Making Waves Page 4

  “And I’m going to be the queen of England.”

  “Well, good, you can commission a ship for me to sail around the world, Your Majesty.” Marguerite curtsied with a flourish.

  Lilly dropped her darning into the basket beside the chair. “You’re planning something, aren’t you?”

  “Please, Lilly, you’ve got to understand. I need this. If I have this one summer where I really feel alive, then maybe I can endure years as the wife of a boring man.”

  “Is that your way of tryin’ to convince me to help you?”

  “I’m not like all the other girls who are happy to be socialites. I need more adventure and excitement.”

  “And you think you need to tell me that?”

  “I knew you’d understand.”

  “What I understand is you’re making some wild plan up in that head of yours, and you’re planning on me helping you get it done, when what you should be doing is telling that man the truth about how you feel.”

  “Mother would have a conniption if I did that.” Marguerite poured water into the washbasin, dipped her hands in, and splashed the water over her face. “So, you’ll help me?”

  “Do I really have a choice?” Lilly passed her a towel.

  “Of course you do.”

  Lilly cocked an eyebrow at her.

  “I guess you could refuse, but …”

  “Put me out of my misery and just tell me what I have to do.”

  With a grin on her face, Marguerite pulled a list from her pocket. “Besides covering for me with my mother, I need you to pick up a few things for me in town.”

  An hour later, Marguerite asked Isaiah to take Lilly to town in the wagon to obtain the needed items. Marguerite hurried to meet her mother for lunch at one of the local restaurants. A waiter dressed in a double-breasted white jacket held the door for her as she entered. She paused to scan the room: fine linen tablecloths, lovely view of the lake’s rippling waters, fresh flowers on the tables, a host of dapper young waiters – and Roger Gordon. Her mother’s dream. Her worst nightmare.

  Her mother waved her over. Taking a solidifying breath, Marguerite made her way to the table.

  “Roger, what a surprise.” She allowed him to pull out her chair.

  “The good kind, I hope.”

  Not unless you intend to tell me you’re entering the priesthood. She forced a weak smile.

  “I came to meet with my investment partners. We have big plans for the Midway, and perhaps some other financially beneficial endeavors.” He slid the chair beneath her. “Then I ran into your mother, and she was kind enough to ask me to join you both.” Before returning to his seat, he bent and kissed Marguerite’s cheek. The thick mustache tickled, and she cringed.

  “Isn’t it a treat, darling?” Unfolding her napkin, her mother smoothed out its wrinkles in her lap. “Marguerite, how did your cheeks become so pink? Have you been out without a parasol?”

  “A little sun won’t hurt me, Mother. I intend to go wading this afternoon.”

  “In the lake?”

  “No, Mother, in a bathtub.”

  “Don’t be petulant.”

  “Yes, in the lake.” Marguerite snapped her napkin to the side and laid it on her lap, deliberately leaving a few wrinkles. Her mother’s turned-down mouth sent a silent thrill through her. “Haven’t you noticed swimming is a regular pastime here? Remember the new bathing costume I purchased in town? I’m dying to try it out.”

  “Perhaps Roger would care to join you.”

  She turned to him and raised her eyebrows. This could liven things up. “Do you swim?”

  “No. I don’t care for the water, and I’m not sure I approve of you carousing with the commoners in such a manner.” His spectacles slid to the end of his nose.

  “Excuse me?” Even wading? Did he want to suck every last bit of fun from her life?

  “Marguerite, you’re young and naive.” Her mother graced Roger with a practiced social smile. “All sorts of people swimming together is hardly proper. I’m sure you can entertain yourself with more acceptable things to do.”

  “Yes, that’s it.” Roger pushed up his spectacles. “Something befitting a young woman of your position.”

  She gaped at them. For several seasons now, the lake had entertained hundreds of people. Young and old, rich and poor, men and women, enjoyed the water. There had been a time when genders remained separated, but it was 1895. Times had changed. At least, they had here at the lake. What did her mother expect her to do? Be content with milling about with the socialites, displaying their season’s finery like plumage?

  Her mother’s frown deepened. “I agree with Roger. I think I shall have to forbid this foray.”

  “What would be more acceptable, Mother? Sailing?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Ladies do not sail.”

  “I did.” She cocked an eyebrow, lifting her chin in defiance and fighting the smirk trying to come to the surface. “Today. On the Argo. Father took me.”

  Her mother’s face paled while Roger’s colored a vivid shade of crimson.

  “H-h-how could you?” he asked. “What will people say?”

  “No one will say anything, and I don’t care if they do. I found it to be most exhilarating.”

  Roger scowled. “Mrs. Westing, what are you going to do with her?”

  Her mother lifted a water goblet to her lips with shaky fingers and sipped from it. “I simply don’t believe you. You’re saying this to shock us so we’ll approve of your intentions to swim in the lake. A greater evil to make a lesser one look more appealing. I know for certain that no man would let a lady sail on his vessel.”

  “Of course. I should have realized your ploy, my dear.” Roger laughed. “Never enough to keep you entertained, is there? That will change soon enough.”

  Although she’d enjoyed watching them both squirm – much more than she should have – the effect was short-lived. Her mother’s ability to shroud her emotions in a veil of propriety never ceased to amaze Marguerite. She ached for a genuine reaction – a mother’s honest concern, a shared moment of laughter, even anger. Any of it would fill the empty space in her heart.

  The conversation effectively dismissed, Camille and Roger began to discuss the unseasonably warm weather.

  Marguerite released a long sigh. She would share no more about the day. Roger would not hear about the thrill that had surged through her on the water. She would keep the yearning to repeat the experience a secret. Her secret. Roger would call it a childish whim, and her mother would be mortified at the thought. Neither of them cared about what made her happy, so neither deserved to know the desires of her heart.

  Fresh pain seared her. Perhaps it was better that her mother didn’t believe her, because that way she wouldn’t question her comings and goings. Besides, keeping the truth hidden was the Westing family motto, and no one did it better than her mother. Whenever anything occurred that her mother thought might tarnish the Westing image, no matter how insignificant, she was quick to admonish Marguerite and her siblings to keep the event a secret. It simply wouldn’t do for Camille Westing to be seen in an unflattering light.

  The sound of laughter from the entryway drew Marguerite’s attention. She spotted Trip Andrews and his crew entering the dining room. Harry appeared to tease Trip and then rough up his sunkissed sandy brown hair. Trip caught her gaze and gave her a broad, dimpled grin. Quickly she averted her eyes. The last thing she needed right now was for Trip to saunter to their table and greet her.

  The waiter arrived and Roger ordered for all three of them. Fried beefsteak, mashed potatoes drenched in white gravy, and egg custard. Colorless. Bland. Ordinary.

  She moaned inwardly.

  Lord, I can’t live in his mashed potato world. I need my tubers scalloped and diced and baked and fried and different every time. I need excitement and change as much as I need air. I know what I’m planning is deceptive, but You understand. After all, You made me this way. Right?

  Hurrying
around the corner of the tent, Marguerite nearly toppled Alice into her washtub. She grabbed the cook’s ample arm and steadied her.

  “Alice, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m afraid my mind was on my own affairs.”

  “Ain’t it always?” Alice chuckled and rubbed a bar of lye soap on a jelly stain on one of Edward’s cotton shirts. She briskly scrubbed it between her sausage-shaped fingers. “Where’s my Lilly?”

  “I-Isaiah took her to town for some things I needed.”

  “I see.”

  How did Alice always make Marguerite feel transparent? Unlike her own mother, Lilly’s mother wasn’t condemning, just mildly omniscient. She had been with the Westings for years, and she had practically raised Marguerite alongside Lilly. Little that happened went unnoticed by the housekeeper and cook. And she seemed to have a keen sense about anything related to Marguerite.

  Alice glanced at Marguerite and held her gaze.

  Marguerite tried not to flinch. Stay calm. Look her in the eye.

  “Hmmm. It might’ve been nice to know you sent Lilly off on your errands since it’s wash day.” Alice dropped another shirt into the cloudy water.

  “I’m sorry. She should be back soon. I could help if you like.”

  The heavyset woman laughed. “Your mama would sure like that. Can you picture her face if she found you up to your elbows in wash water?”

  They both smiled. “I really wouldn’t mind,” Marguerite said.

  “I know you wouldn’t, missy.” She eyed Marguerite from head to toe again. “You been carrying your parasol?”

  Marguerite touched her pink cheeks. “I forgot it this morning.”

  “The pink looks good on you. Gives you some color.” She swished the shirts with the wash stick and displayed a gaptoothed smile. “I suppose my Lilly can use a break now and then. Every girl needs a little fun.”

  “I believe my mother would disagree.”

  “Probably, but that’s never stopped you before.”

  Marguerite started to walk away. Her heart stopped when Alice called out to her.

  “And missy, you be careful with whatever you’re planning, you understand?”

  Marguerite felt exposed.

  Made of soft, light-blue striped serge, the bathing suit hugged her waist and then flared out with a bouncy skirt that barely brushed her knees. She adjusted the wide sailor collar, running her fingers along the white braided edge. She took a second look in the long mirror her mother had insisted on bringing to the lake. The trim on the capped sleeves matched that on the collar. The pantaloons beneath exposed her stocking-clad calves and ankles much more than any of her cycling costumes did.

  Her mother would probably call it scandalous, but Marguerite preferred to think of it as daring, bold, fun.

  She slipped into her shoes just as Lilly arrived.

  “What do you think?” Marguerite spun to show off the attire.

  “It’s a fine costume.”

  She tugged on the skirt. “I wish you could join me. You swim much better than I.”

  “You hardly swim at all.”

  “I’m not that bad.” Marguerite paused. “On second thought, maybe you should come along just to keep me afloat.”

  “I don’t think your mother would approve.” Lilly picked up Marguerite’s discarded dress and folded it. “Just remember what I taught you when we were kids.”

  Marguerite recalled the afternoons Alice had taken both girls to a pond outside of town and let them swim in their chemises and drawers. Lilly dove and swam like a mermaid, while Marguerite found it a struggle just to dog-paddle across the pond.

  “How’d you convince your mother to let you go?”

  “I didn’t.” Marguerite scooped up her overdress and slipped her arms into the sleeves. “It was Mark. He needs someone to watch him, and you know she can’t tell him no. I, on the other hand …”

  Lilly snickered. “So are you going to talk to him about your plan? What if he doesn’t want to learn?”

  “What twelve-year-old boy would turn down the chance to learn to sail?”

  Lilly handed her the wrapped bundle of items she’d secured in town. “Better give him this stuff to stow. I still can’t believe you made me part of this.”

  “It’s the only way.” Marguerite accepted the parcel filled with new boots for each of them and a new sailing cap for Mark.

  “That’s what you keep saying. Now, when you get to that lake, you need to work on your stroke, ’cause I doubt it would do for a sailor to not know how to swim.”

  Marguerite’s nerves tingled. If a sailor had to know how to swim, she was in trouble, and even if she did practice today, one day at the lake couldn’t remedy her inability. Maybe she should reconsider.

  I need to stop fretting. If I fall in the water, surely I know enough to stay afloat. After all, how hard can it be if I’m not wearing all those petticoats?

  The lacy fan in her manicured hand did little to disperse the humid Midwest air, but Camille Westing refused to look bothered by it. Instead she sipped the lemonade Alice had prepared for her, keeping her eye trained on the path leading to their camp.

  Their camp. She recalled the day of their arrival when Mark announced he wanted to call it “Camp Dew Drop Inn.” Sweet Mark didn’t grasp why a name like that would appear to be an open invitation to every ne’er-do-well on the lake. No, she’d explained, if they had to summer amid the bugs, they should at least have a proper-sounding name. Always the most creative of her children, Marguerite suggested “Camp Andromeda,” and Camille admitted it sounded quite regal. By the next day, Marguerite had arranged for Isaiah to carve a sign for them, and it was now mounted on a post at their camp’s entrance.

  Camille glanced at her surroundings and sighed. Besides the four tents, only the new set of Heywood Brothers rattan furniture she’d insisted on bringing spoke of any culture. Two chaise lounges, a settee, and four chairs with a matching table were arranged in the center of their camp on which to dine, relax, and of course entertain. All the serpentine, rolled-back pieces sported beadwork and curlicues. She’d ordered the pricey rattan months ago for their sunporch back home. The fortuitous purchase made life here bearable. If the wicker furniture suffered because of the elements, then so be it. When the time came for Roger Gordon’s mother to join them one evening, all would be in perfect order.

  Camille ran her hand along the solid surface of the rolltop travel desk sitting on the wicker table before her. The desk, perfect for use on her train trips to visit her sister, had been a gift from Edward last Christmas. Now, as she sat waiting for her husband to return home, she rolled the top of the desk up, revealing the stoppered inkwells. She unlocked the hidden storage drawer beneath the angled writing surface and withdrew the letter she’d placed there.

  The handwriting on the envelope, full of lovely flourishes, echoed the fine breeding of the author – Mrs. Richard Gordon, Roger’s mother. Camille traced the lettering with her finger. No one would ever question her parenting skills once Marguerite wedded Roger. No one.

  With careful precision, she set the envelope in the upper left corner. Reaching into the drawer again, she withdrew a piece of fine linen stationery. Then, after checking the nib, she dipped her Warren quill pen in the inkwell, ready to write an overdue thank-you for last month’s ladies’ tea to the woman who would become Marguerite’s mother-in-law. At least, she would if Camille had anything to do with it.

  The corners of Camille’s lips lifted. If the look of adoration in Roger’s eyes was any indication, even Marguerite couldn’t stop this now.

  Just as she wrote “sincerely yours” at the letter’s close, Edward appeared at the edge of the camp. She blotted the letter and folded it before he drew close enough to kiss her cheek.

  “I see my gift has come in handy.”

  “Did you have this summer at the lake planned in December?” She rolled the desk’s drawer down. “Is that why you gave it to me?”

  He chuckled. “
No, sweetheart. I just saw the travel desk and thought of you. A beautiful woman should surround herself with beautiful things.”

  Her cheeks heated. “How was your day?”

  Edward sat down on the settee. “The prospectus for the new streetcar company is coming together. I should be able to go over it with Roger later.”

  Alice ambled to the table with a glass of lemonade for Edward. He took a long swig. “Alice, you always know just what I need. Thank you.”

  “Mr. Westing, you tryin’ to get yourself an extra slice of pie by flatterin’ me?”

  “I’m certainly hoping. Is it working?” He grinned and raised his eyebrows.

  “Humph. We’ll just have to see.” She waddled off.

  “You’re as bad as Marguerite. Treating the help like they’re friends.”

  “We’ve lived in the same house with her for almost twenty years. I think she deserves a kind word every now and then.”

  Camille picked up the fan and waved it before her flushed cheeks. “There’s something of greater importance I wish to discuss with you.”

  “Oh? Has something happened?”

  “Only what you have allowed to happen.” She stilled the fan and met her husband’s curious gaze. “Do the words ‘Marguerite’ and ‘sailing’ ring any bells?”

  His lips curled. “I take it she told you about our adventure.”

  “What were you thinking? Don’t you realize how difficult it is to negotiate a suitable match for her already? When Roger learned of her adventure, he was appalled.”

  He took another sip of the lemonade. “Then perhaps Roger isn’t the one for our daughter.”

  “Nonsense. He is quite smitten with her and will provide for her admirably.”

  “Camille, the decision is ultimately Marguerite’s, just as marrying me was yours.”

  Edward’s wink sent a familiar thrill through her. How well she remembered their courting days, and not once had she regretted her decision to marry the man beside her. “Has it become warmer, or is it just me?” She fanned her heated cheeks. “The fact remains that you are making my job much more difficult than it need be.”