Mr. Whitwell shook his cane at the man he called Sibley. “Stay away from my banks, Sibley, or you’ll regret it!”
“You have something for me?” Mr. Mayhew said, suddenly standing next to me. I jumped. Engrossed in the argument occurring right in front of me, I hadn’t heard his approach. Or was there something about the man that made me nervous?
“Yes sir, Mr. Mayhew.” I handed him the letter. “Mrs. Mayhew found this on her desk this morning and insisted I deliver it to you personally as soon as possible.”
“I don’t think I’m the one that’s going to be doing the regretting, Mr. Whitwell!” Sibley shouted at Mr. Whitwell’s back. The gentleman stormed away, leaning heavily on his cane as he tottered toward us. Sibley resumed his slogan chanting: “We will uphold the dignity of labor. We will uphold the dignity of labor.”
“Scum,” Mr. Mayhew said under his breath before nodding his head at the approaching Mr. Whitwell. Was he speaking of Sibley or Mr. Whitwell? I couldn’t tell.
“First the strike and now we can’t even go to the Casino in peace!” Mr. Whitwell said to Mr. Mayhew. “What is this place coming to? My wife said to me only yesterday—”
“Complete piffle,” Mr. Mayhew said.
“It may be, Gideon, but the man’s a pest.”
“I’ll take care of him, Harland,” Mr. Mayhew said coldly. “He won’t bother you anymore.” The tone in his voice made me want to back away. I heard him speak this way before, to the Pinkerton detective on the ship. An image of the trunk dropping into the water flashed through my mind.
What was in that trunk? I wouldn’t be at ease around this man until I knew for certain.
“Good, Gideon,” Mr. Whitwell said, “because if I see that man again, I won’t be responsible for my actions! Havana?” He pulled one of his cigars out and offered it to Mr. Mayhew, who shook his head to decline. Mr. Whitwell replaced the cigar in his pocket.
“By the way, Harland, we need to talk about the Aquidneck National.” Mr. Mayhew turned his back to me, without acknowledging or thanking me, and walked with Mr. Whitwell back toward the courtyard. “We can’t afford closure. What can you tell me about . . . ?”
I took my cue, grateful to be away from that hard, cold man, and headed back to Rose Mont and the dozens of invitations waiting to be addressed and delivered.
CHAPTER 7
I was up before dawn. Mrs. Mayhew’s garden party was today. I’d spent the past few days following the same routine, starting with breakfast in my sitting room while reading through Who’s Who or poring over the map of Newport. Then I’d spend an hour or two with Mrs. Mayhew and her cat, Bonaparte, short for Napoléon Bonaparte, going through her mail and rearranging the seating arrangements for the party yet again. The rest of the morning was spent responding to her mail, writing out checks, and writing out guest names on place cards. Each afternoon, I would walk to Morton Park, the southern terminus for the streetcar, ride the streetcar to Franklin Street (to save time, Mrs. Mayhew said), and proceed down the bustling thoroughfare of Thames Street, making last-minute preparations for the party: ordering tents from G.H. Wilmarth & Son, confirming the arrival time of the Steinway piano rented from M. Steinert & Sons Co., checking the progress of Mr. Arend Brandt, the florist, in finding the vast number of hollyhocks Madam ordered; it would be close. And of course, as Newport had three times more millinery shops than restaurants, I’d visit a different one each day, including Mrs. Mayhew’s favorite, Schreier’s Queen Anne Millinery Establishment, planning how to spend my first month’s wages. I’d seen Mrs. Mayhew’s bills. A new hat there, like the plum velvet hat with pansies, feathers, and stiff satin bow I wanted, would indeed cost me almost a whole month’s wages.
I’d spent my evenings reading and then typing up Sir Arthur’s manuscript. I had settled into a routine. I spent my days less solitary than I was accustomed to, interacting with Mrs. Mayhew every morning, Britta, the parlormaid, at every meal, the shopkeepers of Thames Street, valets and housekeepers of other grand “cottages”; even Bonaparte the cat came by every night looking for the scraps from my dinner plate. I had little time to myself to hike or explore beyond the streetcar route and the homes Mrs. Mayhew had me hand-delivering calling cards, invitations, or notes to. Yet despite all this, I had found the past few days and my new tasks quite satisfying. The only exception and my least favorite task to date had been to ask Mrs. Crankshaw, at Mrs. Mayhew’s insistence, if the best linen, the tablecloths, the napkins, and the doilies with the lace and family crest embroidered with gold and silver silk thread, would be pressed and ready for the party.
“What?” Mrs. Crankshaw had yelled at me when I asked. “I don’t take well to those that question my efficiency. What does Madam think I’m doing down here, sitting around with my feet up eating macaroons all day? Of course the linen is ready.”
Luckily, Mrs. Mayhew hadn’t changed her mind about the menus. I wouldn’t want to have to question Monsieur Valbois as well.
But today would be anything but routine. I’d never assisted in a garden party and I had no idea what was in store for me. All I knew for certain was that I was to be present at all times, as Madam put it, “just in case.” In case of what, I could only imagine. So I took advantage of the only time I knew would be my own today and was out the door at first light, my hand lens around my neck and specimen jars in my carryall bag. I made my way across the lawn to the gravel path that followed the cliff and, having a choice, hiked southward. Again I paused as the sun rose over the ocean. I don’t think I could ever tire of the sight. I hiked less than a mile, at different times passing through a stile, down a series of steps, by a rose garden that rivaled Mrs. Mayhew’s, by a boathouse and through several stone archways, all the while following the path as it wound along, passing other great “cottages” on the right and sheer cliff drops on the left. And all the while I couldn’t keep a smile from my face.
I collected new specimen after new specimen, some right along the path, some requiring a scramble through the brush, one I had to lie on my stomach and, cautiously leaning over, pull from the cliff face itself.
I might need a larger plant press, I thought to my delight.
With the exception of when I started my collection, I’d never added so many new species at one time, and I’d barely gone a mile from the house. I was reluctant to return, as I hadn’t found a way down the cliffs to the plethora of algae and other sea plants that clung to the rocks below, but I had to get back. When I entered, Britta, the parlormaid, was descending the stairs.
“What have you been doing, Hattie?” she asked, laughing and pointing at my dress.
I glanced down. I thought I had thoroughly brushed the gravel from my bodice but instead saw hundreds of tiny seeds and burrs clinging to my skirt. I hadn’t noticed them before but couldn’t wait to determine if they belonged to plants new to my collection. “I took the path along the cliffs,” I said.
“It looks like you missed the path and found the bushes instead,” she said, smiling. “Remind me not to go walking with you! Now go change before Mrs. Crankshaw sees you.” She scrunched up her nose and pushed out her lips, mimicking Mrs. Crankshaw’s most sour expression. “I don’t take to girls bringing home bushes on their skirts!” Britta was still laughing as I raced up the back stairs to change.
“No, Jane, Caroline Astor hasn’t called on me. I don’t know what it will take, but mark my words, that woman is going to acknowledge me yet! But that’s not why I called. It’s about Gideon. I think he’s cheating on me again,” I overheard Mrs. Mayhew say as I was about to enter the drawing room. Silence followed. “He spends every morning in his gymnasium.” Silence. “I know he’s always done that, but now he spends even more time. And”—she hesitated for dramatic effect—“he’s staying in New York.” More silence. “I know he’s supposed to be here for the party. That’s why I think there’s something going on. And now who am I going to get to stand in for Gideon?” Another hesitation. “You’re right. It isn’t the firs
t time; it won’t be the last. I have enough to worry about without this!”
I hadn’t seen Mr. Mayhew since the day I delivered the letter to the Casino. He had returned to New York late that night. It was typical for the men of Newport to return to New York after the weekend had ended, but Gideon Mayhew had left a day early. So with the matter of the trunk unresolved, I couldn’t shake the unease I felt whenever his name was mentioned. Although it caused Mrs. Mayhew distress, I wasn’t disappointed to hear he wasn’t going to be here today. I knocked.
“Hold on a minute, Jane,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “Come in.” I entered the room and found Mrs. Mayhew cradling a telephone to her ear. Unlike the majority of the houses I’d worked in that had a telephone, Mrs. Mayhew didn’t have only one in the hall on the first floor. So far, I’d counted three. “Oh, Davish! Good, you’re here. Sit over there.” I sat in the nearest chair and pulled out my notebook. “I’m certain because he wired me from New York,” Mrs. Mayhew said into the telephone. A slight hesitation. “Yes, I know there’s a strike going on. He wired it through Providence.” Silence filled the room while Mrs. Mayhew sat listening into the telephone.
“What?” she exclaimed. “Who told you that? Your maids can’t strike. Harland would dismiss them all. Oh, Jane, what would you do?” Mrs. Mayhew glanced up from stroking her cat on her lap and started when she saw me. Had she forgotten I was there? I wondered.
“Jane, my secretary’s here. I’ll talk to you at the party.” She put the receiver down. “You won’t need that,” she said, pointing to my notebook. I placed the notebook on my lap but didn’t close it or put my pencil away. Mrs. Mayhew said this to me every day. She had a tendency to believe her words should be memorable enough not to warrant writing anything down. I didn’t disillusion her. I simply wrote everything down as she lounged with her eyes closed, which was often enough.
She handed me a copy of the afternoon’s guest list with several names crossed off and replacement names scribbled in. “Take care of this, will you?”
Oh, no, I thought. She’s changed the guest list again.
“Of course, ma’am.” I waited as Mrs. Mayhew sat staring at a life-size marble statue of the Roman goddess Minerva, slowly petting Bonaparte. Was this it? I was about to stand, assuming I was excused, when she spoke again.
“As you know, throwing any party demands full cooperation from everyone,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.” I knew that the party was demanding the staff to work on what would be for many their half days off.
“You are new to this house, Miss Davish, but I wonder if you’ve heard anything?”
If she was talking about the grumbling this morning at breakfast over the lost half day off, yes, I’d heard plenty. Britta had told me all about it, as we were wont to chat a few minutes when she brought my meals. As a new employee I hadn’t expected time off yet, but I could see why they complained. Their half day was all the time they got, and if they didn’t get that time off they didn’t get any time. Britta even insinuated that Mrs. Mayhew purposely scheduled parties at a time she knew would keep the servants at home. I wondered whether the accusation was true or whether she simply forgot, as she had forgotten to send the carriage for me, overwhelmed with trying to run such an enormous household while keeping up with her active social calendar. Knowing the disarrayed state of her affairs between secretaries, I tended to believe the latter.
But was that what Mrs. Mayhew was asking about? Could she be referring to rumors of an affair? “I rely on you to tell me such things,” she said.
“I’m not sure what you mean, ma’am,” I said.
“My dear friend Jane was just now telling me that her girls aren’t happy, that there’s rumors going around about maids asking for more time off. Have you heard of the telegraph operators’ strike? It’s disrupting everything. You must’ve heard about it.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ve heard about it.” I was beginning to understand what Mrs. Mayhew was asking. It had nothing to do with her husband.
“Well, Miss Davish? Have you heard any such rumors in this house?” I was chagrined that she would ask me to inform on the other staff. Luckily, I had nothing to tell.
“No, ma’am. I haven’t heard any rumors of a strike among the staff.”
“Of course not, who wouldn’t want to work at Rose Mont? It’s a privilege and they know it.” Mrs. Mayhew sat back in her chair and sighed. “I won’t be requiring your services until the party. After you’ve written the new invitations, have the coachman deliver them. That way you’ll be free until the party”—my heart leaped at the words and then sank as she finished her sentence—“to help Mrs. Crankshaw in any way that she deems appropriate. This party must be a success! You know you are my eyes and ears downstairs today.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. I knew I could rely on you.” And with that I was dismissed.
CHAPTER 8
Under a brilliant blue sky and with the ocean as a backdrop, the scene of the party was a riot of texture, color, and fragrance. I had never seen anything like it and, if Mrs. Mayhew’s vision was realized, nor had anyone else. On the green expanse of sloping lawn, two dozen white canopy tents, vines curling about their posts, fluttered gently in the breeze. Under their shade, tables and chairs had been brought from inside and decorated as if they too were part of the garden, vines curled around chair and table legs while long stems of multicolored hollyhocks had been interwoven into the backs of the chairs and graced the tables in a variety of centerpieces. Enormous white wooden planters containing towering topiaries in whimsical shapes of deer, rabbits, and birds, including a peacock with real feathers, dotted the lawn. Six actual peacocks strutted about where they pleased, as did Bonaparte the cat. The last time I saw Bonaparte, he was stalking one of the unsuspecting birds under table number twelve. A wooden platform equipped with a grand piano, surrounded on three sides by white wooden trellises overflowing with violet wisteria, marked the stage where the music recital would take place. And everywhere were white rose petals, from Mrs. Mayhew’s prize rose garden, strewn about so liberally that every step released their subtle scent.
Mrs. Crankshaw, when I had offered my services, had been at a loss to find something for me to do. And then Mr. Brandt, the florist, arrived. I spent most of the morning, to my delight, assisting Mr. Brandt in weaving the vines and arranging centerpieces. With the soothing sound of the ocean, the warm sun, and the fragrant flowers I couldn’t have asked for a more pleasant way to spend a summer morning. And to think I’d been worrying Mrs. Crankshaw would’ve had me folding napkins in the Servants’ Hall or doing some such dreary work. When Mr. Brandt was satisfied that all was done to his specifications, I set out to finish my own work. With the silverware, all engraved with an elaborate M, glinting in the sun, I set a place card above each china dessert plate, painted with climbing vines of wisteria, purchased exclusively for this party. I was almost finished when I read the name on the card again, Mrs. Julia Grice.
Could it be?
I had wondered from the moment I deciphered the new guest names Mrs. Mayhew had given me. Along with Mrs. Grice I’d been pleasantly surprised to read the names of Mrs. Oliver Fry and Miss Elizabeth Shaw, known to me as Miss Lucy and Miss Lizzie, the lovely elderly sisters I’d met in Eureka Springs last fall. I didn’t doubt for a moment that I knew these two ladies. They were two of a kind. Besides, they only wintered in Eureka Springs and called New Haven, Connecticut, home. Yet Miss Lizzie, in our continued correspondence, had never mentioned that she and her sister would be in Newport. I couldn’t wait to see them.
I finished setting out the place cards. As I began to double-check my work with the names on the seating map in my hand, Mrs. Mayhew arrived outside to survey the progress. Maids and footmen alike had been pressed into service decorating and setting up the tables under the direction of Mr. Davies. Ignoring Mrs. Mayhew, I rechecked Miss Lizzie’s and Miss Lucy’s place cards. The name that came next was Mrs. Julia Grice. As with every
time I’d seen the name, it brought Walter to mind. Could it be a relation? But here I was seating Mrs. Grice next to Miss Lizzie. The coincidence struck me as extraordinary, but before I had time to think of it further Mrs. Mayhew, clenching down on her bottom lip, left Davies and headed straight for me. Her expression told me I had done something wrong, but as I glanced at the place markers I was satisfied that she wouldn’t find fault with my effort. Mrs. Mayhew stopped short of me and went to the center table, right in front of the stage, and ripped one of the place markers in half. I glanced at the name on the seating chart I held and read Gideon Mayhew.
“Davish! Davies!” Mrs. Mayhew yelled. The butler and I rushed to her side, exchanging glances. “Mr. Mayhew will not be attending this afternoon’s recital.” I had wondered when she would make the news public. Suddenly the woman turned to me. “Davish, what am I to do?”
“I believe Mr. James Gordon Bennett has arrived from New York,” I said, as if I’d done this my whole life. Part of my new tasks was to scan the “Cottage Arrivals for the Week” column listed daily in the Mercury newspaper.
“Really? Wonderful, Davish! Do invite him in Gideon’s stead. I knew I could rely on you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“By the way, what was in that envelope you delivered to Mr. Mayhew the other day, Davish?”
“I have no idea, ma’am,” I said, trying to keep my indignity out of my voice. The suggestion that I would ever open anything I was not instructed to was an affront I had difficulty ignoring, even from Mrs. Charlotte Mayhew.
“Of course you don’t,” Mrs. Mayhew said, sighing. “Well, whatever it was prompted my husband to go back to New York early. And now he’s planning to stay there!”
Why would she think the letter had anything to do with it? The letter appeared to me to have been addressed in a man’s hand, not a woman’s. Maybe she was simply using it as an excuse.
A Sense of Entitlement (A Hattie Davish Mystery) Page 6