Murder at Beechwood

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “There is nothing we can do,” Eudora Monroe told her with anxious shakes of her head.

  “I’m sure they’ll be all right,” I said with little conviction. I turned back around to face the water. The sloop tipped again, this time towed by the current toward Uncle William’s Defender, also banked sharply on its side. My own stomach seemed to drop out from under me as the mast from the former seemed about to crash into the hull of the latter. Grace gripped my arm like a vise. I drew her closer and wrapped an arm about her trembling body.

  Cresting waves obscured the vessels, sending up a collective gasp among the spectators around me. When the waves broke, the Defender straightened and skipped over the water away from the sloop, putting a safe distance between them. But the Vigilant tilted sharply again, the boom once more swinging out of control. Mrs. Andrews cried out. Daphne’s sobs filled the air while Mrs. Monroe murmured a steady stream of words to calm her.

  My heart clogged my throat and my pulse hammered in my wrists so that I could hardly position the binoculars I raised in my free hand. The sloop was once more upright, but the mast had splintered, the shattered section and broken boom pitching riotously in the waves. I caught my breath and held it as two men leaned out over the port side. They reached out and latched on to something in the water, and to my horror I realized that something was an individual. They gripped handfuls of clothing and heaved until they dragged what appeared to be a lifeless body up, over, and onto the deck. There he lay sprawled on his back, unmoving.

  “Who is it?” I asked aloud. Even with the binoculars I couldn’t make out the features, not of the prone man or the others. It was all a watery blur, the images muted and gray upon the darker gray background of sea and sky.

  “What’s happening?” Grace demanded. “Can you see Neily?”

  “What about Lawrence?” Daphne shouted.

  Before I could answer either of them, Mrs. Andrews made her own hoarse demand. “Do you see Derrick? Where is Derrick?”

  “I don’t know. . . .” Fear made me queasy. No matter how coldly he had treated me the night before, or how much this woman apparently disdained me, I could not wish either ill. I clamped my teeth around a wordless prayer that he would be all right.

  “Thank God,” a man in the crowd shouted. “The Life-Saving Service is on the way!”

  This time I released Grace to raise the binoculars in both my trembling hands. Sure enough, two official cutters sliced through the rain and churning waves. Within minutes one had rendezvoused with Uncle William’s ketch. The other continued until it reached Virgil Monroe’s sloop.

  With a gasp of relief I said, “Thank goodness, they’ll be safe now.”

  Yet when I swerved my sights back to the foundering vessel, it was to realize there were only four men on board. The binoculars slipped from my grasp to clatter to the marble-tiled floor.

  Someone else had gone over. Someone had been lost.

  Chapter 7

  Mrs. Astor’s guests crowded into the ballroom, a somber gathering waiting for news. The buffet tables had been carried inside at the first drops of rain, but not many people ventured toward them. I certainly had no appetite. How could this have happened? How could the elements have dared defy Mrs. Astor and wreak such havoc on her festivities?

  One by one Mrs. Astor assembled those most affected by the day’s events and ushered them upstairs to her private parlor. Grace and Gertrude, Mrs. Monroe and Daphne Gordon, Mrs. Andrews and her daughter, Judith Kingsley, all followed Caroline Astor up the Grand Staircase in heavy silence. She had not sought me out, but I brought up the rear nonetheless. Five of my relatives had been directly involved, not to mention Derrick. As we arrived on her parlor threshold she eyed me as if contemplating sending me away, but both Gertrude and Grace reached out their hands to draw me into the room.

  “Shouldn’t we telephone someone in town?” Mrs. Andrews plucked nervously at the lace on her sleeve. “The hospital, or the Life-Saving Service station?”

  “Don’t you think someone would telephone here if there were any news, Mother?”

  Something in Judith Kingsley’s tone caught my attention. I glanced over at her in time to catch the petulance on her features before she schooled them into a more suitably apprehensive expression. I studied her a moment longer, remembering her anger of the night before, aimed at both Derrick and Virgil Monroe. Could her resentments be so powerful as to overshadow any concerns for their welfare? Had she not realized someone on that sloop had most likely drowned?

  Daphne Gordon, on the other hand, appeared almost inconsolable. She had collapsed into a side chair near Mrs. Astor’s escritoire. Her face in her hands, she sobbed quietly while Mrs. Monroe stood over her rubbing her shoulders and patting her hair. Unlike Judith Kingsley, whatever hostilities Daphne had harbored the night before seemed forgotten in her anxiousness over the fate of family members. Mrs. Monroe at times dashed away tears of her own with the backs of her knuckles, but otherwise maintained a brave face for her ward. I wondered how she managed it. Her husband, two sons, and brother-in-law were all on that boat.

  For the moment, Grace and Cousin Gertrude seemed to have forgotten their differences. I saw no disparaging looks pass between them. Unable to keep still, I went to the window that looked out at the ocean. The rain had tapered to a light drizzle. Earlier, the remaining men on Virgil Monroe’s sloop had been rescued by one of the Life-Saving cutters. Then, using pulleys and winch, the cutter had towed the damaged sloop away. The other cutter remained in the vicinity and several other vessels joined it, a mix of pleasure craft and fishing vessels. Apparently word had spread through Newport. The boats fanned out over the water in what looked to be about a mile in each direction and were methodically sailing in an almost gridlike formation.

  “Some of those boats look like volunteers from the Yacht Club,” Grace murmured. I jumped at her voice; I hadn’t heard her approach. “How splendid of Neily’s sailing comrades to join the search. I do hope—” She broke off, swallowing.

  “You mustn’t worry,” I said firmly. “It’s certain Neily is safe in town by now. Whoever they’re searching for fell from the Monroes’ sloop, not my uncle William’s ketch.”

  “Emma is right, Miss Wilson.” Gertrude had come to stand at my other side. The dark slash of her brows pulled inward. “You needn’t worry about Neily. My brother is my concern, and my family’s.”

  Had I believed them to have reached a temporary truce? How wrong I was. My cousin’s rudeness sent me whirling to face her. “Gertrude . . .”

  “It’s all right, Emma,” Grace whispered.

  “I’ve already telephoned over to The Breakers and told them what little I know.” Gertrude went on as if she hadn’t committed an unpardonable slight against Grace and, by association, me. “The very moment there is any further news I’ll rush home to tell them. They’re worried, of course, but I reassured them the ketch appeared sound as it sailed off with all crew members aboard.”

  Grace ignored her and stared out at the activity on the water. “Whom do you suppose they’re searching for?”

  I shook my head, my teeth clamping the insides of my cheeks. Though I wished ill fate on none of the men aboard the sloop, I refused to consider that it could be Derrick lost to the waves. He and I had last parted on such uncertain terms, and I couldn’t help but blame myself for that. For the better part of last year I had sent him mixed messages, offering my regard one moment only to withdraw it the next. Why? Because I feared where that regard might lead me. Because I wasn’t yet ready to commit to him or any man. Because . . .

  Because in truth I doubted that he or any man could form an attachment as swiftly as he had . . . to me.

  Me—plain, ordinary, unexciting Emma Cross. Surely what had aroused Derrick’s interest had been the danger we had shared in facing death on more than one occasion. Oh, I’d cited my desire to remain independent, to achieve success in my life and my career on my own terms and in ways that would be considered unseemly for a
society wife. I’d pointed out the differences in our backgrounds and how I’d never fit in with his upper-class family.

  But I’d had plenty of time in the interim to examine my motives and admit the truth, at least to myself. I had feared that once the excitement had worn off, so, too, would our infatuation with each other. It seemed sometime last winter he had realized something to this effect, or perhaps he had simply grown tired—or bored—with my insistence that we not become too deeply involved too quickly.

  And now . . . I gulped in a breath. Now we might never have the opportunity to discover if we could have developed something more lasting. My throat tightened at the thought—at the possible loss. At my own stubborn stupidity.

  “Ladies, come and have some tea,” Mrs. Astor beckoned from behind us. “You’ll feel better.”

  I doubted it, but after blinking away the mist that had gathered in my eyes, I dutifully took a seat on one of the two Louis Quinze sofas that faced each other. A pair of footmen poured tea, which Mrs. Astor herself graciously passed around, even offering me a kindly smile as she placed an exquisite, floral-patterned Meissen cup and saucer in my hand. Either in all the commotion she had temporarily forgotten that I was not one of her honored guests, or seeing me flanked by Gertrude Vanderbilt and Grace Wilson had elevated me in her esteem, at least temporarily.

  An hour dragged by, seeming more like several. We spoke in whispers and drank endless cups of tea while continuing to gaze out the windows as if the men for whom we waited would suddenly appear in the sky. Finally, at the sound of raised voices below, we thrust cups aside and, in a flurry of skirts, sprang to our feet.

  We entered the ballroom to discover Neily had arrived with the Monroe brothers and their uncle Wyatt. Their clothing hung about them in sodden wrinkles, their hair encrusted with salt and plastered to their foreheads. They were speaking with John Astor and Stuyvesant Fish, who also must have returned while the ladies and I had been upstairs. I saw no sign yet of Virgil.

  Or of Derrick. Was he somewhere in the room, speaking to one of numerous knots of people? I tried to discern his voice among the murmurs filling the room. My heart thumped more forcefully with each moment I didn’t find him.

  Gertrude spotted Neily and started to go to him, but Grace was too quick. She hurried by and cast herself into his outstretched arms. I remembered the feeling, after more than one harrowing experience, of running into Derrick’s arms and not caring who saw. Gertrude set her hands on her hips. She tensed as if about to hurry toward them, but I came up behind her and grasped her elbow. She turned to me with a scowl and opened her mouth to protest.

  “Give them a minute or two,” I whispered in a rush, and indicated with a sweep of my gaze the numerous stares pinned on us. “You don’t want to make a scene.”

  “They are already making a scene and it isn’t right,” she whispered, but lowered her arms and assumed a more ladylike stance.

  “Perhaps that’s not for us to judge,” I whispered back.

  She ignored me, and called out, “Neily, what about Uncle William and the boys, and Uncle Frederick?”

  “They’re all fine,” he said, lifting his cheek from Grace’s hair and putting several proper inches between them. “They’ve gone back to Rough Point.”

  Rough Point, situated at the southern end of Bellevue Avenue, was Uncle Frederick’s estate, and where Uncle William and his sons often stayed when they weren’t on his steamer yacht, The Valiant. The news of their safety sent a surge of relief through me.

  Though she still appeared anything but happy, Gertrude voiced my own thoughts. “Thank goodness they’re safe.”

  At the same time Grace had rushed to Neily, Eudora Monroe and Daphne Gordon did likewise to Lawrence and Nate Monroe. As Grace had done, Daphne seemed oblivious of surrounding stares and threw herself into Lawrence’s embrace. From over her shoulder the young man tossed his mother an unapologetic, almost defiant look . . . as if this show of affection was something forbidden . . . something heretofore concealed.

  I hadn’t long to contemplate that before Nate Monroe staggered to a table and collapsed into a chair. He was as pale as the surrounding walls and seemed light-headed, about to faint. Someone produced a snifter and pressed it into his palm and, when he barely responded, helped raise the glass to his lips. Nate sipped and then sputtered. His coughing brought silence to the surrounding voices.

  Eudora went to him, sank to her knees, and took hold of his free hand. “What happened out there? Where is your father?”

  “Where is my son?” Lavinia Andrews demanded, the panic in her voice echoing my own rising anxiety. “Where is Derrick?”

  When the boy said nothing, his uncle, Wyatt Monroe, raked his fingers through his hair, making it stand up in dark spikes. His eyes were bloodshot; his skin loosely hugged the bones of his face. Virgil’s younger brother, the handsomer, sporting brother, seemed to have aged decades at the hands of the storm. “He’s safe, Mrs. Andrews,” he said. The breath whooshed out of me. Relief weakened my knees, until his next words hit me with physical force. “He took in some water, but the doctors say he should recover.”

  “Water?” Mrs. Andrews’s startled gaze met my own before darting back to his. “You mean he nearly drowned?”

  “We fished him out before that happened,” Wyatt assured her.

  “And my husband?” Eudora Monroe was still kneeling at Nate’s feet, holding his hand in both of hers.

  Nate tried to reply, but it came out choked and garbled. With an arm still around Daphne, Lawrence said, “It was awful, Mother. As soon as the waves kicked up, Father lost control of the rudder. It was almost as if—” He stopped, biting down on his lower lip. He angled a gaze at his uncle.

  “Tell me,” Eudora demanded in a tone that made both her sons flinch.

  Lawrence released Daphne and approached his uncle. “Uncle Wyatt, you realized it, too, didn’t you? Am I imagining things? You’re the most experienced sailor among us. What was your sense of it?”

  “If one of you doesn’t explain this instant . . .” Eudora gripped the arms of Nate’s chair and pushed to her feet. “What should Wyatt have sensed? What did you all see out there?”

  Once again she glared at each family member, and only then did I realize her eyes were dry—quite dry, unlike Daphne’s and her younger son’s. Nate’s tears fell openly and his shoulders visibly shook, so that I longed to go to him and offer what comfort I could. I stood rooted to the spot, however, waiting, as everyone else in that room waited, for some explanation.

  Lawrence spun on his heel to face his mother, but it was Neily who spoke. “It seemed to be more than the storm that sent the sloop out of control. Each of the four boats was hit with the same wind, and the same currents dragged at our rudders and strained the sails. We had trouble navigating the ketch, true, but it wasn’t until the Monroes’ sloop came at us that we were in any serious danger.”

  He paused, and Grace asked quietly, “What are you saying?”

  “Something wasn’t right about how the sloop was handling. As if the problem stemmed from the vessel itself and not the weather.”

  “That’s right.” Lawrence fisted his hands. “I felt the sloop shimmying in the water before the storm hit. There was an odd vibration in the lines I’d never felt before. I called over to Father to tell him as much, but he didn’t seem to hear me. He—” He broke off, swore under his breath, and made his way to a seat beside his brother at the table. “Oh, God . . .”

  His head fell into his hands. Eudora stood looking down at him, at both her sons. Foreboding settled heavily in the pit of my stomach.

  “Where is your father now?” Eudora asked, her voice a mere rumble of its normal pitch.

  In answer, Lawrence lifted his face and stared out the French doors facing the sea.

  A half an hour later I arrived at Newport Hospital on Friendship Street just off Broadway. Grace had lent me use of her carriage. She had offered to accompany me, but I had insisted she stay behind with
Neily. I thanked the driver and sent him back to Beechwood to collect his mistress. I’d worry about getting home later.

  The air inside reeked of dampness from the rain mingled with antiseptic and lye soap. Lavinia Andrews and Judith Kingsley had entered only minutes before me. I waited at a respectful distance as they were greeted by a doctor who explained Derrick’s condition. I pricked my ears, and terms such as fluid on the lungs and possible pneumonia sent ice through my veins. I held my tongue and saved my questions for later.

  Finally, the doctor offered to escort them to Derrick’s room. I started forward, but Lavinia noticed me then and held up the flat of her palm. I stopped short as if she’d pushed me. “My son’s health is a private matter, Miss Cross.”

  “I’m concerned about him, too, Mrs. Andrews.”

  Her eyebrow rose in a show of disdain. “I suggest you return to your home. I’ll have someone deliver a message to you once we are more certain of Derrick’s condition. Unless you have a telephone?” Her expression said she didn’t think someone like me would possess such a luxury.

  I didn’t bother to correct her. She had placed pointed emphasis on my son, in effect staking her claim and negating any hold I might have believed I had on Derrick. Her attitude toward me stung, but in a way I could hardly blame her. Her only son lay in a hospital bed in serious condition. Why should she worry about the feelings of a young woman she scarcely knew? Yet Derrick and I had a history of facing danger together, and I wasn’t about to go anywhere until I knew he would be all right. Resolutely I chose a chair in the lobby and settled in. Mrs. Andrews and her daughter regarded me with no small degree of exasperation before apparently dismissing me and following the doctor up the stairs.

  Time passed, and I began to wonder if I should call for a hansom to take me home. At the sound of heels clicking on the steps I jumped up from my seat. Judith Kingsley approached, her expression grim.