“Yes, sir,” the housekeeper and I said in unison. “Of course, sir,” Mrs. Crankshaw added.
“Good, now answer my question.” I could see Mrs. Crankshaw’s shoulders tighten. “Why were you speaking to that man almost at my front door?”
“He’d come to the front door, to make trouble, sir,” she said. “I asked him to step down into the drive.”
“But then why not leave it at that? Why not simply slam the door in his face?” Gideon Mayhew was no fool. He knew Mrs. Crankshaw wasn’t telling him everything.
“I wanted to tell him once and for all, we were not interested in his brand of talk,” she said.
“Who’s been listening to him?”
“Sir?” Mrs. Crankshaw said. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“If you were so adamant to talk to the man that you stepped down with him into the drive, someone in this household must be taking the man seriously. Whom are you protecting, Mrs. Crankshaw?”
“James, sir, your first footman,” she said to my astonishment and without hesitation. I expected her to deny that anyone was taking Sibley seriously. Instead she offered up James like a roast goose on a platter. Did Mrs. Crankshaw know more about James’s feelings than I did? Did it matter? I’d heard James speak of Lester Sibley, but was he considering striking in earnest? I hoped not. I’d witnessed firsthand at the Whitwells’ how devastating that could be. Either way, I knew Mrs. Crankshaw was withholding something from Mr. Mayhew. From what I’d overheard from their conversation, Mrs. Crankshaw wasn’t simply telling a stranger he was unwelcome. She knew Mr. Sibley. She’d called him Lester and he had called her Thelma! I hadn’t even known Mrs. Crankshaw’s Christian name.
“You may be dismissed,” Mr. Mayhew said. “Please send the footman up to me, Mrs. Crankshaw. I’d like to speak with him myself.”
“Right, sir, of course,” she said as we both gratefully left the room.
“That was close,” she muttered under her breath.
“Mrs. Crankshaw,” I started, wanting to thank her for defending me, to ask her about James, but she stopped me.
“Not another word! Go attend Mrs. Mayhew. She’s been waiting all this time.”
I nodded. I wouldn’t get any more out of Mrs. Crankshaw tonight, or ever.
“Suicide!” Charlotte Mayhew gasped, putting a hand over her mouth. I’d given her a brief account of all I’d learned today, culminating with finding Harland Whitwell’s suicide letter. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, Mrs. Mayhew. It’s undeniable. I beg your pardon, ma’am, but Mrs. Whitwell was most adamant that this information remain a secret. No one but Jane, you, and I are to ever know.”
My employer bit her lip while nodding her head vigorously. “Of course, of course, and yet... ,” she said. “Nick knows too, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, we assume he does, though Mrs. Whitwell hasn’t spoken to him since his father’s death. He’s been elusive.”
“Rightfully so. For a while there, rumors were rampant he killed his father.” How rumors could be considered rampant in little over twenty-four hours I didn’t know. “But now we’ll simply have to put a stop to all that, shouldn’t we?”
“If his suicide is to remain secret, how are you going to stop the rumors?”
Charlotte Mayhew giggled. “Oh, Miss Davish, you are refreshingly naïve.” I bristled at the idea but kept any emotion from appearing on my face. Mrs. Mayhew thought she was giving me a compliment. “I’ll simply spread the word that I know the truth but won’t say what it is. Everyone will stop speculating about Nick and start gossiping about what I know. If that doesn’t get Mrs. Astor to call, I don’t know what will.” She clapped her hands and giggled.
This time I couldn’t keep the shock from my face. “You actually start rumors? Why?”
She laughed at me again. “Why else do you think I agreed to let you snoop around like this?”
“Yes, ma’am,” was all I could think to say. In her own way, Mrs. Mayhew was being both noble and selfish, deflecting the unwanted attention to where it was wanted. But what if Mrs. Astor did call, expecting to be told what happened to Harland Whitwell? What then? Would Mrs. Mayhew disregard her friend’s request to keep her husband’s suicide secret? Would Mrs. Mayhew put her social standing before her friendship with Jane Whitwell? I didn’t want to know.
And I’d helped her do this, I thought.
I hadn’t expected to like every task I was required to do. And I’ve never expected to understand the reason. I honored my promises. I did my job. She wanted the truth and I uncovered it for her. I should have felt proud if I’d succeeded, in my first position as a social secretary, in aiding in my mistress’s advance in that society. Her rise would reflect well on me and everyone in Mrs. Mayhew’s employ. I even suspected that Jane Whitwell, who might suffer for her friend’s aspirations, if given the same choice would make the same decision. If her own friend wouldn’t fault her, why did I feel tainted and disappointed by Mrs. Mayhew’s ambition?
Stay professional. This has nothing to do with you, I reassured myself.
“I’ll have my full typewritten report for you in the morning,” I said.
“Good, thank you. You may go.” I nodded, grateful to take my leave. “Oh, and Davish,” Mrs. Mayhew said as I stood in the doorway.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“The ball is tomorrow night. I’ll be relying on you.”
“Of course, ma’am,” I said. I turned and nearly bumped into the white satin waistcoat of Mr. Mayhew standing in the doorway. “Excuse me,” I said, without looking the man in the eye.
“Watch where you’re going!” he barked at me. “Charlotte, I’ve fired the housekeeper.” This he said to his wife the moment he pushed past me into the room. Standing only a few steps outside in the hall, I heard everything.
“What?!” his wife cried. Why had he fired Mrs. Crankshaw? I thought he had believed her story about Lester Sibley. Obviously he hadn’t.
“And one of the footmen, James, I think his name is.”
“Gideon, tell me you’re joking.”
“Of course I’m not joking. Have you ever known me to joke?”
“No, you’re right. You’re definitely not known for your sense of humor.” I wasn’t surprised to hear this. Had I ever even seen the man smile? “Then what’s the meaning of this, you firing Mrs. Crankshaw and the footman?”
“They’re involved with that Sibley man in some way.”
“But the ball is tomorrow night, Gideon. Tomorrow night! And I’m expecting the Astors to be there. What are we going to do?”
“I don’t care. I won’t have any of my servants cavorting with a well-known troublemaker like Sibley.”
“But—”
“It’s not up for discussion and we will not speak of it again.”
“But the ball, Gideon! How am I to throw the event of the year without a housekeeper and with one less footman? If anything, I need extra help.”
“Do whatever you need to do, Charlotte. I only came here to inform you of the situation. Good night.”
I flew down the hallway, frantically grabbing at locked doors as I went. If Gideon Mayhew caught me eavesdropping in the hallway, I’d be summarily dismissed, like Mrs. Crankshaw, like James. I’d be thrown out without a reference. I’d be homeless. Would Sir Arthur take me back? I’d hope so, but I didn’t want to find out. I twisted the knob of yet another door as I strained to look over my shoulder, watching for signs of Mr. Mayhew. I saw the black, highly polished tip of Mr. Mayhew’s shoe touch the brass threshold of the door. Click! The latch released and I threw myself through the open crack of the door. I pushed the door closed and pressed my back against it, my ear nearly touching the painted oak door. And I listened. His footsteps grew louder as he approached my hiding place. Had he seen me? I held my breath as he walked up to the door and then passed by. I stayed there, pressed against the door of the unused guest room, panting with fear and relief, long after the sound of his steps receded
into silence. I lifted my hand, noticing the stinging for the first time. Scrapes and partial imprints of flowers burned red in the palm of my hand. Rose Mont’s elaborately embossed brass doorknobs weren’t meant to be wrenched and twisted that hard. I let my breathing return to normal before opening the door and returning to the hall. I swiftly made my way to the sanctity of my sitting room.
I dropped into the chair facing my typewriter and let out a long sigh of relief.
That was too close, I thought, vowing to never eavesdrop again. I’d been lucky this time. Mrs. Crankshaw and James hadn’t been. I hadn’t been fond of Mrs. Crankshaw, but I was horrified that she’d been dismissed for merely having a conversation with Lester Sibley. Or was there more to her relationship with the labor man than I knew? Had her vehement rejection of the striking and the labor movement in general been a ruse? And what about James? Had he been involved with planning a strike or had he been a victim of Crankshaw’s attempt to keep her position? Or had Mr. Mayhew simply passed judgment on them both, regardless of the truth, because he could.
From now on, I thought, as I began to type up Mrs. Mayhew’s report, I would avoid Lester Sibley, avoid Gideon Mayhew, say no more and do no more than was necessary, and count the days until this Season in Newport was over.
CHAPTER 24
Ding, ding, ding, ding!
I returned from an early morning hike around Almy Pond, refreshed and satisfied to have gotten both an hour of fresh air and two more new specimens for my plant collection, American beachgrass and high-tide bush, before breakfast. I was confident, with the Whitwell business behind me, that I could tackle any task Mrs. Mayhew might ask of me today. Yet the moment I stepped back in the house from my hike I was overwhelmed by the frenzy of people skittering this way and that, the clattering of plates, pots, and pans, the overlapping of shouting voices, and the insistent ring of bells. And every person I passed gawked at me.
Why are they looking at me like that?
“Will someone go see what that’s all about, s’il vous plaît?” Monsieur Valbois, the cook, shouted. “How am I expected to cook lobster soufflé for a hundred people if those blasted bells keep ringing?”
“Hattie! You’re still here,” Sena said when I stepped into the kitchen. She stopped kneading the dough on the slab in front of her. Everyone stopped, for a brief moment, to look at me. What was going on?
“Of course I’m still here,” I said. “Why would you think otherwise?”
“Well . . . ,” Sena said, shrugging, “since you went up with Mrs. Crankshaw last night and no one had seen you since, we all thought . . . well . . . ?”
“Thought what?” I asked.
“That you too had been fired last night.”
“No, no,” I said, realizing why everyone had regarded me as if a ghost walked among them. “No, I was fortunate.”
She nodded. “We worried when Ethel came down with your untouched breakfast tray,” Sena said.
“I hadn’t realized I’d missed breakfast.” No wonder I was hungry, I thought.
“Here.” Sena handed me a freshly baked roll from a basket on the table.
“Who’s Ethel, by the way?” I said, relishing the hot bread. “Where’s Britta?”
“Britta didn’t come down for breakfast,” Sena said, putting her hand to the side of her mouth as if to prevent others from hearing. “But Ethel, she’s one of the upstairs chambermaids, said she passed Britta on the back stairs. Her eyes were red and puffy, as if she’d been crying. Now what do you think she’s upset for?”
Ding, ding, ding, ding! the bell chimed again.
“Je vous en prie,” Valbois pleaded. “Will someone please go see what they want in the dining room?”
“I’ll go,” I said, taking the chance to escape having to explain the cause of Britta’s tears. After hearing them together, I had little doubt deep affection existed between James and Britta that no one else knew about.
“Merci, mademoiselle,” the cook said, immediately returning to his soufflés.
I found my way to the dining room by following an endless line of footmen delivering tray after tray of silver, plates, and glasses.
Oh my goodness! I thought as I nearly shielded my eyes from the brilliance. By far the gaudiest room I’d seen so far, the dining room was awash in light. I could almost see myself in the highly polished parquet wood floor as sunlight, from the windows that stretched up to the ceiling, bounced off the high pink marble walls, the solid bronze dining chairs, the tall gilded mirrors hung above the fireplaces, the silver and glass on the sideboard, and the myriad of gilded bronze capitals. At night, the reflection from three-foot silver candelabra on the dining table would easily light the enormous room. Yet in all the shining opulence I was instantly drawn to the dining-room table, a grand oak table that easily sat eighteen, devoid of anything but an enormous mound of white linen, ripped or cut into hundreds, maybe thousands, of pieces. Bits of lace and thread had flown about when the linen was cut and were scattered across the table and floor. I bent down and picked up a piece that had fallen near the doorway. Of the family crest only a bit of orange shield with part of the ram’s head was left.
Who would do such a thing? I wondered as yet another footman shuffled past me into the room.
“Davish! Thank God!” Mrs. Mayhew said when she saw me. She pointed to the table. “What am I to do?”
“Ma’am?”
She stomped over to the table and picked up a few pieces of linen, letting them flutter back into the pile. “It’s all here, every last piece of linen in the house: the bed sheets, tablecloths, doilies, napkins, handkerchiefs, everything. Do you realize what this means? We have a ball tonight and have no table linens!”
“What happened?” I asked. Yet I knew before Mrs. Mayhew gave me the answer—Mrs. Crankshaw. As housekeeper, she was in charge of the linens of the house. In her anger over being dismissed, she must’ve spent a good portion of the night ripping, tearing, and cutting the linen, leaving it here for all to see.
“Mrs. Crankshaw, of course,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “But what are we going to do?” By now I’d grown accustomed to Mrs. Mayhew’s reliance on me in matters in which I had little or no experience, so why not add housekeeping to my ré-sumé?
“Could you buy more linen?” I suggested.
“You think I haven’t thought of that, Davish? You think I wouldn’t have already done that if enough linen could be bought in Newport?” I’m only trying to help, I thought. “And before you say it, we don’t have time to have it sent from New York or Boston.” I didn’t contradict her, but of course I knew it wouldn’t arrive in time from New York.
“Dix, neuf, huit . . .” I began counting backward in French under my breath, calming my nerves and my mind, and had an idea. “What about borrowing table linens from Mrs. Whitwell?”
Mrs. Mayhew opened her mouth to voice an objection but stopped herself.
“She is in mourning, after all,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “I know she has some good linen without her crest on it and she won’t be able to use her good linen for months. And she wouldn’t dare tell anyone, knowing what I know. Yes, Davish, it just may work.”
I immediately regretted making the suggestion. I’d thought they were friends; so why did I feel party to blackmail? Social climbing trumped friendship again. I’d never understand it, so I nodded and said without emotion, “I’ll tell Mr. Davies.”
“Good,” Mrs. Mayhew said, watching the footmen at their tasks. “And then come right back. I’ve got work for you to do.”
“This came for you, Miss Davish,” Mr. Davies said, handing me a letter, written in Miss Lizzie’s hand, as we all sat down to eat. With Mrs. Mayhew short staffed, I’d worked side by side with the others all day: stuffing hundreds of yellow zinnias into a wire mesh to create a wall of blossoms; folding hundreds of linens Mrs. Whitwell graciously provided; even helping to push back the carpets in the ballroom. Thus I’d forgone having tea by myself in my sitting room. And with Mrs. Crankshaw gon
e no one, not even Davies, protested. Not having my letter opener, I carefully tore the envelope by hand.
Expect a surprise! But don’t tell Lucy I told you.
That was it. That’s all it said. Why not tell me more? And why not tell Miss Lucy? Frustrated, I tossed the note onto the table and took a long sip of my coffee. The elderly Miss Shaw might have good intentions, but I hate surprises. Life is unpredictable enough without having others purposely spring the unexpected upon you. I was exhausted, my back hurt in places I’d never felt before, and now all I could do was worry about Miss Lizzie’s “surprise.” I picked the note up and read it again.
What could it possibly be? I wondered. Thankfully, I didn’t have much time to wonder further. I was to present myself when tea was over. The clock on the mantel chimed five and I took one last gulp of coffee before heading back to work. What Mrs. Mayhew wanted of me now I could only guess. I just hope it can be done sitting down, I thought, putting my hand to my aching back. Issacson was putting the last flourishes to the lady’s hair with diamond-and-pearl-encrusted gold hairpins when I arrived.
“You wanted to see me, ma’am?” I said.
Mrs. Mayhew swiveled around in her chair, brandishing a card in her hand, almost hitting Issacson in the nose. “It came, Davish! It came!” She jumped out of her chair with more vigor than I would have thought possible, waving the card in the air. Was she dancing a jig?
“Ma’am?” I said, trying not to laugh. She thrust the card in my face, so close I could barely read the print, Mrs. Astor, Newport .
“She’s coming to the ball. I’m in, Davish. I’m in!”
“Congratulations, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she said, sitting back down to let Issacson fix the hair that had loosened during her enthusiastic display. “And thank you for your help. You’ve done wonders. I knew I could rely on you!”
A Sense of Entitlement (A Hattie Davish Mystery) Page 18