I tiptoe across the hall. I’m guessing Mrs. Berwind would put her weekend visitors in the three guesthouses on the property, but since Colette and I are family and are here for the whole summer, I’m assuming Colette also has a bedroom on this floor. There are only seven to choose from. Sigh.
Although, Mr. and Mrs. Berwind’s (separate) bedrooms count for two, and then, obviously, I’m in one. So that gives me a one-in-four shot. I start around the corner from mine, as far as possible from the Berwinds’ suites. The Green Bedroom is empty, its door wide open. The Van Alen Room across the hall is decorated way masculine, so I doubt that would be super-girly Colette’s first pick. And if those are her snores coming through the closed door, more power to her, but I’m thinking not so much. I creep to the door of the Satinwood Room and lean my ear against it. It’s mostly quiet, but I think I can make out some rustling inside. I give a tentative knock and immediately hear “Enter!” in reply.
Yaaaassss! Colette is sitting at her dressing table, peering into the mirror above it. In the reflection she catches my eye, and then she claps her palm to her chest as her focus widens.
“Your hair!”
On instinct I raise a hand to my head and run my fingers along my ponytail. It’s probably pretty droopy, considering I had to use a scrap of ribbon in place of a cute elastic (it’s the littlest inventions I’m missing the most!), but it can’t be so bad that it’s clutch-your-heart-worthy.
“What about it?” I ask, trying not to sound defensive.
“It’s up! What are you playing at now, Margaret?” she asks in a voice dripping with snarkiness. “You know quite well that only women of age are permitted to wear their hair off their necks!”
Oh, right. I remember reading that. But, um, seriously? I have so, so many questions about this, but I can’t exactly ask them, because I’m Maggie and these are things Maggie would already know. I’m here to see if Colette is acting suspicious, not to make her suspicious of me.
“Of course. I only tied it up for a second because I was feeling a little . . . flushed.”
Colette squints at me, then rolls her eyes. Ha! I guess being eye-rolly has been a thing forever.
“I don’t know how you expect to find a suitable husband if you can’t be bothered to conduct yourself like a lady,” she finally says when her eyes get back from their trip around her sockets.
Husband? Husband? Um, hello. I’m TWELVE. Any wedding of mine is, like, decades away. If I even decide to get married; I might not. I know most upper-class girls at the turn of this century got hitched at eighteen, but even that’s five long years away for Maggie, who is just turning thirteen. Why would she have to be worried about husbands now?
I try to hide my true feelings and keep it to a simple, “Mmm.”
Colette ignores this and goes back to running her brush through her perfectly straight hair. It’s clear she doesn’t have anything more to say to me, but I’m here to get my sleuth on, so probably I should ask some questions myself.
I start to say “um” at the beginning of my sentence and cover it quickly with a cough. Colette’s look says, Girl, you are acting cray-cray.
“So, do you have anyone in mind for a . . .” I pause to cough. It’s so weird to ask a kid this question. “Husband?”
“Of course you know I don’t. Though, I do think this is the summer I will begin laying some groundwork with Theodore Willory. He’s heir to a railroad fortune, and his mother seems lovely. She admired my embroidery last year when she was to tea.”
I nod. This whole conversation is surreal. Colette can’t be more than fifteen. Sixteen at the most.
She keeps right on yapping. “Mommy said I can go with Auntie to Paris next spring so I can begin to scout out which shops I’d like to order my debutante dresses from the following year. I can hardly wait! Not that you’d understand. You’re such a child still.”
Exactly! That’s why this hubby talk is so super-strange. Time for a subject change anyway. I smooth my skirt and say, all prim and proper, like people spoke back—well, now, “What are your plans for today?”
She snorts. In a very unladylike way, I might add.
“Same as yours, obviously. Nanny is taking us to Providence for the day for some shopping.”
“Right. I don’t believe I’ll take part in that.”
She blinks a few times and then crosses her arms. “I don’t believe that’s up to you to determine.”
“It’s just, I—I’m feeling a little . . . off. Nothing too serious.” I don’t want to say I’m too sick, because, once we switch back, I don’t want Maggie to have to miss out on the ball. “It might just be nerves about the unveiling, but I still think I’d better lay low and conserve my energy for tonight.”
Colette does that one-eyebrow-up thing, then shrugs. “I suppose I shouldn’t attempt to dissuade you as it would mean more attention at the stores for me.”
Gee, nice to know she’s so concerned about Maggie’s well-being. But Colette’s being self-centered works perfectly for me in this instance. I exhale. I’ve laid the groundwork for my “get free from supervision” plan, and now it’s time for a little intel gathering on my first potential suspect.
“We got to see it yesterday, you know. The finished painting. I can’t believe how perfect it is!”
Colette doesn’t perk up or get shifty-eyed or do anything to indicate any interest whatsoever. In fact, she yawns.
“Mmm. That’s nice. Of course, Mommy and Auntie have already plotted out my debutante portrait. Auntie says she’s spoken to John Singer Sargent about a commission. Can you imagine? He’s only the most famous portraitist of our time. Though I’m sure Mademoiselle Cassatt’s painting will be quite serviceable.”
Serviceable? Really? The woman’s work is taught in classrooms the whole entire world over, but whatever. Although, I guess it does take a while for Mary Cassatt’s talent to be appreciated here in America. At this point in time she’s probably only famous in France, where she lives. John Singer Sargent’s fame, on the other hand? Gobs bigger.
If it’s true that he’s all lined up to paint her, and if she’s going to be in Providence for the whole day, she’d have zero reason—or chance—to steal Maggie’s portrait. The disappearance would only increase interest in it, and I’m guessing Colette would way rather have Maggie’s gift unveiled, only to fade into the background entirely. That would let hers make the biggest splash of all.
Which means odds are extra high that she didn’t have anything to do with the heist. I’m thinking I can cross her off the list.
Except, unless the Gilmores bag their trip to Saratoga Springs, that means I’m down to just one suspect again: Jonah.
Chapter Sixteen
Maggie
WE ARE OUT OF THE gates and a block down Bellevue Avenue before I realize I don’t know where I am and I struggle to get my bearings. Things don’t look right, and I pace back the way we came a few feet.
“Wha—” I can’t even form a sentence after I notice the building across the street. It’s a low, brick structure that spreads across the entire block. Just yesterday I was in the parlor of Arleigh, the mansion where my aunt’s neighbor’s dogs nipped around my feet. They are the most irritating little creatures, but the thought of them dead for a hundred years makes my eyes tear up more than anything else so far.
Arleigh is gone. I run down the sidewalk, but I get only a few yards before my shock turns to agony at yet another sight. Villa Rosa, the mansion closest to The Elms on the same side of the avenue, has disappeared as well, replaced by an ugly two-story monstrosity. I can’t keep a groan from escaping my mouth. I cover it before Tara notices.
I realize it is going to be harder than I thought to maintain the pretense that I am Hannah. Since The Elms still stands, I assumed that all the houses on the street did as well.
I lean over and try to get control of my breathing. I’ve seen houses razed by fire or by vanity, and new structures blossom from summer to summer, but realizing that
so many of the cottages I know are gone—modern buildings in their places—it is almost too much. It’s all familiar, but not—like there’s a layer of gauze covering the real Newport. It appears as though there was a feeble attempt to match the approximate style of the properties on the street, but the modern replacements are just faint imitations. They lack the grandeur and spectacle of summer cottages like The Elms and The Breakers.
Is this what time travel means? You get to see how future generations replace everything you love and care about?
After a couple of minutes Tara breaks the silence. “Are you sure you’re okay?
I inhale and scratch my bare leg. It feels strange to have any part of my extremities exposed, let alone all the way up to my thigh, but most of the young women walking along the avenue are wearing short pants or skirts, with their legs showing.
I remember Hannah’s words, “When in Rome . . . ,” and I try to pull myself together. “I guess I’m just a little nervous.”
“Well, that’s understandable.” She chuckles. “We’re playing the number one team in the league today. I know nothing usually makes you nervous, but I’m glad to see that you’re not superhuman after all.” She awkwardly pats my arm, and I realize she’s trying to help. She looks at her device. “You got dressed so fast, we have time before Coach wants us there. Let’s take a walk and you can try to relax? The new owners of Belcourt Castle are retiling the slate roof. My mother asked me to take a look. If we walk fast, we can make it.”
My heart brightens when I realize what she said. Belcourt still stands. I find myself nodding. I definitely want to see something familiar, even if it’s Alva Belmont’s mansion, where my aunt’s nemesis holds court.
I follow her lead and we start walking. “Why do you care about the roof?” I ask.
She purses her lips and waves her hands a little, like she doesn’t quite know what to do with them. “My mother wants me to start getting more familiar with the architecture at The Elms. She thought it might help me build up my portfolio if I could compare what the other properties are doing. All I’ve got so far are a couple of Spanish-style colonial buildings from my visit to my grandparents in Mexico last month.”
She mistakes my silence for disapproval and inhales sharply. “I guess you’re right. They’re such different properties. I’m not sure the comparison makes sense.”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” I shake my head. There were too many questions flying around my brain to form a coherent sentence. “You’re from Mexico?” I’d never met anyone from there.
“Um. No, I’m from Rhode Island.” She stares at me with an unreadable expression, like I’ve crossed a line. “But my family is Mexican.”
“Please forgive me.” Things are different in the twenty-first century, that’s for sure. I’ve never known anyone from her culture—I’ve never really thought about why. I start again. “You’re studying architecture? That’s amazing. I’ve never really paid any attention to how the buildings are designed. They are just there. But someone has to think about it.” I wonder who cares for the building exterior at The Elms back in my time. “I’m sorry, Tara. I think it’s so . . . cool . . . that you like architecture.” I wonder if I’ve used the term “cool” correctly. “Your mother likes it too?” I stare at her, hoping my apology is enough to change her expression.
“Well, she better!” She smirks. “She’d have a hard time as the director of buildings and grounds for The Elms if she didn’t!” She purses her lips. “You know that, though. What is your problem today, Hannah?”
I slap my forehead. Not only have I offended her, I’m making Hannah look bad in the process. I need to pull myself together and not act so surprised by things that are different in this time. I try to think of something comforting to say so Tara doesn’t suspect that something is wrong.
“I do apologize, Tara. I am teasing you. I meant no offense.” I hope my apology is enough. I’ve been trained well to be polite. In my time people like to gossip; I pray that is still the case. It might help Hannah’s investigation if I ask Tara some questions. “How much do you know about the theft of the Mary Cassatt portrait of Margaret Dunlap?”
“Only what you’ve told me. I’m not sure why you’re so obsessed with that thing. Some hoity-toity heiress who used to live at The Elms,” she says, swinging her arms.
I’m not exactly sure what “hoity-toity” means, but it doesn’t sound nice.
“Please do not speak of her like that.” The tears threaten to return, and I brush at my face. I hate the thought of history painting me as spoiled and useless. After all, I am not Colette.
She frowns and pokes my arm. “Why are you talking like that? Are you practicing for one of those reenactment events coming up in the fall?”
I think about Hannah’s odd way of speaking, and I know I’m not doing a good job of mimicking her. “Yes.” It seems like the easiest answer.
“Oh. Phew. You had me going. I totally thought you were losing it.” For a moment she looks like she might turn around and run the other way, but after a brief pause she continues swinging her arms as we walk. We’re headed down Bellevue Avenue, and I’m pleasantly surprised at how familiar the area feels. There are many new structures, but there are also a lot of houses that look the same. Or close to the same. It makes me feel less like crying. I take a steadying breath, trying to get control of my emotions.
“I get why you love history, Hannah. You know I do. And all those costume dramas. And the books. But seriously, you have to tone it down.” She sounds genuinely concerned. “People will start to think you’re weird,” she adds, almost like an afterthought.
I find myself trying to put words into Hannah’s mouth, though I have no idea how she would reply. I don’t know Hannah well enough to know how her friends view her, but I know what it’s like when people—specifically my cousin Colette—pick on me because I’d rather read than attend a social outing. “Everything that happens in the world today is a result of something that happened in the past. The whole world is based on what has come before.”
She nods knowingly, like I’ve shared some sort of deep dark secret. “Like breaking the glass ceiling.”
“What?”
“You know, like a woman can be CEO of a company or be an ambassador or a senator or run for president of the United States.” She taps my arm. “If women hadn’t protested over the years for equal rights, the world wouldn’t have so many women in positions of leadership. And someday,” she says, an expression of confidence on her face, “a woman will be the president of the United States.”
I nod, having no idea if this theory is correct or not, but it’s the same thing Hannah said this morning. “Maybe. Yes.”
It’s so confusing. Some things have changed for the worse—beautiful buildings being replaced by ugly structures. But many things are better—like women playing ball games and wearing trousers. And being able to vote. And running for president.
I think about the women I know. My own dear nanny at home in New York, Mrs. O’Neil, my cousin, my aunt. All the socialites from Newport. I’ve overheard some of them whispering about fighting for women’s right to vote. When I get back to 1905, I must be sure to ask them what they would think about a woman running for president.
Chapter Seventeen
Hannah
I AM A CHAMPION LURKER.
It comes from all the shadowing I do of the docents’ tours so that I can “fact-check.” I mean, someone has to make sure all the accurate historical dates and data are being passed along to visitors. Okay, so maybe interrupting with my corrections usually ruins the lurking part, but I can be quiet when I really need to be.
Turns out, this is an invaluable skill when time traveling and trying extra-super-hard not to call attention to yourself.
At the moment I think I’ve probably gone one step past lurking to full-on stalking. I’m flattened against the wall in the coal tunnel, trying not to worry about how much trouble Maggie is definitely going to ge
t into when someone catches sight of the back of this pale-blue dress. Coal dust, tunnels, and silk do not play nice together. (But I couldn’t find anything more low-key in her closet, and even if I had, it would have been impossible to convince the lady’s maid who insisted on helping me dress—which was extra weird, lemme tell you, even if it wasn’t technically my body that the maid was seeing.)
Edward Berwind made his fortune in coal, so it’s only logical that his mansion would have an entire underground tunnel—complete with railroad tracks—off its basement. It runs all the way to Parker Avenue, where a delivery truck can open a hatch in the street and dump its load of fuel down, down, down into a giant cart waiting below.
The cart travels along railroad tracks back to the house, ending in the furnace room, so all that coal can get dumped in. Kind of genius, really. When I was a kid, this was my go-to spot when Dad and I played hide-and-seek. The tunnel is brick and about half a mile long. It’s (somewhat) lit by a string of dim lightbulbs in cages, but even with the lights on, the tunnel is pretty spookily dark.
And empty.
Meaning it’s the very best place to corner Jonah alone.
I happen to know one of his jobs as kitchen boy would be getting the coal, so he has to be here eventually. Sooner would be especially awesome. It’s like there’s a tiny clock ticking alongside my heartbeat, counting down the hours until the ball. (It’s only midmorning, so I have some time, but still.) I can only hope and pray that no one is stealing the portrait at this exact second, because that would just be the worst luck ever.
Maybe I need to be more “take charge” about things, to speed this up a bit. I creep a few steps toward the light at the end of the tunnel (ha—so philosophical!), and then press hard against the bricks when I hear an odd shuffling.
RAT?!
STRANGE PERSON?!
Which would be preferable right now?
The Art of the Swap Page 8