“They didn’t want you to know, Emma. Your parents needed the funds, and they assumed you’d try to stop the sale. One of the tenants is moving out in two weeks. I’ll take over that flat.”
The trembling that began in my heart spread to encompass all of me. “Oh, God. Please tell me this is a joke.”
When he said nothing I dropped the reins and climbed down from the rig. Blindly I scrambled over the curbstone and headed for the front door. I don’t know what I would have done when I reached it—barged inside, startling poor Mrs. Carter and her sister as they sat hunched over their knitting?
I never made it that far, for Derrick came up behind me and seized my wrist. He turned me about, and I very nearly swung my free hand, palm flat, against his cheek. Oh, I wanted to slap him—every fiber in my being demanded it. Yet my hand stopped in midair as the two of us stood frozen, there on the narrow brick walkway, me panting and Derrick beseeching me with his eyes.
“How could you? How could you betray me like this?”
“Would you rather it had gone to strangers?”
“I’d have bought it myself!”
“With what?”
I tugged to free my wrist, but he held on relentlessly. “Uncle Cornelius . . . or Aunt Alva. They’d have bought the house for me.” Yet even as I made the claim, I knew—I knew—I couldn’t have accepted their money. Castoff clothing and telephones were one thing, but a house? Damn my pride, but yes, I would have allowed my family’s home to go to strangers rather than accept my relatives’ charity on so large a scale.
Another realization hit me. It wasn’t Derrick who had betrayed me. It was my parents. Yet again. Always so caught up in their own artistic world, so oblivious to the realities of anyone else’s. But, after all, this was their house—or was—to do with as they pleased. Another blow struck me. I’d wanted them home not long ago, when Brady had been accused of murder. I’d wanted my parents here to help, to offer comfort, to lean on....
They were not coming home. Ever. Perhaps that is what this house had come to mean to me—a promise that they would be back someday. But this drove home the fact that they’d chosen Paris, and all that city had to offer, over their children. I shouldn’t have been surprised. But the wound cut deep all the same, so deep that for a moment I couldn’t breathe.
“You could have said something,” I said weakly. “Instead, you sneaked around, buying my home out from under me.” Why was I continuing to blame him? Somehow, I couldn’t stop myself from lashing out at him. Perhaps only because he was here, while my parents were not. “What about Brady? Shall he have his things removed immediately?”
Derrick released my wrist. “Brady can continue to occupy the top floor.”
“How accommodating of you.”
“Free of charge.”
I shook my head. “We won’t accept your charity, Derrick.”
“Emma, please.” He reached for me again, not to seize me, but to lay a placating hand on my shoulder. The weight of it infused me with warmth. I wanted to step away, but I couldn’t . . . simply couldn’t make my feet move. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Father’s financial agent heard about the house going up for sale and contacted me immediately. He knew I was thinking about investing here in Newport. It all happened very fast—”
“Have you not heard of the telephone, Derrick? It’s a wonderful invention, and a very fast means of communication. I have one in my home, in case you’d forgotten. I’m sure the Atlantic House Hotel has at least one at their guests’ disposal.”
His hand left my shoulder. His cheek gave a telltale twitch. “I thought it was the best solution—better, as I said, than letting your house go to strangers.”
“I intend to buy it back,” I announced, surprising myself, and him, judging by his expression. When he started to speak, I cut him off. “No, I don’t have the money—yet. But in time I will. Somehow. I’ll work harder, write more articles. Promise me, Derrick. Promise me that when I have the money, you will sell me my house back.”
He studied me a long time. Gradually the pain of guilt smoothed away and the familiar Derrick reappeared: patrician, confident, and just a little bit cocky. “You know, Emma, there’s a way for this house to be yours without your having to buy it.”
He smiled his dashing, heart-melting, infinitely infuriating grin, and everything inside me froze. I braced for his next words, certain I knew what they would be. A war of uncertainty waged inside of me, along with a wisp of anger. Would he actually dangle my childhood home in front of me as an enticement to marry him? Could he be so manipulative?
The words never came. He merely stood there, smiling, allowing his implied meaning to stew inside me. Villain.
I raised my chin. “I’m going home. Would you like a ride into town?”
“No, thank you. I need to speak with the tenant who’s moving. I’ll make my way back into town later.”
“Well, then, good day to you, sir, and enjoy your house. For now.” With that I strode past him, climbed back into my carriage, turned Barney about, and drove away, leaving Derrick standing in front of his new property, thinking whatever he would.
It was only once I’d turned the corner that my eyes began to burn and my surroundings blurred. Good gracious, I’d lost my house, my childhood home....
No, that wasn’t it, not entirely. I couldn’t have said exactly what it was. Mere emotional exhaustion, perhaps. Yet, by the time I reached the other end of Third Street, the breeze had dried my tears to sticky tracks against my cheeks and, in spite of everything, a little smile forced its way to my lips. I might have lost my house to a sneaky rogue who believed he could manipulate me . . .
But I hadn’t lost him—I hadn’t lost Derrick, however much I kept telling myself I needed to set him free.
No, he would be here, an on-and-off Newporter, and—
I put from my mind any further thoughts of what that would mean. I simply refused to consider it.
Derrick would be here, and for now . . .
That was enough.
Afterword
Consuelo Vanderbilt did indeed rebel against her impending engagement to the ninth Duke of Marlborough in the summer of 1895. In her mind, she was already engaged, however unofficially, to the much older Winthrop Rutherfurd, whom she fondly referred to as “Winty,” and with whom she had come to an understanding of a romantic nature some weeks earlier, while riding bicycles together with friends and family in New York. Her ambitious mother had other ideas. Upon arriving in Newport that summer and discovering that Consuelo had found means of seeing Winty, Alva resorted to holding her daughter a virtual prisoner at Marble House, refusing entry to any of her friends and possibly even faking a heart condition to play on the naïve eighteen-year-old’s sympathies. Alva’s ploys worked; overwhelmed by her mother’s domineering personality, unable to call upon the support of friends or family, and defeated by a complete sense of isolation, an unhappy Consuelo relented and married the Duke that November.
According to the history books, Alva Vanderbilt’s temper was legendary, and in fact few people possessed the fortitude to stand up to her. Perhaps her temperament was the result of living in the “gilded cage,” of feeling dissatisfied with society’s approved means of channeling a woman’s ambitions. Her dedication to women’s suffrage was very real, although I have set her involvement years earlier than it actually occurred. It was by the second decade of the twentieth century that she would become a politically active participant in the cause, and Marble House became a gathering place for the growing movement. By then, a newly divorced Consuelo supported her mother in these endeavors. Finding common ground and coming together, finally, as equals, the two forged a stronger and far more sympathetic relationship than they had ever enjoyed previously. Alva spent her later years in France to be near her daughter, who, in 1921, happily married a man of her own choosing, Frenchman Jacques Balsan.
Readers who are familiar with Marble House might wonder why I set the murder in a generic “gard
en pavilion” rather than the iconic Chinese Tea House that graces the rear lawns to this day. The answer is simple: The Tea House didn’t exist in 1895, and wouldn’t until 1914. After marrying her second husband, Oliver H. P. Belmont, in 1896, Alva closed Marble House until after his death in 1908. The house had stood empty for more than a decade, but then she moved back in, commissioned the Chinese Tea House to be built, and used both structures to host rallies and fund-raisers to support the right to vote for women.
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Alyssa Maxwell’s next Gilded Newport Mystery
MURDER AT BEECHWOOD
coming in June 2015 from Kensington Publishing!
Chapter 1
Newport, Rhode Island, June, 1896
I sat up in bed, my heart thumping in my throat, my ears pricked. I’d woken to high-pitched keening, an eerie, unearthly sound that gathered in the pit of my stomach. There had been no warning in last night’s starry skies and temperate breezes, but sometime in the ensuing hours a storm must have closed in around tiny Aquidneck Island. I knew I should hurry about the house and secure the storm shutters, yet as I continued to listen, I heard only the patient ease and tug of the ocean against the rocky shoreline, the sighs of the maritime breezes beneath the eaves of my house, and the argumentative squawking of hungry gulls flocking above the waves.
With relief I eased back onto my pillows—but no. The sound came again—like the rising howl of a growing tempest. Throwing back the covers I slid from bed and went to the window. With both hands I pushed the curtains aside.
And stared out at a brilliant summer dawn. Long, flat, gently rolling waves, tinted bright copper to the east, mellowed to gold, then green, and then a deep, cool sapphire directly beyond my property. The sky was still a somber gray, but clear and wide, a few stars lingering to the west. The gulls dove like gleaming white arrows into the water and swooped away to enjoy their quarry.
I could only conclude I had been dreaming, even when I’d thought I was awake. Well, I was certainly awake now. I grabbed my robe, slid my feet into my slippers, and quietly made my way downstairs.
I needn’t have muffled my footsteps, for as I entered the morning room at the back of the house I found Katie, my maid-of-all-work, as well as Nanny, my housekeeper, already setting out breakfast. The inviting scents of warm banana bread and brewing coffee made my stomach rumble.
“You’re both up early,” I said.
“Mornin’, Miss Emma,” Katie replied in her soft brogue.
Nanny’s plump cheeks rounded as she smiled at me, her half-moon spectacles catching the orange light of the kerosene lantern. “Something woke me. I’m not quite sure what.”
“That’s so odd—me, too.” I picked up the small stack of dishes and cutlery on the sideboard and carried them to the table. Katie looked at me uncertainly, then half-shrugged and made her way back to the kitchen.
She had been in my employ for a year now and had yet to grow accustomed to the informal machinations of my household. At Gull Manor we never stood on ceremony; there was no strict order of things, but rather a daily muddling through of tasks and chores and making ends meet. That was my life—by my choice and by the gift of my aunt Sadie, who had left me the means to lead an independent life.
Part of that gift included this house, a large, sprawling structure in what architects called the shingle style, with a gabled roofline, mullioned windows framed in timber, weathered stone, and enough rooms to house several families comfortably. Set on a low, rocky promontory on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, Gull Manor was a very New England sort of house that seemed almost to rise up from the boulders themselves and to have been fashioned by the whim of rain, wind, and sea. Yes, it was drafty, a bit isolated, and required more upkeep than I could afford to maintain it on the proper side of shabby, but it was all mine and I loved it.
Katie returned with a sizzling pan of eggs, and I asked her, “What about you, Katie? What brought you down so early?”
“Oh, I’m always up before the sun, miss. A leftover habit from being in service.” She placed the frying pan on a trivet on the sideboard and turned quickly around. “Oh, not that I’m not still in service, mind you . . .”
“It doesn’t always feel like it, though, does it?” I finished for her.
“No, miss. And for that I’m grateful. Now . . . I’ll go and get the toast . . .”
Nanny, in a faded housecoat wrapped tight around an equally tired-looking nightgown, heaped eggs on a plate, placed a slice of banana bread beside them, and went to sit at the table. I did likewise, and when I’d settled in and picked up my fork, I hesitated before taking the first bite. “Have you seen our guest yet this morning?”
Nanny shook her head. “That sort don’t rise with the sun.” “Nanny! That’s unkind. Please don’t refer to Stella as ‘that sort.’ We agreed—”
“We agreed, but I still worry that you’re crossing a line, Emma. Out-of-work and disgraced maids are one thing, but . . .” She pursed her lips together.
“Prostitutes are another,” a voice behind me said.
Nanny glanced beyond my shoulder, and I twisted around to see the figure standing in the doorway. Stella Butler wore my old sateen robe buttoned to her chin. Her ebony hair, tamed in two neat plaits, hung over each shoulder, making her look anything but a jaded woman. High cheekbones and slanting green eyes marked her a beauty, but today that beauty struggled past obvious fatigue and the downward curve of her mouth. She met our gazes with defiance, but the spark quickly died. She bowed her head and released a sigh.
“I’m sorry. I’m grateful to you, Miss Cross. I promise I won’t stay long and I’ll pay you for every scrap of food I eat.”
I stood and pulled out the chair beside my own at the round oak table. “You’ll stay as long as you need, and as for payment, I’m sure we’ll work something out, something mutually beneficial.”
Nanny harrumphed. Without another word Stella scooped up a small portion of eggs and a slice of banana bread I deemed too thin, and returned to the table. I was about to admonish her to take more, that she needed to keep up her strength, but thought better of it. Stella obviously had her pride, and if she was going to carve out a better life for herself than the one she’d been living, she would need that pride as much as strength.
“I’ll be right back,” I told them. “I’m going to see if the newspaper came yet.”
“I would think the storm kept the delivery boys from venturing out at their usual time,” Stella said without looking up.
“You too? This has been the strangest morning.” I glanced out the window. The sun had fully risen, gilding our kitchen garden and the yard beyond. A few fair-weather clouds hovered over the water. With a shrug I headed for the front of the house. It was as I reached the foyer that the wind suddenly picked up again, sending an unnerving cry crawling up the exterior façade to echo beneath the eaves.
I hadn’t been dreaming. What kind of a strange storm was this?
Bracing for a blustery onslaught, I opened the front door.
“Nanny! Nanny!” I shouted, and fell to my knees. There was no gale battering my property, or any other part of the island on which I lived. The keening and the cries I’d heard that had yanked me from sleep were not those of a summer squall.
They were those of a baby, tucked into a basket and left on my doorstep.
Chapter 2
“Land sakes . . . what on earth?”
Nanny bent over me as I gathered blankets and whimpering child into my arms. Gently I lifted it—him? her?—from the basket and stared in mute astonishment at the little face, red and wrinkled and damp from tears.
Watching from the doorway, Katie gasped and Stella let out a whispered oath. The silence that followed declared them as shocked as I.
“Oh, Nanny,” I said, staring at this tiny person in disbelief,
“how long can it have been here? I heard it crying . . . but I didn’t come. I never thought . . . who would
leave a baby on a doorstep like this?”
Nanny being Nanny, she placed her hands on my shoulders and helped me stand. “Let’s get this child in the house and see if we can’t figure out what on earth is going on here.”
The first thing I did, after handing the child over to Nanny, was go to the alcove beneath the staircase, where my uncle Cornelius had had a telephone installed for me. First I telephoned Jesse Whyte, a detective with the Newport Police and an old friend. He wasn’t at the station, however, and when the man on the other end of the wire asked if I wanted to leave a message, I hesitated, then said I’d call back and quickly hung up.
I stood for a moment with my hand on the ear trumpet where it hung from its cradle. Why had I been unforthcoming with a member of the police? Didn’t I have to report this incident? Yet the very thought of revealing too much too soon, and to the wrong people, raised an odd warning at the nape of my neck. I trusted Jesse Whyte, and I would wait for him before my next move, whatever that would be.
However, there was one other person I trusted. I lifted the ear trumpet and turned the crank.
“Operator. How may I place your call?”
“Good morning, Gayla,” I said, knowing I’d have to trade pleasantries before I could proceed. Gayla and I had known each other all our lives.
“Oh, hello, Emma. How’s everyone out your way?”
“We’re just fine, Gayla, thanks.” I noticed my foot tapping and held it still. “And you?”
“My father’s gout is acting up again.”
“Sorry to hear it.” She started to go on, but my impatience was building. “Gayla,” I interrupted, “would you connect me with Dr. Kennison, please?”
“Oh, dear. No one’s sick, are they?”
“No, no. It’s . . .” I thought a moment, crossed my fingers, and improvised. “Nanny is due for her appointment, is all. But she’s fine. So . . . please, Gayla.”
Murder at Marble House Page 29