Bees in the Butterfly Garden (The Gilded Legacy)

by Maureen Lang

  Which was, of course, ridiculous. She knew God wouldn’t approve of what she was doing, but did she honestly believe He cared? Surely if her father or Ian were here, they wouldn’t let misplaced guilt or premature remorse prevent them from doing whatever they needed to do.

  With that thought, she strode forward, candle high in one hand and the other hand outstretched. She touched the edge of the picture’s frame, half-expecting some kind of shock—like the jolt from a metal stair railing or a fireplace poker after walking across a carpet on a dry day. But nothing happened; the portrait accepted her touch as if it had expected it. Welcomed it.

  She slid her fingertips behind the frame, starting high, barely disturbing the way it hung so solidly from the wall.

  And there it was, high enough to be hidden by any work of art—something much smaller could certainly have accomplished what this massive portrait did with such excess. Her fingertips brushed against a narrow but smooth indentation. Sliding her fingers in as far as it allowed, she felt the lever. Like the ceramic beneath her slippered feet, it was cool, made of steel or iron. She pulled it; it lowered only as far as the edge of the indentation, so the painting hiding it was in no danger of damage.

  Instantly she heard a dull click and she spun around, still holding the candle. A shadow appeared that was not there before—a long, straight line near the corner. It beckoned her. She went to it, pulling wider the gap.

  Thrusting her candle into the darkness, she realized the wall hid neither a room nor a safe. Looking down, she saw the narrowest of stairwells—plain, unadorned wood steps with metal sidings. Gingerly she tapped a toe to the top stair; it was sturdy and would accept her weight.

  Still, she hesitated. She lifted the candle again, looking at the walls. They were plain block without so much as a spiderweb in sight, and yet fear accompanied her excitement. It was one thing to face the insects she knew in the garden, another to face the unknown in pitch black.

  But she knew what she must do.

  There was no railing, nothing but the stark, cold wall to provide balance on the narrow stairs. Three of the four walls were easily within reach, making her feel closed in, trapped, even with the secret door left open. The steps were steep, little better than a ladder. As she descended, the air grew cooler. And though the walls likely did not grow any closer than they’d been at the top of the ladderlike stairs, it was as if they engulfed her with each step she took.

  Meg stopped, lowering the candle to see what waited at the bottom. How much farther could this squeezed staircase go?

  Dank air licked the candle’s glow as if threatening to extinguish it. Though unsteady, the flicker remained intact all the way to the last stair, where she paused to look around. Her eye caught on a line in the wall in front of her, her candle’s glow reflecting what appeared to be a narrow bead of dampness between the cement blocks. A rag of some kind had been wadded on the floor below to catch the seepage.

  There wasn’t much space; the walls down here in no way matched the room above. But the flame did its job—it revealed what she most wanted to see. There it was, behind the stairway.

  A safe. Nearly as tall as Meg, made of some kind of metal. The handle was of the lever kind, with a dial above it. From her spot on the stair it was too dim to read the brand, but she could see there was lettering etched or painted in an arch on the very top of the door. She would have to approach the safe for a better look.

  So she did, holding the candle high as she stood before the safe. The brand was Madison.

  That was all she needed.

  Like a trapped animal darting to the only way out, Meg nearly dropped the candle on the way up the stairs. But she settled it back on its holder, lifted her nightgown and robe out of the way, then rushed to the office with her feet moving faster than her heartbeat.

  She shut the door—it closed as quietly as it had opened—then extinguished her candle and ran as fast as her quest for silence allowed, nearly full speed through the office, slower through the library, and finally, steadily but quickly up the stairs, all the way back to her room.

  It was some time before her breathing returned to normal. She removed her robe, kicked off her slippers, and went to the window, first glancing at the clock still at her bedside.

  Three thirty.

  How, oh how, was she to calm herself enough to sleep now? She’d done it! She’d gotten what she needed and could tell Ian everything. Would he be amazed at her accomplishment? Proud of her? Surely she’d proven herself her father’s daughter.

  She held back her laughter with both hands over her mouth. Oh! How glorious it felt to meet a challenge and conquer it. She knew Ian hadn’t really believed she could go through with it. Nor had Kate. But Meg had!

  With a renewed burst of energy, Meg twirled toward the bed, kicking aside her slippers on the way.

  That was when she spotted it. The soil on the bottom of one of her pink quilted house shoes.

  Her heart plummeted from its heights to the depths of her stomach. She snatched up the slipper and felt the spot, tossing it aside to examine the other. Worse!

  Why had she rushed up here so quickly? Why hadn’t she thought to remove her slippers? She’d seen the damp in that secret cellar. Spots on her slippers no doubt left footprints—leading exactly to her doorstep!

  Plucking her robe from where she’d so joyously tossed it aside only a moment ago, she put it back on. She stopped only long enough to retrieve two handkerchiefs and once again her candle. First she bent low to inspect her own floor. No sign of footprints here.

  Nor in the hall.

  She was thankful she’d kept to the edge of the stairway, where the carpet did not reach. Just in case there was a trace or smudge from her slipper where she could not see, she wiped each stair all the way down. Then, retracing the path she’d taken through the library, she felt with her bare feet for dampness in the foyer and on through the library carpet. In the office, it was difficult to identify any moisture because the tile was so cool.

  But sure enough, there were several wet spots on the floor nearest the hidden door. She wiped them clean, going so far as to retrace her path between the secret corner and the library door.

  The sound of the ding-dong striking the three-quarter hour nearly made her vomit. How much time did she have before the scullery maid rose? Less than fifteen minutes!

  Meg knew she had no choice but to go back inside the secret stairway. Although those stairs had likely been marred before she’d stepped on them, it would be odd indeed to see the pattern of a quilted slipper on either the stairs or the cellar floor.

  She must erase all evidence, and do it quickly.

  28

  I only took what I needed. You know, to make me pretty?

  Jane “Jolly” Higbie

  Incarcerated for shoplifting

  Code of Thieves

  Meg did not make it in time for the morning meeting, since she did not fall asleep again until after the sun rose. Somehow she would survive the day after her exhausting triumph. Tonight when Ian arrived, she would supply him with everything he needed. She could hardly wait to see the look of appreciation in his eyes—perhaps even a touch of awe—the moment she was able to speak to him alone.

  Details for the evening had been thoroughly planned and ultimately agreed upon, from the kickshaws of salmon with green peas in one dish to shrimp, asparagus, and oysters on the half shell in others. All of that would be accompanied by soup, then lobster farci and fillet of beef in mushroom sauce. Finally they would partake of the sugared fruit Evie had wanted, along with frozen pudding and the eau sucrée to be served one hour after café noir.

  Meg joined Nelson and Claire in the parlor at seven thirty, approximately half an hour before dinner was to be served, fifteen minutes before their guests should arrive. Meg wore a gown she hadn’t yet displayed, of pale-blue silk edged in white lace. The scooped bodice was trimmed in tightly gathered white sheer, a tiny silk rose set in its center.

  Claire, in
the customary gift of humility from a hostess to her guests, wore a modest dark gown of forest green; her cuirass bodice with square-cut décolletage was filled with frilled lace that was matched at the end of elbow-length sleeves.

  “Is Evie not down yet?” Meg asked, looking round the parlor. “I’d have guessed she would be ready first.”

  Claire glanced toward the hall behind Meg. “I expect she’ll arrive just when the bell rings, so if we have any objections to her dress, it’ll be too late.”

  Nelson, presenting himself as the usual man of status in a black square-cut evening suit with a single-breasted white waistcoat and small white cambric bow tie, frowned. “You didn’t supervise her for this evening?”

  “She refused to let me into her room and short of having someone break down her door, I saw no alternative but to let her make a fool of herself if that’s what she chooses to do.” At her brother’s continued disapproval, Claire went on. “I admit I haven’t seen the dress, but I gave strict orders to the seamstress overriding any inappropriate ideas Evie might have suggested. I can’t imagine it’ll be too outrageous.”

  Nelson walked toward the hallway. “I intend to make sure she won’t embarrass us, or she’ll not be joining this little soiree.”

  “No, I’ll go,” Claire said, although her reluctance was clear and she made no move to leave. “She’s my responsibility.”

  Meg stepped forward. “I’ll see to Evie. The guests may be here any moment, and you’ll both need to greet them first.”

  Nelson agreed with a word of gratitude, and Meg retraced her steps upstairs, only slightly irritated over her task. Although she wanted the evening to go smoothly, she still carried more than a bit of guilt at how easily manipulated Evie had been. She was an eager innocent in tonight’s particular game.

  She tapped on Evie’s door, and a moment later her maid opened it no wider than a few inches. “Is Miss Evie ready?” Meg asked.

  The maid nodded, although she did not look Meg in the eye. Nor did she open the door any farther.

  “May I see her?”

  “I’ll be down shortly.” Evie’s voice was breathless and nearer than Meg had expected. Probably right on the other side of the door.

  “I’m afraid I need to see you.”

  Evie met Meg’s words with a moan. “I must pass muster, is that it? Make sure I don’t embarrass the family name?”

  “I wouldn’t have to do this if you’d been a more exemplary student at Madame Marisse’s. May I come in?”

  The maid looked relieved to open the door, so relieved that Meg wondered what Evie had done now. Evie was still behind the door, and Meg leaned around to see her.

  If her goal had been to look older, she’d succeeded. But in so doing she looked like something between a circus actress and what Madame had once defined as an immodest woman of the night.

  “Evie.” As Meg issued the name, she knew she sounded just like Claire. But at least her exasperation was mixed with a touch of sympathy. “Do you . . . do you honestly think you’re prettier this way? What have you used on your eyes? And that lip color . . . Don’t you remember what Lady Kate said about you? That you have natural beauty? You’ve hidden it completely.”

  “But don’t I look all grown-up? Old enough for Geoffrey to notice me?”

  “Oh, he’ll notice, but not in the way you hope.” Meg turned to the chest of drawers that sat next to a full-length mirror. On the chest was all the evidence of the maid’s ministrations: powder, rouge, black candle wax, and a needle that had obviously been used to apply the wax to Evie’s lashes. “Where do you keep your handkerchiefs?”

  The maid quickly obliged, opening a small drawer at the top of the dresser. There was water in the nearby washbowl, and Meg went to it immediately. They didn’t have much time.

  “No, Meg . . . ,” Evie said when Meg approached her, but the plea was halfhearted. With a final glance in the mirror, Evie must have seen what Meg did: administrations to her face that weren’t an improvement.

  “If you’d been able to stay at Madame Marisse’s,” Meg said as she scrubbed Evie’s face, “you would have learned the art of beautifying, better known as cosmetics. It’s meant to draw attention to your natural features. To reveal health and genuine beauty. Genuine beauty that is, of course, more than what any of us were born with.”

  She had trouble removing the stain from Evie’s lips and had to send the maid to the kitchen for hot water, along with a touch of Vaseline, to remove as much of the wax as she could, but she succeeded for the most part in uncovering Evie’s face. She only hoped the redness would ease by the time they walked downstairs, even if they had to be a few minutes late. Such was an inexcusable offense according to Madame Marisse, who taught that being late for a dinner party gave the chance for hungry people to gossip about the one keeping them waiting. It was, she had said, better to send a note of apology and not attend at all than to be grievously tardy.

  Thankfully, Evie’s dress was acceptable. It was a trifle long to be worn by a child but did not reach the floor. Rather it topped her white shoes to reveal matching stockings that showed off what would no doubt remain slim ankles. The gown itself was pale yellow with short, puffed sleeves adorned with white ribbons. While the style was made for youth, it also offered a ruche at the back that resembled a bustle closely enough to show the inspiration of a gown fit for a young lady rather than a girl of fourteen.

  There was little time to do much about Evie’s hair, styled in an obvious attempt to duplicate the way Claire wore hers. It was still parted in the middle as Evie always wore it but swept up at the back amid curls and a single diamond comb.

  “Perhaps we might let down only part of your hair,” Meg suggested gently. “So Claire will know you’ve made an effort to look your age.”

  “I can do that easily, miss!” the maid volunteered. “It’s what I had in mind when I suggested the style. I’ll have it down in no time, and she’ll look as pretty as ever.”

  “But . . .”

  “Evie, we haven’t much time,” Meg reminded her. “It’s better to comply than to be sent back up here by your brother, isn’t it? And miss the party altogether?”

  “Oh, all right.”

  By the time the maid had adjusted Evie’s hair, the girl’s face was no longer red from the washing. Still, she cast a glow that was more from the petroleum jelly than nature.

  Meg picked up the powder puff. “A trace will be all right,” she said, meeting immediate approval from Evie.

  Finished, Meg hurried to the door—only to stop when Evie went instead to the mirror. Eyeing herself, she tilted her head to one side. Then she nodded and followed Meg from the room.

  When they walked down the stairs, a mix of new voices could already be heard from the parlor.

  Ian listened to Kate while she chatted with the others, silently amazed at the consistency of her false accent. She was easily the most popular person present. They’d been introduced again to the Masons from next door, recalling their first meeting at the park. The two women of that family had barely given Kate a chance to speak to anyone else.

  The only person apparently not interested in impressing Kate was Geoffrey Mason. He, in fact, glanced more than once Ian’s way, and Ian knew why. Competition was easy enough to spot. The man’s obvious disdain for Ian had a surprising effect. Instead of feeling proud that the boy thought Meg had chosen Ian, all Ian felt was guilt.

  At last he saw the two latecomers from upstairs. Ian’s gaze glided easily past the child. Had he felt guilty over wanting to claim Meg as his own, knowing full well the other young man in the room was far more suitable? How foolish to allow anything but delight in Meg instead.

  The gown she wore enhanced her beauty: light blue that nearly matched the color of her eyes. He’d seen how the same blue eyes on John had effortlessly captured the interest of women, particularly in contrast to the same dark hair Meg possessed. Now Ian knew firsthand just how powerful those qualities had been.

 
“How wonderful to see you, Ian,” she said softly. Leaning closer, she dared to kiss his cheek as if he were a brother and not some other vague and distant sort of relative. “I’ll need to see you privately, in the library,” she whispered.

  His pulse skipped forward. She must have important information or she wouldn’t be so eager to see him alone. Did that mean she’d gotten away with collecting the information he needed?

  “Wonderful to see you as well,” he replied to her greeting. Then he knew he had to let go of her hand, as other greetings were in order. He’d forgotten the child’s name and was glad to be reminded. When Meg extended her welcome to the Mason chap, she was cordial at best, even a bit cool. Something Mason seemed to notice, since he shot a quick, almost-embarrassed glance Ian’s way.

  Mason’s face changed altogether a moment later, however, when Claire Pemberton whispered something in his ear. Once dinner was announced, Ian figured out what Claire had said as partners were assigned for entrance to the dining room.

  There was a time Ian would have welcomed the prospect of getting to know someone with Nomi’s wealth. Tonight, however, he had all he could do not to scowl.

  The meal passed without mishap. Nomi was easy to amuse, and although during the brief before-dinner interval, he’d guessed she was only interested in someone of Kate’s perceived social value, he discovered something else during the quiet conversation they shared. She viewed Meg a worthy target for her grandson’s affection.

  “My daughter is eager to see Geoffrey married well. They look fine together, don’t they?”

  Ian studied the pair, caught up in a conversation of their own. “They’re young and attractive. I assume each would look fine with anyone equally attractive at their side.”

  Nomi smiled, but it was the kind that said she knew more than she revealed. “Such as yourself, Mr. Vandermey? Should I be cautioning my grandson about his attention to Miss Davenport?”