He stared hard at her. A warmth spread up her chest and neck.
The blanket of evening, a cerulean blue, was creeping across the sky from east to west. She looked up. “Funny how I thought I’d be pressed in on all sides in New York, yet here I am surrounded by vast views and an even vaster sky.”
“Makes the people down below seem like ants.” Mr. Camden pointed to a man who wobbled along the pathway below them. “Ants on bicycles.”
“I imagine it’s difficult with six legs.”
“Have you ever ridden a bicycle?”
Sara nodded. “I grew up in a small village on the southern coast of England. My mother bought me a used one to run errands and make deliveries.” She didn’t mention the times the boys threw rocks at her as she pedaled furiously by, calling her and her mother unmentionable names.
“We should go for a ride in the park sometime. Will you join me?” Before she could answer, he jumped in. “When is your day off?”
“Not until Saturday afternoon.”
“Very well, Saturday afternoon. I will supply the bicycles and you wear your best riding outfit.”
“Shall I bring a crop?” she asked with a grin.
“Two, as I’ll need one myself.”
As they entered the doorway back into the building, he held his hand out to assist her in stepping over the small curb.
Before he let go, she thought he gave her hand a quick squeeze. But when she looked at him, he avoided her gaze. She must have imagined it.
Or wished he’d done so.
On Saturday morning, Mr. Camden left a note for Sara to meet him at the Mall in the park at one o’clock. The city’s elite paraded along the promenade in their carriages between four and five each afternoon, and she would be sure to excuse herself long before the crowds assembled to gawk at the sight. Although it was fine for men and women to stroll together without causing raised eyebrows, it would be unseemly to be seen with a married man during the grand promenade.
She’d craved his company the past few days, the way he looked at her and the way he listened to her when she spoke. Not in an intimate way, she told herself, as that wouldn’t be proper. But he was a kind person and she hadn’t had many friends.
He stood beside two safety bicycles that leaned upon a wooden bench. One of them had a wicker basket strapped onto the front handlebars.
“Are you ready for an enjoyable day in nature, Mrs. Smythe?”
“Indeed I am.” The past few days of moving in the last of the new tenants had left her exhausted, and a change of scenery would do her good. For being the first of November, the air was uncommonly warm, the equivalent of a London summer day. She gathered her skirts and mounted the bicycle. At first, she was unsteady, but the frame was sturdy and the tires thick. As long as she kept her focus on the black-clad figure of Mr. Camden on the bicycle in front of her, she found it easy to stay upright.
Leaves from the elms planted along either side of the roadway fluttered to the ground. She crunched through the sumptuous palate of reds and golds, feeling a bit like Moses cutting through the Red Sea. Mr. Camden glided down a pathway that led to a fountain, where they dismounted before walking to a small rise of grass overlooking the lake.
He pulled a blanket out of the wicker basket, which Sara laid out carefully on the ground, followed by a fresh loaf of bread, salmon mousse, and apricot tartlets.
“Quite a feast, Mr. Camden.”
“I had the chef prepare it specially. We can’t have our star employee going hungry.”
Disconcerted by his effusiveness, she busied herself unwrapping a block of Stilton cheese.
“Isn’t this grand.” He gestured to the passersby. “A mix of society, neither high nor low, and everyone meeting in the heart of this great city to enjoy a lovely autumn day.”
“It’s a beautiful park, but I have to say I like the gardens of Hyde Park better.”
He pretended to be offended, his hand on his heart. “Why put up with those stodgy English gardeners when you have the wilds of America here? Streams tumbling down rocks, paths that go every which way. Besides, here a simple boy from Buffalo can become whatever he wants, including an architect. Not so easy over the pond.”
“Could Fitzroy work his way up to become a man of your station? I rather doubt it.”
“I doubt Fitzroy could find his shoes in the morning if his wife didn’t put them on his feet herself.”
She laughed. “You’re being unkind. He’s a delightful man.”
“He is. But I’m talking about opportunity. That’s what we have, you must admit it.”
“You have it, perhaps.”
“Do you not think you could move up in the world?”
His lack of awareness astounded her. Of course a woman could not move up in the world. Not the way he had. “It’s easy for you to think so, but there are very clear delineations. Here as well as in England.”
“What would you do if you’d been born a duke’s daughter, then?”
Caught off guard, she almost spilled her lemonade.
He sat up. “I’ve hit a chord, it appears.”
She shouldn’t say anything, keep quiet as she’d done for years and years. But his inquisitive look told her she wouldn’t be able to divert his attention. Not that she wanted to. She had to admit, part of her wanted to impress this man.
But would admitting that she was a bastard impress him? She took a deep breath.
“My father was the Earl of Chichester.”
Now it was his turn to sputter. “Yet I found you working in a hotel. A grand hotel, indeed, but one where an earl’s daughter ought to be paying for a room, not cleaning it.”
“My mother was his housekeeper, if you must know. He would never recognize me as his daughter.”
He grew quiet. “You deserve better than that.”
The unexpected kindness brought a lump to her throat. “Certain lines must not be crossed.”
He reached into the picnic basket and drew out a small sketch pad and a fountain pen. “I promised you I’d draw your dream cottage, and I come armed and ready. If you like, you may describe a castle fit for an earl’s daughter, and it will be yours. On paper, at least.”
“You really don’t have to do that.” She ducked her head to hide her obvious pleasure.
“I insist.”
He began by asking her simple questions, how many rooms she required, what type of stone she preferred.
When she offered up the idea of an iron bench for reading under a trellis covered with wisteria, he’d smiled. “Grand idea. I knew there was something about you, the minute I saw you up in that dreadful office with a tiny window. You didn’t look like you belonged. And that look you give.”
“Which one is that?”
“When you need someone to do something they don’t want to do. Don’t deny it. I’ve seen you give it to Daisy a dozen times. One eyebrow goes up.”
She laughed. He had figured out her secret weapon.
He continued on as he drew. “Speaking of moving up in the world, here’s an example for you: What about our esteemed builder, the late Mr. Clark? He built himself up from nothing, and ended up owning half of the Singer sewing company and our beloved Dakota.”
“Like the sewing machine in the basement?”
“The very one.”
“I’m quite fond of Singer sewing machines. To no longer be a slave to the needle is a magnificent thing. However.” She hesitated but continued on when Mr. Camden indicated his encouragement. “We both know Mr. Clark wasn’t accepted by high society. Like London’s peerage, in New York you are either on the list or not.”
“In a hundred years, Mrs. Astor’s list will be mocked. These demarcations are no longer important. Eventually, the entire lot will have intermarried themselves into oblivion.”
The forcefulness of his words shocked her.
He leaned up on one elbow. “May I ask you a rather personal question?”
“What might that be?”
“What became of Mr. Smythe?”