Murder at Beechwood

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “We’ll do what we’ve been planning all along.” She shook her head as if I’d asked an absurd question. “We’re going to marry, and soon.”

  “Oh, dear.” If storm clouds had been gathering this past year on the Vanderbilt horizon, I felt fairly certain the storm was about to break. And it was going to be a fierce one. The time for delicacy had ended. I said, quite bluntly, “You do understand that Uncle Cornelius has threatened to disinherit Neily if he marries you.”

  “I do and I don’t care. I’ll have enough for both of us.”

  That sent my hand shooting out to grasp hers, the fabric of our gloves hissing out a warning. “Oh, Grace. Do you really think Neily could be happy living off his wife’s money?”

  “I . . .” She frowned, looking uncertain and even fearful. “What else can we do?”

  “Grace, Neily is working toward a master’s degree in engineering with every intention of obtaining employment in the field. He is intelligent and dedicated. But we both know he’ll never make the kind of salary that will keep the two of you in the kind of luxury you’re accustomed to.”

  “I’m willing to make sacrifices.”

  “Are you? Do you even know what that will mean?” I almost suggested she spend a few days with me at Gull Manor but held my tongue.

  Her gaze locked with mine and tears glittered behind her lashes. “Then . . . you’re against us, too.”

  “No.” I released her hand and gave it a gentle pat. “No, I’m not against you. If you and Neily are quite certain you have the fortitude to stand up to the entire Vanderbilt family—”

  “We are.”

  “Then this is one almost Vanderbilt”—I pressed a hand to my breastbone and the string of tiny pearls that had been my aunt Sadie’s—“who will support you. But you must fully understand what you’ll be facing. No illusions, Grace. It shan’t be easy.”

  She blinked her tears away. “Knowing Neily has your friendship will make it easier.”

  “You both have my friendship.”

  “Then any time I can do anything for you, Emma, you have only to ask.”

  “Actually, there is something . . .”

  Chapter 4

  It seemed the stars themselves lit the way from Bellevue Avenue to Beechwood, Mrs. Caroline Astor’s Italianate villa overlooking the sea. Gas lanterns swung gently from lines strung from tree to tree, while luminaries formed glowing snakes along both sides of the driveway that circled the fountain and its surrounding flowerbeds. Our progress from street to house took almost as long as the entire trip from Gull Manor, as countless carriages ahead of us deposited family after elegant family beneath the archways of the porte cochere.

  Our conversation had turned to lighter topics—Grace’s winter in Italy, her spring in Paris, and the excursions, parties, and shopping she had enjoyed. Neily had been present throughout most of those months, which she termed a happy, carefree time. In spite of the Wilsons’ lack of open ostentation, they lived nonetheless luxuriously, and I schooled the incredulity from my features as Grace spoke of their extravagances as casually as I spoke of the weather.

  Yet I paid careful attention to the details, and her chatter provided me with ample information to rule out a number of young ladies as having potentially birthed a child in recent weeks. The delay in reaching the house also provided me with an opportunity to broach the subject foremost on my mind, yet without revealing too much about the baby in my care. It’s not that I had cause to distrust Grace, but this sudden friendship of ours, if that was what it was to be called, had yet to be fully tested. I thought it best to err on the side of caution and not mention my newest visitor at Gull Manor.

  “There have been rumors among members of the press,” I said to her, not liking to lie but seeing little alternative, “of an indelicate nature . . .”

  With just those words, she understood my meaning. “Do tell? Who, may I ask . . .”

  I happily fell back on the truth as I explained that I hadn’t yet discovered the identity of the woman in question, but that not only could an inheritance be at stake, but the child’s welfare as well, and for that reason I wished to ascertain his origins.

  “But how did you hear of this?”

  Here I utilized a reporter’s first line of defense. “It would be unethical of me to reveal my sources. But may I count on your assistance?”

  “You’d like me to . . .” Her eyes narrowed as she sought to comprehend.

  “Merely talk to your acquaintances, ones you haven’t seen in recent months, as you normally would. Nothing more sinister than that, I assure you.”

  “And you say the child’s welfare could suffer?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And you know the whereabouts of this child?”

  “I do,” I said, and left it at that. Would she probe further? Her eyes narrowed again speculatively; then she nodded.

  “Then, yes, of course, I’ll do as you ask, and I’ll let you know if I uncover anything significant.”

  The way she warmed to my subterfuge made me smile. Finally, it was our turn to disembark. Liveried footmen handed us down from the brougham. Immediately we became absorbed into the controlled crush of newly arrived guests, were escorted into a foyer glittering from the light of a tremendous crystal chandelier, and swept in a current of chatting, laughing ladies up a flight of stairs. Music and voices poured from the ballroom and followed us along an upper corridor, until a woman in the tailored black of a lady’s maid opened another door for us and we stepped into a bedroom suite.

  The trappings of femininity instantly surrounded us. Ribbons, lace, taffeta—it seemed these items flew through the perfumed air with lives all their own, until my senses processed the scene and I recognized that lady’s maids were removing capes from their mistresses’ shoulders and smoothing frocks, adding petticoats, jewels, and headdresses left off for the carriage rides, adjusting bodices, and changing serviceable leather shoes for delicate silk dancing slippers.

  Marianne, who had apparently arrived sometime earlier, hurried over to us. She and I traded pointed glances; then she walked us into an adjoining dressing room. Obviously set aside for singularly important guests, it was quieter here. There were only two other ladies being attended to by their maids, and I immediately recognized the regal figure of the woman just then inspecting her maid’s handiwork in a full-length, gilded mirror. The maid herself stood anxiously by, awaiting her mistress’s assessment.

  Mrs. Mary Goelet, Grace’s older sister, turned away from the mirror with an appreciative nod, and I felt rather than heard her maid’s sigh of relief. I curtsied when Mrs. Goelet’s gaze fell upon me, and endured the weight of her curiosity as she tried to place me. We’d met previously, though I’d not spoken with her in nearly a year, when I’d gone to nearby Ochre Court, her Newport cottage, searching for my cousin Consuelo. She slowly took in my gown, an act that rather reduced me to an insect beneath a magnifying glass. She no doubt recalled the garment from whichever ball she had attended with Grace last summer. I received an “Ah,” as she apparently remembered me, followed by the swift abandonment of her regard as she came forward to embrace her sister.

  “High time you arrived, Grace. What kept you?”

  “Oh, May,” Grace said lightly, her lips dancing over the single syllable of her sister’s nickname. “What was the rush? Miss Cross and I had a lovely ride over together. You do remember Emmaline Cross, don’t you?”

  May acknowledged me with something between a hello and a grunt, admonished her sister not to take too long, and swept imperiously out of the room. With a little roll of her eyes Grace took her sister’s place before the mirror and Marianne went to work. First she removed the velvet cape, and for the second time that day I gasped in awe at the image of beauty before me.

  I had believed the gifted cerulean gown to be uniquely exquisite, but Grace’s gown far outdid my own and left me gaping. Silk moiré of neither cream nor blush, but a shimmering, translucent combination that exists only insid
e seashells, formed the basis of the gown, with an overlay of black velvet swirls reminiscent of wrought-iron scrollwork. The bodice molded to Grace’s lovely figure, spilled over a gentle bustle, and flowed with breathtaking simplicity to a four-foot train. Little shirred sleeves combining the two fabrics added balance to the skirt and emphasized Grace’s shapely arms.

  Marianne added a petticoat, made some minor adjustments to the gown, attached ribbons to the tiara and entwined them in Grace’s curls. Then she turned her attention to me. I let her fuss for a few minutes, but as soon as I convinced both her and Grace that the achieved results were the best that could be hoped for, I hurried back into the main bedroom. This had been Carrie Astor’s suite when she was a girl, before she married Grace’s older brother.

  Cousin Gertrude’s face was the first to greet me, and in seconds her expression transformed from mild pleasure at seeing me to out-and-out astonishment.

  “Emmaline . . . my goodness . . . you look . . .”

  “Oh, this?” I was very tempted to toss my head as many of the other young ladies would have done and declare the gown nothing special. I couldn’t do it, not even in jest. “I’m a bit overwhelmed by it, truthfully. It was a gift from Grace Wilson.”

  My cousin’s nearly black brows converged, her scowl making me wince even before she spoke. “Since when do you accept gifts of that sort—of any sort—from the likes of Grace Wilson?”

  It was then I remembered what Grace had said, that Gertrude believed Neily and Grace should go their separate ways.

  She didn’t allow me time to explain, but went on. “You don’t understand what you’re playing with, Emmaline. Letting Neily stay with you during the spring upset my parents enough—”

  “It did? Why? He didn’t wish to be alone in that giant house.”

  “It involves more than that and you know it, Emmaline. Mother and Father feel you’re taking Neily’s side, and heavens, if they saw you in that dress, why, they’d . . .”

  “It’s only a dress, Gertrude, and I am not taking sides. If Neily needs me, I’m only too happy to assist. The same goes for all of you, including your parents.”

  “Yes, well . . .” She broke off, compressing her lips as her gaze shifted over my shoulder. Judging from the direction, I guessed Grace had entered the bedroom and probably stood watching us. I used Gertrude’s sudden muteness, however ill-tempered, to change the subject.

  “You spent most of the spring in New York, in the city and Long Island, yes?” When she nodded absently, I rushed on. “I’d love to hear all about it. Why don’t we walk downstairs together and you can tell me whom you saw and where you went—all the exciting news.”

  That seemed to rouse her from her resentments. With a murmured instruction to her hovering maid, she slipped her arm through mine and we made our way through the crowded room. Before we stepped into the corridor, however, I glanced back and caught Marianne’s eye.

  She nodded once, and I knew she would move about the room discreetly listening to the gossip, and once all the ladies descended to the ballroom she would strike up conversations with the other maids, probing, as I had asked her to, for hints that any of their young mistresses had been “indisposed” in recent months, and whether any male servants had gone missing lately. As to her divulging my secret to her mistress, I had no worries. Marianne had sworn secrecy with a vehemence that raised no doubts.

  “Uncle William and the boys were with us for most of the spring,” Gertrude was saying as we reached the staircase, “and we were often with the Delafields and the Havemeyers and their cousins from Ohio. Oh, and the Newbolds and the Camerons turned up everywhere we went. The Camerons were supposed to have gone abroad, but there was some problem with the yacht . . .”

  “Oh? And were Miss Catherine and Miss Ann Cameron in attendance as well?” I pictured the sisters in my mind. Ann in particular was a dark-haired girl with brown eyes that turned green in certain light . . . rather like my small guest’s. But in the next breath Gertrude silenced my speculation by confirming that yes, both the Cameron girls were at hand during the spring season.

  In a bright salon off the ballroom we lined up behind other guests, were announced by the butler, and were received briefly by Mrs. Astor amid a lush display of potted palms and American Beauty roses—her favorite flower. She spared a few polite words for Gertrude, fewer still for me, but then I was neither friend nor guest, but there to capture the night’s glorious moments for my newspaper column.

  Before we passed through to the ballroom, Mrs. Astor called me back. She drew herself up so she could gaze down her nose at me. “You will be discreet, of course, Miss Cross. I cannot have you badgering my guests as they endeavor to enjoy themselves. Unless you are first spoken to, you may use your eyes and ears only to report on the ball.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Discretion is part of my job.”

  “That’s a lovely dress,” she observed as I again started to move away. I couldn’t help smiling at her disapproving tone, or how she glanced sideways at her social advisor and companion for the evening, a short, round-faced man with a snub nose and a great, grizzled mustache. Ward McCallister often filled in at such events for William Astor, who preferred a quieter life at his upper New York estate. I myself had seen Mr. Astor in Newport only once, and that had been years ago as he boarded his steamer to leave the island.

  Mr. McCallister gave a snort and raised his shaggy eyebrows, and he and Mrs. Astor nodded in silent agreement—no doubt that a girl of my social station should know better than to overstep her bounds; Worth gown or not, I was still nothing more than a wealthy family’s poor relation.

  Gertrude and I parted soon after entering the ballroom. She drifted into a group of friends while I moved along the wall and found a discreet doorway from where I could observe without interruption. As I usually did, I took a writing tablet and pencil from my purse and began jotting down the details I’d need for my Fancies and Fashions page, all the while on the alert for any clues that might lead me to the baby’s mother.

  The orchestra played a cotillion, the current favorite, and an array of bright silks and severe black eveningwear filled the dance floor. In pairs men and women formed two long lines and performed the frolicking steps that harkened back to the once-popular quadrilles of decades ago. Hems flounced and coattails fluttered, a dazzling display captured in the numerous French doors that were paneled with mirrors.

  Poised in bas-relief above each doorway, images of Poseidon and Aphrodite presided over the proceedings, while the herringbone pattern of the parquet floor mimicked ocean waves. Along with the brilliant chandeliers overhead, brass wall sconces lit the scene, each one fashioned to look like ribbons of flowing seaweed. The overall effect was one of a charmed, underwater backdrop meant to enhance rather than overshadow the main spectacle, that of the very cream of the Four Hundred dancing, smiling, and yes, strategizing in their finest attire and priceless jewels.

  I had always admired Beechwood, more than I cared for either The Breakers or my aunt Alva’s Marble House. Though magnificent, those houses were also hard and frigid and somehow vacuous. Not of things, for both houses were chock-full of treasures and luxuries of every sort, but of warmth and life, of that cozy spirit that made a house a home.

  Designed in the Italianate villa style, Beechwood was certainly grander than the shingle-style houses like my own, yet possessed a lighter, airier, and more genial atmosphere than either of the houses owned by my relatives. A person could more easily live here, move about, breathe . . . without fearing to damage one’s surroundings. Beechwood had been designed to delight those who lived within its walls, while The Breakers and Marble House were intended to strike awe into the hearts of those who did not.

  Even as I took in these surroundings, I kept a sharp eye out for anything unusual. Eventually I abandoned my doorway and began a circuit of the room’s perimeter, stopping to greet guests and, when invited to converse, ask questions and jot down notes. Where I met with reticence from thos
e less familiar with me, I admit to defying Mrs. Astor’s edict and using my carefully collected facts to inquire after their newest yachts, the renovations to their New York mansions, the plans for their daughters’ weddings, et cetera. A few well-chosen words of flattery usually went a long way in loosening tongues.

  Much to my frustration, all seemed as it should. I’d begun to despair of learning anything useful that night, when my gaze fell upon a singularly unhappy face, one I recognized. With renewed vigor I set off at once in her direction.

  “Miss Gordon,” I said when I reached her, injecting the correct mix of cordiality and polite deference into my voice. “How lovely to find you here. Do you remember me?”

  Daphne Gordon was a girl some three years my junior with wispy golden curls, pale eyes, and a sturdy frame that hinted at future plumpness. For now her youth leant a healthy and pleasing roundness to a figure clad in pale rose satin. She returned my greeting with a puzzled expression that gradually cleared to one of recognition. “Miss Cross, is it?”

  “Yes, Emma Cross. We met here at Beechwood a year ago, when Mrs. Astor dedicated her new rose garden. I’m covering the ball for one of our town newspapers. Your family are good friends of the Astors, as I recall?”

  “Indeed. We’re staying here at Beechwood as Mrs. Astor’s guests.” Her reply held no enthusiasm, nor did her expression convey pleasure. Quite the contrary.

  I pasted on my most professional, yet still amiable, demeanor. “Are you enjoying yourself tonight? I couldn’t help but notice, as I entered the ballroom, that you appeared rather disconcerted.”

  “Disconcerted.” She spoke the word as if testing out a new flavor of wine. “No, Miss Cross, not disconcerted. Bored. Horribly, dreadfully bored.”

  “How can that be?” I swept an admiring glance over the ballroom. Had she become immune to the splendors of her set?

  “Because I’m tired of”—she waved a hand in the air—“all of this. If you must know, I was dragged here—quite against my will.” She flicked her gaze to the group ranged behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder to recognize several members of the Monroe family. Daphne Gordon had been orphaned several years ago, after both of her parents died in a house fire. Daphne, about thirteen at the time, had been placed with the Monroes, who were relatives—distant ones, which had puzzled closer family members at the time. I remembered my parents discussing the matter. An aunt had sued for custody, but the will had been clear. The courts upheld her parents’ wishes and Daphne Gordon, along with the lumber fortune she inherited, was placed under the protection of Virgil and Eudora Monroe, presently standing directly behind me.