Bees in the Butterfly Garden (The Gilded Legacy)

by Maureen Lang

  She let that thought linger between them for a moment before going on. “Do you think you were the only one ever to play a prank at school? Of course you weren’t. But you were the only one to do so many and to do them without the protection of friendship. That’s what caused your trouble. You didn’t take the time to cultivate any allies.”

  Placing a finger beneath the bird’s claws and moving him from her shoulder to the top of the empty cage nearby, Evie took the seat next to Meg. She tilted her head as if to consider Meg with some perplexity. “You’re not going to lecture me about how wrong it is to play a prank?”

  “I suspect you’ve known right from wrong for a long time, as evidenced by your brother and sister. But you chose your own way from that very first assignment at school. The pillows, remember?”

  Evie smiled with the memory, and Meg was tempted to as well. They’d been assigned to embroider small parlor pillows with a verse from the Bible. Evie had paraphrased a verse from the first chapter of Job: Naked I came; naked I go. Hardly an endearing quote from a child whose responsibility was to exhibit modesty above nearly all other things.

  “I suppose next you’ll tell me you want to be my ally.”

  “Hardly. What I want is to sleep in peace. And perhaps spare your sister some worry. Why do you do the things you do?”

  “If I answer that question, will you answer a question of mine?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I’m good at mischief. I’m clever that way. And everyone always likes Claire but not me, so why not do as I please?” The answer was so quick, so practiced, that Meg wished she’d bartered better, at least to ask more questions about Claire. Then Evie placed her palms on the sides of her seat. “Now answer this question for me: are you falling in love with Geoffrey?”

  “I barely know him!”

  “All you did was talk to him this entire evening. You should know by now whether or not you want to fall in love with him.”

  At least Meg could answer this one honestly. “I most assuredly am not falling in love with Geoffrey Mason.”

  Evie relaxed in the chair, folding her hands in her lap. “That’s fine. Then as long as you refuse his attention, I won’t cause you any trouble.”

  Meg stood. “I’m glad to hear that, but you do know you can’t threaten every girl who catches his interest, don’t you?”

  “Only for the next three years. I’ll be seventeen then, and that’s old enough.”

  “Old enough . . . for what?”

  “Anything I might have to do to catch his interest.”

  Meg wanted to sit again to give Evie a lecture she never would have heard at Madame Marisse’s—one about expanding her goals and objectives beyond capturing the interest of a man. But she couldn’t give that lecture. Not when she might be guilty of the very same crime.

  18

  Without exception, the thieves I have met in my long and illustrious career seek not only to answer their demand for high adventure through such an occupation as mine, but more importantly to strike against those stingy bankers, those corrupt businessmen, those greedy rich men, by divesting them of some of their ill-gotten gain.

  Alexander “The Gent” DiBattista

  Code of Thieves

  By the time the sun shone brightly above and the deed was long done, Ian had considered every possible consequence of the burglary. So far, he was certain none of the others had taken time to consider the fears Ian now contemplated.

  They would no doubt celebrate this job for months to come. After all, a million dollars was nothing to scoff at and would certainly end any perceived need for Brewster. A successful job—particularly one with the potential of bringing in so much profit—would lift more than a few brows. But it was success in spite of Brewster that would command the most attention.

  The hotel room Ian had rented on the edge of the Bowery was clean and nearly respectable. He hadn’t attracted much attention walking in, carrying a nondescript black satchel. Dickson was already there, and Pubjug and Keys had met them later.

  Ian’s satchel was full of banknotes totaling over a million dollars. Pubjug, having joined Ian in the vault, had swiped some gold eagle coins as well.

  The commercial paper in Ian’s satchel was every bit as valuable as what they’d left behind in ignored safe-deposit boxes. What they took would be far safer to exchange with the bank for profit, far easier than selling any goods from a safe-deposit box that their owners could identify. He couldn’t hope to cash a single note without being caught—but then, without the notes the rightful owners couldn’t cash them either. And thus would begin the ransom dance. For a percentage of the value, Ian would be happy to return the stolen goods to the bank. He knew the bank would be more concerned about the return of property they held in trust than justice being served.

  The total amount of their payout had yet to be calculated. Ian had left for the bank manager the customary instructions on how to negotiate the return of the stolen notes. Four hundred thousand in cash for more than twice that in paper was a fair enough price. Such deals were standard practice when those who abided by the law were bested by those who did not.

  Ian wasn’t in the least worried that someone would finger his crew, although apart from the four directly involved, there were at least that many more who would rightfully suspect his signature on this job. Other than the bonds, banknotes, and gold coin, they’d taken nothing and violated none of the safe-deposit boxes, showing a singular act of restraint. But those who could’ve identified him lived in the same murky world Ian inhabited and, like all cockroaches, were most comfortable in the sewers of society.

  Still, the truth was this job wasn’t truly over until the bonds and notes were negotiated, so Ian didn’t allow himself the jubilance the others enjoyed. Only after his satchel had been ransomed would he share their triumph. One hundred thousand apiece wasn’t a bad haul, not bad at all—well, except for Ian himself and Keys. Ian had agreed to giving Keys 25 percent more, a share he’d originally designated for himself, having planned the theft from the beginning. Even if they had to settle for a bit less, the night would still be a success once the negotiations were completed.

  While Ian’s bank account would still swell considerably, he would be free to continue as he pleased without interference from Brewster. Money was, after all, the only thing beside his dog that Ian trusted.

  And he would have done it all without using Meg—no matter how willing she claimed to be.

  Nearly two weeks after she’d arrived at the Pembertons’, Meg began to wonder how effective she would be at gaining the information she hoped to acquire. Claire was perfectly sweet, if a bit private, and Evie had thankfully decided to leave them alone entirely. Nelson, the one Meg was sure had the most knowledge about where the famed Pemberton gold bricks might be housed, was rarely at home. No one ever talked about money, the source of their wealth, or even the bank at which they might be storing their gold. Meg knew she could hardly bring it up without casting herself in sudden suspicion.

  One thing she’d learned about the Pemberton household was that the servants were far friendlier here than at any other home Meg had visited. She’d also learned that despite being surrounded by the highest-quality furnishings, neither Claire nor Evie went on the daily shopping sprees of many other girls their ages. All they ever did on a regular basis was stroll through Central Park. Admittedly it was a place used almost exclusively by the elite families surrounding the considerable park, but walking there did little to enhance the image of Pemberton purchasing abilities since it was entirely free.

  When Claire mentioned that Nelson led the morning meetings she’d described on the day Meg had arrived, Meg decided it was time to join them. It wasn’t difficult to rise early, considering all she did in the evening was sit with Claire in the parlor either drawing flowers and garden sketches or reading one of the many books from the Pemberton library. And if she was going to be successful at finding the gold, Meg was beginning to think she would ha
ve to befriend Nelson.

  “Oh, Meg!” Claire greeted her at the parlor doors. “You’ve decided to join us this morning. I’m so glad. Come in, won’t you?”

  Nelson stood beside the piano, with Evie on a window seat nearby. The rest of the room was crowded with the staff: the head housekeeper, a chef and a cook, a butler and a valet, two lady’s maids, a parlormaid, a chambermaid, four footmen, a coachman, a stable hand, and a dark-haired girl who curtsied Meg’s way and was probably a maid of all work. Obviously when Claire said the staff, she meant the entire staff.

  Other than a soft whisper or a giggle here and there, the room was quiet. Nelson had little trouble calling them to attention.

  “We can leave the doors open this morning,” he said when someone went to close them. “We’re all present today; no need to keep quiet. We can shout today if we like.”

  Laughter bubbled up from opposite ends of the room over the way Nelson bellowed the word.

  “All right, then. Let’s begin. Anyone?”

  “I had a letter from my sister, asking we pray for her youngest daughter. She’s been sick in bed nearly a week now.”

  “Could we lift my brother in prayer? He’s having an awful time since his wife died.”

  “I know . . . ,” started the young maid of all work in a tremulous voice. “I know all of ye are so generous in yer prayer, always askin’ for others. But might it be all right if I asked ye to pray for me? I . . . I miss me folks so! And I’m never to see them again, as far as they be—still back home in Ireland.”

  A general rumble of compassion erupted, and although one maid had already placed an arm around the girl, another woman came closer to offer her an arm of support—none other than Mrs. Longford, the housekeeper. As Nelson began a prayer, even Claire rested a gentle hand on the servant’s shoulder.

  If Meg hadn’t been so well trained at hiding any extremes of emotion, she might have stood with her mouth agape. Instead she watched as if the sight were common, this mingling of classes both rich and servant as if all were one family. Never in her life had she seen or heard of such a thing.

  So preoccupied was Meg that she could barely listen to what Nelson prayed, though she was sure he included all of the requests made and then some. When he spoke her name, thanking God for Meg’s visit and asking His blessing upon her, Meg blinked, quickly bowed her head, then folded her hands and joined the rest who silently prayed along.

  It wasn’t as if she’d never prayed before. Faith in God was certainly understood by all who attended Madame Marisse’s, and Madame had made prayer regular practice at school, at least before every meal. Meg had just never seen it practiced so . . . democratically.

  Soon the prayer ended and music started, with Claire at the piano and Nelson leading a hymn. Thankfully it was one with which Meg was familiar, Luther’s “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”

  By the time the servants went on their way, Meg still didn’t know what the meeting had accomplished. No meals were discussed. No schedules compared. No correspondence mentioned, no marketing or household needs determined. Nothing productive happened at all.

  All the meeting had really produced was a number of smiles and a few grateful tears. And although Evie had behaved like a quietly angelic youth, she was the first to leave the room. But Claire and Nelson lingered, both coming to Meg.

  “I hope you didn’t mind,” Claire said. “I suppose I should have warned you about the kind of meetings we have.”

  “Is this something your family has always done?”

  “Of a sort,” Claire started, then looked to her brother to continue.

  “We expanded on it a bit since Mother and Father sailed, but the staff doesn’t mind, and we like it this way.”

  “But when do you tend the day’s business? The menus and household needs and such?”

  “We discuss all that before the meeting begins. Anyone who has business arrives earlier. Nine thirty is when everyone else arrives, and we officially start the day in a way that brightens everyone’s spirits and reminds us of what’s important.”

  Claire put her arm around Meg. “And don’t tell Father when my parents return—I hope you’ll still be here—but we’ve raised everyone’s wages, though Father was the most generous employer on the block to begin with. It’s been more fun than I can tell you seeing how happy it’s made everyone.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” Meg said cautiously, “so long as they don’t tell the neighbors. You’ll have to withstand some censure from the other families who don’t want to match your wages.”

  Nelson signaled a servant for his hat and coat. “We’ve thought of that,” he said, “which is why our higher wage is only temporary, until Father returns. Given with the admonition that it’s to be kept our own happy little secret.”

  “You’re off already?” Claire asked him. “You haven’t even had breakfast.”

  “I’ve had coffee. I’m contributing to a procedure that I’m eager to see finished. Another bank was burglarized late last week, a number of bonds stolen. I’ve petitioned Congress to have them all declared worthless so the bank won’t have to negotiate their return.” He placed the hat on his head. “That’ll show the rascals, won’t it? Stealing from a bank shouldn’t be a battle of wits, after all.”

  For the second time since her early rising, Meg mustered all her training to maintain an unaffected facade.

  Bank robbery? Surely not . . .

  Her heart pounded in her ears, and she had to remind herself to breathe slowly. “Does that mean they haven’t caught the person who robbed the bank?”

  “Persons,” Nelson amended. “And it was technically a burglary, since they came when the bank was closed. Most likely there were several people involved, at least one of whom must be working at the bank. They’ve been interrogating employees since the break-in was discovered.” He approached the door. “Sooner or later they’ll figure it out. They most often do, you know.”

  Then he left, and Meg had all she could do not to run after him and demand to know everything the authorities had discovered about whoever had perpetrated the theft.

  But she stayed where she was, offering a silent—and belated—prayer for Ian’s protection.

  19

  You gotta be willin’ to take the risk—that’s worth somethin’, ain’t it?

  Stevie “Crow” Cobb

  Convicted of bank robbery without stepping foot in a bank, for acting as a “crow” while those inside divested the bank of its holdings

  Code of Thieves

  Worthless. Every single one. Nearly one million dollars in notes and bonds, which should have reaped at least a third of that total in ransom, was now worthless paper. Suitable for nothing but tinder, confetti, or the outhouse.

  Although Ian had already shared the bad news with the others, the truth repeated itself over and again in his mind. No moment, no thought, no action or purpose was without the weight of failure looming overhead. The money Ian had counted on obtaining would not be his after all.

  Money that, even with his caution and smaller split, Ian had already thought of as his own. And the power that went with it.

  In spite of his certainty that even Brewster couldn’t have foreseen or prevented this fiasco, Ian knew he was a failure. To vanquish the feeling, he went on a gambling spree, but even that brought only lackluster winnings. Nothing was as it should be. Not since John’s death.

  And with each invasive thought of John came one of Meg. Knowing where she was, what she hoped to do, tempted Ian more than ever. Once word of Ian’s misfortune spread, it was a near certainty that Brewster would emerge from his lair. He would never let go now.

  Like it or not, if Meg was lucky or smart or wily enough to learn anything about the Pemberton gold, she was going to offer that information to one of them.

  It might as well be to Ian. There was only one way to forget this latest loss, and that was to replace it with an even greater victory.

  Surely the Pemberton gold
could erase any trace of this failure.

  “Tell me, Miss Davenport,” said Geoffrey Mason, who had invaded the garden suspiciously soon after Claire took Evie away on an errand in an open carriage, “what kind of birds do you hope to attract here, without the dovecote my mother objected to? It’s not a very large spot.”

  Meg glanced up from the oversize sketch pad balancing on her hip to take a broader look around the square plot. Most of the greenery had proved to be weeds of one sort or another, although an attempt had been made to add some shape to the growth. She was drawing a replica to see which shapes she might fit into her final design.

  “I’m hoping to attract as many butterflies as birds,” she said, returning to her drawing. Beneath the tall trees of heaven in the corners, pigweed and mugwort nearly dominated the ground. But amid all that she’d spotted the same milkweed they had at the school, known for attracting butterfly larvae. For receiving only a few hours of sun a day, the weeds were surprisingly healthy.

  “But we’ll leave the pokeweed because it has berries that birds like. Hopefully by adding a bit of thistle, we’ll attract some finches and orioles too.” She shifted so that her back was nearly to him as she continued her sketching. Meg had no real desire to let Geoffrey stay too long; she’d planned to use this unprecedented time relatively alone at the house to search for clues about the Pemberton gold.

  “What, no crows?”

  Meg was unfortunately acquainted with the ways of crows, having seen more than once how they robbed eggs from other birds’ nests. “Why would I want to bring to the garden those thieving pests?”

  No sooner had the words been uttered than she wondered if she had something in common with the crows.

  “Oh, crows are the best of all wild American birds!” Geoffrey said. “I’ve watched them both here in the city and out in the country, and I assure you they’re the smartest birds around. Once I saw a crow drop a bottle of spice seeds it found who knows where. The bottle had a little string around its cap, and the bird picked it up in his beak.”