A Sense of Entitlement (18 page)

“I can guarantee she’s been up since before sunrise and hasn’t stopped working since. Is that fair, is that right?”

“I’m sure she’s well paid and has nothing to complain about,” Mrs. Grice said. Though I couldn’t see anything but the pink satin slippers of the woman in front of me, I knew who had said it.

“Yes, she’s being paid, but when is she supposed to enjoy spending those wages?” Lester Sibley said. “As I said, eight hours for work, eight hours for sleep, eight hours for what we will!”

“Is that true?” a lady near me asked. “You’ve been working since dawn?” I stole a glance at her. The woman, with clear blue eyes and silver hair adorned with two emerald haircombs, held her hand to her heart and frowned. She was genuinely surprised and concerned. Fortunately, I was saved from answering when Silas Doubleday, the Pinkerton detective, pushed his way through the crowd and grabbed Lester Sibley.

“Let’s go, Sibley. You’re trespassing!” He yanked the labor man’s arm behind him and a sickening crackle echoed through the hall. Sibley cried out in pain as the detective mercilessly shoved him toward the door. Several women gasped as they scrambled to get out of the detective and the criminal’s way. I looked about for Mr. Mayhew. His wife had one hand on his arm and the other covering her open mouth. A look of shock, disgust, and indignation was etched on her face. Gideon Mayhew, his countenance an unreadable mask, watched passively as the detective removed the trespasser from their midst.

As they passed me, I heard the detective stop his incessant whistling and whisper, “I warned you. You’re going to regret this, labor man. You’re going to wish you’d never come to Newport. No, you’re going to wish you’d never been born.” A moment more and the men were gone and the music began again.

I followed. I couldn’t leave the ballroom fast enough. I couldn’t even spare one last glimpse of Walter, though I was desperate to. Between Nick Whitwell’s verbal attack, Mrs. Grice’s dismissal, and Lester Sibley’s exploitation of me, the evening had been a disaster. I needed to put as much distance between me and the events of the evening as possible. But would morning be any better? Mrs. Mayhew must be mortified that I’d been in the ballroom and I could only hope that Lester Sibley’s actions distracted Mr. Mayhew from dwelling on mine. I was in a precarious position. I might even lose my place in the Mayhew household.

Yet I had another reason. I had to see what Detective Doubleday was going to do with Lester Sibley. I’d seen the detective beat the labor man before. If Doubleday had hurt him, maybe even broken his arm, with all eyes upon him, I feared what he might do to him now that no one was watching. I followed as they went down the back stairs and out into the garden. I hid behind a tree and watched the retreating figures, mere shadows in the bright moonlight. As the detective dragged his captive down the drive, someone stepped out of the hedge near the gate.

Mrs. Crankshaw. She spit at them. Which one was she aiming for? I wondered.

“Thelma,” Lester Sibley pleaded. “You have to help me.”

“And that’s for getting me dismissed,” she said, spitting at him again. “I warned you not to cause trouble. I warned you not to come to Newport. But oh, no, you had to anyway, didn’t you? You and your God-given rights, Lester. Now look at what you’ve done.”

“But Thelma, our cause is just. I’m only demanding what we’re all entitled to.”

“You preach better hours, better wages, do you, Lester? What about me? What about my rights? I have no position now. How am I going to eat, Lester? What about me!” She spit at him again.

“Now, now,” Doubleday said. “Back away, woman. You’ve said your piece.”

“Where are you taking him? What are you going to do with him?”

“What we do with all miscreants like him that don’t know when to leave,” was the cryptic reply as the detective shoved Sibley in the back through the gate, eliciting another cry from the injured man. The two disappeared behind the wall, the detective’s whistled rendition of “Ode to Joy” drowned out by the clatter of wheels and horseshoes as a carriage drove by.

“It will be better than he deserves!” Mrs. Crankshaw shouted to the darkness. I waited, wondering what the housekeeper would do. Finally, she turned away from the gate and crossed the lawn toward the Cliff Walk.

What will happen to him?
I wondered, looking back at the now empty gate. I shuddered to think what Doubleday deemed appropriate punishment. I had to do something. I fled the shadows of the tree, ran down the drive and through the gate. I looked about me as I reached the road and stopped short. The street was empty and quiet. Not a carriage or a cart was in sight. And there was no sign of Detective Doubleday or Lester Sibley.

“I
thought you said you would take care of him, Doubleday,” Gideon Mayhew said.

“I did. At least I thought I did. I beat the man senseless, for God’s sake. Who was to know he would have the brass to come back?” the Pinkerton detective said.

I’d slept little last night and as soon as I thought it proper donned my hiking costume and boots and, with several collecting jars in my bag, headed to the Forty Steps. It was the first opportunity I’d had to return to collect some interesting red algae that I had seen on the rocks. I was highly rewarded for braving the stairs; my bag now held several specimens of three different species. I was reaching for a particularly large sample of a brownish-colored species I hadn’t come across before when I heard the two men speak. They stood on the steps directly above me. If one looked down he’d see me. So I remained as I was, crouched over a depression in the rock, hoping to go undetected. My stockings and the hem of my skirt were soaking wet with the constant waves washing across the rocks and over my boots. It was an awkward position but not as awkward as if they discovered me listening in on their secret rendezvous.

“Brass? The man was in my house, Doubleday, in my home! My guests were disturbed, my wife was livid, and the whole evening now has a terrible taint to it. Mrs. Mayhew will never forgive me for allowing her party to turn into a spectacle. She asked me to sleep in my dressing room last night, Doubleday.”

“I apologize, sir. What would you have me do?” If Mayhew hadn’t named his companion, I would never have suspected Doubleday from the detective’s deferential tone.

“Do? You took the man out last night. The question I have for you is what have you done?”

“What you told me to, Mr. Mayhew. Exactly what you told me to.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Sir, I think I’ve been—”

“Enough. I don’t want to hear any more of your excuses. I told you to take care of the situation and you failed.”

“But, Mr. Mayhew—” I heard anger rising in the detective’s voice.

“Good day, Doubleday. I don’t need your services anymore.”

“But sir—”

“I said good day to you, man. Have the decency to leave when you’re told to.”

From the clamor and banging above me, Doubleday was stomping back up the stairs, no whistle on his lips today.

I waited for Mr. Mayhew to leave. My feet were soaked now, and my back, especially after the toils of yesterday, ached anew. After several more interminable minutes, I heard the snap of his watch close and listened as he slowly ascended the stairs.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I was finally able to scrabble from underneath the stairs, straightening my back and sitting on something smooth and dry.
But I got my algae!
I thought, stuffing the specimen in a jar. I waited a few more minutes, watching the gulls dart across the water, one skimming so close to the waves, its white belly got wet. And all the while I contemplated the meaning of the conversation I wasn’t meant to overhear. I pulled out my pencil and notebook, wet along one edge.

1. What had Doubleday done with Lester Sibley?
   
2. What had Mr. Mayhew wanted him to do with Lester Sibley?
   
3. How had Doubleday failed?
   
4. Would I ever find out the labor man’s fate?
   
5. Did it matter?
   

With Mrs. Mayhew more than displeased with me, what mattered now was returning to Rose Mont to discover my own fate. Mr. Sibley might be on the next ship out of Newport. I prayed I wouldn’t be aboard it with him.

“Davish!” Miss Lucy said when I arrived at Mrs. Mayhew’s drawing room. “What an evening that was. Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show had nothing over last night’s entertainment!”

Mrs. Mayhew glanced sideways at Miss Lucy and grimaced.

“Good morning, Hattie, dear,” Miss Lizzie said.

“Ahem,” Mrs. Mayhew said, placing her fingers lightly on her chest. “If you would be so obliging, Miss Lucy, Miss Lizzie, I would like to speak to Miss Davish alone.”

“Don’t worry, Charlotte,” Miss Lucy said. “We don’t mind what you have to say to Davish. We’re all friends here.”

Mrs. Mayhew sighed. “Oh, very well. Miss Davish, you disappoint me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, bracing myself for what she would say next.

“Now, Charlotte dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “Hattie had no way of knowing that man was going to single her out.”

“Please, Miss Lizzie,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “We’ve already been over this and now”—she indicated me with a swirl of her hand—“Miss Davish needs to know what I’ve decided.” I suddenly felt hopeful. If the elder sisters had discussed my predicament with Mrs. Mayhew before I’d arrived, they might have pleaded for leniency. I might not be dismissed after all.

“Of course, Charlotte, dear, please continue.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Mayhew said, barely hiding her annoyance. “As I said before, Miss Davish, you disappointed me. I rely on you; you know that. But you embarrassed me in front of all my guests.”

“Yes, Mrs. Mayhew. I am truly sorry. I should never have entered the ballroom.”

“That’s right. If you’d stayed at your post, that man would never have been able to use you against me.”

“You were looking for Dr. Grice, weren’t you, dear?” Miss Lizzie said, winking at me.

“Lizzie!” her sister chided. “Let Charlotte finish.”

“Thank you, Miss Lucy. Is this true, Miss Davish?”

I didn’t know what was worse, admitting that I’d gone into the room to see what all the commotion was about or to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Grice’s gentleman doctor son. If I was being honest, I’d have to admit to both, which is what I did.

“So you were not only spying on one of my guests, but you were ignoring your duties to watch my party turn to ruin?”

“What? What are you talking about, ruin? It was a splendid party,” Miss Lucy said, surprised. “First you convince Mrs. Astor to make an appearance and then Lester Sibley makes his own unannounced visit. No one will talk of anything else for weeks, maybe for years! Everyone will no doubt start calling to find out how the whole thing ends.”

Mrs. Mayhew, who was frowning when Miss Lucy began, turned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone’s dying to know what happened to Lester Sibley, the man who may have murdered Harland Whitwell. I know I am.”

Mrs. Mayhew shot a glance at me. I tried not to blink. She had nothing to fault me for on that account. I hadn’t revealed the truth to anyone, not even Miss Lucy. “It was your husband’s servant that escorted the labor man away, correct?” Miss Lucy asked.

Mrs. Mayhew opened her mouth to say something but nodded hesitantly instead. Did Mrs. Mayhew even know who Detective Doubleday was? I doubted it.

“Then only you or your husband can tell the rest of us his fate.” I cringed at Miss Lucy’s choice of words. Not only did I recall the conversation this morning, but it reinforced the fact that my fate was yet to be determined. “Only you know. So of course, everyone will come here to find out, as I admit we did.”

“Yes, that is true. As long as I’m not pitied for such a disruption,” Charlotte Mayhew said.

“Pitied? From the whispering I heard last night and this morning, you’re the envy of Newport.” Why that would be I couldn’t guess, but the idea pleased Mrs. Mayhew. A fleeting smile passed across her lip. “By the way,” Miss Lucy said, “since we are on the subject . . . what did happen to that man?”

“Ah, Miss Lucy,” Mrs. Mayhew said, glancing at me, “I think we must attend to the matter at hand first, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” Miss Lucy said. “Davish must be quaking like a leaf in a windstorm wondering what’s to become of her.”

“Yes, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, “please tell Hattie she hasn’t been dismissed.”

Oh thank goodness!
I thought, trying not to let the relief show on my face.

“I’m getting to that, Miss Lizzie,” Mrs. Mayhew said, biting her bottom lip, annoyed again. “No, Miss Davish, because of that louse of a husband of mine, I’m far too short-handed to dismiss you. Gideon has gone back to New York without a care for how I’m to get on without a housekeeper and a first footman. Or so he says.” Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy looked at each other, Miss Lucy’s eyebrow rising at the revelation.

“Whatever do you mean, Charlotte?” Miss Lucy said, feigning innocent concern.

“I’m getting to that, Miss Lucy,” Charlotte snapped. “I have to admit, Miss Davish, you have been invaluable to me, so I am going to overlook this indiscretion. But a breach of promise must be rectified; you must make it up to me. I will be interviewing housekeepers this morning and therefore will not need your
secretarial services
.” My concern rose again at the stress Mrs. Mayhew placed on the last two words of her sentence.

“Ma’am?”

“Instead, if you want to stay in my good graces, you will indulge me and attend to a ‘personal’ matter. And no one is to know about it.” Whatever she was requesting sounded dubious, maybe even criminal, but I still had no idea what she meant.

“Ma’am?” I said again.

“Oh, Davish,” Miss Lucy said, “don’t be so obtuse. The lady is asking you to snoop around for her again.”

“Mrs. Mayhew, is that right?” I asked.

“Yes, Miss Lucy is right, though I would’ve put it a different way. I would like you to do some more ‘investigating’ for me.” Why couldn’t she want three hundred copies of tomorrow’s menu typed up for her by morning? Being a typewriter was so much simpler.

“Of course, ma’am, if I can help.”

“Yes, well, my husband has a yacht, the
Invictus
. It’s moored in the bay. I would like you to board the boat and tell me what you find. You don’t need to worry about the crew. They’re not living onboard at this time.”

A boat? My palms grew damp, my heart pounded, and I suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

“But m-m-ma’am . . . ,” I stammered.

“What’s wrong with you, Davish?” Miss Lucy said. “You look like a mouse in a snake hole.”

“I’m not . . . fond of boats,” I explained. “I can’t swim.”

“Well, it’s just a short ride out and the yacht is anchored and isn’t going anywhere anytime soon,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “I have to know, Miss Davish.”

“Know what, ma’am? Will I be looking for something in particular?”

“Yes, I want to know if anyone’s been living on it.”

“You suspect Gideon isn’t in New York but is living on his yacht?” Miss Lucy exclaimed, nearly leaping from her chair in excitement.

“I suspect Gideon’s mistress may be,” Mrs. Mayhew said. The two elderly sisters gasped. Miss Lucy opened her mouth to say something but snapped it shut when Mrs. Mayhew glared at all three of us, daring us to say another word. “I’m relying on you, Davish,” she said to me. “I have to know.”

“Of course, ma’am,” I said.

“And when you get back,” Mrs. Mayhew said, as if she hadn’t just asked me to spy on her husband, “we’ll pay the bills and go through invitations that have come in the morning’s mail.”

Oh, dear!

After what should’ve been a pleasant mile walk from one side of the island to the other, I walked along the harbor and found the dock not far from the Lime Rock Lighthouse, a whitewashed stone house and light tower, home to Ida Lewis, a lightkeeper of some renown, two hundred yards offshore. As I looked out over the harbor, from Brenton Cove near Fort Adams to the west and to Goat Island and the wharfs to the east, anchored yachts of all sizes, some with sails flapping lightly in the warm breeze, dotted the calm, blue bay as far as I could see. Within sight of the lighthouse, several docks of varying length and size, with tethered dinghies floating alongside, jutted out into the water. During the entire walk, I fretted over the impending task, attempting to prepare myself, telling myself that I had nothing to fear from a boat tied to a dock. Had I known I’d have to ride one out to the yacht in the harbor, I never would’ve asked Mr. Davies for detailed directions to the dock. I would’ve said I never found it. But I had.

Just like the Forty Steps, Davish!
I told myself.
You can do this.

I took a deep breath, straightened my hat, and took a step onto the dock. A jolt of panic shot through me. It wasn’t like the Forty Steps at all. This moved! I groped for a hold that wasn’t there as the dock, despite the calm water, moved slightly from side to side beneath my feet. I staggered to a mooring post and clung on until I caught my balance.

This is ridiculous,
I thought. I had a job to do. Mrs. Mayhew was depending on me to accomplish this for her. She had been lenient in her punishment of my behavior last night and I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize my precarious position. I had to walk down this dock. I had to ride a dinghy. I had to board the yacht. I had to search the private belongings of one of the richest men in America. Even to me it sounded crazy, vastly inappropriate, and . . . dangerous?

How did I keep getting myself into situations like this? Thank goodness the man himself was miles away in New York City. But what if Silas Doubleday was about? He appeared everywhere trouble began. Could he be watching me? Suddenly the thought of being discovered overcame my fear. The faster I finished this task, the less likely I’d be discovered, I rationalized.

I took step after quick step down the dock until I came to the first dinghy. I looked about me for someone to row the boat before I lost my nerve. That would be asking just too much, I thought, glancing at the sun-bleached oars. A man, in a well-worn round leather sailor’s hat, was coiling a thick, wet line of rope.

“Can I help you?” the boatman asked.

“Yes, I need a ride out to Mr. Mayhew’s yacht,
Invictus
.”

“Who are you?”

Absorbed with overcoming my fear, I’d forgotten that I might be challenged. As Mrs. Mayhew’s secretary, I had no reason to be here. And what if a woman was on the boat right now? What would I say to her? Why hadn’t I thought of this sooner?

“I’m Mr. Mayhew’s secretary,” I said, hoping that was explanation enough. I regretted misrepresenting myself in the first place. I didn’t want to have to add to the lie.