Murder at Beechwood (3 page)

A footman jumped down from the rear bumper and came to the door. “Miss Cross? Miss Wilson requests the pleasure of your company on the way to the Astors' ball.”

“Oh! Thank you . . . and please tell her I'll be out presently.”

I said a quick farewell to Nanny and Katie, but then I hesitated. “Where's . . . ?” I glimpsed Stella through the parlor doorway, pacing back and forth with the baby. I quickly detoured inside. “I'm sorry, I just couldn't leave without . . .” I leaned to press a kiss to his brow, and whispered, “I'll be doing everything I can for you tonight, little one. Here, let me hold him for just a moment . . .” I reached out.

“Emma Cross, what are you thinking?” I dropped my arms and straightened like a child caught sneaking a taste of a cooling pie. Nanny's scowl only increased my chagrin. “One burp could bring up that child's last meal and set that dress to ruin.”

She tossed my wrap around me and shooed me to the door, but once again I dallied. “Now, mind you lock the door behind me and do not open it to anyone except Jesse or one of his men.”

“Go!” she ordered with a nudge. Even as the footman helped me into the carriage, I noticed Nanny didn't shut the front door, but stood watching, the pride I'd seen earlier in my bedroom evident again on her kindly features.

“Good evening, Miss Cross. I'm so glad you didn't leave on your own before I got here. I should have called ahead, but this was a bit of a last-minute decision on my part.” Grace Wilson smiled at me from her corner of the velvet seat. She extended her hand, her arm gloved to above the elbow in glossy satin, a wide diamond cuff encircling her wrist. More diamonds glittered in the tiara that framed an elaborate arrangement of golden red curls. I saw nothing of her gown, hidden beneath a black velvet cape. She looked like a princess, and for a moment I felt a surreal sensation of moving in a dream.

“Thank you so much, Miss Wilson,” I finally managed to say. I shook her offered hand and she gave mine a squeeze. “Such a lovely surprise. I didn't realize at first that it was you.”

She laughed lightly. “No, my parents aren't ones for crests or coats of arms.”

Yes, I'd known that, actually. Despite being vastly wealthy, the Wilsons weren't keen on displaying it the way many of the Four Hundred were, my own Vanderbilt relatives included. While so many of Newport's summer elite resided in European-inspired villas and palazzos, the Wilsons seemed content with a shingle-style mansion not much bigger than Gull Manor.

“And this gown, it's . . .” Searching for words, I smoothed the folds in my lap.

“Perfect on you, and you need say no more. Besides, I owed you a debt. Marianne has proven to be a most proficient lady's maid.”

“Now that, Miss Wilson, is a lie,” I said with a chuckle. “You could have found any number of much more qualified lady's maids. Marianne was new at it, and I know you only took her on as a favor to me.”

“Yes, because you're Neily's cousin . . . and his friend.” She hesitated, glancing out the window as the driver made the turn onto Ocean Avenue. “I wanted to talk with you, Emma—may I call you Emma?”

“Of course. I'd like that.”

“Good. And you may call me Grace.” She looked out the window again, and I sensed her gathering her thoughts before she turned back to me. “I wanted to talk to you about Neily. I know he stayed with you after his father sent him out of New York a few months ago.”

“Banished him,” I corrected her.

“Yes, because of me.”

Because Cornelius and Alice Vanderbilt vehemently disapproved of Neily's association with Grace, though why, I couldn't understand. They called her a gold digger, yet her father was vastly wealthy; they called the Wilsons nouveau riche, yet much of society considered the Vanderbilts new money as well; they said she was too old for Neily, yet Grace's twenty-five years set her at a mere three years older. Hardly scandalous.

Grace and I barely knew each other, yet I suddenly found myself the recipient of her intimate confidence. Unable to look her in the eye, I studied my hands in my lap as I replied, “It was very hard on him. Neily isn't the sort who thrives on contention.”

“Do you blame me for his troubles?” The question came in a small voice very unlike that of a debutant, as if my opinion meant something to her, as if she dreaded my disapproval.

I shifted on the seat to face her more fully. “Not at all. It distresses me to see Neily and his parents so at odds, but I certainly don't blame you. Neily knows what he wants. And, like his father, once his mind is made up there is no changing it.”

That seemed to satisfy her and she relaxed with a sigh. “You know, his parents aren't coming tonight.”

“No, I didn't know that.” But I might have guessed. The dispute between Neily and his parents had begun nearly a year ago, ever since he and Grace had danced at his sister's coming-out ball last summer. I remembered how Aunt Alice had charged me with keeping an eye on the pair, making sure they didn't steal off somewhere together and reporting back if they did. I'd reluctantly agreed to the task, only to shirk my responsibilities in the wake of a murder I witnessed shortly after.

But that is a story best left for another time.

“They're staying home specifically on my account.” Grace's assertion shook me from my memories. “The family is fast closing ranks against me, Emma. Cornelius and Alice, William, Frederick—all of the older generation, with the exception perhaps of your aunt Alva.”

I grinned. “No, she'll support you just to enrage the others. But what I fail to understand is why Alice and Cornelius object so strongly. After all, Carrie Astor married your brother, Orme. No one has a more narrow sense of proper society than Mrs. Astor. If
she
didn't object to
that
match, then—”

“Oh, but she did, Emma. My goodness, she considers us upstarts every bit as much as your relatives do. But Carrie was determined and Mrs. Astor had no choice but to accept the match or lose her daughter. I'm afraid Neily's parents are going to prove much more stubborn.”

“The Vanderbilts are nothing if not stubborn,” I murmured with a shake of my head.

“Even Gertrude feels we should end it rather than continue to defy their parents.”

“Gertrude!” It surprised me that Neily's sister would take sides against him. It hadn't been very long ago that Gertrude exhibited her own rebellious streak, though in truth she never stepped far beyond the boundaries of her parents' expectations. Yet I'd noticed changes in her in these past weeks since she'd returned to Newport. She seemed older, a good deal more mature than last summer, and ready to take her place as an adult in society. There were even stirrings of a coming engagement.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Grace. What will you and Neily do?”

“We'll do what we've been planning all along.” She shook her head as if I'd asked an absurd question. “We're going to marry, and soon.”

“Oh, dear.” If storm clouds had been gathering this past year on the Vanderbilt horizon, I felt fairly certain the storm was about to break. And it was going to be a fierce one. The time for delicacy had ended. I said, quite bluntly, “You do understand that Uncle Cornelius has threatened to disinherit Neily if he marries you.”

“I do and I don't care. I'll have enough for both of us.”

That sent my hand shooting out to grasp hers, the fabric of our gloves hissing out a warning. “Oh, Grace. Do you really think Neily could be happy living off his wife's money?”

“I . . .” She frowned, looking uncertain and even fearful. “What else can we do?”

“Grace, Neily is working toward a master's degree in engineering with every intention of obtaining employment in the field. He is intelligent and dedicated. But we both know he'll never make the kind of salary that will keep the two of you in the kind of luxury you're accustomed to.”

“I'm willing to make sacrifices.”

“Are you? Do you even know what that will mean?” I almost suggested she spend a few days with me at Gull Manor but held my tongue.

Her gaze locked with mine and tears glittered behind her lashes. “Then . . . you're against us, too.”

“No.” I released her hand and gave it a gentle pat. “No, I'm not against you. If you and Neily are quite certain you have the fortitude to stand up to the entire Vanderbilt family—”

“We are.”

“Then this is one
almost
Vanderbilt”—I pressed a hand to my breastbone and the string of tiny pearls that had been my aunt Sadie's—“who will support you. But you must fully understand what you'll be facing. No illusions, Grace. It shan't be easy.”

She blinked her tears away. “Knowing Neily has your friendship will make it easier.”

“You both have my friendship.”

“Then any time I can do anything for you, Emma, you have only to ask.”

“Actually, there is something . . .”

I
t seemed the stars themselves lit the way from Bellevue Avenue to Beechwood, Mrs. Caroline Astor's Italianate villa overlooking the sea. Gas lanterns swung gently from lines strung from tree to tree, while luminaries formed glowing snakes along both sides of the driveway that circled the fountain and its surrounding flowerbeds. Our progress from street to house took almost as long as the entire trip from Gull Manor, as countless carriages ahead of us deposited family after elegant family beneath the archways of the porte cochere.

Our conversation had turned to lighter topics—Grace's winter in Italy, her spring in Paris, and the excursions, parties, and shopping she had enjoyed. Neily had been present throughout most of those months, which she termed a happy, carefree time. In spite of the Wilsons' lack of open ostentation, they lived nonetheless luxuriously, and I schooled the incredulity from my features as Grace spoke of their extravagances as casually as I spoke of the weather.

Yet I paid careful attention to the details, and her chatter provided me with ample information to rule out a number of young ladies as having potentially birthed a child in recent weeks. The delay in reaching the house also provided me with an opportunity to broach the subject foremost on my mind, yet without revealing too much about the baby in my care. It's not that I had cause to distrust Grace, but this sudden friendship of ours, if that was what it was to be called, had yet to be fully tested. I thought it best to err on the side of caution and not mention my newest visitor at Gull Manor.

“There have been rumors among members of the press,” I said to her, not liking to lie but seeing little alternative, “of an indelicate nature . . .”

With just those words, she understood my meaning. “Do tell? Who, may I ask . . .”

I happily fell back on the truth as I explained that I hadn't yet discovered the identity of the woman in question, but that not only could an inheritance be at stake, but the child's welfare as well, and for that reason I wished to ascertain his origins.

“But how did you hear of this?”

Here I utilized a reporter's first line of defense. “It would be unethical of me to reveal my sources. But may I count on your assistance?”

“You'd like me to . . .” Her eyes narrowed as she sought to comprehend.

“Merely talk to your acquaintances, ones you haven't seen in recent months, as you normally would. Nothing more sinister than that, I assure you.”

“And you say the child's welfare could suffer?”

“Indeed.”

“And you know the whereabouts of this child?”

“I do,” I said, and left it at that. Would she probe further? Her eyes narrowed again speculatively; then she nodded.

“Then, yes, of course, I'll do as you ask, and I'll let you know if I uncover anything significant.”

The way she warmed to my subterfuge made me smile. Finally, it was our turn to disembark. Liveried footmen handed us down from the brougham. Immediately we became absorbed into the controlled crush of newly arrived guests, were escorted into a foyer glittering from the light of a tremendous crystal chandelier, and swept in a current of chatting, laughing ladies up a flight of stairs. Music and voices poured from the ballroom and followed us along an upper corridor, until a woman in the tailored black of a lady's maid opened another door for us and we stepped into a bedroom suite.

The trappings of femininity instantly surrounded us. Ribbons, lace, taffeta—it seemed these items flew through the perfumed air with lives all their own, until my senses processed the scene and I recognized that lady's maids were removing capes from their mistresses' shoulders and smoothing frocks, adding petticoats, jewels, and headdresses left off for the carriage rides, adjusting bodices, and changing serviceable leather shoes for delicate silk dancing slippers.

Marianne, who had apparently arrived sometime earlier, hurried over to us. She and I traded pointed glances; then she walked us into an adjoining dressing room. Obviously set aside for singularly important guests, it was quieter here. There were only two other ladies being attended to by their maids, and I immediately recognized the regal figure of the woman just then inspecting her maid's handiwork in a full-length, gilded mirror. The maid herself stood anxiously by, awaiting her mistress's assessment.

Mrs. Mary Goelet, Grace's older sister, turned away from the mirror with an appreciative nod, and I felt rather than heard her maid's sigh of relief. I curtsied when Mrs. Goelet's gaze fell upon me, and endured the weight of her curiosity as she tried to place me. We'd met previously, though I'd not spoken with her in nearly a year, when I'd gone to nearby Ochre Court, her Newport cottage, searching for my cousin Consuelo. She slowly took in my gown, an act that rather reduced me to an insect beneath a magnifying glass. She no doubt recalled the garment from whichever ball she had attended with Grace last summer. I received an “Ah,” as she apparently remembered me, followed by the swift abandonment of her regard as she came forward to embrace her sister.

“High time you arrived, Grace. What kept you?”

“Oh, May,” Grace said lightly, her lips dancing over the single syllable of her sister's nickname. “What was the rush? Miss Cross and I had a lovely ride over together. You do remember Emmaline Cross, don't you?”

May acknowledged me with something between a hello and a grunt, admonished her sister not to take too long, and swept imperiously out of the room. With a little roll of her eyes Grace took her sister's place before the mirror and Marianne went to work. First she removed the velvet cape, and for the second time that day I gasped in awe at the image of beauty before me.

I had believed the gifted cerulean gown to be uniquely exquisite, but Grace's gown far outdid my own and left me gaping. Silk moiré of neither cream nor blush, but a shimmering, translucent combination that exists only inside seashells, formed the basis of the gown, with an overlay of black velvet swirls reminiscent of wrought-iron scrollwork. The bodice molded to Grace's lovely figure, spilled over a gentle bustle, and flowed with breathtaking simplicity to a four-foot train. Little shirred sleeves combining the two fabrics added balance to the skirt and emphasized Grace's shapely arms.

Marianne added a petticoat, made some minor adjustments to the gown, attached ribbons to the tiara and entwined them in Grace's curls. Then she turned her attention to me. I let her fuss for a few minutes, but as soon as I convinced both her and Grace that the achieved results were the best that could be hoped for, I hurried back into the main bedroom. This had been Carrie Astor's suite when she was a girl, before she married Grace's older brother.

Cousin Gertrude's face was the first to greet me, and in seconds her expression transformed from mild pleasure at seeing me to out-and-out astonishment.

“Emmaline . . . my goodness . . . you look . . .”

“Oh, this?” I was very tempted to toss my head as many of the other young ladies would have done and declare the gown nothing special. I couldn't do it, not even in jest. “I'm a bit overwhelmed by it, truthfully. It was a gift from Grace Wilson.”

My cousin's nearly black brows converged, her scowl making me wince even before she spoke. “Since when do you accept gifts of that sort—of any sort—from the likes of Grace Wilson?”

It was then I remembered what Grace had said, that Gertrude believed Neily and Grace should go their separate ways.

She didn't allow me time to explain, but went on. “You don't understand what you're playing with, Emmaline. Letting Neily stay with you during the spring upset my parents enough—”

“It did? Why? He didn't wish to be alone in that giant house.”

“It involves more than that and you know it, Emmaline. Mother and Father feel you're taking Neily's side, and heavens, if they saw you in that dress, why, they'd . . .”

“It's only a dress, Gertrude, and I am not taking sides. If Neily needs me, I'm only too happy to assist. The same goes for all of you, including your parents.”

“Yes, well . . .” She broke off, compressing her lips as her gaze shifted over my shoulder. Judging from the direction, I guessed Grace had entered the bedroom and probably stood watching us. I used Gertrude's sudden muteness, however ill-tempered, to change the subject.

“You spent most of the spring in New York, in the city and Long Island, yes?” When she nodded absently, I rushed on. “I'd love to hear all about it. Why don't we walk downstairs together and you can tell me whom you saw and where you went—all the exciting news.”

That seemed to rouse her from her resentments. With a murmured instruction to her hovering maid, she slipped her arm through mine and we made our way through the crowded room. Before we stepped into the corridor, however, I glanced back and caught Marianne's eye.

She nodded once, and I knew she would move about the room discreetly listening to the gossip, and once all the ladies descended to the ballroom she would strike up conversations with the other maids, probing, as I had asked her to, for hints that any of their young mistresses had been “indisposed” in recent months, and whether any male servants had gone missing lately. As to her divulging my secret to her mistress, I had no worries. Marianne had sworn secrecy with a vehemence that raised no doubts.

“Uncle William and the boys were with us for most of the spring,” Gertrude was saying as we reached the staircase, “and we were often with the Delafields and the Havemeyers and their cousins from Ohio. Oh, and the Newbolds and the Camerons turned up everywhere we went. The Camerons were supposed to have gone abroad, but there was some problem with the yacht . . .”

“Oh? And were Miss Catherine and Miss Ann Cameron in attendance as well?” I pictured the sisters in my mind. Ann in particular was a dark-haired girl with brown eyes that turned green in certain light . . . rather like my small guest's. But in the next breath Gertrude silenced my speculation by confirming that yes, both the Cameron girls were at hand during the spring season.

In a bright salon off the ballroom we lined up behind other guests, were announced by the butler, and were received briefly by Mrs. Astor amid a lush display of potted palms and American Beauty roses—her favorite flower. She spared a few polite words for Gertrude, fewer still for me, but then I was neither friend nor guest, but there to capture the night's glorious moments for my newspaper column.

Before we passed through to the ballroom, Mrs. Astor called me back. She drew herself up so she could gaze down her nose at me. “You will be discreet, of course, Miss Cross. I cannot have you badgering my guests as they endeavor to enjoy themselves. Unless you are first spoken to, you may use your eyes and ears only to report on the ball.”

“Yes, ma'am. Discretion is part of my job.”

“That's a lovely dress,” she observed as I again started to move away. I couldn't help smiling at her disapproving tone, or how she glanced sideways at her social advisor and companion for the evening, a short, round-faced man with a snub nose and a great, grizzled mustache. Ward McCallister often filled in at such events for William Astor, who preferred a quieter life at his upper New York estate. I myself had seen Mr. Astor in Newport only once, and that had been years ago as he boarded his steamer to leave the island.

Mr. McCallister gave a snort and raised his shaggy eyebrows, and he and Mrs. Astor nodded in silent agreement—no doubt that a girl of my social station should know better than to overstep her bounds; Worth gown or not, I was still nothing more than a wealthy family's poor relation.

Gertrude and I parted soon after entering the ballroom. She drifted into a group of friends while I moved along the wall and found a discreet doorway from where I could observe without interruption. As I usually did, I took a writing tablet and pencil from my purse and began jotting down the details I'd need for my Fancies and Fashions page, all the while on the alert for any clues that might lead me to the baby's mother.

The orchestra played a cotillion, the current favorite, and an array of bright silks and severe black eveningwear filled the dance floor. In pairs men and women formed two long lines and performed the frolicking steps that harkened back to the once-popular quadrilles of decades ago. Hems flounced and coattails fluttered, a dazzling display captured in the numerous French doors that were paneled with mirrors.

Poised in bas-relief above each doorway, images of Poseidon and Aphrodite presided over the proceedings, while the herringbone pattern of the parquet floor mimicked ocean waves. Along with the brilliant chandeliers overhead, brass wall sconces lit the scene, each one fashioned to look like ribbons of flowing seaweed. The overall effect was one of a charmed, underwater backdrop meant to enhance rather than overshadow the main spectacle, that of the very cream of the Four Hundred dancing, smiling, and yes, strategizing in their finest attire and priceless jewels.

I had always admired Beechwood, more than I cared for either The Breakers or my aunt Alva's Marble House. Though magnificent, those houses were also hard and frigid and somehow vacuous. Not of
things,
for both houses were chock-full of treasures and luxuries of every sort, but of warmth and life, of that cozy spirit that made a house a home.

Designed in the Italianate villa style, Beechwood was certainly grander than the shingle-style houses like my own, yet possessed a lighter, airier, and more genial atmosphere than either of the houses owned by my relatives. A person could more easily live here, move about, breathe . . . without fearing to damage one's surroundings. Beechwood had been designed to delight those who lived within its walls, while The Breakers and Marble House were intended to strike awe into the hearts of those who did not.