A Scandal in Newport

by Pamela Sherwood

  “Thomas is a noted artist, Larry,” she said, her tone slightly rebuking. “He exhibited at the Royal Academy this past spring. His portrait of the Lady of Shalott was much praised.”

  She’d mentioned his painting instead of his pedigree: God, how he loved this woman. Much to his surprise, he saw Livingston unbend just a trifle.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Sheridan.” There was a grudging note of respect in his voice. “I understand that’s quite an achievement.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Livingston,” Thomas returned as pleasantly as if he hadn’t noticed the younger man’s previous hostility. “I felt very honored to be chosen by the committee.”

  “Thomas and I called upon your sisters, to extend an invitation to our engagement ball two weeks from now,” Amelia continued.

  “Ah.” Livingston’s expression altered yet again, concern lending a much more amiable cast to his features. “Amy, I don’t know if you’ve heard—”

  “About Geneva?” she finished for him. “As a matter of fact, I have, and I’m so sorry she experienced something so terrible. And very glad that she seems to be recovering. I’ve told her to take all the time she needs before responding, though I hope to see her and the rest of your family in attendance.”

  Livingston relaxed visibly. “Thank you—for your concern and for the invitation. We’ve all been worried about Jenny. Hopefully, a change of scene and a spell of country living will perk her up.” His face darkened, and his grip tightened around his tennis racket. “God knows she did nothing wrong, and I’d like to get my hands on the fellows who did this to her!”

  “Perhaps the police will finally turn up something,” Amelia suggested.

  “That’s what we’re hoping.” Livingston glanced at his watch. “Excuse me, but I have to go up and change, or I’ll be late for luncheon. A pleasure meeting you both.”

  “I don’t know what the matter is with Larry,” Amy remarked as they climbed into the Newbold carriage. “His manners are usually impeccable, but just now he seemed almost… rude.”

  Thomas shrugged. “Actually, compared to some of your countrymen, Mr. Livingston was almost cordial.”

  “Someone else has been rude to you? Who?” she demanded at once.

  “Sweetheart, I’d prefer not to tell tales out of school—”

  “Piffle!” Amy interrupted heatedly. “I won’t have my future husband—the man I love—slighted by people who aren’t fit to shine his shoes, no matter how much money they have!”

  He looked simultaneously amused and touched by her partisanship. “Well, you need not take up the cudgels in my defense, my dear. The English know how to deal with such minor irritants, mainly by refusing even to acknowledge them. Besides, I suspect I know the root of your compatriots’ hostility.”

  Amy raised inquiring brows.

  “Another penniless English aristo carrying off one of their young women—one of their princesses, in fact. I can sympathize to some degree; their loss is unquestionably my gain.”

  “Well, you’re not exactly penniless and I happen to know that you’re not marrying me for my money. I’m the one who proposed, remember?” she pointed out.

  A corner of his mouth crooked up. “One of my most cherished memories.”

  “And mine.” Amy wove her fingers through his, leaning back against the carriage seat and mulling over what he’d told her. She suspected that she knew the identity of at least one of those men, even if Thomas refused to name names. “Well, it’s ridiculous of them to resent you on that account. If Larry or… any other man of our set were interested in me, they should have spoken up a long time ago! So it’s just too silly for words that they resent you or anyone else for taking an American bride!”

  “I admit to some surprise at the degree of their resentment,” he confessed. “I thought most American men were wealthy enough to pick and choose when it came to marriage.”

  “Well, the older men are,” she explained. “They’re the ones holding the purse strings, after all. But their sons are a different matter: they may get a handsome allowance, but not unlimited access to their fathers’ money. And they’re still expected to make something of themselves. Look at Andrew.” Her older brother was putting in regular hours at the Newbold shipping offices and had voluntarily chosen to remain in New York for the present and work, instead of accompanying them to Newport.

  “I suspect not every young man of your set’s as diligent as Andrew, however.”

  “No, and more’s the pity,” she agreed. “Some are thoroughly spoiled, and shiftless as well. I’m sure they’d much rather marry a fortune than work for one or wait to inherit their father’s. Fortunately, most girls I know have too much sense to accept an offer from them. Venetia had to turn Theo Van Horn down three times before he finally got the message—and two of his proposals were made after John Reid started courting her.”

  She saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes at the name. Aha. One mystery solved. Theo Van Horn—a college friend of Tony Ogden’s and one particularly conceited New York scion—had been among the guests at The Cliffs last night. Amy could easily imagine him trying to snub Thomas.

  “Of course, I imagine resentments against Englishmen may run higher just now because some of the old Knickerbocker families aren’t doing so well these days,” she went on. “The Van Horns had to dismiss half of their staff, I’ve heard. And the Schuylers didn’t come to Newport at all this summer, on account of the expense.”

  “The Schuylers?”

  “They made their fortune in real estate a good thirty years ago, but I gather their firm has been in a slump lately. Fortunately for them, Edith—their eldest daughter—got married last autumn, and their next girl won’t be out for a while, so they can forego the Season this year. That’s their cottage coming up right there,” Amy pointed to the turreted mansion on the left. “The Sands. Strange to think of it all boarded up for the summer.”

  “Pity they didn’t rent it out instead,” Thomas observed, surveying the house in turn.

  “And proclaim their straitened circumstances to the world? Heaven forbid!”

  “I see your point—appearances must be kept up. In which respect, the English and Americans are remarkably similar.”

  “Then we might end up understanding each other, after all!” she laughed.

  “Perhaps. ‘We really have everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course, language,’” Thomas quoted.

  Amy frowned consideringly. “Is that from Oscar Wilde?”

  “Yes—very good. ‘The Canterville Ghost.’ And he has a definite point, because I doubt I will ever get used to hearing a mansion referred to as ‘a cottage’ or Newport as ‘country living.’ English country life generally means something more literal: trees, moors, fields… terrorizing the local game birds.”

  Amy shuddered. “You English are so bloodthirsty!”

  His green eyes crinkled. “Acquit me of that, sweetheart. I’d much rather paint the native fauna than shoot it. And don’t deny you Americans engage in blood sports as well.”

  “You mean, duck shooting? Or husband-hunting?” she inquired with limpid innocence, and had the reward of hearing him laugh outright. “Well, you don’t have to worry on either score! The former doesn’t take place until autumn, and as for the latter—”

  “I surrendered willingly,” he finished. “Without firing a single shot, as I recall.”

  “Your recall is perfect.” Amy rested her head against his shoulder. “Now, if you would prefer to engage in Newport pastimes of a less violent nature, I can suggest yachting, tennis, promenading, gambling, shopping—”

  He pulled a face. “It all sounds very fatiguing.”

  “It can be, to someone who’s not used to it. Although I’ve just thought of something you might find exhilarating rather than exhausting.” At his look of inquiry, she glanced up at the cloudless summer sky, which promised more heat as the day wore on. “How would you enjoy a swim, Mr. Sheridan?”

  Like
many cottagers, the Newbolds had purchased one of the private bathhouses in the elegant new pavilion—built last year to replace the decrepit bathing huts on Bailey’s Beach, Amy informed her fiancé. They ducked inside to change, though Thomas was ready first, his brows rising towards his hairline when Amy emerged in the appropriate costume.

  “It must be love,” he observed. “That I can find you beautiful even in something as hideous as that bathing dress.”

  Amy wrinkled her nose as she contemplated her navy-blue tunic and bloomers. “It is rather awful, isn’t it?”

  He cast his gaze heavenward. “My dear girl, it resembles all the sailor suits inflicted on countless small boys—and I include myself—unable to defend themselves against such a sartorial offense!”

  “Well, it’s the current fashion for swimming, and believe me, there were others I didn’t purchase that were much worse!” she pointed out. Thomas, of course, looked good enough to eat in a close-fitting bathing suit of black wool that flattered his lean figure. Not for the first time, Amy reflected that men enjoyed a distinct advantage when it came to sporting wear.

  He crossed his arms, assuming a long-suffering expression that made her want to giggle. “What other strange native custom must we next observe, sweetheart?”

  “Well,” Amy began, “we could proceed down to the water, where we may bob up and down in the shallows for the next hour or so, in the abundant company of people we will come to know far too well this summer. Or…” she lowered her lashes demurely, “we could slip away to somewhere more private and actually enjoy the beach.”

  “I vote for the second,” he said at once.

  “An excellent choice, sir,” she approved. “If we head further east, the beach is usually not so crowded. At least, it’s less likely that we’ll encounter any ‘cottagers’ there.” And we’ll be together, with fewer prying eyes upon us.

  After a quick glance around to make certain they were unobserved, Amy led the way towards the east end of the beach. As she had foreseen, there were only a handful of bathers and waders present, all too occupied with their own amusement to spare her and Thomas more than a perfunctory glance.

  “Much better,” her fiancé remarked, surveying the scene with approval.

  “Relia and I used to slip away like this, when we wanted some privacy,” Amy told him as they headed towards the water. “Time simply to be sisters and friends, without the rest of Newport looking on or wanting to know our business.”

  “Understandable—you and Aurelia have always seemed particularly close.”

  “And this was one of our favorite spots, though I suspect the beach at Trevenan has since replaced Bailey’s in her affections.”

  Smiling, Thomas reached for her hand. “Then I’m doubly honored that you’re sharing it with me now. Shall we walk?”

  Beneath the afternoon sun, the sea glowed like liquid sapphires, and the sand—while rockier than was ideal—was soft enough underfoot at the water’s edge. Amy curled her bare toes as the water, deliciously cold, lapped about her ankles. Thomas too began to relax under the soothing influences of sea, sun, and relative solitude. Imagining ways to capture the scene in oils or watercolors, she suspected.

  No need for conversation when they were so in harmony, with nature and each other, Amy reflected contentedly. Instead, they strolled along the strip of beach for a while, then, as one, sat down on the sand, just out of reach of the tide.

  He kissed her then, and she could taste the faint tang of salt on his lips, brought there by the brisk sea wind. She kissed him back with equal enthusiasm, relishing the rare freedom they now shared: just a man and a woman beneath the midday sun, the tumbling sea at their feet.

  More kisses followed, and he drew her to him, his long artist’s fingers toying with the hair she’d woven into one long plait. “I should paint you like this,” he murmured against her mouth. “But without the bathing dress, only your hair loose and flowing down to cover you.”

  “Like a mermaid’s?”

  “A sea nymph’s,” he corrected. “No fishtail to contend with, just those long, slim legs…”

  His green eyes had gone soft and dreamy, but she could see the heat in them too, smoldering like a barely banked fire. Victory beckoned, and she laid her hand upon his chest, felt the strong beat of his heart under her palm. He stilled beneath her touch, hardly seeming to breathe.

  “Thoooomassss,” she crooned, trailing her hand down towards his abdomen—and below. “You know you want me. I can tell.” Her gaze lingered on a part of his body that, in the last few minutes, had become increasingly visible through his bathing suit.

  “Ah. Most inconvenient.” Did he sound a little breathless? “I cannot deny the truth of your words, sweetheart. Fortunately, I believe I know the perfect remedy.” He stood up, pulling her to her feet.

  “Thomas, what are you—?”

  The rest of the question was lost in a shriek as he tossed her over his shoulder, then ran down the beach and plunged into the nearest wave.

  Chapter Four

  Art is a jealous mistress.

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson, The Conduct of Life

  * * *

  Two weeks later

  * * *

  Rather than try to compete with grander homes like The Cliffs or Château-sur-Mer, Laura Newbold had decided to let Shore House’s charms speak for themselves. Not ornate or ostentatious, but rather elegant, subtle, and refined. Amy had wholeheartedly agreed with her mother’s vision and together, they’d worked tirelessly for the last two weeks to bring it about.

  Their efforts had paid off handsomely: by the night of the ball, Shore House was immaculate, all its woodwork polished to a high gloss. Every prism in the crystal chandelier sparkled like a diamond of the first water, and the French doors of the Grand Salon stood open to the garden, which was Laura’s particular pride and joy.

  Even by moonlight, the sight of the flowerbeds in bloom took one’s breath away. Colored paper lanterns illuminated the hydrangea bushes, heavy with clusters of white and brilliant blue blossoms. The mingled scents of jasmine, honeysuckle, and rose drifted inside, an intoxicating bouquet, while more flowers—in bright, summery hues—adorned the ballroom, draped with swaths of white and deep blue silk.

  Nearly all of Newport must be here tonight, Amy mused as she watched the steady influx of guests into the salon. Some with whom she could have happily dispensed, like Theo Van Horn. But one couldn’t exclude a guest merely because one suspected him of rudeness—Thomas still refused to identify those who had tried to snub him—and the Van Horns as a family were largely unobjectionable, if a bit stodgy and self-important. But their social prominence in New York was such that Amy’s mother would have felt acutely uncomfortable about excluding them.

  And then there were the Vandermeres, who’d been invited for a similar reason and to show that the Newbolds were willing to let bygones be bygones… especially in light of Relia’s wedded bliss, Amy reflected with satisfaction. Indeed, to judge from her twin’s most recent letter, Relia was ecstatically happy in her marriage, with not a thought to spare for Stupid Charlie! He was still absent from Newport—only his parents and Sally had come tonight, and Amy supposed she could exert herself to be cordial to them, if necessary.

  She was far more pleased when the Livingstons arrived—all but their two youngest children who were not yet out. But Larry, Venetia, Mark, and Geneva entered in their parents’ wake, along with Venetia’s husband. Laura Newbold, all smiles, greeted the family warmly as they approached, and she and Mrs. Livingston were soon chatting comfortably, with the ease of old friends.

  “Geneva!” Amy held out welcoming hands to the girl. “I’m so happy that you came.”

  Geneva mustered a shy smile but clasped her hands in return. “I’m—happy to be here, Amy. And thank you for including Clemmie in the invitation, but I do think I might be able to get by without her, for one evening. Shore House looks beautiful tonight, by the way,” she added, glancing about the ballroo
m.

  Amy smiled. “Thank you. We believe that Mama has outdone herself for the occasion.”

  “I like the blue and white. It’s as if the sea and the sky have been brought inside.”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly,” Amy said, pleased. “Mama wanted our guests to feel as cool and comfortable indoors as they would outdoors. Not an easy task, on a summer night with so many people present!”

  And it seemed to be working. Amy noticed that quite a number of guests seemed to relax visibly as soon as they set foot inside the ballroom. Beautiful surroundings could make all the difference, she decided.

  “Well, it looks lovely, and so do you, in that gown,” Geneva said admiringly. “Is it Worth?”

  “But of course! I would hardly dare to wear anyone else for such an occasion.” The rich ivory satin, with its shell-pink embellishments, was a shade or two darker than the wedding gown Amy would be donning in barely three months’ time, but almost as elaborate. “And you look lovely too—that shade of blue is perfect for your coloring.”

  And the flush of pink in Geneva’s cheeks was even more becoming, she thought. The girl looked—a little tentative, perhaps, but not nervous or anxious. Amy hoped that boded well for her enjoyment of the evening.

  “By the way,” she added as casually as possible, “we just planted a new species of night-blooming orchid in our conservatory. For the added enjoyment of our guests.”

  Geneva’s eyes widened in comprehension—and gratitude. The conservatory, with its soft lighting and wicker furniture, was one of the most tranquil rooms in Shore House: an ideal refuge for guests seeking temporary escape from a crowded ballroom.

  “Thank you,” she replied, after a moment. “That sounds very pleasant. I’ll be sure to visit the conservatory this evening, to see it.”

  They exchanged a quick smile of understanding, then Geneva and the other Livingstons proceeded further into the ballroom, as the Russells—also friends of the family—approached.