Her light scowl persisted for several more seconds. Then she apparently dismissed him. “Consuelo,” she whispered with a tremor, “the Duke is on his way to Newport. What shall I tell him when he arrives?”
Once again her hand strayed to her heart—one would swear unconsciously. Yet I knew her. Alva Vanderbilt never made a move that wasn’t both planned and determined.
Consuelo straightened in her chair, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin—the posture of a confident, independent woman capable of guiding her own life. A fierce light I’d never seen before entered her eyes. To me, she became suddenly older, worldlier, more her mother than ever before, yet, somehow, more beautiful than I’d ever seen her.
“You’ll tell him he’s most welcome. And that I accept his proposal of marriage. I shall be his wife. I shall be the Duchess of Marlborough.”
Chapter 20
That night I wrote my article for the Newport Observer. Was it the article I truly wished to write—would have written, under normal circumstances? No, because for my cousin’s sake it contained inaccuracies my reporter’s heart found difficult to live with. Still, it was with pride and no small sense of elation that I delivered my account of the Murder at Marble House into Mr. Millford’s hands the following morning.
I stood at his desk, bouncing a little on the balls of my feet as I handed the sheaf of paper across to him.
He didn’t glance up from the figures scrawled beneath his nose. “Hmm . . . morning, Emma. A little busy right now. What’s this?”
“My article, Mr. Millford.”
He still didn’t glance my way. “Was there a function last night?”
“No, Mr. Millford. I cracked the case, found Madame Devereaux’s murderer, and here—” I shook the paper to rattle it. “Here is my account of the whole affair.”
He peered up at me from over the rims of his spectacles. Furrows formed above his nose. “You did, eh?”
“I did, sir.”
“Hmmm . . .” He reached up and took the article between his middle and index fingers, as if afraid to grasp it fully. Several tense moments crawled by as he scanned my handwritten words. “Hmmm . . .”
“Well?” My voice rose a notch.
“Well, what?”
“Mr. Millford, you promised if I got the story you’d give me the headline. In my name,” I added, enunciating each word.
“I did, did I?”
“Mr. Millford, you know you did.” Despite the conviction of my claim, I wondered. The man often said things he later forgot, whether genuinely or conveniently. I held my breath as I waited.
Finally, he nodded. “All right, Emma. You’ll have your headline.”
“Oh, Mr. Millford, really?” Quickly realizing the stupidity of that question, I gathered what I could of my professional dignity, thanked him, and headed back home. The next morning, Sunday, I ran to greet the delivery boy halfway down my driveway.
“Good morning, Miss Cross.” He brought his bicycle to a halt and reached into the basket stuffed full of the day’s edition. As he handed it to me, he eyed my dressing gown and hastily pinned-up hair. “Something special in the paper today?”
“You bet there is, Peter. My first real headline.”
“Do tell.”
I shook the paper to unroll it, then stretched it open to unfurl my headline in all its bold-print glory.
BAILEY’S BEACH TO HOLD SWIMMING RELAY FOR CHARITY
“What?” I stared at the front page, but no matter how hard or how long I searched, my story simply wasn’t there. “I don’t understand. He promised . . .”
“Miss Cross?”
I lowered my hands, the paper crushed between them. “Nothing. Have . . . have a nice day, Peter.”
With that I turned and dragged my feet back up the drive. Inside, I shoved the paper into Nanny’s hands. “He broke his promise. Oh, damn that man!”
“Emma! A lady doesn’t speak that way. But which damn man broke his promise?”
I waved a hand in the air and walked mutely past her into the morning room. There, at the table, I sat absently stirring my spoon around in the porridge Katie set in front of me; I neither saw nor ate any of the sweet concoction of oats, honey, and raisins. My stomach pitched and rolled. My pulse points hammered away and my temples throbbed. How could Mr. Millford do this to me?
“Oh, Emma, look.” Nanny spread the newspaper open in the middle of the table. “Here’s your story. Your first real news article. How nice is that?”
I dropped my spoon into my bowl, raising a little splash, and jumped to my feet. Bending over the table, I frantically scanned the articles on the two open pages. Then I plunked back down into my chair, heartsick and furious.
“The middle of page four? He stuck it on page four? And judging by the size of it he must have edited out half of what I wrote. And the byline—E. Cross? Not Emma, but E? Oh, Nanny, this is so unfair. This is a travesty.”
Wallowing as deeply as I was in my misery, I didn’t at first notice that Nanny didn’t move to comfort me as she normally would have done. Instead, she stood silent and unmoving, her plump arms folded across her chest as she used to do when Brady or I had been naughty. When I finally glanced up at her, she caught my gaze with an uncommonly stern one and raised an eyebrow above the rim of her glasses.
“It is a start, Emma. A small triumph, but a triumph all the same. Now pick yourself up and start planning your next article, which, with any luck, will be on page three.”
Dear old Nanny.
As abruptly as I had entered my cousin’s world, I just as quickly made my exit. The Duke of Marlborough arrived in Newport in early September, along with a crisp wave of autumn air. I was not at Marble House to help welcome him. I wasn’t invited, nor had I expected or wished to be. I was, after all, merely a poor relation, as far beneath a duke’s notice as the servant who shined his shoes. Besides, I could not have smiled and pretended to be delighted for Consuelo’s good fortune. I could not have raised my glass to toast her impending nuptials.
However, I did have occasion to glimpse the Duke, for I covered a host of other social events held in his honor: a lawn tennis tournament at the Casino, a cotillion at the country club, and several receptions, dinner parties, and balls.
I did hear, or rather Nanny heard through her unerring grapevine, that Consuelo made her mother proud through it all. She impressed the Duke with both her beauty and bearing, and the date for the wedding was set for November 6.
I wished her well and vowed to keep her in my prayers.
Within a week of James Reid’s arrest, Clara Parker had been released and cleared of all charges. In a generous mood—getting her way did that—Aunt Alva offered her her job back, but for now Clara was visiting her parents off island in New Bedford. Anthony Dobbs was a free man as well—for now. He still faced extortion charges, yet the smirk he sent my way in town just yesterday spoke of an abundance of confidence. It wouldn’t surprise me if he never spent another moment inside a cell.
In the meantime, life at Gull Manor continued as always, as steady and predictable as the daily tides, except that our number had grown by one. Marianne and Katie took to each other immediately, in their quiet way becoming fast friends. Marianne’s health improved daily, partly due to the care she’d received at the hospital and partly, I was certain, due to the healing effects of Nanny’s hearty cooking and our fresh ocean air.
Her lot was to improve even more one sunny, blustery morning, when the bang of the front door springing open echoed through the house.
“Employment,” Brady cried out upon stumbling with loud footsteps into my front hall. “For Marianne!”
His none-too-steady pronouncement prompted me to abandon my breakfast and stick my head out the morning-room doorway. “What are you yammering about, and where were you all night long?” I studied his rumpled suit, disheveled hair, and crooked smile. “Stuart Braden Gale, are you drunk?”
From behind me came Marianne’s breathless question. �
�Did he say employment? For me?”
Brady managed to steady his stride as he continued down the hall. Just before he reached me he straightened his coat with a tug and ran a hand over his mussed hair. Where he had lost his hat, only the wind knew. “Good morning, sister.”
I turned my face away and fanned my hand at the air in front of my nose. “Phew! Goodness, Brady, it isn’t even eight yet. Shame on you!”
“Not to worry, Em, this isn’t from this morning. It’s left over from last night.” With that he leaned in to kiss my cheek. I pulled away, but only a little, and his dry lips grazed my temple. I shook my head in admonishment.
“Do you honestly think that makes it any better?”
With a hand on my shoulder for leverage, he circled me and strolled into the morning room. There he accepted a quickly poured cup of coffee from Katie, who lingered as if ready to catch the mug should it slip from his hands. He managed to hold on to it and straddled the chair I’d vacated moments ago. With his chin resting on the carved oak back, he grinned up at me where I stood framed in the doorway. “You can blame Neily. He did the pouring. He’s decided to forgive me, you know, and it would’ve been rude of me to deny his hospitality. But—” He broke off for a gulp of coffee, then made a face when the hot liquid apparently scalded his mouth.
I walked into the room and reached for my own cup, all the while making sure not to let the disapproval slip from my features. Not that Brady’s carousing surprised me or particularly exasperated me, as long as it didn’t happen too often—and lately, it hadn’t. In fact, this was the first time I’d seen my brother tipsy since before that awful night he was accused of murder at The Breakers. Yet, someone had to be the voice of his conscience, and in recent years the task had fallen to me.
“But what?” I demanded, one hand around my cup and the other perched at my hip.
“Grace Wilson was with us for a little while last night—oh, don’t scowl, Em, it was all quite proper. Grace and her brother came by the country club for supper while Neily and I were there. Anyway . . .” He trailed off and this time nearly did spill his coffee as he attempted to turn around to face the table. His feet caught in the chair’s legs, which immediately became in danger of toppling. I steadied him with a hand on his shoulder at the same time Marianne leaped up and snatched his cup before it fell.
He let go a bark of laughter before finally managing to untangle himself and swivel to face the table. “Thanks, Marianne. That would have been an awful hot mess.”
“Mr. Gale, you mentioned my name just before,” Marianne said, setting his coffee cup on the table. “May I ask why?”
“Indeed you may, for it’s the whole reason I had Neily’s driver bring me here this morning rather than sleep it off at The Breakers. I knew you’d want to hear right away. Grace Wilson—she’s a lovely young society girl—needs a lady’s maid. Are you interested ?”
He might as well have told Marianne an English duke had just arrived in town and wished to marry her. Her face lit up with such joy I felt the echo of it in my own heart, and for a moment I thought she was going to hug Brady. She didn’t, but turned and caught Katie in her arms and the two cried out happily. It was at that moment Nanny shuffled into the room.
“What’s all this fuss about?”
“Oh, Mrs. O’Neal, I’ve got employment!” Marianne’s face turned somber as she regarded Brady. “It’s true, isn’t it, Mr. Gale? What if this young woman meets me and doesn’t care for me? She might not offer me the job. I’ve never actually been a lady’s maid before, although before we . . . we left the Duke’s employment I’d been training to—”
Brady held up a hand. “The job is yours if you want it.” He glanced a bit sheepishly at me. “Once I said it was a favor for you, Em, Neily and Grace didn’t hesitate. Miss Wilson would like to see you later this morning, Marianne. She said around ten.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gale. Thank you.” She said it several more times before Katie whisked her away to prepare her for her interview.
I pulled up a chair beside Brady. “Thank you. That was well done.”
“Proud of me?”
I leaned closer as if to kiss him, and instead delivered a playful slap to his cheek. “Don’t be haughty. But, yes, dear brother, I’m proud of you.”
“I suppose you’ll be moving back to town soon, Brady.” After filling a bowl with porridge, Nanny sat down across from us. “Now that you’ve got your job back and all.”
“It is about time I returned to the old digs. I’m horribly outnumbered here, what with all you ladies. Rather like a buck trampling the flowers. What do you think, Em? Sick of me yet?”
“No one feels trampled, Brady. Stay here as long as you like. But if you’re longing for your privacy, that’s fine, too. Just do try to stay out of trouble.”
He seemed about to retort when the telephone rang. I jumped up and made my way to the alcove beneath the stairs.
“Hello, Emma?”
The voice at the other end sent a little jolt through me. “Yes, Derrick. Good morning. How are you feeling?”
We hadn’t spoken in a couple of weeks—not since escorting Consuelo home. I’d driven Derrick back to his hotel, saw him into the lobby, and thanked him fervently. He’d waved off my gratitude with a gallant nod, shook my hand, and wished me well. He told me he’d remain in Newport a few more days until his doctor thought it safe for him to travel, and then he’d return to Providence. Then we’d lingered, silent and awkward, until he’d said, “Well, then,” and I’d responded with, “Yes,” and watched as he climbed the stairs to his room. Our parting bore the stamp of finality, and I hadn’t expected to hear from him again, at least not so soon.
It was better that way; it was time for both of us to move on.
“The head’s still a bit tender,” his voice said now into my ear, “but the dizziness is gone.”
“I’m glad to hear it. So, I suppose you must be home now?”
“Ah, you could say that, yes.”
In spite of all my convictions, that “yes” made my heart sink just a little, and I struggled to keep the disappointment from my voice. “That’s good. I hope you had an enjoyable trip. Your family must be very pleased to have you back.”
“Emma, I’m not in Providence. I’m still in Newport. Can you meet me in town in a little while? At my hotel? There’s something I need to show you . . . and discuss with you.”
Oh, dear. Was he going to propose again? He was, wasn’t he? Why else would he still be in town? And after all we’d been through, after he’d nearly lost his life because of me, how could I bear to hurt him?
I had no wish to. Yet, however much affection I felt for him, I couldn’t but admit that part of me had been relieved to see life return to normal, to be able to carry on with my days in a calm, rational manner. To feel in control and wholly myself again, which simply wasn’t the case when Derrick was near. Consuelo’s words echoed inside me.
There are realities that cannot be ignored and rules that cannot be broken, or chaos results.... I can’t pretend I’m something I’m not any more than you can.
I was what I was: simple, often headstrong Emma Cross, who never could and never would be comfortable putting on airs. And Derrick couldn’t change what he was: the scion of a wealthy, powerful family for whom propriety and appearances were too vital to be ignored. If Brady was a buck trampling the flowers here at Gull Manor, in Derrick’s world I’d be the goose ruffling the feathers of all the swans.
“Derrick, I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” I said into the telephone.
He was not to be deterred. “It’s important. Please.”
I squeezed my fingers around the ear trumpet. If Consuelo could find the courage to face a future she didn’t want, surely I could find the courage to tell Derrick Andrews once and for all that, while I would always care for him, I would never be his wife. Surely I could find the fortitude to finally set him free.
But that, I knew, could not be accomplished o
ver the phone.
“I’ll meet you outside your hotel in an hour.”
After asking me to drive us to the Point, Derrick was oddly silent during the ride. Despite my reporter’s nature I didn’t question him. My answers would come soon enough.
He directed me down Third Street, and when we came to Walnut Street, he instructed me to turn right. We halted in front of my family’s three-story clapboard home.
“What are we doing?” I asked with a little chuckle when he didn’t immediately say anything. “You’re being terribly mysterious.”
His indrawn breath somehow raised butterflies in my stomach. When I thought I could stand it no longer, he said, “I’ve purchased a house here on the Point.”
“Oh, is that all?” Another, lighter chuckle released some of my tension, although not all. So he wouldn’t return once and for all to Providence and disappear from my life. I admit to a host of mixed emotions, some of which I didn’t care to examine too closely. Yet I couldn’t deny a surge of relief that when we did say good-bye, it wouldn’t be forever. “You were afraid I’d disapprove, were you?” I looked around at the houses lining the street, most of which had been occupied by the same families for decades, some for generations. “I wasn’t aware any homes were for sale. Which is it?”
“That one.” He raised his hand to point.
My jaw dropped open. He pointed to the house I’d grown up in.
A frantic parade of explanations ran through my mind: it was a joke; he actually meant the house next door; he’d only rented one of the apartments . . .
But there was no mistaking the line of his forefinger, or the apologetic frown tightening his brow.
“But you can’t have.” My voice shook slightly. “It’s not for sale. I’d have known if it had been for sale.”
Murder at Marble House Page 28