“The carpenter was out this morning, Miss Emma,” Katie told me as we finished up with the horses and headed to the house. The setting sun ignited the waves and tossed a lovely golden hue across the rear of the property. Katie shielded her eyes with her hand. “Those shutters won’t bang in the wind anymore.”
I nodded absently, my thoughts drifting back to my conversation with Mrs. Fish.
“And he offered to come back and attend to anything inside the house that might need fixing. Miss Emma?”
“What?” I shook my head to clear it, breathing in the briny ocean air, heavily laden with the scents of the outgoing tide. “Sorry, Katie. What was that? Something about the house?”
Katie put her hands on her hips. “Miss Emma, is something wrong?”
I shook my head, and we went inside. After pecking Nanny’s cheek in greeting and allowing Patch to prop his front paws on me so I could pet him and give him a hug, I wandered to the front of the house. A sensation niggled at me, though I felt hard-pressed to identify it.
I moved into the dining room doorway and began surveying the contents of the room. There had been a fire in here last summer, and quite a lot of restoration work had been necessary to rid the walls and furniture of the reek of smoke. New curtains, new cushions on the chairs, all compliments of Nanny’s sewing talents. The window had been refitted with new woodwork. The walls had been freshly painted. We rarely used the dining room, preferring to take our meals either in the morning room or at the wide, round kitchen table. Now, as I studied the improvements, I couldn’t help considering how that money might have been better spent.
Next I crossed the hall, entered the parlor, and lit a kerosene lamp. Here was quite a different story from the dining room. With the damage not having extended this far, there had been no need to refurbish. The hooked rug in front of the sofa showed worn patches and frayed edges. The sofa itself sagged here, bulged there, while threads hung loose and the upholstery in places had faded beyond recognition.
I turned around, viewing the scuffed floorboards of the hall, partly hidden by another faded and worn area rug. A decision was forming in my mind.
“Deciding on what you’ll replace first?” Nanny shuffled down the corridor from the kitchen, smiling at me as she approached. “You can afford to make this place shine now, Emma.”
“I can,” I agreed, and turned once more to view the parlor. “Aunt Sadie refurnished this place after she inherited it from my great-grandparents. Oh, she didn’t replace everything, but she made modifications here and there that made the house her own.”
“You told me she packed up everything that reminded her of her sister.”
“Yes, her twin,” I said with a sigh. “Aunt Sadie couldn’t endure the reminders after my grandmother died.” Aunt Sadie and my maternal grandmother, Abbie, had been fraternal twins, but had looked so much alike that people had often confused them. Aunt Sadie had remained single by choice her entire life, but Abbie married my grandfather, Jonathan Stanhope, and had my mother and then her younger brothers and sisters. Only my mother had reached adulthood, and shortly after she married Stuart Braden Gale III, my half brother’s father, my maternal grandparents left Newport to move west, to Ohio.
Mother told me a telegram had arrived only two weeks later, telling of a train accident . . .
“So, what have you decided to do first?”
Nanny’s question cleared the cobwebs from my mind. I blinked and brought the room back into focus. “Nothing.”
“Whatever does that mean?”
I took Nanny’s hand and led her to the parlor sofa. Once we’d settled, I said, “It means what you think it does. Nanny, I’ve realized that, other than necessary repairs to keep the place from falling down around our heads, I can’t spend Uncle Cornelius’s money on luxuries. Not even to make this house presentable to outsiders.”
“I see,” she said quietly. Her gaze traveled the room, stopping here and there for a moment before moving on. “It’s certainly your decision to make, and I’ve always been happy with the house as it is. But I’m curious. What changed your mind?” She looked me directly in the eye. “Is it because you don’t feel you earned that money?”
I chuckled at how well Nanny knew me. “Yes, partly.” I stared down at her wrinkled hand, still lying in mine. “A story came over the wire today.” I explained about the miners’ dispute and the men who had died. And then I related my conversation with Mrs. Fish. “It all reminded me that money like this, whether it’s from Uncle Cornelius or some other member of the Four Hundred, was made at the expense of others. Yes, the Vanderbilts have done a lot of good with their wealth, but while they’ve helped some people with their philanthropy, they’ve hurt others, or at least ignored their needs.”
“That’s the way of the world, I’m afraid.”
I nodded at the truth of that. “How can I fancy up my house with that money? How can I think about luxuries when others are deprived of their basic necessities because they’re paid too little or excluded from the unions that control the workers’ rights to earn a living?”
I’d leaned my cheek against Nanny’s shoulder as I asked this last question, and now the loose curls that escaped her coif tickled my brow as she shook her head. “You can’t. Other people would, but not my Emma. Not my lamb.”
“You don’t mind?” I raised my head from her shoulder.
“Didn’t I just say I’ve always been happy with this house the way it is? Who would we be impressing, anyway? Derrick? He doesn’t care, he only sees how beautiful you are.”
“I’m not,” I protested with a snort. “I’m plain, as plain as this parlor.”
“Don’t argue with me, child. Nanny knows best.”
I embraced her for that.
“So, what are you going to do with the money?” Nanny asked. “Give it back?”
I shook my head. “Alfred and the others would consider it a mere pittance, nothing compared to their millions. And it would hardly make a difference to Neily’s situation. No, I’m going to increase my donations to St. Nicholas, for one.” St. Nicholas Orphanage in Providence housed both boys and girls and was always in need of funds. I’d been supporting them for years whenever I could, whether it be sending small sums I could spare or encouraging Newport’s wealthy population, especially the ladies, to raise funds for them. “Perhaps something like a scholarship fund for women, or . . . I don’t know. I must think about it. But, Nanny, I’m feeling better already. That money had been weighing heavily on me and I didn’t even realize it until today. I only knew I didn’t like thinking about the money, or talking about it.”
As I left off, Patch came streaming into the room and went straight to the front window. Rearing up on his hind legs and propping his front paws on the window seat, he craned his neck and barked. Not a full-out bark, but half under his breath, as though he were assessing a situation that made him uneasy.
Nanny and I exchanged glances. We had learned never to dismiss Patch’s warnings. But was this a warning, or merely a few birds or squirrels Patch believed needed a good talking-to?
I rose and went to the window. With my hand on the back of his neck, I moved the lacy curtain out of the way and peered outside. Dusk had draped the front yard in soft tones of purple and gray, yet I could make out enough to see that nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Patch’s hackles rose and a growl vibrated against my fingertips.
“What is it, boy?” I glanced at Nanny over my shoulder. “He must hear something that worries him.”
“I don’t hear a thing,” she said with a shrug. “It’s probably a hawk or a fox skulking about.”
“Perhaps. I’m going to have a look. Come on, Patch.” I hurried around to the front door. Patch kept pace with me, and when I opened the door, he sprang out and bounded down the drive. I followed, kicking at my skirts with my rapid steps.
We were halfway to the road when I heard it—an urgent clopping, underscored by a rumbling that could not have been caused by the wheels of a carriage. An
automobile, to be sure. I’d heard enough of them during the year I spent living in New York City, and only weeks ago, Newport had seen its first auto parade, organized by my aunt Alva. Many of those vehicles continued to inhabit the island, often speeding along our lanes and screeching around corners, startling people and animals alike. No wonder the sounds, inaudible at first to human ears, had set Patch on alert.
Through the trees that bordered the front of my property, I glimpsed a single-horse curricle as it sped by. It appeared to be driven by a man in a top hat, his hands fisted around the reins. In the evening shadows, I could make out no more than that. Man and vehicle quickly disappeared from my view as they headed east along Ocean Avenue toward Bailey’s Beach. A few seconds later, the motorcar whizzed in and out of view at the end of the driveway. Patch had almost reached the road, but now he yelped and pulled back, his feathery tail curling between his legs. I ran to him, took hold of his collar, and continued to the road. A terrible apprehension gripped me.
At the pace the two vehicles were traveling, this could be no friendly pursuit. Motorcars did not, in my experience, race with carriages. Nor did they speed along winding, twisting ocean lanes riddled with sudden hills, potholes, and blind corners—at least, not when driven by responsible individuals. All this added up to a dangerous situation in my opinion, and my hunch proved correct when a terrible crash reached my ears.
“Emma, what is all that racket?” Nanny called to me from the open doorway. Katie stood behind her, peering over her shoulder.
“I’m not sure, but I think there’s been an accident,” I called back. With that, I hoisted my skirts and started along the road at a run. Patch once more kept up with me, but this time rather than springing ahead, he stayed at my side. The road brought me around a corner and up a hill. Then, turning once again, the road sloped downward and opened onto broad views on both sides. The motorcar raced along a good quarter mile away now, while the carriage . . .
I surged forward with a burst of speed. Horse and carriage had veered off the road and tipped onto a narrow strip of rocky beach, which would not have existed at high tide. The horse, on its side, thrashed against the sand and fought the traces and shafts that held it to the vehicle. I experienced a moment’s indecision. The man lay on his side as well, having been thrown several feet from the carriage seat. At first, he lay unmoving, and a horrible dread filled me, but then he stirred, his movements crunching against the shell- and pebble-strewn sand. He placed the flats of his hands beneath him to lever himself upright.
Seeing that he was at least conscious and capable of moving, I followed my instincts and went to the horse. It continued to struggle, and my fears mounted that it would harm itself. To the man, I called out, “Are you hurt? Is anything broken?”
He had managed to sit up, albeit shakily. His head sagged between his shoulders and he shook it with jerky motions. “I . . . I don’t think I’m badly injured. Wh . . . what happened?”
I didn’t take the time to explain. Urgency drove me as I crouched beside the horse and ran my palm down its broad and muscular neck. “There, there. It’s all right. I’m here to help you. Patch, come.” When my dog complied, I gently nudged him near the other animal’s head and bade him to sit. I hoped blocking the horse’s view of his surroundings might help calm him.
“Sir, can you stand? Can you help me?” I’d gone to work unbuckling the many straps, girths, and backbands that connected the horse to the gig. “We need to reach beneath him if we’re to free him from his harness.”
“Good heavens, yes.” Without coming completely to his feet, the man scrambled crablike across the sand until he crouched across the animal’s bulk from me. The horse had ceased its thrashing, but continued to strain against its bonds. Its master did as I had, stroking its neck and speaking soothing words in a voice that hadn’t quite regained its steadiness. He winced as he dug his hands down into the sand and shells to unbuckle the straps beneath the animal. “There, there, girl, it’s all right.”
“I think that’s everything now,” I said as the last strap slid free. “She should be able to move safely.” The man nodded, and I had a clear view of his face for the first time. I gasped in recognition. “Mr. Gould?”
He nodded as he grasped the mare’s bridle and carefully rose to his feet, gently urging the horse to do likewise. I stepped back out of the way as the animal maneuvered her feet beneath her and heaved her body to a standing position. As soon as she had, she instantly calmed. Patch let out a friendly bark and wagged his tail.
George Jay Gould ran his hands over the horse, from her nose to her rump, and down each leg in turn. Despite blood trickling from cuts on two of her legs, she patiently endured his probing. “Good God, it’s a miracle, but I don’t believe she’s broken any bones.”
“The backs of your hands are bleeding,” I pointed out. He raised his hands to glance at them and shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter, as long as she’s all right.” Handsome George Gould, his normally neatly cropped brown hair standing up every which way, even his carefully trimmed, curling mustache askew above his lip, continued comforting his horse. The fact that such a man—the principal shareholder of three railroads, yachting sportsman, and youthful millionaire—had been run off the road this way filled me with astonishment.
“It’s a miracle neither you nor the horse was killed, Mr. Gould. What on earth was that all about?”
He seemed only now to take an interest in me, or, rather, in who I might be. “Do I know you? You seem familiar.”
“You have probably seen me at events here in town. Or perhaps at the homes of my relatives, the Vanderbilts. My name is Emma Cross.”
“Ah, yes, the lady reporter.” His gaze swept my length. If it held judgment, I couldn’t decipher it. “And how do you come to be here, at just this right time?”
Did I hear a note of suspicion in his question? Did he believe that, having spied his wild chase, I had followed for the sake of a story? “I live nearby,” I said defensively, my dander up. I pointed to Patch. “My dog heard the ruckus your carriage and that motorcar were making, and when I looked out . . . well . . . I couldn’t believe what I saw. Carriage or automobile, it’s madness to drive so recklessly on this particular road. I would think you’d know that, Mr. Gould.”
“I do know it, Miss Cross,” he countered with a grimace. “Believe me, it wasn’t by choice. At least, not on my part.”
I couldn’t fault him for sounding peeved with me. More gently, I asked, “Who was in that motorcar? Why was he following you so closely?”
“I wish I knew. I had turned out of the Morgans’ place, Beacon Rock, and was on my way to Greystone for a dinner party with the Wysongs. My wife was to join me there later. Suddenly I noticed the motorcar pull up behind me. I tried slowing and pulling to the side, but he showed no interest in passing me. For a while, he seemed bent on harassing me, pulling up close and then backing away again. My first thought was that it was Reggie Vanderbilt—your own cousin, Miss Cross. I’d heard the young whelp had managed to persuade his father to buy him a . . . but no . . . I realized it couldn’t be him, not with the funeral only days past.”
“No, there you are right, Mr. Gould. None of the family, except Neily, is in Newport at the moment. Then you have no idea who chased you? Who sent you off the road?” Who might have been trying to kill you? I left that particular thought unspoken, but it nonetheless lodged firmly in my brain. As firmly as . . .
An arrow hitting its mark. Chills traveled down my back, and I wrapped my arms around myself to conceal them. I also realized that as the last of the sun dipped below the horizon, a chill edged the ocean breezes.
“I haven’t the foggiest,” he replied. “But when I find out . . .”
“As I said, Mr. Gould, I live nearby. We should get you and your horse there and call the police. And a doctor. You said your wife is in town with you? She’ll want to know about this as well.”
“The devil take the doctor, but I’d fee
l worlds better if a veterinarian looked over Maribelle. A deuced good carriage horse, she is. I’d surely loathe seeing her lamed from some unseen injury.”
“All right, then, we’ll telephone Dr. Ashford. He lives not far from here and operates his surgery from his home. About your wife, sir,” I persisted.
“Yes, Edith—Mrs. Gould—is here on the island with me. She’s been at Ochre Court all afternoon. A charity gathering. As I said, she was—is—to meet me at Greystone later.”
“I’ll make sure we send a message to her, then.”
“Yes, very good, Miss Cross. Now, do lead the way. The sooner my mare is seen by a veterinarian, the better.” With a cluck to Maribelle, Mr. Gould took a step, uttered a groan, and clutched his left side.
“What is it?”
“Blasted ribs. Didn’t hurt until just now.”
“You might have broken one or more in the fall. Perhaps they’re only bruised. If you wait here, I could hurry home and telephone for an ambulance wagon.”
“No, no. There’s not a thing to be done for broken ribs except to bind them. No, Miss Cross, we’ll stick to my plan.” He sucked in a breath and slowly straightened. Even in the growing darkness, the strain showed in the tightness of his features and the perspiration that beaded his brow. Quite unapologetically, he slung an arm around my shoulders. With his other hand, he reached out to grasp Maribelle’s bridle. “Come along, girl.”
The horse moved willingly enough, but before we had stepped back onto the road, Mr. Gould stopped. “See any sign of my hat, Miss Cross?”
I scanned the beach, then looked out over the darkened waves and realized it might be forever lost. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. Perhaps we’ll find it along the road on the way to my house.”
“I do hope so.” His voiced hitched as his ribs apparently pained him again. “It’s a damned fine beaver hat and I’d hate to lose it.”
* * *
Katie gently cleaned the abrasions on the backs of George Gould’s hands and wrapped them in linen strips in a way that still allowed him the use of his fingers. Poor Katie blushed the entire time, disconcerted at being in such close proximity to a man of George Gould’s social stature. To his credit, he neither said nor did anything to increase her chagrin, but submitted to her ministrations calmly and without fuss.
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