I looked through both, sorting through them like decks of cards. Many were letters from friends and family back in Philadelphia. Others regarded household expenses, while still others concerned orders for clothing and accessories. They came from as far away as New York and even Paris. One in particular caught my eye, not because of the contents, an order for a traveling wardrobe that included a good number of pieces, but because of the dates involved. The invoice and accompanying message indicated Mrs. Schuyler would be traveling to Paris in a mere few weeks and would collect her new attire there.
Traveling to Europe in the fall. This struck me as unusual. The time for European trips was in the spring. Nearly the entire Four Hundred left our shores at the first sign of the spring thaw, flocking to France, Italy, and other ports on the Mediterranean.
Had she planned this trip with her husband? With Imogene?
Alone? Leaning over the desk again, I rifled through once more, searching for travel plans. I didn’t know if the Schuylers owned a yacht. If not, Delphine might have booked passage on a transatlantic liner. I found no indication of such plans, but that wasn’t to say a ticket didn’t exist.
Indeed. If Delphine Schuyler had scheduled a trip to Europe without her husband, she might not have wished him to know about it. I suspected her husband would never look through his wife’s daily correspondence, and so would not have noticed the invoice and note about her upcoming trip. Travel tickets were another matter. Those she might have believed she needed to hide from prying eyes. But where?
All that was, of course, supposing they hadn’t been planning to travel together. Briefly I considered searching the judge’s bedroom, but time had passed since I had begun my hunt, and I feared the memorial service would end and everyone would soon return to the house. I’d already pushed my luck as far as I deemed prudent. Then again, I would not have another chance like this one.
Slipping out of the room, I listened for footsteps, voices, or other signs that someone might be sharing the second floor with me. When no sound came, I crossed the landing. As I’d expected, I passed a sitting room, its double doors wide open, the interior furnished with comfortable, overstuffed chintz in bright floral patterns. Another pair of double doors stood to the left of the sitting room, and making nary a sound, I hurried to them.
Neither door budged in response to my efforts. I blew out a breath of disappointment. Mrs. Schuyler must have ordered her husband’s rooms locked, perhaps unwilling to have his things disturbed. Some people kept the bedrooms of lost loved ones like shrines, changing nothing, keeping the personal effects just as the deceased had left them. Again my doubts chased that possibility away. If Delphine Schuyler loved her husband so completely, why those dry eyes at Wakehurst when she learned of his fate?
Before I’d relinquished my hold on the polished brass knob, a sound reached my ears. Quickly I darted a glance over my shoulder to the staircase. Seeing no one and hearing no ascending footsteps, I turned away from the doors and started to retrace my route to the back stairs.
A rustling stopped me in my tracks. Once again, I looked behind me and saw nothing. But I decided to waste no further time in looking and hurried along, as fast as I could, without making undue noise.
“You there. What are you doing up here?”
The female voice startled me. It didn’t sound like Cathy. Had the housekeeper returned early? I ground to a halt and turned slowly around. The sunlight from the windows at the half landing obscured all but the outlines of the figure standing at the top of the stairs. I could make out no features to put to the voice. Only that she wore all black, the skirt tiered and ruffled, with a tall hat adorned with ribbons and feathers.
Not a servant.
“I asked you a question. What are you doing up here?”
“I . . . um . . . came to straighten up Miss Imogene’s bedroom,” I stammered, grateful for the shadows of the hallway. This woman’s voice sounded familiar . . .
“I was told no one should be upstairs at this time of day. Your mistress is coming shortly with her guests, and you should be below, helping to make sure everything is ready.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Could she be a relative of the Schuylers’? That would make sense. Only, I hadn’t heard of there being any relatives in town. A friend, then, relieving Mrs. Schuyler of the responsibility of seeing to her guests’ needs following the memorial. “I’ll go down presently, ma’am.”
“Wait one moment. I’m not finished with you.” I had started to turn, but her voice stopped me. Full recognition struck me with a violent blow.
She came closer, and I braced as I waited for Lavinia Andrews to recognize me. For women like her, servants remained all but invisible—usually. But not one who had met with her disapproval and come under her scrutiny. How closely would she examine me?
As she moved away from the windows, her features took form—the aristocratic beauty, the porcelain skin, the raven-black hair. Derrick had mentioned a casual friendship between his parents and the Schuylers, but I hadn’t known Mrs. Andrews and Delphine Schuyler were so close. I certainly hadn’t known Mrs. Andrews had arrived in Newport. My pounding heart filled my throat and echoed in my ears. What would I say? How could I possibly excuse my presence here? She would not attempt to shield me. No, she would surely use the opportunity to humiliate me, have me accused of a crime, and banish me from her son’s life. At least she would try.
Mrs. Andrews stopped some dozen feet away, where the landing narrowed at the doorway into the corridor. One hand hovered at her throat, fingertips lightly touching the cameo at her collar. “I don’t have to tell you what will happen to you if it’s discovered you’ve been stealing from your mistress’s bedrooms.”
“I wasn’t, ma’am. I only came up to make sure all was in proper order.” Did she notice my voice had deepened suddenly in my attempt to disguise it? I tucked my chin as well, hoping to take advantage of the shadows around me. But just to prove my point, I plucked at my skirts, then held out my arms, my hands open, to show I hadn’t taken anything from the rooms.
“You had better be telling the truth. That is all I can say. Now go about your business and be quick about it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I dropped a curtsey and turned to hurry off. Could I be so lucky as to evade detection?
I hadn’t gotten far when she called out to me, “Wait! You look familiar. Do I know you?”
“No, ma’am.” This time, I didn’t stop, but scurried down the rest of the corridor and pushed through the door to the service staircase. I ran all the way down and didn’t stop until I’d reached the kitchen yard. Even then, I made short work of the property until I reached the street.
* * *
“Oh, Nanny.” It was all I could say when I arrived home nearly an hour later. Nora had tried to coax me into staying at Ochre Court long enough for her to hear all the details, but with a promise that I would relate them soon, I’d collected my buggy and guided Maestro home.
We sat together on the sofa in the parlor, where I had all but collapsed after coming through the front door. Nanny had her arms around me and I leaned my cheek against her shoulder, as I had when I was a child.
“But it was only Lavinia Andrews,” she said. “You’ve certainly stood up to her before. You’ve stood up to bigger bullies than her, for that matter.”
“Perhaps, but never like this.” I gestured at my clothing. “Dressed like a housemaid made all the difference. It made me feel . . . vulnerable. Like she held my fate in her hands.”
“In her fists, more like,” Nanny murmured.
I sat up. “Oh, Nanny, this is how it feels to be in service. Like you have no control over your life or your fate. Like you’re subordinate to everyone you meet.”
“I never felt that way.”
That made me smile, in spite of my current mood. “No. But you’re different. You wouldn’t let anyone get the best of you, ever. You’re strong, Nanny.”
“So are you, my lamb, and you know it.”
“Usually.” I shook my head, unable to quite explain the sensation of powerlessness that had gripped me in that corridor. A horrid notion lodged itself in my brain, along with the memory of a frantic knocking at my door four years ago. “This is how Katie felt, when she worked at The Breakers.”
Nanny nodded, but said nothing. Anger simmered behind her spectacles as she, too, remembered the night Katie had been thrown out of The Breakers. Katie’s fate had been that of many maids, and many more to come, unless society changed.
But I hadn’t gone to the Schuylers’ residence to prove a point. I had gone to see what I could find out about the Schuyler women. I told Nanny about the two bedrooms I explored, and about what I had found in Delphine’s writing desk.
“An off-season trip to Europe could signify any number of things,” Nanny observed. “But I agree, it’s unusual.”
“Do you think it could mean she’d been planning to leave her husband? Especially in light of what some of the servants insinuated. Cathy in particular. The arguing she heard from upstairs bothered her more than it did the others.”
“She wasn’t used to it.” Nanny’s expression turned sad. “Poor dear. It can’t be easy for her, being so far from home. But aren’t you forgetting something, Emma? Something about Mrs. Schuyler?”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.” I removed one of the pins in my apron that had been pricking my skin through my dress. “I know her mostly by reputation. I haven’t had much direct experience with any of the Schuylers.”
Nanny raised a finger and tapped it at the air. “Think back to when your aunt Alva left her first husband.”
I thought back to that great scandal of four years ago, and then gasped. “My goodness, I had forgotten. Delphine Schuyler was one of Aunt Alva’s most vocal critics at the time, as much as Aunt Alice. She put the blame for the divorce squarely on Aunt Alva’s shoulders and said women like Aunt Alva would be responsible for the unraveling of America’s moral fabric.” I came to my feet, spurred by indignation. “Society would have shunned Aunt Alva, anyway, but Mrs. Schuyler made matters worse by bringing up Aunt Alva’s ‘shame,’ as she described it, every chance she got.”
Nanny reached up and took my hand, drawing me back down on the couch beside her. “It’s unlikely, then, that she would risk becoming a social outcast herself by leaving her husband.”
“Perhaps she thought that by simply leaving him, but not divorcing him, she could avoid a scandal.” But I quickly discounted that notion. “No, if she had done that, he could have cut her off without a cent. No, the only way out of an unhappy marriage for Delphine Schuyler would have been . . .”
My gaze met Nanny’s, and she finished my thought. “As a widow.”
Chapter 10
The next afternoon, I sat near the statue of Oliver Hazard Perry in Washington Square and kept my eye on the Opera House doors. There was to be a performance in a week’s time. The marquee advertised John Philip Sousa’s comic opera The Bride Elect. I knew only that it involved two rival kingdoms on the Isle of Capri, and that it included a large cast.
I hoped Burt Covey was one of them.
While I sat, a parade of individuals marched through my mind. Imogene Schuyler, who didn’t wish to marry Jerome Harrington. Delphine Schuyler, who had been heard to argue with her husband, and who had plans to be in Paris within the next few weeks. Jerome Harrington, who perhaps acted out of rage if Judge Schuyler had agreed to call off his daughter’s wedding. The mystery guest at James Van Alen’s fete, who may have stolen the clothing he wore from Max Oberlin’s tailor shop. I added another name: Clarice O’Shea, who might have wished to sabotage the marriage of Miss Schuyler and Mr. Harrington.
Had Burt Covey seen anything that night? Had he deliberately avoided Ethan and me out of fear of angering a killer?
The doors opened and men and women streamed out onto the sidewalk. I sighed with relief. I had risked missing them if they had exited by the rear stage doors, but I had wagered on their wishing to catch the trolleys or shop in town. They came in twos and threes, their voices and laughter drifting to me where I sat. The afternoon sun lit the square, much as theater lights lit the stage, and I studied each face as it appeared. But it was Burt Covey’s stocky build that identified him to me.
He walked with a man and a woman, both of whom towered over him. I supposed his shorter stature and muscled frame was what allowed him to perform somersaults from a standing position without any apparent effort. Once they’d cleared the park, they separated, the man and woman heading north on Thames Street, and Mr. Covey crossing the square toward the trolley stop. I waited until he reached the far sidewalk before hurrying out of the park gates.
When the trolley came, I watched Burt Covey board it and hand his coin to the trolley master. I jumped in through the rear and silently praised my good luck, as most of the seats were vacant. The driver rang the bell and we glided forward on the tracks.
After paying my fee, I moved closer to Mr. Covey. As a matter of fact, I sat right next to him. He attempted to contract his person to put space between us, as I had no doubt annoyed him for sitting so close in an almost-empty vehicle.
I turned to his profile. “Mr. Covey?”
He started and whipped his face around toward mine. “What? Who are you?”
“Sorry to startle you, Mr. Covey. My name is Emma Cross.” I spoke in a low voice to avoid attracting the interest of the few other passengers. “I attended the fete at Wakehurst the other night. Perhaps you remember me?”
“No, I don’t remember you. There were a lot of people there.” He seemed to recognize his mistake as soon as he finished speaking, for a look of regret fell over his features.
“Then you are the actor who played the jester.”
He exhaled and faced front again. “Yes. Now leave me alone.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Covey, I only wish to ask you a few questions.”
“You’re not a policeman.”
“No, but I am a reporter. For the Newport Messenger. Perhaps you’ve read it?”
“I’m not much for newspapers.”
The response, although not an uncommon one, never failed to raise my hackles. How could someone live in this world and not care to know what was happening in it?
Gathering my patience, I said, “It doesn’t matter. What does is that you were everywhere that night. You might have seen something significant, even if you don’t realize it. I only wish to ask—”
With a lurch, the trolley paused at its next stop, near Bowen’s Wharf on Thames Street. Burt Covey leaped to his feet, squeezed by me, and, without another word, exited to the street. I had barely a moment to recover before the trolley started to roll forward again. Grabbing a nearby pole, I sprang up and made for the door, leaping down to the cobbled street from the moving car and nearly tumbling to the ground. As it was, I barely kept my footing and managed to twist my ankle in the process.
“Mr. Covey!” I cried out.
He had reached the sidewalk and was barreling along, heedless of the individuals who had to sidestep him or be struck down. With little choice, I bit down against the pain gripping my ankle and took off after him—not quite at a run, but at a painfully brisk walk.
“Mr. Covey, I will follow you home if you do not stop and speak with me. I’ll be at the theater again tomorrow. Please stop.”
About a dozen yards ahead, he came to a halt, his back to me, his shoulders heaving from his effort to evade me. I limped along until I reached him. “What was that all about? One would think you had something to hide, Mr. Covey.”
He looked everywhere, but at me—at the storefronts to one side of Thames Street, then across wharves on the other side and out over the ships bobbing in the harbor. “I’m a simple actor, Miss Cross. I don’t want any problems.”
“I don’t intend to give you any.”
At this, he finally swiveled his head until he faced me. “Really? You already are, I’ll have you know.”
“Mr. Cov
ey, if you tell me what you witnessed that night, I promise I’ll leave you in peace.”
“And if I did happen to see something, which I didn’t, but if I did, and I tell you, do you think that man’s killer will leave me in peace?”
“Yes.” At his contemptuous expression, I clarified, “Because he’ll be in prison. As it is now, he’s free to murder again. Are you saying you saw who killed Clayton Schuyler?”
He stared into my eyes a good long moment. I noticed his were blue and razor sharp in their intensity. I had no doubt Burt Covey was a keen observer of the world, as many actors are, and reporters are as well. He knew something from that night at Wakehurst; of that, I was certain.
“I am not saying that. Fine, you may ask your questions, Miss Cross. But on my terms and where I say.”
“All right. Where shall we go?”
He took off along the waterfront again, forcing me to limp after him at a quicker pace than my poor ankle would have preferred. He easily skirted a puddle of spilled fish guts, while I nearly went down. Only the sheer force of my will, and a strong disinclination to stink of fish for the rest of the day, prevented me from falling. I pleaded in vain for him to slow down, and received no response when I again inquired where we were going. He gave me no choice but to keep up or go home.
We were nearing the corner of Bath Road when he abruptly stopped and waited for me to catch up. When I had, he gestured with his elbow to the door on his left. “In here.”
He’d brought me to a pub called the Topside Tavern, not the roughest one in Newport, but not a place I would have patronized had I been alone. He opened the door and waited for me to precede him inside.
* * *
“Why have you tried to dodge me, Mr. Covey?”
He raised his pint of ale and drank, then lowered it to the tabletop. I sipped my tea. We sat in a corner near the front window. At the bar, several men sat, quietly talking; a few of the other tables were occupied by both men and women, who were eating lunch. It was a group of workaday people enjoying some time to themselves.
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