“What did they say?” He folded his hands on his desk.
After she’d relayed the conversation, he said, “Well, at least she isn’t a picture bride, ordered by mail. I’ve seen one too many of those, and I always wonder how the man feels when his new wife winds up looking like a haggard sow. I bet they wish they had waited for an American woman then.”
Alma gaped at him, surprised by such a nasty comment. John had been nothing but kind and helpful, though admittedly, she’d bristled at his comments about the immigrants on other occasions.
“It’s lucky for me,” he went on, “I don’t need to do any ordering, do I, dear fiancée? I’m happy to become a part of the Brauer family. I’m delighted you agreed to my proposal.”
But she hadn’t agreed—and he hadn’t bothered to ask her. The tips of her ears burned hotly. “Mr. Lambert. John…” she began, but she couldn’t seem to make the words come.
He smiled. “I know this may seem a little awkward, but we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.”
As her nerve to speak up fled, she replied with forced cheer. “Yes, of course.”
“And as soon as we’re married, I’ll come into my inheritance. It’s not large but it’s a tidy sum. I’ve already scouted a nice property in Hoboken that I’m sure you’ll like. I’ll show it to you one day soon.”
An inheritance? She couldn’t help but wonder if that was the reason for his proposal.
“I… Yes” was all she could manage as she digested the rest of what he’d said. Since there was an inheritance, he’d surely want her to quit her job, just as Robert had said. But perhaps her stepfather was wrong? Perhaps John would be open to her studies. He’d been the one who’d gotten her a job in the first place so he couldn’t be as traditional as her parents, and at least for that, she was grateful.
He reached for her hand and brought her palm to his lips, his beard tickling her skin. “How about I stop by the bierhaus this week?” Not trusting her voice, she merely stared at her hand against his lips, a deep red flush spilling across her cheeks. When he realized she had nothing else to say, he looked almost wounded and let her hand drop. “I suppose you’d better get to work.”
“Yes,” her reply came out stiffly. “I suppose I should.”
“Alma? If Williams approaches you about me, be sure to tell him we’re happily engaged. He’s been on my case a lot lately, and this might help him see me in another light.”
“Of course,” she choked out as she closed the door. Yet somewhere in the back of her mind, a warning signal flashed.
Why did he want to put on a show for the commissioner? And how exactly did the commissioner view him now? She knew the two men didn’t like each other much, based on their exchange in front of her and Helene a few weeks ago, but she’d assumed that was because of John’s loyalty to Fitchie. They’d seemed like good friends before he was fired. She’d seen them talking in the halls and on the ferry frequently. Whatever the reason, she wanted no part of Williams and Lambert’s rivalry. Engaged or not, she had her own reputation to consider with the commissioner, and as of now, she was still her own person. She knew she was one of the hardest-working and most reliable members of the staff, something that made her proud, even if she’d be losing it all soon.
As she walked back to the registry office, she pushed thoughts of John Lambert and her pending marriage from her mind. She still had a little time before she had to become a wife, and she’d cling to that raft like a woman drowning at sea.
31
As the weeks passed, Francesca joined the Brauers at their favorite park every Sunday, toting a basket of something new she’d learned to bake with Claire. The afternoons were joyous, and Francesca found herself swept up in card games, walking in through the park, or listening to the Klein children practice the violin. She shared stories about Maria and their adventures as children when the urge to talk about her sister filled her with longing. She listened intently to Alma’s tales about her siblings, as well, or the occasional story about her beloved papa. But Alma still seemed troubled, no matter how bright the day, and though Francesca tried to hint at knowing something was wrong, Alma wouldn’t budge. Francesca hoped, one day, Alma would trust her enough to confide in her.
Francesca had grown to like Alma’s friend Helene as well, despite the young woman’s obvious interest in Fritz. They would make a wonderful couple, and Francesca was certain Mrs. Brauer thought so, too. Johanna managed to invent reasons to put them together on the same team, game after game, and she smiled constantly at the pretty young woman. Francesca couldn’t deny the sight of them together inspired a prickle of petty jealousy, and she had to remind herself her warm feelings for Fritz were nothing more than friendship.
“Your friend likes Fritz, I think,” Francesca said, watching Helene as she laid a hand on his arm. Whatever they were discussing made them both laugh.
Alma closed her book. “Do you really think so?” She glanced at the couple. “She’s never said anything to me about it.”
“Look at them.”
As Helene leaned closer to Fritz and laughed again, he squeezed her shoulder. A sudden wave of fatigue washed over Francesca. Somehow the exchange between them made her feel…alone. She considered heading home. She could use a nap before going back to work anyway. Perhaps, too, she would start a letter to Sister Alberta. She’d thought about writing her friend many times since she’d arrived in America but hadn’t yet followed through. She didn’t like to admit it, but she was afraid the postman would tell her father where she was. Though he couldn’t hurt her, she worried about his reaction just the same. It was a small community on her island home, and few had secrets. There was also the matter of telling Sister Alberta about Maria, and Francesca couldn’t begin to put her grief into words.
“Fritz has a lot of admirers, but he isn’t the kind of man who would marry because it’s time. Or because the woman might make a good match for his family,” Alma said. “He’s too busy focusing on his work. I think he’ll marry one day, when he’s in love. Really in love. He has that luxury.” Alma’s tone turned dark. “I wish I did.”
A shadow crossed Alma’s face. She was clearly the kind of person to share when she wanted to, and though Francesca wanted to push her for information, she respected that.
Instead, Francesca stood, brushing the wrinkles from her skirts. “I’d better head home. Let me help you with the plates.”
As they packed their things, the echo of angry voices drifted from across the park. Two groups of men had gathered, and within moments, they were arguing.