by Read, Calia
Perhaps Miles and Momma attempted to give hints and I wasn’t paying close enough attention. But this deserved more than a hint. This warranted caution so I could prepare, and I wouldn’t find myself in the very situation I’m in now.
I can think of no other way to save our family home and debts than to go through this ridiculous façade. Is marriage the worst possible thing to happen to me? No. But I don’t particularly care for being strong-armed in any situation. Any choice I make, I want it to be mine. Especially when it comes to my future husband.
Momma seems oblivious to my anguish. She typically spends her mornings dedicated to her needlepoint in the sunroom. Later, she’ll “retire” to her living quarters and change into a tea dress (black, of course).
She’s not meddlesome and carries on polite conversation, but I know better. It’s almost as if she knows I need a bit of time and silence to process the news and come to a decision.
I adjust the high waistband of my navy blue skirt and the round neckline of my embroidered, ivory silk blouse. I purchased the pleated blouse for the orient design with no thought of the cost. Now, I’m lamenting over all the careless spending I’ve done. But there’s no use crying over spilled milk. I’ve done enough crying to last a lifetime even though my face doesn’t show the signs. My eyes aren’t bloodshot, and my nose isn’t red from running. If I was accidentally locked inside my room for the next week, I don’t think I’d object.
Tucking my hands into the pockets of my skirt, I reluctantly walk out of my room and downstairs. I find Momma just where I expect her to be, sitting at the table, demurely picking at her breakfast. It’s all a ruse, though; she’s waiting to speak with me.
When I enter the room, Momma lifts her head and smiles at me. There are wrinkles around her eyes, and dark circles beneath her brown eyes. For months now, I’ve told myself it’s because of Miles’s death, and it more than likely is, but she’s also had to bear the financial burden all on her own.
I’m not good with math. My skill with an arrow and words, doesn’t extend to numbers. But I love my family, and when you love someone or something fiercely enough, you learn to be good at what you’re not great at.
I could peruse the books. Perhaps things aren’t as dire as Momma believes, and if I confuse myself, I can call on Livingston. Although he doesn’t appear it, he’s quite intelligent, and I know I have his confidence.
He is many things, but a rumormonger he’s not.
Yet I’m not naïve enough to believe that will happen overnight. Poring through the finances is a tedious task and will take time. Until I get a clear answer for myself, I need to continue with this farce of finding a husband.
The light clanging pulls me out of my thoughts. Momma’s scooping sugar into the teacup with light blue daisies painted around edge. Years ago, she insisted on buying the Wileman set because her previous collection became “outdated.”
I can only imagine the exorbitant price of this set. Perhaps, if we sold the tea set, it could help with our money troubles and then …
No, I can’t think about that right now.
What I need to focus on is talking with Momma about my decision. Taking a deep breath, I walk to my seat across from her. “Good mornin’.”
She lifts her gaze, continuing to scoop sugar into her coffee. “Mornin’, sweetie. How did you sleep?”
“Very well.”
Lie. I slept horribly.
“And yourself?”
Momma blows into her coffee and takes a sip. Her nose scrunches, and she gives one of the servants standing in the room a displeased look as though they were the one to pour all the sugar into her coffee. Momma’s blood type is sugar, sweet tea, and some more sugar. “I slept quite peacefully.”
Quite peacefully has been Momma’s answer for as long as I can remember. She could sleep through a hurricane quite peacefully, love you quite peacefully, and mourn quite peacefully.
We settle into our comfortable morning routine of silence while a servant places a plate of food in front of me. Forks scraping against the expensive china plates, and birds chirping directly outside are the only noises to be heard. My stomach is in such knots I can only eat my toast. I poke at my eggs with the blunt tips of the fork and watch the yolk seep onto the plate. I can’t help but envision it as my hopes and dreams slowly fade from me. It’s a bleak thought, but nothing about what I’m about to do makes me happy.
I clear my throat. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“What is it, dear?”
I take a deep breath. My stomach continues to churn. “After much thought, I think it’s best I follow Miles’s will and attempt to find a husband.”
Momma’s reaction is tepid at best. You’d think from the way she slowly nods I’d just announced I wanted to update my entire wardrobe, instead of changing my entire life by marrying.
She finishes chewing, gingerly places her fork next to her plate, and dabs at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “That’s lovely to hear. I knew you’d come around, so I took the liberty of invitin’ someone over tonight.”
Dread trickles down my spine. I stare at Momma, my mouth slowly parting. “Who? You haven’t invited a man over, have you? Momma, I just came to this decision.”
Momma waves away my words. “Oh, it’s nothin’ of that nature. Although it is a man.” She beams at me. “It’s Livingston.”
I swear, that’s even worse. “Oh, Momma, no.”
Momma goes back to eating her breakfast, delicately cutting the pieces of her sausage as though she’s a child. “I presume from your reaction you haven’t spoken to him yet?”
I shake my head.
“Then tonight is the perfect opportunity for you.” She suddenly looks away. “Perhaps you can apologize.”
I toss my napkin on the table. I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. “You want me to apologize?”
“Yes.” Momma stabs her fork in my direction. “You are as stubborn as your daddy, and I know you’d rather swallow glass than make amends.”
“Correction. When I’ve done somethin’ wrong I will make amends. As long as that person is not Livingston Lacroix.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to figure out what to say.”
“Not if he doesn’t come to dinner,” I point out.
“I will not rescind an invite. That’s highly improper. Not to mention, uncivil. A lady only rescinds an invite if she has a logical reason.”
Lifting my hand, I point a finger downward at my head. “Me. I’m your reason. I’m your flesh and blood, and this flesh and blood does not want said guest to come.”
Momma leans in, her eyes remaining determined. “Rainey, you have nothin’ to be worried about. I’ll be at the dinner and will tell you what to say beforehand.”
“I’m not a marionette. There is no reason to pull my strings and feed me lines.”
“When it comes to Livingston, I’m afraid I may have to. He’s in charge of your dowry, and it’s important that you be on your best behavior.”
I know she’s right, but I thought I had more time to think over my course of action. I never thought I had mere hours before I had to see the man who I used my bow and arrow on days ago. But, then again, I never thought I would have to use it on him for a second time.
“Please cancel this dinner. Please,” I beg, making one last attempt to change her mind.
Momma averts her gaze and moves her food around her plate. “Raina, I’m afraid that cannot be done. Livingston will be here tonight. Consider this matter put to bed.” Briefly, she lifts her gaze back to mine. “Oh, and, sugar? Try to wear a blue dress. It’s such a flatterin’ color on you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rainey
I do not heed Momma’s advice and change into the blue dress. I wear my favorite black dress because this is a day of mourning.
I’ve lost many people I loved dearly, and tonight, I will be parting with one emotion that has never left me or let me down: my pride.
Oh pride, we�
�ve had quite the relationship. It’s remained strong in me without becoming hubristic. But desperate times call for desperate measures. I’m still not for certain what I’ll say to Livingston, or how I’ll gently broach the subject. If I’m kind to him, he will undoubtedly notice something is amiss.
Not only am I mourning my pride, but also my sheer ignorance to my family’s plight.
In 1917, while the war raged on in Europe, I saw an article in Harper’s Bazaar about the House of Chanel. It was on “the list of every buyer.” Nat had garments from House of Chanel she coveted. But then the war broke out, and it was virtually impossible to order a dress from any fashion house in Europe. I didn’t receive this beautiful creation until two weeks ago.
From afar, my ankle-length dress appears simple. The material skims over my curves. It’s sleeveless with a square neckline. Upon closer inspection, you can see the heavily beaded design with a layer of black silk faille draped to my waistline. It goes up and over my shoulders and down my back. Around my waist, in the same shade, is a belt loosely tied to the side. Heavy tassels hang from the belt, grazing the hem of the dress.
If I knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have been so liberal with what I purchased.
Adjusting my hair clip in my chignon, I slowly lower my hands and stare at my reflection. I know I’m not an ogre. I’m somewhat attractive, but can I pull off an engagement in sixty days? I don’t know. It might take an act of God.
Minutes before six o’clock, I leave my room. I’m getting ready to walk down the stairs when the front door opens and in walks the devil himself, Livingston Lacroix.
While the butler tells him to wait in the sitting parlor before dinner, I move down the steps. Straight away, Livingston’s eyes meet mine. His bright green eyes start at my ankles and travel up my body before settling on my face. I’d rather endure years of torture than admit that being the focus of Livingston’s attention can be intoxicating.
Two steps away from the landing, I stop and grip the railing. Livingston tips his hat in my direction before he hands it over to the butler. Compared to the last time we saw one another, he looks very put together. That’s one thing that’s never been a problem for him. He fills out his tailored, gray worsted suit well.
“Good evenin’, Rainey.”
“Livingston,” I say, tilting my head in his direction.
Livingston saunters closer with his loose-hip gait. Livingston and his brother have a similar walk, but for the two tall men, their stride is for very different reasons. Étienne quickly assess his surroundings to find what he’s come for. Livingston casually surveys life around him in a manner that is only befitting for a king. The world halts until he finds whatever is pleasing to him at the moment.
Livingston’s life has always centered around pleasure. At that moment, he gives me his undivided attention and his well-practiced half-smirk. It appears I’m his amusement for the night. “I must say, receivin’ an invitation to have dinner at the Pleasonton house was a shock.”
“Why were you shocked? You’re like family.”
“I didn’t feel the warm embrace of family when you barged into my room days ago.”
I bite down on my tongue and force my lips to curl into a polite smile. “That was an unfortunate misunderstandin’.”
Livingston tucks his hands into his pockets. From my vantage point, I’m taller and able to turn my nose down on Livingston. I could become quite comfortable in this spot.
“And the scar on my leg? Was that a misunderstandin’ too?”
Crossing my arms, I lean against the wall. “I was a child and didn’t know how to properly hold a bow or nock an arrow. A mere slip of my hand. I do apologize.”
“My God, you have an answer for everythin’ tonight, don’t you?” His eyes rove over my body. “Rare form, le savauge. Rare form.”
I feel anger, of course I do, but it’s breaking apart and giving way to something else that I can’t properly describe. The feeling makes my skin tingle, almost as though thousands of needles are underneath my skin, and it travels directly to my fingertips, causing me to flex them.
Standing straight, I walk down the rest of the steps. My reign of power is over. Livingston and I are back on equal footing. I step closer until our faces are inches apart, just to prove to myself that I’m nothing like the trail of women fawning over Livingston.
His eyes look exceptionally light tonight. It’s because of the chandelier. It basks him in a glow that makes his skin tone golden.
Men shouldn’t be beautiful, but Livingston is. Michelangelo would want to sculpt him. I’ll never admit that. The last thing Livingston needs is more admiration for his already massive ego.
Averting my gaze from his symmetrical face, I sigh. Rainey, you need to remember what tonight is about.
Looking both ways, I make sure nobody is watching. I always try to avoid using the dreaded H word at all costs. The word that can diminish your confidence with the first letter. We all know the word.
Help.
“Can I speak with you for a moment?” I ask, keeping my voice quiet.
Livingston’s brows furrow. “I suppose so.”
Exhaling, I look down at the ground to gather my courage and then move my eyes back up to Livingston. Before I can say a word, I’m interrupted.
“Livingston!” Momma says. “When did you arrive?”
Livingston holds my gaze for a second longer before he looks over my shoulder at Momma and gives her the award-winning smile he’s best known for.
“Only minutes ago, and may I say, Mrs. Pleasonton, it is a pleasure to see you again. I swear, you are agin’ in reverse.”
Momma beams under his praise. My mourning has an expiration date. As for Momma, she’s been mourning since I was a child. She has every mourning gown available. It was her status symbol. When you thought of Leonore Pleasonton, you immediately thought of her dedication to her deceased husband and now, her fallen son. She was on par with Queen Victoria.
Momma adjusts the black piping around her shirt cuff before she pats Livingston’s arm. “Bless your heart, dear boy. You’re too good to me.”
Depending on who you ask, “bless your heart” can either be said as an insult or with earnestness. Momma has always used it sincerely and detests when it’s used with derision.
“Dinner is ready to be served,” a servant announces from the doorway.
Livingston holds both arms out to escort Momma and me to the dining room. I take his arm and stare straight ahead.
“What is it you needed to speak with me about?” Livingston asks.
I look at him from the corner of my eye, trying not to show my shock. I’m not having this discussion in front of Momma. For her part, she remains silent, but I know she’s hanging onto every word. “Oh, I … um, I can’t remember.”
“It seemed urgent.”
“It must have slipped my mind. If I think of it, I’ll let you know.”
That earns a sharp look from Momma. To her, I had the perfect chance, and I didn’t take it.
“Please do,” Livingston replies as we approach the dining room.
Momma strategically places Livingston across from me, and herself beside him. I have empty seats next to me and can’t help but feel I’m on trial.
It would’ve been better if Momma had invited more people over. Then I could distract myself. With only Livingston here, I’m forced to see his face and engage in conversation the minute I look up.
Dinner is served, starting with okra soup, a Lowcountry staple. Afterward, there’s Charleston red rice with crushed bacon and bell peppers as the seasoning. Livingston compliments the food profusely. He assumes our cook of sixteen years, Tandey, made this meal. Little does he know she left this morning with her daughter for North Carolina. Her reason? “To be with family.”
I could unravel the true meaning of her words and so could Momma. Tandey wanted a job that paid. It didn’t matter how long she’s been with our family. Money is the driving force of this wo
rld.
In the end, Momma pulled one of the servants from her daily chores and had her work in the kitchen.
While the two of them politely converse, I listen closely, looking for any way I can sneak my way into the discussion so I can continue my talk with Livingston. I’d rather not have this conversation around Momma, but I can’t continue dinner like this anymore. I am an utter catastrophe right now. I can’t eat, I’m breaking out in a cold sweat, and my heart is beating so rapidly I’m convinced it’s going to break free from my chest.
I place my fork on my plate, and not for the first time does Livingston look in my direction. He knows I’m being almost reticent tonight. He knows I’m hiding something.
Once again, Momma interrupts me before I have a chance to speak. Does she time these moments? “Well, I do believe it’s time for me to relax in the sittin’ parlor.”
Instinctively, Livingston begins to stand at the same time she does.
Momma smiles. “No, no. You stay where you are. Escort Rainey and take your time. I’ll see the both of you soon.” With her hands linked in front of her, Momma strides out of the room.
My gaze narrows as I watch her walk away. Her abrupt departure from dinner was not a coincidence. She’s giving me another chance to speak with Livingston, and this time, I won’t let it go to waste. As her footsteps echo down the hall, Livingston slowly turns his gaze toward me. I shrug as though I’m also bewildered by Momma’s actions and take a bite of my food.