Perfect Stranger

by Duncan, Alice

  Leaving aside the fact that Isabel couldn’t marry anyone, let alone Somerset, whom she adored, this so-called proposal of his absolutely galled her. The nerve of Somerset FitzRoy and Dr. Abernathy to talk about her as if she were . . . were . . . a commodity. A thing. A rag doll with no more mother wit than a pea. An entity with no judgment to call her own and no ability to choose for herself what was best for her to do.

  “Are you angry with me?” He sounded incredulous.

  Isabel took a deep breath and told herself that Somerset was actually quite a fine man—for a man—and that he probably hadn’t meant to treat her as if she were, say, a wind-up doll or a nitwitted puppy. After licking her lips and testing her insides to be sure there weren’t any screams lurking in there waiting to spring forth, she said in a measured voice, “I am . . . ah . . . not altogether pleased with you at the moment.”

  He jerked the steering wheel and the automobile squealed to a stop against a curb. Fortunately, they were on flat land, or Isabel felt sure the poor machine would have rolled backward downhill and into the bay.

  “But I just asked you to marry me!”

  “I know.”

  “I thought ladies were supposed to be happy when men asked them to marry them.”

  She took another deep breath. No sense in having a temper fit. Obviously, Somerset had no idea he’d done anything the least bit unkind or insulting. “I believe,” she said after a moment’s thought and with a mental nod to Pride and Prejudice, “that it is customary for a woman to thank a man for doing her the honor of asking for her hand in marriage.”

  He stiffened. She felt him do it. “It is an honor, dash it!”

  He was so perfectly unconscious of having done anything insupportable, and was so absolutely certain of his masculine entitlements in this stupid world—and he was now so incensed that she wasn’t swooning over him—that Isabel lost the fight to keep her indignation in check. When she spoke again, it was with all the venom that had been seething in her soul ever since she’d discovered men to be liars and cheats.

  “Yes, it usually is. However, I don’t believe it’s such a bloody—I mean blooming—honor to be taken up like a stray cat and rescued!” She added, because she felt certain it was true, even though she was furious, “Although I’m sure your motives are pure. And I’ll be forever grateful that you saved Eunice aboard the ship—at which time rescue was warrantable.”

  “That’s not what I meant at all!” he cried, clearly stung.

  “Isn’t it? You just finished telling me that I have no judgment, no clarity of thought, no intelligence, no discernment, and no discrimination, and that you’re worried lest I be led astray by a millionaire. I must say that the notion of being led anywhere by a millionaire appeals to me more than that of being married to a pauper.”

  “I’m not a pauper!”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “I’m quite well off, in fact.”

  “How nice for you.”

  “Isabel! I can’t understand your attitude.”

  Isabel was having to exert all her energy to remain seated and not open the auto’s door and march off, away from the man who had so grossly insulted her—and couldn’t even be made to see that he’d done so. “And I can’t understand why you think a woman—any woman, even me—would be grateful for being treated like a lost soul that has no sense and no means of coping. I can take care of myself! And my daughter! Without any help from you!”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. For the love of God, listen to reason, can’t you?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and stared straight ahead into the darkness, fighting tears of rage. “Evidently not, if you’re the voice of reason.”

  “But . . . I don’t . . .” Somerset stopped trying to make sense of the situation and slumped back against the seat. He was breathing heavily, Isabel presumed from annoyance and frustration.

  Well, she was frustrated too, damn it! She meant dash it. Why couldn’t he understand that she was a fully functioning human being with every bit as much intelligence as any man and with the same needs, wants, and desires as any other human being in the world. The notion that she would leap to marry him because he chose to be noble and propose—evidently in spite of his better nature, or he wouldn’t have brought up the dancing angle so bloody many times-made her want to yell and throw things. Damn him! “As soon as I am able, I plan to open a dance academy. It’s my ambition, and I won’t be swayed by men who think women are idiots.”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “You implied it.”

  “Bah.”

  Feeling petulant and unhappy and hoping she wouldn’t start crying, she said, “Would you like me to walk home from here? It’s not far.”

  That brought him out of his slump. He sat up as if she’d goosed him. “Dash it, of course I don’t want you to walk! That’s why I’m driving you, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Very well.” For a few seconds she groped to think of something else to say, and didn’t come up with anything. She didn’t believe then get at it, will you? would go over too well under the circumstances.

  But she was very tired and wanted to go home and get to bed. She longed to tell her daughter about her first night on the job and hoped she’d awaken before Eunice set off for school so she could do so. If Somerset didn’t resume driving again soon, however, that hope was likely to be dashed.

  She heard Somerset stir on his side of the automobile, and then grumble, “I’ll have to crank the dashed thing again.”

  “Do you need me to help?” she asked politely, blatantly courting rejection.

  She got it. “Of course not!” He opened his door, hurled himself out of the machine, and slammed the door behind him.

  Isabel could scarcely see him stomp to the front of the automobile and lift the crank. She hoped he’d be careful. She’d feel guilty if his anger caused him to lose his concentration and break his arm—even if right was on her side, and he was a pigheaded man. She supposed he couldn’t help the man part. The pigheadedness was another matter.

  # # #

  Somerset had often heard men in the Chronicle’s press room complain about women, but he hadn’t understood their point of view until this evening. Because he was a gentleman, no matter what she thought of him, he walked Isabel to the front door of Loretta’s grand mansion and endured her polite hand-shake and thanks.

  They were both startled when the door burst open in front of them and Marjorie MacTavish, her flaming hair in braids, and engulfed in something white that might have been a dressing gown, took Isabel’s arm. “Oh, Isabel, Eunice is ever so fleid!”

  Isabel didn’t even glance back at Somerset when she dashed into the house. Marjorie slammed the door in Somerset’s face, and he was left on the front porch, gawping at the door, and wondering how the evening could have ended so abruptly.

  Then, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his natty evening trousers in a manner sure to gain him censure from his manservant, he slouched back to his machine, opened the door, climbed in, sat, and brooded. He couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong. But it most certainly had gone wrong. Totally, completely, and devastatingly.

  He squinted up at the house, wondering what the matter was with Miss Eunice. Was she ill? Had she been awakened by one of her nightmares? He saw lights in the upper floor, but they gave him no clue as to the problem. Huffing, he sat back against his seat and frowned through the windshield, brooding about Isabel, life, marriage, and his own persona.

  He wished he could look in a mirror. Was there something wrong with him? Had he grown a second nose? Had he not shaved closely enough? Was he so ugly no woman would have him?

  Somerset wasn’t a vain man, but he’d never had cause to rue his looks. There were many men in the world more handsome than he, and he knew that his chosen profession wasn’t always considered manly, but there was nothing inherently wrong with him, was there?

  True, he wasn’t one of those hard-drinking, hard-t
alking, wild-acting journalists who followed wars and criminals and were held in awe by the population. He wrote a horticultural column for the Chronicle and wrote books about plants. But that didn’t mean he was less than a man, dash it. He’d pursued a university education in order to learn everything he could about plant life and the care and propagation of that life. He knew how important plants were to mankind, and how important they were to life in general. Was it less manly to sow new life than dodge bullets aimed at ending it?

  His life’s work wasn’t all sweet peas and roses, either. He had a vast knowledge of trees, as well. Trees were manly, weren’t they? Hell’s bells, lumberjacks were about as masculine as men could get. Was it less manly to plant trees than to chop them down?

  Deciding he’d best not sit in Loretta’s circular drive while mulling things over lest someone come out and ask him if he needed help, he engaged the choke wire, discovered with relief that he didn’t need to crank the beast again, and chugged off.

  By the time he’d arrived at his own home, Somerset had come to the conclusion that Isabel’s rejection of his proposal had nothing to do with her perception of him as being less than manly. Rather, she’d carped about how she had judgment and sense and didn’t like his supposed presumption that she was some kind of stray that couldn’t take care of herself.

  He hadn’t done that. Had he? As he flung his hat and overcoat onto the hall table and climbed the stairs, he puzzled over her reaction to his proposal. He couldn’t understand it.

  She was a woman. There was no denying that. Even Isabel couldn’t dispute that. He pushed his bedroom door open, stepped inside, and looked around. Good. Calvin, his manservant, had done Somerset’s bidding and not waited up for him. He pressed on the electrical light and closed the door behind himself.

  All right. She was a woman. That was clear. And he was a man. That also was plain as day. Men and women needed each other, didn’t they? Leastways, women needed men. It was a fact of life. A point of nature. There was no disputing that men were stronger than women and better able to survive in the world. Women were the breeders, for God’s sake. They were the nurturers. They needed to preserve their strength for having and caring for babies and for keeping house for their men. They weren’t supposed to be out working at jobs and so forth. They were supposed to remain in the houses their men provided for them and keep the home fires burning!

  He nearly strangled himself yanking his cravat loose then he flung it on the bed, sat on it, and began unlacing his shoes. His feet ached from dancing so much, and he massaged them as he continued to muse about Isabel. He didn’t understand how such a thing as a marriage proposal could have gone so wrong.

  Maybe the problem didn’t stem from something being wrong with him. Maybe it was because something was wrong with Isabel.

  That was such a revolutionary thought, Somerset stopped massaging his feet and sat upright on his bed. Could Isabel be the problem here? Could she have some fundamental flaw that wasn’t apparent on the surface? Certainly, on the surface she looked just fine. Swell, in fact.

  But it was evident that she had no idea of her place in life. Not only did she believe it was her duty to go out and earn a living instead of marrying him, but she didn’t even understand that when a man proposed, she was supposed to be appreciative, not indignant.

  Or perhaps that wasn’t the problem, either. Perhaps the problem lay in her having been married before.

  Somerset began to feel the tiniest bit better. Maybe she was still mourning her lost husband, although that was carrying loyalty a trifle too far, in his opinion. How long had the man been dead, anyhow? Since before Eunice’s birth, he’d gathered. Had the late Mr. Golightly been a dashed saint that his widow continued to honor his memory with such abject devotion?

  Then again, women were notorious for their loyalty to the least worthy of men. Look at Penelope and Odysseus. Or that artist’s model, Evelyn Nesbit, and the creatures she got herself involved with, Stanford White and Harry Thaw. Or Guinevere and Arthur . . . no, wait. In that case, it had been Guinevere who’d spoiled everything.

  Still, perhaps the late Mr. Golightly hadn’t been a good man at all. Perhaps he’d been a blackguard. Or maybe Isabel just needed more time. He frowned, knowing that wasn’t the answer. She seemed perfectly at ease regarding the loss of her husband, and if she was grieving inside, she hid it well.

  Anyhow, Isabel Golightly wasn’t the only woman in the world who’d lost a spouse. And most of those women went on to remarry, if they got the chance to do so. Marrying again was the sensible thing to do, given that men were put on the earth to take care of women. This was especially true when the women had children to support. He snorted when he recalled Isabel’s ambition of opening a dance academy. Women weren’t supposed to operate dance academies, for God’s sake!

  The notion hit Somerset suddenly that the above philosophy didn’t account for the millions of women who had to work at jobs away from their homes every day and still care for their young, cook for their spouses, and clean up after their families. The thought irked him, and he frowned as he unsnapped his garters and rolled his socks down. Was it his fault there were so many irresponsible men in the world? No, it was not. He was accountable only for his own actions, and he was a man of principle.

  At least Isabel wouldn’t have to do char work if she married Somerset. She wouldn’t have to work at all. She could even have household servants if she wanted them.

  And that, he thought glumly, brought him back to the start of his musings. Why in hell had she refused him? He had everything to offer her! A nice home, a father for her daughter, money, ease. Plus, he could provide very well for an enlarged family if they should have children together.

  The idea of little Somersets and Isabels filling his house on Chestnut Street made him smile. The smile vanished when he considered that Isabel might possibly give birth to other little Eunices.

  But no. Eunice was a trick of fate. An interesting phenomenon sent to earth to teach the rest of the world’s inhabitants humility. There couldn’t be more children like her in the world. And if there were . . . well, he and Isabel could cope with them together.

  At least Somerset was an educated man with the wherewithal to send his children to school and see that they were properly educated and situated in life. His children wouldn’t be sent via steerage-class passage to some foreign country and left unprovided for should he die.

  After his socks were off and hurled in different directions, he marched over to his dressing table and stood before the mirror affixed thereto, squinting at his image. Critically. Not for Somerset FitzRoy the vanity of some of his fellow men, who expected women to swoon over them because they were handsome or wealthy or powerful or whatnot.

  All in all, he had to admit he was rather satisfied with what he saw reflected in the mirror. There he was: Six feet tall, well-built. Muscular, even, from doing so much manual labor, which just went to prove once more that horticulture wasn’t for sissies. He had broad shoulders and firm legs. He didn’t just sit around doing nothing all day long. He didn’t work in a boring office lifting nothing heavier than papers. His work—the horticultural part of it, anyway—required strength. Fitness. Why, look at him. He was a healthy outdoor specimen, with tanned arms and face. True, his legs were white, but that was only to be expected. A gentleman couldn’t run around without his trousers on, could he?

  His face wasn’t bad, either. Granted, he wasn’t slimily handsome like that dashed Argentine fellow, but he had regular features, a decent nose, ears that didn’t stick out, no nose or ear hairs apparent. A good head of hair on his head, dark brown and wavy with no unruly cowlicks. Fine dark brown eyes out of which he could see perfectly, and the attendantly thick dark eyelashes and well-arched eyebrows. Oh, he fully understood that Isabel might not consider him to be, say, an Adonis, or Romeo personified, although he sensed his physical appearance wasn’t the reason she’d refused him.

  The reason she’d refused him was that
she was an idiot, dash it! She was a woman! She couldn’t honestly believe that claptrap Loretta Linden was forever spouting about equality for women and votes for women and this and that and the other thing for women. Why, next they’d be agitating for equal pay for women. Preposterous. In . . . Sane.

  By the time he’d unbuttoned his collar studs, his annoyance had reached such a pitch that he flung his collar across the room. It hit the window with a less-than-satisfactory thwack. He removed his shirt and trousers, flopped onto his bed—which had been nicely prepared and the covers turned down by Calvin, although its looks were now slightly marred by his crumpled cravat.

  To hell with Isabel. Tomorrow he would work on his book and not think about her at all. That would teach her.

  # # #

  Isabel didn’t exactly bounce out of bed the morning following her debut as a dancer at the Fairfield, but she did manage to rise before Eunice left for school. Poor Eunice. She’d had one of her terrible nightmares last night, and her mother hadn’t been home to comfort her.

  Thank God for Loretta and Marjorie, who loved Eunice almost as much as Isabel herself. Loretta had held and rocked the girl, and Marjorie had made hot cocoa and kept an eye open for Isabel’s return. She must have flown down the staircase and to the front door, because Somerset hadn’t even had time to say more than good-night when Marjorie opened the door. It was just as well. Isabel hadn’t wanted to speak to him anymore last night, anyway.

  This morning, she felt sluggish and tired. She only stopped to pat cold water on her face, paying particular attention to her puffy eyes, before she ran downstairs to make sure her daughter was well enough to go to school.

  Humiliating as it was, Isabel had cried herself to sleep the night before, her bosom swelling with hurt, and with rage and embarrassment roiling in her.