American Pie

by Maggie Osborne

  "I'll relay your request," Mr. Grist said, after learning she desired to speak to Mrs. Roper. He peered at her curiously.

  Although Lucie liked Mr. Grist and ordinarily would have experienced no discomfort confessing her errand, today she kept her business to herself. She felt too unsure of herself to discuss her idea with anyone. She only hoped she would not lose her courage when she stood in front of Mrs. Roper.

  Each time the laundry door opened she thought it was Mr. Grist come to fetch her, and her heart banged painfully against her rib cage. The midday meal came and went; the clock hands crept toward quit time and still Mr. Grist did not come.

  Finally, when the dial showed twenty minutes to six and Lucie had all but given up, Mr. Grist appeared in the laundry doorway and crooked a finger at her.

  Swiftly she straightened her cap and donned the fresh apron she had prepared hours ago and followed him through the house and up the staircase to Mrs. Roper's private parlor. Heavy velvet draperies were drawn against the snow blowing outside; a cheery fire crackled in the grate.

  Mrs. Roper wore a new Paris wrapper, studded with the finest Whitby jet. The beads captured the firelight like tiny jewels. At another time Lucie would have examined the beads with interest, wondering if they would be injured by cleaning. But now she swallowed nervously as Mr. Grist ushered her inside the room and Mrs. Roper uttered an exasperated sound and banged her embroidery frame against her knee.

  The entire household had cause to know Mrs. Roper's temper boiled near the surface. Her cherished baron had become impatient with numerous delays and demanded a commitment. Other mothers with eligible daughters circled with predatory interest. The prize threatened to slip from Mrs. Roper's grasping fingers.

  "Really, you could have given the cream to Mr. Grist," Mrs. Roper snapped with a grimace of irritation. "It isn't necessary to traipse through the house."

  "I" A burst of heat exploded on Lucie's cheeks as she extended the twist of newspaper. A large greasy stain circled the paper, evidence of the richness of her recipe and the extra amount she had packed into the twist. "I thought" Her voice died in her throat and her hands trembled nervously.

  "Yes, what is it?" Scowling, Mrs. Roper jabbed the needle through the embroidery frame. "I don't have all day, you know."

  "Well, I thought you see, the ingredients cost well, not a lot, but they do cost something so I was thinking "

  A sigh of exasperation raised Mrs. Roper's jet beaded shoulders. "For pity's sake. Put the cream on the silver tray and just go." She flicked her fingertips at Mr. Grist.

  "The thing is" Perspiration appeared on her brow and Lucie wet her lips before she plunged ahead. "My cream is good enough to sell and I've decided to sell it instead of giving it away!" There. Thank God, it was done. She had said it.

  "I beg your pardon?" Mrs. Roper's penciled eyebrows rose toward her hairline. She stared at Lucie, then waved her needle in a gesture of impatience. "Oh, very well. What price are you asking?"

  Elation sent Lucie's heart soaring. The first fence had been jumped. Mrs. Roper didn't object to paying! She exhaled slowly and pressed her hands together. Settling on a fair price had been an agonizing process. Too small an amount might suggest inferior quality. But if the price was too high, Mrs. Roper would stop using Lucie's cream and return to purchasing her emollient at one of the ladies' emporiums or from a chemist.

  "Forty cents," she blurted. The words ran together and emerged as one.

  "Forty cents?" Mrs. Roper smiled at the greasy twist of newspaper and one eyebrow lifted in a arch. "I think not," she said coldly. "For forty cents one would expect a crystal jar at the very least. Perhaps a Paris label." A flat chill turned her gaze as hard and unyielding as the jet beads. "You flatter yourself, Miss Kolska."

  As if Lucie had abruptly ceased to exist, Mrs. Roper returned her attention to the embroidery frame. Crimson flamed on Lucie's cheeks. When Mr. Grist, whom she had forgotten, gently touched her sleeve, she wanted to fall through the floor with embarrassment knowing he had overheard and the conversation would be repeated below stairs. Whirling, she started from the room, telling herself she must not run.

  Mrs. Roper's voice called her back. "Take thatthat thing with you." Another flick of her fingertips indicated the twist of newspaper. "Forty cents! How amusing."

  Amusing. Lucie grasped the twist of newspaper to her breast and wondered if human beings could die of humiliation.

  When Miss Augusta whispered her name from the dark garden shadows as she left the Roper mansion, she was so upset she almost didn't hear. Without a word she accepted the envelope Augusta handed her, thrust it into her reticule, then lifted her skirts and ran around the side of the house fleeing the scene of her defeat.

  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  "She could have declined graciously," Jamie said angrily after Lucie confessed the disastrous audience with Mrs. Roper. "It wasn't necessary to embarrass you."

  It was Sunday afternoon and they stood outside the Mercantile Library doors, bending against a cold wind. Jamie tucked the books they had chosen under his arm and assisted Lucie down the icy steps to Astor Place before they turned onto Broadway and walked toward Canal Street.

  "Thank you for not saying I told you so," Lucie murmured, taking the arm he offered and pressing it close. She had not confided her plan to approach Mrs. Roper until after the fact, but they had frequently discussed the occasionally belligerent attitude displayed by the rich toward the not-so-rich, speculating whether all or only a few of the wealthy felt it their obligation to keep the lower orders in their place.

  "Don't offer me too much credit, lass. That's exactly what I might have said if I'd known of this plan beforehand. Regardless, Mrs. Roper had no call to treat you as she did." They paused, waiting for a break in the Broadway traffic, then dashed across the frozen street dodging the four-in-handers who used Broadway as a racecourse on Sundays.

  Cold wind stung Lucie's cheeks as she stopped to smooth her skirts and watch the elegant equipages racing down Broadway, the whips shouting cheerful insults back and forth. Then Jamie took her arm and they gravitated toward a crowd circled around an astonishing three horsepower Fiat. Both Lucie and Jamie gaped at the machine as the crowd shouted jeers and advice to the coachman who labored to repair one of the Fiat's tires.

  "Do you suppose it's true that one day there will be as many machines on the road as there are horses?" Lucie asked, tryingand failingto imagine herself or Jamie riding in such a conveyance. The experience would frighten her half to death.

  "Absolutely," he said, and laughed at her horrified expression. When he suggested they duck into a coffee house to catch their breath and warm their hands and feet, Lucie gave him a grateful nod. The damp air was bitter cold.

  After they were served steaming cups of coffee and small plates of Liberty cake, Jamie returned to the subject of the Ropers. "Forty cents is nothing to Axa Roper, a few grains on a wide beach!" Fuming, he pushed the cake aside. "It isn't enough the old harridan works you like a man for coolie wages, or the daughter uses you to further her deception, she expects you to provide the cream at no cost!"

  His anger on her behalf did more to warm Lucie than the hot coffee and milk. Her lovely dark eyes shone when she lifted her head.

  "I wish to God you didn't have to work in that place!" The intensity of Jamie's emotion raised a dark flush above his wool scarf. "I live for the day when I've saved enough money to take you out of there! By God, after we're married you will never again wash other people's soiled laundry! I promise you that."

  Hot coffee splashed over Lucie's fingertips as she looked up at him. Her mouth dropped open.

  "The idea!" His furious stirring created a tiny whirlpool within his cup. "Doesn't that foolish woman realize you have to buy ingredients to make the cream? Doesn't she think your labor is worth compensating?" He spread his hands. "The least you deserved was a bit of common courtesy!"

  "Jamie" Lucie stared at him, her heart thudding painfully i
n her chest.

  "Hasn't she heard? Slavery ended thirty years ago!" Lifting his head, he frowned at her. "The whole selfish passel of Ropers isn't worth your little finger!" Her expression penetrated his anger and he blinked, then his features shifted to a look of concern. "Lucie? Is something amiss, lass?"

  "You said" Surely she had not heard incorrectly. "You said, 'after we're married '"

  He stared at her, then a sheepish smile stole across his expression. "Did I say that?" The Irish twinkle she loved animated his gaze.

  "Indeed you did," Lucie said softly, her eyes shining. "I believe you just proposed, Mr. Kelly." She tilted her head and smiled. "In a rather backhanded manner, if I may say so."

  "Dearest Lucie."

  They gazed into each other's eyes across the tabletop, thrilling to what they saw. When Lucie finally dropped her gaze, she discovered they were both leaning forward, gripping each other's hands. There was so much to say, but her heart was too full to permit speech.

  Jamie cleared his throat and cast a dazed glance around the coffee house. An awkward laugh broke from his lips. "I've imagined this moment a thousand times, and never once did I picture it occurring in a public coffee house. I envisioned going on my knees before you, flowers in hand and" He blinked at her. "Good heavens. I haven't done this at all properly. Lucie, I haven't spoken to Stefan. I don't have"

  Sensing he spoke from nervousness, she squeezed his hand and smiled tenderly into his eyes. "Yes."

  "Yes?" Joy illuminated his features. "Lucie, lass. You're saying yes to me?"

  Lucie laughed. "Did you ever doubt?"

  Jumping up, he rushed around the table and pulled her to her feet in a crushing embrace. It was so unlike him to mount a public display of affection that Lucie laughed again and buried her flaming cheeks in his tweed coat collar.

  Jamie didn't notice the waiter's frown of disapproval. He grinned broadly and announced with pride, "She said yes!"

  "To a marriage proposal," Lucie added shyly, ever practical. Heaven knew what the waiter supposed she had agreed to. But today she didn't care what anyone thought. Happiness glowed on her cheeks and in her radiant eyes.

  The waiter's scowl dissolved into a grin. "More coffee, sir? Or would you prefer something stronger?"

  "Neither," Jamie said, gazing down at Lucie with proprietary pride. "Let's get out of here."

  On the street he swung her in a high circle, bringing her boots to the pavement to the accompaniment of a fierce embrace. When he could bear to release her, he tilted her face up to his. "I love you, Lucie Kolska. You've made me the happiest man on this earth."

  "Oh, Jamie, Jamie dearest." Tears of happiness sparkled like tiny prisms on her lashes. "I love you, I love you, I love you!"

  Throwing back his head, he tossed his hat into the air and laughed with joy. But his expression sobered when he looked down at her again. "I didn't plan to propose today "

  "I know," she said, smiling. "But you did, and I intend to hold you to it."

  He dropped a kiss on her nose, then hastily looked at the traffic slipping and skidding down the icy street. "I'm disgracing us both, aren't I?"

  Smiling, Lucie pressed her forehead to his chest, then tucked his arm firmly against her side. "Today is special. I think we can be forgiven any shameless display." She gazed up at him, her heart in her eyes. "Tell me again that you love me, Jamie Kelly. I'll never grow tired of hearing you say it."

  "I love you, lass. I do love you!" She saw the truth of it in the glowing dark eyes that caressed her lips, her throat, her hair. "But I've spoken precipitously." A frown clouded his happiness. "I have nothing to offer you but ambition and potential. By rights, Stefan should withhold his permission."

  "If he does," Lucie said, unperturbed. "I shall never speak to him again."

  Stopping on the snowy pavement, he turned her to face him. "Lucie, it could be years before we're financially able to wed. We'll need furnishings, a decent place to set up housekeeping, a cushion against emergencies "

  "However long it takes, Jamie Kelly, I'll wait."

  "Oh, my dearest." Again he embraced her, oblivious of the stares and smiles directed at them from Sunday afternoon drivers. It was the happiest day of Lucie's life and she reached trembling fingertips to stroke his jaw, brush his lips. A tiny thrill electrified her. If they lived together for a hundred years, she would never tire of touching him and being touched by him.

  A hoarse groan sounded against her temple, then he stepped back to look at her and straightened her hat with shaking fingers. "Waiting is so hard, dearest. So hard."

  "For both of us," she whispered, feeling the heat in her secret parts, longing to know him as a wife knows a husband. She thought about the possibility of years passing before they could wake in each other's arms, and a bit of the brightness faded from her happiness. The promise to wait came easily, but she suspected the reality of denial would be a torment.

  "I'd like to hear your opinion about something I've been considering," Lucie said two days later. After stacking the supper dishes on the shelf above the stove, she untied her apron and sat at the kitchen table with the others. Without being aware, she reached beneath the table and clasped Jamie's warm hand as a rush of thankfulness and gratitude momentarily overwhelmed her. She was so fortunate. Sometimes she experienced a twinge of guilt that she could be so happy in the face of Stefan and Greta's mounting desperation.

  "An opinion costs nothing," Jamie commented with a wink and a squeeze of her hand. "We await the opportunity to give it."

  Aware of the enormity of what she was about to suggest and not sure how they would respond, Lucie drew a long breath to steady her nerves. For a moment her resolve wavered. Was this a door she truly wished to open? Yes, yes it was. She had thought of little else for several days.

  "I've been thinking "

  "Oh, no," Stefan groaned, summoning a wan smile. He raised an eyebrow toward Jamie. "Trouble's ahead."

  Lucie laughed with the others, then returned to her subject. "Even if Mrs. Roper wouldn't buy my cream, Miss Augusta does."

  "I think she buys the cream to repay you for delivering her letters to Mr. Whitcomb," Jamie interjected in a gentle voice.

  "Perhaps. But she does use it. I've smelled the scent on her clothing when it comes into the laundry. So she must like it."

  "It's a wonderful cream," Greta insisted loyally. "I wouldn't use any other."

  "Mrs. Roper was willing to pay for the cream, too, except she wanted it in a pot or a jar." She looked at each of them, feeling the excitement build in her chest. "So, I've been thinking what if I bought some rouge pots and filled them with cream?"

  "Pots?" Stefan asked. "How much cream do you think Mrs. Roper would buy?"

  "Well" She didn't look at Jamie because she sensed his surprise and, more importantly, his resistance. "I thought I'd try to sell the cream elsewhere, as well." When she dared glance at him, she saw Jamie's reaction was worse than she had feared and her breath caught in her throat. He looked utterly appalled.

  "You intend to peddle your cream door to door like a drummer?" he asked incredulously, staring at her.

  "I can't agree to that." Stefan frowned and shook his head.

  "I wasn't thinking about going door to door," she said, discarding that idea on the instant. "I thought I might approach the druggists in Mercer Street and ask if they would accept the cream on consignment."

  "Consignment?" Jamie's stare deepened.

  "I learned about it at the Settlement House. It means I would leave several pots with"

  "I know what consignment means. I didn't realize you did."

  Turning away from his opposition, she appealed to Stefan and Greta, speaking in a rush before her nerve failed her. "I think I could be successful. The cream is good, I know it is. Stefan, please, just hear me out." She swallowed and cleared her throat in the abrupt silence. Snow hissed against the window panes. The tin coffeepot bubbled and spit on the stove.

  "Go on," Stefan said, his reluctan
ce visible. She guessed from his expression that he had already rejected her idea.

  From her pocket she slowly withdrew the sums she had figured earlier and pressed the paper flat against the tabletop. Having progressed this far, she felt obliged to see it through. "As nearly as I can determine, each pot of cream would cost four cents to produce. Two cents for the ingredients, one and a half cents for each pot, and half a cent for a label."

  "You've priced pots and labels?" Jamie leaned forward. "You've gone that far with this?"

  "I believe the pots would sell at thirty-five cents," she persisted, not looking at him. "That's a profit of thirty-one cents a pot."

  The words hung in a pocket of silence as each considered the implications of thirty-one cents profit per pot of cream.

  "Lucie!" Greta breathed. "You would only have to sell three pots to make more money than you could make in a whole day at Mrs. Roper's laundry!"

  "Yes." She made herself look at Jamie now. "Does anyone see any reason why we shouldn't try this?" Silently, she pleaded for his support, wanting him on her side in this as in all things. But he was looking at her as if seeing her for the first time.

  It was Stefan who answered. "In the name of heaven, Lucie. Even if what you propose could be done, and I'm not convinced anyone would pay thirty-five cents for a little pot of cream, women don't peddle goods!"

  "Then you do the peddling," she suggested evenly, shifting on her chair to face him. Why didn't Jamie speak? His silence grated across her nerves. "Remember the year you managed Mr. Holstoffer's stall at the harvest fair? When you set your mind to it, Stefan, you can sell anything."

  "Not women's face and hand cream," he said, raising his hands and shaking his head.

  "We could all be partners. If Greta feels well enough, she could design a label for the cream. Stefan could sell it. Jamie could arrange for the ingredients and pots. And I'll make it." She made herself turn again to Jamie and released a slow breath.

  "You told me you had no interest in business."