Shrouded In Thought (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 2) (5 page)

Euphemia bustled to the door of the drawing room as her newest visitor was entering. “Oh, my dear!” The hostess seemed in a transport of delight. “I am so pleased you were able to attend this little soirée of mine. Everyone, this is Serafina. She is a most gifted spiritualist and medium. Quite the most gifted in the world, I’m told, if Theophilus is to be believed.” Creech bowed. Seemingly inexhaustible in the performance of her duties as hostess, Euphemia launched into another round of introductions.

In the interval, Freddie studied the newcomer. She was of medium height and dark coloring—obviously foreign, although Freddie could not be certain what nationality. Her vocal inflections and her olive complexion suggested that she might be Spanish or Italian. While her hair was a brown dark enough to be mistaken for black, her eyes were light-colored—if they could be said to have a color at all. They were a shade of gray that seemed almost transparent. They reminded Freddie of a misted windowpane on a rainy day. Freddie noticed the moonstone brooch she wore fastened to her gown. A luminous reflection that, like her eyes, seemed to capture its light from another source.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear your last name,” he apologized when the introductions got around to him.

She had the voice of a child and gave her reply in a sing-song whisper. “Only Serafina, that is all.”

Euphemia had begun murmuring to herself in the background. “Let’s see. One, two, three. Are we all here?”

“Not quite.” Martin’s voice was barely perceptible.

Euphemia shook her head impatiently at her own absent-mindedness. “Oh, yes of course. I quite forgot about that friend of yours.”

Garrison walked in again to announce another arrival. “Mr. Desmond Bayne, madame.”

Euphemia looked perplexed. She turned to her husband. “Martin, perhaps you’d better do the honors.”

“Yes, I suppose I must.” Martin clipped his syllables even more precisely than usual. He walked toward the center of the room just as Bayne entered.

At the sight of the new arrival, Freddie’s mouth began to open and close like that of a fish just pulled from the water. He looked urgently at Evangeline, but all that emerged from his throat were gurgling noises. She glared back at her friend as if he’d lost his mind and muttered a warning under her breath. “Can’t I take you anywhere without some new fit of lunacy emerging? Whatever it is, it will have to wait.”

At that moment, Martin walked up to the couple. “May I present a... uh...”

Bayne cut in. “An old friend from long, long ago. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He kissed Evangeline’s hand and then shook Freddie’s. The young man could barely stammer, “P... pleased to meet you,” before the pair moved on and Martin continued the introductions.

Bayne’s fortunes had apparently improved immensely since Freddie had seen him last. He was attired conservatively in a black tail coat and trousers, with a white silk vest and tie. Bathed, shaved, and shined, he almost looked as if he belonged there. Almost. There was something about the way his eyes traveled around the room, calculating the probable value of every object and every person there, that caused Freddie to wonder. And then there was the accent. It was bogtrotter Irish—straight off the boat. A man like Martin Allworthy seemed acutely aware of class distinctions, and befriending a fellow like this defied reason. Even Euphemia was staring at the man every time he opened his mouth, but in an attempt to perform her duty as a well-bred hostess, she tried to hide her concern and make him feel welcome.

Garrison walked up to whisper in her ear. She nodded, in what appeared to be relief, and clapped her hands for attention. “My dear friends, let us all go into the dining room. Dinner is served.”

Chapter 5—Course Manners

Euphemia seemed to forget her concern about Desmond Bayne as she busied herself assigning guests to their proper seats around the table. “As you can see from your placecards, Mr. and Mrs. Waxman, you’re opposite one another at the end next to Martin. Bessie, you’re on Mr. Waxman’s left and uh... Mr. uh... Bayne, was it? Yes, well, you’re opposite my cousin Bessie.”

Desmond smiled waggishly. “Sure and it’s a lovely view I’ll be having with me soup this evening.” Bessie pursed her lips and nodded at the compliment. Her eyes were not smiling.

“Let’s see now. Roland, you’re next to Bessie with Minerva across from you.”

“Why, thank you, auntie.” Roland leered at the awkward young woman across from him. This had an alarming effect on Minerva, who was clearly unused to that sort of attention from a gentleman. She’d been nervously toying with an earring, which now dropped to the floor.
 
She escalated the awkwardness of the moment by managing to bump heads with Garrison as he dove down to retrieve it for her. Maintaining his dignity, the butler gravely stood and held forward the missing object. “Your earring, miss.”

Evangeline looked on with an expression of pity as Minerva sheepishly reattached the bauble to her person.

“Now, where were we,” Euphemia continued. “Oh yes. Engie, you’re next to Roland with Mr. Simpson across from you. Serafina, you’ll be next to me on one side with Theophilus on the other. There now, I think that accounts for everyone.”

Desmond had already seated himself, apparently oblivious to the fact that the rest of the guests were awaiting their hostess’ signal. He had lifted a saucer and was studying the gold stamp on its underside. Euphemia glanced nervously at Desmond—a mild approximation of the look her husband was shooting in Bayne’s direction.

Choosing not to make a point of his behavior, she smiled graciously. “Please, everyone be seated.”

The gentlemen present, with the exception of Desmond, helped the ladies to take their seats. Minerva had to shift for herself which seemed less painful than being visited with the attentions of the gentleman to her left. The butler rushed to her aid once more as her mother looked on helplessly.

Euphemia waited until everyone was settled before giving Garrison the command to begin.

The butler nodded and officiated as several other servants bustled around the table filling glasses and presenting serving dishes.

Through the first few courses of the meal little occurred of any note other than Freddie’s frequent attempts to gain Evangeline’s attention by staring at her and then rolling his eyes significantly in Bayne’s direction. He was met each time by a frosty glance from his friend. Finally he gave up and decided to wait for a more opportune moment.

Meanwhile, Desmond seemed perplexed by the array of cutlery next to his plate. He picked up a shrimp fork and examined it as if it were a surgical instrument before deciding to use it to skewer his salad. Martin made no attempt to correct him, but Freddie noted the number of times the host ran his index finger irritably underneath his collar.

The talk at Euphemia’s end of the table centered on Serafina’s visit. “I am so thrilled to have you here, my dear!” she exclaimed again.

“Serafina has several speaking engagements in the midwest.” Theophilus offered an explanation for the benefit of Freddie and Evangeline. “She made such a stir at the last meeting of the Metaphysical Society...”

Euphemia touched his arm conspiratorially. “Of which Theophilus just happens to be the president.”

He smiled and forged ahead. “...that several of our members have begged her to attend private assemblies in their homes.”

“Do you give lectures at such occasions, as well?” Evangeline sounded intrigued.

Serafina’s wispy voice could barely be heard above the rattle of conversation and cutlery. “Sometimes. And sometimes I am asked to perform readings.”

“
Readings
?” Freddie was bemused. “From what books?”

His friend elucidated. “Not those kinds of readings, Freddie. Spiritual readings.”

“From the Bible?”

Evangeline was all ice and patience in her explanation. “No, clairvoyant readings.”

Serafina nodded. “Yes, and sometimes I will perform what you call a séance if my guides are with me.”

“Why, if you need a guide to find your way around the city, I’d be happy to offer my services.”

By this time Evangeline was sending a volley of killing glances in the young man’s direction. “I would assume she means spiritual guides, Freddie.”

Serafina laughed—the sound of tiny bells. “I sometimes forget that these words they can mean so many things. This is especially so to people not acquainted with the unseen world.”

“Yes, I would appear to be learning a whole new vocabulary.” Freddie smiled ruefully. “And I thought I already knew how to speak English.”

“There are those who would debate the point,” Evangeline muttered under her breath.

Her enthusiasm unbroken by the undertow, Euphemia jumped in. “I’m hoping that Serafina’s schedule will allow her to spend some time as our guest and perhaps even give us a glimpse into the realm beyond.”

Serafina inclined her head modestly. “Mrs. Allworthy, you are too kind. I have been pressed by many gracious invitations from the ladies in your city. I have many times over rearranged my speaking tour to accommodate them. I must soon leave for engagements in
San Francisco
and will not return this way until the end of June. I cannot stay with you now but after that perhaps. I will see what I can do.”

“Oh, that would be lovely if you could!” Euphemia exclaimed. “The end of June would be only too perfect. By then the country villa will be complete. Engie, you must come, and so must Mr. Simpson. We could arrange a séance one evening. What a delightful experience it would be.”

“I’ll admit the idea does intrigue me,” Evangeline said.

Freddie looked at her face to see if she was joking. She wasn’t.

Roland chose that moment to rise to his feet, glass in hand. “A toast, ladies and gentleman.” Everyone turned to look at him expectantly. “To the lovely Miss Minerva.”

The lovely Miss Minerva appeared to be mortified by the attention and was hiding behind her fan. Her mother intervened. “Really, Roland, that isn’t necessary.”

“Oh, reason not the need!” he declaimed grandly. “It is entirely right and fitting that a young lady should be toasted by her greatest admirer.”

The words stirred a faint memory in Freddie’s consciousness.

Bessie threw up her hands in dismay and allowed her daughter to be toasted as a celebrated beauty. The guests all managed to get through the ritual with solemn faces, except for Roland, who appeared to be ogling Miss Minerva over the rim of his wine glass.

In an attempt to salvage the moment, Martin rose and somewhat less grandly offered a salute of his own. “And I would like to propose a toast to my good friend, Otto Waxman.”

The old man beamed with pleasure.

Martin continued. “About a month ago he did me the kindness of hiring my nephew here in order to teach him the real estate business.” The words were met with a sincere round of applause. Desmond pounded his hand repeatedly on the tabletop with great gusto. In a somewhat softer voice, Martin added, “It seems the electroplate industry didn’t suit Roland’s temperament.”

The nephew, undisturbed by the veiled reprimand, raised his glass again. “To a most successful business venture!”

“Success!” his listeners affirmed as they drank a round.

Freddie, who had been watching Desmond all evening from the corner of his eye, noticed that Garrison was having some difficulty keeping Bayne’s wine glass filled as frequently as the fellow seemed to require it.

Not to be outdone by the others, Desmond now rose, albeit unsteadily. “Sure and it’s my turn to let all you good people know...” He paused, apparently having lost his train of thought. “Oh yes, there it is. To let all you good people know that you’re sitting in the presence of a saint, and that’s a fact.”

The guests eyed one another suspiciously, none of them having the least illusion of the sanctity of anyone present.

“It’s him at the head of the table, I’m referring to.” Desmond pointed dramatically toward Martin, spilling wine from his glass, which Garrison hastened to refill. “Yes, a living breathing saint if ever there was one. Ladies and gentlemen, the saying goes ‘a friend in need is a friend indeed,’ and truer words were never spoken.”

Martin had begun to tap nervously on the table, apparently wondering when the testimonial would end.

“And this man, this saint of a man,”—again Desmond pointed at Martin—“saw that his old friend Desmond was down on his luck and offered him a job at his very own company. There’s not many would do such a thing. Lord love you, Martin.” He raised his glass. “I say again, ladies and gentlemen, a toast to Mr. Martin Allworthy. The nearest friend that ever I had in all the world and am likely ever to have.”

“To Martin,” the party all murmured uncertainly.

Having said his piece, Desmond sat down without further ceremony and gave his undivided attention to the cutlet on his plate. The lapse in conversation that his odd behavior had caused was soon covered by eddies and ripples of small talk from various directions. Thankfully, no further outbursts of bonhomie from either Desmond or Roland were forthcoming.

As the last course was being cleared, Freddie began to grow restive. No one had yet mentioned the one topic he longed to hear about. He was too far from the head of the table to ask Martin directly. Calculating the social damage of offending his hostess, he tried to frame the question as innocently as possible. “Quite an unfortunate accident at your husband’s factory last week, Mrs. Allworthy.”

Euphemia sighed. “Yes, quite unfortunate. The poor child.”

“The coroner has determined it was an accident?” Freddie maintained a tone of casual interest.

“So it would seem.”

Despite the intervening distance, Martin had caught the gist of his wife’s conversation and jumped in. “What is that you were speaking of, my dear?”

“Oh, Mr. Simpson was inquiring about the drowning at the factory.”

All other conversation at table immediately ceased as rampant curiosity took hold. Everyone waited for the host’s next words.

Martin darted a swift look at Desmond. “Yes, it was quite unfortunate. A needless accident. But the workers are sometimes just like children. They require someone to look out for them every second.”

 
“Oh?” Evangeline raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“Yes, I’ve seen fellows burn their hands time and again in the acid baths out of pure carelessness.”

“There’s no possibility their working conditions were unsafe?”

Freddie had begun to sense danger. He fidgeted with his napkin, knowing that once Evangeline had decided to engage in battle, there was little that would distract or deter her.

Martin looked at Evangeline in surprise, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “Unsafe? Why, if you give a man a knife to work with and he cuts himself with it, whose fault is that?”

Evangeline shrugged. “It would depend on the circumstance.”

Without appearing to be rude, Martin’s demeanor had turned a shade chillier. “I don’t wish to contradict a lady but, under the circumstances, I think my judgment of the case is to be trusted. Workers are like sheep. They frequently do foolish and careless things. They need a strong hand to guide them.”

“You and George Pullman seem to agree that you both know what’s best for everybody else.” Evangeline calmly took a sip of wine.

There was an audible gasp heard from around the table. The strike at the Pullman Palace Car Works was the talk of the town. After repeated attempts to gain a hearing from management, the laborers had finally walked out of the
Pullman
shops only the day before. The foundation of the model town which George Pullman had built to house his workers was crumbling. There was wild speculation as to what direction the strike might take. Ever since the Haymarket Riot of 1886, Chicago’s captains of industry had slept uneasily, with dreams of anarchists dancing in their heads threatening a full-scale working-class revolt.

Martin’s response was icy. “George Pullman has a right to determine conditions in his factory. He owns the company.”