three

“Enrico, you are a master artist and undiscovered genius.” Alfred leaned back to get a better view of the artist working on the large mural in the dining room of Tranquility. The scene, a sweeping view of a Western plain with the Rocky Mountains rising in the distance, wasn’t typical of the murals seen in other homes. Alfred had wanted a dramatic reminder of God’s natural artistry, and all he had brought with him was a dull photograph. Yet Enrico had brought the West to life on Tranquility’s dining room wall.

“Grazie, Signore Finley. The colors are correct, yes?” The man, barely five years older than Alfred, looked down from the scaffolding that rose to the tall ceiling.

“They’re just as I remember them.” The memory of the West’s grandeur resonated inside Alfred, and nothing matched it save the ocean that roared but a hundred yards or so from his home.

“I will finish soon. I promise. But I might need more paint.” Enrico turned back to face the wall and picked up his brush.

“I’ll make sure you have the supplies you need.” Alfred moved along the scaffolding to study the lower part of the painting. “Have you ever thought of selling your paintings anywhere besides in New York? Many people would pay you well for a portrait.”

Truly, just as elegant as anything he’d seen in Italy. While some of his associates commissioned artists in Europe, Alfred had found Enrico selling his small oil paintings on a New York City curb. He immediately recognized the man’s talent, and asked him to come to Newport to paint the murals for Tranquility. Alfred spared himself the expense of “importing” talent, and he hoped that Enrico’s display of ability would bring money and recognition to the artist and his family—a small way that Alfred could make a difference and money well spent.

“Sì, once or twice. But my English is not so good and I do not know how much to ask. I knock on a door, they will turn me away, thinking I beg.” Enrico’s voice echoed in the nearly empty room.

“If you would like to paint portraits, I would be glad to help you find families who seek a good artist.”

Footsteps in the hallway outside grew louder. O’Neal, Alfred’s assistant, appeared with a folded piece of paper. O’Neal’s father had been in the employ of Alfred’s father, and upon Alfred’s return to New York, he’d found the younger O’Neal in need of a position.

“Yes, O’Neal?” Never Jonathan. Just O’Neal. Alfred had addressed him by his first name only once. The poor fellow had practically grabbed the nearest chair and mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

O’Neal gave Alfred a nod and handed him the paper. “From Mr. James Wallingford.”

“Thank you very much.” Alfred popped open the seal as O’Neal vanished from the room. Tennis and lunch on Friday. He considered that for a moment. He was due to travel back to New York on Friday, but he supposed he could leave on Saturday instead.

He’d never wanted to play the games of the society in which he traveled. But if he were to gain any support for the Finley Humanitarian Foundation, he didn’t know what else to do. And James was his friend, so he knew his friend’s motives. The idea that he might see Francesca poked his mind.

“Enrico?”

The sound of a paintbrush being dabbed on a wall ceased. “Sì, Signore Finley?”

“We’ll be leaving for New York on Saturday morning.”

“My mama will be happy to see me.”

“As will mine.” Alfred had promised once the furniture arrived, he would move his mother from their Manhattan home to Tranquility. He had French doors installed along the seaside view of Tranquility, on both the first and second levels of the house. He could picture Mother taking her breakfast in this room—or her own private sitting room on the next floor above—and then sitting outside to enjoy the morning sun and fresh air with a cup of tea.

Alfred stepped onto the patio and stopped to recheck a door handle before he focused on the view before him. One of the workers could tighten this, or Alfred could just do it himself. He might forget to add the loose handle to the list of items to do before he proclaimed Tranquility complete. But then he had no tools. Alfred studied the patio paved with blocks of gray granite. They’d hold up well to the elements and still look elegant.

Mother could scarcely wait to see the home, just as he could scarcely wait to move to Tranquility for the remainder of the season. New York City was still close enough to take a train if the relaxed atmosphere of Newport slowed him down too much. He could work here on occasion, and most of the gentlemen with whom he needed to do business were at their Newport “cottages.”

The very name attached to the grand homes that lined the coast at Newport made the corners of Alfred’s lips twitch. Most people thought of a cottage as a simple home by the beach, sometimes no more than one small room with a makeshift kitchen and simple sleeping area. Alfred shook his head.

The sea breeze wiggled the edge of the invitation in Alfred’s hand and caught his attention. The Wallingfords had known the Finleys longer than he had been alive, and he considered James the brother he never had. While James had corresponded with Alfred during his years of absence, his friend’s mother, along with some of the set with whom both families associated, deemed Alfred a pariah.

Shortly before Alfred finished at boys’ school, a Mr. Cromwell, Mother’s family friend from Boston, made an appearance. His hair had the same curious tinge of red as Alfred’s. Alfred was never sure when the whispers started, and Mother refused to tell him why. And while Father was still alive, he had refuted what claims he could.

The old feelings swirled inside Alfred. He squeezed his hands into fists, and the paper in his right hand crumpled. No one had listened then, and the rage of youth had done nothing to help him. In fact, it only drew more attention to his hair. No one seemed to care that Mother’s hair, though golden, had a reddish cast in the sun. Alfred realized Mother was right to tell him some battles were not his to fight, and Father helped him pack carefully for the trip west.

“The space will do you good, son. There will be time enough one day for you to take the reins of what I have set up for you.”

Now after Alfred’s return, James had turned into an ally. If James had tennis and lunch in mind, then tennis and lunch it would be. Alfred’s thoughts drifted to Francesca. Always in her brother’s shadow when they were younger, she’d been heartbroken when the two young men went to Yale, and then Alfred left for Colorado. Francesca’s blithe spirit hadn’t changed over time.

But what had caused Francesca to put a ball gown on her maid and whisk her to a Paris party? Cruelty, it was, to tempt a young woman with a life she would likely never have. Alfred had seen it often enough, the wistful glances of some of the “help,” as they were called, right alongside the resigned expressions of those who “knew their place.”

Was Francesca’s escapade an attempt to demonstrate the superficiality of their station? Her words on that rainy day had touched his heart, that if she had a means to give toward the Finley Foundation, she would do so.

Alfred wondered, too, if her escapade was just that—a young woman’s silly trifling. Francesca had always been prone to impulsivity. He touched the scar on his eyebrow, recalling the fateful day when she’d baited him when they were much younger. He’d seen some of that same spirit that evening in Paris.

In matters of the heart, however, Alfred didn’t care to trifle. Nor did he see it as business, as some of his associates were wont to do.

The sound of a throat clearing behind him made Alfred turn to see O’Neal in the doorway.

“Sir, have you decided on a response to Mr. Wallingford’s request?”

“Yes, O’Neal. Please send word to James Wallingford that I shall be glad to attend tennis and lunch on Friday.”

“Straightaway, Mr. Finley.” O’Neal inclined his head slightly and turned on his heel.

Business on Friday. It may be a light sport and a luncheon, but Alfred knew the game. And he would most certainly play.

❧

The midmorning sun had edged higher over the tennis court at the Newport Casino, and Francesca missed the ball. Again. Today’s match would not be won by her. Victoria, her sister-in-law, grinned in triumph at Francesca across the net.

Despite the fact she had pictured Alfred’s face on the ball, she still missed. The one time her racquet did connect, she’d blasted the ball over to where the men sat, discussing the boring things that men often did.

She wished she didn’t want to join them to sit at Alfred’s side. Thoroughly improper.

Now Victoria prepared to serve one last time. “Here it comes.”

Francesca gritted her teeth. Perhaps she had a chance to save the match and her dignity. She watched the ball. Swung.

The racquet sent the ball directly into the net.

“I win!” Victoria dropped her racquet and clapped her hands.

“Next time, I promise I will not make it so easy for you.” Francesca moved to the net and picked up the wayward ball from the court.

“My dear Francesca.” Mother’s voice echoed across the court. “You are certainly off your game this morning. Are you unwell?”

“I am well, but it has been a warm morning.” She dabbed at her forehead.

“Here.” Victoria joined her at the net and reached across for the ball. “I will put our equipment away. You look a mite peaked.”

“Come sit in the shade.” Mother patted the empty seat beside her. “You are overexerting yourself and will doubtless get freckles.”

Francesca might as well have been a seven-year-old wearing long braids as she trudged to the area cloaked in shade. She tried to sit on the empty chair without using an unladylike posture.

“Elizabeth, we require your assistance.” Mother’s voice made the men glance in the women’s direction.

“Yes, ma’am.” Elizabeth, now clad in her customary maid’s garb, emerged to stand by their table. Her gaze darted to Francesca, who gave her a nod and a smile. At least Elizabeth’s mother, Mrs. McGovern, hadn’t attended with them. Mother’s “second in command” at Seaside liked to run the house while Mother spent the money.

“Lemonade for Francesca and Victoria.” Mother waved as if Elizabeth were a stray fly.

“Straightaway, ma’am.” Elizabeth gave a little curtsy and turned away from them.

Memories of Paris jabbed like barbs at Francesca. Elizabeth’s excitement at seeing a real party and wearing a fine gown. Her smile as she spoke about her conversation with Alfred. A night when Elizabeth almost seemed like another young woman attending a grand ball with a friend.

“Thank you, Mother, for removing Elizabeth from working in the laundry. I have missed her working in the house.”

“So long as you remember what her true place is in our home, and that you remember yours.”

“I promise never to do anything like I did in Paris again. It was unkind to Elizabeth.” Other words wanted to form themselves on Francesca’s lips, but she restrained herself. Ladies must always restrain themselves.

“Very well.” Mother fanned her face. “Perhaps a luncheon outdoors was unwise. You are right, it is warm.”

Francesca allowed her gaze to travel to the table where the men sat. James and Alfred chuckled over something, much as they had when they were younger. She hadn’t seen James laugh like that in a long time. Francesca found her own smile creeping across her face. Then Alfred glanced her way, and she felt like she’d been playing tennis nonstop for an hour.

“Your lemonades. The lunch you ordered will be served soon.” Elizabeth placed a tray on the table and presented Francesca and Victoria with their drinks. Then she disappeared again before Francesca could express her thanks.

Victoria sat at the empty chair with a glass of lemonade on the table in front of it. She took a sip. “Delicious.”

Francesca picked up her own glass and enjoyed the sweet tartness. Another look toward Alfred with her traitorous eyes. Mother noticed everything, and doubtless she would see Francesca’s wandering gaze.

“I know what you are thinking, my dear.” Mother laid a gloved hand on one of Francesca’s.

“You do?” Francesca sipped her lemonade.

“You are thinking of the count, I am sure.”

Francesca’s throat caught, and she coughed. The lemonade stung as it hit the inside of her nose. She snatched the napkin from her lap and pressed it to her mouth.

“Fran, are you all right?” Victoria rose from her chair.

Francesca nodded. Now her eyes burned with a few tears from the shock of choking on her drink.

“Oh, my dramatic daughter.” Mother shook her head. “Please, be careful. I did not intend for my keen observation to distress you.”

“I’m. . .” Francesca coughed and glanced toward the men. Alfred’s brow furrowed ever so slightly as he regarded her. “I’m all right.”

Mother followed Francesca’s glance, then she made something like a grunting noise. “I know that you made quite an impression on him that night, despite your unwise actions. In fact, I received a letter from Count de la Croix’s mother just this morning.” The volume of her voice rose with each phrase.

The fifth commandment flickered through Francesca’s mind, although honoring her mother was not the urge she possessed at that moment. She lowered the napkin from her mouth and folded it neatly.

She found her voice again. “Are they well?”

“Yes, yes, and they are coming to New York shortly, and then likely will tour Newport.” Mother leaned closer. “And you will not entertain any thoughts of resuming your friendship with that. . .that Mr. Finley. The count must believe you have suitable prospects, and that will raise his interest.”

“But. . .” Francesca wanted to say she and Alfred had not even found much of an opportunity to speak with each other, not as much as she’d like. But the possibilities. The possibilities lingered between her and Alfred even now, from his unspoken concern for her current discomfort, back to the shared glances in the library. Times like this, she would cast off propriety but for the scandal it would cause.

“Mother Wallingford,” Victoria started to say. “Surely there is no harm—”

“There is no harm now,” Mother interjected. “Of course not. I realize they’ve barely seen each other. However, Francesca has been launched, and her father and I want what is best for her, and that is not to follow childish whims.”

At the word launched, Francesca felt as if she were rigged with sails instead of wearing her new tennis dress. Fortunately, she hadn’t had a bottle cracked over her stern.

“I think that we would make a good match,” Francesca ventured. “While it is true that I find Philippe most agreeable and he seems like a kind man—”

“Philippe? You are calling him by his first name?” Mother fanned herself more rapidly. “Did he ask you this?”

“Yes, yes. He did so the night of the party.”

“Well, we shall be sure to invite him and his mother to Newport. Surely they will be in attendance at other events this summer season.” She sounded almost triumphant.

“Lillian did manage to secure the count’s attentions that night also, you should know.”

Mother brushed away Francesca’s comment with her free hand. “That is of no consequence. Your cousin’s family has nothing to offer him. I have the utmost affection for my sister, but I cannot see her current station helping her to gain a count for a son-in-law.”

Their luncheon arrived, cucumber soup and tiny sand-wiches and sherbet to cool off the warm noon hour. Instead of responding to her mother’s comment about Lillian’s family, Francesca ate her soup, hoping the cold concoction would reduce the heat inside her.

Victoria began a conversation concerning other parties of the season, and while Francesca knew Victoria liked to dance as much as any young woman did, parties had never been her favorite diversion. She excused herself.

“Where are you going?” Mother asked.

“I shall be but a few moments.” Francesca walked the path from the tennis court to the side entryway of the building. She found Elizabeth in the hall.

“Elizabeth.”

The maid froze and turned to face her. “Miss Francesca.” She inclined her head slightly and smiled.

“Thank you for getting us the lemonade. I wanted to tell you so earlier, but you left the tableside quickly.”

“I am doing my job, miss. And, honestly, your mother gives me a fright sometimes and makes me afraid I might drop something.” Elizabeth bit her lip.

“About Paris. . .” Francesca felt as if a chasm opened in the marble floor between them.

“I had the prettiest night of my life, and I will always remember it.” She moved as if to turn back toward the kitchen area then paused.

“What is it, Elizabeth?”

“The young man with the coppery hair at the table today. He was there that night in Paris, and spoke to me.”

“Yes. He is a family friend.”

“I hope you don’t mind me saying, miss, but he has a good heart. He treated me as if I belonged, even when I wasn’t well spoken as a grand lady. I know your family has plans for you, but I thought I’d let you know.”

“I know. He does have a good heart. At least, I believe so.” Francesca smiled. Perhaps the chasm between them wasn’t so wide after all.

A clatter from the kitchen at the end of the hallway made them both look.

“I must go. But I will help you prepare for your nap this afternoon.”

“No, please. I’ll be fine.” Francesca tried to reassure the young woman. They couldn’t return to the way things were before Paris and Francesca’s crazy scheme.

“Very well, miss. I’ll see you before supper.” Elizabeth turned and headed toward where the sound of the noise had come.

Francesca had wanted to apologize about Elizabeth’s punishment, but some things she just couldn’t atone for. She sighed. She might as well return to the group outside before Mother came to find her.

She turned the corner and nearly ran into Alfred.

❧

The sherbet had done little to cool Alfred’s mood. What had begun as a leisurely late morning business conversation with James and the elder Mr. Wallingford had ended with a distraction.

And that distraction had nearly collided with him in the hallway as he went to retrieve his hat.

Francesca, her cheeks flushed, skidded to a halt. Her tennis skirt swirled around her ankles. “Al—Mr. Finley. I beg your pardon. I was in a hurry.”

“And I should have been paying closer attention to where I was headed.”

“You are leaving already?” Her pretty face sank into a frown.

“I must prepare for my return tomorrow to New York for business.”

“How. . .how did your business fare this morning? With James and Father?”

“Quite well, quite well. I see that the young woman who accompanied you in Paris is in her place once again.”

Francesca’s face darkened. “Yes. She is. I am thankful she didn’t lose her position.”

“Please promise me you will never do anything like that again.”

“You sound almost like my mother.” She placed her hands on her hips.

“But my motivation for asking such a promise is different.”

“How so?”

“That young woman likely is taunted every day by a life she will never have, and it was not right of you to fill her head with dreams.” Truly, he didn’t understand why he must explain to her.

“She told me it was the prettiest night of her life and she would always remember it.”

“When I found her she was nearly in tears from the rudeness of two women who made fun of her extremely poor French. And you were gallivanting about the ballroom—”

“I was not gallivanting.” She touched his sleeve. “And I have already asked forgiveness for my actions. If you must know, Elizabeth and I were only having a bit of fun. I was rather tired of the pretentiousness around me and wanted to view the room through fresh eyes—Elizabeth’s.”

He stared at her hand on his sleeve. “And in the morning, she had to return to her regular position of serving and being invisible until she was needed.”

“I. . .I don’t know why I feel I must explain my actions to you, of all people.”

“And now you are the one who sounds like her mother.”

Francesca, her face red, darted to the side and passed him. The grand door to the outside opened, letting a glare of light into the cool hallway.

Alfred turned and watched the door close behind her. That dratted temper of his. If only he hadn’t overheard snatches of conversation about the count. Did Francesca mean she’d thought she and the count would make a good match? Or him? He used quick strides to find the man who would both obtain his hat and call for his horse.

A large gilded mirror hung in yet another hallway, and Alfred paused. His own cheeks were flushed red. All that talk of the count that had drifted over from the ladies’ table, and Alfred had fallen into Mrs. Wallingford’s trap without warning. Demonstrations of jealousy would never win Francesca’s heart, nor could Alfred’s bank account win the Wallingfords’ approval. And the last remark about Francesca sounding like her mother? Unconscionable. Somehow he must make amends and prove his worthiness, or his plans for his foundation might be threatened as well.