Chapter Ten
“Stay away from the window,” Melody hissed. “He’ll see you!”
Giggling, Cynthia and several other girls retreated from the huge bay window in Philomena Hall as the big black Duesenberg phaeton came to a stop in the circle drive.
Most of the girls at Mundelein were from wealthy families, but Eustace Sinclair’s wealth was excessive, even to them.
Melody thought so too, but she didn’t let on.
She was trying to contain her emotions, but she was more than a little intrigued.
Melody and Eustace had had only five dates thus far (six if she counted the Winter Ball), but in that short time, he had opened up an entirely new world to her—one that she had hardly known existed.
Admittedly just a little bit dazzled, she had consequently had less time to worry about the Merc and Fred and certainly Cal.
Melody allowed herself a peek out the window. The uniformed chauffeur was now stiffly opening the back car door. Eustace stepped out elegantly. Tonight, he was in white tie and looked divine. Melody nervously patted her hair.
“How do I look, girls?” She was wearing a salmon Vionnet. It was last year’s style and borrowed from Cynthia (as she was running out of her own gowns), but still, she looked lovely. They were to dine at the exclusive Chicago Athletic Club and after to attend the opera.
“Heavenly!” Cynthia crooned. “You look like an angel.”
All of the girls chimed their agreement. Melody was pleased that most of her former court had returned, but she had to admit that something felt lacking.
The front door opened, then, and the young ladies, minus Melody, scattered into the parlor, though Melody guessed they remained in earshot.
Eustace smiled as he handed her a small bouquet. “Good evening, Miss Merriweather. Might I say you look lovely.”
Although they had recently evolved into using their Christian names, his address was formal, she guessed, for the benefit of Sr. Joseph, who was currently on duty at the front desk and who was quietly reading a book (or at least pretending to).
“Oh, Mr. Sinclair!” Melody gasped, examining the bouquet. It consisted of pink calla lilies, white carnations, red tulips, and trailed some ivy. It was utterly gorgeous, and had most likely cost a fortune given that practically nothing was currently in bloom.
Thus far, Eustace had shown up with a bouquet for every one of their engagements, even the one where they had just strolled through Grant Park.
Early on, he had revealed his secret obsession with the language of flowers.
For the Victorians, he had explained, flowers had their own language between lovers, a sort of secret code, which he found most fascinating.
He seemed to find great pleasure in schooling her in this esoteric language, and, as a dutiful pupil, Melody tried to decipher the message in today’s.
“Beauty?” she asked, pointing to a calla lily. He nodded, pleased. “Innocence.” She pointed to a white carnation, blushing slightly. She fingered the ivy. “Affection. Friendship.” That one was easy; he frequently included it. Her brow furrowed as she pointed to a red tulip. “I don’t know this one.”
“It represents passion. A declaration of love.”
Melody’s blush deepened, and she shot a worried glance at Sr. Joseph. The sister’s head, however, remained bent over her book.
“I thought it appropriate for tonight’s performance of La Bohème. It symbolizes the almost instantaneous love between Rodolfo and Mimi. Do you not see? Is it not perfect?”
Melody did not want to admit that she had never seen La Bohème or that she basically knew nothing of it. “Oh yes.” She flashed him a smile. “How ingenious.”
As soon as she said this, she regretted it, as she doubted “ingenious” was the right word to use.
The fact was that she was never quite at her ease around Eustace and often had no idea what he was talking about.
He seemed to sense this, and yet he still pursued her.
In truth, she wasn’t sure why. She was definitely not of his social set, she was younger than him by almost ten years, and she had yet to discover any shared interests.
And he seemed . . . well, more amused by her than attracted, as if she were a charming younger sister for whom he felt affectionate proprietorship.
He had never once attempted to press himself upon her or, always acting with the utmost consideration and courteous attention.
“It’s beautiful, Eus—Mr. Sinclair. Thank you.” She moved toward the thick walnut counter. “Will you keep these for me, Sister?”
Sr. Joseph peered at the flowers through her gold-rimmed spectacles. She brightened. “Oh, they’re lovely, aren’t they? I’ll put them in water, shall I?”
“Thank you, Sister. Yes.”
In the morning, Melody resolved to lay the bouquet at the feet of the Virgin in the chapel, as there was absolutely no more space in Melody’s room. The flowers disposed of, she retrieved her black silk wrap from the back of one of the foyer armchairs. Eustace expertly laid it about her shoulders.
“Shall we?” he asked and then led her out to the waiting car.
***
The Chicago Athletic Club was a bit of a misnomer, as there was nothing “athletic” about it at all.
It was a private club dating back to 1890.
The Sinclairs, Eustace explained as they were shown to their table in the dark-paneled dining room, had been members since the club’s inception, as had several of Chicago’s elite families, namely the Palmers, the Wrigleys, the Fields, and the Comiskeys.
As Melody took her seat, she glanced around at the staid elegance.
Crystal chandeliers hung from an elaborately carved wood ceiling and various oil paintings of distinguished-looking gentlemen, presumably early club members, lined the walls.
At the back of the dining room, a quartet played on a stage in front of a small dance floor. Several couples were dancing.
Melody took the napkin unraveled by the waiter and placed it on her lap, resisting the urge to finger her necklace, a plain gold crucifix.
In her Vionnet gown, she was not underdressed, per se, but she lacked the diamonds most of the women were bedecked with, including several tiaras!
She wished Cynthia could see this, or Harriet.
She smiled at the thought of what Harriet would say if John were to take her here.
“Something amusing?” Eustace asked, intrigued.
“No, I was . . . I was just thinking of home, I suppose.”
“We’ll begin with a cocktail,” Eustace said to the waiter who had appeared, his spotless apron severely folded and tucked around his waist.
“Very good, sir,” the older man said with a bow.
“Martini for me—Plymouth gin, twist. A Dubonnet for the lady.”
The first time they had dined together, the night at the Empire Room, she had apparently ordered all the wrong things, the worst being a Tom Collins as an after-dinner drink.
From that point on, Eustace was given to ordering for her, and though it took the pressure off her to have to decipher menus mostly written in French, it did make her feel like a child at times.
The waiter bowed again and hurried away.
Eustace directed his attention back to her. “Are you missing home?”
“Well, a little, I suppose.”
“And am I never to meet these Merriweathers and the place you so lovingly call ‘the Merc?’ ” He said it teasingly.
“There’s really not much there to see.” She cringed a little at the thought of Eustace touring the Merc.
It would take all of five minutes. And then what?
She would take him to meet Mums, of course, though she had a sneaking suspicion that her mother would somehow not approve.
Eustace was what Mums would call “full of himself.” Melody supposed that that might be true—Eustace could be somewhat priggish, but he didn’t mean to be.
The more time she spent with him, the more she realized that he had no concept of his own pomposity, so didn’t that mean it should be overlooked?
Mrs. Haufbrau would also not be impressed, though she knew Harriet would later gush accordingly.
And Melody would positively adore introducing him to Cal, whom, she was sure, would have something choice to say in that surly way of his.
But for once, she would have the upper hand!
“Still thinking of them?”
Melody shook her head slightly. “No, why?”
“You’re smiling again. You know, your smile is your best feature. That and your eyes. You have the eyes of a . . . of a Vermeer,” he said, studying her as if she were a painting. “Mysterious, luminous. Even beautiful,” he added. “Yes,” he mused, “I do think one could classify them as beautiful.”
Melody felt her face grow warm. He was always saying things like this, sizing her up and comparing her to works of art.
She basked in his compliments, and yet she didn’t know how to respond beyond a smile and a “thank you.” She was spared answering this time by the appearance of the waiter, who carefully set the drinks in front of them.
Melody made a mental note to try to look up Vermeer in the Mundelein library.
“Is that a no, then?” Eustace asked, raising his glass and taking a sip of the cold liquid.
“Regarding?” Melody picked up her own drink. It was delightfully sweet.
“Visiting your home. Meeting your family. I long to see you in your pastoral origins. The shepherdess, as it were, amongst the fields. I can just imagine it now as a Rubens. Utterly charming.”
“Well, it really isn’t all that romantic, Eustace. I’m fairly certain you would be disappointed.”
A waiter appeared then with an amuse-bouche and carefully placed a silver spoon on a delicate china plate in front of each of them. Melody stared at the contents of the spoon, which appeared to be a tiny miniature pancake covered in black gelatinous balls.