Newport: A Novel

by Jill Morrow

  Newport had changed, and unwelcome memories or not, Adrian approved of the shift he’d noted while driving from the ferry last night. The patina of pretension he remembered from years ago had dulled somewhat, lessened as society wealth siphoned away either to other resorts or to former President Wilson’s reviled income tax. Still, one needed only to look at the lavish mansions lining either side of Bellevue to realize that, despite the more pronounced presence of the navy, despite the increased influx of immigrants and the workingman, Newport would always keep a soft spot for the glittering doyennes of the social order—the ornaments who’d made the town sparkle in its heyday.

  Adrian tamped down his distaste and, for the fourth or fifth time since they’d docked the night before, reminded himself that he’d been rescued long ago from that mindset.

  In fact, he’d spoken to his favorite personal angel just last night.

  “You sound worried.” Constance’s lilting tones had soothed like honey. He’d have paid the hotel clerk twice over for the privilege of using the telephone. “What’s wrong?”

  He knew his wife well, knew he had interrupted her evening cup of tea and the New York World crossword puzzle she enjoyed working after Grace and Ted kissed her good night and disappeared into their bedrooms. She’d most likely taken a cookie or two up the stairs to enjoy with her tea, probably the rich, buttery shortbread she baked to perfection. The thought had made him smile: wise men did not interfere with Constance and her sweet tooth. In truth, wise men rarely interfered with Mrs. de la Noye at all. Her ethereal prettiness hid a steel trap of a mind, and those who underestimated her once never did so again.

  He’d pictured her so very clearly: telephone receiver grasped loosely in one graceful hand, candlestick body of the phone raised close to her soft lips. He’d longed for home so badly then that it had nearly robbed him of breath. He’d ached to envelop his wife in his arms, to brush away the blond tendrils that always escaped the casual twist of her hair, to gently kiss her cheek.

  “Adrian?” Constance’s voice had crackled through the wire.

  He’d quickly submerged his yearning. “It’s . . . unpleasant . . . here without you. It feels wrong.”

  “You’ve been away on business before.”

  “This is different.”

  “Is it Newport, then?”

  He’d licked dry lips. “It might be.”

  “I see.” There’d been silence as she absorbed his words, but it had been a comfortable silence. Constance never required excessive explanation. “Adrian, listen to me. I don’t know the source of your unease, but I’ll swear to this: you’re a good man with a good heart. Nothing can change that unless you allow it. Just finish the task at hand and hurry back. I miss you.”

  He’d lost the line then, listened as Constance receded into a field of sputtering noise. But it had been enough to remind him of the man he meant to be.

  Jim’s drawl brought him back to Bellevue Avenue and the midmorning sun. “Can you imagine walking through that front door at the end of a hard day?”

  The chateauesque lines of Belcourt filled the passenger-side windowpane. Adrian remembered seeing that mansion go up back in the 1890s, listening to tongues wag over the eccentricity of its owner.

  “Actually, Mr. Reid, that’s the back of the place. The entrance is on Ledge Road, around the other side.”

  Jim let out a low whistle as his gaze took in the massive house. “It’s obscene. Is Liriodendron like this?”

  “I’ve never been. But I wouldn’t be surprised. Summer cottages built in Newport were meant to impress.”

  “Summer cottages.” Jim’s snort was understandable. One of these “summer cottages” could have housed his entire family—parents, siblings, nieces, and nephews included.

  “It’s a different world, is it not?”

  Jim slid him a sideways glance. “But one with which you’re familiar.”

  Jim Reid had yet to recognize his own many gifts, one of which was an innate sense of observation. Adrian took great pleasure not only in this but in the young man’s ability to effortlessly gather clues and weave them into a fine tapestry of reason. Watching Jim’s mind work was almost worth his own slip into momentary transparency.

  “Yes,” Adrian said simply. “I spent some time in Newport in my youth. I had friends here.”

  Jim left a wide-open pause just perfect for filling. Adrian declined the invitation, guiding the town car into a smooth right turn instead. To their left, the ocean opened out in sparkling ripples of deep blue and white.

  Jim turned to study the sea. “I noticed you booked the hotel room for another night,” he said. “How long do you expect we’ll be in Newport, given the unforeseen complications?”

  Another gift: the young man knew when to change the subject.

  “I don’t know yet,” Adrian replied. “It’s hard to tell exactly how much of a complication Lady Dinwoodie will be once sober. And we’ve yet to meet brother, Nicky . . . also known as the ‘dull stick,’ I believe.”

  “Do you think the old man is afflicted, as they claim? What’s he like?”

  “The ‘old man,’ as you so succinctly put it, can be difficult. Still, he’s made more money for our law firm than half our other clients combined. Do you know much about him?”

  “Some.”

  “Bennett Chapman made a fortune in cotton textiles after the Civil War.”

  “Gainfully?”

  “Now that’s a question I’ve never asked. Breathe deeply, Mr. Reid. There are few sensations as cleansing as a lungful of fresh salt air.”

  Jim obliged, dissolving into a fit of coughing as his chest expanded beyond its usual habit. Adrian gave him a moment to fumble for his missing handkerchief, then passed over his own without a word.

  “Thanks.” Jim made use of the neat silk square, crumpled it up, and shoved it into his pocket. “Mr. Chapman must be rather up in years.”

  “Eighty next month.”

  “Hmm.” Jim’s fingers tapped out an impromptu jazz rhythm on the dashboard of the automobile as he considered. “Well, then, there’s a chance that Lady Dinwoodie is correct. What if the man’s truly not right in the head?”

  “Then I suppose we won’t be drafting a new will after all.”

  “Bennett Chapman might take his business elsewhere.”

  “I know.”

  “Could the firm absorb the loss?”

  Adrian hesitated. “That would remain to be seen.”

  The younger man nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer.

  Jim Reid had been slightly more than a toddler when they’d first met, but Adrian had recognized the boy’s sharp intelligence even then. He’d have funded the child’s education no matter what his ability, but it had taken no more than a few minutes of watching the boy scrutinize him from the safety of his father’s lap to realize that any money spent on the lad would be money well spent. Indeed, what had begun as a favor—compensation for a debt that Adrian had known he could never fully repay—had reaped so much more than expected. Years of shepherding Jim Reid through the halls of academia had provided Adrian with not only a law associate, but a friend.

  Jim tugged at his too-short jacket sleeve in a futile attempt to cover his knobby wrist. It was well past time for a trip to a tailor. No man—especially one of Jim’s imposing height—could expect to find well-fitted perfection hanging ready-made on a rack at Filene’s. Adrian filed away a mental note to make arrangements with his own tailor once they returned to Boston.

  “This is the place,” Jim said, staring through his spectacles at a circular driveway to their left.

  A large white mansion sat planted at the apex of the drive, a northern paean to southern antebellum architecture. Adrian took in the graceful white columns that guided the eye from porch floorboards to ceiling, the well-manicured lawn with its early summer flowers in riotous bloom, and the expanse of ocean rolling behind the house in an endless carpet of motion. He’d never set foot in this house before, c
ouldn’t even recall what had once occupied this prime ocean-view site. But that didn’t matter. The indulgent opulence of Liriodendron transported him back more than twenty years in time, back to a place where he’d never wanted to find himself again.

  “You’ve stopped in the middle of the road,” Jim said.

  Adrian thought of Constance, of the solid dining room table where he, Grace, and Ted enjoyed their breakfasts before departing each morning for the office and school. He thought of the soft quilts on their beds, the worn leather chair just waiting for him by the fireplace in his study. He had a place there, a family eagerly awaiting his return.

  “Just getting my bearings, Mr. Reid.” Eyes steady on the horizon, Adrian gave the Pierce-Arrow’s steering wheel a firm spin to the left.

  Newport hadn’t changed nearly enough.

  Fortunately, he had.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Catharine Walsh reached for her hairbrush, whacking her hand against a heavy glass bowl of rose petal potpourri on the way. Swallowing back a mild expletive, she flexed her fingers then grasped the handle. The rough tug of the bristles through her dark, bobbed curls felt good. At least it reflected action. The pervasive air of lethargy in the guest room left her cranky and on edge, and she knew from experience that neither state of mind allowed for clarity of thought.

  She was staying in Liriodendron’s Flower Room, a bucolic guest bedroom so festooned with floral imagery that staring at the walls too long made her eyes water and her nose itch. She was not given to sentimentality, so the delicate blossoms everywhere oozed more romanticism than she cared to handle at one time. The room faced the sea, which should have offered nothing more than soft breezes and the gentle whisper of surf. Instead, voices floated through the open window—the same quarrelsome voices that had encouraged Catharine to feign a headache that morning instead of joining Bennett Chapman at the dining room table for breakfast. The Chapman heirs had arrived in a flurry of self-importance last night, the plastered Lady Dinwoodie relying upon her chauffeur to keep her upright, her older brother, Nicholas, striding stiffly through the front door nearly an hour later. Catharine had fled to her room before coming face-to-face with either. The meeting she dreaded was unavoidable, but she still had the right to put it off for as long as she could.

  She drifted toward the bedroom window to take a peek. Just as she’d suspected, these two neither looked nor sounded better in the morning sun.

  “I can’t help it if I’ve a delicate constitution!” Chloe Chapman Dinwoodie’s high-pitched voice made one ponder the relative benefits of deafness. Her white chiffon frock danced in the breeze as if searching for the adolescent girl it was meant to adorn. Catharine stifled a groan. Chloe was a few years older than her own forty-three. Why had no one told Lady Dinwoodie that clothing and affectations charming on a young woman of eighteen merely made her a frump at forty-five?

  But meeting the indisposed Chloe was nowhere near as unnerving as the thought of dealing with her brother. Catharine hung back, determined to ignore the low rumble of Nicholas Chapman’s voice. Yet despite her will, she found herself edging closer to the window, drawn to him like Faustus to Mephistopheles.

  “You’re a drunk, Chloe,” Nicholas was saying. “There’s nothing delicate about that. I’d appreciate it if you could reform just long enough to assist me. Employ the same wits you use to circumvent Prohibition, and we can’t help but succeed.”

  Chloe sank down into a lawn chair, limp hand draped across her forehead. “Oh, all right, Nicky. Tell me what you have in mind.”

  Catharine ducked behind the curtains as Nicholas spun toward the window, his narrowed eyes scanning the façade of the house. But his check was apparently habit, a perfunctory move provoked by a suspicious mind. As brusquely as he’d turned toward the house, he bent toward his sister, his black suit and beaky nose conjuring images of a crow. Strands of his thick blond hair rose and fell like pieces of straw in the brisk wind.

  “It’s just as I expected,” Catharine murmured, resting a hand atop the dresser to steady herself. “There are no surprises here.” It took a few more deep breaths than she’d anticipated, but eventually the thumping of her heart slowed to a more reasonable rate. She brushed a nonexistent speck of dust from the front of her dress and straightened up, jaw set.

  The Chapmans’ voices were no longer audible, but that didn’t matter. Catharine knew very well why Bennett’s children had made the inconvenient trip to Liriodendron, and it certainly wasn’t to bestow warm nuptial blessings and wish her well.

  A soft knock on the door drew her away from the tableau unfolding outside.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but I’ve a note for you.” One of the housemaids stood in the hallway, a folded piece of paper extended before her. Her Irish brogue was as thick as if she’d just disembarked from the boat that morning. Catharine veiled her irritation: Bennett still adhered to the last-century affectation of importing domestic help from the British Isles, as if guests might actually believe they’d somehow stumbled into one of the great family manor houses of Europe.

  She took the paper from the maid’s waiting hand. “There’s no need to ‘ma’am’ me, Nellie. ‘Miss Walsh’ will do just fine.”

  Nellie burned pink. “Mr. Chapman hopes that your headache is much improved. He wants you to accompany him out to the terrace to meet his son and daughter.”

  “Will Miss Amy be joining us?”

  Nellie glanced toward the note. “I’m not sure.”

  A real headache started pounding above Catharine’s left eye. Amy apparently had taken off again, galloping who knew where, leaving Catharine alone to face the lions.

  But it wasn’t fair to drop her foul mood onto Nellie. The poor young thing was merely the messenger, after all. “Oh, very well. You may tell Mr. Chapman that I’ll be along in fifteen minutes.”

  “Shall I wait until you’ve read the note, ma’am? In the event you wish to reply?”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you for thinking of it, Nellie.” Catharine unfolded the paper in her hand. As expected, her eyes met Amy’s hasty scrawl.

  Dear Aunt Catharine, Amy had written in large, loopy letters. Catharine could already tell that this note would be yet another that raised more questions than answers. I’m not in the mood to meet them yet. I’ve gone for a walk. I hope you understand.

  It took everything she had not to crumple up the page. I hope you understand. As if it would have mattered whether she understood or not. Amy would have done precisely as she pleased anyway. And, since she was twenty-two years old, that was probably her right.

  Nellie remained in the doorway, a picture of practiced serenity. As Catharine met her gaze, she realized that the maid was not as young as she’d originally thought and that her knowledge of Liriodendron ran far beyond the linens and silver.

  “Please send somebody out to find my niece,” Catharine said evenly. “And inform her that her presence is requested on the terrace. Immediately.”

  Nellie nodded, then retreated down the hall.

  Catharine waited until she could no longer hear the maid’s footsteps before stepping back into her bedroom and closing the door firmly behind her.

  She’d never expected this wedding business to take so long. When she and Amy had arrived in Newport six weeks ago, she’d expected to be Mrs. Bennett Chapman by mid-May. Now it was June. This had dragged on long enough for Bennett’s progeny to come swooping down like vultures.

  An exclamation from Chloe brought her back to the window. There were no discernible words, but Lady Dinwoodie’s discontent was evidenced by her piercing whine and fluttering hands. Nicholas whipped about to face the ocean, his shoulders so squared that pebbles could bounce off the hard plane of his back. His comment to his sister was carried away by the wind, but his anger remained clearly etched in each line of his rigid stance.

  Catharine sank to the floor and rested her head against the wall. Neither Chloe nor Nicholas had a right to be angry about anything. They�
��d been spoon-fed every advantage right along with their childhood farina. Even now, decades out from beneath Daddy’s roof, neither had any apparent cause for complaint. The Chapman heirs were well-off even without their father’s will. Chloe’s foppish British husband had enough personal wealth to keep her in more than crumpets for the rest of her life, and Nicholas owned a lucrative percentage of the family’s textiles empire. There were no grounds for griping—or for bad behavior.

  Yet they behaved badly quite frequently. Lady Dinwoodie’s outlandish New York antics had reached even Catharine’s local newspaper back in Sacramento, where people usually didn’t give a fig about East Coast snobs. And as for Nicholas Chapman, even the society pages had long ago stopped calling him an “eligible bachelor.” Everybody knew by now that he was too much of a selfish tightwad to ever share his wealth with a wife. Of course, as far as Catharine was concerned, no amount of money could ever make that hateful man marriageable in the first place.

  She sighed. There was nothing for it but to go out to the patio and meet the loathsome two. She smoothed her dress—low-waisted and simply cut, its deep vermilion hue flattered her dark coloring and hugged her body. Current fashion may have favored boyish figures, but Catharine knew that men preferred curves. Mother Nature had made her far more alluring than Chloe Chapman could ever hope to be, even without the girlish flounces on her frocks and a personal fortune to call her own.

  In the scheme of things, she decided, she had no other choice but to look upon the arrival of the wretched offspring as an unfortunate intrusion, a bump in a road that should have gone more smoothly. But it wasn’t yet a disaster.

  Catharine took one last steadying breath, raised her chin, and sailed from the room.