Bees in the Butterfly Garden (25 page)

“I’m sorry, Kate, but your life doesn’t seem so bad to me.” Meg raised one of her palms to indicate their surroundings. “You have a comfortable home, fine clothes, and apart from having my father’s death break your heart, what have you to complain about? Brewster doesn’t control you; he won’t control me, either.”

“Perhaps. But guilt can be a heavy burden.” An impassioned plea filled her eyes. “Please, please, Meg. Bid the Pembertons good-bye and come back here to stay. We’ll carry on together, you and I. We can get away from Brewster and his ways. We could travel—anywhere we please. You’re bound to meet someone upstanding and honest if you only look in the right places.”

Meg rose from her seat, but instead of nearing the man who’d stationed himself at the door, she went to the window that overlooked the street. Surely someone would show up soon to let them know it was over? What must Ian be facing this very moment? Her heart ached to know, fearing whatever pain he suffered was at least partially her fault. If she’d agreed to work with both of them from the start, perhaps she could have made sure Brewster had nothing to fear about being left out. Not that she wanted him to have any part of her cooperation now!

She faced Kate, offering her attention again. “You talk as though I can have a normal life, Kate. I can’t. With my lineage I have no hope of marriage to anyone ‘upstanding,’ as you put it. I’m like you in that.”

“Sit back down, will you, Meg? For a moment?”

Meg did as she asked, though stiffly. Nothing Kate could say would change the truth.

Kate’s face was solemn. “Marriage is holy in God’s eyes, a symbol of loyalty that mirrors God’s loyalty to us. It’s a union that will make one man and one woman better together than they can be apart. And although I loved your father in this way—just as he loved me—I’ve come to believe that our marriage might not have made us better for the rest of our lives.”

She looked as if she was grateful to be sitting, as if she couldn’t bear herself on her own strength. Then she continued. “Together, your father and I represented a formidable couple. But there were too many years when our partnership was strong for the wrong reasons. For selfish reasons—to cheat people and to get something from them. God Himself only knows if somehow, someday, we might have slipped back to those ways.”

In her eyes Meg saw a desperate unhappiness. “It’s what I worry most for you, if you were to work with Ian. Repeating the mistakes your father and I made. I think that’s why Brewster wants to ensure he won’t be left out. He sees the potential match you and Ian could be.”

“Kate . . .” Meg wanted only to comfort her, but Kate quickly went on.

“Please, Meg, think about what I’m saying. Won’t you? You’re trying to recapture a past with your father that can never be. And Ian is reaching for a future he can never have. One with enough money for him to feel secure—only it’s an empty hope because it will never be enough.”

“No, Kate. You’re wrong. I’m not looking for a future with Ian. Not the way you had with my father.”

“Aren’t you? Isn’t that what’s driven you to his defense today? Concern for him that makes you more than . . . whatever it is you thought you were? More than acquaintances, more than friends. No simple familial affection for you.”

Meg didn’t want to listen to such talk, yet it was clear nothing stood in the way of her uncompromising fear for Ian’s welfare. Of course she cared about him! Resent him she had, nearly all her life. But the fact was she’d seen firsthand why her father had loved Ian. He was as flawed as her father had been—a thief. But he was also loyal and smart and capable of loving someone else. He’d loved her father; Meg had seen that in his grief.

Just as noise outside Kate’s door began demanding her attention, Meg had one fleeting thought. Perhaps Kate saw more clearly what Meg didn’t want to admit: she was falling in love with Ian Maguire.

24

The coming destruction can never touch us, for we have built a strong refuge made of lies and deception.

Isaiah 28:15

Ian had to be dreaming. Or maybe he was dead. An angel ministered to him, her soothing voice a balm to his soul and her gentle touch cooling him wherever it landed.

He struggled to sit, and the sharp jab—like a knife to his insides—called him back to his senses, at least enough to feel the entirety of his pain. Every inch from his face to his gut cried for attention as he looked through swollen eyelids to see who was helping him now.

Meggie.

He gave up all effort to sit, turning his face away as she reached with a white cloth to one of his brows. “Go away.”

“And leave you here? I don’t think so. Now quit moving. I only ever failed in one subject at school, and that was nursing.”

He lifted a hand, surprised at how much it hurt to do so—and not just in his arm, but from somewhere beneath that. Ineffectively, he brushed her hand away and looked beyond her, horrified to see they were in yet another alleyway, secluded from the street amid the stench of garbage. Without another breathing thing in sight.

“What are you doing here? Are you alone?”

“Keys came to Kate’s house to tell her where we could find you. He had such a smug look on his face, as if he wanted to show us what he’d done hadn’t cost him a scratch. Oh! How I wanted to claw his eyes out. Kate went for Pubjug, but I couldn’t wait. I came straight here. With this.”

She held up the bottle containing whatever it was she used on his cuts and bruises, something that smelled not quite sweet and slightly antiseptic. That explained the coolness of her touch.

“And she let you? Do you even know where you are? Dressed like that, you might as well flag down the nearest hoodlum.”

“I have nothing to steal but the gloves Kate loaned to me. Now sit still and let me help you.”

He shifted in one agonizing move to sit upright with his back to the brick wall, holding his side the whole time in the hope of keeping steady what was no doubt at least one broken rib. “It isn’t safe for you here, Meg.” He tried to stand, ignoring his dizziness and another shocking pinch in his ribs. He had to get her out of this neighborhood. “Let’s go.”

“But you can’t walk like this! You were out cold a moment ago.”

“Come on.”

“What about Kate and Pubjug? They’ll come here looking for you.”

“We’ll go to Kate’s. They’ll look there first.”

“Ian—”

He walked—wobbled—toward the street. Once there he knew he’d have to straighten up, not appear as weak as he felt. He brushed back his hair, and even that hurt. Meg must have cleaned away whatever blood had been on his face, because after a tentative scrub, he found it to be dry.

Standing as tall as the pain in his upper side allowed, he took the one free hand she had—the other still held the dark little bottle—and placed it over his forearm.

Assessing his whereabouts, he knew which direction to go. They’d be lucky to find a hansom cab in this neighborhood. More likely they’d have to walk the entire way to Kate’s.

Meg wanted to hold Ian’s arm rather than the other way around, but each time she tried, he shifted so as to look as if he were escorting her and not needing help. She finally gave up, imagining his struggle was a greater effort than her own in letting him walk unaided.

When she’d seen Ian crumpled and broken amid that garbage heap like a discarded mass of flesh and blood, her heart nearly stopped with fear that he was dead. But he’d flinched at her first touch, gentle though she’d meant it to be.

At last, still walking, they reached a respectable neighborhood. It wasn’t long before a hansom cab could be hailed. She boarded first because Ian waited, but she could see the grip of pain on his face as he heaved himself to the seat opposite her.

“I—I’m afraid I don’t have any money left,” she said, embarrassed to reveal her lack of forethought. “I took only enough from Kate’s bureau to pay the driver who brought me here.”

Ian offered her a grim half smile. “I was beaten, Meg, not robbed.”

It wasn’t long before they reached Kate’s apartment house. After Ian gingerly withdrew from a pocket enough money to pay the cabbie, Meg let him present himself once again as her escort. But inside the privacy of Kate’s hallway, she grabbed his arm and helped him up the stairs. He didn’t shrug off her help this time.

Kate’s door was unlocked, and neither Meg nor Ian bothered to knock. Their entrance, however, drew the attention of Ada, Kate’s maid. She’d been conspicuously absent the entire time Brewster’s thug had detained Kate and Meg, although she now appeared instantly concerned at the sight of an obviously battered Ian.

“Oh, sir! It’s bad, what they done to ya!” She grabbed his other arm, and between the two of them, Meg and Ada bore him through the parlor.

“He’ll need to stay at least the night, Ada,” Meg said. “Let’s take him to the room I occupied when I was here.”

In the hallway Ian attempted to pull away from them both, but Meg held tight all the way to the bedroom.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Letting us help?” Meg said, seeing from Ian’s face he thought it was. “Ada, chip some ice out of the icebox, will you? And after that, perhaps some tea.”

She was glad when the maid left them alone. Meg knew she didn’t have much time before Kate showed up, and there was something she needed to say without interruption.

Helping Ian out of his jacket, she then piled the pillows behind him so he could sit more comfortably. Thankfully there was no sign of blood on his shirt except what had spattered from a broken lip and pummeled nose; most of the visible damage had been suffered by Ian’s face. One eye was already black, the other swollen.

“Anything broken?” she asked.

“A rib, maybe,” he said. Then he put a hand to his jaw, opening and closing his mouth without wincing. Afterward he ran his thumb and forefinger along his nose. “Nothing else. I got off easy. Keys must have some leftover affection for me after all.”

Meg huffed. “It doesn’t look like it to me.” She sat along the edge of the narrow bed and, ignoring the slightly alarmed look appearing on his bruised face, took one of his hands in hers. “I know it was Brewster who ordered this done to you, Ian. I want you to know I’ll never, ever cooperate with him.” She’d meant to stop there, but something made her want to do more. Maybe it was nothing more than thoughts Kate had inspired. Maybe what she felt at that moment wasn’t any more real than that. But she leaned closer to kiss the side of his face, on a spot free of either bruising or any remnant of blood.

His lopsided grin was just enough to restart a trickle of blood from one of his wounds. He must have felt it because he lifted his sleeve to wipe it away. “You think you have a choice about working with me instead of Brewster?”

She gasped. “He would never do to me what he’s done to you! My father was his friend.”

“Yes, friendship holds so much value for people like Brewster.” Ian looked away. “And Keys.”

“There must be some way for us to be free of him.”

Ian turned his gaze back to hers. One eye was bloodshot, but both were still blue as ever as he narrowed them her way. In contrast to the hardness in his gaze, he raised one of his hands to allow a finger to gently trace her lips.

“You leave that to me.”

25

Cleverness and ingenuity should be employed in such things as hostessing, gift giving, and the manner in which one offers a compliment. Ingenuity should not be applied in fashion, home décor, or prying. In such things as the former two, it is usually best not to step too far outside the accepted norms, and there is of course no excuse for prying, clever or otherwise.

Madame Marisse’s Handbook for Young Ladies

It was almost the dinner hour by the time Meg returned via a hired carriage with Kate respectably at her side. Their story of a drive along the Hudson seemed readily received, enhanced by tales of how quickly time had flown while their laughter and conversation were nonstop.

Although Kate did refuse an invitation to dinner, citing another obligation, she promised to return the next day, when she would be pleased to dine with them.

Meg knew Kate was anything but eager to keep up her performance as Lady Weathersfield. But she’d agreed even before stepping foot back inside the Pemberton mansion to return at least once more, to let Meg know how Ian was recovering. Until his bruises eased, Meg knew she could have no contact with Ian “Vandermey.”

Keeping up appearances of being carefree proved a heftier assignment than Meg imagined. Each of her thoughts was invaded by an image of Ian, mauled and bloodied. She was more determined than ever to succeed in the plan she’d offered to him—because she knew Ian would think of a way to use it against Brewster. Somehow.

Between her lack of sleep and nervous aftershocks from the day before, Meg decided she would skip yet again a ride to the park the following afternoon. Her new determination made her regret all the time she’d wasted thus far. So she feigned a headache and waved off Claire and Evie as they left for their daily romp to Central Park, adding that she wanted to be sure she’d be home if Kate came by earlier than promised the day before.

Once alone, she took immediate advantage of the time. Although Nelson had invited her to use any room she chose, she found herself treading carefully to Mr. Pemberton’s office. She didn’t bother trying the door from the library, expecting it still to be locked.

Instead she went to the foyer, tiptoeing down the private hall. Only to find this door locked as well.

So much for an open invitation into any room of the house.

Perhaps she could still investigate an idea that had piqued her interest in the last few days. She faced the wall at the very end of the hall, measuring six steps past the door. Was that the same distance to the end of the house, where the high windows allowed light to fill the room? It seemed the office stretched farther than the distance between the door and the boundary of this hall.

Meg turned, aligning herself with the edge of the wall and counting off her footsteps to the foyer, to the very edge of the front door. If there was some kind of secret room in that office—someplace Nelson might have been hidden when she’d first discovered the crucifixion painting, in the very corner Evie had glanced toward when mentioning their blessings—then it stood to reason the distance from the outside end of the house would be different from what it appeared in this hallway.

In hopes of her effort at measurement not appearing blatantly obvious, Meg quietly opened the door and, seeing the pavement empty, walked outside. Marking the spot from the front door, she started walking, silently counting the paces to the edge of this front portion that halted at the white cornerstones.

Four extra steps farther from outside than from inside that hall.

Of course she couldn’t be exactly sure of her guess, but she’d been careful to take the same approximate stride inside as out. There seemed to be a corner of the office unaccounted for, allowing at least the possibility of some kind of secret room. Surely whatever was hidden couldn’t be a very large area. Perhaps only large enough to host a safe or a closet of some kind. Large enough for Nelson to be inside when she’d first entered the library.

Short of counting off closer to the actual length of the wall along the house—where a stone fence stood in the way—Meg had done her best. There was certainly reason to suspect a corner of the room was hidden from the casual observer. She turned back to the house.

“Change your mind?”

Meg looked up to see Geoffrey, top hat and gloves in place, though he removed his hat with a courteously friendly bow once he stopped in front of her.

“Weren’t you going to the park? Or were you? It’s a long walk from here.”

“I—did think about it. But I’ve forgotten my gloves.”

“And your hat,” he said. “Are you sure you were going somewhere? Or did you just come outside to catch my eye?”

“I didn’t see you at all,” she said, instantly wishing she hadn’t sounded so cross. “Were you out here the entire time?”

“No, I saw you from my office.” He pointed. “From upstairs. Of course, I call it an office, but I don’t actually work there. Mother wants me to keep up on my studies so when I leave for college, I won’t be too far behind others my age.”

Setting aside both annoyance at being caught and relief that he mustn’t think her presence outside too odd, she took advantage of the opportunity for casual conversation. “Why haven’t you gone off to college, Geoffrey?”

“Because it seems like a silly ritual to me. My parents will pay a small fortune to a college to let me do as I please because no college would refuse access to my father’s money. Then I come home with a degree that means absolutely nothing, to
do
absolutely nothing. It seems like a lot of money and trouble . . . for absolutely nothing.”

“Don’t you like school?”

“To be perfectly honest—as I always am with you, Miss Davenport—no.”

“Perhaps you just haven’t been to the right school.”

“Perhaps.”

“Well . . . I really must return inside. Claire and Evie won’t expect me at the park, anyway, and they have the carriage. Nelson has the other. I don’t want to drive the pony cart. So I’ll wait for them inside.”

“I’d be happy to take you.”

She shook her head. Wouldn’t that be just fine to spur another prank from Evie!

“All right, I’ll let you go back inside,” he said, but first he stepped closer. In a swift movement he took off one perfectly fitted glove and captured her hand in his. Holding her palm, he let his thumb caress the top of her hand.

“I knew your skin would be soft,” he whispered.

Before she could protest—surely she should have—he turned away, covering his ungloved hand by switching his hat from the other. Then he disappeared into his house, leaving Meg to do the same.

Kate arrived for dinner, as expected, and she thoroughly charmed all of the Pembertons, including Nelson when Kate mentioned a series of books she was reading by George Müller, whom Nelson had evidently long admired.

She managed only a few moments alone with Meg, long enough to assure Meg that Ian was recuperating nicely and had decided to take up residence closer to the Pemberton home, provided he could find a hotel willing to take a dog the size of Roscoe. The admission came with both sadness and censure, since it was obvious that Ian and Meg were now working together.

Something from which Meg would not be deterred, not even when the following Sunday’s sermon about a prodigal directly contrasted Meg’s determination to help Ian steal from the Pembertons. When the pastor went on about how the bitter brother’s protest highlighted the father’s grace—not justice as the brother might have demanded—Meg felt like she was a child again, squirming in her seat.

You made me the way I am. You gave me the earthly father whose blood I share. What else do You expect of me?

No answer came, and eventually the torturous sermon ended.

That same afternoon heralded rain, but a visit from Mrs. Mason prevented them from going to the park anyway. Sunday was the only day of the week the park drew many and various crowds, when working-class New Yorkers had the day off to enjoy it. Evidently that was an occurrence Mrs. Mason thought they needed to avoid.

On Monday, when they were about to set out despite the continued presence of rain clouds, a thick envelope arrived from Europe and even Nelson stayed home to hear news from their parents. They invited Meg to the library to listen as well.

The multiple-paged letter was filled with their mother’s descriptions of Paris—the weather, the people, the food, including recipes for the Pemberton cook to accustom herself with in advance of their return. Mrs. Pemberton had ordered gowns made for herself and her daughters, as well as suits for both Mr. Pemberton and Nelson and included full-color drawings of each from the designers. She promised to bring home new ideas for gala parties sure to please everyone on Fifth Avenue.

“I think Mother will be hosting more parties than ever this fall,” Claire said sadly, “to make up for a lost summer season.”

Nelson leaned against one of the bookshelves. “We knew our freedom wouldn’t last. Mother said as much when she gave us permission to skip Newport this summer. It was on the condition that we won’t complain when she sends us into battle in the fall.”

“I don’t know why you want to escape all the parties anyway,” Evie said. “I can hardly wait!”

“Tell me that again when you’re wearing a corset,” Claire murmured.

“That doesn’t explain why Nelson doesn’t like the parties. I don’t know which of you is more dull.”

“You won’t think us dull when we tell you about our plans to host the first annual Blue Moon Picnic,” Nelson said with a wink.

That stirred Meg’s interest. The Pembertons were hosting a picnic?

Claire smiled. “Oh, Nelson, you haven’t forgotten!”

“What are you two talking about?” Evie demanded. “What is a Blue Moon Picnic?”

“I’d like to know that myself,” Meg said.

“It’s something Claire and I jested about after taking Mother and Father to the ship. We pledged to spend an exorbitant amount of money on a party only for the household—the servants, the entire staff. And that we would host it in Central Park, where everyone can see it.”

“You don’t plan to attend it yourself, do you?” Meg asked, ready to recite a direct quote from one of Madame’s handbooks about keeping servants happy but not fraternizing with them. Although, couldn’t such a party be a delightful way of breaking rules?

“That’s the entire point,” Nelson said, “for all of us to have a party together. Eat together. Dance together.”

Meg laughed. “Dance! Oh, that ought to go over well with your neighbors. They’ll send out the army to bring your parents home immediately.”

“When are we having this party?” Evie asked.

“We haven’t decided yet.” Claire was looking again at the pages in her hands, and she spoke without looking at her sister.

“I think we should do it soon,” Evie said, but then her gaze followed Claire’s to the letter. “Is that all Mother says?”

“Isn’t an eleven-page letter and five drawings enough?” Nelson asked.

“I meant is there anything about when they’re coming home?”

Claire read the rest of the last page, which offered fond endearments and promises of many gifts, but no specific date for their return.

“And nothing from Father?” Nelson said, obviously surprised.

Claire turned over the last page. “Oh—yes, here it is. He’s wondering about the project you began for the immigrants, Nelson, and hopes the soup pavilion is going well. And a verse. Oh, how funny! It’s the same passage Pastor read yesterday, about the prodigal.”

Nelson reached for the page with one hand but tousled Evie’s hair with the other. “He must miss you, Evie.”

She tried pushing his hand away but missed, smiling in spite of his teasing.

“I’ll start a letter to them,” he said, “although I guarantee it won’t be half as long even if all three of us write something. I don’t know how it will find them with all the places they intend going.”

“We’ll send it to their hotel in Paris,” Claire suggested. “It’ll be waiting for them when they return to pick up all the fashion Mother ordered.”

“Very good.” Nelson walked toward the door leading to Mr. Pemberton’s office. “We’ll put it on Father’s stationery.”

At the office door he paused, reaching up to a brass bookend shaped like a woman’s high-heeled boot. From under the heel he withdrew a key.

Meg watched with a bursting pulse and unexpected glee, pushing away a silent accusation of treachery so opposite the trust with which he revealed such a secret. All the while she wondered why she’d never thought of looking in so simple a spot for so simple a solution.

She spent the rest of the afternoon reading a book while the siblings composed a letter of respectable length. Occasionally she glanced out the single window, imagining their trip to the park tomorrow. Central Park was the only spot to “casually” see Ian again. By now he was likely healed of the most obvious of his injuries. Knowing how to access that office, she could do exactly as she hoped. Perhaps by the time she saw Ian, she would have something important to share with him.

God speed the time until then!

But she wasn’t sure God would listen to her.

Meg lay in bed, her eyes fixed on the bronze clock that she’d moved from the mantel to the small table beside her bed. She missed her clock and windup key from school. It had offered an alarm, and if placed under her pillow, the noise would have been enough to wake her but muffled so as not to alert anyone outside her room.

Not that she believed she would sleep. How could she rest knowing tonight she would follow through with her plan?

Although soggy ground had kept them from the park another couple of days, Meg hadn’t despaired. For the last two nights she’d opened her bedchamber door and listened as long as she could force herself to remain awake. Sounds from other bedrooms taught her some of the sleeping habits of those who shared this considerable roof. Claire was the first to sleep, the light from under her door extinguished by eleven. Evie sometimes fell asleep with the gaslight in her room still up, but any noise from her room quieted around midnight. Nelson was the most unpredictable and hardest to decipher, since his room was farthest from Meg’s. She had to venture to the hallway to see when the light from under his door went out, usually not long after midnight.