Francesca had no way to send word to Alfred to inquire about how he fared, so she asked James about him after the ball, as they rode home in the carriage and yawned all the way back to Seaside.
“I am not sure,” James said. “He did not speak to me before he left. He did, however, look like a thundercloud as he passed by us where we sat.”
“It’s the count, I’m sure of it.” Victoria echoed Francesca’s yawn. “On the way to supper, he did admit that he hoped the man was seated as far from you as possible. I think he’s a little jealous.”
“Jealous?” Francesca echoed. “But I did nothing….”
“It’s not you. It’s the count, of course. He is clearly interested in you. Remember those paints he gave you in Paris, and even the night of that ball. You know which one, when you brought Elizabeth—”
“Don’t remind me.” She still regretted the foolish action.
“You made some sort of impression on him.”
“Well, I’m not trying to. Really. A count?”
“I warned Alfred that day we went sailing,” James said. “Mother is plotting something, but neither she nor Father will be specific.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Francesca bit her lip.
“With Mr. Finley opening his home, we must have a larger gala,” Mother said one morning later as she looked up from her writing desk in the parlor. “And we will make sure not to invite Mrs. Alva Vanderbilt.”
“Why aren’t we inviting Mrs. Vanderbilt?” As soon as Francesca asked, she knew the answer. Mother had learned the social dance well.
“She has not come to call yet this season. While it is true our family was included in her gala activities two weeks ago, I want to show her that we are to be reckoned with.”
Francesca focused on the envelope in front of her. If she wasn’t careful, she’d pen the wrong spelling of the street name. Her hand ached, and she set down her pen and rubbed the muscle around her thumb.
She should send up a prayer for thanks that she was born to such a family, to such a hardworking father and loving mother and brother. But ever since her father’s ship—or ships—had literally come in, Mother had transformed somehow.
A long time ago, Mother would sew and cook and bake. But now other people saw to such tasks that Mother deemed mundane. Francesca wasn’t sure she cared much for the change.
“Will you be inviting Alfred and his mother?”
“Of course.” Mother’s pen moved efficiently over the paper in front of her. “We want them to recognize that Seaside is the latest jewel of Newport. But that does pose a quandary for me.”
Francesca finished writing the address on one envelope, then blew on it as she’d been taught. “How so?”
“There will be enough unattached women at the fete as well, but I would not dare insult any of the other fine families by insinuating that Alfred would be suitable for their daughters.”
“You don’t mean that, do you?”
“Well, he certainly is not invited for your benefit.”
“I am sorry. I was not assuming—”
“However, if I invite less than the best families of Newport, word will circulate that we Wallingfords are substandard.” Mother lifted her letter to the light. “Mr. Finley, how I wish you hadn’t come to town.”
Francesca held her tongue. Directly confronting Mother never worked. She started on the next address. “You are inviting Mr. and Mrs. Wrentham, and their daughter and son?”
“Yes. I suppose they are in New York at the moment, so we must use their city address.”
Francesca nodded and scanned Mother’s address book for the correct entry.
“I know! We shall, of course, invite my sister, and her daughter Lillian. Perhaps she will be suitable for Mr. Finley. As best I know, my sister has not found a match for Lillian.”
“I … I can’t say as I see that Lillian and Alfred would make a good match.” Francesca detested the tone of her voice and how it betrayed her. She tried to keep her pen even on the paper.
Mother made a most unladylike grunt. “Romance has nothing to do with a good match. In our circle, we cannot think of such superficialities. Our choices are few. But Lillian has a tidy trust. Not to the caliber of yours, I am sure, but she would bring a fine contribution to any union.”
Francesca fought to remain in her seat. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. Ever since Paris and Count Philippe’s ball, either she felt happy or vexed, and very little in between. Instead of giving in to the urge to run from the room, she imagined walking along the sea walk. Father’s promised path to the sea had given her many happy hours. She pictured herself watching the waves, the wind lifting her hair. She would look up and see someone walking toward her on the sand, the sun illuminating the red in his hair….
Mother’s sigh made her look up.
“Are you all right, Mother?”
“I … I … This gala is for you as well.” Mother reached for a handkerchief and discreetly dabbed her eyes.
“This makes you cry?”
“Only for happiness, dear daughter.” Mother rose from her chair and moved to where Francesca sat with her lap desk. “Please, stand so I can hug you.”
A hug? Francesca stood and placed the lap desk on her chair, then received her mother’s embrace. It was not her birthday, nor Christmas. She could not remember the last time her mother had hugged her.
“Francesca, your father and I have done everything for you and your brother’s sake. One day, James will run Wallingford Shipping. As you know, we have a trust laid up for you, that you will carry to your marriage one day. I know it is merely money, but it symbolizes our love for you.” Mother returned to her chair and sat down at the desk.
“I do appreciate what you and Father have done.”
“You know that your life has been far, far different than my and my sister’s lives. My mother was a seamstress, and she wanted me to be a schoolteacher. My father was a tradesman. And your father was from obscure beginnings as well. But God has smiled on us, and we never want you to worry for your future.”
“Mother, I know I shall be well taken care of.” The now-familiar feeling of a noose surrounded Francesca’s neck. She picked up her lap desk and took her seat. What was Mother trying to say, exactly?
“All the same, I trust that this upcoming fete will ensure that.” Mother smiled now. “But I’ll say nothing further. This fete will outshine anything we’ve done yet here at Seaside.”
Francesca stood on the balcony of her bedroom, which overlooked the lush green lawn. A stream of carriages led to the front porte cochere of Seaside. Somehow Mother had arranged for new uniforms for the stable hands, so they looked like livery men wearing white powdered wigs from long ago.
Here came the stream of peacocks. Few of these people probably cared for her, and most of them she barely knew. But most had come to see the latest jewel on Newport’s Bellevue Avenue so they could repeat the story to others who had not been on the privileged list. One man, his suit rather plain yet neat, alighted from a carriage and paid the driver. He stood on the driveway and craned his neck to look at the magnificent structure.
Francesca recalled her own first reaction to seeing the fine summer home her father had commissioned construction on not quite two years before. This man pulled a notebook from his pocket and a stump of pencil, and scribbled something down. A reporter. Mother had mentioned a special guest. But a reporter had never attended any of the Wallingford social functions before. Not that Francesca knew, anyway. She left the balcony. She might as well submit to the rest of her beauty regime before she made her appearance to the guests.
“Miss Fran, the iron is hot.” Elizabeth stood by the vanity and its empty chair. “Are you ready?”
“Whether I want to be, or not.” She tried to give Elizabeth a confident smile, moved to the chair, and sat down. She stared at her reflection, framed by the gilded wood of the looking glass. Alfred’s phrase echoed again in her mind. Bird in a gilded cage.
“Miss, you’ve been outside often of late, and your hair feels dry,” Elizabeth said as she brushed Francesca’s hair, which tumbled past her shoulders. “We must use a treatment for it one quiet evening.”
“If … if you would like to do so as well, I would not prevent it.”
“Ah, but I have too many duties in the evening, and my mother and father require my assistance in our quarters. I would not have the time to sit and wait for my hair to dry afterward.” But Elizabeth’s smile was wistful.
Francesca thought of Alfred’s proposed foundation. “Elizabeth, have you ever wanted to attend a university?”
Elizabeth wound a lock of Francesca’s hair tightly around the hot iron. Her cheeks flushed pink. “No, miss. To me it is no use to want something I cannot have. I don’t believe I am much good at book learning, although one time I might have wanted to be a teacher. I love children.”
“I see.” She didn’t bother to mention Alfred’s foundation. Elizabeth was a realist and “knew her place,” as Mother would say. She had no more freedom than Francesca did.
Soon, Elizabeth had created a series of curls that she brushed out, and pulled Francesca’s hair into a high pompadour. Tears came to Francesca’s eyes, much as they had when her hair had been styled as a little girl. She had learned long ago that such tears did not hasten the end of the torture. But tonight’s tears came because, although Francesca had means and wealth that her maid did not, the means and wealth meant nothing to her freedom.
Once Elizabeth had ceased from securing Francesca’s hair with combs, Francesca reached for her bottle of favorite perfume. A knock sounded at Francesca’s door, and then it opened.
Mother breezed in, her newest silk gown fitting her form well, and nary a hair out of place. “You are nearly ready?” She clutched a flat velvet box. “All of the guests are seated, and you must make your entrance for our early supper before the orchestra begins.”
“I’m ready. But Mother, I don’t understand. I have already been presented to society. And I noticed a reporter outside the door earlier. What is happening tonight? This party isn’t just a grand opening for Seaside.”
Elizabeth stepped back a few discreet paces as Mother joined Francesca at the vanity.
“Please, sit down, my dear.” Mother gestured to the cushioned chair.
Francesca took her seat and noticed the frown line between her eyebrows. She smoothed it. But her nerves jangled.
“Here. Jewels for our jewel.” Mother opened the box, and Francesca sucked in a breath. A necklace of topaz that matched the blue of her eyes, each topaz edged with winking diamonds.
“Oh. Mother.” Francesca touched the necklace. “So beautiful.” The part of Francesca that adored comforts and baubles won out. Money brought beauty, she’d learned. And oh, what beauty in that velvet box. She willed herself to enjoy the beauty of the gemstones for a few moments.
“Here.” Mother fastened the necklace, which lay perfectly against Francesca’s neck. “He’s right. The color is perfect.”
Francesca turned to look at Mother instead of her reflection. “Who’s right?”
Mother’s touch on Francesca’s hair was softer than the brush of a butterfly’s wing. “The necklace is not from your father and me.”
And should Alfred venture to give her something so grand, Francesca knew her mother would never allow it. She guessed at who had given her the necklace, and forced a smile. But her body went numb.
“Are you comfortable, Mother?” Alfred asked as he took his own seat at the long dining table that filled the length of the room at Seaside. He estimated it seated about thirty guests, and he knew for sure that others would arrive for the after-supper dancing.
“Yes, yes.” She waved off his attention and touched the comb tucked into her graying hair. Diamonds caught the light from the chandelier. “The Wallingfords have outdone themselves with this elegant home. Methinks they tried to best you, my boy.”
“Perhaps they have.” He studied the massive mirrors that lined one wall of the dining room, the other side of the room lined with doors that opened to face the sea, much like the dining room at Tranquility. A frescoed ceiling—imported from Italy and reinstalled here at Seaside, he’d been told—glowed in the lights from below. Alfred glanced at the faces nearest him.
The Wallingfords had seated him and Mother close to the head of the table, where three place settings remained empty. Probably for Mr. and Mrs. Wallingford and Francesca. Alfred nodded at James across the table and a few seats closer to the empty chairs. Mother turned to speak with someone next to her, a family member of the Wallingfords, Alfred guessed.
A lone chair waited at the end of the table next to Count de la Croix. So he’d been given one of the coveted spots closest to the family, with Alfred near enough to see all that would be said and done. After the day of sailing and the picnic with James, Victoria, and Francesca, Mrs. Wallingford’s message was clear: He was still not good enough for her daughter.
“Mr. Finley, isn’t it?” A young woman seated across from Alfred asked. Her hair, dark as ink, had been caught up in the latest style, and her lavender dress contrasted with her green eyes. The tip of her nose formed a point that almost made it seem as if she smelled something disagreeable. But her smile was pretty enough.
“Yes, it is. Forgive me, I know I have seen you before, and if we have met, I regret that I don’t recall your name.”
“Lillian Chalmers. Francesca is my cousin.” She blinked, her long lashes fluttering.
“Oh, yes. I believe we have met before.”
“Paris, this spring. We attended some of the same functions.”
“Mother loves to be out and about, and I, of course, must see to accompanying her.”
Lillian gave a soft giggle, and her earrings wiggled. “Surely that is not the only reason you attend balls.”
“Miss Chalmers, you are quite right. I do enjoy speaking with charming young ladies as yourself, especially after being confined in stuffy meetings most of the week.”
She flicked a gaze toward the head of the table. “It is fortunate that our hosts are not present to hear you speak in such a manner. I’m surprised you are here at all, actually.”
He appreciated her candor. “I am well aware of at least one of their opinions about me. But I am not deterred. So, have you seen much of this grand home?”
“Nearly every inch. Auntie Wallingford made certain that Mother and I saw it all, before we returned to our summer residence in town.” Again her gaze traveled in the direction of the empty seats.
Count de la Croix inclined his head toward them both, and Lillian turned scarlet. A secret affection for the man, or merely a response to acknowledgment from one so well bred? Alfred couldn’t guess.
The man seemed amicable enough when they had spoken in Paris and had even seemed interested in the foundation Alfred had determined to launch, although the count was not sure if he would be able to contribute.
Motion at the dining room entrance made the diners look in that direction and rise. Francesca stood with her parents in the doorway. Her dress looked opalescent in the gaslights and candles. Something brilliant and blue flashed at her neck. She appeared as if she were going to be sick, but smiled at the roomful of people.
The three of them walked to the head of the table. Mrs. Wallingford extended her hand to the empty chair next to the count, and Francesca moved to stand behind it. The count pulled Francesca’s chair away from the table. As she sat, she looked down the table of guests, and her gaze settled on Alfred.
He remembered his first hunting trip with his father, and the doe they had seen in the woods. The creature froze when they happened upon it, and it wore an expression much like the one Francesca wore now, before it disappeared. Francesca looked down at the place setting before her.
Mr. Wallingford remained standing, as did his wife, while the dinner guests sat down.
“Thank you, guests, for gracing our home with your presence this evening. Please enjoy all that we have to offer you. Before supper begins, my wife and I would like to share some news with you.” He glanced at Mrs. Wallingford, resplendent in a purple gown and wearing a headdress that reminded Alfred of a peacock’s tail. Her face glowed like the sun in the August heat.
“God has blessed our family, to be sure. And we in turn are happily including you this evening. Seaside was built to be a place of cool respite for us during the warm summer months, and we plan to entertain on a scale such as this for many summers to come.
“As you know, our daughter, Francesca Genevieve Wallingford, has joined the ranks of society this spring, and we have carefully considered her future.”
She paused, and with the pause, cast the beam of her smile at Francesca, whose fingers curled around a salad fork. Her lips sealed into a thin line, and her chest moved almost imperceptibly as if she struggled to breathe. Francesca glanced at Alfred, then away again.
The glance tore at his heart, and his pulse roared in his ears.
“We are proud to announce that by this time next year, we shall have a son-in-law, Count Philippe de la Croix.”
Alfred’s pulse was drowned out by the smatter of applause that echoed off the dining room ceiling. His hands clapped as if he were a puppet, and someone else forced them together and apart again.
Francesca and the count rose. He took one of her hands in his, and she looked up at him and smiled. But the fork remained tight within her grip.