by Rachel Hauck
“Alfonse is confident. As a young man of his means should be.” Mama had an answer for everything. Birdie knew better than to enter the ring with the champion.
But this was her life. Her heart.
“I won’t do it.” She rose again and moved around the heavy, ornate furniture toward the door. “I will not marry him.”
“The arrangements have been made.” Mama’s bitter tone stabbed Birdie. “You decline him now and we will be shamed. Made to look the fools.”
“You should’ve taken it into consideration before you spoke for me.”
“Geoffrey, are you going to allow her to speak to me in such a tone?”
“Leave her be, Iris. We’ve made the arrangements. Now it’s up to Alfonse to woo and win her. If he’s half the man we believe, he’ll see to it in short order.”
Mama did not challenge him, though Birdie had no doubt there were more words behind those pinched lips. In moments such as these, Birdie wondered if Papa shared her suspicions about her mother, about whether the woman was as honorable as she led the world to believe.
“I’ve a fall wedding in mind. Birdie, see to it you’re responsive to his affections.” Mama returned to her needlepoint. “Did you hear Rose Gottlieb is to be engaged? Mrs. Gottlieb is giddy with excitement but she will not give up the suitor until the official announcement. We shall all wait to see who has won the lovely Rose.”
There was nothing more to be said. Trapped without any means of her own, Birdie must submit to Papa and Mama’s arrangements.
Running up the stairs, she burst into her room, falling on the settee in tears. No, no, no.
If only . . . if only . . . Mr. Barclay had regard for her novel and offered her publication. Having her own means would loose her from Mama’s control. Even if it meant sharing a house with her friends in the University Society—well below any woman of her social standing—at least she’d be free.
Freedom. Such a beautiful existence.
She could not contain her tears. Weeping for her lost book, her lost love, her impending marriage, Birdie slipped to her knees, the pain of her heart forming desperate prayers.
As her words left her lips, a sweet, light breeze swept through her room. Rising up, Birdie glanced toward the window, drying her cheeks with the back of her hand. Had someone raised the sash?
Finding the window closed, she sat back down, the air stirring and swirling about her again, settling over her with the melody of a mystical song. One she heard often in her darkest hour.
Do not be dismayed, do not be dismayed, you don’t have to worry or be afraid.
SIX
ELIJAH
Making his way down to dinner, cane in hand, he ran his free hand along his dinner jacket lapels. At the bottom of the stairs, he straightened his tie and smoothed his hair.
He’d not seen her yet, but he heard the Shehorns had arrived. He wanted to look sharp when Birdie clapped eyes on him for the first time in over four years.
The notion of being near her caused his pulse to pound. His thoughts spun round and round. Gather yourself, chap, you’ve a duty to your family. Not your heart.
He’d sailed to America for a specific purpose. To this he must remain true.
“There you are. Making a grand entrance, are we?” Alfonse greeted him with a jaunty grin. “Everyone’s in the salon. The Shehorns, Vandergriffs, and Martins, all with beautiful daughters. It’s a feast for every man’s eyes.”
“Then I am blessed. After this weekend, I must have eyes for only one.” Rose Gottlieb. “Do tell, is your future intended among the lasses tonight?”
“Let’s not focus on matters so serious. Betrothal and marriage are for the new year.” Alfonse clapped Eli on the back as they breezed through the salon door, his blond head high, his voice full of charm. “Good evening, everyone. May I present the Earl of Montague, Elijah Percy.”
The guests offered slight head bows and practiced curtsies. Eli greeted each one. Alfonse was right, the lasses were beautiful. But he desired to see only one. Birdie.
Mrs. Van Cliff stepped forward to introduce the guests. “Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Shehorn. Their daughter, Birdie, is also with us this week.”
“My friends, the Shehorns. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“The pleasure is all ours, your lordship.” Mrs. Shehorn curtsied. “We’re delighted to see you. How do your parents fare?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“I see you brought some of the war home with you.” Mr. Shehorn motioned to Eli’s cane. “But if that’s all you suffered, then you fared well.”
“I consider myself blessed.”
A crack of light across the way drew his eye as an interior door opened and she entered with Trudy, more stunning in posture and poise than he remembered.
Birdie.
It was all he could do not to toss his cane and leap over furniture or shove past the others to take her in his arms.
She did not see him as she moved about the room greeting the daughters of the Vandergriffs and Martins.
Elijah downed a splash of port handed to him by Alfonse, watching her, feeling as if his heart beat outside of his chest for all to see.
Besides beauty, she exuded warmth and kindness. Her expressions transcended her external appearance to reveal the woman inside. He yearned to take her aside and speak with her without interruption. To hear how she fared. Did she ever write the book she spoke of in whispers four years ago?
Blast it all! Why had they stopped their correspondence?
There, she saw him, catching his stare. “Lord Montague.” How he loved to hear her speak his name. “My goodness! You take my breath away. No one informed me you’d be among the guests.” She glanced back at Trudy. “You never said.”
She crossed the room, the electric lamps catching the auburn highlights of her chestnut hair, and slipped her gloved hands into his. Alfonse could have every other lass in the room. Eli would take this one. All to himself.
“Birdie, how lovely you look. Even more so than the last time we met.”
“You’re too kind.”
“How do you two know one another?” Alfonse said, bursting in, soaking up Birdie’s aura.
Birdie frowned at him. “Begging your pardon, Alfonse. I believe I was speaking to Lord Montague.”
Eli. She must call him Eli when they were alone.
“We met years ago on a grand tour. Birdie’s first, I believe,” Eli said.
“You remembered. How sweet.” She slid closer, giving Alfonse the edge of her shoulder. “Whatever brings you to New York? Don’t tell me it’s the season.”
“He seeks a bride.” Alfonse. Must he be so brazen?
“A bride? Do tell.” The thin, watery sheen in her eyes polished her surprise. “What a lucky young woman.”
No, no, no, this was not how he wanted to tell her. He’d deal with Alfonse later. Birdie deserved to be treated with care. While they had no understanding, they’d expressed feelings for one another that summer afternoon, walking across the Hapsworth Manor meadow where he nearly kissed her. Would it not have been the sweetest of kisses?
“There’s nothing of interest to tell.” Which for the moment was true. “I’d much rather hear of you.”
“I too have nothing of interest to tell.” Her gaze skirted past his cane. “You were wounded.”
“He won the Victoria Cross,” Trudy said.
Must everyone eavesdrop on their conversation?
“Mercy, what heroics earned you such a distinguished honor?”
“Yes, Lord Montague, do tell.” Mrs. Shehorn, adorned with pearls and a diamond tiara, came alongside her daughter. “Regale us with your heroics.”
“I’m afraid modesty does not permit me.” Eli stepped back with a tip of his head. It was clear Mrs. Shehorn did not want her daughter alone with him.
Had Birdie confided in her of their near-kiss? Of their past affection? He thought it unlikely, because that summer Birdie spoke often of her mothe
r’s cool distance.
At this point, the senior Van Cliff took to the middle of the room. “May I have your attention, please? Lorena and I are delighted and honored to have you all with us this New Year’s. Our home is your home.” The guests responded with bold appreciation. “We’ll have dinner in a moment, after which we’ll adjourn for a myriad of activities. For us older set, we’ve employed a small orchestra for ballroom dancing. For the younger among us, I’ve asked the groomsmen to prepare the sleighs. The snow is packed well under a full moon and a galaxy of stars. We see much more of the heavens in the Berkshires than in the city. Should any of the young ones, or old, have the gumption to skate, the pond is decidedly frozen. We’ve distributed lanterns and skates of every size for your enjoyment. There’s nothing like exercise to ensure health, happiness, and a good night’s sleep. A quartet from the orchestra will accompany the skaters. What’s skating without music, I say?” The guests exclaimed their delight. “However,” Mr. Van Cliff said, “I must request everyone’s presence in the main hall at eleven fifty-five to bring in the New Year together. Nineteen hundred and three! We shall toast it with cheers and champagne. What say you all?”
“Hear, hear! Well done, Stow.” Mr. Shehorn raised his glass. “But we expected no less from a Van Cliff. We shall celebrate in grand American style.” Mr. Shehorn cut his glance toward Eli.
He’d heard America’s wealthy had tired of their daughters marrying European nobility. He needed not the mind of Sherlock Holmes, nor even Watson’s, to figure Shehorn among them.
Upon Van Cliff’s conclusion, the butler entered, announcing dinner. But Eli was hungry only for conversation with Birdie.
As the elders of the party moved toward the expansive dining hall, the younger guests lagged behind. Eli joined Alfonse, who spoke with Birdie and Kathleen Martin by the fire.
“Ah, my lord,” Alfonse said. “Your modesty has me curious. What did you do to earn such an honor?”
“Please, tell us.” Birdie gestured around the room. “The others have left.” Her expression softened him.
“Well . . .” He cleared his voice, retreating back to that day but viewing it from an emotional bird’s nest, high above the true reality and horrendous details. “To be sure, I’m one of thousands of men who fought with life and limb for queen and country. I’m not special.”
“But you must have saved a man’s life or done something of equal valor to receive such an honor.” Alfonse baited him with a teasing glint in his eye. He really observed no personal barriers, did he?
“Yes, I saved a man’s life.” Eli nodded, ending the story. Recounting the details caused him a certain anxiety. “As would any of you, given similar circumstances. Now, I believe we’ve been called to dinner.” Eli urged the ladies forward.
“Posh, my good man.” Alfonse with his horrible British affect. “You must recount the whole story.”
“Alfonse, leave him be. Perhaps he doesn’t wish to relive the events.” Birdie’s compassion filled her hazel eyes. “Don’t let this coward bully you, Lord Montague.”
“Coward?” Alfonse stiffened. “I don’t think such a name is fitting, Birdie. Just because—”
Birdie slipped her arm through Eli’s, which practically rendered him powerless. “Keep your humor about you, Alfonse. We are all cowards in light of Lord Montague and the men who fought for their country. Now, shall we go to dinner? I am famished.”
Eli pressed his hand over hers, their gazes barely meeting as they filed out of the room behind Alfonse and Kathleen.
“Miss Shehorn,” Eli ventured, a hoarse whisper in his throat. “Would you accompany me to the pond for skating after dinner?”
“I’d be delighted, Lord Montague. But can you skate with your knee?”
“I believe I’ll give it a go, yes.”
Because with Birdie Shehorn by his side, Elijah Percy believed he could do just about anything.
Even forget his duty.
SEVEN
TENLEY
She awoke with a jolt, sitting up in the shadows. Beneath her, the bed springs squeaked, and across the way, a golden light peeked around venetian blinds.
Focusing on the furniture in the room through the dim light, Tenley collapsed back down to her pillow, kicking off the thin layer of covers.
She was in Florida. Cocoa Beach. She’d arrived late Sunday evening, close to midnight, taking a taxi from Melbourne International to Blanche’s Grove Manor on A1A.
Blanche texted she was going to bed.
Key under the mat. Your room is at the top of the stairs.
First door on your right. Library to the left. Can’t miss it.
Through the French doors. See you in the daylight.
Rolling over onto her side, Tenley reached for her phone. Seven o’clock. With a sigh, she cradled her phone to her belly, stretching across the cool sheets, wondering if she should call Holt.
They had a fight to end all fights yesterday afternoon as Tenley packed.
“She’s manipulating you, Ten.” He took the tops she’d just put in her suitcase and stuffed them back in the dresser drawer. “She’s lived without you for over twenty years and suddenly you’re her only hope?” He snatched up her hands. “You’re shutting down your writing for her. She’s a dream killer! Why can’t you see that? Come to Paris with me. Write, be bohemian.”
“I know, I know, this makes no sense.” She freed herself from his grip and gathered her tops from the drawer. “But she needs me, and for reasons I’m sure Freud himself might not understand, I have to go. This might be my last chance to have a relationship with her. She’s fighting cancer, Holt. I’ve already lost my father. You have your parents and grandparents and siblings. I’ve got no one.”
“You have me. And Paris.”
“Paris, for all its glory, did not give birth to me.”
He cocked a sly grin. “Let it give birth to your next bestseller.”
“Yeah, and can we just ask about that? How does a first-time novelist under the age of thirty have a runaway hit?”
“You’re talented.”
“Or my last name is Roth.” She reached for Holt, pulling him to her. “I have an idea. Why don’t you come to Cocoa Beach after the symposium and I’ll be as bohemian as you want.” She added a sultry tenor to bohemian.
“I’m going to finish my screenplay in Paris, Tenley.” He broke away from her, hands on his belt, staring at her suitcase. “Frankly, I can’t believe you’re choosing Blanche over me.”
“I’m not choosing her over you. I’m choosing . . .” What was she choosing? Really? “A last chance to have a relationship with my mother. I’m choosing compassion. Human kindness.”
“So, what about this?” Holt swerved around with her ring box. “You never wear it.”
“It’s so beautiful . . .” Tenley reached for the box, tucking it into her suitcase. Holt roped his arms about her waist.
“Just like you.” His kiss came swift and greedy, leaving Tenley no room to respond. When Holt broke away, Tenley pressed her fingertips against her lips.
“I-I’d better finish packing.”
“Can I ask you something?” Holt folded his arms, watching. “Why do you want her approval so much? She doesn’t deserve your devotion, Ten.”
“No, but most of us don’t deserve any kind of unmerited devotion.” Another Grandpa saying. Something about God’s unmerited favor, Jesus and the cross, blood and dying. Tenley never understood it all, so she tuned him out. But lately she found that repeating Grandpa Roth’s wisdom came easily, as if she’d been listening after all. “We’ll make it work, Holt. This long-distance thing. We’ll e-mail, call, text. It might be fun, missing each other.”
With a sigh, he headed from the room. “Fine, go to Cocoa Beach. But don’t hold your breath for me to understand.”
But she had held her breath, sharing little ideas the rest of the evening—“When I’m sixty, I think I’ll be glad I spent this time with my mom”—with Holt only mumbling
a reply.
She kissed him good-bye at the apartment and cried the entire cab ride to LaGuardia.
The deed was done. She was in Florida. Nothing to do but get on with it.
Flipping on the bedside lamp, she adjusted to her new world. Her room was quite large with dormer walls and a private bath.
The closet was dark, the walls running deep under the roof. Finding a pull cord to a bare lightbulb, Tenley found two things—a man’s red plaid robe and a pair of corduroy slippers.
Removing the robe from the hanger, she slipped it on, the threads releasing the scent of aftershave. It made her think of Daddy. Then she dug her feet into the slippers.
Inspecting her new Florida wardrobe in the dresser mirror, she moseyed into the hall, spying out the library.
It was beautiful. Large and spacious, with floor-to-ceiling shelves loaded with books. The windows framed the blue-green surface of the Atlantic and the golden edges of the rising sun.
Stunning. The room spoke of money, of care and details. If she didn’t find inspiration here . . . Return to the passion she found writing Someone to Love . . . Then . . .
Tenley swerved behind her, peering toward the doors, searching for a place to set up. The desk in the center of the room, situated under a Tiffany floor lamp, appeared to be just her size. The dull, pale brown wood hinted of better days. The center drawer was accompanied by three side drawers on the right.
Tenley ran her hand over the smooth surface. This desk had been well used. Life happened at this desk. Four indents marked the center where perhaps a machine sat. A typewriter? An adding machine? On the front edge were soft worn grooves from where arms or hands might have rested.
Maybe Blanche was right. This place would be the inspiration she needed.
Adjacent to the desk sat a wood-frame, upholstered chair. Pulling it forward, Tenley sat at the desk. The chair was just the right height, and she had a bubbling sensation behind her heart.