by Jill Morrow
“I’m sure I have even more questions than he does.” Amy sat so still that it seemed a statue had spoken. Jim moved as if to take her hand but stopped mid-motion. Instead he folded his arms across his chest and averted his gaze to a spot somewhere above Adrian’s head.
The explosion of laughter from Nicholas’s end of the table ricocheted through the room. “Which will it be, Miss Walsh? Do you still vouch for Mother’s otherworldly existence? You can choose to be a whore or a fraud. Take your pick.”
Catharine’s chair clattered to the ground as she leapt to her feet. Adrian shot up as well. “That’s enough,” he snapped, glaring at Nicholas. Jim sent him a quelling glance from across the table. Nicholas raised an eyebrow.
A dull thud started in Adrian’s left temple as he settled back in his seat. “I won’t tolerate vulgarity,” he said.
Catharine’s deadly stare nearly bore a hole through Nicholas Chapman’s forehead. “In answer to your question, Mr. Chapman, you may call me whatever you wish. You can’t hurt me. Rest assured that I would never have chosen to reveal this information—especially to you. At my own expense, it appears I have proved that the spirit of your mother is indeed real.”
“This could still be a cleverly staged fraud,” Nicholas said, but for the first time, his words faltered. Only the most accomplished actress could counterfeit the look of shock on Amy’s face, could fake the way she trembled in her chair. Furthermore, it was hard to refute the damage done to Catharine’s reputation through this most recent revelation.
Catharine slowly righted her chair. “Bennett, I will speak with you whenever you wish. And I will certainly release you from our engagement should you so choose.”
Bennett hesitated. “I will hear you, of course. But I am obliged to follow Elizabeth’s directives. It seems to me that she has known your story all along yet still encourages our union. I will go forward with this marriage.”
“Are you truly this foolish?” Nicholas asked, dazed.
“Stow it, boy,” Bennett growled through gritted teeth. “Can’t you see I need to keep your mother happy?”
Catharine swayed slightly in the wake of Nicholas’s sputtered oath. “Then make the arrangements today,” she said. “Let us be done with it, or I’ll pack my bags and return to Sacramento. One way or another, I will leave Liriodendron with my pride intact.”
Bennett straightened in his chair at the ultimatum, more business tycoon than besotted lover. “I’ll do so this morning, after breakfast.”
Catharine nodded her acquiescence, color high. Adrian’s pulse quickened as she turned his way, but her gaze merely grazed him, coming to rest on Amy instead. Her tone softened. “Amy, I ask your forgiveness. You must understand that I had good reason to alter the truth. I owe you an explanation, but I will not provide it here. You may come to me whenever you’re ready.”
“You may be waiting for quite some time,” Amy said flatly.
Catharine held her gaze. “And perhaps I would deserve that. But you’ll never know unless you speak with me, will you?”
Head high, she walked toward the dining room door. For a fleeting moment, Adrian entertained an image of greedy subjects pawing at their queen, demanding that she deliver yet one more act of largesse before mounting the platform to the guillotine.
“I don’t care.” Amy struggled to stand, as winded as if she’d just run a mile. Catharine paused at the sound of her voice. “I’m tired of it all,” Amy continued. “I’m tired of those here who think I’m a fraud, of you others who humor me simply because you believe I’m a conduit to her . . .”
“Her?” Chloe looked up. “Is Mother still with us?”
“Yes, she’s still here.” Amy gave an exhausted shudder. Jim’s arms tightened across his chest as if tethered there. “And yes, she has more to say. But do you know what? I don’t think I feel like being her puppet anymore. I’ve had enough.”
“But surely she’s come for a reason!” Chloe cried. “You must tell us what she wants.”
“Must I?” Amy sank back into her chair as if her legs could no longer support her. “Must I really?”
“Of course not.” Catharine stared Chloe down from the doorway. “You are beholden to no one, Amy. You needn’t do anything against your will.”
Amy melted against the back of her chair. “Tell that to Mrs. Chapman. She won’t leave me alone if I don’t speak for her. Actually, she won’t leave at all. Her message is for you, Bennett. You’re to make arrangements for the wedding now, not after breakfast. This marriage must take place within the next few days.”
Bennett’s eyes remained fixed just to the right of the fireplace mantel. “Dear Elizabeth,” he said, but his voice was strong. “I am happy to do your will.”
Nicholas’s fist pounded the table. “Father, I won’t allow it. You can’t possibly—”
“I can do whatever I wish.” Bennett rose to his feet with the agility of a man half his age. He strode toward the door, stopping at the threshold to deliver a sharp peck to Catharine’s cheek. “I’ll place the telephone calls now. Mr. de la Noye, I believe I’ve clearly stated my intentions regarding my new will. Go ahead and draft it. No need to fret, Nicky; you and your sister will be invited to the wedding.”
His brisk footsteps retreated down the hall, leaving them all to stare at the walking stick he’d left behind.
“Mrs. Chapman will be waiting here,” Amy said to no one in particular.
“She needn’t,” Catharine said. “I’ve certainly heard enough.”
“And I’ve said enough,” Amy shot back. “But since she apparently won’t leave until she’s satisfied she’s gotten all her ducks in a row, you’ll come back later to hear what she has to say . . . for my sake. You owe me at least that.”
Chloe brightened. “Are you saying that Mother will remain in this room all day?”
Nicholas stared at his sister in disgust. “Oh, absolutely, Chloe. She’ll be levitating near the fireplace, just waiting for a plummy moment to deliver her next dramatic revelation.”
“Bravo,” Amy said. “That’s exactly where she is. Do you see her, too?”
Nicholas blanched.
“I feel faint.” Amy closed her eyes.
“Well.” Chloe squirmed in her seat. “Perhaps if we all just sit here and have a lovely chat with Mother, you’ll feel better.”
“No.” Amy’s eyelids fluttered open as she slumped down farther in her chair. Catharine started toward her, arm outstretched, but Amy stopped her with a well-aimed glare.
Adrian cleared his throat. “Mr. Reid, suppose you escort Amy to the gardens.” He ignored the pleading refusal that flickered across his associate’s face. “The salt air will do her good.”
“Yes, please.” Amy turned doe-like eyes toward Jim, who shrugged helplessly. “Perhaps I’ll feel better after a little walk. You and I could have breakfast on the terrace, Mr. Reid. This room is starting to give me the creeps.”
“So there’s to be no more conversation with Mother now?” Chloe asked as Jim rose and offered Amy a rigid arm.
“Oh, don’t worry. She’ll be here. She’s waiting for your father.” Amy slipped her fingers through the crook of Jim’s elbow and pulled herself from her chair. His eyebrows rose slightly in surprise as she slumped against him. “Please, Mr. Reid. Take me outside.”
“Perhaps I could join you two on the terrace,” Chloe began, but she might as well have spoken to the wall. Jim and Amy left the room as if they hadn’t heard a word she’d said.
“Well.” Chloe’s disappointed gaze darted from Nicholas to Adrian to Catharine. “Here’s a jolly crew. You all look as if you might draw weapons. I’ll take breakfast in my room, where it’s safer. Fetch me when Mother is ready to speak. Lord knows there’s nothing to do here when she isn’t around.”
Adrian barely noticed her exit. His stare enveloped Catharine, but her figure refused to remain constant in his vision. Instead, a young woman with a mesmerizing smile and a mane of thick hair danced
through his mind. His fingers twitched as he remembered how sweetly her waist had once yielded beneath the span of his hand. Her skin, tinged with rose, had incited tremors each time she’d brushed against him. Set free after so many years, a Pandora’s box worth of memories swirled through his consciousness, stabbing at his solar plexus until it seemed the front of his argyle sweater should be bloodstained.
Catharine’s haunted eyes met his and, for the first time, he saw that she was drowning alongside him.
He looked away. “Miss Walsh. I’d be much obliged if we could talk.”
“Yes,” she said, staring at the floor.
“You’ll have to wait your turn,” Nicholas said. Adrian turned toward the foot of the table, cursing himself for forgetting that the other man had stayed behind.
Nicholas’s smile was anything but genuine. “Forgive the intrusion, but I’d like to have a few words with you as well . . . Mr. Delano.”
Adrian stiffened.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. de la Noye. My mistake,” Nicholas said. “But it’s an easy one to make, isn’t it? Have a seat. You and I can chat over breakfast.”
Adrian didn’t need to look in Catharine’s direction. Quick footsteps in the hall made it clear that as long as Nicholas stayed sniffing around the past, she planned to stay as far away as possible.
CHAPTER
23
February 1898
I’m hoping to catch a Vanderbilt at one of these hoity-toity dinner parties,” Cassie Walsh said as Adrian handed her down from the brougham in front of the Phillips residence. “Newport teems with them, doesn’t it?”
Adrian smiled. A few hours of rest had worked wonders; he’d awakened feeling nearly human again. “In season it does. Your timing isn’t quite right, Miss Walsh. Had you chosen to run away in June, your society marriage prospects would have tripled.”
She lifted her hand from his and buried it deep in her fur muff. “I’ll make do,” she said, studying the Phillips residence. It was more a well-appointed home than a lavish mansion, but its sprawling architecture, Bellevue Avenue address, and landscaped grounds made it clear that Peter and Marjorie Phillips had grown up wanting for very little.
Cassie eyed the gingerbread trim. “I’ll settle for a well-to-do professional man, a lawyer or doctor, perhaps. It’s not as if I’ll ever be allowed to break into the Four Hundred, after all.”
Adrian’s smile flattened. “That’s correct.”
“Of course, I’d hoped that since one of your relatives—our relatives—married an Astor some fifty years ago . . .”
“Very good. You’ve studied well. Then you already know that I’m not on that esteemed list either, and that Mrs. Astor would require even more credentials from a distant cousin on my mother’s side.”
Cassie’s gloved fingers smoothed his sleeve. “Even though the Delanos are connected to the Roosevelts by marriage? The Roosevelts are on the list, aren’t they?”
He didn’t even try to hide the sarcasm that trickled into his voice. “Goodness, Miss Walsh, you ask too much of America’s royalty. How dare you even think of sullying the precious bloodlines?”
“God, Adrian. You wealthy are an affected lot.”
“And yet you wish to join the ranks.”
“Your ranks.” She stopped dead in the middle of the front walk. “Why shouldn’t I want the best? You’ll stay near me tonight, won’t you? Come to my aid if I do anything wrong?”
“I’ll do what I can,” he said, wondering even as the words left his mouth what it was about Cassie Walsh that could make him agree to such folly.
He caught sight of a tiny dimple in her cheek as they reached the front door. “Good,” Cassie said. “I’m tired tonight. That may put me a bit off my game.”
Game. Adrian forced a pleasant expression to his face as the Phillips’s door swung open. That was as good a term as any for the evening that lay ahead.
He didn’t wonder that Cassie was tired. Despite her original intention to rest that afternoon, she’d instead set about unpacking his trunks with the zeal of a Salvationist. It hadn’t taken long to discover why she’d developed a sudden interest in sifting through his luggage. Leaning against the bedroom door jamb, he’d watched in amazement as she withdrew several frocks from his largest trunk.
“You were sending the trunks anyway,” she’d said, rummaging past his packed clothing. “It seemed a waste of space. You can rest in this room if you’d like. I’ll be very quiet.”
He’d dropped gratefully on top of the counterpane, too exhausted to argue. Slipping in and out of sleep, he’d been distantly aware of her puttering about the cottage. She’d gone from pressing her clothes to hanging them and had eventually disappeared down the hall to run a bath. Even as he’d dozed, the scent of patchouli had tickled his nostrils. He’d smiled through his dreams, unsurprised that Cassie’s choice of fragrance would contain spicy notes rather than floral ones.
Cousin Kate. What madness. What long-ago spell had this cook’s daughter cast that allowed her to weave him so thoroughly into her plans? This masquerade would never work anyway. His colleagues weren’t fools: they’d know at once that she wasn’t of their class.
He winced at his own elitism. How exactly would they know? Years of tending to his younger sister, Edith, had made Cassie as much an expert in manners and fashion as any daughter of society. And, as Marjorie Phillips introduced her to each of the other ten guests gathered in the parlor, he had to admit that no one seemed to suspect their new acquaintance was anyone other than Kate Weld, Adrian Delano’s distant cousin come to call. James Heyward raised an interested eyebrow as Cassie praised Newport’s beauty. David Houghton, ignoring the presence of his own wife, leaned toward her in that solicitous way Adrian recognized from their university days on the prowl. And Peter Phillips, their host—Peter, lush and letch extraordinaire—smiled broadly at the young woman before him. He looked like the wolf come across Red Riding Hood in the wood. Adrian glumly noted that Cassie was the prettiest woman in the room.
“She’s quite lovely.” Marjorie Phillips interrupted his train of thought. “Why haven’t we met this little jewel before?”
“My apologies.” Adrian stepped to one side to peer around his hostess’s blond head. “I’ve been remiss.” Cassie dimpled at something Peter said. Adrian sighed. He’d have to warn her later about his friend’s rakish ways.
Marjorie moved closer. “We’re about to enter the dining room. You’ll escort me, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Adrian said reflexively, watching as Peter offered Cassie an arm. He wondered which lady his friend had just dropped in order to escort “Cousin Kate” to the table. That meant she’d sit at Peter’s right for the evening, that he’d have her full attention . . .
“Mr. Delano . . .” Marjorie smiled coquettishly. “Your arm?”
“Arm? Yes, of course.” It was too early to offer it—a good hostess repaired to the dining room behind her guests—but Adrian was too preoccupied to remember that Peter’s older sister had set her cap for him quite some time ago and so allowed the proprietary grip on his sleeve without protest.
He’d already admitted to himself that Cassie Walsh was beautiful. He’d had no choice: she’d swept into the cottage parlor earlier that evening, a pre-Raphaelite vision in white organdy. Startled, his gaze had traveled from the flow of gauzy fabric about her rounded hips, past her tiny cinched waist and daring décolletage, straight up to her huge brown eyes and loose chignon of wavy dark hair. The realization that this angel was his cook’s daughter, a girl who’d grown up in his own household, had captured his breath.
The pearls dripping through her gloved hand had reminded him at once that it was perfectly acceptable to breathe.
“Those belong to my sister,” he’d said, surprised.
“Yes.” She’d extended the triple-strand choker toward him. “I know. Your great-aunt Rose had them sent to Edith as a sixteenth-birthday gift. Could you help me put them on? The clasp is difficult.”
“But . . . they’re not yours.” That bewitching undercurrent of patchouli had again become a distraction. Without thinking, he’d accepted the proffered pearls.
“Of course they’re not, Adrian. How could I ever afford anything from Cartier? Edith let me borrow them for my grandfather’s wake while you were away at school, so I think she would have lent them again had I been able to ask her. I couldn’t very well wake her up in the middle of the night to check, now could I? You can bring them back home when you go.”
She’d turned her back to him, waiting. Adrian had slipped the necklace around her graceful neck and fastened it, and the transformation had been complete. Every debutante he knew proudly displayed pearls such as these. Illuminated by their luster, Cassie Walsh disappeared and Kate Weld emerged, aglow with excitement for the evening about to begin.
“Thank you.” She’d reached out to adjust his white bow tie, and he couldn’t help but notice that Edith’s pearls would be shown off to perfection.
She was a puzzle, this Cassie Walsh.
Marjorie gently tugged him toward the dining room. “Your cousin is quite an addition to the party,” she said. “I admit, I could have throttled you when you changed my guest list at the very last minute, but perhaps this was providence. Peter seems quite taken with her.”
Indeed. Adrian escorted Marjorie to her chair and seated himself beside her, gaze riveted to the head of the table. Peter rose to propose a toast. Cassie’s eyes shone as she smiled at him, champagne glass raised. The words of the toast blurred in Adrian’s ears as he followed the delicate arc of her arm. He only knew when the toast ended because everyone else raised glasses to lips in response. Pasting yet another stale smile onto his face, he followed suit.
Was Peter Phillips really Cassie’s choice? He was prosperous enough. His credentials weren’t all that different from Adrian’s own: solid position in a respected family law firm, enough inherited wealth and family reputation to receive reasonable social invitations . . .
A discreet “ahem” signaled that a footman stood beside him, waiting. Adrian absently selected several oysters from the offered platter.