Newport: A Novel

by Jill Morrow

  “You married her?” The words rolled through his mouth as if foreign to his tongue.

  “Yes.” Adrian slipped an arm around Cassie’s waist. “Last night. There’s a most obliging justice of the peace just on the outskirts of town.”

  “Married?” Peter repeated, and Adrian felt Cassie cringe in anticipation of the expected torrent of anger.

  Instead, Peter threw back his head and laughed, each peal closer than the last to a donkey’s bray. “You married her?”

  Adrian said nothing, merely pulled Cassie closer.

  “I’m sorry, old man,” Peter said, wiping tears from his eyes. “It’s just that . . . forgive me—I know she’s your cousin, however distant. And she’s beautiful, no doubt. But, Adrian, did Europe teach you nothing? She made it perfectly clear to me that she was willing. Did she even bother to tell you about our little . . . rendezvous . . . at the pond yesterday? It’s quite natural to succumb to women like that, but one needn’t ever marry them.”

  Adrian’s fingers clenched into a hard ball. Suddenly Peter lay on the ground at his feet, hand pressed to his eye as blood spurted from his nose. Adrian stared at his own fist, momentarily surprised.

  “Come.” Cassie yanked on his arm as Peter struggled to rise.

  Adrian faced him squarely, both fists raised to strike again.

  “Leave him be!” Cassie cried, hustling him down the walk before the other man could regain his balance.

  “I’d just as soon knock his teeth down his throat,” Adrian said, but Cassie broke into a run, dragging him along with her. Her fingers gripped his arm like a vise; he had no choice but to keep up.

  “It isn’t worth it,” he heard her say. “He’s drunk.”

  He had no idea where she thought she was going. She didn’t know Newport at all, but it didn’t seem to matter. She hauled him down unfamiliar streets, darting past houses as if trying to escape something far more dangerous than Peter Phillips could ever be. Their breath hung frosty on the air as they raced toward the ocean. Only their footsteps in the snow marked that they had ever come this way at all.

  The snow accumulation lessened as they neared the water. The rocks by the sea were merely wet, their colors muted by the heavy gray clouds billowing low in the sky. A sharp dampness in the air pricked Adrian’s nose, promising snow again by nightfall.

  His heart rammed hard against his chest. “Cassie!” he called over the wind from the sea. “Stop!”

  She did as he commanded, her breathing punctuated by ragged jolts and jags. “I’m sorry, Adrian,” she gasped. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  He caught her in his arms, rocking her close. “Sorry for what?”

  “Peter . . .”

  “He’s an oaf. I don’t care what he says. You had a lapse of judgment where he’s concerned, but it’s over.”

  But her tears flowed fast, almost more quickly than he could wipe them away.

  “He saw through me the whole time.” Her words spiraled upward. “Peter, of all people! That stupid, conceited . . . even he could tell that I’m nothing better than a common—”

  “Stop.” Adrian shook her. “Cassie, you punctured his pride. He lashed back in the only way he knew how.”

  Her shoulders shook even harder as she sobbed against the front of his coat. “Oh, Adrian, what I’ve done to you. And you don’t deserve it. You’ve always been so good to me. You—”

  “And what have you done to me?” He cut her off, more concerned with her growing despair than with the words themselves.

  She collapsed against him, finally spent. He rested his cheek against her hair and waited. Finally, she drew in a long, shaky breath. “Peter will talk,” she said. “He’ll make you a total laughingstock.”

  “Peter’s a clod. Anyone who listens to him deserves to be misled.”

  “But he doesn’t even know my station yet. He doesn’t know I’m nothing more than a cook’s daughter. If that was his reaction even without knowing, can you imagine what your parents will say?”

  Adrian didn’t need to imagine what his parents would say. He already felt the quiver of his father’s rage, cringed at the expected wrench of his mother’s heartbroken sobs. It just didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was the woman in his arms, the beautiful, intriguing puzzle he now called wife. The rest would take care of itself.

  He raised her chin until her eyes met his. “Listen to me, Cassie Delano, because I only intend to say this one last time. I don’t care about your family lineage. I don’t care what my parents think about it either. And I certainly don’t care about anything Peter Phillips has to say. I have willingly pledged my life to you. I love you . . . madly, ridiculously. There’s a part of me that can’t exist without you. With you by my side, I can take on the world. Do you understand?”

  She didn’t answer. He thought he saw a flicker of sadness cross her face, but it might have been a trick of the clouded sun.

  “Cassie,” he said softly, “let’s go back to the cottage. We’ll leave for Poughkeepsie in the morning. Either my parents will understand or they won’t, but it won’t make a difference. We’ll be just fine no matter what.”

  She didn’t say a word, only clung tightly to his hand as he led them both away from the rocks toward home.

  CHAPTER

  44

  Adrian’s stunned expression was proof that Jim had been dead right: the bride trembling on Bennett Chapman’s arm by the door of the parlor had once been married to Adrian de la Noye. Jim would have enjoyed basking in the glow of success just a little longer, but there wasn’t time. Judge Thomas Bourne approached the podium, Catharine Walsh and Bennett Chapman following closely behind. Chloe reached out to take the bride’s bouquet, but Catharine gripped it as if it were a lifeline, her stare never leaving the riotous colors she held before her.

  “I applaud you, Mr. Reid,” Adrian murmured, his emotions once again concealed behind a neutral mask. “You must tell me later how you managed that particular parlor trick. In the meantime, look sharp: the roller coaster ride is about to begin.”

  Amy had grown so pale that Jim could have traced the delicate blue veins beneath her skin. “Are you ready?” he whispered, squeezing her hand.

  “I have no choice,” she whispered back. “Mrs. Chapman is just itching to talk. I can’t hold her off much longer. You’ll keep me safe, Jim, won’t you?”

  “Are you kidding? You’re my girl now; there’s not a chance you’re getting away from me that easily.”

  Judge Bourne smiled out at the small group before him. “Good evening,” he said, setting the book he carried down onto the podium. “We’re gathered here today to celebrate a most happy occasion: the marriage of my old friend Bennett Chapman to Miss Catharine Walsh.”

  Nicholas’s head swiveled toward Adrian, his silent question hanging on the air: Will you bring matters to a head or should I?

  “I know we’re family and friends here,” Judge Bourne continued. “And we’re all eager to get reacquainted over the fine wedding supper I smell even as we assemble in this room. With that in mind—and at the request of both bride and groom—I will keep this ceremony short.” He lifted his book, flipping the pages in search of the proper spot. “I assume no one objects to this marriage,” he said with a chuckle.

  Catharine tensed. Nicholas opened his mouth, but Bennett cut off his words. “Of course not,” he said, glaring at his son and daughter. “But, Tom, before we continue, I must ask your indulgence to invite another guest. Would you mind if Elizabeth attended the wedding?”

  The pages stopped flipping. “I’m not sure I understand the question,” Judge Bourne said. “You are, of course, at liberty to invite anyone you please.”

  “I’m glad you don’t mind.” Bennett absently patted Catharine’s hand. “It shouldn’t take long to call her up. She’ll be delighted to see you after so many years.” He turned toward Amy. “Are you ready, my dear?”

  Amy’s hand shook in Jim’s grasp. “Mrs. Chapman, are you ready?” The n
ame had barely left her lips before her body grew rigid. “She’s here,” she said faintly. “She’s been waiting. She bids you all good evening and says that the bride looks beautiful. She’s delighted to see everyone . . . especially you, Judge Bourne.”

  The judge wrinkled his brow. “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Nicholas said. “No reasonable person would. My father has just invited my late mother to witness his wedding ceremony. In fact, it’s his belief that she handpicked Catharine Walsh to be his bride. You asked if there were any objections to this marriage taking place. Well, I object. I believe my father’s state of mind speaks for itself. He’s insane, Judge Bourne, fit for neither marriage nor executing a new will. This should be obvious, yet I cannot convince Mr. de la Noye of the fact.”

  A fine sweat broke across Judge Bourne’s forehead. “Mr. de la Noye?” He slowly lowered his book back to the podium. “Can you explain?”

  Adrian’s voice was calm. “Bennett Chapman is my client,” he said, and at the sound of his voice, Catharine finally looked up from her bouquet. “He summoned me to Liriodendron to draft a new will, one that would reflect his marriage to Catharine Walsh. If I thought him insane, I could not in good conscience follow his directive. But I believe him to be of sound mind, and it’s therefore my fiduciary duty to do as he requests.”

  Bennett Chapman smiled into the air. “Elizabeth, my dear, we are happy to have you join us,” he said.

  “Where is she standing, Father?” Nicholas enunciated his words as if speaking to a child.

  “Oh, Nicky,” Bennett sighed. “Perhaps you’d see her, too, if you didn’t fight her visits so hard. She’s standing to the left of Amy.” His eyes filled with tears. “And she’s wearing her own wedding dress. Elizabeth—how gracious of you to allow me a second chance. I never did deserve you.”

  Judge Bourne followed Bennett Chapman’s gaze. It rested to Amy’s left, where a doily draped across the sofa arm nearly brushed the wall. The judge studied the empty space for a moment before facing Amy. She met his unspoken query with a blank stare.

  Catharine was next in line for his scrutiny. “There’s nothing amiss here,” she said, cheeks scarlet.

  The judge reached for a handkerchief to mop his brow before meeting the adoration on his old friend’s face.

  “There you have it, Judge Bourne,” Nicholas said. “You’ve heard it yourself. And I would suggest that if Mr. de la Noye finds even a shred of sanity in the belief that a dead woman arranged this wedding and now attends it as an honored guest, he himself is a few shades south of sound.”

  Adrian stood. “Oh, no need to concern yourself over my state of mind, Your Honor. I’m perfectly sound. We don’t need to consider the existence of life after death. We need only determine whether it’s reasonable for Bennett Chapman to believe that he’s communicating with his late wife.”

  “How could that ever be reasonable?” Nicholas exploded. “It’s clear what’s happened here. In his weakened mental state, my father has been duped by Catharine Walsh, who obviously wants to get her dirty little hands on his fortune.”

  “That’s a lie!” Catharine’s bouquet slipped from her hand to the floor, forgotten.

  “I am more sane than you’ll ever be, you little wart!” Bennett snarled.

  “Bennett,” Adrian began, shooting Catharine a warning glance, “I beg your indulgence to let me speak on both your behalf and that of Miss Walsh. Judge Bourne, I’ve appeared before you in court on numerous occasions, haven’t I?”

  The judge pulled his bewildered gaze from the flowers strewn across the floor. “Yes, Mr. de la Noye, of course you have.”

  “Have I ever given you cause to doubt either my word or my sanity?”

  “Indeed you have not. You remain one of the most competent attorneys to appear before me. That’s strictly off the record, sir. Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. And I don’t mind telling you that I’ve always found you to be open-minded and fair, even when ruling against me. I rest on my reputation when I ask you this: please, suspend judgment until Elizabeth Chapman has had an opportunity to speak for herself.”

  “Speak for herself?” The judge blanched. “You mean . . . through this young lady here?” He pointed toward Amy, who shrank a little farther into Jim’s side.

  “I’ll agree to that,” Nicholas said. “The more you see Amy Walsh weave her fiction, the more obvious my father’s insanity will become.”

  Catharine steadied herself with a hand on the podium. “Or perhaps, Mr. Chapman, the more your mother speaks, the more obvious your own hateful truths will become.”

  “Careful, Miss Walsh,” Nicholas said in a low voice. “I hold all the cards here, and I am not a gracious winner.”

  A gust of cold air whipped through the room; Chloe’s feathers dipped and danced. She whirled to discover the source of the draft, hand clapped firmly to her head.

  “Your mother is growing most displeased with you, Nicholas,” Amy said, rising from the sofa on wobbly legs. Jim dropped her hand but positioned himself on the edge of his seat.

  “Yes, let’s have more theatrics,” Nicholas said. “They can only prove my point.”

  Judge Bourne glanced sadly at his old friend. “I’m sorry, Bennett, but on the face of it, I must confess that your son’s arguments are compelling. I . . . I had no idea you might be in a state of decline.”

  Bennett pointed a finger, ready to protest. Adrian held up a quelling hand as the judge continued.

  “I am gravely concerned, both as an officer of the court and as a friend. But out of respect for you—and for your attorney as well—I am willing to listen to what the young lady has to say. Mr. de la Noye, you have five minutes to convince me of your argument.”

  “It should take less time than that for you to see right through it,” Nicholas said.

  Adrian turned toward Amy, who stood quaking in the middle of the floor like a lost child. “The floor is yours, Miss Walsh. What would Mrs. Chapman like to tell us?”

  Amy’s eyelids flickered as she closed her eyes to listen. “As I said before, Mrs. Chapman is particularly pleased to see you, Judge Bourne. She has fond memories of your visits and feels it most appropriate that you be here for Bennett tonight.”

  Jim’s skin prickled. Although a frigid wind had blown through the room moments ago, only the left side of his body felt chilled. The cold seemed to spring from the empty space between sofa and wall, the very spot where Bennett Chapman had placed his wife.

  “What is that?” Judge Bourne’s voice cracked as he pointed a shaky finger toward the wall.

  A concentrated ball of light glowed against a small portion of the wall, perhaps five feet up from the floor.

  “Mother of God,” Jim breathed. Catharine gasped.

  Chloe’s face lit up like a Chinese lantern. “That’s you, Mother, isn’t it. You’re truly here!” She extended an entreating hand, but Nicholas lowered it with a press on her wrist.

  Amy opened her mouth to speak, but only a little gulp came out. Jim half rose as a minor spasm jerked her body, but when her blue eyes opened wide, it was clearly Amy still behind them. “Your Honor, Mrs. Chapman sends her condolences on the loss of your wife,” she said.

  This time the gasp came from Judge Bourne.

  Amy continued as if she’d heard nothing. “She says not to fret. Lavinia is happy, and she sends her love.”

  The glow on the wall brightened; Judge Bourne gripped the podium as an overpowering fragrance of bergamot laced the room. “That’s my Lavinia’s scent! Or was . . .”

  “Wonderful, isn’t it?” This time, Chloe’s excitement fueled the quivering of her feathers. “Mother has been most kind in delivering messages from my departed daughter, too. I tell you, Judge Bourne, I don’t like Catharine Walsh one single bit, but I can’t agree with my brother that she and Amy are perpetrating a fraud.”

  “Shut up, Chloe,” Nicholas said. “With all due respect, Ju
dge Bourne, your wife’s death certificate is a matter of public record. Once the Walshes knew you would be joining us this evening, they obviously dredged up all the information they could find about your personal life. Surely you’re aware that there are ways to do that.”

  As quickly as it had arrived, the scent of bergamot faded away. Judge Bourne inhaled a last whiff of it, looking like a man whose dearest possession had just been laid to a bonfire.

  “Mrs. Chapman wants Judge Bourne to know that she especially enjoyed the conversations you two shared about books,” Amy said. “Her husband was always too busy to read. She found your conversations quite a welcome exercise of the mind.”

  “She often told me that!” Tears sprang to Judge Bourne’s eyes. “Bennett! This is really quite extraordinary!”

  Nicholas slowly stood, pivoting to face Amy. She ignored him, head cocked as if eavesdropping on a faint conversation in a crowd. “Mrs. Chapman especially requests that I tell you how grateful she remains for your recommendation that she read dear Mr. Thoreau. And as for Les Misérables, well, she quite forgives your opinion of Fantine and only hopes you’ve come to understand the miseries women are so often forced to endure.”

  “You may tell Mrs. Chapman that I’ve grown softer in my old age . . . perhaps even wiser,” Judge Bourne said, his face shining.

  “Oh, she can hear you,” Amy said. “She says she’s very glad to know that.”

  The spot of light on the wall faded for a moment, then glowed with even more intensity than before. The temperature emanating from it remained constant now, until Jim felt as if he’d settled beside an open icebox.

  “Extraordinary!” Judge Bourne repeated.

  Nicholas took a measured step toward Amy. “How do you do this?” he demanded, incredulous. “How do you know the things you know?”

  Jim shot to his feet, reaching Amy’s side at the same time Nicholas stopped before her.

  “It’s not that I want to,” Amy answered quietly.

  “It isn’t real,” Nicholas said. “It can’t be real, no matter how many convincing words you utter, no matter how many strange effects you and your mother manage to conjure.” His fingers landed on her shoulders like the talons of a great bird. “How do you do it?” he shouted, shaking her so hard that she slumped like a rag doll in his grip.