eleven

Two weeks in the city had not faded Alfred’s memory of the last time he had seen Francesca. He had thought it best to stay away until Mother had asked that he come out to Newport and escort her home. He opened the morning paper as he sat across from Mother at breakfast in their spacious New York apartment.

“So, how was the grand fete to which I was not invited?” he asked her.

“Outlandish. I wish I’d thought of it. Ali Baba everywhere, with turbans for the men to wear, spangled tiaras for the ladies, and Persian carpets covering the marble floors. Mrs. Wallingford even hired a troupe of dancers and acrobats and trained monkeys. Quite the spectacle.” Mother shook her head. “I won’t tell her, though, that the lack of an invitation has ruffled your feathers.”

“Mother, I don’t have feathers, and if I did, they would most certainly not be ruffled.” He poured himself some coffee. “I have a meeting this morning and must be off soon.”

“Don’t you want to know how your young lady fared at the fete?”

“She is not my young lady, and although I would always wish to know how she fared, I do not think it would change anything.”

“That count.” Mother frowned. “I don’t trust him. He seems like he has too much polish. What do you think?”

“I can’t say. I haven’t had many dealings with the man.” Alfred folded up his newspaper. Too much talk of people he did not want to consider. It hurt to think of Francesca, and it hurt even worse to think of how he’d nearly succumbed to his urge to kiss her in the garden and comfort her as well. But she was not his to comfort. Or to kiss.

“You’re off, now?”

He nodded. “I will be back this afternoon.”

“Give your mother a kiss.”

Alfred complied then went for his hat. The fine New York morning was full of activity as the city woke up, with the rush of carriages and people on foot.

The offices of Finley Shipping and Imports were located blocks away from their apartment and farther than he usually liked to walk, but this unspoiled morning walk would give Alfred time to think, pray, and clear his head. Father used to have an uncanny way of letting nothing trouble him, but he devoted his full attention to the matter at hand.

Perhaps it was because of his youth, but Alfred had yet to master such a task at age twenty-five. He knew, though, to ask daily for wisdom from above. He had yet to be disappointed; however, the matter of what to do about Francesca left him wondering.

Two figures half a block away and across the street made him pause. They stood at the entrance gate to a fine house that likely made up three of Alfred’s own New York premises. He’d known that someone of great status lived there, but had never seen the occupants, nor had he ever been curious enough to know the owner.

As he drew closer, Alfred saw that a tall man with dark hair held the hand of a young woman; her ink black hair tumbled past her shoulders. She looked as though she wanted to step closer to him, but the tall man darted glances along the street at the passersby and shook his head. Alfred wished he could see her face clearly. He drew closer to the gate across the street.

The young woman turned from the tall man, her head down, and pulled a shawl about her shoulders. She looked back and blew him a kiss before scurrying to a waiting cab.

Alfred stopped on the sidewalk, and someone nearly ran into him.

“I beg your pardon.” Alfred tipped his hat and stared back at the gate.

Count Philippe stared back at him from across the street, then slammed the gate shut and disappeared.

Without a thought except to watch for carriages criss-crossing on the street, Alfred darted toward the gate.

“Count de la Croix,” he called through the bars. “I must speak with you.”

Alfred only saw a short expanse of lawn, and a small flowering garden. No sign of the man who’d closed the gate mere seconds before.

“Sir?” he called out but heard only street noise and the bubbling fountain inside the small courtyard. The very idea that Count de la Croix was keeping company with a woman made the blood burn inside his veins. Not that Alfred wanted to think of Francesca eventually married to the man, but the idea that the count’s fidelity was questionable?

He waited, and not patiently. At last, the noise of a large door opening met his ears, and a doorman clad in a starched suit left the house and crossed the courtyard.

“Monsieur, I am afraid Count de la Croix is not accepting visitors today. You will leave now, n’est-ce pas?” But the man’s tone held no question.

“Oui. I understand.” Alfred wanted to pound the gate and demand the count admit him to the estate, but truthfully, he didn’t know what he’d say to the man if he were granted an audience with him.

He turned away and continued along. If he had ever thought of a morning walk clearing his mind and preparing him to focus on the day, that inclination was lost. Because now he recalled the identity of the young woman. He’d seen that dark hair before, the porcelain skin, the nose that formed a point. He’d also heard her grating laughter as he spoke with her on another occasion.

The woman was none other than Francesca’s own cousin, Lillian.

❧

“How beautiful.” Francesca stared at the topaz bracelet on her wrist. “But Philippe, you do not have to give me jewelry every time I see you.”

“My Francesca, it has been a long week and I counted the hours until again I saw your face.” He reached for her hand and kissed it.

They stood on the front steps of Seaside where an open carriage and driver waited for them. Francesca preferred to walk barefoot on the rocks near the shore, listen to Victoria attempt to play the piano with her faltering fingers, or attend a lecture with Mother on the benefits of prudence in one’s daily life. But if Philippe had a driver with him, surely he would not try anything improper. Although a slight nudge on the inside told her that if he did not mind kissing her on a darkened veranda with people nearby, the turned back of a carriage driver would not deter him either.

“I have heard there is a ten-mile Ocean Drive that one must take while here,” Philippe said as he helped her onto the seat of the carriage.

“Yes, there is.” Francesca adjusted her hat then felt for the small packet she carried in her pocket. Victoria had advised her to be prepared the next time she saw the count, and so she was. “It begins at The Elms.”

Francesca and some friends had driven the ten-mile course once, and naturally, two of the carriages competed to see who could cover the distance in the shortest time. She suspected, though, that Philippe would want to linger.

“Jean, let us go now. To The Elms.” Philippe gestured to the driver, who chirruped to the horses. As they pulled away to head along the driveway, Francesca sent up a prayer and fumbled with the gemstone bracelet that might as well have been a shackle. She had prayed every day and sensed no answer.

Worse, Mother remained silent about the matter and had started to focus on wedding plans. The dress, the church, the cake, who should and should not stand with Francesca as attendants.

“Lillian will be at the end of the line,” Mother had said. “The girl is simply brazen. It will be a miracle if my sister finds a suitable match willing to accept her. She has not been properly launched yet.”

“You are quiet today.” Philippe took Francesca’s hand as they passed through the gates of Seaside and onto Bellevue Avenue, in the direction of The Elms.

“I have been thinking. Mother is busy already with wed-ding plans.”

“Oh, but that is good, very good. I want no expense spared. Tell me of these plans, or are they meant to be secret?”

“You already know we will be married in New York, at the end of May.”

“But yes, after which I will take you all over Europe for a month, or for the entire summer if you desire.” He settled his arm on the edge of the carriage, and Francesca felt his arm nudge her shoulders as the carriage moved.

She leaned forward. “Oh, look! I think I see a boat on the bay.”

Philippe frowned and shifted on the seat. “And what about our home? I have several, as you know, but my favorite is in Paris. How did you like Paris?”

“Parts of it I liked very much, such as the gardens. And the Louvre, of course.” She had to be honest, but didn’t want to give the man false hope that she was enthralled with the idea of becoming his wife.

Now they approached Tranquility, and Francesca tried not to stare at the home and will Alfred to come to a window, step onto a terrace—anything.

“Your friend Mr. Finley.” Philippe draped his arm on the back of the seat again. “Do you see him much?”

“No. I have not seen him since. . .it has been three weeks.” She fought off the sensation of missing Alfred, of wanting to hear his voice and engage in conversation. To not just kiss his palm. The ring she wore winked at her in the sunlight.

“That is good. The less you see him, the better. You do not need any, how do you say, conflicted thoughts?”

“You sound much like my mother,” Francesca admitted.

“She is a woman of intelligence. You would do well to listen to her.” Philippe touched her chin. “Do not look so sad. We shall have a wonderful life together, and you will learn to love me.”

Another lesson for her. Like needlework, or piano, or French, or riding. She would rather practice needlework than learn to love Philippe. The carriage drew even with Tranquility, and Francesca glimpsed a lone figure on one of the second-story terraces. Alfred could see her, she knew, and she stared at her hands instead of allowing herself to look at him.

Once Tranquility began to grow smaller behind them, they followed Bellevue Avenue until they reached The Elms.

“Slow down, Jean,” Philippe called ahead to the driver. “We are not racing.”

Francesca was trying to enjoy the view, although the sea breeze barely diffused the afternoon heat. She should have brought a fan, or her parasol. The closed parasol would have served as an ideal weapon, if the need arose. This made her want to smile.

“You look rather pleased. I would like to think it has something to do with me, and this drive today.” Philippe showed her the charming smile that had turned her head in Paris. “Please, tell me I am not repulsive. Francesca, do you think I would have agreed to this marriage if it were merely a business proposition?”

“I do not find you repulsive when you do not try so hard to woo me. Women do not always require a strong hand.”

Philippe tilted his head back and laughed. “My dear Francesca, I am sorry. You are quite unlike any woman I have ever known. Please forgive my behavior the other evening. Please. It will not happen again.” He gave her a repentant look.

This almost made her forget the darker side she had seen the night of the ball. But not quite. Now, if they would finish the ten-mile Ocean Drive and be done with it.

“Thank you for saying so.” She wondered how many other women he had “ever known.” The idea niggled at her.

A few other carriages and their occupants were out enjoying the day as well, and Philippe nodded and touched his hat as they passed. Francesca smiled as well. It wouldn’t do for someone to report to her parents they’d seen her looking like an August thundercloud. She would only speak to direct the driver along the course.

“Jean, please turn down this path.” Philippe pointed to an area that stopped at a lookout over the sea.

“That’s not part of the drive.” Francesca noted the path led to a tree-covered area.

“There. Stop and set the brake.” Philippe waited until Jean stopped the carriage. “You may go stretch the legs while Miss Wallingford and I. . .talk.”

Francesca swallowed hard. She should have brought the parasol. Maybe the packet in her skirt pocket would help. If she could reach it when the need arose.

“A beautiful view isn’t it?” Francesca could watch the surf pound the rocks all day.

“Oui, the view, is very beautiful.” Except Philippe’s gaze wasn’t focused on the scene before them. He licked his lips.

She felt the heat on her neck, and not from the summer day. “Philippe—”

In a flash, he pulled her to him. She couldn’t breathe. His breath smelled, and she had never noticed the odor of cigar on his shirt before. But then she hadn’t been that close to him before, either.

Her pocket. She managed to get an arm free and fumble in her pocket. There. The contents of the packet stung her fingers. She turned the end around and shoved the needle packet into his trouser leg.

A bellow rose from his throat and he released her. “Bee? Was that a bee?” He hollered a few other words in French that Francesca didn’t dare translate in her head because Mother had said those words were improper and she would not need to use them. Ever.

Francesca scrambled to the other side of the carriage seat. “Not a bee. Philippe, what is wrong with you? I just told you earlier that you are not quite repulsive when you stop trying so hard to woo me. And I told you about women not needing a strong hand.”

“Why did you come out with me today, then, on this carriage ride?”

“I was trying to give you a chance. But I also remembered the other evening of the ball.”

“Jean!” Philippe bellowed again for the driver. “Let us return Miss Wallingford to her parents.”

“Thank you, Philippe.” Francesca fanned herself with one hand. “It is rather warm today.”

“Do not ever do anything like that again, after we are wed.”

“Do not ever give me a reason to.” Francesca gave him the heat of her glare. “We could have talked and enjoyed ourselves on this drive.”

“Talk, talk. Why talk?”

“To get to know one another better.” She didn’t know why she tried. After the ball the other evening, she should have locked herself in her room and saved herself the trouble.

Soon enough, they were heading along the driveway to Seaside, and Francesca had never been so glad to see her home.

“I will come in with you and see your parents, no?” Except Philippe wasn’t asking. He tucked her hand inside his arm, but didn’t clamp tightly like the other evening.

They scaled the granite steps together and entered the house.

“Miss Wallingford, Count de la Croix.” Mrs. McGovern greeted them as they stood in the main hallway. “You have returned. Mr. and Mrs. Wallingford are on the terrace.”

Francesca wondered what fresh troubles the woman was going to cause her. Poor woman, seeing a life she could never have played out before her every day. Francesca only hoped Elizabeth would not learn the same bitterness.

Francesca walked with Philippe along the grand hall, straight for the rear terrace where her parents sat, enjoying the breeze.

“You are back so soon,” Mother said as she rose.

“Yes, we are.” Francesca glanced at Philippe, who somehow had gained a limp since leaving the carriage.

“What a charmante town Newport is,” Philippe said. “And thank you for allowing your daughter to ride with me. It has been most. . .enlightening.”

“I am very glad you have had the time to spend together.” Mother beamed.

“Oui, I have discovered one thing today.” Philippe nodded. “Francesca and I do not see the need to wait nearly a full year before we wed. We should like to marry in January, after the New Year.”

Mother started fanning herself. “But the preparations. . .I don’t know if there’s enough time to do everything in that short amount of time.”

“Mother, we don’t have to marry in January.” Or anytime, for that matter. “This was not my idea.”

Mother gasped. “You would call the man you are to marry, a count, a liar?”

“It is more his idea than mine.”

Philippe merely stared at her with the darkened expression she’d seen at the ball.

“Anyway, since when has anyone considered what I want in this entire agreement? Marrying in May was unacceptable. January? Unthinkable. Anytime? Unimaginable.” Francesca ground the words out. “If you would please excuse me, I think the heat and sun have gotten to me. I must go lie down.”

She nodded at Mother and bowed at Philippe then scurried to her room before she said anything worse.