by Renee Yancy
The Prince of Wales led the way, and not far behind, Lindy entered the dining room on the arm of the Duke of Hampshire. Mama joined them.
Scarlet silk swagged the windows and covered the dining tables set with crystal and gold plate. Silver epergnes of ivy and white roses adorned each buffet table, laden with chafing dishes of sirloin tips and creamed oysters, lobster salad, tiny roast potatoes, salmon mousse, and roast quail. Desserts had their own special table with chocolate soufflés, fresh strawberries and cream, bonbons, and glacéed fruits. A magnificent ice sculpture of a swan graced the table, with a space carved out for fruit. Coffee, tea, and sparkling water were offered, as well as champagne and wine.
The duke smiled at Vera. “I am greatly enjoying your daughter’s company, madame. I would like to invite you to be my guests at the Royal Opera House tomorrow night. La Traviata is playing.”
Vera beamed at the duke and bestowed an approving glance on Lindy. “Why that would be lovely, Your Grace. Wouldn’t it, Evangeline?”
A secret message lurked under Mama’s smile. Accept or else.
Lindy bowed her head. “We would be honored, Your Grace.”
“It is my pleasure.” He tipped his hat and flashed a jaunty smile. “I will call for you at seven o’clock.”
Chapter 21
New York City
Jack glanced into the mirror above the washbasin and straightened his shirt collar as his uncle called up the stairs. “Ready, Jack?”
“Coming, Uncle Joseph.”
He gave his hair one last pat, and took his frockcoat off the hanger, shrugging into it on the way downstairs. His uncle had pressed him into dinner at the home of an old friend, and had even rented a landau complete with a driver for the occasion, insisting Jack needed an evening away from his textbooks.
They left the house and entered the carriage waiting at the curb. His uncle pulled his gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Reverend Fogarty was always a stickler for being on time.” He smiled. “Even worse than me.”
“We daren’t be late then.” Jack closed the half-door of the landau and relaxed against the seat cushions. “When did you last see him?”
“At a conference last summer. He married late in life and has a brood of children. All of whom we’ll likely meet tonight.”
“Such extravagance, Uncle, this carriage.”
His uncle shrugged. “I thought it would do us both good to get out. You’ve been looking rather glum lately, my boy.” He hesitated. “I know it’s been hard, after... after your mother’s death. Heaven knows I miss her terribly too.” He stared out at the passing street. “But I also know she wouldn’t want us to grieve, as the Bible says, as ‘one without hope.’”
Jack smiled. “I agree. And it will do me good to get out of my messy study.”
He couldn’t tell his uncle that the lingering sadness of his mother’s death compounded when Miss Lindenmayer had said goodbye and left for London. What was she doing right now? London was several hours ahead of New York. Probably dancing into the wee hours of the morning, dressed in a shimmering ball gown and sparkling jewels.
His uncle shook his head. “I don’t know how you can think in there, Jack. It’s the untidiest office I’ve ever seen. How on earth can you find anything when you want it?”
“I manage somehow, Uncle.”
They lapsed into silence. The sidewalks brimmed with people walking with their children in the crisp autumn air. Dogs yapped at young men on bicycles, and he watched a mother comfort a crying toddler who’d lost her balloon.
The Brooklyn Bridge rose ahead of them, its elegant steel suspension cables glimmering in the sunlight. Birds wheeled about the soaring Gothic arches of the towers. The East River teemed with traffic, tugboats, sloops, brigs, and merchant ships from all over the globe. Once off the bridge, they drove through Brooklyn Heights to Cobble Hill, a leafy neighborhood of brick row houses, and stopped before 239 Fairborn Way.
A bluetick hound raced to greet them with hysterical barks, and then Reverend Fogarty stepped onto the front stoop to greet them. “Joseph! Welcome!”
A flock of children swarmed out of the row house, presumably the reverend’s offspring, and a petite middle-aged woman, soberly attired in black silk, whom Reverend Fogarty introduced as his wife, Amelia. Reverend Fogarty himself, almost as round as he was tall, ambled toward them and grasped Uncle Winthrop’s hand. “So good to see you, Joseph.”
The reverend’s genial demeanor abruptly shifted when he squeezed Jack’s hand and gave him the once-over. It seemed his sharp appraisal missed nothing in that one instant, and then Reverend Fogarty pumped his hand enthusiastically, his beaming smile returned. “Indeed, you are welcome, young Jack. Come in! Come in!”
Jack allowed the reverend to sweep him into the row house amid a wave of childish laughter and the dog’s frantic barking. A flurry of bustle and bedlam ensued in the narrow dark-paneled entrance hall until Mrs. Fogarty sorted things out—the youngest children sent upstairs to the nursery, the hound banished outside, and the three oldest children dispatched to the parlor.
“Now.” Amelia Fogarty straightened the circle of lace on top of her head. “Do let us have some conversation before dinner. We are so longing to make your nephew’s acquaintance, Reverend Winthrop.”
Jack repressed a shudder as they entered the parlor, a bulwark of Victorian fashion. With windows fortified with lace curtains, draped with heavy brocade, and so overhung with pelmets dripping tasseled fringe, it was doubtful any stray beam of light had found its way into the interior in the last decade.
The three eldest children awaited them there, the two boys fidgeting on straight-backed chairs. Jack seated himself on a stiffly upholstered sofa and tried to find a comfortable position on its tufted surface.
“Reverend Winthrop, Mr. Winthrop, this is Stewart and Warren, our two middle boys.”
The boys nodded, dressed in identical short pants, suspenders, and white collared shirts.
“And this is our eldest, Grace Marie.”
The young woman inclined her head at her mother’s introduction. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Reverend Winthrop, Mr. Winthrop.” She raised her head and smiled at Jack. She had an oval face under a coronet of braided chestnut hair, a tip-tilted nose, and a pleasing manner.
At his sister’s polite words, the youngest boy glanced at Jack and burst into giggles. Stewart elbowed his brother in the ribs. “Stop that.”
A rosy wave of color washed over Miss Fogarty’s face, and she sent a murderous glance sideways at her sibling, who gulped and shrank into his seat.
Reverend Fogarty cleared his throat. “So, Joseph, what are you up to at St. Thomas Episcopal?”
Before long, the two ministers were deep into a conversation about the need for new pews and communion tables.
Mrs. Fogarty smiled at Jack. “Did you have a pleasant drive from Manhattan?”
“Yes, thank you. Brooklyn is beautiful in the summer with all the old trees growing together overhead.”
“Oh, I agree,” said Miss Fogarty. “As if you’re in a leafy green tunnel.”
Jack nodded. “Exactly.”
Warren kicked Stewart, who yelped and grabbed his shin, and then both boys dissolved into giggles.
Jack chuckled. “Did I say something funny?”
Mrs. Fogarty bestowed a sharp glance at her sons. “You must excuse them, Mr. Winthrop. I’m afraid they spent far too much time in the blackberry patch this afternoon. I’m of a mind to give them a good dose of castor oil and send them to bed early.”
The boys subsided at this proclamation and fixed their eyes on their boots. A servant peeked in the doorway of the parlor and nodded at Mrs. Fogarty, who rose from her seat. All the gentlemen stood. “Dinner is ready, gentlemen. Shall we go in?”
She led the way into the dining room, where an oval pedestal table draped in white linen took the place of honor. A gas chandelier hung above the table, its multiple lights reflected in the gold mirror ove
r the sideboard, picking up glints of gold in the china and the red velvet wallpaper of hummingbirds enthroned among curlicues and scrolls.
“Tell us about yourself, Mr. Winthrop,” said Reverend Fogarty, busy slicing the crown roast of pork. “How do you like your classes at Union?”
“They keep me quite busy,” said Jack, as Miss Fogarty handed him his plate. “Thank you, Miss Fogarty.”
“Your uncle tells me you’re actually pulling double duty. Classes at Columbia as well.”
“Yes sir.”
“And what do you intend to do with your degrees?”
Jack hesitated. He hadn’t spoken about the future with his uncle, who expected Jack to follow him into ministry. “I haven’t planned that far ahead.” He took a bit of the wild rice with roasted chestnuts that accompanied the pork. “Mrs. Fogarty, this is simply delicious. How do you find the time to cook like this with such a busy family?”
Mrs. Fogarty colored pink. “Why, thank you, Mr. Winthrop. Cooking has always been one of my favorite things ever since I was a little girl.”
“As I can well attest to, my boy,” said Reverend Fogarty, patting his ample tummy. “To look at me now, you’d never know I was once thin as a whip.”
“And wait till you see what’s for dessert!” burst out Stewart. Then he looked at his mother and shrank into his chair.
“Go ahead, son.” Mrs. Fogarty smiled at her youngest child. “Just this once.”
Stewart turned to Jack and puffed his chest out before announcing importantly, “Minnehaha Cake!”
Grace Marie spoke up for the first time since Jack and his uncle had arrived. “Have you ever had it, Mr. Winthrop, Reverend Winthrop?”
A puzzled frown crossed his uncle’s face. “Can’t say I have.”
“It’s the boys’ favorite. Surely you know Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, do you not?”
Uncle Joseph looked helplessly at Jack. “Help an old man out, will you, nephew?”
Jack chuckled. “I suppose it must have something to do with Mr. Longfellow’s famous poem? The Song of Hiawatha?”
Grace Marie clapped her hands. “I knew you’d get it!” Then she gulped and turned red.
“Yes, it’s named for his fictional heroine, Minnehaha,” said Mrs. Fogarty smoothly. “And Grace Marie baked it specially for our dinner tonight.”
“How fascinating,” said Jack. “What is it made of? Acorns and bear grease?”
Stewart burst into giggles.
“It’s a three-layer cake,” said Grace Marie rather stiffly, “filled with raisins and almonds, and topped with a burnt sugar frosting.”
“I was close then,” said Jack, smiling at Grace Marie.
“Our Grace Marie is quite an accomplished cook, Mr. Winthrop. You should see the pies and cakes she turns out regularly. We must have you for dinner again soon.”
“That would be lovely.” Suddenly his shirt collar seemed abnormally tight. Stewart nudged Warren, and the two boys smirked at each other. His uncle and Reverend Fogarty exchanged a look as the maid came in to clear away the dinner dishes.
“Our Grace is an excellent seamstress too. Makes all her own clothes.” Mrs. Fogarty delicately wiped her lips with her napkin and folded it carefully. “She’ll make a wonderful wife for the right young man.” She smiled at Jack.
Jack gulped. Surely some reply to this statement was expected. “Um... yes... that’s splendid. I’m sure she’ll... she’ll make some young man very happy.” It was definitely getting warmer in here. Would it be too obvious to check his pocket watch for the time? In any event, he still had to get through dessert before he could make his escape.
“Aah, there it is!” said Reverend Fogarty. The maid carried in the Minnehaha cake on a footed glass platter and set it in front of Grace Marie.
“Why don’t you serve it, dear,” said Mrs. Fogarty.
Grace Marie picked up the pearl-handled cake server. She cut a large slice and handed it to Jack. “Mr. Winthrop.”
Jack reached to take the plate from her, and their fingers touched. Grace immediately turned a violent shade of red, prompting more snickers from the boys.
Mrs. Fogarty rounded sharply on the two brothers. “Up to the nursery with you. I’ll send your cake up there. Off with you now!”
The boys slunk from the room, and there was an uncomfortable silence for a moment.
“I hope I’m next, Miss Fogarty,” said Reverend Winthrop. “I love raisins and almonds.”
Miss Fogarty nodded and quickly cut him a large slice, then served the rest of her family.
“Now, where were we?” said Mrs. Fogarty.
***
The evening finished two hours later, after a piano recital by Miss Grace Marie, who also happened to be an excellent pianist.
“Goodbye! Goodbye!” The Fogartys waved from the front stoop.
Jack saw his uncle into the landau and then hauled himself in and signaled the driver to go. He turned to his uncle. “Uncle Joseph, if you ever do that to me again, I may disown you.”
His uncle’s shoulders shook, and he burst out laughing. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out, between gasps.
“You mean to tell me you had no idea?” Jack demanded indignantly.
His uncle scratched his head. “Well... I said you were a fine young man, that’s all.” A shudder of repressed laughter went through him again. “But then, now that I think of it, Amelia Fogarty has always been a woman to go after what she wants.” He chuckled. “And I think it’s you she wants, Jack, for her daughter.”
“Don’t accept any more dinner invitations, Uncle. I mean it. Or go without me. I don’t like being ambushed.”
His uncle calmed down. “Now, Jack, think about it. Grace Marie is a fine young woman, and you will need a wife one of these days. Doesn’t do any harm to think about who you’d like to have for your future wife.”
Jack leaned against the seat cushion and closed his eyes. “I’m not ready to do that, Uncle Joseph.”
I already know who I want.
If only she were available.
Chapter 22
London, England
“No, no, no,” wailed Vera. “I don’t like it at all! Take it down and start again.”
Lindy sent Hortense a sympathetic look. After being invited to the opera as the Duke of Hampshire’s guests, Mama had been in a tear all afternoon, agonizing over gowns and fretting about jewels.
“Mama, please calm down. He’s only a man, after all.”
Her mother sniffed. “Only you would say that, Evangeline. This could be the most important night of my life. And yours.” She caught Lindy’s gaze in the mirror. “You’d better get to your own toilette. Your hair’s a fright since you insisted on walking in the park this morning.”
Lindy rose. “Yes, Mama.”
When Lindy returned to her room, Claudine had the purple velvet gown with the beaded iris laid out on the bed. “Does this please you, chérie?”
When she nodded, Claudine brought out the jewel cases and unlocked them. “What will you wear with it?”
The contents of the cases gleamed in the light of the rose-shaded lamps. Diamonds, pearls, rubies. Parures and demi-parures of topaz and aquamarine. Gold chains with diamond accents and jeweled combs for the hair. Exquisite mother of pearl opera glasses. Bracelets of gold and platinum set with emeralds and amethysts. Even a tiara. A modest one compared to Vera’s, which had diamonds big as filberts. A simple circlet of platinum composed Lindy’s tiara, set with pavé diamonds and one single luminous aquamarine.
She chose the amethyst and diamond necklace, with the matching earrings, and bracelets to wear over the long silk evening gloves that were de rigueur. She had heard La Traviata last year at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City. This social engagement she intended to enjoy, although most of her mother’s social set went to the opera to see and be seen.
Lindy and her mother donned black velvet evening capes with hoods large enough to preserve their coiffures. A knock sounded
at the door. The duke’s carriage waited for them downstairs.
A splendid enclosed coach with the duke’s coat-of-arms waited at the curb. The groom handed them in. The duke sat on the backward-facing seat, freshly barbered and resplendent in top hat and tails. The spicy note of lavender emanated from his linen.
“Good evening, madame and mademoiselle.” He smiled, and even in the dim light of the carriage, his teeth gleamed whitely. He waited until they had gathered their skirts and then knocked on the carriage wall. With a word from the groom, the horses trotted along the street.
“I trust you have had a pleasant day in my fair city, ladies?”
Lindy nodded. Mama gave her a tiny nudge. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“And what have you found to occupy your attention?”
“The gardens are lovely, Your Grace. I took a long walk this morning to admire them.”
The duke smiled. “I walked this morning also, Miss Lindenmayer. I find it clears the head after a long evening of dancing.”
The carriage turned onto Bow Street and joined a long line of carriages waiting to let their passengers alight. The magnificent facade of the opera house loomed outside the carriage window, dominated by six Corinthian columns supporting a pedimented entablature. Large round windows spilled golden light onto the stone staircase.
“Have you ever heard La Traviata, Miss Lindenmayer?”
“Yes, Your Grace, last year.”
“And did you enjoy it?”
“Very much so.”
The coach door opened. They stepped from the carriage, and the duke offered his arms. They made their way across the pavement toward the opera house. Tall niches set in a plain rectangular frame occupied each end of the building. She recognized Melpomene in the south niche, and Thalia in the north, the seventh and eighth of the Nine Muses of Greek mythology. Tragedy and comedy. They would hear both tonight.
They entered the great glass and iron foyer to the opera house. Conversation buzzed in the room, mixed with the scent of perfumes and flashes of fire from the diamonds adorning the women. The men, elegant in their evening dress, formed the perfect foil for the kaleidoscopic colors of silk and satin on the ladies.