Murder at Ochre Court

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Good heavens, all this for a young woman’s coming-out ball? Certainly Mrs. Goelet intended to launch her young ingenue in a manner that would not soon be forgotten.

  I retrieved my pencil and notepad from my handbag and began to take notes. I wondered about the wisdom of climbing the dais, but Mrs. Goelet hadn’t specifically told me not to. The steps appeared to be stone, though closer inspection revealed them to be cleverly painted wood. Up I went to inspect the throne, which turned out to be gilt over another metal, perhaps bronze, and covered in silken cushions. Though the side windows were uncovered, the curtains over the windows behind the dais darkened the room considerably. I longed to sample the surprise Mrs. Goelet had in store for her guests, but I didn’t dare. Instead, I gingerly moved the draped sides of the canopy to reveal the wires artfully strung from the chandelier and electric sconces, cleverly concealed within the decorations, and connected to Edison bulbs hidden among the flowers and foliage.

  Though once again I would be writing about a society event, my pulse sped in anticipation. This was new; this was why the Herald had agreed to send me home, that I might report on something that had never been done before, not to this extent. Few homes were fully electrified; here in Newport, I knew of only one other—The Breakers. So far.

  I spent a while longer poking around, examining the wiring, the lights, and the decorations. Mrs. Goelet wished to dazzle her guests, and they would not be disappointed.

  I had just about finished in the room when a crash drew my attention to the ballroom next door. I’d assumed no one else was supposed to be in these rooms at this time. The adjoining doors were closed but not locked, and as I passed through, I heard the light whoosh of fabric brushing against fabric.

  I stood very still in the Rococo ballroom and looked about me. Flowers and garlands festooned this room, too, but without the theatrics of the drawing room. Fresh roses, water, and porcelain shards littered the floor at the foot of a pedestal, set beside the tied-back curtain on the side of a doorway. Beyond the doorway was a sitting room, but from what I could see of it, it appeared empty. Was someone crouching in a corner? I moved to peer inside when I noticed the toes of a pair of embroidered satin house shoes peeking out from beneath the velvet curtain. I nearly chuckled aloud as I tiptoed over and swept the curtain aside. My quarry gasped and raised her hands to her lips.

  “Caught you! Don’t you know Mrs. Goelet has given strict orders that no one is to be in these rooms?”

  As soon as the words left my lips, I wished to recall them. The young woman before me, about my age or perhaps a bit younger, cowered as if I might strike her. Petite in figure, she stood crookedly as if crippled by some malformation of the spine or legs, or perhaps both, with one shoulder higher than the other and an awkward angle to her hips. She stared back at me with large, almond-shaped brown eyes, generously lashed, above a pert nose framed by high cheekbones. She would have been exceedingly pretty, if not for the expression of fear and alarm that furrowed her brow and tightened her mouth.

  Instantly remorseful, I reached out to gently touch her forearm. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I heard the crash and thought someone was up to some mischief in here.”

  “I shouldn’t really be here, I suppose.” She whispered so low, I had to strain to hear her. “It’s just that the ball is for my sister, and I wished to make certain everything was ready. That it was perfect for her. And then I heard Mrs. Goelet outside the door, so I ran and hid in here.” She pointed down at the broken vase. “I only meant to come into the sitting room, but I stumbled . . . I . . .”

  To spare her having to explain her faltering step, I hurriedly said, “It could happen to anyone.” But then a pertinent detail occurred to me. “Wait a moment. How did you get in? Mrs.Goelet has a footman standing guard outside the drawing room.”

  A cunning little smile spread across her lips, which she raised a hand to shield. But in the moment I glimpsed it, I saw that she was indeed quite pretty. “I nicked an extra key and he agreed to look the other way.”

  “Did he now?” I couldn’t help grinning. Yes, I’d find it hard to deny this waif anything, either.

  “Cleo is my sister. Can you blame me for wanting to see firsthand that tonight will be a great triumph for her?”

  “I suppose one can’t blame you a bit. But perhaps we should start over. You must be Miss Ilsa Cooper-Smith.” She nodded solemnly. “I am Emma Cross, and I’ll be covering your sister’s event for the New York Herald.”

  Her eyes became large again. “Your name is well known to me, Miss Cross. What is it like, being a journalist, being a lady who works? Is it terribly hard?”

  “No, it’s wonderful.” Or would be, if I were taken seriously. “Perhaps we should go. Mrs. Goelet will begin to wonder what’s keeping me so long and come looking for me.” I gazed down at the shattered porcelain and sad, sodden roses. “What’s to be done about this?”

  “Never mind. Let’s be off. Someone else can worry about it.” With that, she hurried as best she could with her halting, uneven gait, into the drawing room. I followed her and as we let ourselves back into the hall, she smiled up at the footman.

  She preceded me across the Great Hall, following the voices of the women still enjoying their afternoon tea. I watched her go, noting, not her twisted torso, but her creamy silk tea gown with its bows and flounces and lace insets. Did she realize, I wondered, that the person held to blame for the shattered vase would more than likely be me?

  * * *

  Mrs. Goelet took me aside when I returned to Ochre Court that evening before the ball began. She made no mention of the broken vase. I could only assume it hadn’t been a treasure, or perhaps Miss Ilsa had confessed to the accident to prevent a servant from being blamed.

  “However things go tonight, Miss Cross, I want nothing short of a glorious write-up from you. You have the exclusive, and whatever you write in the Herald will be picked up by newspapers all across the country. Of course, things will go gloriously tonight. I simply wish to be sure you understand.”

  She spoke, of course, of the innovative use of electric lighting for the tableau vivant. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She looked past me as she mused aloud, “I promised her poor mother, God rest her, that I would see to Cleo’s happiness, and much of that depends on tonight’s success. I expect that child to be engaged before the month is out.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I hoped she wouldn’t hold me responsible if her plans didn’t come to pass. I also wondered if Mrs. Goelet had promised to see to Ilsa’s happiness as well, but I kept that thought to myself. “Is there anything I should know ahead of time, ma’am?”

  “Yes. Pay particular attention to Silas Griggson. He’s highly eligible and he’s interested. Should he have any hesitation, a mention in your article could give him the prod he needs. But I doubt he’ll need any persuasion.”

  My stomach tightened at the name. “Silas Griggson will be here tonight?” I asked stupidly, as Mrs. Goelet had just stated as much.

  “New money, to be sure, and rather coarse around the edges, but considering . . . well, he would be a good catch. Not that we’ll rule out others at this point, but I’ve got my eye on Mr. Griggson for Cleo.”

  Even as I wondered what she had obviously omitted from her remarks, I clamped my teeth on the inside of my lower lip to prevent myself from voicing my objections. It was none of my business whom Cleo Cooper-Smith married. I thought of her sister. If Mrs. Goelet had intended shackling Ilsa to Silas Griggson, I might not have been able to hold my peace. But I’d been introduced to Cleo after my sojourn in the drawing and ball rooms earlier, and whereas Ilsa had captured my sympathies, Cleo, the younger of the two, inspired pure confidence that she could take care of herself.

  “Now, you’ll stand discreetly behind the receiving line, out of view of the arriving guests but where you can observe who is who.”

  “I’m sure I’m familiar with most of your guests, ma’am, but thank you, that
will be helpful.”

  “Good.” She surveyed my attire, her discerning gaze starting at my simple coif and slowly descending to my hems. Once again, I’d dressed simply, this time in a gray silk skirt and bodice with black satin trimming. “Good,” she repeated. “You may wait in the office until it is time.”

  She left me to find my own way, which I did, passing numerous servants bustling back and forth between the butler’s pantry and the dining room. I danced a bit of a jig to avoid collisions but reached the office at the front of the house without mishap. A giggle stopped me before I turned into the room. I turned and grinned at the sight of an auburn-haired beauty who beamed back at me.

  “Darling Emma.” Grace Wilson Vanderbilt, my cousin Neily’s wife and Mary Goelet’s youngest sibling, approached me with open arms. We embraced heartily, and then held each other at arm’s length.

  “You look wonderful, Grace,” I said. “Motherhood certainly agrees with you.” Grace had given birth to her and Neily’s first child, a boy, back in April. “How is little Corneil? Is he here?”

  “He’s in Newport, yes, staying with Mama tonight. We’ll certainly make time for you and he to become acquainted. Oh, he’ll adore you, I simply know it.”

  “And I’ll adore him. Nanny has knitted a lovely blanket for him.”

  “How darling of her. I’m sorry I wasn’t here this afternoon to greet you, Emma. Has May been horrible?”

  She referred to her sister by her family pet name. “No, she’s been lovely.”

  “May, lovely? Now I know you’re lying.” Like her sister had done, Grace scanned my outfit, but without her sister’s approval. “I see she has put you in your place. I’m terribly sorry.”

  “There is no need to be. I am here as a journalist for the Herald. There is no shame in that, and this is how I typically dress when I cover evening events in New York.”

  She looked unconvinced. “If you say so. But . . .” She leaned closer to whisper. “Word has it you might not be returning to New York. Is that true?”

  “Brady.” I sighed. “He shouldn’t have said anything yet. Honestly, Grace, I didn’t know myself how intent I was on moving back home until the ferry ride over here yesterday. Before that, it had been a wistful yearning, but not a plan.”

  “I’d miss having you in New York most of the year,” she said with a little pout.

  “Grace, need I remind you that you and Neily spend most of the year in Europe?”

  She shrugged that observation aside. “Come upstairs with me while I change for the ball. We can catch up.”

  “You sister wants me to wait in the office.”

  “Bother May. Come with me. I have questions for you.”

  My feet dragged, for I had a good idea what those questions might entail. I proved correct.

  “Does that delicious Derrick Andrews know you’re home yet?” she asked minutes later as her maid unhooked the back of her afternoon gown.

  “Grace, surely you’ve already learned from Brady that I have not spoken to Derrick since I came home for Easter.”

  “But you’ll see him soon, yes?”

  I held up my hands. “I don’t know. Perhaps he’s busy. Perhaps he’s in Providence.” I knew the latter to be unlikely. Derrick and his father had had a falling-out, resulting in Derrick’s being disinherited. I didn’t believe it would last forever, but his father wished to make a point and assert his position as head of the family. Equally stubborn, Derrick had taken up permanent residence in Newport—in my former childhood home, no less—and purchased a floundering local newspaper with the notion of making it a success. So far, it didn’t come close to rivaling his family’s Providence Sun, but in only a year’s time Derrick had managed to increase his subscription rate and double the Messenger’s number of pages.

  “I believe I shall have to host a small dinner party very soon. Are you free on Tuesday night?” She went to sit at her dressing table to allow her maid to rearrange her hair.

  I pursed my lips at her through the mirror. “Will Derrick Andrews be there?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t quite know yet. . . .”

  Dearest, scheming Grace. I gave her a tentative yes and we left it at that.

  An hour and a half later, she and I were back downstairs, she mingling with the guests, and I moving slowly through the Great Hall, ballroom, and the library, taking notes on those in attendance, what they wore, and, when I could detain them for a minute or two, where their recent travels had taken them. My role as a society reporter had taught me how much people enjoyed talking about themselves, even those who claimed to value their privacy. I spent several more minutes in the dining room. A buffet of French delicacies beckoned from the table, from saucissons de Lyon to brochettes de foie de volaille to sole gratinéau vin blanc, and so much more. It could never all be consumed, not even later, by the servants. So much waste. Yet my job was not to judge, but merely record.

  On my way out of the dining room, I passed the great double fireplace rendered in pink marble, its twin hearths flanking a gilded head of the god Bacchus. A small line had formed, and one by one each guest rubbed the image’s nose and made a silent wish. It was a tradition at all events here at Ochre Court.

  Feeling rather foolish, I nonetheless waited patiently in line. When my turn came, I reached out, brushed the smooth, gilded nose, and made a quick wish that remaining in Newport would prove to be the right decision. Then I moved on, shaking my head ruefully at my folly.

  Familiar faces filled the rooms. I greeted my Vanderbilt relatives, siblings Neily and Alfred and Gertrude, along with her new husband, Harry Whitney. My aunt Alva and her new husband, Oliver Belmont, had come with my cousin, Willy Vanderbilt, who had recently turned twenty. I wondered if he was among the hopefuls vying for Cleo Cooper-Smith’s hand. If so, he could be in for a battle with his formidable mother, who had triumphed when her daughter, Consuelo, married an English duke. Did she have a princess in mind for her son?

  Grace’s brother, Orme Wilson, and his wife, Carrie, were there as well, along with Senator and Mrs. Wetmore. The latter pair greeted me warmly, Mrs. Wetmore even embracing me. I had done them a service last summer, and they once more expressed their gratitude. Along with the Wetmores, I noticed another full-time Newport resident, Max Brentworth, owner of the Newport Gas Light Company. Though certainly not old money, Mr. Brentworth’s millions allowed him entrée into affairs such as this.

  It wasn’t long before my instincts for unearthing newsworthy gossip, reluctantly honed during the past year of working for the Herald, led me to my first puzzling encounter of the evening. In a corner of the ballroom, Colonel John Jacob Astor, in U.S. Army dress blues, stood woodenly by his beautiful wife, Ava, while she apparently spoke words that pleased him not at all. I watched the tension bead across his jaw as her lips moved rapidly, close to his ear. The tendons in her neck stood out, tense and strained, in her effort not to raise her voice. That in itself didn’t fascinate me. Theirs had never been a happy marriage and this was not the first time I’d witnessed contention between them. No, what struck me as odd was the woman standing not far away from them, dressed all in black—not fashionable black silk but the crepe of deep and recent mourning. Here, at a ball?

  Equally incongruous was that she didn’t merely stand near them, she stood facing them, as if waiting for the right moment to approach. For what, I wondered. To make small talk? Surely not. She hadn’t passed through the receiving line earlier, nor was she a Newport summer resident, but I knew her previously from my time in New York. She was Mrs. Lorraine Kipp, widowed five years ago. Only a couple of weeks prior, she had lost her only son to the Battle of Santiago in Cuba. I particularly remembered the obituary running in the Herald because her son, Oliver, had died so young.

  Mrs. Astor left her husband after a sharp, parting word. He might have been completely deaf for all the reaction he showed. Only after she had put several paces between them did he release a breath and relax his stance. In that moment, Lorraine Kipp c
lasped her hands primly at her waist and swept to him.

  He looked no happier than he had during his wife’s quiet tirade. His gaze darted here and there, anywhere but at Mrs. Kipp’s sallow complexion framed by an abundance of silver curls. I felt half inclined to go to his rescue. As it was, I moved a few feet closer in my attempt to eavesdrop. Oh, yes, my year at the Herald had taught me well.

  “You must do this for me, Colonel Astor. For Oliver. Please,” Mrs. Kipp whispered as fiercely as had Ava Astor moments ago. Her lips were pinched, the skin around her eyes as crinkled as old parchment.

  The colonel reacted no less uncomfortably to this latest onslaught. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Kipp.”

  “Then say it.”

  “I just did, ma’am.”

  “No. You know what I mean.” She grasped his coat sleeve with long, bony fingers. “Say it. Proclaim it.”

  “I cannot, Mrs. Kipp.” He pulled away without warning, dislodging her hand from his arm. “Please excuse me.”

  “Colonel Astor, do not walk away from me, sir—”

  Her voice had begun to rise before cutting off short. With a hand pressed to his brow as if to contain its throbbing, Colonel Astor made his way through the knotted throng of guests until he became enveloped in a group of officers and their wives. Mrs. Kipp blinked, moisture clinging to her gray lashes and darkening them. I understood the reason for her grief; her son had died in the war, but what could Colonel Astor do about it now? What could be changed? I couldn’t bring myself to ask her. She had seen me—had skimmed a watery gaze over me—and knew what I did for a living. If she wished to speak with me, I certainly wouldn’t walk away, but neither would I intrude on her privacy any more than I already had. She drifted away aimlessly, or so I thought at first, until I saw her once more hovering at the periphery of Colonel Astor’s group.

  I turned my attention away. I don’t know why I felt responsible for her well-being, but I made a point of seeking out Ilsa Cooper-Smith. She stood alone near the wall, her crooked figure made less conspicuous by the draping of her gown. She’d pasted a carefully pleasant expression on her face as she observed the dancing I doubted she would enjoy tonight. I understood that look. It was one all young ladies learned, long before they ever arrived at their first social occasion. All is well, that look said. I am perfectly content. A true lady never allowed unhappy sentiments to intrude upon an evening’s gaiety—no matter how miserable she might be feeling.