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Oscar stepped onto the neatly kept lawn behind the Crossways and paused, taking a deep breath of sea air and admiring the sweeping vista in front of him. Located in what had been, until its construction, the unfashionable part of Newport; built on the cheap by an American architect in a Colonial style, quite at odds with houses like the Breakers or Marble House, the Crossways none-the-less had one of the most splendid views in Newport. Its construction had been a bold move, the sort that only one member of New York’s elite would have dared make:
Marion Graves Anthon Fish, known to one and all as Mamie.
The woman in question sat at a round table about six feet away in the center of the lawn. She sat with her back to him, sipping tea, seemingly lost in the view. Smiling to himself, Oscar crossed to the table, coming to a halt just far enough into her life of sight to be seen without blocking her view, and executed a perfect bow. “Good morning, Mrs. Fish.”
“Mr. van Rhijn.” Mrs. Fish graced him with a tight lipped smile, her tea cup hovering just above the saucer. A selection of cakes sat on the table as well, as if she was expecting company that hadn’t shown up and decided to eat them all herself. “Do make yourself at home. No one wishes you there more than I do.”
Even if receiving her hallmark quips and haughty remarks hadn’t become a badge of honour among her peers, growing up in the same house as his mother would have armored Oscar against feeling any offence. Dropping negligently into the spare seat at the table, because of course there were two chairs if Mamie was ‘at home’, regardless of what she might say otherwise, he graced his hostess with his most charming smile. “Thank you. I shan’t trouble you long, but I had a pressing question about your upcoming ball.”
Mamie gave him a shrewd look, on that threatened grave consequences should he prove to be offensive, or worse — boring. She lifted her tea cup, pausing to ask, “Are you going to ask to be removed from the guest list?” before taking a sip.
“I would sooner throw myself into the sea,” he assured her. He wondered if he dared take one of the cakes and decided against it. “No, I was simply wondering if you had any scandals planned for the evening’s entertainment?”
She pursed her lips at him over the rim of her tea cup and set it down again. “I’ve invited divorced women, if that’s what you mean, including Aurora Fane.”
“It is not what I meant,” Oscar replied, “although I am glad to hear it, for Cousin Aurora’s sake. But after the Newport ball, is that really so scandalous? And is it worthy of one of your parties to simply continue a trend started by Bertha Russell?”
“You think you have something better to offer?” Her clipped tone made it clear that he had to be careful. If she didn’t think his offer suitably entertaining, she’d reject it — and possibly him — and come up with her own idea.
Fortunately, Oscar knew Mamie. Boredom was her mortal enemy; she loved scandal, irreverent humor, and pranks. Nothing would give her greater pleasure than ruffling the feathers of high class respectability. If Mrs. Astor would hate it, Mrs. Fish would be game. He shifted forward in his seat, his easy manner giving way to something conspiratorial. “What would you say to a very public proposal to a wealthy society widow who has not yet finished her mourning period?”
It was a bit of a gamble, yes. Mamie and her husband were famously devoted to each other, so the idea of another woman not mourning properly might repulse her in a way divorce did not. Oscar subtly held his breath and waited.
Mamie’s eyes narrowed as she thought. There were only so many ‘wealthy widows’ in New York at the time, let alone those still mourning, so he had no doubt she’d deduce who he was talking about. After a moment she asked, “What if she doesn’t accept? Not that any proposal wouldn’t be scandalous, but if it’s refused, all it would really do is give the gentleman in question a reputation.” She gave him a pointed look.
It was almost heartening that she didn’t consider his making a fool of himself entertaining enough. “I have good reason to think she will.”
His hostess thought a moment more, then nodded. “I had not meant to invite Mrs. Winterton, but I suspect you knew that. I will add her and request that this entertainment be scheduled for after the first waltz.”
“It shall be done.”
There was something about holding a pitchfork with a red ribbon on it that made one feel simultaneously ridiculous and formidable. While Oscar was certain the tines were quite dull — even Mamie would not risk revelers stabbing each other after too many drinks — there was still something satisfying about the image of poking one of the duller party goers in the rear to liven them up. He’d pity the women who were given milk pails instead, but he suspected the pails could make a nice, resounding clang against someone’s skull. At the very least, upending them over a man’s head could muffle a boring expose about the weather.
Leave it to Mamie to have her guests in the mood for both dancing and barnyard brawling.
The music for the first waltz started up, causing Oscar to swiftly set aside both his pitchfork and potential violence. As men dressed as farmers, shepherds, and the odd chef moved to the center of the barn, each escorting a dairy maid or flower girl in festive calico, Oscar’s eyes sought out Enid at the edge of the crowd. While they had come separately and avoided each other all evening, they had agreed in advance to wear matching costumes. Despite being far from the only shepherdess in the room, to Oscar’s eyes Enid was easily the most beautiful and stood out. Where the rest had tried to make ballgowns that looked like farmer’s clothes, Enid wore her simple calico as if it were a ball gown.
He caught her eye and stepped toward the dancers. With a secret smile, she did the same and soon they stood in front of each other. They linked hands, her hand resting on his shoulder, his arm sliding around her waist as they started to spin alongside the other dancers.
“At least one of us looks elegant,” Oscar noted as the two of them spun. “I feel like a fool.”
“No more than any other man in the room,” she promised. “And less than others. Really, what is Mr. Westerson supposed to be?”
As they turned, Oscar glanced around and spotted the man in question. He was dressed in a white coat, dark trousers, and a rather comical white hat. “A chef?” he guessed. “Or a baker, perhaps?”
“He looks like a butcher who got dressed while still drunk.”
Oscar laughed. The two of them whirled, trading remarks about the other guests. As they did, Oscar’s attention snagged on familiar faces in the surrounding crush of bodies: Aurora and Marian, Marian looking every inch the girl from Doyle’s town and clearly in her element, Aurora vicariously sharing her enjoyment; Bertha Russell, regal in her muslin finery, although Oscar couldn’t tell what she was supposed to be, alone and somehow distant from the surrounding mirth; Mamie Fish, her full figure swathed in the costume of a dairy maid, watching the dancing with the air of a satisfied cat. It was quite the audience. Hopefully, he thought, his mind going to the ring in his pocket, his performance wouldn’t disappoint.
Part of him regretted selling the ring he’d purchased for Maud. It had been more elegant, and giving it to Enid would have sent quite the message, especially to her former employer, but after her betrayal it had seemed almost cursed. Besides, it would have been asinine to hold onto it for a potential future bride when he’d needed the cash. Despite the fact his fortunes had not recovered enough to match it, the ring he’d purchased for this proposal felt better suited to Enid and their relationship. It had a simpler beauty to it, a promise not of passionate love, but of an understanding devotion. Here, at least, was a woman he could be honest with and who could be honest back. A partner, even a friend.
The music faded and the dance drew to a close. The dance floor cleared except for the two of them, him holding her hand as if stopping her from leaving, even though he knew she was expecting this. He waited until the first questioning murmurs started, then dropped to one knee.
The resultant gasps were gratifying.
Meeting her eyes steadily, he dipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew the ring. “Mrs. Enid Winterton,” he addressed her, just loud enough to be certain everyone could hear. “Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
The silence was absolute. Enid looked down at him, curls of hair working loose from under the straw brim of her hat, one hand still clasped in his. With a mischievous twist of her lips and a feigned air of surprise she replied, “Why Mr van Rhijn, you flatter me. But since you have asked so gallantly, I think I will say yes.”
If Mamie Fish had to share the headlines of the society pages the following day, that was entirely her own doing, and Oscar felt no remorse.