“Your mother lives in Paris?” asked Louisa.
He stabbed a forkful of fish and ate it, feigning amusement. “Did you think she was dead?”
“You never mentioned her. She did not attend our wedding…”
Thank God for that! His mother would’ve found a way to make Louisa’s special day all abouther.
“She did send a card,” he said. Louisa would not have known Mother’s French surname and likely thought it one of the dozens of congratulatory missives they’d received. The card’s contents were cool and concise, without any sentiment—as had been their relationship for twenty-six years.
The table grew quiet. Giles ate in awkward silence, wishing he’d kept his trips across the Channel to himself, and that he hadn’t caused Louisa any embarrassment. He meant to spare her from the shame of his private life.
Thankfully, a sympathetic Madame de Roubernon came to their rescue. The woman leaned forward, baubles flashing in the electric light and bracelets jangling on her slender wrists as she reached for her wine glass. “How exciting to be in those early days of marriage, starting the great adventure of getting to know one another.”
Louisa glanced at him, eyes searching his, doubtless wondering if she ever would get to know him, whether he would ever let her in.
Giles turned to her, offering, “My mother and her husband have a charming flat overlooking a street lined with chestnut trees. I am sure she would like to know you. We can go over in the spring.”
“Thank you,” his wife said. She could never fathom the Pandora’s box of hurt, lies, and exploitation such a visit would unleash upon her sheltered Knickerbocker world, for his mother had championed his plans to take Louisa for all she was worth.
There were moments when Mother and Lady Venia Herbert were frighteningly similar in their selfishness and opportunism. Pondering that threatened to give him indigestion.
Dinner’s main course was fillet of beef, roast potatoes, and gravy served with green peas and creamed carrots—an English Sunday roastà laCunard.
From across the table, Mr. Meyer inquired whether the tailor’s strike had impacted the Granborough’s wedding preparations. Truthfully, Giles had paid little attention to the garment workers taking to the streets, but thousands of Jewish men, women, and children had protested that they must work long hours in unsafe conditions for four dollars a week. Even he must admit that their treatment was inhumane.
“My trousseau was ordered from Paris,” Louisa answered, “as were the toilettes of all of my attendants, so nothing was delayed as far as the strike was concerned. The customs duties on the trunks, however, were a headache in and of themselves.”
She deftly sliced her meat and brought the sliver of beef to her lips. She chewed for a moment, as if to weigh her words, and then admitted, “My father owns a carpet mill and employs seven thousand weavers. We disagreed on the issue of the tailor’s strike. I am pro-unionization, and stand on the side of all workers fighting for a better life.”
The Meyers relied on shopgirls, garment workers, deliverymen, and goods buyers to keep their department store running smoothly. They required wealthy patrons to make purchases, and that wage disparity between the ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots’ kept their doors open.
Louisa did not censor her thoughts to spare the Meyers’ feelings. “Not every employer takes care of his employees,” she said. “Why shouldn’t trade workers band together and look after their own interests? They deserve fair pay and humane hours, and…” she lifted her hands as if to display her frock and jewels, and elegant coiffure, “respect for fitting us all out so nicely.”
She charmed them all with her bright smile and plucky common sense. As a proper Englishman, Giles was horrified that his wife held opinions on such weighty matters, yet was pleased that she was intelligent, articulate, and confident enough to speak her mind. It was that push-and-pull he’d found so appealing.
On the first night he’d met her, she’d told him,“Between diamonds from Tiffany and frocks from Emile Pingat, I desire a degree in economics and a career in diplomacy.”Louisa might never attend university, but she had more money than anyone could spend in a lifetime. She could put her fortune to good use in Britain, and wield her power and privilege as Lady Granborough to foster relations between their two nations.
His wife would have her work cut out for her, yet Giles had faith that she’d succeed in whatever causes she put her hand to.
He studied her through supper, letting his roast grow cold. Dessert went ignored, though Louisa nibbledgelée aux fruitsas she chatted with their table-mates. She looked delectable in pink chiffon and pearls, as light and sweet as candy floss. Although she was young, there was nothing juvenile about her appearance. Her apple blossom frock looked refreshing against a sea of darker clothing.
He had no right to criticize her choice of fashion. He had no right to keep her ignorant of his past—or of his plans for the future. He’d been so very wrong about a great many things lately and hoped someday to rectify that.
But not tonight.
Mr. Meyer and Monsieur de Roubernon passed a glance to one another, and then nodded their heads in Giles’ direction. It was an invitation as clear as if it had been spoken, and all three men began to extricate themselves from the dinner table.
Louisa looked up from her jellied fruit. “I suppose this means you’re retiring to the smoking room.”
It was the custom in New York as well as in England, and this separation of the sexes shouldn’t come as a surprise to her. Gentlemen could have their fun while the ladies enjoyed a more decorous end to the evening.
He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. “Do you mind, dear?”
Giles had retired with her father, the Vanderheids, and many other plutocrats during their courtship and engagement. He’d never bothered to ask her opinion until tonight. He hadn’t cared, but was now making an effort to be kinder to her.
“No, I don’t mind,” she answered. “I want to finish my dessert.”
He bent to kiss the top of her head and whispered, “I shall see you later, then.”
