Murder at Beechwood

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Well, Nanny, what do you think?” I gained my feet and crossed my arms. “Is there room at Gull Manor for another resident?”

  She stroked behind his ears. “I think he needs us.” She turned to gaze out the front window, her expression sad as she no doubt thought about Robbie. She said more quietly, “And I think we need him.”

  One thing I had learned about Nanny over the years, she was almost always right. Patch, as we came to call him, might knock over a few more tables and vases before we trained him properly, but starting from that very afternoon, the ache in our hearts, so sharp that morning, began to subside, and somehow the future no longer seemed so bleak. In fact, I looked forward to Grace and Neily’s visit in the fall, to receiving the promised letters from Daphne, to hearing news about Robbie’s progress, and to seeing Derrick again.

  But when a knock sounded at the door that very next morning and a Western Union delivery boy handed me a telegram, I knew it was far too soon for good news. With trembling hands and a fluttering pulse, I tipped the boy, closed the door, and leaned with my back against it.

  I stared down at the unopened envelope so hard I might have burned a hole through it. Telegrams didn’t always bring bad news, I tried telling myself. Sometimes they brought unexpectedly good news. Sometimes they merely contained a greeting, a reminder that loved ones far away held you in their thoughts.

  Brady came toward me down the corridor from the morning room. “What do you have there, Em?”

  The question jolted me out of my stupor. There was nothing for it. I slipped my finger beneath the seal and tore the thing open.

  “It’s from Mother and Dad.”

  “About time we heard from them. What’s it been? Months?”

  I acknowledged his observation with a hmm and kept reading as I strolled into the parlor. My perplexity grew with each word stamped across the page, until anger rose up and I all but crumpled the paper between my fingers.

  “They need money,” I said, shaking my head and wondering, yet again, how I had fallen into the role of matriarch of our little family. “They say it’s an emergency, and they want me to go to Uncle Cornelius for it.”

  “In their defense, Em, they probably haven’t received the letter you sent explaining what happened.”

  “And wouldn’t I like to pretend I never received this telegram. Send money, indeed.”

  At the back of the house a door slammed, and soon thudding footfalls came barreling down the hallway. Moments later Patch skidded through the parlor doorway and launched himself at my ankles. I crouched to accept his enthusiastic greetings against my face and ran my hands from head to tail in return. Then I looked up to see Brady grinning down at me.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “You. You won’t turn your back on Mother and Dad any more than you would with me or anyone else who stumbles into your life. I don’t know what we’d all do without you, Em.”

  What, indeed? I sighed and pushed to my feet.

  Afterword

  While the events that occur at Beechwood in the story are completely fictional, it is true that Mrs. Astor, as the reigning queen of society, typically kicked off the social activities of each summer Season. Caroline Schermerhorn Astor both led and defined Gilded Age society, and being a member of the Four Hundred (based on the number of guests who fit comfortably in her New York ballroom), was certainly seen as a mark of distinction. Being worthy of her notice meant a family had “arrived.”

  Mrs. Astor, considered “old money” (as opposed to the Vanderbilts, who had earned their fortune in trade), was nothing if not stubborn, determined, judgmental, and about as ruthless a society matron as could be imagined. When her daughter, Carrie, wished to attend a ball thrown by Alva Vanderbilt in 1883, she could not be invited because her mother had yet to recognize the “upstart” Vanderbilts as her social equals. Carrie’s deep disappointment, however, persuaded Mrs. Astor to give in and call on Mrs. Vanderbilt, thereby paving the way for the two families to mix socially. Later, when Carrie wished to marry, it was to Orme Wilson of the same Wilson family the Vanderbilts found so objectionable. Mrs. Astor disapproved of the match every bit as much as the Vanderbilts disapproved of Neily marrying Grace, but when Carrie proved determined (a family trait), Mrs. Astor gave in rather than lose her daughter. This, in my mind, suggests a mother who very dearly loved her daughter, who was capable of swallowing her own pride in favor of her daughter’s happiness, and who was intelligent enough to realize what was at stake.

  Sadly, such was not the case for Neily Vanderbilt. Although I have fictionalized the circumstances, Murder at Beechwood does trace the actual events leading up to Neily and Grace’s elopement in August of 1896. One wonders, if Cornelius and Alice hadn’t dug in their heels and voiced their disapproval so vehemently, would the young couple simply have danced a few dances in the summer of 1895 and ultimately gone their separate ways? To their credit, they did remain married until their deaths, but their years together served to emphasize the great differences in their personalities: Grace’s love of parties and excitement versus Neily’s quiet, studious nature. These differences would eventually create distance between them, until they basically led separate lives in their latter years.

  As described in the story, the tension and estrangement between Neily and his parents reached a heartbreaking and dangerous climax in July of 1896. Some accounts claim father and son came to blows, while others discount that theory, but historians agree that the strife between them precipitated the first of Cornelius’s strokes that would incapacitate him and from which he would never fully recover. Neily would be disinherited in favor of his younger brother, Alfred, and rather than being a partner in the family business he would merely hold a position at the New York Central Railroad for a modest salary. His ingenuity in modifying and modernizing train travel was extraordinary, however, and he came to be hailed a genius in his field. In time, his brother would restore a good deal of his inheritance as well.

  In 2010, Beechwood was privately purchased and closed to the public, in order that extensive restorations could return the house to its original, Gilded Age state. The original arched loggia, which is also being restored, was destroyed by Hurricane Carol in 1954 and replaced with a relatively simple veranda, which will account for the fact that my description of the back of the house might seem unfamiliar to past visitors. It’s my understanding that once the construction is complete, the house will reopen featuring a fine arts museum on the first floor, with select rooms on the second story open at certain times of year.

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

  Alyssa Maxwell’s

  MURDER MOST MALICIOUS

  the first book in her new Lady and Lady’s Maid

  mystery series coming in January 2016!

  Chapter 1

  December 25, 1918

  “Henry, don’t you dare ignore me!” came a shout from behind the drawing room doors, a command nearly drowned out by staccato notes pounded on the grand piano.

  “Henry!”

  Stravinsky’s discordant Firebird broke off with a resounding crescendo. Voices replaced them, one male, one female, both distinctly taut and decidedly angry. Phoebe Renshaw came to an uneasy halt. She had thought the rest of the family and the guests had all gone up to bed. Across the Grand Hall, light spilled from the dining room as footmen continued clearing away the remnants of Christmas dinner.

  With an indrawn breath she moved closer to the double-pocket doors.

  “I’m very sorry, Henry, but it isn’t going to happen,” came calmer, muffled words from inside, spoken by the feminine voice. A voice that sounded anything but sorry. Dismissive, disdainful, yes, but certainly not contrite. Phoebe sighed and rolled her eyes. As much as she had expected this, she shook her head at the fact that Julia had chosen Christmas night to break this news to her latest suitor. And this particular Christmas, too—the first peacetime holiday in nearly five years.

  A paragon of tact and goodwill,
that sister of hers.

  “We are practically engaged, Julia. Why do you think your grandparents asked my family to spend Christmas here at Foxwood? Everyone is expecting us to wed. Our estates practically border each other.” Incredulity lent an almost shrill quality to Henry’s voice. “How could our union be any more perfect?”

  “It isn’t perfect to me,” came the cool reply.

  “No? How on earth do you think you’ll avoid a scandal if you break it off now?”

  Phoebe could almost see her sister’s cavalier shrug. “A broken not-quite-engagement is hardly fodder for scandal. I’m sorry—how many times must I say it? This is my decision and you’ve no choice but to accept it.”

  Would they exit the drawing room now? Phoebe stepped backward, intending to flee, perhaps dart behind the Christmas tree that dominated the center of the hall. Henry’s voice, raised and freshly charged with ire, held her in place. “Do I? Do I really? You listen here, Julia Renshaw. Surely you don’t believe you’re the only one who knows a secret about someone.”

  Phoebe glanced over her shoulder, and sure enough, two footmen met her gaze through the dining room doorway before hurrying on with their chores. Inside the drawing room, a burst of snide laughter from Henry raised the hair at her nape.

  “What secret?” her sister asked after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Your secret,” Henry Leighton, Marquess of Allerton, the man Phoebe’s grandparents had indeed invited to Foxwood in hopes of a subsequent engagement, said with a mean hiss that carried through the door.

  “What . . . do you believe you know?”

  “Must I outline the sordid details of your little adventure last summer?”

  “How on earth did you discover . . . ?” Julia’s voice faded.

  It registered in Phoebe’s mind that her sister hadn’t bothered to deny whatever it was.

  “Let’s just say I kept an eye on you while I was on furlough,” Henry said, “and you aren’t as clever as you think you are, not by half.”

  “That was most ungentlemanly of you, Henry.”

  “You had your chance to spend more time with me then, Julia, and you chose not to. I, therefore, chose to discover where you were spending your time.”

  “Oh! How unworthy, even of you, Henry. Still, it would be your word against mine, and whom do you think Grampapa will believe? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed.”

  “You are not walking away from this, Julia!” Henry’s voice next plunged to a murmur Phoebe could no longer make out, but like a mongrel’s growl, it showered her arms with goose bumps.

  The sounds of shuffling feet were followed by a sharp “Oh!” from Julia. Phoebe’s hand shot instinctively toward the recessed finger pull on one of the doors, but she froze at the marquess’s next words. “This is how it is going to be, my dear. You and I are going to announce our engagement to our families tomorrow morning, and shortly after to the world. There will be parties and planning, and yes, there will be a wedding. You will marry me, or you’ll marry no one. Ever. I’ll see to that.”

  “You don’t even know whether or not anything untoward happened last summer,” Julia said with all the condescension Phoebe knew she was capable of, yet with a brittle quality that threatened her tenuous composure. “You’re bluffing, Henry.”

  “Am I? Are you willing to risk it?”

  Phoebe’s breath caught in her throat at the sounds of shuffling footsteps. She gripped the bronze finger pulls just as Julia cried out.

  “Let go of me!”

  Phoebe thrust both doors wide, perfectly framing the scene inside. Julia, in her pale rose gown with its silver-beaded trim, stood with her back bowed in an obvious attempt to pull free of Henry’s hold. A spiraling lock of blond hair had slipped from its pins to stream past her shoulder. Henry’s dark hair stood on end, no doubt from raking his fingers through it. His brown eyes smoldering and his cheeks ruddy with drink, he had his hands on her—on her! His fingers were wrapped so tightly around Julia’s upper arms, they were sure to leave bruises.

  For a moment, no one moved. Phoebe stared. They stared back. Henry’s tailcoat and waistcoat were unbuttoned with all the familiarity of a husband in his own home, his garnet shirt studs gleaming like drops of blood upon snow. Anger twisted his features. But then recognition dawned—of Phoebe, of the impropriety of the scene she had walked in on—and a measure of the ire smoothed from his features. He released Julia as though she were made of hot coals, turned away, and put several feet between them.

  Phoebe steeled herself with a breath and forced a smile. “Oh, hullo there, you two. Sorry to barge in like this. I thought everyone had gone to bed. Don’t mind me. I only came for a book, one I couldn’t find in the library. Julia, do you remember where Grampapa stashed that American novel he didn’t want Grams to know he was reading? You know, the one about the boy floating up that large river to help his African friend.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Julia looked from Phoebe to Henry and back again. She brushed that errant lock behind her ear and then hugged her arms around her middle. “I’ll help you look. G-good night, Henry.”

  “Oh, were you just going up?” Without letting her smile slip, Phoebe shot a glare at Henry and put emphasis on going up.

  A muscle bounced in the hard line of his jaw. His eyes narrowed, but he bobbed his head. “Good night, ladies. Julia, we’ll talk more in the morning.”

  He strode past Phoebe without a glance. Several long seconds later his footfalls thudded on the carpeted stairs. Phoebe let go a breath of relief. She turned to slide the pocket doors closed, and as she did so, several figures lingering in the dining room doorway scurried out of sight.

  There would be gossip below stairs come morning. Phoebe would worry about that later. She went to her sister and clasped her hands. “Are you all right?”

  Julia whisked free and backed up a stride. “Of course I’m all right.”

  “You didn’t look all right when I came in. You still don’t. What was that about?”

  Julia twitched her eyebrows and turned slightly away, showing Phoebe her shoulder. Yes, the light pink weal visible against her pale upper arm confirmed tomorrow’s bruises. “What was what about?”

  “Don’t play coy with me. What was Henry talking about? What secret—”

  “Were you listening at the door?”

  “I could hear you from the middle of the hall, and I think the servants in the dining room heard you as well. Lucky for you Grams and Grampapa retired half an hour ago. Or perhaps it isn’t lucky. Perhaps this is something they should know about.”

  “They don’t need to know anything.”

  “Why are you always so stubborn?”

  “I’m done in, Phoebe. I’m going to bed.” Her perfectly sloping nose in the air, she started to move past Phoebe, but Phoebe reached out and caught her wrist. Julia stopped, still facing the paneled walnut doors, her gaze boring into them. “Release me at once.”

  “Not until you tell me what you and Henry were arguing about. I mean besides your breaking off your would-be engagement. That comes as no great surprise. But the rest . . . Are you in some sort of trouble?”

  Julia snapped her head around to pin Phoebe with eyes so deeply blue as to appear black. Her forearm tightened beneath Phoebe’s fingers. “It is none of your business and I’ll thank you to mind your own. Now let me go. I’m going to bed, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll do the same.”

  Stunned, her throat stinging from the rebuke, Phoebe let her hand fall away. She watched Julia go, the beaded train of her gown whooshing over the floor like the water over rocks.

  “I care about you,” Phoebe said in a barely audible whisper, something neither Julia, nor the footmen, nor anyone else in the house could possibly hear. She wished she could say it louder, say it directly to her prideful sister’s beautiful face. And then what—be met with the same disdain Julia had just shown her? No. Phoebe had her pride, too.

  Eva Huntford made her way pas
t the main kitchen and into the servants’ dining hall with a gown slung over each arm. Lady Amelia had spilled a spoonful of trifle down the front of her green velvet at dinner last night, while Lady Julia’s pink-and-silver-beaded gown sported an odd rent near the left shoulder strap. Eva briefly wondered what holiday activities could possibly result in such a tear, then dismissed the thought. Today was Boxing Day, but she had work to do before enjoying her own brief holiday later that afternoon.

  “Mrs. Ellison, have you any bicarbonate of soda on hand? Lady Amelia spilled trifle—oh!” A man sat at the far end of the rectangular oak table, reading a newspaper and enjoying a cup of coffee. She draped the gowns over the back of a chair. “Good morning, Mr. Hensley. You’re up early.”

  “Evie, won’t you call me Nick? How long have we known each other, after all?”

  It was true, she and Nicolas Hensley had known each other as children, but they were adults now, she lady’s maid to the Earl of Wroxly’s three granddaughters, and he valet to their houseguest, the Marquess of Allerton. Propriety was, after all, of the utmost importance in a manor such as Foxwood Hall. Familiarity between herself and a manservant wouldn’t be at all proper. “A long time, yes, but it’s also been a long time since we’ve seen each other.”

  He smiled faintly. “I saw you yesterday. And the day before that.”

  “True, but only surrounded by others, or when passing each other in the corridors.” She turned to go. “In fact, I should—”

  “Oh, Evie, do stay. I’ve craved a moment alone with you. Don’t look like that. I only wish to . . . to express my deepest condolences about Danny. My very deepest, Evie. A bad business, that.”

  Her throat squeezed, and the backs of her eyes stung. Danny, her brother . . . She swallowed. “Yes, thank you. A good many men did not come home from the war.”