Long Island, New York - April, 1892
For two weeks and three days Alexandra Glenn had tried to convince herself it wasn't really happening but now she could fool herself no longer.
The pastures rolling past her window as the train rushed eastward were emerald and lush but they weren't the pastures she loved. Pale streaks of white laced the vivid turquoise skies just as it did back home, and if she closed her eyes tight she might be able to hold reality at bay just a little bit longer, and pretend she were back in Provence laughing with Gabrielle and Luc and the baby, pretend that Esme and Paul were still alive and her world a place of kindness and love.
Opening her reticule, she unfolded the letter of instructions her mother had given her before she boarded the ship bound for New York. Her mother's scent, a powerful blend of jasmine and musk, rose up and mingled with tobacco smoke drifting through the train car. Alexandra's stomach lurched violently and she thrust the letter back into her bag and swallowed hard against her nausea.
Across the aisle a portly gentleman with absurdly small features puffed furiously on a Meerschaum, his pale face glistening like a peeled onion. From the moment the train left New York City her fellow traveler had alternated between smoking that hideous pipe and regaling everyone with stories about each and every town they rumbled through.
Jamaica with its huge homes and flower gardens and manicured lawns was where he'd been born.
Garden City with its acres of corn fields growing higher than a man could reach was where he'd met his wife.
The open farmlands bounded by the Long Island sound to the North and the Atlantic Ocean to the south were where his father and his father's father had tended their crops.
The town names grew more exotic as the train rushed along the south shore, names like Moriches and Speonk and Quogue that lay strange upon her tongue as she repeated them softly, calling to mind stories she'd heard about Indian tribes and beautiful maidens.
Small whitewashed houses with unruly patches of marsh grass dotted the landscape. A toddler in a checkered dress of apple red stood by a lopsided wooden fence and waved as the train rumbled past and Alexandra swallowed hard, remembering the sturdy feel of her godchild Mireille slumbering in her arms in the benevolent sunshine of Provence.
If she tried very hard she could conjure up Paul and Esme Charbonne, the couple who had sheltered her with their love each summer in the country and taught her to understand the true richness of life.
But they were gone, weren't they? Gone like her dreams of someday meeting a kind and handsome man, a man who would both love her and understand her desire to capture the beauty of life by touching oil paint to canvas. For so long her dreams had sustained her, warmed her through cold English winters at the boarding school only to be destroyed at the hand of the woman who had given her life but little else.
The metal door between the railroad cars creaked open and a conductor with a shiny black handlebar moustache swung his way up the aisle, bringing her back to unpleasant reality.
"Bridgehampton! Next stop!"
The conductor's flat American voice scratched against her ears like the sticks of emery she used to shape her nails. Her mother had made certain Alexandra was as fluent in English as she was in French but the English Alexandra had learned was sweet and musical, not the loud, angry tones she'd heard since landing in New York Harbor two days ago.
She leaned forward slightly, ignoring the scent of dust and hair tonic rising from the seat before her, hoping to glimpse the town soon as it came into view.
"Wonderful town, Bridgehampton," said the porcine man across the aisle. "Hull's Hotel is a fine establishment. Stayed there two summers running." He puffed on his Meerschaum then exhaled a pungent plume of smoke that burned her eyelids. "The missus and I are thinking of building a cottage here." His pale blue eyes regarded her with interest. "You from this neck of the woods?"
Fluency in English was obviously no help in understanding the language as spoken in New York.
"Neck of the woods?" she ventured politely.
"You ain't a foreigner, are you?" He leaned across the aisle, jowls trembling with curiosity.
She had to smile in the face of such unabashed nosiness. "My father was a British soldier but my mother is an American."
"Grow up around here, did you?"
Was that what he meant by that confusing phrase? "I grew up just outside Paris."
"Paris, Illinois?"
"Paris, France."
"Never know it to hear you talk," he said then caught himself. "I mean no disrespect, missy. It's just you ain't got much of an accent."
Alexandra could have told him about the dark years spent at Aynsley Hall with the stiff-upper lipped English girls, about the endless speech and elocution lessons Marisa had forced upon her, about the sharp rap of a wooden ruler on tender knuckles each time she lapsed into the rhythm of a lovelier language.
"Thank you," she said finally. "Is yours a typical New York accent?"
His puffy lips parted, exposing ludicrously tiny teeth, as he laughed aloud. "Missy, there ain't no such thing as a typical New York accent. You'll hear everything from Dutch to Irish to pure Yankee Doodle Brooklyn." His pale gaze moved over her face, across the snug bodice of her dark gold woolen traveling suit, all the way down to her worn leather boots with their endless laces pulled tight above the ankle bone. "You have family out this way?"
She shook her head. "No, sir."
He beamed approvingly. "Have lovely manners, you do, missy. So what brings you here?"
Alexandra sought a way to state the facts without the emotional overtones that had plagued her all the way across the Atlantic. "Employment," she said finally. "I have a position awaiting me in East Hampton."
How simple it sounded. How complicated it all had been.
"I have found you an excellent position," Marisa had said a fortnight ago when she unexpectedly appeared at the cottage in Provence. "You will assist the gentleman of the house with his work and in return you'll receive room and board." She had mentioned a small cash stipend to be paid in addition and Alexandra burst into tears. "For God's sake, child, stop wailing. This is the only way. I simply cannot afford to let you continue on as you are, living like a beggar here with Gabrielle and that wretched blacksmith she calls a husband. Think of your pride! It is time for you to find a life of your own."
"But I do have a life of my own, Mamma!" She tugged at her mother's lace sleeve in desperation. "I help with the baby and I go to the village for food and I earn money by modeling for the—"
Marisa raised her hand imperiously. "I'll not have my daughter playing nursemaid to a pair of country fools. I had hoped when the Charbonnes died you would have lost your taste for country living. I have made plans for you, Alexandra, plans that can secure your future, and I'll not be having your own lack of ambition stand in my way."
The sudden shift from French to the lilting English Marisa reverted to when agitated, startled Alexandra and in that moment she lost her chance to argue that she did, indeed, have ambition but her ambitions were tied up with happiness and love—concepts her beautiful, grasping mother would never understand.
Eight days later Alexandra kissed her old friends goodbye outside the tiny farmhouse and started up the road to await the carriage that would take her to the harbor and her new life.
With all her heart and soul she wanted to throw herself upon their mercy and beg them to let her stay. She would cook and clean and care for the baby. She would model for the artists who summered in Provence and willingly hand over every sou to Gabrielle and Luc if only she could stay where she felt safe and loved.
"I don't want to go," she said, choking back hot tears. "My life is here. Everyone I love is here..." Please ask me to stay, Gaby. Please... please... please...
But, as with all her dreams, this one vanished in the bright sunlight. Gabrielle loved Alexandra as a sister but she loved her husband more. Heavily pregnant with her second child, Gabrielle had not been blind to the looks of longing on her virile husband's face each time Alexandra entered the room and Alexandra listened, stunned, to her friend's fears.
"I'm sorry," Gabrielle had murmured as they made one last goodbye. "He's all I have... he's the father of my children. I cannot take the risk."
And so her fate had been decided.
Without money or position, without a husband or family to love her, Alexandra was caught in the web of her mother's design, helpless to pull free. Everything familiar and dear had been left behind and she knew that stopping the speeding train in which she sat would be easier than returning to the life she'd once loved.
And so there she was, alone in a strange country with only this cigar-smoking gentleman to know if she lived or died. The train rounded a bend then slowed as a weather-beaten station came into view. Staring out the window, she saw a white-haired driver, thin as the whip resting beside him, keeping pace with the train as his spirited bay maneuvered the trap along the well-traveled road.
"Mrs. Halsey's trap," the man across the aisle informed her, gathering up his New York Times and pulling his massive body up from the red leather seat. "Mr. Halsey owns the bank in Southold. Think I'll stroll into the club car and pay my respects to her. Good luck to you, missy."
Alexandra breathed a huge sigh of relief as he maneuvered his bulk toward the door to the next compartment. The truth was, their conversation couldn't have stopped at a more fortuitous moment for the pounding of her heart as the train eased into the Bridgehampton station made it nearly impossible to think clearly.
For the second time she reached into her reticule and brought out the letter of instructions. Marisa's childish scrawl seemed at odds with the ivory parchment paper, as disconcerting as her occasional lapses into brogue-accented English.
Ask the conductor to assist you, and then wait with your bags near the station door. Someone from the Lowell house will fetch you shortly.
She crumpled the letter and wished she could open the window and toss it onto the tracks but the train had stopped and she found herself looking at the biggest stagecoach she had ever seen. The coach waited next to the station building; the four perfectly matched black horses pawed the ground restlessly. On the lacquered black surface of the door, the words "Rackett & Fithian" had been painted in blood red letters and she watched, mesmerized, as the driver of the coach rubbed a white cloth over the shimmering surface.
Certainly such a fine conveyance would never have been sent for a lowly assistant like Alexandra, especially one who, as yet, hadn't a notion as to what her duties would be.
She gathered her belongings and exited the train, ignored by the two burly Irishmen who were loading Saratoga trunks and canvas valises into the hold of the stagecoach.
The conductor with the handlebar moustache unceremoniously dumped her own valises and battered trunk near the depot. Hand outstretched, he stood before her until Alexandra finally took that hand and shook it, tendering her grateful thanks for his help.
Muttering the odd word "skinflint," he wheeled around and stormed back to the train, leaving Alexandra puzzled and feeling vaguely guilty although, for the life of her, she couldn't fathom why that should be the case.
"Missy?"
She turned around, hopes soaring again, only to see her traveling companion.
"Your carriage ain't here yet, missy?"
"Not yet," she said, smiling at the thin, sour-faced woman next to him. "I'm certain it shan't be much longer."
"This place gets mighty lonely once the train pulls out. Maybe Mrs. Halsey here would be kind enough to offer you a lift."
It appeared the elegant Mrs. Halsey had ideas of her own, however, and those ideas did not include offering transportation to weary travelers. "I have no doubt the young lady's coach will be here shortly."
A deep stain rose up Alexandra's throat and enflamed her cheeks and she prayed her portly protector would not pursue the matter. Besides, judging from the dimensions of the conveyance, she doubted if there would be room for him and the birdlike Mrs. Halsey, much less a third person.
"Come, Harold," the grand dame ordered. "Time is money. I must be on my way."
Tipping his hat, a regretful Harold scurried after the banker's wife, his bulk shivering with the exertion like a dish of blanc mange in a windstorm.
Alexandra could almost hear the Halsey trap moan in protest as the spindly driver cracked his whip and they left the station. A moment later, the huge coach followed in its tracks, disappearing around a curve in the road eastward and suddenly Alexandra realized she was completely alone.
Overhead, seagulls glided effortlessly, their raucous cries mingling with the smell of salt water, reminding her once again how far she'd traveled—and of just how alone she was. A line of scrub pines edged the station but the roar of the ocean told her the Atlantic wasn't far away.
For the hundredth time in less than three weeks, tears filled her eyes. What on earth was happening to her? She had spent the first nineteen years of her life priding herself on the fact that she never cried and now she found herself a veritable fountain. Tears certainly weren't going to change things, she chided herself. Tears weren't going to whisk her back to France, were they? And tears certainly weren't going to conjure up a coach and driver, no matter how fervently she might wish for one.
Alexandra pinched herself sharply on the tender skin of her left wrist to stem the tide of tears, and just in time, for moments later a large trap drawn by a sleek chestnut rounded the slope just beyond the station and headed straight for her.
The body of the trap was black lacquer, same as the venerable Mrs. Halsey's, but that was where all likeness ended. This trap was nearly double in size, with enormous spoked wheels, and a fine stripe of deep gold outlining the inward curve near the driver's seat and the angular shape of the carriage itself. A lamp of polished brass was attached to a narrow panel of carmine just forward of the passenger section, lending an elegant yet sporty air to the vehicle.
The driver, possessed of the same elegant yet sporty air, reined in the horses a few yards short of where she stood. This was no aging retainer like the one who had met the banker's wife. This man was no more than thirty, if she didn't miss her guess, with a full head of perfectly barbered blonde hair and a smile she couldn't help but answer with one of her own.
He leaped down from his seat and looped the reins carelessly around the post fence near her baggage. "I shouldn't blame you if you'd given up on me after such an unconscionable wait, but I was unforgivably detained at the house."
She looked at him, wide-eyed, taking in his suit of fine fawn-colored cloth, the stiff white collar of his shirt with the precisely tied Windsor knot, the tiny glass bottle attached to his left lapel by a length of ribbon. She found herself riveted to the yellow daisy that peeped from the top.
"It appears I've been dashed rude once again." His light blue eyes fixed on hers. "Let me begin where I should have from the start: you are Miss Alexandra Glenn, are you not?"
She nodded, overwhelmed by his friendly curiosity. "And you, sir—?"
He breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief then bowed low. "Stephen Lowell, at your service, here to whisk you off to Sea View."
"Sea View?" she repeated, for the name was new to her. "I had believed I was to go to East Hampton."
"And so you shall, Miss Glenn. East Hampton is a town."
"And Sea View?" she asked, finding herself fascinated by this young American man.
He threw his head back and his perfectly trimmed dark blonde moustache twitched with his laughter. "You have much to learn, Miss Glenn. Sea View is—how shall I put it? Sea View is an entity unto itself."
"I'm afraid you have lost me, sir," she said, as he hoisted her trunk and placed it in the back section of the trap, "for I do not know enough about Long Island to savor the joke."
"An innocent abroad?" He tossed her two valises atop the trunk, completely filling the passenger section. "How refreshing. Let me put your mind to rest, Miss Glenn: Sea View is your new home."
"Sea View," she said quietly, feeling foolish for not knowing something as basic as the name of the house where she'd be living. Did Marisa truly care so little about her that she'd neglect to mention such rudimentary information?
Alexandra had no chance to pursue that line of thought for, taking her arm, Stephen assisted her up into the driver's seat then climbed in next to her. She knew from the appreciative gleam in his eyes that he found her appealing but his touch was neither lingering nor overly-familiar and she found herself relaxing for the first time since she'd arrived in America.
"Such wonderful innocence," he said with a chuckle. "You realize, of course, that this means I must tell you of all the local scandals, Miss Glenn, so that by this time tomorrow you will be unable to walk down Main Street without bumping into a matron whose skeletons don't rattle loudly enough for you to hear."
He cracked his whip and the chestnuts leaped to powerful life.
"I can but pray the skeletons in my closet rattle more softly, Mr. Lowell."
Again that amused chuckle. "I cannot believe a young lady sheltered in the French countryside could have a single skeleton to rattle," he said as the trap jostled pleasantly down the sandy lane. "You must tell me of some of these dreadful incidents to persuade me you do indeed have skeletons after all."
A flock of geese took to the sky in noisy flight and Alexandra turned to watch them, grateful for the momentary diversion. She had been well-trained in classical languages but not in the language of flirtatious conversation. Anything she could come up with would surely sound forced or foolish. There was the time she wandered into the woods and came upon the baker's wife and the blacksmith's apprentice in a feverish embrace or the time she'd tumbled into the pond on her way to Sunday mass, only to horrify Father Claude when she dripped her way into the rear pew.
Her schoolgirl escapades were certain to have this elegant American man with his fashionable side-parted hair and glittering stick-pin yawning in moments.
"I'd much rather hear about the local scandals," she said at last, still watching the geese. "I'm certain they're more interesting than my provincial remembrances."
"Why is it I have the feeling your remembrances are anything but provincial?" he asked as they bounced over a deep rut in the road. "But, no matter. We have six miles ahead of us and I can think of no better way to spend the time than to acquaint you with East Hampton."
She turned away from the geese flying overhead and met his eyes. The look he gave her was sharp and vaguely unsettling but she kept a pleasant smile on her face. "I am lucky to learn from a native."
He feigned dismay. "How much you have to learn, Miss Glenn. You'll soon find that the East Hampton natives are a sorely unfashionable lot—not a box coat or a fore-and-aft among them." He flashed her a quite remarkable smile. "I, of course, sport both."
He went on to explain the difference between the year round resident and the resident who appeared on the scene in May with a score of trunks, three maids and an insatiable appetite for barbecues and balls only to depart in September, sunburnt and tired and eager to return to New York City.
"Since it is but the fifteenth of April, am I to assume you are of the former variety?" Alexandra asked.
"A logical assumption," he replied, easing the trap across a narrow bridge that spanned a pond, "but inaccurate in this case. I am an art dealer both here and in Europe. Of course, at present my uncle Andrew is my prime concern. I came to visit him during Christmas and when his condition worsened I deemed it my responsibility to stay on and see he gets the proper care."
It took only a second for his words to sink in. "Then I shall be working for you?" she ventured, finding it difficult to believe that her new employer would meet her at the station—and be so charming and personable, in the bargain.
"Would that it were so. I'm afraid you'll be working for my uncle Andrew."
She tried to hide her disappointment. "But you said he is infirm."
"More often than not that is so," Stephen said, pulling back on the reins as the chestnut strained to gallop on the flat stretch of road, "but he still has the desire to work."
"What am I to do?" she persisted. "What are my duties to be?"
Stephen yanked back the reins abruptly and stopped the trap. "They should be obvious, Miss Glenn."
Her chin lifted as a frisson of apprehension shivered up her spine. "They're not, Mr. Lowell."
His light blue eyes widened in comprehension. "You are truly ignorant as to the identity of your new employer?"
She nodded. "Embarrassingly so, I'm afraid."
"My dear Miss Glenn, you are now the property of Andrew Lowell." She was silent and he reached down and patted her hand in a gesture both comforting and mildly annoying. "Come now, dear girl, don't tell me you don't recognize my uncle's illustrious name. That's not the proper way to begin a new position."
Alexandra's chin tilted a fraction higher. "Neither Andrew nor Lowell is an uncommon name," she pointed out. "There's even a quite famous artist whose work—" She stopped, dumbstruck, as comprehension dawned. "Surely you do not mean—"
The look on Stephen Lowell's face told her all.
"My father's brother," he said after a moment.
She slumped back in her seat filled with a strange mixture of apprehension and elation. Andrew Lowell was a legend among the artists she'd modeled for in Provence, one of the first to break free of old traditions, old restrictions, and explore the boundaries set only by nature's beauty and man's imagination.
And of course, there were the stories. Her cheeks reddened just at the thought of some of the tales she'd heard the younger artists tell about the master when they thought her out of ear-shot.
By reputation Andrew Lowell had bedded half the continent in his day, a bee flitting from flower to flower but never staying long enough to run out of nectar.
A lesser man with such a reputation would have been shunned by clever young women and their willing mothers but not Andrew Lowell. The fierce blaze of his talent melted normal motherly concerns and left two generations of women vulnerable to his charms.
Andrew Lowell had long since passed from genius into legend and his abrupt disappearance from the art world ten years ago had engendered much gossip.
He'd joined Gauguin in Tahiti, they whispered.
He'd gone mad like Vincent or blind like Monet.
He'd met his Maker at the hands of a cuckolded husband.
The possibilities were both fascinating and terrible to consider. To think he'd been living and working in a sleepy Long Island town all this time! Why, she could learn more about art by simply preparing the great man's palette than she could ever learn under the tutelage of the finest teacher the Lycee had to offer.
So you do not hate me after all, Mamma, Alexandra thought as Stephen cracked the whip and the horse sprang to life once again. Although Marisa had found it necessary to place an ocean between them, miraculously her mother had seen to it that she would find a wonderful compensation awaiting her. The dark cloud of apprehension that had hovered over her since her mother had told her she was to leave France finally began to lift.
For the rest of the journey Stephen Lowell proved to be wonderful company. Somehow he seemed to understand her preoccupation and took on the burden of conversation, allowed her time to compose herself before reaching Sea View.
While managing the reins with assurance, he amused her with a running commentary on the sights and sounds of eastern Long Island. The town of East Hampton was picturesque with its towering elm trees and graceful willows and the crystalline ponds running parallel to Main Street. Stephen pointed out clapboard houses once owned by whaling merchants and huge white-washed Colonials that pre-dated the Revolutionary War. Every house, no matter its vintage, boasted a well-tended garden where azaleas blazed in crimson glory and lilacs trembled on the brink of full perfume.
He pointed out the Mulford House with its gambrel roof, the broad veranda of old lady Eldredge's home and the way the Chinese red front door on the Moran cottage tilted crazily to the left. Alexandra's mind tumbled with stories of Clinton Academy and Rowdy Hall and Pudding Hill which got its odd name from British soldiers who, during the War for Independence, found a bag of steaming Indian pudding and rolled it down the hill with a stick. Mansard roofs and bell-topped towers and piazzas worthy of a villa in Rome all vied for her attention until she thought her head would split with the effort of trying to take it all in.
A few yards past the dry goods store, Stephen tugged at the reins and the chestnut veered right onto a narrow road lined by tapering poplars and towering oaks. How magnificent they would be in full leaf, spreading shade across the sleepy village on a hot summer day. The sound of the ocean could be heard over the calls of birds she couldn't identify and she imagined the sea lapping at the backyards of the houses at the end of the road.
On Egypt Lane he slowed down in front of an unprepossessing two story building. The shingles were weather-beaten and the windows lopsided yet it boasted meticulously painted shutters of snowy white and Federal blue.
"That's Rowdy Hall. It's quiet now, but wait until the season arrives." He pointed toward a pair of scruffily dressed men toting a wooden box and an easel. "This is an artist's colony," he said, explaining away the exquisitely wrought shutters. "They work all day then head for the Clinton Academy to have old man Stimson criticize their work."
"Stimson? Why not Andrew Lowell?" There was genuine surprise in her voice. Why would a young artist fortunate enough to breathe the same air as Andrew Lowell seek another mentor?
Stephen jingled the reins and the chestnut eased into a trot. "Uncle Andrew sees few visitors," he said, his voice surprisingly tight. "It is better if he is disturbed as little as possible."
Andrew Lowell must be an invalid, she thought. Perhaps the formless gossip making the rounds through the art communities of Europe been more accurate than anyone suspected. How tragic for a man so blessed to be reduced to a life of infirmity.
How lucky he was to have a nephew like Stephen.
"Are we nearly at Sea View?" she asked as Stephen guided the horses into a left turn.
"Do I detect a woman having second thoughts?" he teased gently.
"Not at all," she said, surprised that he had been perceptive enough to notice her momentary hesitation. "You detect a woman anxious to begin her duties."
"Just a moment longer," he said, with a sidelong glance at her. "We follow the drive around this bend and..."
Whether Stephen stopped talking or her mind had ceased comprehending, she did not know, for his words faded the moment Sea View appeared before them. Long ago she'd seen Andrew Lowell's paintings at the Louvre and she had never forgotten the raw power contained within his brushstrokes.
She should have known nothing about Andrew Lowell would be commonplace. How had she imagined even for a moment that his genius could be confined by picket fences or hidden behind lace curtains. How could anyone believe that anything less than magnificence could contain an artist of his caliber.
Set atop a gentle rise, Sea View soared with grace and power born of destiny. The first of the three stories was brick and shingles laid in curving patterns that emphasized the symmetrical towers on either side of the broad front veranda. The second story was shingled in a subtle diamond pattern that drew the eye cunningly upward to the third floor where dormered windows and no fewer than five chimney stacks broke the sharp line of the roof. The house extended on either side into east and west wings of equal dimension. Neatly clipped hedges stopped just shy of the first floor windowsills.
"A simple summer cottage," Stephen said, a note of wry amusement in his voice. "Uncle Andrew was never one for understatement."
"It's overwhelming!" Alexandra breathed, hands clasped to her bosom. "In all my life I have never seen a structure so... so..." For the first time in recent memory, English failed her.
"Ostentatious?"
She shook her head so enthusiastically her round toque flew off. "So wonderful! It's everything it should be."
Stephen chuckled as he guided the trap up the curved drive of crushed shell then reined the chestnut to a stop near the front door. He leaped down from the conveyance and hurried around to the other side.
"Why don't you step inside the foyer where it's comfortable," he said, putting his elegant hands at her waist and lifting her down. "I'll bring the trap around back and join you there momentarily."
"My valises," she said as he deposited her on the driveway. "My trunk. We should—"
"Darling girl, you are a prodigious worrier. The servants will deliver your things to your room."
An immense wave of nervousness crashed in on Alexandra with the force of the ocean she heard slapping the shore beyond the house but she did her best to hide it.
Climbing the stairs to the veranda, she hesitated a moment, staring at the brass lion's head door knocker that snarled back at her as if daring her to enter. Casting a glance over her shoulder she saw that Stephen and the trap had already disappeared around the side of the house.
Quickly blessing herself as the French nuns had taught her a lifetime ago, she opened the door and stepped inside to face her future.