Murder at Beechwood (25 page)

A strained and wounded silence settled over those of us who would be remaining at Gull Manor. Even Derrick shuffled his feet and Judith paid particular attention to an invisible speck of lint on Robbie's blanket.

“No payment is necessary, Mrs. Andrews,” I said, once I'd reined in my pique enough to trust my voice. “Not to me. However, Katie and Stella—”

“Not me,” Katie interrupted. She sniffled and wiped her sleeve across her wet cheeks. “I won't be paid for doin' what I loved doin'.”

“Nor me, neither.” Stella even took a step backward, as if to put herself out of reach of Mrs. Andrews's charitable hand.

“You could always make a donation to St. Nicholas Orphanage,” Nanny calmly suggested. “It's in Providence.”

“Yes, I know of it.” Mrs. Andrews closed her purse and squared her shoulders. Had we offended her by refusing her offer? Then she knew how we felt. “Well . . . good-bye and thank you. All of you. We do sincerely appreciate everything you've done for us.” She turned to her daughter. “Are you ready?”

“One moment, Mother.” Judith beamed at us. She had become a happy and contented woman during her time at Gull Manor. “I was going to name him Bernard, after my grandfather. But I want you all to know I've decided to continue calling him Robert. Robbie. A part of you will always be with him.”

Katie burst out crying and raised her apron to hide her face. Stella put an arm around her and I believe a tear or two fell from her eyes, and Nanny's, too. The Andrews women stepped outside then, but Derrick lingered.

“I promise I'll be back.”

“You'll know where to find me.” I smiled through a few tears of my own.

The door closed, and the four of us were left alone with our grief in a house that felt silent and empty.

Of course, that lasted only until Brady turned up later that afternoon. The front door banged open and his enthusiastic greeting filled the hall, traveled down the corridor, and out to the kitchen garden where Katie and I were picking herbs and vegetables for the pheasant Nanny planned to roast for supper. A crash from inside brought us to our feet.

“Oh, no.” I pushed stray tendrils from my face. “What is he up to now?”

Katie and I traded a look, and I knew she guessed my thoughts: that Brady had been drinking. Another crash sent us running into the house.

We met Nanny in the kitchen, scowling as she wiped her hands on a towel. She followed us into the hall, where Stella had just reached the bottom step. From the parlor, Brady let out a yell.

“No, stay away from there! Get back here, you imp!”

“Land sakes,” Nanny murmured.

I led the way into the parlor, hands on my hips. The first sight to greet me was a vase of wildflowers that had been knocked off the sofa table. Rivulets streamed and damp blossoms littered the area rug. Nanny's sewing basket lay on its side in front of the window seat with its contents spilling out. The small table in the corner sprawled on its side as well, the tray and brass goblets it had held strewn about—probably the first crash we had heard.

Lastly . . .

Lastly I found myself assailed by a knee-high bundle of brown and white fur—in big patches like a jersey cow. The creature barked and jumped at my legs, its lolling tongue finding my hand and leaving a slobbery trail across my palm and fingers.

“Surprise!” Brady stood grinning as if the animal hadn't been in the process of destroying the room.

At another jump, lick, and an eager bark, my annoyance dissipated. A blunt muzzle, big earnest eyes, softly rounded forehead, and ears that flopped with every excited movement worked their magic on me. I dropped to my knees and accepted more wet kisses on my chin and cheeks. When I combed my fingers through all that fur, my new friend rolled onto his or her back and offered me a tan and white belly. Katie and Stella sank at the pooch's other side and joined in lavishing our guest with a sound petting. Those dark eyes rolled blissfully.

“Oh, Brady, where did you find . . . him?” For I clearly saw now that our guest was male.

“Out on Long Wharf. Angus told me he's been hanging about for a couple of weeks now, begging for scraps. Probably came in on one of the boats, possibly a stowaway since no one has claimed him.”

“And you brought him here thinking we need another mouth to feed?” Even as the chastising words left my lips, I knew it was too late. My heart had been captured even before Brady continued his explanation.

“He's an orphan, Em. He needs a home.” He perched on the sofa beside Nanny. “Surely you wouldn't turn away a stray. Besides, I thought with Robbie leaving and all . . .”

I shook my head at him. “You're incorrigible.” But I noticed Katie beseeching me with her eyes, and Nanny watching us fondly. “Well, what is he, then? Any idea?”

Brady shrugged. “Part spaniel as far as I can tell. As for the rest . . . I'm afraid that will remain a mystery. Does it matter?”

“He's a love,” Katie said. “I'll give him that.”

“One thing is for certain.” I grasped one of his gangly paws. “He hasn't finished growing.”

Suddenly the dog rolled and sprang to his feet, nosed my shoulder, licked Katie's ear, and bounded over to Nanny, presenting his head to be scratched.

“Well, Nanny, what do you think?” I gained my feet and crossed my arms. “Is there room at Gull Manor for another resident?”

She stroked behind his ears. “I think he needs us.” She turned to gaze out the front window, her expression sad as she no doubt thought about Robbie. She said more quietly, “And I think we need him.”

One thing I had learned about Nanny over the years, she was almost always right. Patch, as we came to call him, might knock over a few more tables and vases before we trained him properly, but starting from that very afternoon, the ache in our hearts, so sharp that morning, began to subside, and somehow the future no longer seemed so bleak. In fact, I looked forward to Grace and Neily's visit in the fall, to receiving the promised letters from Daphne, to hearing news about Robbie's progress, and to seeing Derrick again.

But when a knock sounded at the door that very next morning and a Western Union delivery boy handed me a telegram, I knew it was far too soon for good news. With trembling hands and a fluttering pulse, I tipped the boy, closed the door, and leaned with my back against it.

I stared down at the unopened envelope so hard I might have burned a hole through it. Telegrams didn't always bring bad news, I tried telling myself. Sometimes they brought unexpectedly good news. Sometimes they merely contained a greeting, a reminder that loved ones far away held you in their thoughts.

Brady came toward me down the corridor from the morning room. “What do you have there, Em?”

The question jolted me out of my stupor. There was nothing for it. I slipped my finger beneath the seal and tore the thing open.

“It's from Mother and Dad.”

“About time we heard from them. What's it been? Months?”

I acknowledged his observation with a
hmm
and kept reading as I strolled into the parlor. My perplexity grew with each word stamped across the page, until anger rose up and I all but crumpled the paper between my fingers.

“They need money,” I said, shaking my head and wondering, yet again, how I had fallen into the role of matriarch of our little family. “They say it's an emergency, and they want me to go to Uncle Cornelius for it.”

“In their defense, Em, they probably haven't received the letter you sent explaining what happened.”

“And wouldn't I like to pretend I never received this telegram. Send money, indeed.”

At the back of the house a door slammed, and soon thudding footfalls came barreling down the hallway. Moments later Patch skidded through the parlor doorway and launched himself at my ankles. I crouched to accept his enthusiastic greetings against my face and ran my hands from head to tail in return. Then I looked up to see Brady grinning down at me.

“What?” I demanded.

“You. You won't turn your back on Mother and Dad any more than you would with me or anyone else who stumbles into your life. I don't know what we'd all do without you, Em.”

What, indeed? I sighed and pushed to my feet.

W
hile the events that occur at Beechwood in the story are completely fictional, it is true that Mrs. Astor, as the reigning queen of society, typically kicked off the social activities of each summer Season. Caroline Schermerhorn Astor both led and defined Gilded Age society, and being a member of the Four Hundred (based on the number of guests who fit comfortably in her New York ballroom), was certainly seen as a mark of distinction. Being worthy of her notice meant a family had “arrived.”

Mrs. Astor, considered “old money” (as opposed to the Vanderbilts, who had earned their fortune in trade), was nothing if not stubborn, determined, judgmental, and about as ruthless a society matron as could be imagined. When her daughter, Carrie, wished to attend a ball thrown by Alva Vanderbilt in 1883, she could not be invited because her mother had yet to recognize the “upstart” Vanderbilts as her social equals. Carrie's deep disappointment, however, persuaded Mrs. Astor to give in and call on Mrs. Vanderbilt, thereby paving the way for the two families to mix socially. Later, when Carrie wished to marry, it was to Orme Wilson of the same Wilson family the Vanderbilts found so objectionable. Mrs. Astor disapproved of the match every bit as much as the Vanderbilts disapproved of Neily marrying Grace, but when Carrie proved determined (a family trait), Mrs. Astor gave in rather than lose her daughter. This, in my mind, suggests a mother who very dearly loved her daughter, who was capable of swallowing her own pride in favor of her daughter's happiness, and who was intelligent enough to realize what was at stake.

Sadly, such was not the case for Neily Vanderbilt. Although I have fictionalized the circumstances,
Murder at Beechwood
does trace the actual events leading up to Neily and Grace's elopement in August of 1896. One wonders, if Cornelius and Alice hadn't dug in their heels and voiced their disapproval so vehemently, would the young couple simply have danced a few dances in the summer of 1895 and ultimately gone their separate ways? To their credit, they did remain married until their deaths, but their years together served to emphasize the great differences in their personalities: Grace's love of parties and excitement versus Neily's quiet, studious nature. These differences would eventually create distance between them, until they basically led separate lives in their latter years.

As described in the story, the tension and estrangement between Neily and his parents reached a heartbreaking and dangerous climax in July of 1896. Some accounts claim father and son came to blows, while others discount that theory, but historians agree that the strife between them precipitated the first of Cornelius's strokes that would incapacitate him and from which he would never fully recover. Neily would be disinherited in favor of his younger brother, Alfred, and rather than being a partner in the family business he would merely hold a position at the New York Central Railroad for a modest salary. His ingenuity in modifying and modernizing train travel was extraordinary, however, and he came to be hailed a genius in his field. In time, his brother would restore a good deal of his inheritance as well.

In 2010, Beechwood was privately purchased and closed to the public, in order that extensive restorations could return the house to its original, Gilded Age state. The original arched loggia, which is also being restored, was destroyed by Hurricane Carol in 1954 and replaced with a relatively simple veranda, which will account for the fact that my description of the back of the house might seem unfamiliar to past visitors. It's my understanding that once the construction is complete, the house will reopen featuring a fine arts museum on the first floor, with select rooms on the second story open at certain times of year.

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Alyssa Maxwell's

 

 

the first book in her new Lady and Lady's Maid
mystery series coming in January 2016!