in her direction.
Grateful, she nodded, feeling less vulnerable. She sipped soup, nibbled at the fowl—yes, it was duck—and realized finally that no one was paying attention to her at all. She need not fear scorn. She might as well be a statue in one of Boston’s numerous parks. The Fiskes had decided she was invisible.
Only once did Daisy turn to her. “You said you make cameos?”
“I do.”
“Do show me your work. If you’re skilled enough, I might commission you to make one for me at some point.”
Alice started to respond, delighted, but Daisy had turned away without waiting for an answer.
Disaster came with dessert. Even though Alice cut carefully into a cream pastry, it slid from the fragile china plate with dreadful speed and dropped onto the richly hued carpet. She could almost see the heavy cream sinking in, the stain spreading. God, how could she be so clumsy? “I’m sorry,” she said, jumping up to find a cleaning cloth.
The young maid who had served her tea was already bent over the stain, cleaning it up. She stood after finishing, casting a triumphant glare at Alice; oh, the message was clear. You are who you are, and no pretensions.
Alice lifted her eyes to the table and began an apology to her hostess. But Mrs. Fiske, a blank look on her face, was chatting with Daisy. Hiram was giving orders to a servant. None of them seemed to notice; not out of politeness but because, to them, she wasn’t even there. Was she wrong? Her gaze shifted to Samuel, studying his face. What was it she saw? Chagrin? No, embarrassment. He was embarrassed for his family, not for her. How she knew that, she couldn’t say.
He stood. “I want to thank Miss Barrow for coming,” he said, cutting into the chatter of his family. “She had the gumption to face us here tonight.” He felt a stab of anger, seeing in her eyes the knowledge of her complete invisibility at this table. He wanted to ease this recognition, to allow her a graceful exit. How did he do this without sounding patronizing? “The truth is, we are not easy people to face; I’m sure you’d agree,” he said to her.
Alice, surprised, gave him a tentative smile. The others stared at Samuel.
“Miss Barrow, my sincere appreciation. We will follow up on your concerns.” He gripped the edge of the table, catching the sympathetic eye of his grandmother, now fully awake—the one anchor in this family he had always been able to count on. “Mary Beth”—he turned to the servant—“will you please show Miss Barrow to her room? The carriage for her trip back will arrive at eight in the morning.”
Samuel turned and strode out of the room, surprised at his own sudden anger. What was he doing? He had allowed his self-control to drop. But watching that young woman tiptoe her way through the rituals of a world she obviously knew little about had impressed him, leaving him troubled.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DECEMBER 20, 1832
T he ride home was clattery and bumpy; the weather wet and dismal. There was no sun today, just a sky of sullen, gray clouds. It all matched Alice’s mood as she stared through the window out onto a wintry terrain.
All this visit had done was make the Fiske family feel better about themselves. They knew nothing about the people who worked for them. She was usually indifferent to that; it was a truth acknowledged with a shrug and a laugh and forgotten on payday. Why had she come? It had been the allure of stepping inside a fantasy; that’s what it had been. And she had wanted it, and now she was angry with herself. All they saw was a waif, a supplicant. A woman who knew nothing of the proper etiquette for wearing gloves. She squeezed her hands together, taking comfort from the soft leather of her friend’s gift. Lovey would have something wonderfully acerbic to say about the whole experience.
“I hesitate to say this to you, but I do wonder—why did you invite me?” she had asked Samuel just before stepping into the carriage. He was
Grateful, she nodded, feeling less vulnerable. She sipped soup, nibbled at the fowl—yes, it was duck—and realized finally that no one was paying attention to her at all. She need not fear scorn. She might as well be a statue in one of Boston’s numerous parks. The Fiskes had decided she was invisible.
Only once did Daisy turn to her. “You said you make cameos?”
“I do.”
“Do show me your work. If you’re skilled enough, I might commission you to make one for me at some point.”
Alice started to respond, delighted, but Daisy had turned away without waiting for an answer.
Disaster came with dessert. Even though Alice cut carefully into a cream pastry, it slid from the fragile china plate with dreadful speed and dropped onto the richly hued carpet. She could almost see the heavy cream sinking in, the stain spreading. God, how could she be so clumsy? “I’m sorry,” she said, jumping up to find a cleaning cloth.
The young maid who had served her tea was already bent over the stain, cleaning it up. She stood after finishing, casting a triumphant glare at Alice; oh, the message was clear. You are who you are, and no pretensions.
Alice lifted her eyes to the table and began an apology to her hostess. But Mrs. Fiske, a blank look on her face, was chatting with Daisy. Hiram was giving orders to a servant. None of them seemed to notice; not out of politeness but because, to them, she wasn’t even there. Was she wrong? Her gaze shifted to Samuel, studying his face. What was it she saw? Chagrin? No, embarrassment. He was embarrassed for his family, not for her. How she knew that, she couldn’t say.
He stood. “I want to thank Miss Barrow for coming,” he said, cutting into the chatter of his family. “She had the gumption to face us here tonight.” He felt a stab of anger, seeing in her eyes the knowledge of her complete invisibility at this table. He wanted to ease this recognition, to allow her a graceful exit. How did he do this without sounding patronizing? “The truth is, we are not easy people to face; I’m sure you’d agree,” he said to her.
Alice, surprised, gave him a tentative smile. The others stared at Samuel.
“Miss Barrow, my sincere appreciation. We will follow up on your concerns.” He gripped the edge of the table, catching the sympathetic eye of his grandmother, now fully awake—the one anchor in this family he had always been able to count on. “Mary Beth”—he turned to the servant—“will you please show Miss Barrow to her room? The carriage for her trip back will arrive at eight in the morning.”
Samuel turned and strode out of the room, surprised at his own sudden anger. What was he doing? He had allowed his self-control to drop. But watching that young woman tiptoe her way through the rituals of a world she obviously knew little about had impressed him, leaving him troubled.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DECEMBER 20, 1832
T he ride home was clattery and bumpy; the weather wet and dismal. There was no sun today, just a sky of sullen, gray clouds. It all matched Alice’s mood as she stared through the window out onto a wintry terrain.
All this visit had done was make the Fiske family feel better about themselves. They knew nothing about the people who worked for them. She was usually indifferent to that; it was a truth acknowledged with a shrug and a laugh and forgotten on payday. Why had she come? It had been the allure of stepping inside a fantasy; that’s what it had been. And she had wanted it, and now she was angry with herself. All they saw was a waif, a supplicant. A woman who knew nothing of the proper etiquette for wearing gloves. She squeezed her hands together, taking comfort from the soft leather of her friend’s gift. Lovey would have something wonderfully acerbic to say about the whole experience.
“I hesitate to say this to you, but I do wonder—why did you invite me?” she had asked Samuel just before stepping into the carriage. He was
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