by Jill Morrow
CHAPTER
8
The contours of the parlor floated before Catharine’s eyes. She watched Jim carry Amy to the sofa, but the action was something from a dream, disjointed and barely rooted in reality. Chairs rattled as Bennett, Chloe, and Nicholas rushed across the room. Jim’s voice rose above their babble, a touch of calm in the midst of a verbal storm.
“Back away,” he ordered. “Give her space to breathe.”
“Does your niece faint often?” Adrian’s breath felt soft against Catharine’s ear.
She gave an inadvertent shiver as his shoulder brushed hers. “No,” she said. “This is the first time.”
She felt him study her for a moment and turned toward the insistent gaze. She could read his face so easily. The combination of concern and distrust in his eyes embarrassed her, gave her the impetus she needed to turn away and rebuild her defenses.
Her heels clicked against the hard oak floor as she hurried toward the sofa. “Amy!” Everyone cleared a path as she approached except for Jim, who remained crouched beside Amy, her small hand wrapped in his.
Catharine gently cupped Amy’s chin. “Amy. Wake up!”
“Should we ring for a doctor?” Chloe twisted the handkerchief she still held in her hands.
Catharine ignored her. “Amy!”
The young woman moaned and turned her head to one side, nestling her cheek against Jim’s chest.
“Are you all right?” Jim asked.
Amy slowly opened her eyes. Color returned to each cheek as she struggled to sit. “What happened?”
“You fainted,” Jim said.
“Goodness! How embarrassing.” She winced as she swung her legs over the side of the sofa. “That’s never happened before.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Nicholas said. “Really, it was a most effective addition to your act. I must applaud your sense of drama.”
Catharine forced her words through clenched teeth. “My niece is not a liar, Mr. Chapman.”
“You lack the credibility to make that assessment, Miss Walsh.”
She advanced toward him, right hand raised to strike his smug face. Suddenly Adrian was between them, the familiar spice of his cologne making her head reel.
“We recognize a legal presumption of innocence in this country, Mr. Chapman,” Adrian said, calmly lowering Catharine’s arm. “So, unless you’ve evidence to the contrary, I must believe that Amy Walsh is telling the truth.”
Chloe pushed between her brother and her father, coming to a halt at Jim’s side. “Miss Walsh . . . may I call you Amy? Were there further messages? Did you hear anything else before you swooned?”
“Yes, do tell us.” Bennett sank onto the sofa. “Is Elizabeth still with us?”
“No.” Amy pressed her palm against her forehead. “No, there’s nobody here now. But there were other messages . . . I remember . . .”
Catharine’s words tumbled out, halting Amy’s hesitant flow of words. “You needn’t worry about this now, Amy. You’ve done enough tonight.”
“I agree,” Adrian said. “I think it best that you retire for the evening.”
Amy frowned. “No, it’s all right. It’s coming back to me now. The first message is for you, Bennett. It’s from Mrs. Chapman. She urges you to marry Aunt Catharine as quickly as possible.”
“What a surprise,” Nicholas said. “And does ‘Mrs. Chapman’ offer any reason why this marriage must take place?”
Amy either did not catch his sarcasm or chose to ignore it. “She hasn’t told me why,” she said. “But she is most insistent. She says it’s extremely important.”
“How very like Elizabeth.” Bennett smiled. “Still looking out for my welfare despite our distance from each other. We should set a date, Catharine.”
If hatred alone could ignite fires, Nicholas’s stare would have sent Catharine through the ceiling in a ball of flame. A torrent of blistering words fought to leave her lips. It took all her will to bite them back. “Yes, Bennett,” she said evenly. “I’m willing. Why, we could do it now, if you’d like. Call the clergyman of your choice; I’m ready.”
Chloe’s insistent whine chopped through the tension. “Amy, had Margaret anything more to tell me?”
Everyone turned toward her, startled by her myopia. Her desperation almost inspired pity.
“No,” Amy said. “Not this time.”
“But you said there were other messages.”
“There’s one other. But it’s not for you. It’s . . . it’s for a man, I think. Someone a bit profligate who should have known better and . . . geez, I’ve an awful headache.”
Adrian’s hand froze midway to his cigarette case. His expression remained serene, but a vein pulsed in his forehead.
Catharine hooked a determined hand beneath Amy’s elbow and guided her to her feet in one smooth, even motion. “That’s enough for tonight,” she said, avoiding Adrian’s eyes. “Everyone, please excuse us.”
“Wait a minute.” Nicholas’s fingers curled around her upper arm as she passed by. Catharine gasped and wrenched her arm away, leaving his hand poised in the air like a set of claws in search of a victim.
“Don’t touch me,” she snapped. “Ever.”
“Oh, Nicky, stop behaving like a Neanderthal,” Bennett chided from his spot on the sofa, but it was Adrian who once again appeared at Catharine’s side.
“Mr. Chapman,” Adrian said, “suppose you tell us what’s on your mind from several steps back on the carpet?”
Nicholas speared Catharine with one last glare before allowing his hand to drop to his side. Her eyes narrowed in response.
“I apologize,” Nicholas said smoothly, reaching for his cigarettes. “But let me point out that we still disagree about my father’s state of mind.”
“You are the only one in disagreement.” Adrian did not offer a light. “The rest of us—including your sister—understand that reason enough exists for your father to believe this communication might be real.”
“Our written agreement says nothing about a majority decision.” Nicholas cupped one hand around the end of his cigarette as he lifted a flaming match to its tip.
“But, Nicky,” Chloe started, “Amy knew so much about Margaret. You can’t possibly believe that she could create all that from thin air.”
“I do not deny that Miss Walsh is a very convincing young lady. And her aunt”—he exhaled the cigarette smoke in Catharine’s direction—“is too clever by half. However, since ambiguity does indeed exist regarding unanimous agreement, I propose another séance, to take place tomorrow night.”
“I hardly think that necessary,” Adrian said.
“I didn’t expect you would, Mr. de la Noye.”
Catharine drew herself up. “I don’t understand, Mr. Chapman. What do you hope to gain by this? You’ve made it quite clear that we’ll never change your mind.”
Nicholas took another long drag of his cigarette, then crossed the room to the Tiffany lamp on the sideboard. “That you won’t,” he said, flicking its switch with a resounding click. Light pooled across the dark wood of the sideboard as he continued toward the next lamp.
“Then what’s your point?” Jim asked, planting himself a little closer to Amy.
Nicholas turned on another lamp. “I may not understand how anyone could be drawn into such stupidity, but I do understand that most people are motivated by material gain. Miss Walsh would not have initiated this spiritualist scheme unless there was something she wanted. It’s quite clear what she wants from my father. I even understand what she wants from my sister and me. The upper class has ever been a target for hoi polloi. But why draw Mr. Reid into it? And, if my suspicions are correct, why Mr. de la Noye?”
“Mr. Reid and I have arrived merely to fulfill a request from our client,” Adrian said. “Nobody has drawn either of us into anything.”
“Really?” Nicholas lit the final lamp and turned toward him. “Let’s consider, Mr. de la Noye. Each one of us here tonight got a . . .
message, shall we say . . . from the great beyond. Pure claptrap, of course, but messages all the same. Husband heard from wife, mother from daughter. I received information regarding a child who most assuredly doesn’t even exist. Why, even Mr. Reid here was given words purported to come from his grandmother, who I can only assume is now part of the heavenly choir.”
Amy shrugged. “The spirits are always grateful for the opportunity to speak to those they love.”
Nicholas ignored her. “And now it seems that there was one message left—one message that could not be delivered due to Amy Walsh’s human frailty. I’m betting, Mr. de la Noye, that the message is for you.”
A deep red flush flooded Catharine’s face. “And what would that prove?” she demanded. “I’m quite sure that Mr. de la Noye is willing to forgo confirmation of your theory. You don’t care about the message at all, do you, Mr. de la Noye?”
Adrian’s mouth twitched. “No,” he said. “Of course not. There’s no need to revisit the spirit world on my behalf.”
“Then do it on mine,” Nicholas said. “Allow me the chance to enlighten you, Mr. de la Noye. You may not be able to sway me to your way of thinking, but perhaps I can sway you to mine. If I am correct, perhaps you will be the one to call the authorities and end this charade once and for all.”
“Why would we do this?” Jim demanded. “It has nothing to do with our original agreement.”
“I disagree. If these women are perpetrating a blatant fraud, then only the most incompetent—my father, perhaps—would allow themselves to be swept into it. Perhaps if you’d drafted our agreement a bit differently . . .”
“This is ridiculous,” Catharine said. “I’ve Amy’s health to think of. She’s not a trained monkey, able to perform on demand. She—”
“No, it’s all right.” Amy shook Catharine’s hand from her shoulder. Her blue eyes glittered in a too-pale face. “Mrs. Chapman would very much like an opportunity to speak with you all again. Tomorrow night is fine.”
“Elizabeth has returned?” Years fell away as Bennett struggled hopefully to his feet.
Amy listened for a moment. “She’s gone again,” she said finally.
“How convenient,” Nicholas murmured. “I don’t remember Mother being quite this peripatetic when she walked the earth.”
“Then we shall meet again tomorrow night.” Chloe flushed pink. “Father, let me help you to your room. I want to hear everything—everything!—Mother has told you.”
Bennett enclosed his daughter’s hands in his own, his face glowing with delight. “Catharine, you don’t mind if I spend some time with Chloe, do you?”
“No, Bennett, of course not.” Catharine’s smile looked as if it might shatter.
“Chloe.” Nicholas extended a warning hand toward his sister, obviously no more comfortable than Catharine with the upcoming father-daughter tête-à-tête.
“Oh, leave me be, Nicky.” His sister offered their father a steadying arm. “I’m not your puppet; I can have a conversation with my own father if I please.”
Catharine stood quite still as Bennett’s papery lips scratched against her cheek. “Good night, my dear,” he said. “I shall see you at breakfast.”
“I need air,” Amy said as Bennett and Chloe left the room. “I’m going for a walk.”
Catharine automatically took her hand. “Give me a moment to fetch my wrap.”
“No.” Amy’s little hand slid from Catharine’s and into the crook of Jim’s elbow. “Mr. Reid, may I prevail upon your protection for half an hour or so?”
A crimson blush painted Jim’s face as he straightened from his slouch. “You bet. Of course. Delighted.”
Catharine opened her mouth to speak. Adrian stiffened. But neither Amy nor Jim spared the slightest glance behind them as they left the room.
Nicholas stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray by the door. “Tomorrow, then,” he said.
Adrian pulled his attention back to the tall man before him. “I will not be held hostage here indefinitely, Mr. Chapman,” he said. “If we are unable to conclude this matter tomorrow night, I shall refer you to Clause Eight of our agreement, which allows a neutral third party to decide the outcome of our dispute.”
Nicholas nodded. “Very well, Mr. de la Noye. But I very much doubt it will come to that. You are ultimately a man of reason. I trust your level head will prevail. Good night.”
Catharine closed her eyes in an attempt to make sense of the situation. Why on earth had Amy agreed to another séance? The atmosphere at Liriodendron was too explosive. A hornet’s nest of questions floated about these posh rooms, and the mix of sitters was decidedly volatile.
“We must talk.”
Adrian’s low voice cut through her reverie. Her eyes opened wide as she faced him. She’d expected anger from him, indignation at the very least. But his stare seemed more mournful than malevolent. He made no effort to move toward her, did not so much as extend a hand in her direction. It was as if he’d placed her under quarantine.
An anxious flutter ricocheted through her stomach.
“Please, Cassie,” he said, and the ache in his voice cut a swift incision through her heart.
She turned and bolted from the room.
CHAPTER
9
February 1898
You’re a drunken sot,” a female voice proclaimed, and a bucket’s worth of water splashed across Adrian Delano’s face.
“Hey!” he protested, sputtering from his horizontal position on the ground. Remaining flat on his back, he wiped his face with one hand as he tried to recall exactly where he was. Outside. Definitely outside. That was terra firma beneath him, frozen and hard, dusted with snow. The air was so cold that each breath drawn into his lungs hurt. Stray facts hammered at his foggy brain. He remembered disembarking from the S.S. New York in New York City hours earlier, just returned from the European tour he’d begun after last year’s graduation from Harvard Law School. That meant it must be February (although he wouldn’t even try to fathom the date).
The information was dull, but at least it made sense. He still needed to determine where he was and why he was wet.
He propped himself up on his elbows and struggled to open his eyes. An angel’s face floated across his blurred vision, its eyebrows lowered, lips pursed.
“I couldn’t sleep,” the angel said. “I saw you fall and thought that someone ought to bring you into the house before you froze to death. Now that I’m here, though, it appears you’ve swallowed enough alcohol to prevent that. Can you stand?”
Everything came together with a sobering thud. He was back at his family’s estate outside Poughkeepsie—sprawled in the front yard, to be precise. The angel dropped her bucket with an exaggerated clang and Adrian winced, finally understanding exactly what had happened.
The young woman—she was too unforgiving to be an angel—extended a hand. He grasped it and allowed her to help him to his feet. He was too cold to even entertain the notion that he should be mortified by his condition.
“A fine mess you are, Adrian Delano,” the woman said and, shocked into cognizance by the frigid early morning wind, his whirling mind placed her as well.
“Cassie? Cassie Walsh?”
“Very good. And now you’ll want a medal, I suppose.”
“You’ve grown up.” His voice grumbled through his shivers.
Cassie gave a weary sigh. “Between university and Europe, you’ve been away for a very long time.”
Cassie was the cook’s daughter, an amusing little spitfire who’d spent her childhood turning up for games of chess or backgammon in the Delano family quarters when she was supposed to be peeling potatoes in the kitchen. She was five years younger than Adrian, and he’d actually enjoyed shielding her from her mother’s wrath, claiming he had no idea where she might be as she pressed her small self against the back of the parlor door in hiding. She’d written him once at school, an oddly solemn letter about how dull the place was without him. He’d responde
d with a brotherly letter or two, but nothing since November of freshman year.
He caught a glimmer of his disorderly self through her eyes and wished he were still drunk enough that it didn’t matter. “So,” he started weakly, hoping to remind her of the friends they’d once been, “who’s been saving you from scrapes since I’ve been gone?”
Her dark eyes were relentless. “Nobody,” she said. “And it doesn’t look like you’re up to the task anymore, either.”
He gave up. “Not at the moment, anyway,” he said. “Might I have a cup of tea? And would your mother have a slice of her splendid Madeira cake laid away?”
Cassie Walsh studied him for a moment. Then she turned on her heel and led him toward the servants’ entrance. He remained upright by concentrating on the swing of her thick, dark braid as she walked. A hem of vanilla-colored lace peeked from beneath her pink chenille bathrobe. Her bedroom slippers left shallow footprints in the light snow as they rounded the side of the house. The poor thing would probably catch her death of cold, and it would be his fault—one more casualty of his reckless, stupid decisions.
A dull headache started at his temple. “Damn it, Cassie. I’ve botched everything up, haven’t I.”
Her hand hovered above the doorknob. “Yes,” she said. “You have.”
He’d left the S.S. New York with every intention of quickly traveling home to Poughkeepsie. A chance meeting with friends, a comradely supper in the city—even the women who’d joined them during the course of the lengthening evening—had all seemed logical at the time. His parents had expected him home for dinner, but now, in the warm kitchen of his family’s estate, the clock above the pantry showed that it was half past two in the morning. There was no point in trying to justify his actions to Cassie in the face of such damning evidence.
Instead he accepted the tea towel she presented and wiped the remaining rivulets of water from his face and hair. Then he sank into a chair at the kitchen table and propped his chin in one hand. “Very well, Cassie Walsh. There are some years between us now, but we’ve always been straight with each other. Should I cower at the thought of meeting with my father this morning?”