Bees in the Butterfly Garden (The Gilded Legacy)

by Maureen Lang

  “No thank you.”

  “My condolences, miss.” Then he turned to greet others from the train.

  Meg stepped forward in time to fall in line with the talkative man in purple. Only now he was strangely quiet, walking beside a stout man even older than he. The other man was dressed finely from a silk-ribboned top hat to white spats on his dark leather shoes, carrying a shiny black walking stick in his gloved hands.

  By the time they all stopped beside the waiting carriage, Meg’s heart settled somewhere around her waist. It was obvious they were headed in the same direction, and she could avoid looking at them no longer.

  “Good day,” she said.

  The talkative man removed his pith helmet, then bowed, revealing a balding head. He nudged the older man at his side. “Didn’t I tell you, Brewster?”

  The man he’d addressed as Brewster looked mildly perturbed—though not surprised—at the elbow the other had used. He tipped his own hat Meg’s way. “Will you be accompanying us to the Davenport wake, miss?”

  She reluctantly raised her gaze to meet the inquiry, only to see his eyes momentarily widen.

  “You needn’t answer, my dear,” the older man said softly. “Surely you must be his daughter. I’d begun to believe you were nothing more than a figment of John Davenport’s renowned imagination, but now I see it’s true.”

  “Just as I told him.” The purple-decked man winked. “I spotted you right off, which is why I kept an eye on you on the train. We knew your father.” He put a hand over his heart. “Loved him like a brother.”

  Meg shifted the grip on her bag’s latch from one hand to two, so neither hand would tremble and she would not have to offer the contact of a handshake. “You knew my father well, then?”

  “Of course,” Brewster said. “He was one of my closest advisers.”

  “Take your bag, miss?”

  Meg started at the question, issued from so close by. She hadn’t seen the driver alight from the box seat atop the carriage to stand before her, palm outstretched. She handed him her bag, which he placed on the driver’s seat before offering to help her into the open-sided carriage. There was no need to pull out a step; the carriage was nearly level with the platform.

  Meg settled herself inside, taking the side facing forward. It wasn’t long before they were all seated, the train now chugging away while the carriage driver urged the horses on in the opposite direction.

  Brewster smiled from the seat directly across. “Permit me to formally introduce myself. My name is Alwinus Brewster, and it’s my great pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Meggie Davenport.”

  The other held out his hand. “And I’m Jamie. Just that, just Jamie.”

  She took his hand. “You were very . . . informative on the train.”

  He nodded. “I try to make time go faster, and the only way I’ve ever done it is by talking. Have you ever tried it, miss? You were sure quiet on the train.”

  “Pardon my companion, Miss Davenport.” She noticed Brewster shift the tip of his cane to place it on the other man’s foot. “Youth can no longer be his excuse, I’m afraid. He’s never been very bright.”

  “He certainly knew a lot about the route.”

  “Yes, he can memorize facts and dates, but when it comes to the subtleties of society, I’m afraid he’s at a distinct disadvantage. My apologies if he is disrespecting your grief. Such a shame about your dear father. We all thought him robust as a horse. But who can tell what havoc life causes a body? Particularly the life your father lived.”

  She wanted to ask what he meant but knew she couldn’t. What kind of daughter didn’t know the havoc her father faced, if others such as this man knew? She wouldn’t have him thinking her lack of knowledge about John Davenport was her doing. The blame for that rested entirely upon her father.

  “He did love the risks, didn’t he?” Jamie said. “I recall the time he placed five hundred dollars on a horse over at Jerome Park. Five hundred! But don’t you know, he won. Walked away with more money in his pocket that day than I’d made pinching in a year.”

  He stopped abruptly, evidently because of the pressure put on his foot by Brewster’s cane.

  Meg offered a tight smile and diverted her gaze from them both. While it might be admirable that Jamie pinched to save his money, she wondered if that was how her father amassed so much of his own. But in spite of the censuring thoughts she’d been thoroughly trained to have, a sudden and unbidden excitement erupted at the thought of gambling. What would it feel like to hand over five hundred—five hundred—dollars, just like that? And then to have a thousand, or even many times that, returned? What must it be like to have the freedom to do something so foolish and have it rewarded anyway?

  She looked out the side of the carriage as they passed through the town of Peekskill, where a row of awnings shaded various businesses and restaurants. It wasn’t the money that seemed so appealing; rather it was the risk. What must taking such a risk feel like?

  Habit told her to force such thoughts away. A person could hardly prevent thoughts introduced by others; it was what one did with such thoughts that proved to be improper or not. And dwelling on whatever exhilaration gambling might offer was decidedly not proper.

  Mr. Brewster, opposite her, had stopped talking altogether yet kept the cane on his companion’s foot. He seemed to sense her lack of interest in conversation, but she knew he’d misunderstood the reason entirely. Let them think grief gave her leave for rudeness, when it was really no more than ignorance about her father and his life. Soon the only thing she heard inside the carriage was her own gurgling stomach.

  Beyond the town, houses spread out to green landscape, and she soon realized how remote her father’s home must be. She refused to reveal either uncertainty or fear, even when it had been several long minutes since she’d seen a house or gate, and ruts and potholes began to pock the road.

  When at last the carriage turned onto a private lane, dense trees on either side prevented much study of the land. She guessed only that the terrain led somewhat upward. Then the trees parted to a final curl in the lane, revealing the house at last. The mansard-style roof gave away the mansion’s age as neither new nor old. With its three-story size it could easily have earned a place along Fifth Avenue in New York, but because it was here—far more secluded than “cottages” in such places as Newport or even Yonkers—she wondered what her father had been thinking when he’d purchased it.

  But mostly she wondered why he’d never wanted her here. Certainly there had been more than enough room for her.

  Only one other carriage was visible in front of the prominent entryway. A laurel wreath hung on the front door, warning visitors death had come to this home. So it was the porch just to its left that seemed most inviting. Iron chairs, a table—and, just now, a cluster of people watching the carriage approach.

  Meg wasn’t sure who spotted whom first. She wasn’t sure what drew her eye to him; he wasn’t much taller than any of the others, and his clothing unremarkable. A standard three-piece suit, dark as the occasion called for. Perhaps it was his hair: thick and black, neither straight nor curly but something in between, clean but not neat or oiled, and a bit too long.

  He stepped off the porch to greet the carriage, and once his gaze met hers, it stayed. With eyes the exact color of blue she’d always preferred over the color she had: not the shallow, pale blue of morning sky, but rather that of a sunset, dark and endless, unfathomable.

  Ian Maguire.

  Immediately she wished she didn’t find him attractive; she knew the weakness a pleasing face could inspire in others and wanted no such thing to touch her, especially regarding him.

  The carriage driver reached Meg before Maguire could, for which she was grateful. She knew he would have offered her a hand, and she wasn’t sure she would have taken it.

  “Meggie!” The welcome in his voice told her he was oblivious to her stiffness. As soon as she reached the ground, he took both of her hands. His delight
was clear, although on such an occasion she thought she wasn’t the only one who might think his happiness odd.

  “Mr. Maguire.” She tried pulling her hands away, but he held fast.

  Then the shadows behind her drew Maguire’s gaze, as well as an immediate frown from his handsome face. He freed her hands at last but didn’t free her altogether. Instead, he looped one of her hands over his forearm and stood slightly in front of her as if to separate her from the two she’d arrived with.

  “Brewster. Jamie.” No further formalities were exchanged, from either end. “You’ll allow Miss Davenport to go in first, won’t you? For a visit alone with her father?”

  “Of course, of course,” Brewster said. He tipped his hat at Meg. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Davenport, and sharing the ride.”

  “Thank you.”

  Maguire was already leading her away, placing his own hand over hers on his arm. “This way, Meggie.”

  She wished he wouldn’t call her that. She’d hated it on her father’s lips, and it felt even more unfitting from this man. So friendly, so intimate.

  Meg had little time to assess the others still on the porch, beyond a vague recognition that only one woman stood among them. Even the servant with a beverage tray was male.

  It occurred to her as she followed Maguire that this was the first time in her life she’d been in attendance at an event in which she, as a girl or as a woman, was in the minority. The sound of men’s voices seemed so unfamiliar to her, so foreign and almost exotic.

  The arched entryway led into a long hall. To the right was a glass door that would open to the porch she’d noticed. On the left was another door, this one closed; it was tall with insets carved like a basket. The rest of the hall was a mix of marble flooring and dark wood paneling that widened at a central rotunda.

  At the far side of the rotunda’s curve, Maguire led her to a large, empty room that would probably serve as a ballroom during more festive occasions. There were a few chairs set up near a large fireplace on the outermost wall, between two tall, open windows. Flowers were arrayed in front of them, perhaps to disperse their aroma upon any breeze in hopes of dispelling the scent of death that met her. Because there, on another far wall, was a table skirted in dark purple with a coffin on top.

  Her father.

  Maguire let go of her hand and stood nearby like a submissive schoolboy. His watery gaze caught hers. Meg looked away, the void in her heart a stark contrast to the sorrow she saw in him. She sucked in a breath of the perfumed air and stood as tall as her five-foot frame allowed, then approached the body for her farewell.

  His face looked strange to her, not at all as handsome as he’d been in life. She’d never seen him in repose but doubted this was how he’d looked even then. His jaw was oddly set, his pallor appalling. She’d only ever seen him in the school parlor—once or twice a year, sitting stiffly, always igniting a single question in her, one she’d never asked aloud: Why had he bothered to visit?

  She wanted to ask him that now, demand to know why he hadn’t just sent the money to school without ever coming to see her. It was obvious he’d never had any affection for her, had probably never approved of her at all. If he had, wouldn’t he at least have wanted her company?

  Her hollow stomach lurched, and she thought she might be sick. Surely it was only the smell, not just from her father but from the pungent flowers surrounding him. Scents so strong she suddenly wasn’t sure she could enjoy her expansive gardens at school ever, ever again.

  And then everything went blank.

  5

  The true lady represents both beauty and health. It is not uncommon, however, for even the healthiest of young ladies to swoon. Swooning should never be used to demand attention or stir unnecessary sympathies.

  Madame Marisse’s Handbook for Young Ladies

  Ian knelt and scooped Meg’s head into his lap. Then he lifted her altogether and crossed the room, passing the flowers and the windows and fireplace, reaching the three-story rotunda in the very heart of his home. He passed to the other side, knowing the library and billiard room were unoccupied but opting instead to take her upstairs. There were six rooms up there, only half of which were comfortably furnished and only one of which he absolutely could not take her to—it was, in fact, kept locked at all times.

  But rather than taking her to John’s room—there was something repugnant in the idea of laying her on the bed in which her father had so recently died—he took her to his own room. It was the largest, after all, even larger than the guest room her father had used.

  He’d forgotten he’d shut Roscoe in there, who greeted them with a wagging tail. Ian ignored him, settling Meggie on the bed and shooing the dog away when he tried taking a place next to her.

  Ian poured a glass of water from the pitcher at his bedside. “Meggie?”

  She seemed half-conscious, offering him only a little moan in response.

  “Would you like a drink? Water?”

  She turned away, eyes still closed, forehead puckered in a frown.

  Roscoe squeezed closer, shoving aside Ian’s arm and nearly causing him to spill the glass of water. He replaced the glass, then reached for the dog, who was busy getting to know Meggie by pressing his nose directly in her face with a friendly lick.

  “Oh! Oh!” Meggie sat up, brushing a hand over her cheek.

  Ian hauled Roscoe away, wishing he’d had the heart to train him better. He told the dog to sit but knew the animal had no idea what such an order meant. “This is Roscoe. He’s harmless.”

  “Dogs,” she said, “are made for the out-of-doors.”

  He offered no argument, although he quite firmly disagreed. “I’m sure you’re right about that.” He held the dog back when Roscoe made another attempt to acquaint himself with this new visitor on the bed he so often shared with Ian. “But today he’d be more of a nuisance, with all the guests in and out.”

  “Has he no chain, no shed?”

  Ian eyed her. How could Meggie not like dogs, when it was her father who’d taught him they were the only living things that could really be trusted?

  “He’s a barker . . . well, unless he’s comfortable, that is. And he’s comfortable here.”

  She looked around for the first time. He took in the room too, trying to see it as she might. The heavy drapes were closed, but light seeped around the edges, providing a dim view. She was surrounded by plenty of down-filled blankets he kept handy, even now when the days were warm. His wardrobe, which he’d forgotten to close, stood off to the side. It held all his clothes, neatly hung. Beyond that was the open door to his bathroom, and he wondered if she was impressed by such a modern convenience. Surely she could see the parquet flooring and the towel he’d forgotten to rehang; it was draped on the side of the polished mahogany frame surrounding the porcelain tub. He followed her gaze around the rest of the room, to the desk between the two windows, full of records Ian shared with no one. Opposite that was the fireplace, and above that the landscape oil that had been left behind by the former owner of the house.

  He thought the place neat enough, especially considering he hadn’t expected any company.

  “Is this my father’s room?”

  He shook his head.

  “Yours?”

  No sooner had he nodded than she swung her feet to the floor, inviting Roscoe to lurch forward. Ian held him back again.

  “This is quite a large room for a secondary,” she said, but when she tried standing, she must have done so too quickly because she sank back down to the blanket as if dizzy.

  “Look, you’re obviously overwrought. Can I get you something? A sandwich? Perhaps it would help to eat something.”

  Meg nodded. “Yes. I’m afraid my head is still spinning, but this room—you, being here—isn’t helping in the least. Could you send up a maid with something light? I’m afraid in my haste to arrive, I forgot to eat.”

  Ian understood a lack of appetite; he’d barely eaten anything himself since
finding John the day before.

  He led Roscoe away, though Roscoe clearly didn’t want to leave the newcomer and cried when Ian grabbed him by the scruff and made sure he followed. He put the dog in another room—the guest room John had used—and went in search of someone in the kitchen.

  Apart from the blanket offering the faint scent of an animal, the room was quite pleasant. Too dark for Meg’s taste, of course, but with the little light illuminating it, she could see the wallpaper was fine quality, complementing the design in the velvet curtains. She used the bathroom, noting that it was decorated tastefully too, if a bit stark. Other than the tile, it was plain and lacked any hint of the toiletries she was so used to seeing: bottles, oils, perfumes, various size mirrors, and so on. This one offered a single mirror on the wall, a cup for soapy cream, a discarded blade for shaving, tooth powder and brush.

  Back in the bedroom, she opened one of the drapes. The house, as she suspected, was on something of a hill. In the distance she saw the river beyond a multitude of green trees. The yard was nearly barren but for hardy grass, and she couldn’t see the porch at all from this angle.

  She supposed it wasn’t odd that Maguire would have such a large room here, in her father’s home. He’d been the son her father never had. She turned to look at the room again. This might have been my room, had I been a boy.

  “Meggie?”

  She turned at the gentle voice, seeing a woman entering with a covered tray, a small cup and teapot rattling on the edge. But she was no servant; she was the woman Meg had spotted on the porch, properly dressed in black.

  She was lovely, Meg noticed as she neared. Perhaps a bit old to be Maguire’s wife, but she didn’t look the right age to be his mother, either. A sister? Yet there was no family resemblance at all.

  “My name is Kate, and I’ve brought you a little something to eat. Are you comfortable here at the desk, or would you like to move elsewhere?”