The Address(32)
But it had made her good at her job. She could tell people what to do and sound authoritative, even if underneath it all was a fear of being discovered, found out, a fraud. In some ways, her natural reticence, her refusal to get too close or to let someone know who she truly was, had decreased since she’d arrived in the States. Being thrown into the lion’s den of the Dakota, among strangers who didn’t know or care what her parentage was, had toughened her up a touch. America seemed to be a more open, forgiving place.
She didn’t want to go back into her shell.
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.”