Marry Me, Page 2

  This hat he drew off his wavy blond locks. She should have closed the door, her hand resting on its edge. Half her heart wanted to close it now, the other half to slam the door in his face. Fear of her mother’s wrath stayed her hand. “I take it we have you to thank for this veritable forest?”

  He beamed a precise smile, wide enough to show off his too-white teeth, but not so wide to betray his gums in enthusiasm. One could call him handsome, until further acquaintance.

  Mrs. Moore returned, an apologetic hand stretched out. “Oh, my dear Mr. Elliott. Such thoughtfulness. Do come in.”

  Mr. Elliott took the proffered hand. Mrs. Moore dragged him in.

  Not that there was anywhere to sit down in the parlor, so full of his offerings it was. The warm scent of flowers filled the air, though some of that may have been the arrangement left too close to the fire.

  While Mrs. Moore fussed over clearing a chair, Mr. Elliott spied his image in the mirror over the fireplace. He ran a hand over his wavy blond hair to smooth it back into place. He gave himself a genuine smile of admiration. For the first time since she’d met him, Millie saw who Guy Elliott truly loved.

  “Here you are, Mr. Elliott,” beamed Mrs. Moore, sweeping the last of invisible dust from a chair. Its previous occupier—a floral arrangement—had been relocated to the floor. It was the only place left for it to go.

  That smile turned into a condescending smirk as Guy pulled away from the mirror with reluctance.

  Millie shoved the arrangement on the sofa over enough for her to squeeze in. The sofa had the advantage of being on the other side of the room, away from Guy Elliott. Also, he would not be able to join her, so full was the sofa.

  Mrs. Moore slipped out on the excuse of needing to take some of the flowers for water. Millie wrinkled her nose; she’d been purposely abandoned.

  These were the times Millie wished she could shout. She wanted to yell at her mother for her silliness. She wanted to berate Mr. Elliott for his wastefulness. Could she kick over a vase of flowers instead?

  Instead, she smoothed out a wrinkle in her pale blue skirt. “You have been far too generous with your gifts, Mr. Elliott.” After all, he had not quite been courting her a month. “There’s enough flowers here for a funeral.”

  Was that the barest of wrinkles on his forehead? “Or a wedding.”

  Mr. Elliott was one to talk about weddings. Millie’s gaze narrowed. She knew exactly why Mr. Elliott was here. She was the wooden spoon, the condolence prize, the last chance saloon for Mr. Elliott. He had wooed and failed to win at least three other young ladies, each one smart enough to see him for what he truly was. Several of her acquaintances had had the good sense to wed men of fine character and old fortune, men who were not Mr. Elliott. All the New Money in the world would not make up for poor character.

  She hoped she would be as wily as they. “I do not recall so many flowers at Ethel Westford’s wedding,” she remarked. That was the last wedding Millie had had the pleasure of attending last month.

  Now Ethel Westford nee Merriman had been the last fair maiden Mr. Elliott had pursued. They said she’d nearly walked down the aisle with him, but had called off the wedding a good three weeks prior. Rumors abounded, as they do. What they were, Millie couldn’t recall, for nearly two months to the day of her jilting Mr. Elliott, Ethel walked down a different aisle with the very respectable John Westford, a younger scion of the affluent Connecticut Westfords. That alone sent all mention of Mr. Elliott out Society’s door. Being forgotten by Society must have stung him more than being jilted.

  Mr. Elliott’s face froze when Millie mentioned the new Mrs. Westford; that wound was still fresh. Still, he recovered quickly. “I have come to ask you if you would accompany me to the Junior Regatta on Saturday afternoon.”

  All these flowers just to ask her out? That’s a cheap trick. “I’m afraid we’re already going. Jonathan is one of the competitors, you know?”

  He blinked in confusion. “Jonathan?”

  “My younger brother.” The Junior Regatta was more a children’s event, but it drew its fair share of affluent families. The younger set raced little sailboats about one of the lakes in Central Park. Families brought picnics and made a day of it. Her brother had competed every year since he was old enough to sail a toy boat without breaking down into tears when it—as they all did—got stranded out in the middle of the lake and had to be rescued by rowers.

  He sniffed and waggled his nose. “So you will be there. At the very least, I must ask you join me for a stroll.”

  Ah. She walked into that one. There was no way she could avoid his company now. “If you wish.” What else could she say? All those flowers made her head feel dizzy.

  Satisfied with her answer, he replaced his straw hat on his wavy blond hair and bid her good day. He cast a satisfied glance at the multitudinous flowers before making his departure.

  Well, if one could call it a departure. Millie saw him to the door. “I shall see you on Saturday.” Wait. Why’d she say that?

  “I’m glad,” he replied, lingering on the doorstep. Millie wished to slam the door in his face. “Oh, could I ask you to wear a red dress that day?” He stroked his red-striped waistcoat. “I think it would be charming if we matched.”

  Millie blinked at him. Really? If he had the gall to dictate her wardrobe now when they were merely courting, surely he would be insufferable later in a deeper relationship. “I’m sorry. I cannot oblige you. I do not have a red dress.”

  Nobody had a red dress. Red simply was not in fashion this season, being a bold color. Red might be suitable for a man, but not for a woman of fashion. Every lady wore white or pastels for daywear—comfortable cottons or crisp linens, now that spring was here. “I’m afraid I shall have to wear something else.”

  Before he could protest, or worse, demand she wear something to suit him, she shut the door in his face. She darted back into the parlor and peeked at him through the curtains of the window.

  Mr. Elliott stood there, surprised. Good. She’d discomfited him. Maybe he’d take the hint and go away.

  But instead of striding off, he sauntered down the steps, pausing to straighten his cuffs. It was as if he had wanted to be seen on her porch. He tipped his hat for the pair of matrons who strolled by.

  Finally, when he had no further excuse to loiter, he left with a slow, casual walk as if he’d not just had his nose tweaked.

  Thank goodness he was gone. For now. If only she could be rid of him for good.

  As Millie studied the bouquets, she wondered, where did the florist find such a vast range of flowers? Even with hothouses, flowers still had their seasons. Here was ivy—fidelity and friendship—entwined through the bouquet. And there were faithful violets. When Millie went to pluck one out, she discovered, not much to her surprise, that it was fake.

  ****

  “Uncle Ray!”

  Before Raymond had climbed the steps to his sister’s home, a passel of nieces and nephews barreled out the door. They must have been watching from the windows. Even Thomas, the eldest at fifteen, did not hide his enthusiasm. At least he had enough restraint not to dig through his uncle’s jacket.

  Helen, who at eleven years should have known better, already had her hands in his outer pockets. “What have you brought us today?” She’d shoved her competition Jack and Ruth out of the way. Billie couldn’t even begin to compete with them. Essie, only three, still had trouble getting down the steps.

  Raymond rescued the bag from Helen’s eager fingers. “Now, now,” he sang. “Wait y-your t-t-urn.”

  They all bounced about him, eager for their uncle’s latest enchantment.

  Raymond held the paper bag close and peeked inside, teasing the children. Immediately he shut the bag, more so not to give away his surprise. Helen squealed in anticipation.

  As one, they cupped their hands, ready to receive the latest delight.

  Fearing she’d wet herself, Raymond gave the first heart to Helen. The moment it landed
in her hands, it squeaked, “Sweet Girl!” Helen laughed in delight. The younger children squealed as well.

  Poor Thomas looked disappointed. “Love hearts? Those are for sissies.”

  Poor lad. Hasn’t he figured out girls yet? Raymond dug through the bag until he found a heart suitable for Thomas’ manly inclinations. Into his nephew’s reluctant hand, he dropped, “Swell Guy”.

  All right, the squeaky pitch didn’t sound very masculine, but Thomas gave a reluctant nod of approval.

  Raymond doled out several more hearts to the delight of the younger set. “Can we eat ’em?” Ruth asked above the sentimental din.

  Raymond nodded.

  “Yay!” she stuffed the lot into her mouth.

  “Hey!” chided Helen. “You’ll ruin your appetite.”

  “Fffo?” Ruth replied around a mouthful of coloured drippy sugar. Already Essie had drooled brownish-blue saliva down her pinafore.

  His uncle-ish chaos dispensed, Raymond asked Thomas, “Your m-m-m-other home?”

  “Sure.” Thomas held out a surreptitious hand. Raymond slid him another candy heart on the sly. “But first, I gotta show you my boat. It’s almost done!”

  Inwardly, Raymond groaned. His business here was not purely a social call. He had something he wanted to discuss with his sister Mary, something important. But Thomas had inherited the family talent. “All right.”

  Mary Wilson Chandler lived the easy life of an Old Money wife. Even the Chandlers’ primary residence spoke of class and grace spanning generations. Thomas might have dashed up that most elegant staircase without a second glance, but Raymond couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of the carved wooden banister.

  Thomas bounced eagerly at the top of the stairs. “C’mon, Uncle Ray!”

  Raymond sighed and followed his nephew to the nursery. Like many an old and stately home, the nursery was on the third floor, well away from where the parents lived. The curtains had been drawn back from the garret windows, the light of morning illuminating the Noah’s Ark painted on the green walls.

  On a table in a corner of the nursery, covered in cloth, sat Thomas’ latest project. With careful hands, he rolled back the cloth to reveal a beautiful sailboat. The keel he’d painted black, but the sides and all the fine details were done in red and gold. Thomas tilted the boat up. “Isn’t she a beauty? Just a few more hours and she’ll be done for the race.”

  Raymond smelled the familiar scent of magic. Not too strong to be obvious, but unmistakeably present. “Wh-wh-at’d you a-a-dd?”

  Thomas yearned to include “modifications” to his boats. The first time he’d done it, he’d enchanted his boat for speed without paying attention to design. Sure, he won every race that day, but at what cost to the other competitors? Many a young fellow had gone home in disappointment.

  Raymond had pulled his nephew aside for a bit of a chat. There was a fine line between enhancement and cheating. To enchant a boat for speed was not sportsmanlike. Magic should never be used to coerce people or cheat or anything like that. A gentleman’s character should stand on its own.

  And Thomas, like the gentleman’s son he was, had listened. “I promise, everything’s crackerjack.” He upended the boat and drew his finger along the bottom seam. “Here, I enchanted it so the boat won’t tip. And in the black paint I sealed it up so she won’t leak. And that’s it.”

  Raymond nodded his approval. Focusing on integrity was the best way to go. “Well d-d-done.” He clapped his proud nephew on the back.

  “You coming to the race on Saturday?” The tone of Thomas’ voice indicated he would not take no for an answer.

  Not that Raymond was planning on missing it. The Junior Regatta was a splendid day out where children were not shuffled off to their nannies and governesses, but allowed to socialise.

  Raymond bade his nephew good luck and retreated from the nursery.

  He found Mary in the front sitting room cutting catalogue pictures for her scrapbook. Mary loved pretty things. While she was affluent enough to afford anything that took her fancy, she never gave up her hobby of filling scrapbook after scrapbook with beautiful pictures. “Hello Raymond,” she said, not looking up from the precision of her scissors. Ever so carefully she edged a blue bouquet out of a magazine cover. “What brings you by today?”

  From his pocket he pulled the heart he’d selected earlier. With a single finger he pushed it across the table toward his sister. “Sweet Girl!” it chirped.

  “Oh,” she cried, picking it up. “Is that for me?” She covered it with her other hand, then revealed the heart to the light, where it chirped “Sweet Girl!” again. Mary laughed, as she always had whenever Raymond had enchanted little things for her as a child.

  Raymond sighed. “I m-m-met s-s-omeon-ne.”

  Mary, who’d been playing with the noisy little heart, looked up. She blinked at her brother. “A girl?” Delight spread across her face.

  He nodded.

  “About time,” Mary declared. “What is her name? Do we know her family?”

  Oh dear. He should have anticipated she’d ask that. “D-don’t kn-now.”

  “Then give me her name and I’ll tell you if we know them or not.”

  Double oh dear. “I—I—” he stuttered, not sure how to put this.

  Mary’s jaw dropped. “Wait. You don’t know her name? Haven’t even been introduced?”

  This was awkward. How could he explain to his sister about this young woman he saw on the street one day? How she hid behind a lamp post and watched a protest. She wasn’t a radical, this young lady, otherwise she would have been in with them marching along. How could he explain her gentle features, her elegant limbs and those fine ankles? But what made his heart really flutter was when she gave her whole sandwich to that starving street urchin without a second thought for herself.

  That was the sort of spirit a man could admire. Gibson Girls may be all fine and well in their beauty and boldness, but they had a certain hard edge that Raymond disliked. And then there were the Victorian remnants. Such blushing shrinking violets with nary a thought in their heads might have suited the men of his father’s generation, but this was the new century. Progress, and all that. No room for the weak or tepid.

  This young lady did not seem weak. She seemed fascinated by life.

  “I w-w-ant t-t-o find h-h-her again.”

  Mary positioned the bouquet in her scrapbook. “What do you know about her?”

  Raymond sighed in frustration. Mary rolled her eyes. She wagged a finger at the desk on the other side of the room. “There’s paper in there.” She picked up her scissors and resumed snipping.

  Raymond fetched a nice piece of writing paper and a pencil. He tapped the pencil against his lips. What did he know about her?

  She’s beautiful. That was a given. She has an interest in…politics? No, social issues. She’s smart enough not to get directly involved in politics. Politics could get tricky, if some of the skirmishes down at the Club on East 44th street were anything to go by. Men often resolved their differences in the pugilistic ring when they could not come to agreement over politics, finances or anything, really.

  She came from a well-to-do family, if the quality of her hands and her clothes were any indication, but not so rich that she wasn’t above carrying her own lunch around.

  She was thoughtful. She offered her sandwich to that boy. The whole thing. Someone of a higher station would have ignored him completely. Compassionate. Yes, that was her.

  And she didn’t give Raymond the brush-off either. She accepted the little candy heart graciously and with honest delight. Yes. That’s what he loved most, the sheer joy at such a simple gift.

  He slid his list over to his sister. She read it, her eyebrows rising. “Sounds like a real charmer. But how will you find her?”

  Knock on every door in New York? Could do. Cross his fingers and hope for the best? Sheer dumb luck ruled their first encounter. He couldn’t rely on such a fickle thing for the rest.
/>   “P-persiss-sstence.”

  Okay, and some luck.

  Still, did his heart have to beat so hard?

  “Wh-wh-when I f-f-find her, h-h-help m-me?” On the back of the paper he pencilled big and bold, “Please?”

  ****

  Saturday came, and with it, Guy Elliott. To Millie’s chagrin, he called at the house, arriving about fifteen minutes before the Moores were to depart.

  He came with an armful of lilies. Surely one couldn’t go wrong with the innocuous flower of innocence. They looked out of place in front of his red-striped waistcoat and linen suit. He looked to be going out for a day of gay delights, whereas the lilies begged for an afternoon of quietude.

  The maid answered the door. Flustered Mrs. Moore hurried up behind her, a smile plastered across her face. Did appearance mean so much to her mother?

  “We did not expect you so soon,” Mrs. Moore panted, a hand to her ruffled bosom. Her gaze alighted on the lilies. “Oh, how lovely.” She stroked a petal. A wave of greasiness rippled off.

  Millie shuddered at the top of the staircase. With a complete lack of grace, she clunked down the stairs, the carpet runner failing to hide her loud footfalls. “We’re not ready yet,” she said, fully dressed. Today Millie had chosen a white day dress with a pleated bodice, just right for promenading in Central Park on the first real spring day of the season. Her high button shoes of brown complimented the green sash at her waist. A matching green ribbon encircled the brim of her straw hat. Young, fresh, delightful, or so her mother had claimed.

  Her words failed to unsettle Mr. Elliott. “I hope it will not take you too long to change into your red dress?”

  Millie wanted to scream at him. What was wrong with what she was wearing? Nothing. Even her mother had approved.

  The maid collected the lilies from Mr. Elliott. He instructed their vase to be placed in the front window. Lilies love the light, or so he claimed.

  “See, I have brought you a gift.” From his pocket he pulled a red satin ribbon, one of the expensive kind. It had that same greasy aura of the flowers and all of his other gifts. She didn’t want to touch it.