Murder at Beechwood (2 page)

“Read your mind . . .” he said. “ 'Fraid I don't know what you mean by that.”

It was then I noticed the grim set to his mouth. At the same time, his gaze dropped to the baby in my arms. We spoke at the same time.

“What's happened?” and “Who's that?” jumbled together in a confusion of words. I led him into the parlor.

“Left here?” he said with a shake of his head after I'd explained. “On your doorstep?”

“I know it sounds unbelievable, but it's the truth. I telephoned the station earlier, but you weren't in. If you never got the message, what brings you here?”

Leaning forward with elbows on his knees, he ran a hand through his auburn hair and blew out a breath. “There's been an incident. A murder, Emma. This morning.”

“Oh, Jesse. Who?”

“That's just it. We don't know. No one recognized him and he carried no identification. He was a young man, mid-twenties, driving a rented carriage.”

“From Stevenson's Livery?”

He nodded. “The death wasn't far from here, where the road curves around Brenton Point. He went off the road into the water—”

I gasped, a hand to my mouth. Nearly the same thing had happened to me last summer. As in my case, I guessed this was no accident. “He was forced off the road?”

“No, Emma, not quite. He went off the road because he'd been shot. Clear through the chest, from dead-on. The best we can figure is someone lay waiting for him, and when he rounded the bend they took a clear shot.”

Jesse and I had fallen into a pattern over the past year. After I had proved my investigative skills more than once last summer, he often came to me when a case had him particularly perplexed, as now. We'd mull over evidence and possible motives. Jesse said it helped him see the facts more clearly. I was glad to help, but sometimes I wondered if his frequent visits were prompted by more than protecting Newport from crime.

The baby, awake now, squirmed, and I realized how tightly I held him. I loosened my arms, shifting him from one shoulder to the other. A shiver traveled my length. “Jesse, this child was left on my doorstep sometime between last night and this morning. Do you suppose there could be a connection?”

“At this point, anything is possible.”

My mind raced. I needed to move, needed to pace as I considered these developments. Seeing me struggle to come to my feet, Jesse took the baby from me and settled back in the wing chair, cradling the child as if doing so were second nature. I couldn't help smiling at the picture they made.

Then I turned away, counted off ten steps toward the window, ten back. Mentally I listed the events of this morning, picturing the details as I knew them. I came to a halt. “Jesse, you said he was driving a rented carriage. Was he dressed like a wealthy man?”

“Not at all. If anything, he appeared more like a groom or a groundskeeper. A workman of some kind, certainly.”

“Not a man who would have an expensive piece of linen and lace in his possession.”

“Certainly not.”

“But someone might have given him the handkerchief we found in the swaddling, perhaps at the same time she entrusted him to deliver her child here.” I fell silent and began pacing again. Jesse watched me, gently jiggling the baby against his chest. I came to another halt. “But then who would murder him?”

“Someone who didn't want the child traced here. Someone who didn't wish to hurt the child, but who wanted to make certain the one person who delivered him here could never tell anyone.”

A possible scenario formed in my mind. “Either the mother is desperate to prevent her family from learning of her pregnancy, or the family . . . or perhaps even the child's father . . . wants the boy hidden away and the mother to never learn where.”

“Either is entirely possible,
if
there's a connection between the two,” Jesse conceded. “That's still a big
if
at this point.”

“Yes, but I think the latter is more plausible. I can't picture a mother—someone who has just brought life into the world—being capable of taking a life so cold-bloodedly. I believe I know where to start searching—for the mother, that is. And something tells me if we find the mother, we'll find your murderer.”

“Be careful of stretching again, Emma.”

“How many times have I been correct in the past?”

That silenced any further protests he might have made. The baby kicked his little legs and Jesse changed his position to a more upright one, which seemed to satisfy the little fellow.

My heart squeezed. They presented so homey a scene Jesse could almost have been the boy's father, except for the complete difference in their coloring. Where Jesse was fair and auburn haired and possessed keen blue eyes, the baby's eyes were a deep blue-green that suggested they would turn dark—as dark as the nut-brown hair dusting the crown of his head.

“You know, you're a natural at that,” I said to him. Just then shuffling into the room, Nanny twittered lightly in agreement.

“I don't see how you'll ever find the mother unless she wants to be found,” Jesse said, apparently choosing to ignore my observation.

I chewed my lip to hide the smile that refused to go away, and went to sit beside Nanny on the sofa. “Tomorrow night is June thirtieth and Mrs. Astor will be holding her annual ball to kick off the summer Season. I'm on the guest list—well, not strictly as a guest, mind you. I'll be working, taking notes for my Fancies and Fashions page. Every member of the Four Hundred who's in Newport will be there. It's as good a place as any to begin asking questions.”

I glanced over at Nanny, who agreed with one of her sage nods.

“And what makes you think a woman who gave birth so recently will be at that ball?”

“She'll have to be,” I replied to Jesse. “If my suspicions are correct and the mother is a society lady, she'll make every effort to attend the ball to quell any rumors that might have sprung up during her confinement. A woman can't simply stop making her usual appearances without her peers noticing, not to mention wondering and whispering. She might get away with the excuse of having been ill, or visiting relatives in the country or some such, but she'd be desperate to reenter society as soon as possible and have everyone see her carefree and happy and, more to the point, laced tightly into her corset.”

Jesse winced. “Sounds painful. Not to mention unhealthy.”

“It is, on both counts.” I smoothed a hand down the front of the sprigged muslin I'd hastily donned earlier. I wore stays, but not nearly as tightly as fashion dictated. In the past it had been a source of disagreement between my aunt Alice and me. “Loose stays suggest loose morals,” she would often admonish. Only to add in a rush, “Not that you are of loose morals, Emmaline. Heaven knows you are not. But one does not wish to give a wrong impression, does one?”

Jesse again shifted the baby from one shoulder to the other, his large hands fumbling when the blanket began to unwind and a tiny foot dangled freely. I bit back yet another grin and came around the sofa table to help tuck those miniscule toes safely back in. I pretended not to notice the blush suffusing Jesse's face or how he avoided my gaze.

He said, “I'm still not sure why you're so convinced the mother is a society lady. She could be a lady's maid or even a laundry maid. And if the murdered coachman was involved, he could have been the father, all too eager to hide the evidence of his indiscretion.”

“Then why murder him?” I shook my head. “It makes more sense that he was murdered to preserve a secret. And who more than anyone else would wish to hide the evidence of an illegitimate birth?”

When neither Jesse nor Nanny answered, I threw up my hands. “A member of society! Someone with heirs or who stands to gain an inheritance, or who wishes to preserve his reputation, along with that of the woman who birthed the child.”

“Emma,” Jesse said, “rage knows no class distinctions. Rich or poor, an angry brother or father might have shot that man, not to mention we haven't yet found a definite connection between the two occurrences. Anyone could have gotten hold of that handkerchief. Have you considered that the mother might want you to believe the child hails from a wealthy background in the hopes you'll do better by it?”

“As if that would make any difference to us,” Nanny replied with a huff.

“No, it wouldn't.” I resumed my place beside her on the sofa. “But it might to a lot of people. Jesse does have a point, one I hadn't considered. A desperately poor mother might have thought she was influencing us by leaving a false clue. Perhaps she thought that rather than delivering him to an orphanage, we'd find a good family willing to take him in, or we'd raise him ourselves.”

If Nanny thought I wouldn't notice the sudden change in her posture, or how she clutched her hands in her lap, she was greatly mistaken. “Nanny! Do not even think it. We cannot keep this child.”

She turned to me with a wounded expression. “Why not?”

“Lots of reasons! For one, a child needs parents—two of them. The state isn't likely to let me adopt him, or even foster him for any extended length of time. Isn't that right, Jesse?”

“I'm afraid so,” he said.

A sudden and wholly unexpected rush of disappointment temporarily knocked the breath out of me. I struggled not to show it. Good heavens, did I, despite my protests, hope this little boy would find a permanent place in our household?

“What about me?” Nanny puffed up with self-importance. “I was married for nearly thirty years.”

“I realize that, Mrs. O'Neal, but . . .” Jesse suddenly looked uncomfortable. His cheeks colored again, the curse of his pale complexion. “It's your age, Mrs. O'Neal. The courts might deem you, to be blunt, too old to take on an infant.”

Nanny pursed her lips, and Jesse turned his attention back to me. “They might allow you to keep him while a search was made for his next of kin, but that's about all, Emma. Since you're unmarried, it's unlikely they'd allow you to adopt him. For now, though,” he added with a wink, “what the courts don't know won't hurt them. See what you can find out, but only about where this fellow belongs. Leave the murder to me.”

I nodded, only half listening. My reaction to the prospect of the child's leaving continued to shock me. If I felt this way within mere hours of his arrival, how would I feel days from now? Or weeks—or however long it took to find his rightful home? Would I be able to simply hand him over to a stranger?

Now when I chewed my lip, it wasn't to hide a smile, but to bite back wholly unexpected, stinging tears.

J
esse settled the baby back in my arms. “This certainly wouldn't be the first time a family abandoned an inconvenient child,” he said. “Thank the stars whoever it was had sense enough to bring him here, where he's safe.” He spoke those last words roughly and quickly dropped his gaze again. “You know, Emma—”

“If his family is wealthy,” I interrupted, “there could be an inheritance at stake. He could be in danger if his existence sets that inheritance in dispute. Until we know more . . .” I trailed off and he nodded. Whatever he'd been about to say before I interrupted hung in the air between us. A year ago I'd glimpsed a portion of Jesse's heart—a portion he'd apparently set aside specifically for me.

I had yet to decide what to do about that. He was a good man and despite the ten years' difference in our ages, he and I had so very much in common, not the least of which involved being born and raised in Newport, and having rarely gone anywhere else—or wishing to. We were of a kind, he and I, and yet...

I simply didn't know. Other girls were wives and mothers by my age, but I felt no rush to enter that arena. Perhaps it was because I'd been independent for too short a time, and relished my individuality far too much to give it up—for anyone.

“In the meantime,” Jesse said, “I'll send officers out here to check on you several times a day. The chief won't like it, but . . .”

“No, Jesse. We'll be fine. Until we know more, it would be better not to speak of this, not to anyone.”

“All right, but I'm still sending the men.” He smiled sadly, and I felt the double impact of my last statement. I'd been referring to the baby, but to Jesse, perhaps my words meant we would not speak of our hearts or where the future might lead us.

Yet, who was I trying to fool? Myself? Perhaps. Jesse? Probably not. Whenever I saw that gleam in his eye, it was the arms of another man, Derrick Andrews, that I imagined around me, and I believe Jesse knew it.

He said good-bye and with my shoulder I nudged the door closed behind him, then leaned against it and snuggled the baby's head beneath my chin. Another summer had barely begun and already I found myself embroiled yet again in deception and murder, not to mention once again lost in the confusion of my own longings with no answers at hand. I let out a breath, and from deep inside me a tear squeezed its way to my eye and rolled down my cheek.

At the sound of footsteps coming down the hall I wiped the tear away on my shoulder and pasted on a cheerful smile.

Katie stopped before me and reached out her arms. “Can it be my turn to hold 'im now, miss?”

This household was becoming perilously attached to our little visitor.

 

The next morning, Nanny and the girls, as I'd come to think of Katie and Stella, were out beyond the kitchen garden, each taking turns walking with the baby.
The child needs fresh air,
Nanny had declared, and out they went. I'd remained behind, thankful for the solitude as I planned my strategy for the evening to come.

I'd be attending
the
event of the season, already dubbed so by all the newspapers and the majority of the Four Hundred—that magical number of society's most elite men and women who fit comfortably in Mrs. Astor's New York ballroom. As merely a poor relation of the Vanderbilts, I held no place among that hallowed number, but what good was it to hold the most extravagant ball of the summer unless representatives from every newspaper in town, not to mention those from New York, Boston, and Providence, were there to capture all the sumptuous details?

I would be reporting for the Newport
Observer,
but the details I sought involved more than place settings and silver, or which debutant outshined the rest with the latest fashion from House of Worth. I counted on my Vanderbilt relatives being there, especially the younger ones. With Gertrude I'd have access to the upper rooms, where ladies' maids would wait to freshen frocks and redress ill-behaved curls. Such feminine gatherings were always reliable sources of the latest gossip. With Neily I could approach gentlemen and the older society matrons—who viewed him as excellent marriage material for their daughters—without appearing impertinent.

My questions must be subtle and typical for someone in my position. Who had attended the spring balls? Who had traveled abroad? Which house parties offered the most interesting activities? Such probing, among enough individuals, would gradually assemble a picture of the past several months, including who had been where and when, and who had been absent. Four hundred might sound like a large number, but in reality comprised a close-knit community where everyone intimately knew everyone else—and their business. By ruling out enough individuals, I hoped to whittle down the possibilities and from there discover the identity of the baby's mother.

Unless, of course, my hunch about her hailing from society proved completely wrong.

A knock at the front door interrupted me, and I was both surprised and pleased to discover Marianne Reid on my doorstep. Marianne, a woman only a few years older than I, originally hailed from England, and dire circumstances upon her arrival in this country had brought her to Gull Manor briefly last summer. Like Katie and Stella, Marianne had needed a place to stay and a fresh start in life, the first of which I'd been only too happy to provide. The second came from an unexpected source. Through the influence of my half brother, Brady, and the intervention of my Vanderbilt cousin Neily, Marianne had been hired as a lady's maid to one of society's most glamorous debutants.

“Marianne, what a lovely surprise.” Upon seeing her looking fresh cheeked and so much healthier than when we'd first met, I reached out to draw her inside. “What brings you to Gull Manor?” I stopped, suddenly fearful. “I hope there's nothing amiss at the Wilson household?”

“Not at all, Miss Cross,” she replied in her lovely accent. “Miss Wilson sent me. I have something for you.” She stepped back outside and bent to retrieve a large box of heavy white cardboard from the stoop. I was dumbfounded when she held it out to me. “Miss Wilson sends this with her compliments.”

“What in the world?”

“Open it, Miss Cross!”

Marianne's enthusiasm worked its influence on me. Taking the package into my front parlor, I practically clawed the twine off the box and flung open the top. Next I tore aside layers of gold-foil tissue paper and could not contain a gasp of amazement.

“Oh, Marianne . . .”

“It's for tonight, Miss Cross. Miss Wilson hopes you're not offended by her gesture, but she thought perhaps you might want something special for the Season-opening ball. She apologizes for it being last year's design. . . .”

Marianne's explanation went on, but I didn't hear it. Beneath my slightly shaking fingertips lay folds of the most beautiful silk I'd ever beheld. Ever so gently, one might say reverently, I grasped the fabric and lifted the evening gown from its shiny nest. In a lustrous cerulean blue that outshone the clearest summer sky, the gown unfurled to pool its hems at my feet, revealing patterns of large and small roses framed by borders of leaves, all embroidered in a deeper shade of the same blue. Gossamer ivory lace dripped from the plunging neckline and shoulders, and from a cinched waistline the gown flowed in straight, hip-hugging lines in front and flared to a generous, graceful train in back. Simple, yet . . .

“I've never seen anything so beautiful,” I whispered. Good heavens, in the past couple of days my front stoop had certainly yielded astonishing deliveries, so unlike the usual newspapers and bottles of milk. I looked up at the Englishwoman. “Is it . . . ?”

“It's a Worth gown, yes.”

“Oh, my.” Even my cousin Gertrude had never given me one of her Worth gowns.

“Miss Wilson wants you to have it because of how nice you were to Mr. Neily when the rest of the Vanderbilt family . . .” Marianne nipped at her bottom lip. “I won't say another word, Miss Cross, but both Mr. Neily and Miss Wilson wished to show their appreciation.”

After spending the autumn and winter abroad—to be near Grace Wilson—Cornelius Vanderbilt the younger had returned to his New York home only to have his father banish him to Newport for his defiance. Uncle Cornelius and Aunt Alice didn't approve of Grace and probably never would. Though Neily had had the family's Newport “cottage” all to himself, he instead stayed with me for much of the spring, and I couldn't blame him. The Breakers, however luxurious, was a cold and lonely place for a young man on his own.

“Mr. Neily is more than my cousin, he is my friend,” I said, “and I'll do whatever I can to help him. I only want to see him happy.”

Marianne nodded but looked distinctly uncomfortable, no doubt at this very personal turn in the conversation. Sometimes I forgot about the invisible barriers between servants and their supposed superiors. I didn't think of myself as superior, but it was obvious Marianne saw my familiarity as a line she must not cross.

I wouldn't press her. Instead, I held the gown up to my shoulders. “Do you think it will fit?”

The question immediately reestablished our respective stations, as it was meant to do, and with restored confidence she regarded me with the critical eye of an experienced lady's maid. “I believe it will do quite nicely, but Miss Wilson instructed me to make any alterations needed. We can get started now, if you like.”

“I wouldn't dream of keeping you, especially when Miss Wilson needs your services for tonight. Nanny can do some quick nipping and tucking later.” Her eyes lit up at the mention of Nanny. I hesitated, uncertain, then decided this woman had more than earned my trust last summer. “Marianne, would you like to squeeze in a visit with Nanny and Katie before you go? Can Miss Wilson spare you a little longer?”

“Oh, I would, indeed, and yes, I'll make sure I'm home in plenty of time to attend to Miss Wilson.”

“Good. There's someone else I'd like you to meet. And then there's a matter I'd like to discuss with you.”

“Oh?”

“I believe there is something you can help me with, Marianne, if you're willing.”

“Good gracious, Miss Cross, after all you've done for me? Whatever it is, rest assured I'm more than willing.”

“I assume you'll be accompanying Miss Wilson to Beechwood tonight?”

“Of course. I'll be upstairs with all the other maids, waiting in case Miss Wilson should need me.”

I smiled at my good fortune. With Marianne's help at Mrs. Astor's ball tonight, I'd be able to be in two places at once.

 

“Oh, Nanny,” I said hours later as I stood before the swivel mirror in my bedroom, “you've worked your magic yet again. This gown might have been made for me.”

Half disbelieving, I stared at the unfamiliar image reflected back at me. Grace Wilson's cerulean gown flowed like tropical waves down my torso, caressing every curve with a perfection never before achieved, before plunging from my hips to the floor in a gleaming silk torrent every bit as dramatic as a waterfall.

“The dress
was
made for you, sweetie.” Nanny slipped one last pin into my hair, piled at the crown of my head and held in place by a wreath of silk flowers that matched the ivory lace at my neckline. “Mr. Worth just didn't know it at the time.”

My hand flew to my mouth to stifle an uncharacteristic giggle. “I hardly recognize myself. Oh, but, Nanny, I can't possibly keep it after tonight.”

“Why ever not?” She stood back to admire her handiwork, her arms folded across her bosom, her chin tilted in satisfaction. “From what Marianne said, Miss Wilson meant this gown as a gift. Besides, I've done too much altering. It won't fit Grace anymore, and being the youngest daughter she doesn't have a younger sister to give it to. Surely you can't imagine her bestowing a hand-me-down on one of her
married
sisters.”

“Heaven forbid.” I pulled on my evening gloves, and couldn't resist turning and gazing over my shoulder at my reflection. “I believe this train is the most elegant thing I've ever seen.”

Nanny grasped my shoulders. “
You
are the most elegant thing I've ever seen, Emma. It's not only the dress. You're a natural beauty, and I don't care who wears what tonight—no other young lady holds a candle to you. Don't you ever forget it.”

“Oh, Nanny.” My eyes misted and I hugged her. She held me tight for all of three seconds . . . enough time to remind me that while my mother might be far away in Paris and unlikely to return any time soon, there was no shortage of parental love in my life.

She gently nudged me away. “You'll wrinkle. Now, where's your purse?”

I picked up the drawstring bag from my dressing table. A homemade item of simple design with a braided cord and a tassel added by Nanny, the sapphire blue purse wasn't a perfect match but somehow complemented the gown nicely. “Have Katie and Stella hitched Barney to the gig?”

Before Nanny could answer a call came from below. “Miss Emma! A carriage has arrived for you!”

“A carriage?” Gathering up my skirts, I hurried downstairs, with Nanny close at my heels, or as fast as her bulk would allow. In the doorway I gazed out at a pretty little two-seater brougham with a driver sitting high in his box, and pulled by a pair of matching grays. But there was no crest on the side panel to identify the owner. “Who in the world?”

My heart hammered in my throat as a possibility leaped to mind. I hadn't seen Derrick Andrews all spring, had believed him to be gone from Newport, perhaps indefinitely. Had he returned and—