Bees in the Butterfly Garden (26 page)

There was a third story to the mansion, where servants slept. Those noises quieted the earliest, and she had little to worry about with them so far from downstairs. Only Mr. Deekes, the head butler, whose quarters were near the kitchen, presented much concern. The main stairs were directly over his room, but in daylight hours she’d calculated the stair and floor squeaks and learned that staying close to the walls allowed both stairs and foyer floor to accept her slight weight without protest.

Meg had determined that waiting until two thirty in the morning would provide the least chance of being caught. The scullery maid roused at four to stir fires for heating water, followed soon after by the kitchen maid with preliminary preparations for the cook’s entry some time later.

No one must see Meg wander the halls at night, although she’d prepared herself for the eventuality. If caught in the library, she would say, “I had such trouble sleeping, I needed a new book to pass the hours.” Or if caught downstairs in Mr. Pemberton’s study, where she intended spending most of her unusually timed visit, “I was feeling like praying and knew the painting would help me feel closer to God. I’m happy to say I noticed where the key was kept and let myself in.”

She must remember to be bold in her lie; she had yet to become as accomplished as Kate, but determination would make up for her lack of experience.

Although she barely slept, she was startled into wakefulness by fretting over the time. She’d left her curtains open tonight, glad to have the return of the moon whose light confirmed it to be the perfect night for her nocturnal investigation.

It was two fifteen. Close enough.

Throwing back the light cover, Meg stood. She donned her robe, made of a dark-burgundy silk that was impossible to see in the darkness. Putting her feet into slippers, she went to the bedroom door and opened it carefully. She waited for any sounds to warn her.

As expected, the night was quiet but for the occasional creak she’d come to expect. Evidently a contented household left little reason for sleepless nights. She heard not even the flutter of a wing from the aviary.

Cautiously, she made her way down the hall. Past Claire’s room, past Evie’s. The stairway was nearer Nelson’s room, but that, too, was dark and silent.

Creeping close to the wall as she’d learned to do when no one was watching, Meg found her way to the first floor. Her embroidered, quilted slippers made not a sound on the marble floor of the foyer, nor upon the carpeting that led into the library. The door was ajar, and enough moonlight filtered into the room that she didn’t have to light a candle to find her way amid the chairs, sofa, and tables.

Standing at the shelves, she reached up to the third bookshelf, finding exactly what she sought. The key.

Heart pounding, nearly breathless from exhilaration, Meg stilled her trembling hand to fit the object into the lock. It opened easily, with the barest sound of a metal lever sliding from its place. She returned the key, then pushed open the door, moving it slowly, ever so slowly, because in the day-lit hour when she’d seen this door used she hadn’t thought to pay attention to any possible squeak.

Silence.

Surely this was the easiest way to investigate, knowing the entire family and staff were in the secure arms of slumber.

Stepping into the office, she first thought about where
not
to look. In fact, when she’d envisioned this exploration, she forewarned herself to keep her eyes only on the suspicious corner. But the windows that during the day shed beams of sunlight now opened the way for the glow of the moon. It shone a shaft of light that led nowhere but to the portrait.

Her feet would not move as quickly as she bade them. Nor would her eyes obey her; they sought the vision of Christ as if pulled there by a force not her own. Her heart stuttered.

But she pressed on. The desk was neat, offering only a stack of stationery, blotter and ink, pens and tips. Opening the middle drawer, she searched first for the seal Brewster had mentioned, then for anything that might identify a bank used by the Pembertons. It didn’t take long to find a book of checks, which she eagerly opened and read. The Bank of New York!

Slipping the record book back where she found it, she looked around the room again and settled her gaze on the corner Evie had glanced toward when mentioning the family’s blessings. It was easy enough to imagine Nelson emerging from there, when he’d appeared so unexpectedly while Meg’s attention had been arrested by the portrait.

The wall looked ordinary. Another picture hung there, this one far smaller, one she’d barely noticed before. Just a simple country scene, a landscape. Obviously it would not stand in the way if there were a secret behind this wall.

She ran her palms along the suspicious wall, going in a pattern so as not to miss a single spot, starting as high as she could reach. Nothing seemed unusual on the smooth, stained paneling—no levers or even so much as an indentation. Getting down on her hands and knees, she felt along the baseboard and floor, looking for a release button or a break in the woodwork.

The wood did reveal a slanted cut . . . but was it only because the woodworker did not have a length to measure the exact width of the room? Or was it the spot where a door opened?

She felt along the wall again from that spot, but it revealed nothing more than what might simply be another panel joint covering the walls.

Yet she was sure this room was more than it presented itself to be. Where had Nelson appeared from that day? Had Meg been so engrossed in the portrait that she hadn’t heard him approach in the normal way, down the hall?

She thought back to that moment. She’d been staring at the painting, but she’d been too close to the door not to notice someone entering from that angle. Surely he hadn’t come through the library; she would have seen that out of the side of her vision. There
must
be a hidden spot in this office.

Sudden noise made her heart leap to her throat. She scampered away from the spot of her investigation, knowing the safest room in which to be found would be the library.

Just as quickly as the noise appeared, it silenced. It had been nothing more than a carriage traveling on the street outside.

Breathing in a deep gulp of fortifying air, Meg set about her task once again. She couldn’t recommend Ian risk breaking into the Pemberton home if the prize he sought wasn’t here.

She faced the wall again, looking up and down and around. That same light she’d resented a moment ago for calling attention to the portrait now aided her in the study of the questionable corner.

Surely there was a secret here; she had only to find it.

26

If a young lady is to be introduced to someone of the male persuasion, it is of utmost importance to ensure that the gentleman be not only of impeccable character and unsullied reputation, but unimpeachable integrity.

Madame Marisse’s Handbook for Young Ladies

As Meg anticipated, the following day produced sunny skies. And though Claire told the driver they would stay in the open carriage and forgo the still-wet pedestrian paths, Meg was so eager to look for Ian that she refused to worry over details. She had every reason to hope she would see him soon—perhaps even today.

The driver took them through the menagerie, past the bear cage and the swans in the pond, past the peacock that unfolded its colorful tail. It was as if Central Park had come alive again, and the animals had missed showing off for their visitors after so many days of inclement weather.

Perhaps because they ventured past their regular spot, Meg saw signs of neglect in the park for the first time. Trees untrimmed, once-lush lawns gone to weed in spite of old signs warning people to keep off, pathways rutted with running water from the recent rain. When they passed the ruins of Mount St. Vincent—the chapel, conservatory, art gallery, and restaurant that had burned to the ground the year before—the park’s gradual decline seemed even more noticeable. Nelson had complained only the day before about how city politics threatened the pastoral escape, but since his plans for the park’s improvement supported allowing Sunday concerts, he hadn’t been able to gain much help from Fifth Avenue neighbors or even the church. Saturday concerts were quite enough for them, when working-class folks were unable to attend because of the six-day workweek. He lacked the church’s support because they hadn’t yet decided if a concert accommodated proper Sabbath rest.

Meg’s eye was drawn to a dog loping along the path nearby. The animal’s muddy paws and filthy tendrils of wet fur made her wonder why the dog hadn’t been kept from the shadier paths that took longest to dry or why he wasn’t at least leashed. The owner called after it affectionately from atop a horse, and from the mud streaking both the horse and the rider’s pant legs it was obvious they’d come from a similarly unwise route.

Her heart fluttered. That owner was
Ian
.

“Please stop the carriage!”

“Whatever is the matter, Meg?” Claire asked as the carriage came to a halt nearly as sudden as Meg’s entreaty.

“It’s . . . my cousin, Ian . . .” What had been the name he’d chosen?
Maguire
was on the tip of her tongue. “Ian Vandermey. I wondered if he was still in the city, and there he is.”

It took only a moment to catch his eye, as if he fully expected to meet them at this traditional spot where pedestrian, carriage, and equestrian trails converged. Or had he simply been following from a distance?

She greeted him with a smile, noticing that he was nearly as spattered with mud as the dog. Perhaps he hadn’t minded the smudges to his face, if they hid any remaining evidence of his recent encounter with Keys.

“How nice to see you, Ian!”

She would have started the introduction, but Roscoe approached first and threw up a pair of thoroughly soiled paws to the edge of the carriage. That dog!

Evie screamed but followed so quickly with a laugh that Meg was unsure if she was afraid or delighted. “Oh, may I pet him? He has the friendliest eyes!”

“If you can find a clean spot to touch,” Ian said, “he’d welcome any attention you have to spare. We were just headed to the pond to clean him off.”

Evie folded and set aside the parasol Claire insisted she use and raised an uncertain hand, at last touching a spot directly on the top of the dog’s massive head. The animal pressed as close as he could, making Evie laugh again. Meg was relieved only that the dog wasn’t as smart with door latches as Pindar was; otherwise she was sure he’d have crawled right inside and settled atop all of their laps.

Ian reined in his horse beside the carriage, removing his hat to greet Meg. She saw then that the mud
did
seem strategically placed. “How nice to see you, Cousin Meg.”

Meg tried to calm her fast-beating pulse by recalling her manners. “Claire, permit me to present to you my cousin, Mr. Ian Vandermey. This is Claire Pemberton and her sister, Evie Pemberton.”

Claire nodded her greeting, holding her own parasol to the far side so as not to get in the way. “How very nice to meet a relative of Meg’s. I’ve known her for years and have yet to meet a single member of her family.” Leave it to Claire to politely ignore the state of Ian’s personal attire.

“Our family is a rare breed,” Ian said, flashing a smile that did nothing to help Meg control her heartbeat. How white his teeth were! “Nearly extinct, in fact.”

“Then you both ought to get married and have lots and lots of children,” Evie said. “At least then your children will have plenty of cousins.”

“Evie.” Claire’s cautious voice was tinged, for once, with what sounded like amusement.

“You’re no doubt right, young lady,” Ian said. Then he eyed Meg again. “I would enjoy an opportunity to visit with you while we’re both here in the city. Will you be attending Saturday’s concert in the park? Provided the fine weather holds, of course, and the grounds continue to dry?”

“Yes,” Meg said. “We attend the concerts regularly.”

He replaced his hat. “Then I hope to see all of you there. Good day.” He directed his horse onward—a careful walk, no doubt due to Ian’s recovering ribs—then whistled for the dog, who scampered away, leaving behind paw prints on the top edge of the carriage.

Saturday. Leaving her less than two days to search for a clue to what was hidden in the office corner.

The concert on Saturday was to be a ballad event, blending instruments with soloists. Meg had looked forward to the performance for its own merit, but now that she knew she would see Ian again, she found herself all the more eager to attend.

The only possible source of trouble was Geoffrey Mason. He’d started the habit of going to the grounds early to claim prime locations along the iron seating that circled trees and foliage, protecting park landscaping while doubling as chairs. A service for which Claire seemed grateful even while Evie was always quick to grab a seat beside him. Though he allowed Evie to sit on one side, he’d come to expect Meg to sit on the other—and often filled every gap in the concert with conversation that demanded her attention.

Perhaps it was just as well for Geoffrey to meet Ian; Meg would make it clear that Ian was only the most distant sort of relation and let Geoffrey draw his own conclusion. If he watched Meg as closely as he usually did, she intended to leave the impression her heart was already taken.

An impression that seemed more honest than so much else about her these days.

The afternoon was warm, and so Meg chose the lightest of her white muslin dresses, the sheerest lace gloves, the smallest hat of straw with the tiniest paper-flower embellishment. The trees were still young in the Ramble, where the concert was to be played, so there would be little shade. In deference to the close proximity of seating, she would bring her most petite parasol of brushed chiffon, the one trimmed simply in lace rather than fringe that might otherwise impede the view of someone nearby. A delicately carved white wood fan was an absolute must.

Geoffrey waved to them as they approached, and as usual Evie drew near to him first.

“Good afternoon, Evie,” Geoffrey greeted her. “You’re looking very happy today.”

Evie had refused to wear braids, opting instead to keep her hair free but for the pearl hairpins that loosely held back her light-brown waves. Meg had to admit that though Kate’s visits had been an uncomfortable balance between truth and lies, she had produced an astounding result in Evie. The girl had thrown her energy into trying to look older and, in so doing, displayed some of that beauty Kate claimed she possessed.

Geoffrey was not alone today. He’d brought with him his parents and Nomi as well, so only Nelson was absent from this gathering of neighborly households. Nelson had claimed too much work to be able to go to the concert, something Meg noticed Claire tactfully omitted when Mrs. Mason asked about him.

“You’re looking especially lovely today, Miss Davenport,” Mrs. Mason said with a twinkle in her eye when she looked from Meg to Geoffrey. Her approval of Meg—based solely on Meg’s friendship with the Pembertons and her attendance of Madame Marisse’s—had come to be as much an annoyance to Meg as Geoffrey’s interest in her.

No one was seated as yet, but Evie squeezed between Geoffrey and his mother. “Won’t you sit beside me and Geoffrey, Mrs. Mason?” she asked. “I wanted to show you my new hairpins. The pearls are from England. Look closely at this one—the left. Its color has a bit more luster than the other, don’t you agree?” She shifted her head from side to side to offer a better view. “I was reading just the other day about a famous pearl one of the English kings wore at his beheading simply hundreds of years ago. The tale goes that the crowd rushed forward to claim the single earring—you know, since he no longer had need of it—and the jewel disappeared. I would guess
any
pearl from England might be that one. Imagine! This very pearl could have been worn by a king.”

Mrs. Mason gasped, though she did make a belated attempt to cover her horror for kindness’ sake.

Meg suppressed a laugh, resuming her search of the area for any sign of Ian.

Ian stared at Kate as she made herself comfortable on the chair in the fancy room at the Glenham Hotel registered to Ian Vandermey. He’d had to leave Roscoe with Pubjug at a hotel room less fussy about accepting animals—at least ones Roscoe’s size.

At first he’d refused to let her in, stating he would be late. It took Kate’s announcement that she intended to be his companion to the concert and her threat to confess all to the Pembertons to make him listen.

“You won’t go through with a confession, Kate.”

She stopped smoothing the wrinkles from her red dress and sent him a confident smile. “Won’t I?”

“No, you won’t. Because telling everyone Lady Weathersfield is a figment of your imagination might send you to jail as well as me.”

She shook her head, lifting one elegant hand to assure her hair was still in place after unhooking the mesh veil that had shrouded her face. “The crimes I committed are in the past, perpetrated against carefully chosen men wealthy and proud enough not to admit they’d given me money they must have suspected I had no intention of returning. In any case, no charges were pressed against me. I was as good at that as John was.”

“Still, it’s a risk you’ll take to admit who you are. And what about Meg? You’d ruin her socially just by your association with her.”

Now Kate leaned forward, the confidence replaced by earnest entreaty. “I don’t want to cause trouble for any of us, Ian. Not for you or for myself, but especially not for Meg. And I suspect if you let yourself think about it long enough, you want the same thing.”

He took a seat across from her, avoiding her gaze. He didn’t have a reply because he’d done exactly as she hinted: not allowed himself to think of it. Especially lately, while he’d been concocting a plan to use against Brewster that unavoidably utilized Meg and her connection to the Pembertons. He didn’t have to see evidence that Brewster was watching them both; he just knew it.

“Ian, the Bible says that the laws of the governments are here to execute revenge on those who do evil. This stealing, you know it’s evil. To resist the power of the rightful law is to resist the ordinance of God.”

“God has nothing to do with plenty of the laws out there, Kate. And He has nothing to do with this. All I want is to be free of Brewster.”

“And ruin Meg’s life in the process? You don’t care that you’re using her?”

He stood in a surge of annoyed energy, pleased when the sudden movement caused only a trace of pain to his healing ribs. “If that’s the only way to keep her from Brewster, why not?”

“I know your father taught you to believe in the Bible, Ian.”

So John had told her even about that! Kate might have used a gentle tone, but each word stung him—because they were true.

“Do you know that it says it would be better for you to have a millstone tied round your neck than to cause an innocent to fall? Do you want to be a stumbling block to another? To Meg, of all people? You couldn’t have loved John and not loved her, too.”

“That’s enough, Kate.” He gave her his back as images assaulted him. Not just recent ones of John, speaking to Ian in his dreams, but others of Ian’s own father, starker than ever though it had been more than a dozen years since his death.
There is nothing worse, laddie, than to cause another to fall away. . . .

“No, it isn’t enough,” she persisted. “Why must you do this? To be free of Brewster or for revenge? Or maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s far simpler than any of that.”

She paused just long enough to make Ian look at her. “This desire of yours—” Kate used the softest of voices because she’d neared him, and he easily heard her—“this desire for money can never be satisfied because that isn’t what you really want. You’ll always want more because money cannot satisfy you. Not when it’s your father’s faith that you’re missing.”