by Maureen Lang
“And you found that admirable?”
“But you don’t understand! He had to drop it three times to crack the bottle—it was a sturdy little thing. He had to drop it from the correct height and on pavement, not grass. Only then could the bird enjoy the contents. Magnificent intelligence from a bird’s tiny brain! You should design a place to leave corn kernels to attract them.”
“I think I’ll leave the crows to Central Park, thank you. Now, Mr. Mason, you must go. I’d like to finish my sketch, and I cannot do so with you distracting me from my work.” Calling him Mr. Mason was not so much an effort to follow the rules of etiquette as it was to place some distance between them. Geoffrey, although good-humored, had become increasingly friendly with his frequent visits—perhaps too friendly.
Instead of stepping away, he reached around her to take the sketch pad from her hands and let it rest on the wrought-iron table behind them. “There is to be a charity ball hosted by the Markinghams, and even my family has been invited. Anyone who is no one in New York will be there, as consolation for not being in Newport. I expect since the Pembertons are in town, the Markinghams have dared to invite them and that you’ll be going as their guest. But I’d like it if you would let me—my family, that is—escort you instead.”
Despite an appealing affection growing in her heart for Geoffrey, Meg knew she must decline. “But of course you know I can’t. What would Evie say . . . or do?”
He glowered at her. “You cannot seriously allow that child to alter your behavior.”
“No more than you’ve done, waiting until Claire rode off with her in the carriage.”
He looked away, obviously guilty as charged. “I’ll have a talk with her and explain the age difference is too much for me. I should have been more forthright from the start, but the women in my family suggested I might not want to offend a Pemberton, no matter how young.”
“Perhaps they’re right. You do live next door.”
That sparkle in his brown eyes—the one that came with his blatant honesty—glimmered her way. “It’s not the Pembertons’ proximity; it’s their money. And their placement on the social scale my family measures as important. But it’s ridiculous. Evie is a child! I shouldn’t have to stem my interest in you because of some silly infatuation on her part.”
“It’s more than that for Evie. She’s a very spirited and determined girl.”
“One I can’t ever imagine taming. I already pity the man she marries—and fear for her children.” When Meg took up her sketch pad again, he still remained standing in front of her. “If you won’t go as my guest, will you at least promise me the first dance? And more than one after that? Evie won’t be present to monitor us.”
“But her spies will be; I’ve heard about that from Claire. Bribed servants who will report everything you do.” His look of annoyance was so plain, Meg tried cajoling it away. “My advice to you is to leave the country, find a foreign wife, and return only after you’ve become a father. Perhaps then Evie will realize you won’t wait.”
“Go ahead and laugh at my misfortune,” he said, at last turning away and retreating toward the leaded-glass doors. He continued speaking as he went over the threshold. “There he goes, the man who could never marry. Why, you ask? Oh, because he’s hounded by the devotion of Evie Pemberton.” Then he turned back, bowed politely, and wished Meg a good day.
“Don’t forget about a place for the corn,” he called from inside the house. “It’s the crow’s favorite food. . . .”
Meg found herself laughing, suddenly sorry she had to send him away. She could see why Evie was enamored with him. Geoffrey was not only handsome; he was witty and willing to talk about things other than himself and his own future, unlike so many men of society. If Geoffrey adhered to one principle in life, it was to be true to his thoughts—and unafraid to share most of them.
She waited a few moments, finishing only half of her sketch. Undoubtedly one of the staff had seen Geoffrey to the door, or at least heard him leave. She was glad he’d left the door open from the garden. She could go inside without anyone hearing, as long as she kept her footsteps quiet.
Meg knew where she wanted to investigate. There were two offices in the house. One, upstairs, belonged to Nelson. She’d seen him going in and out of it often enough and had followed him in there one day under the pretext of asking him about a social engagement they would be attending.
She’d half hoped to find some sort of safe, thinking an upstairs office might be more secure than the office on the first floor. But other than a rather large desk, a shelf of books, and a row of cabinets and various furniture in between, there had been no sign of anything more. Unless, of course, a safe was hidden in a wall. Behind the bookshelves? The cabinetry? A smaller safe behind the single portrait hanging on one of the inner walls?
Or perhaps she might find bank papers there, something to suggest where the Pembertons stored the majority of their gold. But she hadn’t spotted anything atop his desk—at least not in plain sight—with the cursory glance she dared while in Nelson’s company.
Still, she would save revisiting that spot. Today she would explore the office on the first level, the one belonging to Mr. Pemberton himself. If any clue about the gold was to be found, that was probably the best place to start.
Meg stepped inside the house, gripping her sketchbook to her chest and standing completely still. She did not even allow herself to breathe as she listened. The best servants, of course, were neither seen nor heard, and those employed along Fifth Avenue were certainly among the best.
Earlier in the morning the house had enjoyed the staff’s diligent attention: a daily dusting, a polish here and there on a rotation known only to those who cared for the brass knobs and fixtures, and replacements of such things as greenhouse flowers from the florist and the bowl of fresh fruit in the dining area. Luncheon had passed, and dinner was still hours away.
On other afternoons Meg had learned these hours were spent quietly if a visitor wasn’t being received or calls weren’t to be made. When they were at home, Claire liked to read or crochet, and Evie was most often hidden away in the aviary, likely reading books she did not find in the Pemberton library.
Meg stepped through the dining room, past the small parlor, pausing long enough to glance in the library. Finding it empty, she entered, going to one of the two doors she knew offered access to Mr. Pemberton’s private place of business. Her heart sank to find it locked.
She’d practically expected that. Perhaps the other door—the one in the hallway, just out of view from the foyer—would allow entrance. She found her way quietly out of the library, then tiptoed altogether because she had no logical reason to enter a hallway leading exclusively to the office only a Pemberton had a right to visit.
To her great surprise, the door was wide open. She stopped, listening but hearing not a sound. Surely even the quietest maid would make some sort of noise if she were cleaning. The whisk of a carpet brush. The flutter of a feather duster. Meg stepped closer and listened again.
Nothing.
Three more strides took her inside the room. The first thing she saw—a desk—had upon its corner a carved wooden cross, giving her the immediate feeling of standing on the threshold of a sanctuary, a holy and protected place. The room was lit by a pair of high windows, too high to offer a view of the street outside but sending in beams of light that reminded her of rays from above . . . of God watching. She shivered, then shook the thought away.
Turning round to take in the room’s entirety, she found one spot of light on the wall behind the door, just now in the path of the sunbeam from the opposite windows. The light fell on a painting that took her breath away, catching her gaze with a force she could not resist.
It was a portrait of Christ on the cross between the two others crucified at His sides. The colors arrested Meg first: the white of His loincloth, the red of His blood against skin that was neither white nor brown but somewhere in between. Gold lettering glimme
red on a sign affixed above His head, a head haloed in a crown of gray thorns. All of it was rich and pure, depicting a suffering man upon a suffering earth with its dark skies and angry, tormented clouds. She thought if she could regain her breath, she would smell rain in those thunderclouds above the Lamb of God.
The lighting—from the sky outside as well as the light depicted in the portrait itself—allowed almost no notice of the other two figures on the canvas. One looked away from the Christ, lost in his own misery. But the other’s eyes were fixed on Jesus, as if by watching Him, his own pain could be withstood. There was longing in his gaze.
Meg stood still, struck by the beauty—but no sooner had she realized the full impact of the work than another thought threatened to send her running from the room. The eyes looking to the Christ with such hope belonged to a thief.
“It’s magnificent, isn’t it?”
“Oh!” She dropped her sketchbook, the voice behind her startled her so. She turned to see Nelson.
“I’m sorry if I frightened you.” He looked at the artwork, a knowing smile on his face. “I can get lost in it too.”
Meg looked around the room, wondering how he could have entered so silently. She was sure the office had been empty upon entering, and the hall door was too near her to have been used without her seeing him.
“Were you looking for something? Someone?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, I—that is, I was on my way . . . out . . . near the foyer . . . and I saw the open door to this room.” She attempted a smile. “Curiosity got the best of me, I’m afraid.” She looked again at the painting with the hope of keeping his attention on it rather than upon her. “It’s quite something, isn’t it?” She wished her voice wasn’t so breathless. Did she sound as guilty as she must look?
“I’ve often wanted to hold our morning prayers in here, just to be near it. But the room is too small to host the entire staff.”
Tingles along the back of Meg’s neck would surely have her visibly squirming if she did not move. She stepped toward the door.
“Wait,” Nelson said, bending to retrieve her forgotten sketchbook. He handed it to her with a smile. “You know you’re welcome in any room of the house, don’t you, Meg?”
His kind and gentle tone was too much for her. Murmuring a feeble “Thank you,” she flew through the doorway, her step not slowing until she was up the stairs and inside her room.
20
It is through fashion that one reveals status, influence, and ability to control oneself both emotionally and physically. Fashion is, in fact, the first and foremost tale that will be told of you.
Madame Marisse’s Handbook for Young Ladies
Instead of watching the maid coil her hair, Meg looked at Evie’s reflection in Claire’s mirror. The girl was reclining on the bed behind them, staring up at the ceiling while she bounced a foot balanced upon one knee amid a pile of her petticoats.
“When I’m old enough to attend a ball,” Evie said to no one in particular, “I’m going to put henna in my hair until it’s completely red. I’ll go without a corset or a bustle, and I’ll have flowers sewn into a Chinese silk gown. And I won’t wear heels on my shoes, either.”
“Red hair!” Claire exclaimed. “Just wear a sign round your neck declaring yourself a complete social outcast.”
Evie rolled over to glare at her sister’s reflection. “Why shouldn’t I be a social outcast? That’s what you’ve wanted to be ever since Jude left. And Nelson is no better, with that work he’s always doing. I’m surprised you’re both going to the ball tonight, even if it is just because of Meg.”
“Evie! Can you ever put a rein on your tongue? We’re attending the ball because everyone invited has agreed to donate money to the hospital.”
She rolled over again, and Meg saw only her profile. “My red hair won’t make me a misfit. It’ll make everyone talk about me, and I’ll be the most popular girl at every ball. Wait and see.”
“I like the idea of going without a corset,” Meg said. Although she didn’t like encouraging most of Evie’s wild talk, a positive remark now and then might remind Evie they weren’t enemies.
Evie faced the mirror with a challenge in her eyes. “Then why don’t you go without one tonight?”
Meg smiled at Evie’s reflection through the two maids, one standing behind her hair and another behind Claire’s. “My dress is made for a corset. I couldn’t wear it without one.”
“Try it and see. At least then you’d have people talking about you, too.”
“Evie!”
Evie scowled at her sister. “You know, Claire, if someone were to record my name every time you used it, it could fill volumes.” She turned her gaze back to Meg; Claire’s admonition did nothing to remove the open curiosity growing on Evie’s face. “There were all kinds of rumors about your father at school, Meg. Did you know about those?”
Hoping they attributed any increased color in her face to the waving iron the maid used to crimp Meg’s hair, she nodded. She’d heard a few of those rumors.
“In all the years I went to school with you,” Claire said, her tone far more gentle than the one she used on Evie, “I don’t think I ever met your father. But he did visit you.”
“Yes. He was a very private man.”
“Was? I didn’t know he’d passed on. When did it happen?”
Meg’s throat constricted, and it felt like a weed from the garden had lodged there—the sticky kind with sharp edges. Accusations from Kate about denying her father echoed in her head. But Meg had no choice except to carry on with her lie of omission, or Claire would be aghast at best and send Meg away at worst. “Some time ago.”
Evie pulled herself from Claire’s bed. “But did you know everyone said the Miss Hibbits—both of them—were madly, secretly in love with him? Girls heard them call him ‘that handsome devil.’”
Meg didn’t doubt it. Little had she known how close they’d been to an accurate description.
When Claire reached over to place a tender hand on hers, Meg nearly jolted in her seat.
“I’m so sorry, Meg. Does that mean you’re all alone in the world?”
The words were true . . . and yet suddenly Ian’s face came to mind. He was here in New York City, and somehow he reminded her she wasn’t alone. Surprisingly enough, the notion of his connection to her father seemed rather pleasant instead of stirring the old resentment she’d felt for so many years.
She sent a quick smile at Claire. “Not with friends who’ve been closer to me than family.”
Claire squeezed her hand, and only then did Meg realize Claire thought she’d referred to her.
Out of training and the habit of offering the correct response even when not entirely sincere, Meg returned the smile.
Too late, she realized that despite every effort to steel her heart against the Pembertons, her smile wasn’t as calculated as it ought to have been.
Ian pulled at the stiff white collar of his shirt, shrugged his shoulders to adjust the fit of his black tailcoat, and smoothed the red silk of his city vest. Never had he longed more for a pair of cotton trousers instead of these pinstripes, a plain black tie instead of a formal cravat, and a sporting cap instead of this top hat. He’d long ago realized discomfort came with wealth. Elevated purpose, nobility of character—which everyone assumed accompanied wealth—seemed like so much nonsense if it was exhibited only through personal inconvenience.
But this wasn’t the first time he’d played a gentleman, and he knew as soon as he walked past the threshold of the Markingham home, he would forget the nuisance of fine clothing. In fact, the demands of the evening called for this to be his last thought concerning anything so mundane.
The prospect of seeing Meg again was already doing its job to distract him. This was business, and like it or not she was to be part of it. He’d timed his arrival not too late but certainly not early. She was likely already here.
He’d opted to walk from the Glenham Hotel on the co
rner of Twenty-Second and Broadway, despite the threat of rain. A brisk walk never failed to aid concentration—and gave him a fair view of the neighborhood. Carriages converged on the block of the Markingham home, making the street all the narrower for too much traffic. Another reason he was glad to have walked.
One carriage caught his eye as it glistened in the gaslight. It pulled out of the congestion, obviously only recently having let off its occupant. The carriage itself was nondescript: typically black, a Quinby coach so common in the city. But the familiar driver revealed who that occupant had been.
Brewster.
Ian hurried inside, eager to scout out the man himself. For a thorough search, though, Ian must first gain welcome. Before his arrival he’d acquainted himself from afar with the host, hostess, and most importantly, their son. Davis Markingham II—the generational tag no doubt added to increase the impression of age to their money. Those who knew him well, Ian had learned, called him—
“Dex!”
Ian issued the bold call to the young man standing between two women on the far side of the crowded foyer—a foyer absent of Brewster, as far as Ian could tell.
The man looked up. His roaming gaze went easily past Ian, only to return with some confusion as Ian approached, hand outstretched.
“Good to see you, old man!” He pounded one of Dex’s shoulders, then burst fearlessly into his full act: the first lines of Schubert’s song cycle Winterreise. Ian was not a great tenor, but he could hold a tune like any Irishman.
After hearing only the first few words, Dex fell to its spell. He joined in with his far superior talent, as loud and marked as Ian had hoped. At the first pause, both men laughed and joined in a hearty handshake.