An Unlikely Suitor (21 page)

Next came the hat, which was small and flat but for rosettes and bows made from two shades of blue ribbon. Mamma had done a good job on this one, making it subtle but complementary to the rest of the suit.

Bone-colored kid boots rounded out the costume. “How do I look?” Rowena asked.

Lucy pointed to her own cheeks. “You’re pale. A picnic in the sun will do you good.”

Rowena pinched her cheeks and bit her lower lip. “But surely you know it’s considered gauche for ladies of bearing to have a suntan. Although rosy cheeks
are
well considered.”

“But why?” Lucy asked. “Surely showing evidence of being out in the sun and fresh air would be a good thing.”

Rowena seemed a bit uncomfortable at the subject and merely shook her head. Then Lucy understood. “Is it because a darkened skin makes you look of lower class?”

Rowena offered a pained expression. “These are not my standards, Lucy, but they are standards nonetheless.”

Lucy felt a gulf open between them, one that could never be altered any more than the color of their eyes or hair. They were what they were.

“Please don’t be sad,” Rowena said. “I meant no offense.”

“I know you didn’t.”
You
didn’t. But that still didn’t remove the offense.

Rowena headed to the door. “To make amends, I do have a surprise for you.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t have time to tell you right now. But when I get back . . .” She smoothed her skirt and gathered her gloves. “Well, then, I’m off. Wish me well with Edward.”

Lucy set aside her hurt and sincerely offered Rowena her best wishes.

Once she was alone, she turned back to the racks, chose another item, and returned to her mending.

The total silence of the room quickly enveloped her. Silence was still a rarity. At home and at work she was always in the presence of others, and the sounds of the street were but a few feet away.

Others . . . How were Mamma and Sofia doing? Was Bonwitter bothering them? Was Mr. Standish watching over them as he’d promised?

If only they could be here and see this house. When Lucy had first been invited she’d placed an image in her mind of what the house of a wealthy person would look like, yet her imagination paled in comparison to the reality of this . . . cottage.

Such a term was laughable. Why would they call these mansions cottages? Was it an inside joke? Or did it expose an essence of guilt for owning such places—such palaces—in the first place? Lucy would be embarrassed to have so much.

Of course it was easy for her to say such a thing, since she did
not
have and would
never
have . . .

She shook the thoughts away. Back to mending.

Edward helped Rowena to a bench on the lawn and sat beside her.

Then he giggled, stifling it with a gloved hand.

She looked toward him. “What’s so funny?”

He leaned back. “I dare not say.”

“Then I dare you
to
say.”

His eyes skimmed the eight others in their picnic party, all lined up neatly on a row of benches and chairs in the grass. “I’ve never attended a picnic where the participants sat in a neat line, nor one where servants set up tables with fine china and crystal.”

Rowena looked down the row of top-hatted men with their spats and walking sticks, alternating with pastel-clad women—except for Mrs. Burnwald, who was still dressed in mourning. Rowena had never considered any of this odd. It was the way picnics were accomplished in Newport.

“You’d prefer to sit on the ground and let insects infest your luncheon?”

“Absolutely not,” he said. “I’ll fight any ant to the death if it dare attack my
foie gras
.”

His tone was a concern. As an outsider it would behoove him to accept whatever mode of entertainment there be, in whatever form it was presented. “Do you mock us, Mr. DeWitt?”

He put a hand on her arm. “I tease you. If you’d rather I didn’t . . . ?”

Teasing. He was teasing.

She put her hand on his, letting it linger. “You’re good for me. You make me see things with a lighter view.” She glanced back over the group, with their row of parasols at attention, even though the seating was situated in the shade. “When I was a child I used to go on less formal picnics, with hunks of bread and ham stolen from the pantry.”

“Ah so. You are a thief?”

“Actually, my friend Morrie did the thievery. I merely told him where the food was kept.” The memory took her away from the moment, and she smiled at the recollection of searching for lucky four-leaf clovers and feeding most of the bread to the birds.

“Should I be jealous of this Morrie?”

“Oh no, no. He’s just a very good friend.”

“A friend who has the ability to make you smile with fond memories.”

She felt her face grow warm, for her picnics with Morrie were but one of many happy times together.

“You’re blushing. Was the young Morrie bold on this picnic?”

Not on that one. But Morrie
had
delivered her first kiss. She’d been thirteen, and he two years older. He’d just helped her down from her horse where she was learning to ride sidesaddle when they’d suddenly noticed their close proximity and he’d leaned down to kiss her on the lips. She hadn’t known what to do, so had popped the tip of his nose with her hand. Which had led to his doing the same for her, and . . .

“Hello? Rowena?”

She blinked the memory away just in time to accept a glass of lemonade from a footman.

Lucy rubbed her eyes. She’d been sewing for hours and the close handwork had taken its toll. She scanned the room for a clock, found none, but was certain many hours had passed. She set the dress aside and stood.

When would Rowena return? Should Lucy be here when she got back, or could she go up to her room? Was that considered against the rules?

She stretched her arms overhead and decided by the ache there and in her shoulders and neck that she would have to risk it. If someone stopped her, so be it. She could claim ignorance without lying.

Lucy was glad there was a door directly from the dressing room to the hallway. To go through Rowena’s bedroom without her present would be uncomfortable.

Luckily, the hallway was empty. Lucy paused a moment to gain her bearings. Which way to the stairs?

She turned to the left and found the back stairs, but before she could begin her ascent to the next floor, a young man barreled up the stairway from the main floor and nearly collided with her. His trousers and shirt were covered with mud. She couldn’t imagine what a stableboy or gardener was doing amid the private quarters of the house, but merely lowered her eyes to move past.

“Well well, look what we have here,” the man said.

She was amazed at his cheeky manner. “I am not a
what
, I am a
who
. Now, if you don’t—”

He laughed and put a hand on her arm, stopping her escape. “Point taken. And so then,
who
are you?”

The nerve of the man. She took a moment to blatantly take note of his messy clothes. “You’re getting mud on the carpets.”

“Then clean it up.”

“Excuse me?”

He gave a little salute with two fingers to his forehead, then added, “I’ll see you later, Lucy. I’ll make sure of it.” He walked off, down the hall from whence she’d come.

Lucy? He knew her name?

“How do you know—?”

He turned to a door, opened it, and smiled back at her. “I know everything that goes on around here. Everything. Ta-ta.” He entered the room and closed the door behind himself.

Lucy was confused. He’d been messy like a servant, yet he’d entered one of the rooms as though he owned—

She gasped at her obvious mistake. He belonged here. He was part of the family—was he Rowena’s wanton brother, Hugh? And to think she’d called him on his messy clothes.

Taking a break in her room was doubly needed.

Within the span of a few seconds, Lucy knew something was wrong. Her hat was gone from its perch on the dresser, the empty satchel that had held her clothing was missing from under the bed. She opened the drawers and found all her clothing gone too.

“They stole everything!” She repeated the words as a question. “They stole everything?” Who would do such a thing?

The need for answers dispelled her need for rest. Lucy headed belowstairs in search of Mrs. Donnelly or the butler, Mr. Timbrook. Spotting neither, she entered the kitchen.

“Pardon me . . .” She couldn’t remember the cook’s name.

“All right,” the woman said, looking up from cutting up a chicken. “I’ll excuse you. But what for?”

Two kitchen maids laughed softly.

Fine. She’d be the brunt of their jokes all they wanted, if only she could get her things back. “I went up to my room and found all my possessions gone.”

“Yes, well . . .”

“I know I’m new, but I will not be treated in such a manner. If this is some sort of joke . . .”

The cook put down her meat cleaver and eyed Lucy with raised brows. “So being moved to the room of the lady’s maid, right next to Miss Langdon, isn’t good enough for you?”

“What?”

One of the maids spoke. “Care to tell us your secret? How do you rate coming here first class and getting moved next to the young mistress?”

“What are you talking about?” Were they talking about the dressing room?

Cook shrugged. “If you can’t find the room, that’s your problem.
I
have work to do.”

No. It couldn’t be. “I just came from there and none of my things—”

“You’re still accusing us of stealing?” Cook asked.

“No, no, but . . .”

Cook flipped a hand at her in dismissal. “Go on, then. Go back to your domain and stay out of ours.”

Lucy suffered sudden regrets at her accusation. She didn’t want the servants to hate her. The consequences were troubling and unknown.

“Get on with you,” Cook said. “Leave us peons to our work.”

“I . . .” Lucy didn’t know what to say, so said nothing and left. She hurried upstairs, hoping she didn’t encounter anyone else who knew of her preferential treatment.

She hesitated at the door to Rowena’s dressing room and knocked. When no one answered, she went inside. Her things were not inside. There had to be some other room nearby. Cook had said there was a room for the lady’s maid here.

Lucy walked the perimeter of the room and saw no other door. Was she somehow supposed to sleep in here, amongst the clothes? Flummoxed, she put her hands upon her hips and sighed. It was then her gaze fell upon the opposite side of the room, where she spotted the top of a doorjamb above a rod heavy with dresses. She spread the clothes to either side and discovered a door. She opened it outward toward the next room, and entered. There, sitting on a bed, were her missing satchel and hat.

The room was no larger than her bedroom back home, but the furnishings were of nicer quality. The bed had an oak head- and footboard, and the dresser was crowned with an oval mirror. A tan upholstered chair sat in the corner, and a small window overlooked the back lawn. The floor was covered with a blue and maroon oriental rug, and there were hooks on the wall for her clothing.