His sudden shift of mood to tenderness disturbed her and a shiver ran up her spine as she brushed his hand away. “Don’t you have some gardening to do?”
He laughed, the mask back in place. “Always got ‘thyme’ for a sexy chick like you. Don’t you ‘lovage’ when I talk dirty?” Keeping pace as she walked toward the house, he asked, “Are you here to interrogate Belle?”
“These are private interviews, Quincy. I’m not at liberty to discuss them with you.”
“With the gardener, you mean. Social barriers can be such a bore—I’d thought better of you. I’m still mulling over an adequate reward for the tip I gave you over the phone.”
They had reached the front door and Quincy salaamed low. “Most humble gardener cannot aspire to cross threshold of house of great mistress. Must leave you now.”
“Tell me the truth, Quincy, who are you?” She shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare with her hand, her companion a cardboard man backlit by brightness.
“Graduate of MIT, babe. But for the summer, most humble and lovable gardener. One of these nights I’ll give you a jingle—we’ll make some real jazzy music together.” He winked and strode away, the tight jeans outlining the muscles in his legs.
Abigail reached for the knocker, but the door was yanked open before her fingers touched the smooth brass.
“I saw you drive in.” Belle glared at her. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to talk to you.”
Belle’s lips tightened. “We have nothing to discuss.”
“Me alone or with Flora present—your choice, Belle.”
The woman’s gaze flickered around the hall and settled back on Abigail’s determined expression. “The kitchen’s quiet. We won’t disturb her if we talk there.”
The kitchen’s electrical appliances contrasted with the medieval accents of window boxes and trays filled with herbs. The mingled scents of the plants conjured up images of a meadow drowsing in the sun and surrounded by orchards of fruit trees.
Belle indicated a chair with the indifference of a guide on the last tour of the day. “Don’t expect to get comfortable in it—I’ve got things to do. Flora will be waking soon so you’ll have to excuse me if I keep working.”
She moved to a marble-topped island whose surface was covered with a variety of clear glass jars in which leaves floated in cloudy liquids. Selecting a jar filled with a reddish suspension, Belle used a plastic colander to strain the liquid and then discarded the leaves. Next, she opened a package of paper coffee filters and poured the liquid through a filter, repeating the process with a fresh filter until the fluid turned a crystal-clear shade of light rose.
The housekeeper noticed her visitor’s fascination. “Opal basil vinegar—pack the herbs into a jar, add white wine vinegar, bruise the leaves, and let it sit for up to six weeks before straining. These other jars contain a variety of herbs for different flavors. This one is oregano—I used red wine vinegar as the base.”
As if remembering the reason for Abigail’s presence, the spark of animation died away, and frowning, Belle concentrated on pouring the vinegar into a squat wine bottle. The finishing touch was a sprig of basil poked through the bottle’s narrow mouth before it was set aside.
Abigail opened her purse and fanned out a set of photographs, courtesy of a one-hour development shop. “Recognize these?”
Belle glanced at them. “I see wilted plants and dirt.”
“Could these herbs have come from your garden?”
Belle selected a snapshot of the dying herbal bouquet. “So someone sent you a spite posy. I’m not surprised.”
“You understand their meaning?”
“Every herbalist knows the language of the plants.” She stood without shifting her weight, her gaze steady. Body and mind in complete harmony, she might have been the reincarnation of a wise woman from an ancient tribe.
Abigail thrust a photo of the shattered pot at Belle, hoping to break through the armor of poise. “Your thoughts on this picture, please.”
The older woman pulled a pair of reading glasses from the pocket of her A-line skirt and perched them on her nose. “You don’t put rosemary in a clay pot unless it’s very porous. Herbs do better in wooden containers.”
Abigail took a step forward. “Let’s put down the fencing foils, Belle. Did you break this pot against my front door last night? Did you send me the herbal bouquet or spite posy, as you call it?”
Belle tossed the photograph back on the pile and sat down, her shoulders back and hands folded in her lap. “No.”
“No?” Abigail felt as if she’d been thrown into peace talks against a master negotiator. “You’re an expert on herbs and their meanings. You’ve expressed hostility to the idea of this investigation. Putting those two facts together, I come up with one name.”
Belle traced the outline of the vase in one of the photographs. “Although I had nothing to do with those incidents, I’m against your poking around in the past—Flora’s been hurt enough. Anything you dig up about her sister will only add to her grief.”
“Are you protecting Flora? Or yourself?”
“I was a fourteen-year-old housemaid—I never knew Rosemary.”
“But you worked for the Kyles. I believe Austin was planning to elope with Rosemary. Children know what goes on in a house—and servants gossip. What really happened that night?”
Belle rose and opened a cupboard door, taking out glass jars with handprinted labels. “I’ve got to start Flora’s meal.”
The mention of Austin’s name seemed to have galvanized the other woman into action and that, coupled with Quincy’s hints, prompted a conjectural leap. “Are you protecting Judge Kyle?”
Belle was measuring dried ginger, tarragon, and bay leaves into a cheesecloth bag. Dried leaves spilled to the countertop at the question and the older woman reached for a paper towel and scraped the leaves into her hand, keeping her back to Abigail.
Aware that pressing for answers was just as likely to seal Belle’s lips, the attorney forced herself to remain silent as the other woman pinched off sprigs of dill and mint from the window boxes and added them to the contents of the bag. Using a length of string, the housekeeper tied the cheesecloth between two stalks of celery and slid the whole bundle into a pot on the stove.
The odor of lamb stew mingled with the tang of the freshly picked mint as Abigail picked her way across the delicate landscape of supposition. “You were in love with Austin, weren’t you? An impressionable girl thrown in proximity with a handsome young man. He probably didn’t treat you like a servant either—the perfect gentleman.”
Belle placed a wooden bed tray on the table and began to lay a place for one. Her attention seemed focused on the task, the compression of her lips and the grooves around her mouth the only signs that Abigail’s words had registered.
Abigail continued her speculations. “You fell in love with someone above your station in a structured society. It must have hurt, knowing you could never have him. And he planned to elope with Rosemary—she was completely unsuitable and yet she was to have the man you loved. Did you hate her, Belle? Did you want to destroy your rival?” She raised her voice. “Did you kill her?”
“I only set eyes on her the once!” Belle slapped a knife on the table, her expression indicating a desire to thrust it into her tormentor.
Abigail pounced on the damaging admission. “When did you see Rosemary?”
Belle was silent, the deft hands stilled and the fingers spread flat on the polished wood of the table.
“Do you want Flora to ask you that question?”
“No!” Belle wet her lips. “The answer would break her heart.”
“I’ll make every effort to keep your confidence, Belle. Just help me.” No response. In desperation, Abigail rose and walked over to the island. “I suppose my investigation could be compared to making herb vinegar.”
She turned to find Belle watching her and indicated the array of jars and bottles. “These
murky jars represent what I’ve learned so far—all the evidence is clouded by the sediment of other people’s perceptions. But if I can strain out the selfish viewpoints, sift through the false memories—what is left will be the pure distillation of the truth, the essence of Rosemary.”
Belle stared at the bottle of clear rose-pink vinegar in Abigail’s hands for a moment before, with a shrug of surrender, she sank down into the chair. “Austin was kind to me—a homesick child. But he loved Rosemary. Painted her portrait, framed it in silver, and slept with the picture under his pillow—I found it more than once while making the bed with fresh linen.
“Julia happened in one day and spotted it. She let out a screech that could’ve raised my pappy from his grave a hundred miles away. She took it to her daddy. Mr. Kyle told Austin the girl was trash. White trash, but trash. He was to forget about her—Mr. Kyle had another wife in mind for his son.”
Abigail felt a rush of pity for Austin and his inability to cope with his stronger-willed sibling. “Where was his mother during this crisis? How did she feel about Rosemary?”
“Mrs. Kyle died giving birth to her son. I think Julia and Mr. Lawrence held it against him—they nagged at him like chicks pecking at the weak and sick. But I always knew the nights he meant to see Rosemary because he could sit through a meal with the family picking at him and never flinch—he was living on the thought of being with her.”
The other woman’s words were still characterized by tight control and Abigail sought for the key that would make her open up completely. “When did you see Rosemary? The night of the dance?”
Belle shook her head. “A couple months before—a few days after Miss Julia found the miniature. It was a day when both of the younger Kyles were in Chicago. The chauffeur brought Rosemary to the house and Mr. Lawrence took her into his study and closed the door. I was polishing the chair rail in the hall when they came out and went upstairs to Mr. Lawrence’s bedroom.”
At Abigail’s involuntary gasp, Belle paused, her expression pinched as if her own disclosures left a sour taste in her mouth. “Rosemary didn’t seem to be very happy—she said something about not wanting to hurt Mr. Austin. Mr. Lawrence replied that his son wasn’t worthy of a woman like her and he would make sure that she was well rewarded for her ‘cooperation.’
“The ‘cooperation’ took nearly two hours before she came running down the stairs. Her hair was streaming around her shoulders and the bodice of her dress was misbuttoned. Joe, the driver, was waitin’ at the wheel of the big car and he took her away. Even a fourteen-year-old knew what they were doing up in that bedroom—and her in love with Mr. Austin!”
“Lawrence Kyle seduced Rosemary?” Abigail clutched the edge of the table, stunned by this revelation. Ross was right—Rosemary had danced on the lip of a volcano and perhaps sleeping with Lawrence had been the slip that had cost her her life.
“He was a’kissin’ her bare shoulder as they went up the staircase and eyeing her like a cat looks at a plump mouse—she did no hollerin’ for help that I could hear.” As she talked, Belle’s speech patterns had changed subtly, reverting to the broad vowels and dropped consonants of her childhood.
“Did Austin ever find out what took place between his father and Rosemary? What happened the night of the dance?” Abigail bit back a rush of questions as Belle raised her hand.
“The dance?” Her eyes had taken on a faraway look. “I remember the family had an early supper. Mr. Lawrence was jawing away—business talk about shipping costs and such. Miss Julia didn’t have any chicken, just soup and salad so she wouldn’t be filled up for the dancing. Mr. Austin kept smiling down at his plate as if someone had told a funny story, but there were never any funny stories at that table. No one ate much and the main course was chicken with biscuits and gravy. Cook made biscuits that would melt in your mouth…”
Chapter 25
The housekeeper had put too much starch in the uniforms again and the chafing of the stiff material against Belle’s upper arms was compounded by the misery of the kitchen’s heat and the overpowering scent of fried chicken.
The big room was stuffy; Lawrence Kyle had issued a decree against open windows. “Open windows are an invitation to coloreds to steal you blind,” he often declaimed at the dinner table, oblivious to the dusky skins of the child carrying in the basket of hot rolls and the uniformed butler refilling his wineglass.
Cook mopped up the last drops of gravy with a leftover biscuit. “Folks didn’t eat much tonight. Must be the excitement of the dance and all.” But her tone, as well as the rolls of fat around her waist that strained the ties of her apron, indicated disbelief that anyone could lose their appetite.
The itch crawled all over Belle’s spine; the tickle felt like a june beetle on a stroll. Sidling back until the cookstove was pressed against her shoulder blades, she gave a tentative wriggle that earned her a prompt rebuke.
“Don’t muss up your uniform, chile. Ain’t you supposed to be helpin’ Miss Julia with her fancy ball dress?”
“She said not till she rang.” Belle pointed to the row of bells hanging over the doorway. “Kin I have a biscuit, Cook?”
Cook reached for a biscuit and buttered it with a lavish hand. “You’re such a skinny stick—no man’s gonna want you unless you put some meat on them bones. Now, mind you keep the crumbs off my clean waxed floor.”
Belle stuffed the entire biscuit into her mouth.
“Run along. I’ll let you know if Miss Julia rings.”
Chewing carefully to make sure no crumbs escaped, Belle started on her nightly round of removing the flowers wilted by the heat of the day. Her first morning duty involved replacing them with dewy blossoms cut by the gardener; the family descended to breakfast in sweetly perfumed air.
When she reached the jardinieres flanking the front door, she was surprised to find the door wide open and the butler, Jeffrey, standing on the front steps and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.
Belle’s round-eyed stare sparked a grin as he brushed ash from his uniform. The top three buttons of his jacket were unbuttoned and his erect posture had crumpled into a comfortable slouch.
“The door’s open!”
Jeffrey’s grin displayed white teeth against the ebony of his skin. “I’m keeping a sharp eye out for them thieving coloreds. Besides, the smoke keeps ’em away. Coloreds are afraid of fire.” His laughter was sardonic.
Belle lifted down a dull gold leaf vase, anxious to be gone before she was caught near an open door, but before she could retreat, heavy footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor.
“Jeffrey, he’s a’comin’!”
A rustle and the door swung shut with Jeffrey on the outside just as Mr. Lawrence strode up and deposited a handful of envelopes on the hallway table.
“Jeffrey!” He raised his voice as Belle sidled away.
Balancing the weight of the vase against her chest, Belle scurried down the hall to the servants’ pantry where she emptied the flowers and water. When she returned with her burden, the butler had joined Mr. Lawrence. Only a slight heaving of his broad chest betrayed Jeffrey’s forced sprint and entry through a side door.
“This correspondence must go out tomorrow.” Lawrence frowned and reached out to remove an envelope partially concealed under the silver tray used for outgoing letters.
Jeffrey winced as his employer peered at the address. Belle bit her lip and pressed her body against the wall. She also knew of Mr. Austin’s habit of hiding his mail under the tray. With an oath, the master of the house ripped open the envelope and read its contents by the light of the teardrop chandelier. Crimson blood stained his face, his throat muscles tightened into ridges, and a croaking sound escaped his lips. When the wave of color receded, he was pasty white, a red beacon burning in each cheek as a warning signal.
Butler and maid watched as the man started up the steps, his heels drumming out an angry tattoo. “Mr. Austin’s gonna catch it now,” Jeffrey murmured, exchanging a sorrowful glance with Belle,
who clutched the empty vase in her hands.
Noticing her quivering lips, Jeffrey moved over to help her reposition the vase on the stand.
“Is he gonna yell at Mr. Austin?” she asked with a fearful glance toward the staircase.
The shouts drifting over the second-floor landing to their ears made Jeffrey’s nod unnecessary. Belle cringed at a particularly loud bellow; angry voices frightened her, bringing back memories of a drunken stepfather and a birch rod.
She was returning the second vase to its stand when Mr. Lawrence pounded back down the stairs and headed in the direction of his study. Belle scurried off at his approach and entered the kitchen in time to hear the high tone of the bell that meant a summons from Miss Julia and a journey up the stairs.
Turning the corner at the head of the staircase, she almost ran smack into Mr. Austin as he emerged from his father’s bedroom—an action that struck Belle as very strange as usually the only other person allowed to enter the room was the housekeeper, Mrs. Johnson, in order to dust and make the bed.
Mr. Austin’s dark hair was more unruly than ever in the humidity; a stray lock curled against his forehead and she longed to reach up and smooth it back.
“Oh, it’s just you, Honeybelle!” he greeted her with an air of relief. “Don’t tell anyone I was in Father’s room, all right?”
He put an index finger to his lips and winked at her. For that wink and Austin’s undivided attention, even if only momentary, Belle would have slept on a bed of hot coals for a month.
But she was distracted; his sudden movement had resulted in a strange sound. “You clinked!”
“I clinked?” Austin glanced down at the leather bag in his hand. He loosened the drawstring and, reaching inside, pulled out a gold coin that he handed to Belle.
“For me?”
“For keeping my secret, Honeybelle.” He closed her fingers over the coin in her palm and kissed her thumb.
Mr. Austin ducked into his room and closed the door while Belle stood staring at the panels, dazed by her good fortune. Mr. Austin had given her a gold coin and kissed her hand.
Rosemary for Remembrance Page 15