by Jen Turano
Because of those rumors, and because Asher, one would think, should be aware of the Huxley sisters’ unusual reputation, he should have known better than to blithely pay a call on them, let alone sit down to join them for a cup of tea in their library.
Given the daunting circumstances he was currently facing, everyone had to be considered a suspect, which meant the Huxley sisters could be the ones responsible for the hiring of the assassin in the first place.
Clearly, Asher had yet to fully comprehend that very real danger was nipping at his heels.
Lifting her chin, she marched across the room, coming to a stop, though, when a distinguished-looking gentleman, one who could only be the butler, stepped in front of her, blocking her path.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you leave, miss . . . immediately. You should be thankful I’m not going to call in the authorities, since you snuck in here without permission.”
“I knocked on the front door, and when no one answered, I turned the doorknob and found the door unlocked.” She nodded. “That, to me, was an indication that anyone was welcome to enter, so that is exactly what I did. And I’ll be happy to depart from the house just as soon as I fetch Mr. Rutherford.”
“I think not,” the butler returned in a voice that was low, smooth, and could have certainly found a home on any stage.
“Oh, do let her stay, Mr. Barclay,” one of the Huxley sisters purred. “It’s a rare occasion indeed for us to have even one guest for tea, let alone two.”
The butler, a Mr. Barclay from the sound of it, stiffened and turned, presenting Permilia with his back. “Forgive me, Miss Henrietta, but given the manner in which this woman is dressed, she’s evidently not a lady, which means I really must discourage you from amusing yourself with her.”
An honest-to-goodness chill swept down Permilia’s spine as she wondered what type of amusement the Huxley sisters could possibly derive from having her sit down to tea with them. It was highly doubtful that she’d get any amusement out of it, although . . . perhaps that was exactly what the sisters would find amusing, which was a rather troubling notion in and of itself.
Before she had an opportunity to ponder it further, Asher got to his feet. Thankfully, he abandoned the cup he’d been holding before he began walking her way, a cup that Permilia couldn’t help but think might contain something other than strictly tea in it, something that might be along the lines of . . . poison . . . if her assumption about the sisters was on target.
She forced herself to stand her ground when Asher sent her a look that seemed to hold a touch of temper and blew out a breath of relief when he directed his attention away from her and to the Huxley sisters.
“I do beg your pardon for this, ladies, but I feel it might be for the best if I were to escort this fine young lady out of your home and directly to the nearest asylum.”
One of the sisters let out a laugh, the sound ringing through the room, although to Permilia’s ear, it sounded somewhat mad, exactly what one would hear if they were to visit that asylum Asher had just mentioned.
“I so enjoy visiting asylums, as does my sister, but . . . before you cart the woman away, Mr. Rutherford, I simply must insist you perform the expected introductions.”
Asher, curiously enough, took that particular moment to abandon the proper manners he was well known for and shook his head. “I don’t believe that’s necessary, Miss Henrietta.”
“Oh, but it is,” Miss Henrietta countered.
“I assure you, it’s not,” Asher countered right back.
Realizing that she was dealing with two people who seemed to possess somewhat stubborn natures, and not wanting to stay at the Huxley house any longer than necessary, especially after just discovering the ladies enjoyed visiting asylums, Permilia stepped forward.
“I’m Miss Permilia Griswold.”
One of the sisters set aside her tea before she oh-so-slowly rose to her feet. “Are you really?” She tilted her head. “You don’t look like Permilia Griswold.”
“Since I know for a fact that you and I, Miss Huxley, have never been introduced, nor have I ever attended an event where you or your sister have been present, I must now inquire how you would even know what I look like.”
Instead of answering her, the woman stepped forward, tapping her finger against her chin as she set about the troubling business of perusing Permilia. “Ah, you’re cheeky, I’ll give you that, but I’m not surprised, given that mother of yours. But . . . are you wearing a wig?”
Permilia managed a nod, more interested in the remark about her mother than any remark about a wig. “You knew my mother?”
“Not well, mind you, but we were acquainted,” the woman said as she began walking around Permilia. “Take off the wig.”
“I don’t do well with demands, Miss Huxley.”
“Please, call me Miss Mabel, and my sister, Miss Henrietta, and do know that not doing well with demands is a trait I believe you’ve received from your father.”
“You know my father?”
“Of course she knows your father, dear,” Miss Henrietta said. “She was quite fond of him at one time, but then . . . well . . . life intervened and he went his way and we went ours.”
Darting a glance to Miss Mabel, who’d stopped walking around her and was looking completely unconcerned that her sister had just divulged incredibly personal information, Permilia reached up and pulled the wig straight off her head, hoping her compliance might afford her some answers from the sisters, answers she had a feeling they were going to dole out in a slow and painful way.
Anyone who freely admitted that they enjoyed visiting asylums was evidently possessed of a Machiavellian nature, which meant they would enjoy toying with her if only to see how long they could.
“Ah, there’s the lovely girl I’ve watched mature over the past few years, although from afar,” Miss Mabel exclaimed, going so far as to clap her hands in delight right before she took to clucking. “But lovely though you are, dear, you’re also a bit of a mess at the moment.”
“It’s been a trying day.”
Miss Mabel threw a glance Asher’s way, then returned her gaze to Permilia. “That does seem to be the general consensus of this particular day, but tell me, does your father know you’re out and about dressed like . . . What are you supposed to be, dear?”
“My father is currently not in town, but it’s been years since he’s concerned himself with what I wear, given that I am a lady of a certain age, no longer a green girl fresh out of the schoolroom.”
“She makes an excellent point,” Miss Henrietta said as she pulled a pair of spectacles from a nearby table, shoved them on her nose, and then took to clucking as well. “Good heavens, you are a mess, dear, which is rather surprising since I’ve never observed you to be anything but very well put together.”
“Forgive me, but it almost sounds as if the two of you have been observing me rather closely over the years.”
“They have a room . . . on the third floor,” Asher said, speaking up. “It’s special and used for the sole purpose of observation.”
“And you agreed to take tea with them knowing this?” she whispered under her breath, evidently not whispering low enough because Miss Mabel laughed.
“We didn’t invite Mr. Rutherford into our home to harm him,” Miss Mabel said as she let out another peal of laughter. “Why, one would almost think you were afraid we’d poisoned his tea or something quite as dastardly.”
Not wanting to admit that was exactly what she’d thought, Permilia summoned up a smile. “Of course I didn’t think that.”
Miss Mabel waved that aside with a flick of her wrist before she moved closer and took hold of Permilia’s arm, giving it a rather hearty pat. “How is your father these days, dear?”
“He’s well, but . . .” Permilia wrinkled her nose. “If you were at one time fond of him, why is it that I’ve never heard him speak of you before?”
“Oh, that hurts.” Miss Mabel raised a ha
nd to her chest. “While we were fond of each other, dear, we were never romantically involved—although not for a lack of wishing on my part, and perhaps his at one time.” She let out a touch of a sigh. “George was a frequent guest at our table, which is how I first became acquainted with him, brought home by my father because he enjoyed mentoring George, who was just entering the mining industry at that time.”
“My father was mentored by your father?”
“Oh my, yes,” Miss Mabel said. “Father owned an ironwork factory, among many other ventures, so he was quite capable of steering George in the right direction as pertained to what type of mining George should pursue.”
“But you were never romantically involved with him?”
“I’m afraid not, but . . .” Miss Mabel stopped talking, sighed ever so softly again, and then smiled. “You must join us for tea.”
Permilia’s eyes widened. “Oh, there’s no need for that, and I truly don’t want to impose.”
“I think that ship has sailed, dear, considering you imposed yourself on us in a most dramatic way when you took it upon yourself to burst into our home.”
When put that way, and because her stepmother had tried her very best to instill at least a semblance of manners in Permilia, she decided to agree. “I’d love to join you for tea.”
“Wonderful.” Miss Mabel turned to Mr. Barclay, who was looking less than pleased. “Would you be so kind as to pour Miss Griswold a cup, Mr. Barclay?”
“Forgive me, Miss Mabel, but I must protest. Asking the daughter of a man you were quite fond of to sit down to tea with you will not bode well for you in the end.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Again, George and I were never romantically involved.”
“Only because you heeded your father’s advice and never allowed Mr. Griswold to know you would have been agreeable to his showing you affections of the romantic sort.”
Dead silence settled over the room until Asher cleared his throat, stepped over to the tea service, and smiled his most charming of smiles. “Would you allow me the honor of freshening up everyone’s tea, while pouring a full cup for Permilia?”
“That would be kind of you,” Miss Henrietta said, rising to her feet and moving to her sister’s side right as Mr. Barclay turned smartly around and left the library without another word.
“You know he’s just being protective of you,” Permilia heard Miss Henrietta whisper to her sister before she took Miss Mabel by the arm and pulled her back to the fainting couch. Sitting down beside her, Miss Henrietta took up her sister’s hand.
Walking over to a chair Asher had nodded to before he’d set about pouring the tea, Permilia sat down, rearranging the folds of her costume. Lifting her head, she found the sisters watching her every movement.
“Why are you in disguise, dear?” Miss Mabel asked, accepting the cup of tea Asher had refilled for her before she returned her attention to Permilia.
“That’s a little difficult to explain,” Permilia said, breathing a sigh of relief when Asher walked over to her and handed her a cup of tea, the relief turning to a smidgen of temper a second later when he leaned close to her ear and began whispering.
“You would have been spared thinking up an explanation in the first place if you would have abandoned the role of rescuer you’ve apparently decided to adopt on my behalf—a role, I assure you, I don’t need you to adopt.”
“So says the man who willingly walked directly into the spider’s web,” she whispered back, earning a narrowing of the eyes from Asher in the process as he straightened and moved back to his own chair, taking a seat.
“It seems as if the two of you are in the midst of some type of spat,” Miss Mabel said cheerfully.
“Mr. Rutherford and I are frequently at odds, Miss Mabel,” Permilia began. “But I assure you, it’s nothing for you to worry about.”
Miss Henrietta sat forward, set the cup Asher had only recently given her aside, leaned down, snatched up a pile of newspapers that had been placed on the floor next to the fainting couch, and immediately took to burying her nose behind one. A second later, she peered at Permilia over the top of the paper.
“I read something about you in the paper today, Permilia. Well, more than just something, actually, but . . . it was noted that you and Mr. Rutherford spent a questionable amount of time together at the Vanderbilt ball.” She nodded in a rather knowing fashion. “Should I expect to read an announcement soon, perhaps after your father returns to town and Mr. Rutherford has an opportunity to handle the matter properly?”
Permilia blinked. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Miss Henrietta disappeared behind the paper again. “It says right here that Miss Griswold participated in the Go-As-You-Please Quadrille with Mr. Rutherford, although given that she was less than adept with the steps, it was a clear sign Mr. Rutherford holds her in deepest affection since he was seen speaking with her after their disaster on the ballroom floor.”
“It does not say that.” Permilia set her cup aside on a delicate table right next to her chair before she stood up and moved to stand in front of Miss Henrietta.
“You may read it for yourself,” Miss Henrietta said, handing over the newspaper before she dove back into her pile, not putting Permilia’s mind to rest when she added, “I know there’s more written about you. Give me a moment.”
Not bothering to retake her seat, Permilia bent her head and began reading the article. By the time she was done, she was feeling a little queasy. Turning, she handed the paper to Asher and immediately retook her seat, as if her legs no longer wanted to support her.
“They printed my name . . . Miss Griswold,” she whispered.
“As well as mine.” Asher lowered the paper. “They never do that.”
Miss Mabel took a sip of her tea and nodded her head in a knowing fashion. “I knew when I first learned that Alva Vanderbilt—who used to be Alva Smith, if you didn’t know—an upstart woman if there ever was one, born and raised in the South, and . . .” She took another sip of tea. “Her family owned slaves.”
“You’re getting distracted, Mabel, from whatever point you were wanting to make,” Miss Henrietta said from behind her paper.
“Goodness, you’re quite right.” Miss Mabel pursed her lips for a second, then nodded. “What I was going to say, before I became distracted with thoughts of Alva and how she deliberately went after that nice William K., with no true love in her heart, only fortunes that could be had in her mind, well . . .”
Miss Henrietta rattled the paper. “Mabel, you’re doing it again.”
Releasing what sounded like a long-suffering sigh, Miss Mabel took another sip of tea and then lifted her chin. “We were not invited to the Vanderbilt ball, although we were acquainted with the Commodore. He was the Vanderbilt who earned the family fortune to begin with, leaving the majority of that fortune to his son, William H. Vanderbilt, even though there were plenty of other children the Commodore had with his first wife, God rest her soul, who deserved a bigger piece of the pie, so to speak.”
“You should do a God rest his soul, since the Commodore is dead as well,” Miss Henrietta remarked, her head still hidden behind the newspaper.
“God rest Commodore Vanderbilt’s soul,” Miss Mabel said, although she looked less than thrilled to do so. “You know, Henrietta, he wasn’t a very nice man,” she said, going completely off topic again.
“Father wasn’t a very nice man either, but we still appreciate when people say ‘God rest his soul.’”
Miss Henrietta lowered the paper, and then she and Miss Mabel took to looking Permilia and Asher’s way, their well-defined brows quirked in exactly the same position.
“God rest Mr. Huxley’s soul?” Permilia said, right as Asher did the same.
“Ah, how lovely,” Miss Henrietta said. “Even if he was a horrible, horrible man.” With that, she disappeared behind the paper again.
“He really was,” Miss Mabel agreed. “But to continue w
ith my thought before I completely forget what that thought is—Alva has, all by herself, dealt society a blow that they haven’t even realized they’ve been given yet.”
Permilia sat back in her seat. “She invited the press into her home.”
Miss Mabel beamed at Permilia as if she’d just stated something brilliant. “Too right she did, and . . . I believe she encouraged them to branch out from the tried-and-true society columns the New York Four Hundred approves of, using real names instead of initials, even though it’s always been known whom those initials belong to.”
“Ah, here it is. I found another mention of the two of you,” Miss Henrietta said, peering over the paper again. “This article, penned by an author who now seems downright respectable—though two years ago she caused an uproar within society by describing gowns that had been worn to a Patriarch Ball—gives an explanation, if you will, for the disaster you made of the Go-As-You-Please Quadrille.”
Permilia, knowing full well that Miss Henrietta had now come across her Miss Quill column, batted what she could only hope were innocent eyes Miss Henrietta’s way. “An explanation?”
“Miss Quill writes that she overheard information that concerns you mistakenly believing the ‘Go As You Please’ truly meant you could go anywhere you please during the dance instead of not having to be dressed in a particular costume to participate in the dance.”
“Did you truly believe that?” Miss Mabel asked.
“What everyone always seems to forget,” Permilia began, “is that I was not raised in society, but in the midst of miners who aren’t exactly up to date on the latest quadrille steps.”
“That’s why George married Ida, to take you in hand,” Miss Mabel said, a comment that had Permilia’s breath lodging in her throat.
“What do you mean?” she finally managed to ask.
“The George I knew was not concerned about society or their ways at all, which was one of the reasons Father didn’t want me developing any great affection for the man. George would have been perfectly fine walking completely away from society forever, even with the fortune he eventually made, if he’d had a son. He didn’t, though, he had you, and . . . he must have eventually come to the conclusion he was doing you a grave disservice.”