Oh good. I feel bad that I left Tori high and dry. I hope her offer of friendship still stands.
“That is if you’re feeling up to it,” she adds gently.
“Oh, yes. I’m feeling much better, so you can put me to work now. Do you need me to do anything? Help clean up after the party?”
“It’s already been done.”
“What about dinner?”
“Chef is taking care of it.”
“Has the table been set?”
“By Patricia.”
“And what about—”
“You know what? If you’re so intent on doing something, come play a song for me. I haven’t heard you on the piano in days.”
On Monday, I try to make myself as useful as possible for Cornelia without getting in anyone’s way. I offer to walk into town to pick up her dry cleaning, and Collins actually agrees to let me go because he’s so busy with other tasks he had to put off to prepare for the ball. When I get back, I unwrap all the clothing and hang everything up in the designated sections of her very organized closet. Once that’s done, I cut fresh roses and replenish the vases in the blue drawing room. Then, I join Cornelia for tea, and when she asks me to read a book aloud to her, I happily oblige. We stay there until the early afternoon reading Pride and Prejudice together.
At dinner, we discuss whether or not Elizabeth Bennet should have accepted Darcy’s first proposal.
“Absolutely not!” I say, slamming my fist down on the table for added effect. “She thinks Darcy is proud and selfish and assumes, at the time, that marriage to him would be absolutely miserable.”
“What if it would save her family from poverty?” she prods.
“No. The sacrifice is still too great.”
“So then you’ll only marry for love?”
“We aren’t talking about me,” I say, frowning in consternation.
She smiles then. “No, perhaps not.”
After dinner, I play her a few songs on the piano and then go to bed that night feeling less guilty than days prior. I like feeling useful, and I think I could make a real place for myself here if I try hard enough.
On Tuesday, Tori calls the house while I’m out on a walk around the property with Cornelia. Apparently, she was serious about the invitation to play tennis.
“I can’t go,” I say, looking to Cornelia. “I need to help you prepare for the kids from St. Michael’s.”
“Nonsense. There’s nothing left to do. Now hurry and change or you’ll keep Tori waiting.”
“Change? Into what?”
“Tennis whites, dear. They’re in your closet.”
Of course they are, because why wouldn’t they be?
An hour later, Frank drops me at the entrance to the yacht club, and I rush to the tennis courts near the edge of the property. Tori’s already there with our instructor, a giant of a man with a heavy Russian accent who takes his job very seriously. It’s a shame considering the fact that Tori and I barely get to chat as he leads us through a round of Olympic-level tennis training. I’m sweating bullets by the time we’re done, and Tori sends me an apologetic smile.
“He wasn’t like this last time, I swear.”
I can’t even catch my breath enough to answer her, so I just wave like, No worries! Unrelatedly, do you happen to know where they keep those paddles to kickstart a heart just in case mine decides to give out?
“Maybe next time, one of us should fake a limp so he’ll go easier on us,” Tori teases as we walk through the club toward the women’s locker room after our lesson ends. Trophy cases line both sides of the hallway and I peer into a few, catching names that are familiar only because there are streets around Newport that carry the same titles.
Midway down the hall, I’m surprised to spot Nicholas in a framed photo propped against a trophy. He looks younger than he is now, but not a teenager. College age, maybe. He and his friend stand side by side, working together to hoist a large silver chalice up into the air. Nicholas beams at the camera, and I immediately think of my musings from Sunday. Apparently, he does know how to smile.
“That’s Nicky and his best friend, Rhett,” Tori says, coming closer so she can peer into the trophy case as well. “They were both there on Saturday night. Did you meet them?”
“Yes,” I reply, studying the missing link between the boy in the painting and the man from the ball. I find it infuriating that he never had to suffer through an awkward stage. “Nicholas, not Rhett.”
“Oh good. He’s one of my best friends. Rhett is too, but I’m closer with Nicky.”
The nickname—or perhaps the close bond it signifies—doesn’t sit well with me.
“You’re joking. What could you possibly see in him?”
She laughs, but when I turn to look at her, pressing for an actual answer, she shrugs. “He’s loyal and kind.”
I nearly clasp a hand over my chest in disbelief. “You’re joking. Nicholas Hunt? Cornelia’s grandson? Kind?! Are we talking about the same person?”
She cracks a smile. “He can be shy at times, sure, if that’s what you’re referring to.”
Shy is not a word I’d use to describe that man. Arrogant, yes. One hundred percent.
Shy? Ha.
“How long have you known him?” I ask. Maybe it’s a recent thing. Maybe she’s never heard him speak before.
“My whole life. He’s only a year older than me, and we all spent our summers in Newport together.”
Well there goes that theory. Maybe he’s different with her. It’s understandable. She’s of his world; I’m not.
“How old are you?” I ask, wondering more so about Nicholas’ age.
“Twenty-eight.” She jostles her shoulder against mine. “What did he do to you anyway? He seems to have left quite the impression.”
“Oh, nothing. Just rubbed me the wrong way I guess,” I say, moving away from the trophy case and hoping she’ll drop the subject.
I compare myself to Tori while we’re at lunch with Cornelia and her grandmother the next day. There’re the obvious physical differences between us. I have curves where she has none. She carries her body in a delicate way, like she’s a cloud floating above us, never quite touching earth. I seem to produce twice as much noise as she does at any given moment. Scooting in my chair, knocking my fork against my glass of water, jostling the tea cakes. I try to mimic her pin-straight posture and garner a curious stare from Cornelia.
“Are you all right, child? Quit fidgeting.”
She’s right. There’s really no use.
“Nicholas will be in town this weekend,” Lydia says, nodding to Tori. “Do you have plans to see him?”
She smiles sweetly. “Not yet. I’m sure we’ll have lunch again on Sunday before he heads back to the city though, and he’s sworn he’ll take me out sailing again soon.”
“If he does, you’ll have to take Maren with you,” Cornelia replies. “She’s never been before.”
A hearty, no-thank-you laugh spills out of me, and then I quickly clear my throat and offer an additional, “It’s okay. It’s not really my thing.”