An Unlikely Suitor

by Nancy Moser

She patted the note in her skirt pocket. She hadn’t been to the Cliff Walk in two days. Dante had told her he couldn’t come yesterday, which was just as well, as Lucy had been busy helping Rowena dress for a special afternoon outing to a neighbor’s, plus she’d been occupied arranging for the sewing room and lodging for her family.

  And she’d told Dante she couldn’t be there today, but . . . but she would like to leave him a note, have it waiting for him. Il tempo viene per chi sa aspettare. All things come to those who wait.

  She’d reread the note written Wednesday night—the one she’d nearly torn up—a multitude of times. Today, almost without conscious thought, she’d put it in her pocket.

  So now . . . note or work?

  It was a surprisingly easy choice.

  The Cliff Walk was especially busy, and Lucy, walking alone, stood out among the couples taking a stroll, arm in arm, the ladies shading themselves with lace-trimmed parasols.

  She was rather surprised to see all status of strollers, from lower class in their simple clothing, to the very wealthy in high style and intricate finery. She remembered what Rowena had said about the owners of the mansions being perturbed about having the full range of society pass by. Apparently they lived to show off but wanted to choose whom to show off to.

  When she reached the stone wall that held their hiding place, she was forced to feign gazing at the sea as a couple sat on the very wall, the woman’s skirt veiling the stones.

  Lucy noticed the tone of their conversation change at her intrusion—which was just what she had hoped for. Leave! Go somewhere else for privacy.

  Eventually, that’s exactly what they did, adding snide comments about “rude people” under their breaths.

  Lucy quickly sat upon the wall, inches to the left of the secret stone. She reached down as if adjusting some detail of her skirt, and gave it a little tug. To her relief it moved, but she was forced to sit upright when another couple strolled by.

  The man tipped his hat.

  “Good afternoon,” she said.

  As soon as they passed, she looked both ways and determined the time would never be fully right. She had to take a chance. And so she reached down, pulled the stone away from the wall, and began to insert—

  There was a note inside!

  Lucy quickly set the stone at her feet and removed the note, inching herself to the side to conceal the open space. She slipped her own note between thigh and wall, and opened Dante’s.

  My dear Miss Scarpelli,

  To go two days without seeing you is pain indeed, and so I have done what little I could do and have talked to you on paper. ’Tis not the same (nor nearly as satisfying) but at least one side of our conversation can be shared. I will await your reaction in person, or in a note if that is all God and circumstance allows.

  I have never—never I say twice and more if necessary—met anyone quite like you. The dialogue we have shared in our few meetings has far surpassed the lifetime of small talk I have previously endured with a myriad of acquaintances. For even those of the fairer sex I previously deemed interesting now pale in the light of your being.

  We have begun to know each other, and that seed now planted demands full growth. I long for Sunday, at 2 o’clock. I will wait for you here, with the sea as my companion.

  Yours truly,

  Dante

  Lucy pressed the page against her chest, surprised to feel the beat of her heart through the paper. The words he’d shared with her . . . No man had ever said such things to her, not even Angelo.

  And yet . . . She folded his page, put it in her pocket, and removed her own note from under her thigh. Rereading what she’d penned two days before, she found their thoughts were as one. For she too mentioned the depth and breadth of the conversation and had braved saying she longed to see him again. She’d questioned being so bold, for until now her boldness had been reserved for practical matters, not issues such as love that seemed to defy all that was logical. But something in their time together, and in the feelings that lingered far after their time had ended, had led her to take the risk.

  And now, to find the risk would be well received? The risk was reciprocated?

  It was horribly frightening. And yet . . . She put her note to her lips and whispered into it, “For you, dear Dante,” and then slipped the note behind her skirt, into its rocky hiding place. She slipped the rock into place, locking her words away, for his eyes alone.

  She hurried home, her hand sharing space with Dante’s note in her pocket.

  “Mamma, come to the railing and see!”

  But Mamma shook her head and sat as far away from the railing of the steamer as possible. She’d shown a surprising dislike for being on water. Hadn’t she traveled halfway around the world to get to America?

  Sofia shrugged and turned back to face the wind. She for one was thrilled to be off that awful train and into the fresh air of the sea. When they’d first received the telegram inviting them to Newport, she’d assumed they would travel first class, as Lucy had traveled. But no. They’d ridden hours in a crowded train car, sitting on hard benches, shoulder to shoulder with working-class people traveling to Newport for a quick summer holiday before returning to the city to resume their grind.

  The car had been hot, and conversation difficult with the windows open, letting in the loud clackity-clack of the train along the rails, along with a feeble bit of air. Sofia’s anger over the situation added fuel to the heat, and it had taken a strong dose of determination—and Mamma’s chiding looks—to make her say a prayer of contrition, and another of supplication that somehow she’d get over it and make the most of this opportunity.

  For that’s what it was. A huge opportunity to see Newport and get away from the stifling heat of New York City, and the danger of Bonwitter’s lurking presence. She took to heart Papa’s saying “A caval donato non si guarda in bocca.” Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

  A few hours into the trip, they’d grown hungry, and Sofia had asked the conductor the way to the dining car. Lucy had written home telling about the luscious sweets she’d eaten in that special place. But there was no such car for their class, and they’d had to spend their money buying stale sandwiches from a woman carrying around a basket. A cup of lukewarm water dipped from a barrel had been their only refreshment—and even that not very enticing after Sofia witnessed a little boy spit into the water.

  Transferring their things from the train in Wickford Junction to the steamship had cost more money, and Sofia hadn’t even cared to see the room where her third-class ticket dictated she sit. Instead, she chose the rail and the wind and the view.

  As they neared the harbor, she saw sailboats and was in awe. She’d never seen anything so beautiful and couldn’t imagine the peaceful feeling that must accompany the passengers. She waved at a boat nearby and was pleased when its white-clad skipper waved back.

  Maybe she’d get a chance to sail in Newport.

  The possibility encouraged her.

  Once the steamer docked and Sofia and Mamma landed, a stocky blond man wound his way through the crowd toward them, his height a good six inches above the rest.

  Sofia leaned toward Mamma. “I think he’s for us.”

  As if he’d heard, his eyes fixed on her. When close enough he said, “Scarpellis?”

  Sofia took the lead—and Mamma’s arm—and stepped forward. “Yes, that’s us.”

  He looked from Sofia to Mamma, then back again—and smiled. “Well, now,” he said. “I see the resemblance to Lucy.”

  Mamma pulled free of her arm. “I assume you mean that as a compliment, young man.”

  “Oh, I do. And the name’s Haverty, ma’am.” He lifted their carpetbags as if they were filled with air. “How many other bags do you have?”

  Haverty made quick work of collecting their luggage and helped Mamma into the seat of the cart next to him. Sofia didn’t mind sitting off the back of the cart, her legs dangling. She regretted not hearing any commentary from the drive
r, but also liked observing this new place on her own.

  She was immediately impressed with the streets. Unlike New York, once away from the harbor, they were little congested and lined with trees. There were neighborhoods with small houses close together, many with shop signs hanging near their doors, but as they drove farther to the east, the streets widened, the lawns broadened, and the buildings became massive. Were these the government buildings for the town? The offices and courthouses?

  But then she saw two little boys playing with hoops on a lawn near a front door, with a woman accompanying them, warning them not to get grass stains on their knickers.

  These weren’t government buildings. These were homes.

  She remembered their first letter from Lucy, where she’d written about the Langdon home, but Sofia had been too deep in the throes of jealousy to pay it much attention. What Lucy had and Sofia didn’t have held little interest.

  Until now. Until being here and seeing these mansions fit for kings.

  She passed a couple walking on the sidewalk, the woman’s hand around the man’s arm, the other hand holding a lacy parasol. She waved.

  They both looked downward.

  Suddenly, Sofia regretted her fine perch on the back of the cart, for certainly no lady had traveled this grand street in this particular way.

  Luckily her discomfort was short-lived as she heard Haverty say, “Here we are.” He turned up a long drive.

  The house was not as grand as some, but magnificent nonetheless. It rose three stories tall—which was short in comparison to the buildings in New York, but somehow, perched on top of a vast lawn, it seemed taller, and certainly more regal, as if it chose its height for its own purposes and was neither too tall nor not tall enough. Somehow Sofia knew that inside this house, everything would be just right.

  She was disappointed Haverty didn’t drive them to the front door. Although she sensed her entrance there wouldn’t be proper—nor anyone’s entrance who arrived via a cart—she would’ve liked to experience it.

  The thought that she would never go through the front doors came, and went. But instead of feeling bad about it, Sofia accepted it. She guessed the number of people who went through the grand entrance of this house was limited. That she was not among that number was tolerable, and even a relief. Although she often thought more of herself than she should, she was no dummy. The world had always been inhabited by the rich and the poor—and everything in between. That she was getting to experience a bit of the former was like walking into a scene in one of her novels. It made her happy. For didn’t every one of those stories have a happy ending?

  The cart veered away from the house to an outbuilding, a smaller one-story structure nearer the stables than the main house. Haverty stopped the cart there and helped Mamma down. Sofia hopped off the cart a bit reluctantly. Surely they hadn’t traveled this far not to see the mansion? Not to stay in the mansion?

  Haverty knocked on the front door of the little cottage, and an old woman who looked as though she enjoyed eating very, very much opened the door. They exchanged a few words, then Haverty explained. “This is Mrs. Oswald, the groundskeeper’s wife. You’ll be staying here.”

  “And working here,” Mrs. Oswald said. She offered no more introductions, but exited the house and directed them around its side. “Many an hour has been spent clearing out the back room so you can use it as a sewing room and sleeping quarters.”

  Sofia had had her fill of back rooms. . . .

  “That’s very kind of you,” Mamma said.

  Sofia looked toward the main house and wanted to pull both ladies to a halt and say, “But I want to be up there!”

  At the back of the cottage was another door, and Mrs. Oswald led them inside, to a room slightly larger than their main room back in New York. “Mrs. Langdon insisted we clear this room for you, and we found some spare tables and chairs for you to work on. And there’s a bed for each of you too.”

  Sofia looked in the direction she’d pointed and was appalled to see two skinny cots shoved against the wall. Less than two feet separated them from the main worktable.

  “See here,” Mrs. Oswald said, “the Langdons even found you a machine for sewing. That’s how special they think of you.”

  Sofia wanted to laugh. The minimal nature of the space screamed exactly how special the Langdons thought of them.

  “Where’s Lucy sleep?” she asked.

  “Oh, your sister’s up in the main house. I hear she has a room right next to Miss Langdon’s.”

  Of course she does.

  “I’ll send her word you’re here.”

  Summon the queen. Her poor relations have arrived.

  Lucy raced across the lawn toward the groundskeeper’s house. She couldn’t wait to see Mamma and Sofia.

  Mamma must have spotted her from the window, for the back door opened and she ran out, her arms wide. “Lucia!”

  Lucy fell into her arms. “I’m so glad you’re here. So glad.”

  The feeling of Mamma’s arms holding her close made Lucy feel like a child again, dependent and safe. Cared for and protected.

  It didn’t last long, for Sofia came out of the house and said, “Come down from the big house to visit, have you?”

  Mamma swung around and said, “Silenzio, Sofia!” To Lucy she offered a smile. “We are very glad to be here. For one thing, Bonwitter’s been causing more trouble.”

  “Causing me more trouble,” Sofia said.

  The shelter of Mamma’s arms faded and Lucy found herself thrust into the position of protector again. “What has he done?”

  An assault, a face in the window, a threat, a torn book taken from the apartment . . . Menace enough for Mr. Standish to change the locks. “Why haven’t the police arrested him?”

  “They’ve tried, but he’s too quick for them. Too determined to hurt us.”

  “Hurt me,” Sofia said. “Since you left, I’m his target.”

  A wave of guilt washed over Lucy. Bonwitter wanted his revenge on her. Had she been remiss in leaving her mother and sister behind?

  She decided to change the subject. “How was your trip? Weren’t the furnishings in the train cars luxurious?”

  “Luxurious?” Sofia laughed. “Hard benches are hardly luxurious.” She put a hand to her lower back. “And it was so crowded. . . . I had a fat lady sitting next to me the whole time, taking up half of my place and—”

  Lucy was confused. “You didn’t travel first class?”

  “Not at all,” Sofia continued. “And I don’t think it’s fair you got all the frills and we got some dry bread and a thin piece of cheese, and loud babies crying in our ears, making it impossible for me to read , and—”

  “So-fi-a!” Mamma said, making her name a full three syllables. She turned to Lucy. “We are here, and glad to be here, and that’s the end of it. Now tell us about the costumes we are to make.”

  Gladly.

  Rowena tried not to hold on to Edward’s arm too tightly, but she was glad to be with him again, and wary of the massive steps leading upward to the neighbor’s music room. She held her dress with one hand, and Edward with the other, but unfortunately her bad leg was on the outside and—

  The toe of her shoe caught in her dress, and she slipped down one step—

  Edward’s free hand grabbed her closest arm and his inner arm found her waist. But too late. She fell to the step, landing with a hard oomph on her knees. Off-balance, she turned on her side to sit.

  Even more unfortunate was seeing her skirt raised on the bad leg, exposing its smaller length and twisted angle.

  Forgetting the pain from her landing, she reached forward to adjust her dress, only to have Edward do it for her.

  Which meant he’d seen; he knew the awful extent of her injury.

  Rowena felt her face grow hot and saw in a blur a throng of onlookers stairstepped around her, their eyes drawn to her leg and her awkward position on the steps, their mouths agape or in conversation with each other, certa
inly discussing the poor crippled Rowena making a fool of herself.

  But then . . .

  “I’m so, so sorry, Miss Langdon. It was my fault completely,” Edward said as he helped her up. “My foot slipped and I brought you down with me. I am a clumsy man of the highest order.”

  Rowena regained her footing and further smoothed her skirt. “Not the highest order,” she said. “At least not yet. We’ll save that designation for a future honor.”

  There were a few titters of appreciative laughter, and Hattie Tremaine said to her husband, “Actually, I think you own that honor, don’t you, Conrad?”

  Conrad pretended to be appalled and gave his view of the past incident. “I assure you, I did not mean to make the entire centerpiece disintegrate. It was a design defect, I tell you.” He raised his right hand as if taking an oath. “I stand by this limitation of my guilt.”

  It was enough to defray the moment and get people moving again. Once Rowena and Edward were merely one couple among many, he whispered, “Are you all right?”

  “Bruised of body but not of spirit,” she whispered back. “And thank you for taking the blame. You didn’t need—”

  He put a finger to his lips, ending the matter.

  And adding to her delight in him.

  Edward was a marvel. Not only had he taken the blame for her fall, but when it came time for the professional musicians to step aside and open the event to the amateurs among the guests, he’d stepped forward to perform, leaving it unnecessary for her to decline any polite invitation to sing or play. Of course those gathered were well aware of who had talent and who did not, but of the dozen assembled, only Rowena and Oscar Dudley were known for their nonparticipation.

  Not that everyone who performed should have performed. Hattie and her husband, Conrad, had ears of tin and voices just as thin.

  But Edward . . .

  Upon volunteering, he consulted the hired pianist, who nodded at his choice and presented him with an arpeggio to set the key. Edward put a hand in the opening of his vest, stood straight as a statesman, and began to sing.