Behind a Lady's Smile (22 page)

Genny grinned up at him. “A very nice, very handsome, dead broke, first-rate photographer.”

He shook his head, looking miserable. “I love you. I’ll never stop loving you no matter what you decide.”

“I’ve already decided, you silly man. Do you really think I’m so shallow as to allow my head to be turned by some pretty lace? And silk so smooth against your skin it feels like a warm bath? And wool so soft you could wrap a newborn in it?” She let her voice go all wistful, then laughed at Mitch’s expression. “Goodness, Mitch, I was only jesting. You’re worth a thousand pretty dresses.”

“Just promise me, Genny. If you come back to New York with me, I want you to do it without regret. We’ll have some lean years, darlin’. I’ll never be able to buy you the things you deserve.”

Genny looked down at her dress. “When I think of what you gave up just to make sure I was accepted, it breaks my heart.”

He grinned down at her. “Honestly? It breaks my heart a bit too. I worked years to save that money, and all it took for me to give it away was your pretty smile.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he’d done. “It’s just when it comes to you, I don’t have much sense. I don’t think I’ll ever do what’s right.”

Do what’s right
. Was she doing the right thing? She’d made a promise to her father, but she would be breaking it. No doubt her grandparents would be excited at the prospect of having a bit of their daughter back, of presenting her to society. She would likely break their hearts just as her mother had. She pushed her thoughts away but not before Mitch saw her small frown.

“What’s wrong?”

“I was just thinking about that promise I made to my father. I’m going to break it.”

“Your father asked you to make that promise because he was scared you’d be left alone. He wanted you safe, taken care of. And that’s what I’m going to do. Besides, did your father make you promise to
live
in England or just
go
to England?”

“Go. He made me promise to go.” She grinned, then leaned forward, wishing she could give Mitch a hug, but they’d already attracted too many stares. A few weeks ago, she wouldn’t have noticed the looks of near hostility other passengers were giving Mitch, as if he wasn’t worthy of speaking to her. Just because of their clothes! She wondered what they would have thought had they seen her traipsing around the wilderness in her father’s old cast-offs. Once Mitch and she were married, she’d be sure to wear simpler clothes. Or buy Mitch nicer ones.

“See? Sometimes you can have your cake and you can eat it too,” he said, laughing.

“Are you the cake?”

“Your grandparents are the cake you have. I’m the cake you get to eat.”

Genny didn’t care what people thought of a very fine lady kissing a man sleeping in steerage. She pulled him down by the lapels and kissed him, right there on the deck, not giving a fig what anyone thought. She was almost disappointed when she looked up and realized no one had seen.

 

For the next two days, Tillie hung on Genny like a burr. An angry burr. It didn’t matter how many times Genny told her she and Mitch were getting married, Tillie would not let the two of them alone. She’d turned out to be the perfect chaperone for a young, single lady visiting family in England. Genny resigned herself to reading in the main saloon and visiting with the other first class passengers on the ship while Tillie, with great skill, crocheted. Genny pretended interest in learning, but her attempts to replicate what Tillie was doing were nothing less than disastrous.

“I can repair a boot or sew on a patch better than anyone,” Genny grumbled, looking at what was supposed to be the beginnings of a doily. “I can set a rabbit trap, skin the rabbit, and prepare a stew. How many women can say that?”

“Thankfully, not many,” Tillie said, wrinkling her nose.

Apparently, crocheting a round using a chain and slip stitch was the easiest thing to do, but for some reason, Genny’s stitches were uneven and her results were more misshapen than circular. Her abysmal attempts were drawing the attention of a young woman Genny had noticed before.

When she put aside her crochet impatiently and took up her book, the young lady crossed the saloon to introduce herself. “Hello. I couldn’t help but notice your struggles. No matter how many times my governess tried to teach me, I failed. I have an entire collection of those,” she said, pointing to the tangled mess beside Genny. “My name is Miss Sylvia Marshall.”

Genny held out her hand. “Genevieve Hayes. I’m so pleased to meet another woman who is a crocheting failure.”

Miss Marshall laughed. “I fear I’m also rather awful at needle work, but I do continue to try.” Miss Marshall, a tiny woman with sharp brown eyes, had a warm smile that completely transformed what was otherwise a rather plain face. “May I?” she asked, nodding to the spot on the couch beside Genny.

“Of course,” Genny said, a bit nervous that somehow this woman would immediately know she was completely out of her element.

“What did you think of America?” Miss Marshall asked, and Genny had to laugh.

“Since it’s the only country I’ve ever lived in, I’d say it’s lovely.”

“But your accent . . .”

“My mother and father were from England, but I’ve lived in America my entire life,” she said. “I’m actually on my way to meet my grandparents for the first time.”

“You’re an American?” the other woman asked, and something about her expression and tone put Genny on alert.

“I am.”

Miss Marshall darted a look to her mother, but the older woman was occupied with her own conversation. “You must be excited about visiting your grandparents.”

“Yes, but also a bit nervous. I’m not used to living in a very grand style and I fear I’ll seem a bit of a country bumpkin.”

Miss Marshall gave her a cool assessment, one Genny did not understand. “Your dress is lovely,” she said. “My mother and I thought perhaps it was Worth?”

“No, though my couturier did study with Mr. Worth. It’s from the house of Madame Brunelle. I’m certain you’ve heard of her. She’s the premier dressmaker in America.” Genny hoped she didn’t sound too rehearsed, but she was secretly thrilled she could talk about Madame Brunelle so early in her trip. “She was such a dear; she created my entire wardrobe in less than a month.”

Miss Marshall’s eyes widened. “I do know of her. Your entire wardrobe? Are they all as lovely as this?”

“Not quite so plain, but yes.”

Miss Marshall stood abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me.” She walked directly over to her mother, who had been watching the pair of them with interest.

Genny watched curiously as Miss Marshall spoke with her mother. They’d apparently come to some conclusion, because after their brief conversation, the younger Marshall waved her over.

“This is my mother, Mrs. Harold Marshall. Mother, this is Miss Genevieve Hayes.”

“My daughter and I have been admiring your dress, Miss Hayes. It was designed by Madame Brunelle, I believe?”

Genny nodded. “She’s quite accomplished, isn’t she?”

“I should say so. We were unable to get an appointment. Of course, we were only in New York for two weeks,” she hastened to add. “We were visiting my sister in Pennsylvania, you see, before going to New York. Sylvia mentioned that your entire wardrobe was created by her?”

The three women sat at a small table by the large open windows where a cool breeze filtered in. It was so warm in the saloon, the air felt wonderful against Genny’s face. “Yes. I feel so privileged.”

A steward immediately came to their table, notepad in hand.

“A pot of tea, please. And a small selection of pastries. And sandwiches. And chocolate.” Mrs. Marshall looked at Genny. “I find the sea improves one’s appetite.”

“I’ve found it can have the opposite effect for many,” Genny said, making the two women hide their mouths with their hands lest anyone see them smile. Genny furrowed her brow. She hadn’t realized that showing ones teeth whilst laughing wasn’t done. She’d have to make a note of that.

When the tea arrived, Miss Marshall said, “Shall I pour, Mother?”

Genny put a hand over her delicate teacup. “None for me, thank you. I have to confess, I know I’m supposed to like tea, but I haven’t developed a taste for it. I was raised on strong, black coffee.”

“Oh, dear. That’s something you’re going to have to remedy at once,” Mrs. Marshall said, nodding to her daughter to fill Genny’s cup despite her protest.

Genny smiled wryly and let her pour, before proceeding to take two sugar cubes and plopping them into the steaming liquid, causing tiny drops to splash onto the nearly translucent saucer. She stirred, liking the way the small spoon made a gentle clinking sound, then took a sip, trying not to grimace. It wasn’t until she raised her gaze to the other two women that she knew she’d done something wrong. They looked, well it could only be said that the two women looked horrified. Genny paused, the cup in midair, before she gently placed it back onto the saucer.

Mrs. Marshall’s smile was tight. “And where were you raised?” she asked.

In a cave
. “In the West. We had a lovely place with a view of the mountains.” Why she was embellishing she couldn’t say, but it felt like the right thing to do at the moment.

“And your family? I noticed your accent. Why, it sounds as if you never stepped out of England, and yet my daughter was telling me you were born in America?”

“My mother and father moved there before I was born, but they’re both gone now,” Genny said.

“And you’re visiting relatives in England?”

“Yes. The Duke of Glastonbury is my grandfather, and, of course, my grandmother is the duchess. I think I may also have an uncle, but I’ve never met any of them, and my father never made mention of any relatives on his side.”

It was Mrs. Marshall’s turn to pause with her teacup in midair. She looked as if she’d swallowed the cup whole, rather than just taken a small sip. “Your grandfather is the . . .”

“Duke of Glastonbury.” Genny was somewhat used to people being stunned by such a revelation, but the expression on the two ladies’ faces was nothing short of astonished. “Is that very good or very bad?” Genny asked, laughing.

“Very, very good,” breathed Miss Marshall.

“Sylvia, manners,” Mrs. Marshall said harshly. Then she smiled beatifically at Genny. “Glastonbury is quite well regarded in England.
Quite
well regarded. A very important man from an esteemed family. You didn’t know?”

“I only know that whenever I tell anyone that my grandfather is a duke, people seem interested.”

Mrs. Marshall clutched her daughter’s wrist, as if trying to stop herself from fainting. Genny looked from one woman to the other. “Do you realize who you are?”

“I think so.” Genny let out a small laugh.

“You, my dear, are the luckiest young lady in all of England.”

“I am?”

“And to think, you’re sitting here with us, completely unaware how very important your family is. How unlikely it would be that you would even speak to us. Share tea . . .” Her voice drifted off. “No wonder Madame Brunelle designed for you.”

Genny could feel her face grow more and more heated as the two women stared at her. “I expect I would share tea with anyone who asked me to.”

Mrs. Marshall shook her head adamantly. “You were living in America and now you’re going to be living in England in a palace. A
palace
. Why, we toured that home two summers ago. Do you remember, Sylvia?”

“Remember, Mama? Of course I do. Remember how wonderful we thought it would be to live in such a place?” Miss Marshall turned to her. “And you will be. Oh, my. Perhaps we can visit.”

“Sylvia, really,” her mother said. “We could hardly presume such a thing.”

Genny shook her head. “I’m afraid I won’t be living with them, or staying. I’m going back to America. I’m engaged, you see.”

The two women looked utterly crestfallen. “To whom?”

“I daresay you wouldn’t know him. He’s a photographer from Nebraska.”

Mrs. Marshall looked slightly ill. “A photographer?” The two women exchanged glances. Mrs. Marshall cleared her throat. “Congratulations. Your grandparents, they approve?”

Genny smiled. “I hardly think they could. It just happened on this trip.”

“On your way to see your grandfather, the duke,” Sylvia said mysteriously. Another glance exchanged. “And does this photographer know who your grandparents are?”

“Of course. He agreed to take me to them all the way from California. It’s a long story, but along the way we fell in love and we’re to be married when we return to New York.”

Mrs. Marshall gave her a look of what almost seemed like pity. “Please forgive me, but you seem to be quite alone in this world and I can’t help thinking you are, perhaps, a bit naïve. What do you really know of this man?”

Genny sat back, finally understanding what the exchanged gazes had been about. “I know he’s a fine man who loves me. Honest and honorable.”

Mrs. Marshall pressed her lips together. “I’m certain he is. As I said, please forgive me. So you’ve known him for how long?”

Genny furrowed her brow as she thought. “Oh, it must be at least two months now.”

Mrs. Marshall gasped. “Two
months
?”

“It seems longer,” Genny said in a small voice. If she wasn’t mistaken, these two women were implying Mitch had some ulterior motive, when in fact he had sacrificed everything to bring her to England. He’d even spent nearly all his savings to buy her clothes befitting a duke’s granddaughter. She would have loved to have told these two that, but Tillie had warned her that a young, single girl should never accept such a large and personal gift such as an entire wardrobe, not if she didn’t want to set tongues wagging. Though she wouldn’t be staying in England, she didn’t want to do anything that would reflect badly on her grandparents.