An Unlikely Suitor

by Nancy Moser

  “Are you ready? Because here it comes!”

  The ocean rushed to meet them and Lucy squealed at its coolness. As it retreated, the sand around her feet filled in the gaps, making her sink deeper into its captivity.

  “You like it?” he asked.

  “It’s wonderful!”

  “See? Just as I said. You are an outdoor girl.”

  Perhaps she was. How would she know? All her memories were of Mulberry Street, where the tenements were tall, the streets narrow, and every space congested. She’d taken a few walks in Central Park, but even the trek there was a luxury. For when did she have free time? From the moment she was five years old she’d worked in the sweatshops six days a week and had spent Sunday with her family at church and inside the house. Or in good weather out on the stoop with the other families of the neighborhood.

  But now, on the edge of the water, with sailboats racing the horizon, with the brush of the breeze, the warmth of the sun, the sticky coolness of the wet sand . . .

  She held on to Dante’s arm for the next wave, marveled at its pull, and made a pronouncement. “I’m afraid the sea frightens me a bit. So perhaps I’m not the outdoor enthusiast you take me for.”

  He laughed with her. “Actually, neither am I. My family has a camp in the Adirondacks, but it’s a little too woodsy for my tastes.”

  She didn’t know which issue to address first. “Where are the Adirondacks?”

  He didn’t skip a beat. “They’re mountains to the northwest in New York State. Far different than it is here, with rolling hills and miles and miles of wilderness. But in the autumn the trees turn bright orange and red and gold, as if God swept a paintbrush across the entire lot.”

  He may not have liked the wilderness, but his passion for its visual beauty was evident. “I’d like to . . . never mind.”

  “Stop it,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Being logical. Logic is banned this afternoon.”

  She squeezed his arm. “And what shall be in its place?”

  “Joy,” he said. “Pure joy.”

  “And gratitude,” she added.

  His eyes were soft as he repeated her words. “And gratitude.”

  When he leaned toward her, she didn’t pull away, didn’t even think of pulling away. The kiss was soft and . . . perfect.

  She was glad he didn’t apologize.

  It was not an afternoon for apologies, but for . . .

  Joy.

  “He what?”

  Lucy hadn’t planned on telling Rowena about the kiss, but it slipped out. “He kissed me. Once. Very tenderly.”

  “With your bare feet in the ocean?”

  Lucy couldn’t tell whether Rowena felt this was scandalous, but she answered with the truth. “You should try it sometime. It’s a wonderful feeling. It’s very freeing.”

  Rowena opened her jewelry box and pulled out a necklace of pink stones that matched her pink and ivory evening dress. She was having dinner with Edward’s family.

  “Actually, I have put my feet in the ocean, at Bailey’s Beach, when I was far younger.”

  “Not Easton’s?”

  Rowena held the necklace toward Lucy, needing help with the clasp. “Bailey’s is where our set goes.”

  Oh.

  Rowena turned around and smoothed her dress. “How do I look?”

  “Lovely as usual.” She retrieved some ivory gloves. “Is this a private dinner between the two of you?”

  “If only. No, our parents will be present.” Rowena put on the gloves. “I don’t know how Edward and I are ever supposed to get to know each other when we are never alone for more than a few moments.”

  “Never?”

  She shook her head.

  “So . . . he’s never kissed you?”

  She hesitated. “On the cheek.”

  Lucy wasn’t sure how to feel: ashamed at her own experience—meager as it was? Or sorry for Rowena, for her lack.

  Rowena reacted to Lucy’s silence. “Actually, I have been kissed once by my friend Morrie. We were very young and he was helping me down off my horse and . . .”

  “And?”

  “He leaned down and kissed me.”

  “Did you kiss him back?”

  “I believe I popped him on the tip of his nose. As children we spent a lot of time together. And when I had my accident, he watched over me. He’s always been there for me.”

  This was the second time she’d mentioned Morrie. “It sounds as though Morrie considers you more than a friend. Perhaps you have feelings for him?”

  “No, no. I love him as a friend, and he me. But beyond that? My parents would never approve. They’ve set their sights on bigger fish in Edward.”

  “But it sounds as though Morrie is far more suited—”

  “I really must go. I shouldn’t be late.”

  The ways of the rich were hard to fathom.

  This is the man I’m supposed to marry.

  Rowena looked across the massive dining table at Edward. He must have felt her gaze, for he met her eyes and offered a timid smile.

  Or was it a tentative smile? Patronizing smile? Smile at the crippled rich girl; she’s going to be your wife.

  It sounded so provincial, so antiquated, so—

  “I hear you’ve brought in a professional designer to create your costumes for Cornelius and Alice’s ball,” Mrs. DeWitt said to Rowena’s mother.

  Rowena was curious as to whether or not her mother would go along with their hostess’s lofty version of the facts.

  It was the latter. “We were very lucky to get Miss Scarpelli. And because Mrs. Garmin also ordered a costume, two other seamstresses were brought in to help.”

  “I don’t suppose they have time to—”

  “I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Langdon said. “Do you have a costume you can wear?”

  “I do. I was just—”

  Mr. DeWitt shook a scolding finger at her. “One costume per season, Rachel.” He included the others. “I’m to be Admiral Halsey.”

  “Complete with a sword,” his wife added.

  Mr. Langdon looked to his own wife. “And what are we?”

  “You are Caesar, and I am a lady of the Elizabethan period.”

  “ ‘Et tu, Brutus?’ ”

  It was the first time Edward had spoken, and Rowena relished the opportunity to look at him. “Beware the Ides of March!” she said.

  Mr. DeWitt clapped. “Well done, Miss Langdon. Are you a history lover?”

  She felt her face flush. “I read a lot.”

  Oddly, the others at the table seemed embarrassed for her, and she realized they assumed she was well-read because of her handicap. She suddenly feared Edward would think she was too bookish. “I like outdoor pursuits too.”

  “Like sailing?” Mrs. DeWitt asked.

  Rowena shared glances with her parents, and her father answered for her. “Rowena prefers to stay on land.”

  Another awkward silence as assumptions were made. How she wished she could blurt out what was not being said about her injury. She knew they were curious, and who knew what rumors they’d heard about its cause—or its severity.

  “I may prefer to stay on dry land, but I do love taking leisurely strolls.” She looked to Edward, hoping he took the hint. It was a lovely evening for a walk. Alone. Or if not tonight, perhaps tomorrow?

  He remained silent.

  “So what is your costume, Miss Langdon?” he asked.

  The discussion that had skimmed the subject of her infirmity was over. They were safely back to the costumes. “My costume was inspired by Jane Austen’s novel Pride and Prejudice.” She looked directly at Edward. “I will be Elizabeth Bennet.” And you, Edward? Would you be my Mr. Darcy?

  “You should see the stiff collar they have planned for me,” her mother said.

  “I’m sure it’s nice, but it won’t match the drama of my sword,” Mr. DeWitt said.

  Rowena took a bite of her cod. It was hopeless. As the discussion ch
anged to the new home the Havemeyers were building, she envied Lucy and her Dante. Lucy had only been in Newport a short while, and already she’d met a man, taken long walks with him alone, enjoyed extended conversation, and even received a kiss. Rowena had been told that Edward was to be her intended three months ago, and they’d only touched as a matter of his being the gentleman, helping her out of a carriage or walking her into dinner. As for a kiss?

  Just the once. On the cheek.

  She’d often tried to imagine what it would feel like to be kissed on the lips. . . . She’d actually dissected the idea of kissing to a great extent the past year. What an odd custom. Family members and friends kissed each other’s cheeks, mothers kissed their babies’ foreheads, and the occasional gallant man kissed the back of a lady’s hand. But kissing lip to lip . . .

  She’d never done it fully. With emotion. Not once. How many twenty-one-year-old women could say that—or would admit that?

  But almost more disturbing than her lack of a proper kiss was the fact that Edward had shown no indication that the idea of giving her one had ever crossed his mind. She may not have been an astounding beauty, but she was an attractive woman. Morrie had even told her she was pretty and had scolded her to stop thinking otherwise.

  “But it sounds as though Morrie is far more suited . . .”

  Before Rowena allowed Lucy’s words to settle in, she mentally checked the table banter. They were talking about the first United States Open golf championship just held in Newport.

  “Who won?” Edward asked.

  “Horace Rawlins—by two strokes.”

  “Willie Dunn should have won it,” his father said.

  “Because he’s a better golfer?”

  “Because he’s an American. Rawlins is British.”

  The subject was changed again. “Who do you think will run for president next year?” Mr. DeWitt asked.

  “Aren’t you for that McKinley fellow, Father?” Edward asked.

  “Indeed I am. McKinley’s pro-business. We have a responsibility to back men like him.”

  Edward nodded.

  Rowena felt sorry for him. Obviously Edward was under his parents’ thumbs as much as she was. But as the conversation continued on a political theme, she felt her thoughts drifting. Since she wasn’t allowed to vote, elections were not her concern. Besides, as a woman, she was not expected to know of such things—and was nearly required not to—so she let herself ponder Lucy’s wisdom about Morrie instead.

  Was Morrie more suited to her than Edward?

  She’d known Morrie since both were children. Before the accident she’d been a wonderful runner and the two of them had contests to see who could run the length of the Cliff Walk the fastest. The winner was always Morrie, but only by the smallest margin.

  When she’d been recovering from her injury, it was Morrie who’d come to sit with her, entertaining her with games and funny stories.

  Following, there’d been a few years when they’d missed their playtimes in Newport, a few years when Rowena’s family had forgone the Newport season and Porte au Ciel had remained empty. She could never forget the first summer they’d returned. She’d been sixteen at the time, a girl blossoming into womanhood. And Morrie? He’d changed too. He’d grown tall and muscular, and suddenly playing together was not allowed. And yet he’d remained her confidant and continued to know more of her secrets—and her true self—than anyone else in the world.

  I really should marry him.

  Rowena dropped her fork.

  Marry Morrie? That was ridiculous. Even if Rowena thought of Morrie in that way, her parents would never allow it. Although Rowena was no catch, her parents didn’t want her to marry down.

  Timbrook brought her a clean fork.

  “What do you think of that, Miss Langdon?” Mr. DeWitt asked.

  Think? Wasn’t she raised to be vacant of thoughts and opinions?

  She had no idea what they were talking about and hadn’t the energy to catch up. And so she said, “I have no opinion.”

  The conversation resumed without her.

  “Why won’t you talk to me?” Sofia asked.

  Lucy gave her a scathing look.

  Oh. That.

  Sofia unbuttoned her blouse, readying herself for bed. She knew she’d gone too far that afternoon, leaking to Mamma about Dante and the notes. She didn’t know why she said such things, yet they always seemed to slip out.

  Actually, she usually enjoyed the tension such comments created. But tonight, Sofia didn’t want to remember her earlier mistakes. She didn’t want to harass her sister. It was almost as if that Sofia and the Sofia that existed now, this evening, were two different people.

  A child and a woman.

  What Sofia really wanted to do was talk to Lucy about Hugh. And sailing. And the connection the two of them had shared during their lunch on the water. There was an odd tightening in the pit of Sofia’s stomach every time she thought of it.

  But Sofia knew Lucy’s opinion of Hugh involved his misbehavior, and some rumor about a departed maid. Sofia had no facts about what was true and what wasn’t. And she could imagine Hugh being a bit wild, especially since he was unhappy about his position in the family and his future.

  But the situation with the maid? That had to be a rumor. During their time together there’d been many an opportunity for Hugh to take advantage of her, and he’d been nothing but a gentleman.

  She pulled her nightgown on and rid the collar of her hair. “Hopefully tomorrow we can get a lot done on the costumes. I really like the designs you came up with.”

  Lucy extinguished the lamp and got into bed. There was no “sweet dreams,” sogni d’oro. Back home they’d always managed to say good-night to each other, yet here . . .

  Sofia didn’t like this silence between them, especially since she was the cause of it. She shouldn’t have forced her way into Lucy’s room here. She shouldn’t have looked at Lucy’s love notes. She shouldn’t have told Mamma Lucy’s secrets.

  But it’s all Lucy’s fault. If only she hadn’t gotten invited to the Langdons’, traveled first class, and—

  Stop it!

  Sofia was surprised by the inner admonition. It was her habit to complain about what Lucy was and had, and subsequently whine about feeling like a nobody.

  But tonight was different.

  She was different.

  Tonight she was somebody.

  Somebody’s soul mate.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lucy fastened the top button of her navy dress, collected her hat and shoes, and with one last glance at Sofia to make sure she was still asleep, slipped out of her bedroom, through the dressing room, and into the hall.

  She looked both ways, hoping no early-bird servant was up and about. The house was quiet—as it should be at five in the morning.

  Lucy took the back stairs down to the basement. She heard commotion in the kitchen, so skimmed the walls, hugging the shadows. She breezed through the exterior door with only the softest click marking her exit.

  Once outside she sat on a step and put on her shoes. It was safe to put them on now, for the grass would soften the sound of her tread.

  Fortunately, even with few lights glowing from the interior, Lucy’s journey across the dark grounds to the Cliff Walk was not as difficult as she had assumed it would be, as the sky was already beginning to lighten.

  She entered the path and took a moment to get her bearings. The sound of the ocean was muted, as if it too were still sleeping. The tide was out and the rocky shore was exposed like a child who’d kicked off the covers during the night. The water made soft slush, slush sounds. Shhh. Shhh. It’s too early to get up. . . .

  The sky contained a heavy sprinkling of clouds, and the barrier between sea and heavens was just beginning to announce itself as a stroke of orange red.

  “It’s so beautiful,” Lucy whispered.

  “As are you.”

  She turned to her right and found Dante sitting on a rock wall
near the Langdon property line. He stood and came to her, handing her a pink rose.

  Lucy put it to her nose, inhaling its perfume.

  Then he pulled her into his arms. Lucy marveled in his warmth and the way her head fit against his chest and shoulder. A perfect fit. As if it was meant to be.

  “Look.” He continued to hold her but allowed her to turn her face toward the sunrise. “God is waking up the world.”

  She held him tightly and felt his chin upon her hair. The band of orange widened and the first sliver of the sun slipped above the water, sending tentative rays of yellow piercing through the clouds. Lucy felt her chest tighten. “Tell it to stop, to hold, right there.”

  He didn’t ruin the moment by offering logic but nodded. “Can you believe He does this every day?”

  That simple fact caused her to pull away from him. “Then why is this the first time I’ve ever seen it?”

  He shook his head. “Every morning and every night He puts on a show just hoping someone will take a moment to notice.”

  Lucy was appalled to feel tears threaten. She put a hand to her mouth, willing them away. “I’m sorry. This is silly. To cry over a sunrise?”

  He drew her close again, fully encompassing her with his embrace. “It’s never silly to cry over beauty. Ever.”

  And so Lucy let her tears come. But with his permission also came a strength to let them go.

  “So,” he said after she was still again. “What do you want to ask the sunrise?”

  “Ask—?”

  “Since so few witness the show, I like to think God is waiting for our thoughts. Our sunrise requests.”

  She laughed softly at his reasoning. “And you know this how?”

  He put a finger beneath her chin and raised it so he could look at her. “Because I’m here with you and my heart is overflowing.”

  His kiss was like a seal, confirming all of his words. For as they kissed, Lucy sensed the sun rise above the sea, as if showing its approval, wanting to see more.

  When his lips moved away from hers, he kept an arm around her shoulders, facing her toward the dawn. “God? Are you listening? I pray for a lifetime of sunrises with this woman. And sunsets. Storms and blue sky, snow and rain, fog and clear skies.”