Murder at Beechwood (4 page)

Even as I took in these surroundings, I kept a sharp eye out for anything unusual. Eventually I abandoned my doorway and began a circuit of the room's perimeter, stopping to greet guests and, when invited to converse, ask questions and jot down notes. Where I met with reticence from those less familiar with me, I admit to defying Mrs. Astor's edict and using my carefully collected facts to inquire after their newest yachts, the renovations to their New York mansions, the plans for their daughters' weddings, et cetera. A few well-chosen words of flattery usually went a long way in loosening tongues.

Much to my frustration, all seemed as it should. I'd begun to despair of learning anything useful that night, when my gaze fell upon a singularly unhappy face, one I recognized. With renewed vigor I set off at once in her direction.

“Miss Gordon,” I said when I reached her, injecting the correct mix of cordiality and polite deference into my voice. “How lovely to find you here. Do you remember me?”

Daphne Gordon was a girl some three years my junior with wispy golden curls, pale eyes, and a sturdy frame that hinted at future plumpness. For now her youth leant a healthy and pleasing roundness to a figure clad in pale rose satin. She returned my greeting with a puzzled expression that gradually cleared to one of recognition. “Miss Cross, is it?”

“Yes, Emma Cross. We met here at Beechwood a year ago, when Mrs. Astor dedicated her new rose garden. I'm covering the ball for one of our town newspapers. Your family are good friends of the Astors, as I recall?”

“Indeed. We're staying here at Beechwood as Mrs. Astor's guests.” Her reply held no enthusiasm, nor did her expression convey pleasure. Quite the contrary.

I pasted on my most professional, yet still amiable, demeanor. “Are you enjoying yourself tonight? I couldn't help but notice, as I entered the ballroom, that you appeared rather disconcerted.”

“Disconcerted.” She spoke the word as if testing out a new flavor of wine. “No, Miss Cross, not disconcerted. Bored. Horribly, dreadfully bored.”

“How can that be?” I swept an admiring glance over the ballroom. Had she become immune to the splendors of her set?

“Because I'm tired of”—she waved a hand in the air—“all of this. If you must know, I was dragged here—quite against my will.” She flicked her gaze to the group ranged behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder to recognize several members of the Monroe family. Daphne Gordon had been orphaned several years ago, after both of her parents died in a house fire. Daphne, about thirteen at the time, had been placed with the Monroes, who were relatives—distant ones, which had puzzled closer family members at the time. I remembered my parents discussing the matter. An aunt had sued for custody, but the will had been clear. The courts upheld her parents' wishes and Daphne Gordon, along with the lumber fortune she inherited, was placed under the protection of Virgil and Eudora Monroe, presently standing directly behind me.

I was about to make some mollifying reply when my gaze landed on an object that stopped me cold. Instinctively I reached out a hand, almost but not quite touching the beaded purse that hung from a gold chain looped around Daphne's wrist. “Good heavens!” slipped out before I could stop it.

Her own gaze followed mine. “Oh, this. Do you like it?” Unexpectedly, the corners of her mouth tilted in a small smile. She lifted the purse so I could admire it closer. The fabric matched the rose silk of her gown, but it was the lace trim that most intrigued me—and startled me. Unless the lights were playing tricks, I recognized the pattern. I gaped, but she didn't seem to notice. “Mr. Monroe and his elder son, Lawrence, recently returned from a trip to Belgium. They brought back many bolts of handmade textiles, including this lace. Lawrence suggested the pattern for this purse.”

“It's extraordinary,” I said breathlessly.

“There is more lying about, if you'd care for some.”

Except for the emphasis she had placed on Lawrence's name, she showed no sign that the intricate-patterned lace shot through with gold thread meant anything special. Artifice? I couldn't rule it out. I'd learned in the past year not to base assumptions on appearances alone. I had been fooled before.

“Did you also spend time abroad this spring?” I asked in hopes of learning more about Daphne's immediate past. Was tonight yet another affair in a long and tiring series of social events beginning in early spring? Or was this a first and unwelcome foray back into society after a lengthy absence? I scanned her waistline, cinched tight within her corset, and the press of her ample bosom pushing against the Queen Anne neckline of her bodice.

She shook her head and sighed. “I've been nowhere interesting of late, Miss Cross, and tonight is no exception.”

I maintained a calm exterior while speculating that perhaps her discontent indeed stemmed from having recently borne an illegitimate child. I had been accused often enough in the past of stretching my facts to fit my suspicions, but then again my instincts had just as often served me well. “You could always plead a headache if you long to be away. I'd be happy to accompany you upstairs.” And ask more questions along the way, I added silently.

“Thank you, but I'm afraid I cannot. I was told unequivocally I must remain until after the midnight supper. Only then may I slip upstairs to my guest room. Oh, Miss Cross, how weary I've grown of such traditions.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ball, suppers, being put on display in order to find a husband. . . .” She paused, her eyes suddenly misting.

Mention of husbands fueled my speculation that the Monroes might have a reason to marry off Daphne at the first opportunity, perhaps because they feared recent events could destroy her reputation—and their own.

“All across the country—the world—times are changing, Miss Cross. There is progress and innovation, and new notions of achievement and personal endeavor. But not for us. Not in families like those here tonight. We are trapped in the past, in notions of old money and propriety and—oh! Things that shouldn't matter anymore.”

“Yes, I wholly agree,” I said truthfully. Her passion raised my earnest sympathies, for she reminded me of my cousin, Consuelo, who only months ago had been manipulated into an unwanted marriage. I reached out my hand to Daphne. “My dear Miss Gordon . . .”

I got no further. An arm fell between us, a silk-gloved hand latching on to Daphne's upper arm. Eudora Monroe was what many would call a handsome woman—tall and big-boned, with steel gray hair piled high and dressed with jewels, her jaw square and stubborn, her eyes dark, direct, and entirely without sentiment. I instinctively stepped aside for her, and she spared me the briefest nod. With a low murmur, she ushered Daphne away so insistently I easily imagined her dragging the girl if she had shown any resistance.

A humorless chuckle caught my attention and I looked up to see the Monroes' elder son, Lawrence—the one Daphne had mentioned—leaning against the wall. How long he had been there I didn't know, but I had the sensation he'd been watching us, that he had witnessed Daphne's brief outburst and Eudora's hasty effort to stifle her.

“Is she all right?” I asked him with no attempt to hide my concern.

Tall and trim and broad through the shoulders, he had his mother's obdurate jaw, her wide mouth, but not her eyes. For where hers revealed little, Lawrence's eyes revealed his thoughts to all who would look. I looked now, and stepped back, and almost wished I hadn't spoken to him. His expression had blackened, became somehow twisted, and he followed my backward progress with an arrow-sharp hiss of a whisper.

“Try asking my father if Daphne is all right.”

L
awrence Monroe pushed away from the wall and shouldered his way through the crush. What had his caustic reply meant? I couldn't very well walk up to Virgil Monroe and ask him about his family's troubles. I didn't dare approach him at all without a proper introduction. Quickly I scanned the room until I found the face I sought.

Before I made my way to my cousin Neily, another familiar face stopped me in my tracks and left my mouth hanging unfashionably open. Our gazes connected, and for the briefest moment the sentiment I witnessed sent my stomach sinking to my feet, for I glimpsed awkward reluctance, a wish to avoid, followed by resignation as he started toward me.

“Emma. How nice to see you. You look lovely tonight.”

“Derrick. I hadn't thought you would be here. It's been such a long time—”

“Mother,” he interrupted, and I only then noticed a woman held his arm. She stood rigidly at his side, sweeping me up and down with a judgment that gave no quarter. I wanted to shrink away but held my ground. “May I present Miss Emmaline Cross.” No smile softened the stiff line of his lips. No reassuring light entered his eyes. “Miss Cross, my mother, Mrs. Lionel Andrews.”

“How do you do?” Her chin inched upward as she spoke, and she did not extend her hand to shake mine. Lavinia Andrews was a beautiful woman who hardly showed her fifty-odd years. Dark-eyed like her son and raven-haired with only the faintest traces of silver, she possessed the slender figure and porcelain skin of a much younger woman. Yet there was nothing youthful or inexperienced about her bearing.

I lowered my outstretched hand when she made no move to grasp it. “I'm very well, thank you, and pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“I've heard so much about you. From my son,” she added unnecessarily. Her mouth, too, became a flat, harsh line.

“All good, I hope.”

Her eyebrow went up. I smiled, a forced effort, for I detected no warmth in this woman's opinion of me, or in the way Derrick's attention seemed focused everywhere but on me. We might have been the barest of acquaintances, and in truth I hadn't seen him since last winter, when he had suddenly disappeared without so much as a good-bye. “It's been many months since you've been in Newport,” I said to him. “I can't help but wonder why you bothered purchasing a home here.”

He had the grace to blush, but only slightly. I referred to my own childhood home on the Point, which Derrick had bought from my parents last summer before I'd even known the property had gone up for sale. The loss had come as a devastating shock to me, yet beneath the layers of perceived betrayal—by both Derrick and my absentee parents—I'd experienced a disconcerting thrill. Derrick would now be tied to Newport indefinitely . . . and that would give us more opportunities to get to know each other properly. . . .

Except that he hadn't been here, at least not for long. And I didn't know why, for he hadn't seen fit to offer any explanation. He had simply left, and now here he was, his manner inscrutable and perplexing, and his mother staring daggers at me.

“Yes, business kept me away.” He touched a hand to his pomaded hair while his eyes darted again about the room. “I . . .” Suddenly he frowned. “If you'll excuse me—us. Mother, I see . . .”

I didn't learn whom he saw. Before he finished the sentence the two of them simply walked off, leaving me summarily dismissed. Not to mention angry and confused.

And hurting. Derrick had proposed to me last summer, and I had turned him down. Even now I believed I had made the only right decision. Circumstances had thrown us together amid a whirlwind of chaos and danger, and with emotions running high, I couldn't trust that whatever feelings we had developed were real and lasting.

But in saying no, had I lost his regard entirely?

“Good evening, Emmaline.”

“Neily! I was just looking for you.” I wanted to fall into my cousin's arms—yes, I needed one of those hugs he used to give me when we were children and I'd fallen and scraped a knee, or simply felt lonely and sad. Derrick had left me wanting to weep against Neily's shoulder, but instead I embraced him quickly and remembered I had a task to carry out.

He pulled back with a broad grin. “Sorry Brady's still stuck in New York. Father's got him researching some land options on Long Island. He should be able to get away in a week or two.”

“As long as he keeps out of trouble.” We shared a laugh, both of us knowing that trouble always seemed to find my incorrigible half brother.

Neily held my hands and swept my arms out wide. “You look stunning tonight, cousin!”

“I had help.”

“I know. Grace thinks the world of you. I hope you won't be cross, but she told me what you confided in her earlier.”

“I thought she might, and I hope you don't mind my asking for her assistance.”

“I don't.” He grasped my hand and held it up between us. “But only if you confess the whole truth. Who is this child whose mother you're trying to find? And don't tell me it's some vague rumor you heard down at the newspaper office.”

I hesitated for as long as it took to inhale a breath and release it. I drew him into a doorway where no one would overhear. “All right, but this is in the strictest confidence. No one can know, other than those I've already told.”

He only looked at me steadily, waiting.

“Yesterday, I found a baby outside my front door.”

“The devil you say!”

I explained briefly, and when he began to ask questions, I cut him off. “There's something I need you to do. Can you introduce me to Virgil Monroe?” I spotted him again across the way, a man whose looks, like Lavinia Andrews's, belied his age. He stood as tall and straight as his son and filled his tailored evening clothes to perfection, and though his hair had silvered completely, it was full and thick and made a stylish frame for his distinguished features. “There's a question or two I'd like to ask him. I know his ward, Daphne, but I certainly can't approach the man on my own.”

“Surely you don't think this child originated with the Monroes?” His eyebrows went up. “With Daphne?”

“I don't think anything—yet. But Daphne is apparently unhappy, and it has something to do with Mr. Monroe.” I told him what Lawrence Monroe had said to me.

Neily tugged at the new growth of beard on his chin. “That may be. Monroe is a tough old bird to be sure, but I just can't fathom—”

“As I said, I'm not accusing anyone of anything at this point. I have very little to go on. Ruling out possibilities is as helpful as finding clear leads.”

“All right.” He held out his arm to me. “I'd be honored to escort you, Miss Cross.”

For an instant his gallantry transported me across the years to when we were children and used to play at being grown-ups. Yet at the same time I realized Neily probably wanted nothing so much as to perform this favor for me and return to what interested him most—Grace Wilson. I grasped his arm and we set off.

Unfortunately, my quarry had slipped the net. He'd migrated out to the dance floor, partnering a striking brunette I judged to be several years older than myself, and a good deal more sophisticated judging by the grace with which she executed the dance steps. She seemed to be leading Virgil Monroe, rather than the other way around.

That Mr. Monroe would dance with this woman was nothing strange. On the contrary, etiquette deemed it only polite for even married men to dance with a wide variety of partners so that no woman suffered the ignominy of being a wallflower. I recognized something familiar about this particular woman, though I couldn't yet define what.

Neily turned me about and then we were dancing only steps away from the couple in question, where we might easily fall into conversation once the music paused. For now they seemed locked in a conversation of their own, oblivious to those around them. I strained my ears to listen, but the surrounding voices and music proved too much.

Suddenly their voices hit a crescendo. They came to an abrupt halt and released each other. Fury burned in the woman's dark eyes. “If you wish to bully me,” she hissed, “I'm afraid you must stand in line behind my brother.”

At that, Virgil Monroe chuckled—meanly, I thought. The brunette raised the hems of her gold silk gown and swept imperiously away without a backward glance. My original intentions forgotten, I turned to Neily.

“Who was that?”

“Don't you know?” When I shook my head, he said, “My dear, that's the widowed and wildly wealthy Mrs. Judith Kingsley.”

I continued to look at him blankly.

“Derrick Andrews's sister.”

 

I went about my business during the remainder of the ball, but Neily's revelation continued to gnaw at me. Derrick giving me the cold shoulder . . . bullying his sister . . . Was this the man I thought I knew?

And just what was the connection between his sister and Virgil Monroe?

Concentrating became a challenge, but it mattered little since I uncovered nothing else of interest as I continued to interview the guests, though I did rule out several more possibilities for the baby's mother. I'd decided against approaching Mr. Monroe after what I'd witnessed. It seemed the man had a way of bringing out the worst in women. But with the Monroes staying on at Beechwood for the next week—that much I'd found out from Virgil's wife, Eudora—I'd surely find another opportunity to question the man, or perhaps I'd have Neily and Grace do it for me.

Soon after the midnight supper I asked Grace if she'd mind if her driver brought me home. Before slipping out to the carriage, I climbed the stairs to see if Marianne had anything significant to report from her time spent with the other maids. As I reached Carrie Astor's former bedroom, male voices drifted from around the corner of the corridor. I hesitated, immediately on the alert. There shouldn't have been men in this part of the second floor. It had been reserved exclusively for the use of the female guests.

Then again, with the ball still in full swing downstairs, they wouldn't have expected anyone to be within hearing range. They spoke in low, tight murmurs that raised the hair at my nape.

“You can lie all you want, but I know your little secret,” one said. “I promise you, you won't win this time.”

With my hand on the doorknob, I froze. Who knew what secret? I willed them to say more, but silence followed, then footsteps. Quickly I turned the knob and stepped inside, but before I closed the door behind me I peeked over my shoulder. Without glancing my way, Virgil Monroe passed under the light of the electric wall sconces. His eyes were blazing, his face aflame.

Good heavens, he seemed to raise discord with everyone he encountered. Had he been the one who spoke? Or had he been the silent one? Another set of footsteps approached, and this time I opened the door wide as if innocently stepping out.

A second man stopped as if startled and glared at me. He was younger than Virgil, and while his features were smoother and stronger, the family resemblance was obvious. I smiled politely.

“Good evening, sir.”

His mouth twitched; then he simply looked forward and kept walking, his long legs making short work of the corridor. I turned back into the room and gestured to a maid sitting in view of the doorway.

“Did you see that man who just passed? Is he by any chance related to the Monroes?”

“He certainly is, miss. That's Wyatt Monroe, Mr. Virgil's younger brother. He'll be piloting his sailboat in tomorrow's races.” Her lips tilted in a dreamy smile. “He's a handsome one, and ever so sporting. His team is sure to win.”

 

When I arrived home I changed from Grace's beautiful gown into an infinitely more comfortable cotton nightdress. Even as I breathed a sigh of relief to be out of binding stays and that impossibly delicate fabric, I allowed myself the luxury of running my fingertips over the embroidery and imagining myself wearing the gown to yet another function. I would not, of course. Grace's gift had warmed my heart, but it was her friendship I valued. That, and the fact that this dress would fetch a price that could help support numerous orphans for a good long while. I couldn't possibly keep it knowing that. Tomorrow Katie and Stella could take it into town, to Molly's Dress Shop. Molly would fetch a good price for it, and I would send the proceeds to St. Nicholas Orphanage.

Then I tiptoed across the hall and into Nanny's bedroom, careful not to wake her. I found the child on the upholstered bench at the foot of her bed, asleep in the dresser drawer Nanny had emptied and lined with blankets. As I bent over him I made a mental note to have Katie and Stella find him a proper cradle in town tomorrow.

I reached in to gather him up, and his little eyes popped open. He barely uttered a sound, just some soft gurgles as I settled into the easy chair opposite the bed. I held him to me and rested my cheek on his little head, and released the tension of the past hours.

I couldn't help feeling I'd failed him, that I'd go on failing him. Marianne had added no insights from the other maids. I had learned nothing tonight but that strife existed in the Monroe family, just as it did in countless other families. True, there had been the lace trimming Daphne Gordon's purse, but hadn't she told me Mr. Monroe brought back bolts of the stuff? Which meant any lady of means might have obtained some by now.

That wasn't all that troubled me. How different Derrick had been—a stranger. And his mother couldn't have made her sentiments any clearer. I was not for her son . . . and it would appear that, last summer notwithstanding, he agreed. Those reflections depressed me further, and rather than wallow I pushed my personal concerns aside and returned to contemplating the link between the Monroe and the Andrews families.