter blue, she added some white to it and swirled the two colors together to make a third.
And what if she added the tiniest tinge of purple to the mix?
Rowena was perched on the edge of a high stool, busy with her own creation. “Where were you?” Rowena asked.
Lucy tried to gauge if there was any anger in her voice, and found none. “I took a walk on the grounds and on the Cliff Walk. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. I suggested it. You are not my slave, Lucy. You may come and go as you please.”
The level of trust exhibited by Rowena contrasted sharply with the confining attitude of the household staff.
“Did you enjoy the Cliff Walk?” Rowena asked as she squeezed green paint upon her palette.
“The view is breathtaking.”
“I love the ocean. I love sailing on my family’s yacht—or used to.”
“You don’t go anymore?”
“I have trouble finding my footing now.”
So Rowena’s handicap had not always been with her.
Rowena changed the subject. “You must be careful on the Walk, though. It can get very slippery.”
“I know,” Lucy said. “I fell.”
Rowena’s brush stopped in midair. “Were you hurt?”
�
�A little. But I was saved by a very nice man who pulled me up from a ledge—”
“A ledge! You fell to a ledge?”
Lucy marked a place taller than herself. “I was this far down from the walkway. I don’t know how I would ever have gotten out if this man hadn’t saved me.”
“What’s his name?”
Lucy smiled at the memory of their banter. “Dante,” she said.
“His last name?”
“We only exchanged first names.”
Rowena’s brow creased. “I don’t know anyone by the name of Dante.”
Of course not. “It’s just as well. I—”
“Was he charming? Do you wish to see him again?”
Did she?
“You do, don’t you? You like him very much.”
“I’m not one to be attracted so easily.” If at all.
“But like. Do you like him? Would you like to see him again?”
Lucy was not used to talking about romance. Romance was for other women, women who weren’t responsible for a mother and sister. Women who had time to swoon and chatter and primp.
Yet Dante was special. He was a “giver,” a trait often lacking in people of either gender. She added more paint to the sky, leaving voids for the white of the clouds. “I suppose I’d like to see him. But not in the way you assume.”
Rowena’s eyes sparkled as she pointed her brush at Lucy. “You pretend to be above romance, but your stance is not quite believable.”
“Believe it or not, I’m not searching for a beau. Or a mate. I am quite content to be on my own.”
“Then you are one of a thousand. Once a woman is twenty, she is on the road to being an old maid.”
At twenty-four I am the oldest maid there is.
In a way, Lucy liked the idea that she was not a normal woman who wanted marriage and children. She was unique.
“Romance or no,” Rowena said, “you should go to the Cliff Walk every day in hopes of seeing him. For conversation’s sake. Or out of gratitude.”
It seemed silly. Contrived. “You assume he wishes to see me again. Remember, I caused him much trouble.”
“Saving a damsel in distress is hardly trouble for a gentleman. A true gentleman longs for the chance to do just that as a way to prove his worth.”
“Then perhaps I should fall a second time.”
Rowena pointed her paintbrush at Lucy, and annoyance was added to her voice. “Stop making fun of the situation. A man graciously saved you from great peril. You like him. It’s only logical you at least try to see him again.”
Lucy regretted causing her distress. “You assume he’s a creature of habit?”
“I assume he’ll try to be there at the same time tomorrow in the hopes of seeing you. How else can he expect to find you again?”
The workings of a romantic mind . . . Lucy mixed some gray paint with white and applied it in soft swirls, creating clouds. “Perhaps he doesn’t wish to find me.”
“Perhaps. But just in case . . . you must go. Newport is known for its romantic matches. People come here for pleasure, to relax. And in such a state they are open to the wiles of love.”
“I don’t use wiles. I don’t trick men to love me.” I don’t want them to love me.
“I’m sure you don’t.”
Lucy couldn’t tell if Rowena considered this an admirable quality or a failing.
“Have you been in love before?” Rowena asked.
Lucy sat on the stool, her thoughts flitting back to Mulberry Street. Perhaps if she told Rowena about her one foray with love, she would be left alone. “His name was Angelo.”
“Was he as angelic as his name?”
Lucy shook her head. There was little angelic about Angelo, except . . . “He loved me.”
“But that wasn’t enough?”
The complications of her relationship with Angelo blurred. Lucy didn’t want to go into the details. “I had to put my family first. He didn’t understand.”
“So he didn’t love you enough.”
“Or I didn’t love him enough.”
Rowena sighed. “How does one know when they are in love?”
Lucy didn’t have enough experience to offer an opinion. “Are you in love with Edward?”
“I hope to learn to love him.”
“Is that possible?”
“My mother learned to love my father.”
“Did he learn to love her in return?”
Rowena seemed to have no answer to that. Instead she said, “Father has instructed me to love Edward. He says girls like me must not be fussy or choosy.”
Lucy took offense on her behalf. “Girls like you . . . that’s not very kind.”
Rowena moved awkwardly across the room to retrieve a rag. Even with her slow gait there was evidence of her infirmity. “Girls with my impediment are tainted.”
“Tainted?”
“We are imperfect and therefore not worthy of a marriage of high esteem.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re more worthy than a thousand women with perfect legs. Your kindness and loving heart overshadow any physical irregularity.”
Rowena lifted her arms wide, palms up. “You are too kind, Lucy, but look around you. My clothing, this house, the grounds, the area around Bellevue Avenue in its entirety . . . it’s all about perfection, about attaining something above and beyond what’s ever been created before.”
“But it’s false. It’s a dreamland. Life’s not like this for most people.”
“Which is the point.”
The words of Lucy’s father interrupted her thoughts, and she shared the phrase. “Non è tutto oro quello che luce.”
“That’s beautiful. What does it mean?”
“All that glitters is not gold.”
Rowena considered this a moment. “Perhaps the reverse is also true? All that’s gold does not glitter?”
Lucy loved how their conversations made her think. “You are very wise.”
Rowena left her perch to study Lucy’s progress. “And you are ridiculously talented. Are you certain you’ve not painted before?”
Rowena sat on her stool, cleaning their brushes. She’d sent Lucy up to her room to ready a dress for a formal dinner they were having that evening. But in truth, it was an excuse to study Lucy’s painting against her own.
Unfortunately, she found her own lacking. Where Lucy had captured the sea, sky, and lawn with deft strokes and splashes of expertly mixed color, Rowena’s attempt looked like a five-year-old’s dabbling.
Was there nothing Lucy couldn’t do well? She designed clothing and constructed it, and now was an artist with paint. Creativity flowed out of her with a fresh clarity like water from a spring. Rowena wouldn’t be surprised if Lucy could sing like an angel and play Chopin like a virtuoso.
What flowed out of Rowena? She had no ability on any musical instrument, and sounded like a screaming seagull when she sang. Her needlepoint was lumpy and her tatting always got tangled. As for her painting ability?
Rowena loaded her brush in deep blue and painted a large X on her canvas, then another and another, until her feeble attempt was obliterated. She tossed the painting in the bushes on the other side of the balustrade. Her breathing had grown ragged, and she felt her heart beating in her throat. A heat more stifling than anything summer could summon tightened like a shroud around her, making her claw at the smock, needing it off, needing air.
“Rowena!”
At the sound of her mother’s voice, Rowena froze with one shoulder of the smock hanging precariously at her waist and the other side caught upon the volume of her dress sleeve. A hank of hair fell across her face.
“What is going on here?”
“Help me get this off, please.”
Mother pulled the smock free. Then she spotted the painting. Her face washed with pleasure. “You did this?”
Rowena wasn’t sure what to say. It was the first time her mother had given any indication of pleasure upon seeing her paint—
; Only it wasn’t her painting. But she couldn’t reveal the truth just yet. Had she been right in thinking Lucy had talent?
“Do you like it?”
Mother moved right, then left, trying to capture the best light. “I insist you enter it in the art show next month. And if Mamie Fish doesn’t award you a first-place ribbon, I’ll deny her entrance into this house.”
Rowena couldn’t withhold the truth any longer.
“Lucy will be thrilled to hear that.”
“Lucy?”
“Lucy Scarpelli? It’s her painting. I thought it showed true talent, but now to hear your opinion . . . she will be thrilled to hear it merits a place in the art show.”
Mother whipped toward Rowena, her cheeks a blotchy red. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Rowena felt her own cheeks grow hot. “But you said—”
“I thought it was your work.”
“But talent is talent. If the work is good enough to be entered, then it shouldn’t matter who—”
Mother went back into the house, the train of her dress sashaying wildly across the floor to keep up.
Rowena was left to mull over the status of her own insipid talent and the inequities of her world.
“Sofia, get me another box of pins.”
Sofia looked toward the storeroom with trepidation. She’d been avoiding going back there all day, and so far had managed to tag her need for supplies onto someone else’s errand.
Dorothy repeated herself. “Sofia? Pins?”
Mamma stood. “I’ll get them.”
Mrs. Flynn looked up from the order she was writing. She eyed Mamma, then Sofia. “We aren’t dumb, little girl. We’ve all noticed how you’ve avoided going in the back today. I’m sorry about what happened to you, and I’ve talked to Mr. Standish, who’s going to talk to the police. We’ve done all we can do. But you have to do the work required or I’ll dock your pay.”
“Baby Sofia,” Tessie whispered.
“Scaredy cat, scaredy cat,” added Leona.
“You can have your mamma do your work for you,” Ruth said.
Sofia flushed with anger and embarrassment. She’d like to see one of these ladies handle Bonwitter as she’d done the night before. See if they wouldn’t be scared too.
But even Mamma nodded toward the back, indicating she should go.