nine

For the rest of the week, Francesca moved through her tasks mindlessly. Tennis at the Newport Casino. Another clambake given by the Williamses. Piano lessons. French lessons (a new endeavor). And all the while escaping Mother’s insistence that she start planning her trousseau. Mother had insisted that Francesca write the count a letter, which Francesca did; but she promptly tore the missive up and threw it away and went to study French some more.

Now on Sunday morning, she squirmed on the pew and tried to pay attention to the sermon. It didn’t help that someone’s hat blocked her view of the minister, who usually was as interesting to watch as he was to listen to. He didn’t merely read verses of scripture, but made them sound as if they were being spoken for the first time.

“Riches. . .” He drew out the s at the end of the word. “Riches are fleeting, temporary. One man may find himself king of the world one day, and the next day, possessing little more than a pauper’s inheritance. Yet the man remains the same. . .” He let the words echo off the walls with their stained glass windows. “Or does he?”

Wealth had not changed Alfred, at least in Francesca’s estimation. She let her wandering thoughts drift back to the rainy day earlier in the week.

The experience at Alfred’s house had left her exhilarated yet troubled. She had not spent much time with Mrs. Finley and was greatly surprised to see that the woman fared so well for one supposedly so ill. Francesca had found herself decorating his home in her imagination—one long hall filled with landscape paintings, the other hall filled with family portraits. The dining room was already perfect, even though the chandeliers had yet to be hung.

But Mrs. Finley’s questions about Philippe bothered her the most. To be sure, she had not seen him for nearly three weeks, and here it was Sunday again. Not that she had any strong feelings for him anymore, but he certainly hadn’t seemed to act like an engaged gentleman. However, her own words came back to her, about her parents making him an offer. If he merely gained a wife through a business transaction, so be it.

What if Philippe had someone else in mind? What would make a man forsake someone he loved to marry another? Money, of course. A good connection.

She bowed her head as the rest of the congregation did so, but her prayer was likely unique to her. Father above, give me grace to do what I must. I do not wish to disgrace my family or Philippe, but it is so difficult. Show me the way. Because what I really want to do is run for those beautiful mountains that are painted in Alfred’s dining room. How can I love a man and honor a man who does not care for me?

“Fran, are you ready?” Victoria plucked at her elbow, and Francesca raised her head. “Guess who will be dining with us today? None other than Alfred Finley and his mother.”

“How did that happen?”

“James invited them. I think he’s trying to solidify the old family alliance.”

Her mother and Mrs. Finley in the same room again. She would have to see this. And try not to think too much about Alfred.

As Mother would have it, Francesca could not see Alfred at the noon meal, nor could she hear him very well. They were seated on the same side of the table, with Mrs. Finley and Mother between them.

James never wanted a quiet meal and therefore tossed out a question, not to Francesca’s surprise. “So, what did you think of the Reverend’s message this morning? About the deceitfulness of riches and the fleeting nature thereof?”

“James, are you addressing anyone in particular?” Mother asked.

“No, Mother. I am simply making conversation. Since it is the Lord’s Day, I think it bodes us well to consider the words we heard earlier, and if we might somehow apply them to our lives.” He stabbed his slice of meat, and his fork squeaked against the plate.

“Well,” Father said, “I am reminded every day that riches are fleeting by the manner in which your mother spends my money.”

Francesca ducked her head to the side and stifled a laugh. Father seldom spoke in such a manner, and she couldn’t tell if he was truly joking or not.

“Mr. Wallingford, we have money to spare, and our lives here require a certain appearance.” Mother huffed, and Francesca knew she probably glared at both her husband and her son. “We are the examples to the rest of the world of how, by hard work and God’s blessing and good fortune, one can live.”

James glanced at Francesca and gave her a look that said, Here, the lecture commences.

“I, for one, enjoy a well-appointed home,” Mrs. Finley interjected, “and yet I do not ever want to forget the life I once had. Many in our world are not so fortunate, and I feel I must do what I can, when I can, to help them.”

“Humph. I try to forget every single day the life I once had,” Mother said.

“I didn’t find it so bad.” Francesca gulped when she realized she’d spoken aloud. “I know I was very young, but I remember our home in Connecticut, not far from the sea. I loved helping you make the bread, and I still remember stitching my first piece.”

“Of course. You were but a child then.” Mother leaned forward, as if to see around Mrs. Finley who seemed to be enjoying her roast beef. “The drudgery of chores was fun to you. You did not have to see, day after day, other homes and things you could not have.”

She wanted to melt into a puddle underneath the table. Didn’t Mother see how ridiculous her posturing appeared?

“This is why I want to start my foundation,” Alfred said. “Many families never have opportunities like ours. I want to give enterprising young men, and women, the chance to enroll in universities. The future is bright, and I believe God wants me to make a difference in the world by sharing what I have.”

Mother said nothing in response to that, and they finished the meal in silence. The plates and place settings were collected, as always, and Francesca excused herself. If not for Philippe, she would have wanted to take a walk with Alfred. If not for Philippe, Alfred would probably be speaking to Father.

The men went their way, and the women their own directions. Mrs. Finley thanked them for a splendid meal, and left for home, saying she needed a nap. Victoria took her leave as well, saying she felt like resting. Francesca wanted to follow suit but found herself headed with Mother toward the back terrace to catch some of the sea breeze, where Mother planned to commence reading aloud from the book of Proverbs in the book of verses that she carried.

As soon as they left the dining room, Mother began. “Do not ever refer to our meager beginnings in such terms again.”

“Mother, it was not my intention—”

“I hated being poor. If you think your tender years were humble, then you do not wish to know about my upbringing as well as your aunt’s. You never lived in a neighborhood one level above the poorhouse.” The air crackled with Mother’s words. “This is why my sister and I are trying to ensure your futures—yours and Lillian’s both.”

“My future will be secure, even without a count.”

“I am your mother, and I know best for you.” She stopped at the terrace doors, and Francesca nearly ran into her. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the looks between you and Mr. Finley. It is not going to happen. He is not going to marry you, take you away from here, squander your wealth, or both.”

“Marrying Philippe means I must live in Paris part of the year, so in a sense he will also be taking me away from here.” She didn’t bother to defend Alfred concerning the idea of squandering her wealth. The idea was ludicrous.

Mother yanked open the terrace door. “That is an entirely different matter.”

Francesca didn’t see how living an ocean away would be different than marrying Alfred—the thought made her dizzy—and living elsewhere, perhaps on his family estate on the Hudson River.

The fresh air outside diluted some of the acid from Mother’s words. Francesca sat on the nearest lounge chair and Mother took the next one.

“Furthermore, if you continue to test me in the matter of Mr. Finley, I guarantee I can make life very, very difficult for him in our circle.” She opened her book of verses. “Now, I believe we left off at chapter four last week, so we shall begin there.”

Mother’s tone changed to one soft as rose petals as she read from Proverbs, and while part of Francesca knew the sacred words would do her good, all she heard was her pulse pounding in her ears and tasted her own angry words, unspoken. But more than the breeze chilled her at recalling Mother’s threat. What could she possibly do to Alfred?

A gull cried somewhere, and Mother read on, accentuating particular verses where she likely felt Francesca was lacking. Her words slowed, and then she yawned.

“Forgive me. I may have overindulged at dinner today.”

Francesca said nothing, but waited for Mother to continue reading. She glanced to the side. Sure enough, Mother’s head bobbed as she studied the page in front of her.

“For the ways of man are before the eyes of the Lord, and he pondereth all his goings. . .” Mother fell silent, and her head leaned back onto the lounge. A tiny snore escaped from her mouth.

The blue sky looked limitless today, as if any bird could fly straight to heaven. Today might be a good day to send another fervent prayer to the heavenly Father’s ears.

Please, help, Father God. I see no change in my circumstances, and I am losing hope. Before long, wedding plans will assail me and for the rest of my life, I feel as if I will be swept along and become voiceless.

Mother’s snoring intensified, and Francesca’s fidgets took over. She left Mother lying on the lounge chair, her book of verses resting on her lap.

She didn’t want to return to the house, but instead headed for the gardens in the side yard. The new plantings had been skillfully nurtured by the gardener. Next summer they’d likely have roses, and Francesca wondered if she would be around to see them, or if she’d be in New York, or in a rental cottage while Philippe had a summer home built for them.

The hollowness inside meant she’d resigned herself to what would happen. She was sure of it. Francesca was never given to tears unless under extreme duress. She thought she’d been drained of every present and future tear when her parents announced her engagement to Philippe. Yet, sitting down on the low stone bench under a young tree, more fresh tears came, the kind accompanied by sobs.

“Please protect Alfred, Lord. He wants to do Your work. I don’t know what Mother could possibly do, but her manner frightened me to think of what she might scheme. Even if it means Alfred and I will never be together, protect him. He’s had enough disappointment in his life.”

Francesca drew a handkerchief from her pocket. She could not go on like this. One thing she agreed with Mother on—a lady must never let her emotions master her. She prayed again for the strength to do the right thing.

❧

“So the White Star Line has cut down on transatlantic travel time, and I daresay we’ll do the same with our shipping operation. Not just from China and here, but between New York and London as well.” Alfred shifted on the cushioned wingback chair. “Another market I’m interested in is Western imports.”

“You mean from Colorado, Texas, New Mexico?” James asked.

Alfred nodded. “James, it’s beautiful country out there. The local crafts and artisans are undiscovered talent. Any gallery in New York would be foolish not to sell their work. Not to mention the mines in Colorado have great potential.”

He paused, and the silence was punctuated by a loud snore from Mr. Wallingford, who’d been listening to the younger men talk.

“It’s not that Father’s uninterested, you know.” James looked apologetic.

“Of course not.” Alfred rose and stretched. “I don’t want to have overstayed my welcome, so I ought to be on my way now. Back to New York. Are you coming as well?”

“Yes, unfortunately. Victoria says she misses me when I’m gone. But I’m here every weekend, and sometimes for a quick overnight during the week.”

“Oh, to be carefree boys once again, without responsibilities. Life was simpler, was it not?”

“To be sure it was. But I like the benefits of adulthood.” James grinned.

They left Mr. Wallingford dozing in his great chair. The man likely dreamt of a world where his wife wasn’t spending his money.

“I’ll see myself out,” Alfred said in the hallway. “Side door to the stables, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” James stopped walking for a moment. “And Al, don’t worry about Francesca. She’s going to be fine. Mother’s a bit. . .hard. . .on her. She doesn’t want her to have a life of struggle.”

“I know that. But life with me would hardly be a struggle.” Alfred tired of having to justify his position.

“Mother has this notion of reputation being supreme. And since, in her opinion, yours has a bit of a smudge—”

“I’d say it’s more of an ink stain.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I’m not. I am simply a realist where your mother is concerned.”

James darted a glance down the hall as they headed to the side entry. “I’ll see what I can learn about this count. Surely his reputation isn’t completely stellar, despite the title. Perhaps if Mother can be persuaded that you are a better match, although title-less. . .”

“Thanks, James, for those thoughts. But I won’t try to undermine him. That would only paint me as more of a villain in your mother’s sight.”

As Alfred turned to leave, James called after him, “I know you’re the best man for my sister. We just need to convince Mother.”

Alfred waved and left through the door. Two paths sloped from the magnificent steps. One path led toward the carriage house and stables. The other led to the Wallingfords’ young gardens.

A lone figure sat on a bench underneath a small tree. Francesca. Alfred steeled himself on his first impulse to head toward the garden and instead intended to take the path to the carriage house. She looked up, in his direction.

He found his feet turning in the direction of the garden and his legs propelling him there as well. After the fiasco at dinner, no wonder Francesca sought refuge. When he reached her, he noted her red eyes and the rumpled handkerchief in her hand.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

“You’ve been crying.” He settled next to her on the bench.

With the silence, they could hear the ocean nearby and a bird twittering away in a tree somewhere.

“I shouldn’t.” She dabbed at her eyes. “It won’t solve anything. But you must leave.”

“I’ll leave when I’m ready.”

“We are in full view of the side of the house. Anyone looking out the windows can see us.” Her gaze traveled to the great windows of Seaside that overlooked the garden. “Mother asked for a view of the terrace from her bedroom so she could look out on her roses. She may yet see us, instead. Or else one of her spies that work in the house may.”

“Very well. Perhaps we should stroll. Walk with me to the carriage house.” Alfred stood and offered her his arm, but she simply stared at it.

“I am afraid for you, Alfred.” She looked down at the handkerchief in her hands. “Mother made it very clear to me this afternoon that she is prepared to make trouble for you somehow. She wants to ruin everything you have worked for, and I feel as if I am to blame.”

“Why would you think that?” He gritted his teeth, not at Francesca, but at the very thought that Mrs. Wallingford would deliberately work against him. It was one thing to use her daughter as a stepping stone in society, but now to attempt to ruin him for good?

“Because try as I might, even though I am engaged to someone else, I cannot forget you.” With this, she stood and gripped his arm, and fresh tears streamed down her face.

He was in agony, trying to keep from pulling her into an embrace. “Francesca, you are not entirely to blame. Because I have not been able to forget you.”

Alfred allowed himself to use one of his thumbs to wipe a tear. Francesca moved her face ever so slightly and kissed his palm.

Then she stepped back. “Oh. I shouldn’t have.” With that, she took up her skirt and ran for the house.