Unrivaled (21 page)

During the fight, the wise men’s vases had shattered. They were standing beside me now looking at the pieces. “What’re we supposed to give Jesus?” Bessie’s protector was casting a worried glance in the direction of the teacher. “Miss Pirkle’s going to yell at us.”

I knew all about the Miss Pirkles of the world. The South Side had been lousy with them, all those prune-skinned spinsters
trying to do the world some good . . . and making it hell on earth for little boys in the process. “Here.” I pulled some Royal Taffies from my pocket. I’d taken some with the old red wrappers from Mr. Mundt’s box; the new packaging just wasn’t the same. I handed one to each of the boys. “Just . . . pretend you’re carrying your gifts beneath your robes. And when you get up there, give Jesus one of these instead.”

“Thanks, mister!”

I would have warned them about not eating the candy beforehand, but the teacher was already pulling the wise men into the line. I slipped into the sanctuary down the side aisle as they all went down the middle. By the time the wise men had reached the manger, I was in my seat.

Augusta smiled at me, though her eyes were shooting daggers.

“I was helping the children.”

Her fury faded. I could tell she’d settled for mercy when she leaned close. “The mayor’s grandchild is Baby Jesus.”

That probably explained why there was a photographer standing just to the side of the manger scene.

The wise men did me proud. They held those rugs around their necks with the tightest of grips. And then they crowded so tightly around the manger that I doubted anyone caught a glimpse of the Royal Taffies they gave the baby.

“Is that . . . ?” Augusta looked at me with a frown.

I shrugged.

I was ready to breathe a sigh of relief as they moved away and the choir broke into a chorus of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” But the baby chose that instant to wave his arms. And clasped in one of those tiny fists, for all the world to see, was the bright red wrapper of a Royal Taffy.

“Well done, Charles. I knew you could do it.”

My father slid the paper down the table toward me at breakfast. When I unfolded it, I saw a picture of the previous evening’s nativity. Across the top the headline blared
Santa Might Like Fancies; Jesus Prefers Royals
.

“Genius. Pure genius.” He raised his cup of coffee in Augusta’s direction. “What did I tell you? Like father, like son!”

“I would like to invite you, Miss Kendall, to a Chamber of Commerce banquet on Tuesday, next.” Mr. Arthur was looking at me expectantly.

My spirits sunk to my toes. Courting a suitor was difficult work. It had been bad enough that evening to endure a hard wooden chair as I sat through a lecture by a boy genius from Harvard on something he kept calling a fourth dimension. He’d had the irritating habit of interrupting himself to scribble mathematical equations on a blackboard, which had swayed alarmingly with every jot and dash of the chalk. When his lecture had moved into the importance of Euclidean something or others, I had closed my eyes, taken deep breaths, and imagined myself back in Crete. At least the reception afterward at the university’s faculty dining room had the benefit of refreshments.

If truth be told, I rather thought I’d earned the right to
not
be escorted anywhere by Mr. Arthur on Tuesday, after having been escorted by him all over the city for several months. And
it irked that he kept calling me Miss Kendall. But whenever I opened my mouth to tell him to call me Lucy, the words just wouldn’t come out. He was a very nice man, but all that niceness had a way of annoying me. Rather like anise flavoring. It was the one thing I couldn’t stand in candy. Or, apparently, in men.

I smiled. “I think . . . we had already agreed to an invitation elsewhere that evening.” I saw Charlie Clarke skulking around by the door. If I hadn’t cheated with Fancy Crunch at the Stix, Bauer and Fuller window display, then I would have been fuming about the
Post-Dispatch
’s photo of Jesus grasping a Royal Taffy. What sort of trickery had he undertaken in order to accomplish that? Whoever said turnabout was fair play must not have been acquainted with the Clarkes.

“What’s that?” Mother smiled as she came to stand beside me.

Mr. Arthur nodded at Mother. “I had asked Miss Kendall to accompany me to a Chamber of Commerce banquet on Tuesday.”

“Of course she will.” She turned her eyes on me. “Won’t you, my dear?”

I tried to keep my shoulders from sagging; it wasn’t easy. “I must have been mistaken about the other engagement. It would be an honor to go with you. Thank you, Mr. Arthur.” I wondered . . . maybe if I asked him, Mr. Arthur would loan me some money.

He gave me a very reserved, very proper smile.

No.

I had the feeling that he was very much like my father. He would never approve of a girl conducting business. And I couldn’t imagine him ever tying on an apron and helping me make candy. He probably shared my mother’s view that ladies didn’t belong in the kitchen.

So . . . how would a marriage to him make things any different from the way they were now?

Panic fluttered through my stomach as I considered a future that was every bit as bleak as my present. I couldn’t imagine Mr. Arthur giving me a loan, and I couldn’t imagine him approving of my helping in the confectionery. Perhaps I should have turned my efforts to helping my mother find a buyer for the company, but with Charlie Clarke in town, the whole thing had become a matter of principle.

I couldn’t just let Standard run us out of business.

If only Father would get better. If Father were well, then maybe
he
could ask Mr. Arthur for a loan. And if we were married by then, if we were family, then how could Mr. Arthur refuse?

Married to Mr. Arthur, my life wouldn’t be much different than it was now, but I could have the satisfaction of seeing Standard’s efforts to ruin us blocked. Would that not be worth it? If I had to sacrifice my welfare for my father’s honor, maybe it was a sacrifice worth making.

Besides, Mr. Arthur wasn’t unhandsome. He was attentive to Mother. He was completely respectable in every single way. And I had to get married at some point, didn’t I? All my other school friends already had. Why shouldn’t I have some say in who I married? Why couldn’t I do the picking instead of being picked?

But then . . . shouldn’t I be happy about it? About him?

“It looks like old Alfred’s getting ready to propose.”

I jumped as a voice spoke from my side, and I turned to see Charlie Clarke. I didn’t see why he had to say it with such amazement. Did he think me unfit for marriage? I’d traveled the Continent, I knew three languages, and I was a distinguished graduate of both Mary Institute and Mr. Mahler’s dance academy. “I hope he does, because I mean to accept.”

If I had wanted to see jealousy in his eyes—which I was quite sure I did not—I might have been disappointed. What I did see
was a stiffening in his jaw and a flash of . . . something . . . in his eyes. “Are you sure?”

I lifted my chin. “Why wouldn’t I be? It would be cruel to encourage hope in a man only to nip it once it started to flower.”

“You don’t really like him. I’d thought you might do him some good, but now, I’m not so sure.”

He’d said it so confidently, so matter-of-factly, that it made my blood boil. “Are you saying—what are you saying?” Was he saying I wasn’t good enough for Mr. Arthur?

He grasped me by the elbow and leaned so close I could see the prickles of whiskers on his chin. “I’m just saying that you might want to think this through.”

“Who are you to say whom I ought to marry? And what do you want me to do, Charlie? Wait for the ‘right man’? Bide my time and just—just—make candy in my kitchen until my father’s company’s been run into the ground? The right man is the one who can save it.”

“So . . . this has nothing to do with him? It’s about
candy
?”

“Who are you to talk? Everything you do is about Royal Taffy!” I wrenched my elbow from him and took a deep breath in an effort to calm myself. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Clarke, but I’ll marry whom I choose.”

“Don’t you think you should marry someone you want to be with? Someone you want to come home to? Someone you can’t wait to talk to at the end of the day?”

Yes, I did. What I wanted was a marriage like my aunt and uncle’s. But sometimes you couldn’t have what you wanted. “Mr. Arthur is a fine man. I will admit that I haven’t known him long, but I’m sure, in time—”

“In time! If you don’t like him now, then you never will.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Why wish for lemon meringues when you can only find lemon drops?”

“Are they really all that’s available?”

Mr. Arthur was the most eligible bachelor in town. And the only one I didn’t mind spending time with. I didn’t have the advantage of marriageable third cousins like Annie Farrell had or old school friends. “I wish you would tell me where to find an alternative!”

His pupils seemed to shrink, and for a moment I thought I’d caused him pain. But then I remembered who his father was, and I pushed away the thought.

“There could be a man right here, right now, who would love you with all of his heart if you would only give him a chance.” His voice was quiet, but intense.

“Here? At a university lecture?”

“A man who would speak up if he thought you might accept him.”

“And why wouldn’t I?”

“What if . . . what if he had a past? What if he weren’t quite what he seemed? If he’d . . . spent some time in jail?”

“You mean . . . you mean he’s a criminal?”

He said nothing.

“I’d like to see him try to talk to me!”

The corners of his mouth twisted in a sardonic smile.

“In any case, Mr. Arthur is the only man who’s presented himself. I’m already nearly twenty years old, Charlie, and soon my family will lose its business. Who will want to marry me then?” My goodness but my future was bleak . . . bleaker than I’d realized. And I didn’t thank Charlie Clarke for pointing it out to me.

“Any man with any kind of sense would want to marry you.”

He said it with such sincerity, such vehemence, that it nearly took my breath away. I could see how some girl might be deceived by his cool self-assurance. By those eyes that seemed to
peer deep down into the soul. He’d probably had women back in Chicago swooning over his dark good looks and those tantalizing dimples. Longing to touch that jagged-looking scar on his jaw and basking in the familiar way in which he addressed himself to complete and total strangers.

“But why shouldn’t you marry someone you
want
to marry?”

It was the question I’d been asking myself. And I still didn’t have an answer. “Because . . . because there is no such man.” Tears choked my throat. Tears of despair. Of wishes squandered and dreams lost. “And if there is . . . I don’t know where to find him.” I turned from him then. I didn’t want him to see me cry. And I didn’t want him to come to my rescue. Not ever again.

I found an empty table far from Charlie Clarke. As I lifted my skirt to sit in a chair, I saw Mr. Arthur approaching. He waited until I sat before taking the seat beside me. “Surely you know why I’ve been so keen on getting to know you.” He handed me a cup of punch as he spoke.

He
was
going to propose! Panic rose and beat its wings against my stomach. He was going to propose, I was going to say yes, and we were going to be married.

He set his own cup on the table. Taking out his pocket watch, he sprang the cover and, after glancing at it, snapped it shut with a click. He looked at me, face placid, eyes serene. “I wish to propose that you marry me.”

I wasn’t looking for romance. I’d never been looking for romance. And in spite of what Charlie Clarke had said, I still wasn’t. Not exactly. But in that moment I realized I had been expecting something that sounded a bit less like a business arrangement and more like a romantic attachment. Or at least . . . a warm friendship. And though I didn’t have anything against
learning in general, a lecture about impossible theories seemed an odd place to speak of marriage. “And why do you propose that I marry you, Mr. Arthur?”

He blinked and sat back in his chair. “I believe there are many good reasons.”

“Could you do me the favor of telling me what they are?” Maybe that would help me forget my conversation with Charlie and make me feel better about the prospect.

His brows drew together. “I find this highly unusual.”

I smiled what I hoped was an endearing smile. “Please, won’t you indulge me?”

A flush began at his neck and climbed up his face. “Of course. I wouldn’t want you to think me indifferent.” He leaned forward and drew my hand from the cup of punch, enclosing it in his own. I might have expected to feel some heat through my glove, but I felt nothing. “I’m an Arthur.” He looked at me, brow raised, as if hoping, I suppose, that might be enough.

“Yes. I’ve known that for quite some time now.” And really, that’s all that mattered, wasn’t it? His being an Arthur could help our family save City Confectionery.

“I’m of an age, Miss Kendall. It’s time for me to settle down.”

“Is there anything about your plans or your dreams, Mr. Arthur, that has to do with me in particular?”

“You’re a very nice girl!” He said it as if I might protest that I was not.

He might be surprised to find out that I wasn’t, considering that I had once held hands with Charlie Clarke at the airfield and had almost kissed him. “But don’t you think that if we’re to be married, there ought to be some sort of attachment between us?” Or . . . attraction?

“Do you?”

I hadn’t used to think so. I’d thought that I could marry any
old person just like I might be able to make candy with any copper pot.

He released my hand. “I think that we could have quite a good marriage. I’m very agreeable. I’ve always been told so.”

He was. There was nothing at all wrong with him. But . . . that didn’t mean he was necessarily right . . . did it? Oh! Charlie Clarke ruined everything. Even my marriage proposals. But now that I’d broached the topic, there was nothing to be done but continue. “I think you’ll find that a girl would like to believe that she’s more than just a . . . just a girl . . .”

He blinked. “But . . . you are one.”

I was. Whatever point I had been trying to make seemed lost and rather silly now. “It’s just that . . . a girl wants something more.”

“Like what?” He was looking at me with interest, as if he really wanted to know.

“A girl would like to know that . . . she mattered.” I doubted that Mr. Arthur would ever look at me with anything other than that calm, serious, levelheaded look he had in his eyes. And I didn’t think him capable of ever raising his voice at me. Not like Charlie. Could I even . . . ? I wondered if I might be able to make him mad. To make him feel anything at all.

“A girl.” He took my hand. “You mean, you?” He was looking at me with a surprisingly keen glance.

I blushed. “Yes. I think I would.” Why shouldn’t I matter?

“Then put your fears to rest. I can’t think of a more suitable companion, and in time I’m quite certain that we’ll come to care very much for each other. Love has the best chance of growing when it has a foundation of mutual respect.” His ears had gone pink. “And I would consider it my duty as your husband to support your family as if it were my own. I know you must be concerned about your mother, considering your father’s illness.”

I felt a flush of shame sweep over me. I guess I’d just assumed that Mother could take care of herself. Mr. Arthur was a much better person than I would ever be. And he’d said what I had wanted to hear. So why didn’t I feel better about his proposal? I should be happy. I
would
be happy. I’m sure I just . . . needed . . . some time to get used to the idea. “Then I accept your kind proposal, Mr. Arthur.”