“I believe I have just the thing,” she called back. “A lovely raw lamb bone for our dear little lamb. Just as soon as I telephone into town for the doctor . . .”
The others started up the stairs after her, but Jesse hovered behind the rest. Looking from him to my parents, I nodded for them to go up as well. Mother gave me an understanding nod, called to Patch, and linked her arm through Father’s. Together the three of them climbed the stairs. Only Jesse, Mr. Dunn, and I remained, but Mr. Dunn would not be listening in on our conversation anytime soon.
A fierce light entered Jesse’s eyes, and I feared he would chastise me for putting myself in harm’s way once again. But instead I found myself in his arms, enfolded in a formidable embrace. I reached my arms around his waist and hung on to the back of his coat with my fists. We stayed like that for several, long moments, merely holding on and demanding nothing, making no promises, simply being what we were—two people who cared tremendously about each other, as we always had, as we always would.
* * *
“Howard Dunn is not my son.” Uncle Frederick held a poultice against his head but refused to sit, pacing back and forth across the drawing room as he explained. “He once asked me, years ago when he was a child. I told him no then and I thought he believed me.”
“But why was he so convinced in the first place?”
He stopped by my chair and gazed down at me. “Ordinarily, Emmaline, I would hesitate to tell such a story in a young woman’s hearing. But after what you have been through, not only today but every day since you’ve been at Rough Point . . .” He trailed off with a questioning glance at my parents, sitting together on the settee. They nodded their permission, and Uncle Frederick continued.
“Howard’s mother was a Pierson—”
“A member of the Four Hundred,” Mrs. Wharton interrupted, and my uncle nodded.
“Yes, and her parents and mine were quite good friends. Carlotta and I were close in age, and in fact there were hopes that she and I might one day marry.” He shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. “Lottie didn’t care for me in that way. She loved another man. A vile scoundrel who took advantage of her, ruined her, and left her with Howard.” He resumed pacing. “As might be expected, her family disowned her. I took pity on her—how could I not have? Poor, foolish girl. Once I came into my inheritance I began sending them money regularly, not a great amount, mind you, but enough to support them in a modest lifestyle. I also sent presents at Christmas and Howard’s birthday. And I did so with Louise’s blessing, I’ll have you know.”
“I would never doubt that for a moment,” I assured him. “I know how Aunt Louise adores children. She would never want one to suffer needlessly.”
“That is quite correct.” For an instant, regret for his and Louise’s childless state cast a sorrowful shadow across his face. “I saw to Howard’s education and offered him decent employment—employment many a man would covet. But I am not his father, and I can see no reason to leave him a fortune or property that will someday be dispersed among my nieces and nephews.”
He abruptly threw himself into a chair and leaned to hang his head into his palms. “Perhaps if I had, those people, your friends, would still be alive.”
I rose and went to him. “You couldn’t have known. None of us could have. People like Howard Dunn are filled with hatred, like an illness, but they’re also very clever at hiding their symptoms. Or perhaps it’s that the rest of us simply can’t imagine such evil in those we’ve come to trust. You certainly can’t blame yourself for the actions of a deluded, hate-filled individual, Uncle Frederick.”
He looked up at me with a sad smile. “How wise you have grown, Emmaline. How tragic that someone as young as you should have become so wise.”
* * *
By noon the last of us vacated Rough Point with the help of Jesse and two of his men. The officers having determined that Ledge Road was passable, Mrs. Wharton brought Vasili with her to Land’s End, where her husband had arrived relatively unscathed the day before. Upon her release this afternoon, Josephine would join them there, although Mrs. Wharton assured me the opera singer would wish to thank me for defending her. Perhaps, but there would never be true friendship between us. We were too different. On the other hand, Mrs. Wharton and I promised to meet again soon. She had every intention of holding me to my promise to critique her work, and I looked forward to her returning the favor as I wrote my article on the retreat. As with other times in the past, this piece would deviate sharply from what I had envisioned at the outset—to say the least.
As I had predicted, Uncle Frederick returned to town, from where he could wire his wife and make plans for his return trip to New York, along with Irene and Mrs. Harris. Carl would also have a job at either the Hyde Park or Fifth Avenue house, but first he wished to visit with his parents here on the island.
There had been tense moments as I waited for my parents to state their intentions. Would they bid me a hasty farewell and be off? Were they eager to quit, not only Newport, but me, their daughter, who had made no bones about judging their behavior and doubting them accordingly? As their child, shouldn’t I have trusted them implicitly?
Then again, is it any surprise murder and the deplorable weather had worked on my psyche and eclipsed my daughterly affections? Now however, my regard for them pushed through the gloom and danger of Rough Point even as the sun pushed its way stubbornly through every slight break in the clouds.
I wanted them to stay on at Gull Manor, and I told them so, and added a please for good measure.
“Darling, of course we’ll come to Gull Manor with you,” Mother declared with genuine surprise.
“Where else would we go,” my father added heartily, “but home with our courageous daughter?”
The three of us, and Patch, climbed into Jesse’s police buggy, for he would not hear of our negotiating Ocean Avenue—arguably the most dangerous thoroughfare on Aquidneck Island in inclement weather—without him. The telephone lines along Ocean Avenue had not yet been repaired, so I was unable to warn Nanny of our imminent arrival. I needn’t have worried. Delicious scents greeted us in the front hall and set my stomach rumbling.
After hugging each of us thoroughly, thanking Jesse for bringing me home, and chiding my parents for staying away so long, Nanny explained, “As soon as the rain began letting up, Katie and I started cooking. I knew it wouldn’t be long before you’d all be home.”
I had never been so happy to be there, so much so I smiled down at the threadbare hall rug, the bald spots on the banister where years of use had worn away the varnish, and I barely flinched at the crash as Patch apparently knocked over something in the parlor. The others followed him in, but I remained in my front hall feeling at home and at peace. Mrs. Wharton had been right, Gull Manor was the home of a young woman of independent means. Not only was the place mine free and clear, but unlike Howard Dunn, I wanted nothing more. Needed nothing more. Not in the way of material possessions, anyway. And that, as Mrs. Wharton had said, was worth more than all the satin brocade and fine velvets a fortune can provide. Of all the Vanderbilts, I felt myself to be the luckiest.
Happy voices drew my attention to the parlor, but before I turned into that room, I noticed a missive lying on the mail salver on the hall table. It hadn’t been there when I left on my adventures, and given the weather I surmised it had been delivered today just prior to my arrival. The Western Union stamp on the sealed page raised my guard. Bad news? I thought immediately of Uncle Cornelius, still so frail after his stroke. But no—upon opening the telegram I saw the message had traveled the wires from much farther away than New York. It had come from Italy. From Derrick Andrews.
My dearest Emma, all is well. I plan to be home in the spring. I think of you daily. Will write soon.
That was all, but it was enough to start me trembling and to drown out the voices in the other room beneath the rush of my pulse points. Suddenly, my independent, well-ordered life tumbled into chaos. I forced mys
elf to breathe, to be calm, and to remember that I had not made my choices yet, and that one choice open to me was to make no choice at all. Not until I felt completely, contentedly ready. I folded the telegram and stuffed it into my drawstring purse, and laid that on the hall table. With a lift of my chin I took two steps toward the parlor doorway, then stopped short when the conversation I had been hearing but hadn’t listened to suddenly presented itself to my ears.
“Ask her, Jesse.” Mother’s voice held an eager note. “Arthur, tell him. Give him your blessing.”
Oh no. Oh, dear Lord.
Father cleared his throat. “We’d be pleased to have you as a son-in-law, Jesse.”
My breath burned in my throat and a tingling like a thousand pinpricks swept up my neck and across my face. I wished to simply melt away where I stood.
After a pause, Jesse said, “I appreciate that. But the time isn’t right.” I could all but see the blush creeping up his face and scorching his ears. My own were flaming.
“Nonsense.” This from Mother again. “There is no time like the present. I’ve seen the two of you together. Jesse, as Emma’s mother, I can assure you it’s perfect. There could be a spring wedding. . . .”
My stomach tightened into a ball of misery and mortification.
“If you’ll excuse me.” A creaking of the sofa was followed by footsteps advancing in my direction. I had nowhere to hide, no time to traverse the hall to the back rooms. Jesse appeared a moment later and drew up short. “Oh, uh . . . I suppose you heard that.”
As I had expected, his cheeks were aflame, the tips of his ears glowing. Poor Jesse. Poor me. I nodded and stared down at my feet. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “They mean well.”
With a light touch he raised my chin. “Of course they do. And don’t think I won’t take your father’s blessing to heart. But I meant what I said. The time isn’t right. Someday it might be, and on that day I’ll be here. Until then . . .”
His normal complexion returned and he grinned down at me. My misery suddenly forgotten, I grinned back, and together we made our way to the kitchen to see how we could help Katie with dinner preparations.
Afterword
While Rough Point is somewhat less well known compared to some of the other Newport cottages, it’s nonetheless one of my favorites. Relatively isolated at the end of Bellevue Avenue, Rough Point for many years held a certain element of mystery, sitting on its rugged headland behind high walls and solid iron doors that blocked the property from view. Those doors have since been replaced by gates, and Rough Point, maintained by the Newport Restoration Foundation, welcomes visitors to tour the house and learn about the woman who owned it for nearly seventy years, from the mid-1920s until her death in 1993.
Although tobacco heiress and philanthropist Doris Duke was Rough Point’s most famous resident and the focus of Rough Point’s tours, the house was originally built by Peabody & Stearns for Frederick William Vanderbilt, son of William Henry Vanderbilt, and brother to Cornelius II and William Kissam Vanderbilt, who are both featured in The Gilded Newport Mysteries.
The house in Frederick Vanderbilt’s time looked rather different from the house we see today. The far north wing that presently houses the Music Room did not exist originally, and was instead a covered, open-air piazza. Likewise, two covered porches once flanked the open veranda along the back of the house. One opened onto the drawing room, and is now the solarium. The other opened onto what was the billiard room. The drawing room was also later expanded by the removal of the wall that separated it from the library, resulting in one large room. This is now called the Yellow Room. As mentioned in the story, the house was as Gothic and dark as any Tudor-era manor house from the English countryside, and was lightened up considerably by its two later owners. I was sad to discover the fabulous stained glass windows at the half landing of the main staircase, depicting the coats of arms of the signers of the Magna Carta, were not original but added later, by the Dukes. I will admit I took some creative license in adding a couple more bedrooms than existed in Frederick Vanderbilt’s day.
Rough Point was groundbreaking in that it was the largest Newport “cottage” built up until that time, and thus paved the way for even larger and more ornate houses thereafter. Yet not long after its completion, Frederick and Louise tired of the house, and of Newport, and began renting it out before selling it to the Leeds family in 1906. They, in turn, sold the property to the Dukes in 1922. Frederick and Louise Vanderbilt never had children and, upon their deaths, their fortune was divided among their many nieces and nephews.
Edith Wharton’s book on interior decorating, The Decoration of Houses, co-written with Ogden Codman Jr., was published in 1897. As I’ve indicated in the story, her marriage to Edward Wharton was not a happy one. Teddy Wharton suffered from acute depression, which began a few years into the marriage and steadily worsened, ending their travels and leading to their divorce in 1913 after doctors declared him incurable. They had no children. Their Newport home, Land’s End, still stands on Ledge Road overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, not far from Rough Point. It is privately owned, unmarked, and fairly well obscured from the road by trees, at least enough to frustrate would-be photographers.
Murder at Rough Point Page 27