Chapter Nineteen #2
“Ah!” Eustace said into her ear, causing her to jump.
“You’ve discovered the Homers. And from your flushed cheeks, I detect an impression.
Yes, most definitely an impression. But is it favorable, or no?
My guess is . . . no,” he ventured. “Yes, most definitely no. I can see it in your eyes. I quite agree with you, you know. Homer is technically accomplished, but on the whole, much too provincial.” He let out a little sigh.
“It’s no wonder they have him displayed all the way back here by the lounges. They really do seem out of place—”
Provincial? Melody quickly looked them over again. She supposed he was right, but how could he so easily dismiss something that spoke so tenderly and yet so fiercely?
“Darling?”
She turned to look at him. Really look at him. Why did he never call her by her actual name? It was beginning to annoy her.
“I say, are you quite alright, my pet? You look rather peaked.”
“Actually, no,” she said, pulling her gaze from him back to the paintings. “I’m not feeling well. Perhaps you might call a cab for me.”
“Call a cab? Don’t be ridiculous. Clarence is outside hovering. He can take us.”
“No, you stay with your friends. Where are they, anyway?” She perused the room.
“Oh, they’ve already gone on to Maxim’s. They’re meeting us there, if that’s agreeable.”
“Oh, no, Eustace! You go. Please. I . . . I want to be alone.”
Eustace’s face suddenly grew concerned. “What is it, ma chérie?”
“It’s just . . . just a headache.”
“Then we must by all means get you home.” He held out his arm. “Come, I will escort you.”
“I really am capable of getting home on my own,” Melody protested, though she took his arm nonetheless, knowing that it was useless to argue.
***
There was very little conversation on the ride back to Mundelein.
Eustace continued to ramble about the gallery, the weather, his parents’ trip.
Melody, under the guise of her headache, got away with saying very little and instead stared at the city lights as they cruised up Sheridan Road in the back seat of the roomy Duesenberg phaeton.
She fingered a fold in her red silk gown.
Why was she here, wading around in luxury—luxury she couldn’t really afford?
For what? To find a rich husband, as Freddy, the nuisance, had suggested?
She chanced a sideways glance at Eustace.
Well, if that had been the goal, she was fairly certain that one was hers for the taking.
But did she want him? She let out a sigh and looked back out the window.
Eustace, though perfect in almost every way, was somehow empty.
He was a shell of a man who had nothing inside.
For all of his enthused speeches about art and literature, he lacked any of the passion of the pieces he professed to adore.
Nothing ruffled him—in a good way or a bad way.
He proclaimed to worship her, but where was the feeling, the emotion behind the words?
What good was having a love affair if it was devoid of love?
She thought back to Elsie’s advice to allow time for love to grow, but she didn’t think she could ever grow to love Eustace.
Not really. She was tired of him, tired of the city.
Admittedly, she had been charmed and attracted in the beginning, but Eustace was not, she had come to realize, actually attracted to her, just the idea of her—the young innocent country girl in need of culture and refinement at the hand of the wise professor.
How long would it be before this grew old?
Before she tired of his corrections and he tired of her faux pas?
Already, he had begun to make small disapproving little coughs—like when she had gushed over the latest Errol Flynn film (seen with Cynthia and the gang, of course, not him, as Eustace claimed celluloid was not an acceptable medium for art), or when she laughed too loudly, or when she spoke to the servants as if they were equals.
Recently, she had dared ask one of the maids if she might have the cook’s recipe for the rhubarb tart so that she might send it to Helenka, at which Eustace had gone beyond the disapproving cough and twittered, “I say, Melody, is this wise? What need have you for such a thing?”
She wanted—needed—to go home. But what if her soulmate was somewhere else in Chicago? But maybe, she countered, her soulmate was waiting to meet her in Merriweather. Or maybe she had already met him . . .
Heat rose to her cheeks as her mind drifted again to Cal, though he was certainly not her soulmate.
Even if she did admit she might be in love with him—which she wasn’t!
—he most certainly did not love her, so it didn’t matter.
And he was leaving. She let out a long, deep breath and looked back out the window. Oh! How soon could she get back?
The car came to a smooth stop in front of Philomena, and Eustace quickly exited. “I’ll do the honors, Clarence.”
“Very good, sir,” the chauffeur responded dully.
Eustace elegantly strode in front of the car, the headlights briefly illuminating him. He opened the door for her, and she slid out, not looking forward to saying goodbye. After tonight, she doubted she would ever see him again, and a part of her did feel a little sad.
Once they were outside the thick, arched double doors, she pulled her arm from his and held out her hand.
“Goodnight, Eustace. It was a lovely evening.”
“But will you not ask me in?”
The girls of Philomena were allowed to entertain gentlemen in the downstairs parlor until ten thirty, and Eustace had been in the habit of joining her there at the end of each evening together.
“Not tonight, Eustace.”
“Very well,” he said with reluctance. “Might I call tomorrow?”
“I . . . I don’t think so.”
Eustace’s brow furrowed. “But why?”
“I’m going home, Eustace.”
Eustace stared at her. “Home? But you are home, chérie.”
“No, I mean Merriweather.”
“You are?” He looked confused. “When?”
“I . . . I don’t know. As soon as possible.” She bit her lip, dreading the conversation she would have to have with Sr. Bernard.
“How long will you be gone? I was hoping to introduce to Mater and Pater this weekend,” he practically whined.
“I’m not coming back, Eustace. It’s no use staying here.”
“What?” Eustace was aghast. “You can’t possibly be serious, Melody.” (For once, he was using her actual name!) “You are tired. Overwrought by that infantile Homer.”
Melody groaned. “But I am serious, Eustace, I—”
“Tut-tut! Do not speak of it!” He put a finger to her lips. “You will no doubt feel differently in the morning when your headache is gone.”
“No, I don’t think I will. Goodbye, Eustace,” she said, holding out her hand again.
He instead rubbed his brow. “Good God! You can’t mean it, darling. I . . . I quite love you. I . . .” He paced on the front porch. “Oh, good God! This is not how it was supposed to happen, but—”
He broke off then and thrust himself down onto one knee. “Melody Merriweather, will you marry me? Will you be my wife!” he declared, managing a little triumphant flourish despite the anxiety he clearly felt.
“Eustace! No!” Melody hissed. “Get up!” She prayed Cynthia and the gang were not watching from behind the curtains.
“Melody, please,” he said, rising now and clutching her hands. “Forgive the crude nature of this proposal, It was supposed to be in the drawing room next Saturday, with Mater and Pater looking on . . .”
“It’s not the proposal, Eustace.”
“Why then?”
Melody’s stomach twisted. “It’s because I don’t love you, Eustace.”
His face fell. “But can’t you grow to love me? I’m certain that you will. Only tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
But that was just the point. She didn’t want to have to grow into loving someone, like wearing in a new shoe.
“Think, Melody,” he urged desperately. “Think what you’d be giving up.”
She had thought about it and had determined that she would be giving up too much by marrying him, but she struggled with how to say this.
She didn’t want to hurt him unnecessarily.
“It’s not you exactly, Eustace. It’s . .
. it’s my family.” (Which was partially true.) “I made a mistake. I should never have come back. Everything’s a mess at the Merc, and I have to figure it out. ”
“Something that your brother, a Harvard Law student, cannot manage?” he asked incredulously.
“No, it isn’t something he can figure out. He’s the problem.”
“Melody, this is insanity. Is the fate of a dry-goods store worth your future?”
Melody did not answer.
“I don’t wish to be indelicate,” Eustace hurried on, taking her silence as a crack in her defense, “but in marrying me, there will be certain . . . funds at your disposal. And I would of course never turn my back on my wife’s family.
They would be well provided for, Father assures me.
So, you see, you don’t really need this ‘Merc.’ You can allow it to gently, nobly pass away into the annals of history. ”
Melody’s heart beat a little faster. Eustace made perfect sense, and his offer of financial assistance was tempting. She could use part of it to pay Douglas back for his ring! But how absurd would it be to take the money from one suitor to pay off the other!
And no, she could not bear to let the Merc “pass away.” She wasn’t about to abandon what had been her grandfather’s store, and then her father’s, and then .
. . well, hers. Not Fred’s, or anyone else’s.
She had saved it from utter ruin—she and Harriet and Kate and Cal and Rosemary and Imogene and, yes, even Mrs. Haufbrau.
“I don’t think you understand,” she said sadly.
“Perhaps not, but I want to, my pet. Very badly.” He was staring at her quite intently now. “I’ll wait for you.”
Melody searched his face. Why didn’t he do something? Take her in his arms, kiss her, shake her, something . . . !
“Kiss me,” she suddenly demanded.
“Kiss you?” He looked around uneasily. “Here?”
“Yes. Here. Right now.”
He hesitated for a few moments and then took a deep breath. “Very well.” He clutched her upper arms and gave her a quick peck on the lips. “There you are!” he said almost triumphantly. “You have been kissed.”
Melody opened her eyes. She had felt nothing. Nothing like how she imagined a kiss should feel, thinking back to Psyche and Cupid. “I’m sorry, Eustace. It’s no use.” She put her hand on the doorknob.
“But was it not good?” he asked hurriedly. “Let me try again!”
“No,” she said sadly, not bothering to differentiate between his questions. “I just need to go home.”