Bees in the Butterfly Garden (16 page)

17

If you present yourself as honest, trustworthy, and a gentleman, those who meet you will likely accept you as such. The true discernment of the average mark is nearly nonexistent.

Alexander “The Gent” DiBattista

Code of Thieves

“For you, miss,” said the maid at Meg’s bedroom door. She handed Meg an envelope. “It came just a moment ago.”

It was midmorning on Thursday, and Meg had been about to go downstairs, knowing she’d missed yet another of the staff and family gatherings. She doubted such a meeting would offer the kind of information she was looking for anyway. What could the staff know about where the Pemberton gold might be hidden?

Meg unfolded the note eagerly, seeing the masculine boldness of the writing.

My dear Miss Davenport,

Please permit me to send greetings from a fond friend. I hope one day soon our paths will cross again.

It was signed with a reminder that Alwinus Brewster was ever at her service.

So, he was keeping track of her whereabouts. Surely he guessed she had no need of his offer for protection and must have heard by now that she was working with Ian. If she
was
working with Ian! She still wasn’t entirely certain.

Meg folded the note and slipped it into the fireplace. It had been an uncommonly chilly night, and the coal embers were still hot enough to consume the paper and its envelope, too.

Thursday’s sunset seemed especially long in coming, marking the predawn hour an eternity away. Ian paced, but it only made time move more slowly. Everyone was in place; he’d done all he could to plan each detail, including addressing potential problems. The bank’s janitor would not arrive until five in the morning, and by then Ian and the others would be well and truly gone. A generously paid-off night watchman, who owed his job to Dickson, had allowed a replacement of Ian’s choosing to fill in for him until three in the morning. Pubjug would let Ian into the bank and stay until the regular watchman returned sometime later.

Ian sat on the couch with Roscoe at his side. The dog’s whimper said he sensed his owner’s mood, somewhere between anticipation and anxiety. Not even Roscoe’s softest fur could calm Ian’s pulse. There was no room for the dog to run, but tugging on an old sock spent some of the extra energy they both needed to rid themselves of.

Soon the fire in Ian’s veins would be used to carry out his plans, forever ensuring his independence from Brewster.

Evie led the way up the sidewalk, her eagerness to arrive at the Masons’ all too clear. Claire set a more leisurely pace beside Meg, and Nelson brought up the rear like the guardian he was.

“It appears your neighbor across the street is having a party,” Meg said, “with every window lit.”

Claire sighed. “That’s exactly why we put you in the guest room at the back of the house, Meg—so you wouldn’t be bothered by the lights in those windows. That’s the Fillinghem-Welch home, and poor Mr. Fillinghem-Welch passed on so suddenly his wife hasn’t been able to accustom herself to it. She’s been hosting parties of imaginary guests every night for the past year, ever since her husband died.”

Meg glanced again at the house that looked so merry, with its pearl-hued stone exterior contrasting to the many brownstones along this stretch of the avenue. She’d heard more than her share of strange stories about wealthy New Yorkers, how families came and went as fortunes allowed, but rumors seemed harmless until imagining real people behind such tales.

There was no time to dwell on the image of a widow who drank toasts to figment friends because Evie was already twisting the bell on the Mason door. Soon they were divested of their cloaks and ushered into a parlor, where Meg was introduced not only to Mr. and Mrs. Mason—dressed impeccably to their station—but reacquainted with both Nomi and Geoffrey.

Conversation during the before-dinner interval was pleasant enough, and Evie exhibited rare good sense by keeping quiet. She did laugh a trifle loudly at each of Geoffrey’s witty comments, but the Masons had the grace to ignore her youthful display of enthusiasm. Mrs. Mason spoke to Meg about the garden, as expected, but her suggestion to consider removing the dovecote in the corner closest to their home seemed reasonable rather than meddlesome. Meg knew how early doves started billing and cooing.

When dinner was announced and Mrs. Mason directed the procession, Meg was disheartened to learn Geoffrey was to be her escort, signaling their partnership throughout the meal. Evie, Meg noticed, was seated as far from Geoffrey as the table allowed, between Nomi and Claire.

Meg knew the dinner hour was the most important of a hostess’s day. She didn’t have to be well acquainted with Fifth Avenue families to realize the newest in the neighborhood wasn’t likely to possess a sought-after table. However, she saw no reason the Mason table would not become just that. The conversation rarely faltered, and the food was more than palatable, from the bisque to the chicken croquettes to the pineapple soufflé. Meg could fault neither Mrs. Mason nor her staff, but for one thing: the perfection of the meal suggested a hint of fear that any broken or merely bent rule of etiquette would be irredeemable.

Meg was mulling such thoughts when Geoffrey led her from the dining room back to the parlor, where he leaned close and whispered in her ear. “I must say this is the most enjoyable test I’ve had all month.”

“Test?” she whispered back.

He smiled at her and glanced at his mother, who was sitting in the same chair she’d occupied earlier, as if he knew their time for private conversation was limited. “Mother is working her way up Fifth Avenue society. Perhaps by the time the top of society has returned from Newport, she’ll relax a few of the rules.”

The Meg of Madame Marisse’s school would have been aghast at Geoffrey’s blatant honesty. Certainly such an admission was well outside every rule of after-dinner conversation. But the Meg who was her father’s daughter chose instead to be amused.

“Your mother is doing a marvelous job.”

“Mother is Dutch but not a Knickerbocker; she’s from Illinois of all places. She’s rich, but even here where money ages so quickly, ours is still a tad new.”

A footman arrived to offer wine, which Meg refused but Geoffrey accepted.

Geoffrey leaned close again. “Your being here in New York at the end of June speaks volumes, you know. Rather than at Newport.”

“Claire and Nelson decided to stay home this summer, while their parents are traveling.”

“And my mother and grandmother attend neither Newport nor Saratoga for lack of an invitation. Father won’t build Mother a Newport cottage until she gains acceptance, and Mother is afraid she won’t gain acceptance until she builds. You see the dilemma?”

Meg studied him as he took a sip of his wine. He appeared entirely unashamed of his revelation that his family—at least his mother and perhaps Nomi as well—were parvenus of the worst kind, attempting to climb their way into a social class that obviously had yet to open its arms.

“Your honesty is . . .” She’d been about to say
refreshing
, and yet that wasn’t exactly what she meant. “Astounding.”

“The truth is we’re from Chicago, Miss Davenport. Where Mother turned her back on what’s considered the height of society there, to try her best at elbowing her way into the toughest society on earth: New York City’s. We’re not some old, established family or descendants of European aristocracy. All we have is money. I’ve learned wealthy people can afford big houses, fancy clothes, lavish parties . . . and incredible rudeness. Mother was rude to Chicago snobs and now is on the other end with New York’s elite.”

He kept his full attention on Meg while the others listened to whatever tale Mrs. Mason shared on the opposite side of the room. “Let my honesty continue to astound you, Miss Davenport. I plan to visit the Pemberton home tomorrow on the pretense of seeing Pindar. Evie rarely takes no for an answer, and so in a few moments when I mention my intention, I’m sure it’ll be accepted. But I’ll really be there with hopes of seeing you.”

With others now laughing along with Mrs. Mason, Meg was confident no one paid them any attention. “Do you mind if I press that honesty of yours with one rather obvious question?”

He raised a brow as if his consent was given.

“Claire is much closer to your age than Evie. Why is it you haven’t expressed an interest in her?”

A golden light brightened his brown eyes. “I would have been happy to give her my full attention from the moment I moved in—at least it would prevent Evie’s pointless preoccupation with me. But from the icy shoulder Claire offered and all Evie has told me, the last thing Claire wants is another suitor from the house next door. Any more questions?”

“No, but I do have a warning. If your family truly does have an interest in acceptance from Upper Fifth, then I assure you I will be of no help.”

He lifted his wineglass in a toast. “On the contrary, my dear. You’re a product of Madame Marisse’s. At the very least, you can advise my mother on the many rules of high society.”

“The very thing I’ve escaped by leaving school. So you see, I would bring you no benefit whatsoever.”

He leaned scandalously close, making her stiffen. “Let me be the judge of what benefit you might bring.”

Two hours later, once the after-dinner interval had elapsed into general conversation and then come to a polite end, Meg left with the Pembertons for the short stroll home. Across the street, the imaginary party at the Fillinghem-Welch mansion was still in full swing, while up the street a few fine carriages rolled along.

They were barely inside their own door before Evie rushed past, chin high, elbows swinging as she stomped up the stairs to her room.

“Best lock your door tonight,” Claire said to Meg.

“Why?”

Nelson let a servant take his hat and coat. “I’ll speak to her, and if I sense she’s up to any mischief, it’ll be her door that’s locked.”

“Whatever are you both talking about?” Meg asked.

Claire took Meg’s hand as if to offer fortification. “Didn’t you see Evie scowling at you all evening? You were seated next to Geoffrey at dinner, and afterward he did all he could to occupy your attention.”

“Oh yes, it’s plain that she cares for him.” Meg looked at Nelson. “May I come with you to talk to her?”

“Of course.”

Evie wasn’t in her bedroom, but that didn’t seem to surprise Nelson, who then led the way to the front corner of the house. He opened a door to a room where ceramic, cast-iron, and brass pots supported a variety of ferns and tall palms amid intermittent shocks of color from fuchsia or heliotrope. There were several birdcages, most of them covered and quiet.

One cage stood empty, nearest Evie. Pindar, the large gray bird, sat perched on Evie’s shoulder. Her back was to them, and when Nelson spoke her name, she refused to turn around.

“Perhaps Evie and I might talk . . . alone?” Meg asked.

Nelson did not hasten to agree as Claire might have, but at last he nodded. “Evie, I expect you to behave yourself. And I remind you again that it isn’t only I who would be disappointed if you misbehave. The Lord watches all you do. I want your word you’ll not create any mischief for Meg. Do I have your promise?”

Only a shrug ensued, one that briefly lifted the bird on her shoulder, who flapped an ineffective wing.

“Evie.” Nelson’s voice increased in firmness.

She heaved a sigh. “All right, I heard you.”

Pindar repeated the words, followed by something in French that Meg was fairly certain had to do with fish entrails.

Meg waited for Nelson to leave. There were two wrought-iron chairs near the window, and she walked past Evie with a motion for the girl to join her.

Evie ignored the invitation.

Meg folded her hands. “All right, then, Evie. I’ll be brief. I know you don’t want to be friends because you blame me for what happened at school. So we’ll start with that. It’s true Madame Marisse asked me if I’d seen you leaving the kitchen at an odd hour, carrying a sack—we assume containing the chicken. She also asked if I saw you fill those perfume bottles with vinegar. I could have lied or simply refused to speak, but the fact is I did neither. I didn’t protect you because I knew you wouldn’t have done the same for me or for any other girl at the school.”