Bees in the Butterfly Garden (The Gilded Legacy)

by Maureen Lang

  She glanced up now and then to see if Ian might be approaching on the path nearby. Surely he was looking for her by now, and this was the edge of the park she’d told him they frequented. He could be here at any moment.

  But there was no sign of him, and so Meg’s eyes returned to the sermon—only to freeze on the page in front of her.

  “Oh!”

  There, in exactly the middle of the book, was another dropping from above. Meg held the book away, tilting it for Claire to see what had happened.

  “That Evie!” Claire exclaimed. “It must be a prank!”

  They both sprang from the settee.

  Meg looked up in search of some sort of cage, impossibly but intentionally placed in the trees by Evie. But there was nothing, just the sound of birds hiding among the new green leaves.

  Then she looked at the settee, seeing for the first time where several splotches had been wiped away. Because of the faded paint on the wooden slats, the blotches hadn’t been readily visible before they’d taken their seats.

  She looked at the back of Claire’s gown, seeing more than a couple of dabs that must have transferred from the settee to the material in her bustle. The same must have tainted Meg’s own gown, although she wasn’t about to attempt looking. At least Claire’s dress was white; marks on Meg’s dark-blue gown were probably even more noticeable.

  “We’ve both been spattered, I’m afraid.” Meg faced the settee again, tipping it back. “Would you look at that?”

  Claire came up behind her. There, speckling the natural carpet of twigs and leaves, were bird droppings of various size, shape, and color. The settee had been set directly in line with a habitual droppings path.

  “Evelyn Annabel Pemberton,” Claire said between gritted teeth.

  She stomped around the settee, bending down to pull back some of the ground cover that, upon closer inspection, appeared to have been deliberately thickened. New rows of leaves looked to have been brushed into place along where the settee now sat.

  “That wicked girl dragged this settee over here on her own. Look at those tracks!” A fuming Claire started off toward the walking path, but Meg caught her hand. They couldn’t leave! Not before Ian arrived. And yet, how could they stay, soiled as they were?

  “Perhaps we both ought to wait a bit longer, Claire.”

  Claire looked at Meg as if she’d lost all sense, and Meg patted Claire’s hand even quicker.

  “First we might find someone to move the settee so it won’t be in line with the bird droppings any longer. And then . . . well, we’re both so angry at the moment, I don’t think either one of us should see Evie until we’re less . . . irritated. Madame Marisse always said never to act in anger or haste. Remember?”

  Claire exhaled a long breath. “You’re right, of course. You’re as good at handling me as you are with Evie herself. Let’s go to our driver and tell him about the settee.”

  She started to walk away, but Meg didn’t follow. She took an uncertain step forward, then stopped. “I—I’ll wait here, to be sure no one else sits here in the meantime.”

  Claire nodded and attempted to smile, but the frown still marring her forehead didn’t allow the smile much room. “You’re so good, Meg. God has blessed you with a pure heart.” Then she hurried off down the path.

  Meg looked around. Though she heard sounds of others enjoying this end of the park—a child’s laughter, a dog barking—she saw no one through the abundant foliage. She wished she had a timepiece to know how much longer it would be before she could hope to meet Ian. Had something detained him? Ought she worry there had been some repercussion from his bank scheme?

  She’d been so eager to see Ian, she’d hoped that getting here earlier would make the moment of seeing him come all the quicker. Perhaps it was Meg herself who had hurried them from the start.

  And now it appeared she wouldn’t see him at all. How would he find another opportunity, if it didn’t happen today? Surely he wouldn’t get away with a bold tactic like joining a society party again. How was she to contact him without the Pembertons becoming suspicious?

  Meg wrung her hands, pacing along the pathway, well away from the settee beneath the birds’ preferred branch. The more she worried, the more set her anger became. That Evie!

  Just when she despaired over ever seeing Ian again—at least without entirely compromising her position with the Pembertons—a male shadow rounded the curve. The tall hat, the slender cut of a jacket, a single man walking purposefully along . . .

  But it wasn’t Ian. It was Nelson.

  Hiding her annoyance, Meg met him on the path. He took her hands in his and held tight. “I understand you and my sister have suffered another of Evie’s antics. I’m so sorry, Meg.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s nothing. Only . . . the settee . . . As you can see, it’s in the line of fire, so to speak.”

  She hadn’t meant to be glib—in fact it was all she could do not to complain, and bitterly so, about Evie’s deplorable conduct. But when Nelson laughed and squeezed her hands, the moment of anger passed. He went to the settee to drag it to its usual spot, then rejoined her and took one of her hands, placing his other along her back to lead her in the direction of the carriage.

  “How did you know what happened?” Meg asked, though she didn’t really care. She must follow Nelson. There was no possible reason to linger even a moment longer.

  “I was on my way to my office when I spied Evie walking home—alone. She claimed she just wanted to take some air, but I recognized immediately that little glint of humor in her eye. I know it means trouble. So I took her home, gave her strict orders to wait, then came to see for myself what she’d done. I told our driver to take Claire home in the other carriage, and I’ll take you in mine.”

  She made the attempt to look at her dress from behind, the glance doing double duty by allowing her to search for Ian. No sign of him.

  “I hope my dress doesn’t soil the upholstery.”

  “Yes, Claire warned me about that. Don’t worry; I have a kerchief for you to sit on.”

  They soon reached Nelson’s carriage and driver, and with a final look at this corner of Central Park, Meg allowed them to take her away.

  Ian stepped outside the parkland shadows, letting go of Roscoe’s collar. The dog had been remarkably cooperative, as if he’d sensed his master’s need for cover. But now he romped free while never straying far, running forward, then back to Ian, encircling him as if his own sheer happiness could envelop Ian.

  Ian had first spotted Meg when she was alone and had been immediately pleased she’d found a way to visit the park by herself. She was as resourceful as she claimed. Ian would have no trouble speaking to her. But no sooner had he quickened his pace toward her than the other gentleman had arrived. One Ian soon recognized as Nelson Pemberton.

  Meg looked as though she’d been expecting him, the way she’d accepted his grasp of her hands.

  Ian should be neither surprised nor dismayed over the apparently unlimited male attention Meg was receiving here in New York. What else had he expected? Place her in society—the very society for which she’d been groomed—and she not only fit, she attracted just the sort of man her father always planned for her to marry.

  He should want her to have a choice, but why did she have to be so friendly with Nelson Pemberton, of all people? It hadn’t taken the newspapers long to report the names of those lawyers and politicians who’d saved the bank so much money.

  Ian put a hand on either side of Roscoe’s massive head and scratched behind the dog’s ears. Despite the dog’s eagerness to please, solace wasn’t to be found.

  There was something else that irritated him about Nelson Pemberton. Everyone knew the philanthropy of the Pemberton family stemmed from an outspoken faith, one that Nelson was especially fond of making known in any public interview. It was that which pricked at Ian now, since it was the same faith his father had lived. Meg’s desperation to please her own father—or prove him wrong
—had unveiled a hole so massive in Ian that he could scarcely believe he’d lived with it so long without notice.

  Ian walked the path again, in the direction he’d first come. He would manage seeing her somehow, even if it meant waiting in the park for her every day of the week. It wasn’t his fault if she wanted to work with him. Pemberton pockets were deep, so dipping into them was a prospect he need not resist.

  Between the ghosts haunting Ian and his fears for Meg’s welfare, he might have been surprised the Pemberton gold still had the power to dazzle him.

  But dazzle it did.

  22

  True reform is not the immediate result of punishment; rather reform is bred in the heart through remorse, repentance, or fear. Threat of incarceration can incite that fear.

  Essay: “Reasons for Incarceration,” 1832

  Meg entered the Pemberton home just in front of Nelson, who followed close on her heels. She briefly wondered if she should go upstairs to change her gown immediately, mindful that the longer a stain sat on material, the less likely it was to be easily brushed away. But voices from the parlor didn’t allow her to go past, and with little more than an exchange of glances, she accompanied Nelson into the room.

  “Don’t add lying to your crime, Evie,” Claire was saying. “How long did it take you to find that spot? Or was this a prank you’ve been planning for a while, to be used at just the right time, so you might strike two victims instead of only me?”

  “I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about! How could I control the birds of Central Park?”

  Claire looked ready to speak again, but Nelson held up one of his palms, first to silence them, then to entreat them. “Come with me, both of you.” On his way from the room, he asked, “Come along, will you, Meg?”

  The three of them followed, silently, though Meg did glance at Claire and saw a look of eager vindication on her face. Nelson took them to the other side of the foyer, to the hall leading to Mr. Pemberton’s office.

  Upon entry, Nelson said, “I want you to look at the painting, Evie. Look at it.”

  “I’ve seen it before, Brother dear,” she said, singsong, refusing to do as told.

  “No, you haven’t. Not really, or you wouldn’t use your considerable talents to hurt anyone. That painting—this room—is ample evidence of all we have to be thankful for. As a reminder to use our gifts for good, not ill.”

  “I didn’t! How many times must I defend myself? I didn’t know Claire and Meg would be bird-cannoned. I shouldn’t have to remind you, Nelson, that you need evidence to persecute someone.”

  “Prosecute,” he corrected, but Evie was already shaking her head.

  “It feels like persecution to me.”

  “If I may say something?” Meg asked. She shouldn’t become more involved, but her own anger at Evie was much like Claire’s. Because of Evie, Meg had no idea how she would contact Ian again. “I agree you need evidence. Evie, where is your handkerchief? The one you had at the park? Is it in your sleeve?”

  The girl took a step backward, the self-assured smile on her face fading just a bit. “Yes, I have it. But it’s soiled. I used it to wipe something off my shoe on the way home.”

  “Bird droppings, by any chance?” Nelson asked, standing not two feet in front of her, palm outstretched. “Give it to me.”

  She put one hand to a sleeve, then to the other, coming up empty. “I must have dropped it.”

  Claire approached her sister. “Really?” She grabbed and twisted Evie’s left arm. “Then what is this lump under the fabric?”

  “Ouch!” Evie tried to wrench her arm free but failed under Claire’s grip. Meg heard a slight tear of fabric, and in a moment the handkerchief fell to the floor.

  Nelson picked it up, his frown deepening. “Do you know why I wanted us to come in here, Evie?”

  Pulling her hand free of Claire, Evie rubbed her wrist and nodded. “Perhaps you might explain it to our guest, then.”

  Evie glanced to the portrait of Jesus on the cross; then her eyes shifted briefly to an opposite corner of the room before her gaze fell to the floor. “It’s the room where Father reminds us of how much we’ve been blessed. The g—our blessings and the picture.”

  “Yes, the painting. But it’s not just for you—it’s for us, too. For you as the guilty party and Claire and Meg as victims, and me, too, since I’m inconvenienced and delayed by all of this. Your punishment is for us to decide, but we’ll do it in here, where we remember what Christ did for all of us.” He turned to Claire. “What’s it to be this time, Claire? Do you offer Evie grace, mercy, or justice?”

  “Justice!” Claire’s answer was stern and quick.

  Meg felt Nelson’s eyes now on her with the same question in them. “I—I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said. “Well, I do understand justice, and I must admit it’s always tempting to see a person get what they deserve. What I don’t understand is the difference between grace and mercy.”

  “Claire?” Nelson asked softly. “Would you like to explain?”

  Claire sighed and closed her eyes a moment. When she opened them, Meg noticed they went to the portrait, not to any of them. “Mercy . . . is being spared the deserved punishment. The painting—the crucifixion of Christ—shows God’s mercy. Grace is depicted, too.” She pointed upward to a corner of the huge painting, toward a single ray of light shining through the raging clouds. “Grace is more than mercy. It’s a gift, completely undeserved. Like heaven.”

  “So,” Meg said slowly, “we should either extend punishment, justly, or let her receive no punishment—mercy. Or . . . go beyond that to give her something completely undeserved—grace?”

  “Yes, like an embrace or a kind word,” Nelson said. “Not a reward for her behavior, but an example of the sort of love God gives us.”

  Perhaps it was being in this room again, such a quiet, peaceful place with a cross on the desk and light shining down from windows high above—a meek but natural replica of the ray depicted in the portrait. The light even now touched the top of Meg’s head and made it seem, once again, as if God was watching her.

  Or perhaps it was the curious reference to their blessings this spot represented, blessings that didn’t stop at what the painting portrayed.

  More likely, though, it was the painting itself. It had a sort of life about it, something drawing Meg to it, keeping her there. Not as witness to the pain or suffering but to the love in the scene, the undeniable and incredible sacrifice.

  Meg shivered when she looked around the rest of the room, recalling that she’d wondered if there was some kind of secret safe in here. Hidden behind a wall, perhaps in the very corner Evie had glanced toward when she’d mentioned their blessings?

  The truth was, should any of the Pembertons know why Meg was here, why she pretended to be their friend, she would surely want grace for herself, or even mercy. Definitely not justice.

  “Is this a democratic process, then?” Meg asked. “Each of us has a vote? Or must I go along with what Claire says?”

  “We all get a vote, the three of us as offended parties. Do you vote with Claire, then? Justice?”

  Meg slowly shook her head. She could do no differently, despite her previous anger. “I only wanted to make sure of the process. I would rather extend . . . mercy.”

  God help her, she might have said grace out of pure fear for herself.

  Evie’s head shot up, and she looked at Meg with wide eyes.

  “All right, then, Evie. I extend mercy as well.” Nelson turned to Claire. “You have the right to exact justice, though, Clairy. What will it be?”

  She leveled a long stare at her younger sister. “You’ll ask Cook to be assigned in the kitchen after supper today, to clean the dishes. Each and every one of them, even the cooking pots.”

  Evie opened her mouth to protest but evidently thought the better of it before a word was uttered. Even Meg was about to question that particular punishment, having learned at school that putting Evie in a
kitchen was like assigning an arsonist to a match factory. There were endless pranks to be had in such quarters.

  “I’ll see that you’re closely monitored until the job is done to Cook’s satisfaction,” Claire added as if she’d read Meg’s mind. “And you might thank me for not assigning you to empty chamber pots instead. That’s all the mercy I’ll extend.”

  “Very well, Evie,” Nelson said. “Justice will be met regarding the prank that likely ruined two articles of clothing. Now for the lies, the one I overheard as we entered the parlor—your denial of the prank—and the one you told me when I asked if you’d caused any mischief. I suggest you apologize to all of us.”

  She did so, although Meg was sure she wasn’t the only one who doubted the sincerity. Evie used the correct wording, however, and that was all they could expect.

  Then Nelson stepped closer to Evie. He was much taller and more pale than she, with her rosy cheeks and wide, somewhat-relieved green eyes. “For God if not the rest of us, Evie, will you give up these pranks, once and for all?”

  She nodded but then hurried out of the room so fast that Meg knew the girl was afraid Nelson or Meg would change their vote to justice.

  23

  There’s rules inside the Tombs and there’s rules outside. Neither set got nothin’ to do with the law.

  Maisie “Mad Doll” McCready

  Incarcerated for pickpocketing

  Code of Thieves

  Roscoe’s whimper alerted Ian to someone at the door before the first knock. Given the dog’s wagging tail, it was likely someone they both knew. Still, he was cautious—only Pubjug knew Ian was staying in this gimcrack hotel, and for the time being he didn’t want company.

  “Ian, open the door.”