Bees in the Butterfly Garden (The Gilded Legacy)

by Maureen Lang

  “Miss Davenport is entirely free to welcome his attention,” Ian said, then added with a smile, “or mine.”

  She gave a wispy little laugh before reaching with her blue-veined hand for a glass of Sauternes that had been served with the salmon. “Things were easier in my day, when young people relied on their parents to help choose a spouse.”

  Such a prospect wouldn’t have allowed Ian much hope. “I’m sure parents wouldn’t have taken the responsibility lightly. But what if they chose the wrong mate, someone who wouldn’t be able to make their child happy?”

  “Who can tell what is best better than a loving parent?”

  Ian took a sip of his wine, determined not to dwell on her words.

  Meg could hardly wait for the meal to end. Why had they chosen to serve so many courses? She’d barely had a chance to speak to Ian, except about the food and the weather. And he was farther away than she’d expected, the table was so long. Geoffrey demanded almost all of her attention, and Nomi on the other side of Ian seemed to be doing the same with him. She was about to despair that time would ever move forward when Evie’s sugared fruit was finally moved from the center of the table and served.

  Soon after, they returned to the parlor for the after-dinner interval. Claire had suggested reading poetry from Elizabeth Browning and Emily Brontë, but Nelson had recommended more general conversation.

  Meg took a seat near the window, seeing Ian headed that way. Rather than joining them, Kate took a place in the center of the parlor.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Kate said after everyone had gathered. “Do allow me an indulgence, won’t you? I’ve had the most fascinating discussion with Mr. Pemberton, and I must tell everyone how very impressed I am. Now, Mr. Pemberton, I don’t mean to embarrass you, but I simply must tell everyone what you shared with me over dinner. About your new project.”

  Nelson’s fair skin went a bit pink in the cheeks, something Meg hadn’t seen in all the weeks she’d lived under the same roof with him. Everyone but Kate and Nelson had taken seats, with Ian in a chair near Meg’s. Nelson remained standing at Kate’s side as she expounded on his virtues and shared about his efforts to improve the lives of immigrants through work and food kitchens, along with attempting to remove a massive elevated railway that went down Third Avenue in the Bowery—a noxious iron roof that on occasion spewed ash or cinders from the trains that ran above.

  Meg glanced at Ian. The Bowery—his territory.

  She watched Ian’s eyes come to rest on Nelson, his expression somber yet interested. She’d known, of course, that Nelson was involved in myriad good works. She knew, too, his heart for others. If she thought about God more than she allowed herself, she might conclude He’d been wise to entrust a great deal of gold to this family. Something Kate might be trying to prove.

  But these were thoughts Meg was training herself to ignore. Surely Ian did the same. He had even more incentive than Meg to carry out this plan; it hadn’t been her who’d been left in an alley on a pile of refuse.

  Somehow she must find a way to take him to the library—alone—so she could show him where to find the key to the office. Not easily done while Kate demanded and directed everyone’s attention.

  Ian felt Meg’s growing anxiety. Did she sense Kate’s capacity to manipulate the evening?

  After a short session of general admiration for the virtues of Nelson Pemberton—something Ian was half-tempted to endorse himself—Kate did not give up playing the hostess.

  “Now, darlings, I went to a party recently in Boston and they played the most delightful game. It’s called Composition. Who wants to play?”

  At Kate’s bidding, Claire produced enough paper and a mix of decorative metal- and cedar-encased pencils for all who cared to join in. Geoffrey’s parents and Nomi opted to be spectators, the same status Ian himself would have claimed. But he knew enough about parlor games to realize there must be a winner. Perhaps he could do a bit of manipulating himself, with the library as his prize.

  “First we must choose fifteen specific words all of us are required to include in our little essays. There is no limit to other words, but to earn the first point, each composition must contain every single one of these fifteen words. Points are deducted if we fail to use all fifteen words, but extra points are earned by a single grammatically correct sentence using the most words from our list. Understood?

  “Let me see,” Kate continued. “Since there are seven players and we must choose fifteen words, each of us should suggest at least one word of our choice, and we must agree on the rest. Words like sacrifice.” With a glance at Meg, she added, “Or deception.”

  That was enough for Ian’s suspicions to resurface. Just what was she up to with this game of hers?

  Nelson and Claire added more words Kate would no doubt welcome—trust, love, and home. Ian knew he would have less trouble winning if the words were more mundane, and so he suggested train . . . and library, to mirror Kate’s maneuver. He needed to stir interest in that room if he was to demand his reward when he won.

  Once the remaining words were agreed upon—making one exception for Evie’s choice of sugared fruit to be considered a single word—Ian set about the task of winning without delay. He was less concerned about beauty of content than about receiving the highest score, and so when he finished first, he held up his sheet.

  “Did you offer an extra point for fastest completion?” He was glad to receive amused laughter from Nomi and the Mason couple.

  Kate, who’d been busy at a nearby side table, shook her head. “Rules have been stated, dear. No extra point for that, though I should have stipulated extra points for loveliness of prose. Something that takes more time.”

  He cocked his head and grinned at her. “But alas, you said it yourself: rules have already been stated.”

  “I for one am relieved about that,” Nelson said. “This isn’t much like writing a legal document.”

  When all the participants had finished, Evie was the first to volunteer to read her composition.

  The girl stood, apparently without a trace of shyness or awkwardness many children her age might display in adult company. Certainly Ian would have been unsure of himself, as a boy. At her age he’d still possessed a lingering Irish brogue and been spindly of body and brash of mind. It wouldn’t have taken anyone two minutes to show him to the door—not even the Pembertons’ kindness would welcome the kind of youth he’d been. And the Masons? They’d never have let him in.

  Evie stood in the center of the room and read, “‘At a luncheon in the garden the other day, I noticed many birds. The glasses on the table were not safe from above, nor was my hat. When I left for the Bowery, I heard the noise of the train and wished to be back home, where I am the only person who will always love to eat sugared fruit in the library. I’m very glad to trust that God made a sacrifice of His Son because of my bent toward deception.’”

  Evie clearly enjoyed her reading, perhaps more than anyone else in the room, and when the others clapped and congratulated her on successfully using each of the prescribed fifteen words, she curtsied as if she’d just pleased an audience in any of the Bowery theaters.

  “I have seven points; is that correct, Lady Kate?” Evie asked as she handed her page to be counted. “I used six of the fifteen words in one sentence and one more point for using all the words. No deductions.”

  Luckily for Evie, Kate did not consider content flow, since her essay jumped from one topic to another with nearly every sentence.

  The young Mason stood next, and Ian settled back in his chair. The man did not take the spot Evie had vacated; rather he stood before Meg as if he’d designated her the only one worthy to be in the audience.

  “‘I fell in love with a person I met in the garden belonging to the home next door. Songs of birds around us were as sweet to the ear as sugared fruit is to the tongue. I removed my hat, then asked the lady to trust my absence of deception and willingness to make great sacrifice for her. I hoped we
might share a luncheon or at least two glasses of lemonade, but she was otherwise engaged reading a book from the library, and so I implored God to train her heart to accept mine.’”

  The Mason family clapped and sighed, and even Kate, Ian noticed, complimented the man’s prose. Ian only smirked. No extra points for that.

  Meg followed, and Ian was relieved to hear she did not return any of the sentiment young Geoffrey had been so eager to reveal to one and all. Rather hers contained some of what Ian expected, a reference to the library as her favorite room and a statement that stories of sacrifice—and deception—were as sweet to her as sugared fruit.

  After Meg finished, Nelson invited his sister to go next. Claire read quietly that only the love of God was without deception, something Ian found curious. Did that mean she viewed human love as deceptive? But he had little time to contemplate the question, because Nelson began his reading.

  His prose contained no hint of the legal tones he’d admitted to struggling with. Ian listened politely, all the while wishing he could find something to detest in the man. Reminding himself Nelson had played a part in having the bank bonds declared worthless did little to expel a growing respect for him. There was something about him, something Ian could describe only as “soulish,” that Ian wished he could better understand.

  Nelson’s composition extolled God for His love and sacrifice, claiming His Book to be the most precious in the library. After a description of heaven, Nelson ended his prose with a promise to wait patiently because even on earth the glasses on his table overflowed with blessing.

  Ian volunteered to go next, hoping to forestall Kate altogether. If each composition was to reveal something about its author, might she take a chance and reveal something he had no desire to let be known? He prepared to read his essay without flourish but with confidence, knowing he’d followed the rules and so far had accumulated the highest number of points.

  “‘I’ve heard it said that deception does not come from God, that we should trust in His love and sacrifice. But a person without a home must live with the birds; he hasn’t even a hat and possesses nothing more than dreams of a luncheon with sugared fruit or a train ride to a garden where he will read many books from the library while enjoying several glasses of wine.’” He looked up, letting his gaze challenge Kate’s. “I believe that’s eleven points, Lady Kate. The winning total.”

  “But we haven’t heard from Lady Kate!” Nelson reminded him. He approached Kate, gently taking her paper and holding it up. “We’re all good for the forfeit if you’re the winner, Mr. Vandermey. But I for one would like to hear what Lady Kate composed, whether or not it earned a winning score.”

  “Thank you ever so much, Mr. Pemberton,” Kate said. She smiled Ian’s way, one brow slightly raised as she scrutinized his sheet to verify the points. “And I’m not entirely certain you deserve all those points, with such a cumbersome sentence and your use of a semicolon.”

  “Prohibition of a semicolon was not previously stipulated,” he countered, “therefore permissible.”

  “Then I shall read mine anyway. If you don’t mind, my dear?”

  Ian stepped aside, returning to his chair. He waited, more fearful than ever that Kate was about to do something he would regret. It was one thing to have Meg ousted from the Pemberton home before she encountered any real trouble, quite another to have all of them found out for the frauds they were.

  “‘Deception,’” Kate read in her perfectly faked British accent, “‘like sugared fruit, is something a person can train himself to love, proving God alone is worthy of our trust. Each day at breakfast, luncheon, and supper, I lift up a sacrifice of prayer that flies faster than birds up to heaven. I cannot keep the truth under my hat much longer because even without eye glasses, I see more clearly than others. I know this: a home belongs to those who live in it, whether or not it has a library or a garden.’”

  Amid everyone’s praise, Ian stepped forward again to examine her paper. He must not allow anyone time to dwell on her words of secret warning. “Like some of the other compositions, it’s fortunate for you that no points were deducted over lack of subject continuity. Or for the questionable use of the word glasses. Wouldn’t eyeglasses be one word? I won’t even count your use of a colon, as you did with my semicolon.”

  “Yes, we have a few things in common, don’t you agree? Using words to win something?”

  He wouldn’t allow such banter any more time. “True enough, although I remain the winner.”

  “And what sort of forfeit would you like us to pay?” Nelson asked congenially. “For us to identify an item of your choosing, blindfolded? Or perhaps sing the entire score of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’?”

  “Oh!” Evie chimed. “What about making everyone imitate a pig or a cat?”

  As tempted as he was to see young Mason on all fours and grunting like a sow, Ian reined in such a dishonorable thought. He had something else in mind.

  “My demand requires only a spare number of forfeits. A moment of my cousin’s time, and permission from you, Mr. Pemberton, for her to take me on a tour of the famous Pemberton library Meg boasts about.”

  “Why don’t we all go, then?” Evie asked. “The library is just across the hall. It’s not much of a prize if you ask me.”

  If Ian didn’t know better, he would’ve thought he saw a twinkle in Nelson’s eyes as he refused his sister’s suggestion. Obviously he knew Ian’s request to see Meg alone was something of a social risk, but Ian could tell already he would get what he wanted.

  “Meg can show you a number of rare and original volumes,” Nelson said. “Take your leisure in enjoying the collection.” He glanced at the clock ticking on the nearby mantel. “Five minutes?”

  Ian didn’t contain his own smile. Five minutes was enough. He offered Meg his arm. The fact that Nelson had made this so easy should have made Ian proud of himself. Ian could say this job—one that would not only provide him more gold than he’d ever beheld but also freedom from Brewster—had thus far proven the easiest in terms of groundwork. Thanks to Meg.

  He dared closing the library doors once they were inside. Meg’s nervous laughter drew him to her side.

  “You’re so clever!” she told him. “I couldn’t imagine how I was to bring you to this spot without calling attention to such a wish.”

  She held out her hands to him, which he immediately moved to accept; then she willingly complied when he pulled her close.

  “I have so much to tell you, Ian.”

  “Have you?” Only two words, but issued with the leisure of someone enjoying the moment he was in. And he was. He couldn’t help adding a smile that broadened every bit as slowly.

  With his arms securely around her, he was in no hurry to hear her news. She had only to catch his gaze to return it with the same kind, one that said she didn’t want to look anywhere but at him, think of anyone but him. She nodded in response to his unnecessary question, though it was clear neither one of them cared about words just then. Then she let him kiss her, even as he wondered if she knew the kiss wasn’t merely a prize required for the social gamble he’d won.

  Her lips beneath his were soft, inviting. Willing.

  But five minutes . . .

  Ian pulled himself away. “What have you to tell me?”

  “Oh! Ian, wait until you hear!”

  Meg broke free of his arms to lead him to one of the bookshelves, one nearest an inner door he noticed for the first time. Reaching up, she placed her hand beneath the heel of a brass bookend and pulled out a key. “This opens the door to Mr. Pemberton’s office, right here, where I’m sure they’re hiding their gold. I saw the safe myself.”

  Ian couldn’t help but gape at her. The last thing Meg’s father would have wanted to believe was that she’d inherited all the talent necessary to follow in his footsteps: cleverness, bravery, and a way to ignore self-reproach that was necessary to carry out a plan against the Pembertons. But the smile on her face convinced him.


  God help him, Meg made doing the right thing a near impossibility.

  He smiled despite himself. “That’s my girl.”

  Then he kissed her again.

  29

  There comes a time in every young lady’s life when right and wrong are not easily defined. It goes without saying that a lady’s behavior must be exemplary in all things. But when confronted with two choices, both of equal merit, how does she choose? The answer to this starts of course with prayer, but she may also consult those around her, those older, wiser mentors God has placed in her life.

  Madame Marisse’s Letters to Young Wives, No. 7

  Meg’s head—and heart—spun. She wished they had more time. She wanted nothing more than to kiss Ian again, and again after that. There was no denying it now—she wanted far more than a simple business partnership with him, and she hoped his kisses meant he felt the same way.

  There was, however, more important business to attend to. Meg could see on Ian’s face that she had his full attention. “The office is fairly square. Just inside of this door, to the left, a large painting hangs. Go to the far edge of the painting, reach about this high—” she raised her hand even with his shoulder—“and slip your fingers behind the frame. There is a small lever in the wall, which must connect down the wall and under the floor, just as you suggested. The door is in the opposite corner, the one toward the front of the house. When you shift the lever, a door in the corner will pop open. It leads to a stairway, and at the base is a safe. It’s a Madison, Ian. Almost as tall as I am, with a combination wheel and a horizontal handle.”

  “Meg,” he whispered, drawing her close once again, “you’ve done it. Guaranteed success.”

  She smiled, pleased with his praise. How she wanted to extend those five minutes that were too quickly passing.