Murder at Marble House (27 page)

“Bargain?” I repeated. “Does that mean . . .”

“Yes.” Consuelo met my gaze steadily. “I’m going home.”

 

The next hours passed in a blur. Under police escort Consuelo and I accompanied Derrick and Marianne to Newport’s tiny hospital, with Muffy brought along in a blanket-lined basket. Derrick was diagnosed with a mild concussion and released two hours later with instructions to rest and apply ice periodically to the lump left by James’s shovel. While no one advised him as to where to find ice in August, I didn’t worry. Despite doctor’s orders he had already insisted on returning to Marble House with Consuelo and me, and Aunt Alva always had plenty of ice stored deep in her cellars.

Marianne, however, was admitted and tucked into one of the hospital’s two dozen beds. With great relief she learned she was not consumptive. The doctor diagnosed chronic bronchitis, though had she waited much longer to seek treatment her condition might have become irreversible.

I promised to help her once she was discharged, and she gripped my hand as tears rolled over her cheeks to darken the pillow beneath her head.

“I don’t deserve it, Miss Cross.”

“Nonsense, Marianne. You deserve a chance to start over. I’ll help you through the police questioning and then we’ll see about finding you employment. This might sound boastful, but I do have some rather lofty connections in this town. In the meantime, you’ll stay with me.”

“Oh, I couldn’t impose—I can’t pay you.”

“No talk of that. I live in a drafty old house by the sea, with more room than I know what to do with.” I leaned in closer to her and whispered, “Besides, Aunt Sadie demands you stay with me.”

“Aunt Sadie?”

I smiled. “You’ll soon learn all about Aunt Sadie. Suffice it to say you won’t be the first lost soul to find her way to Gull Manor. Myself included.”

With Marianne finally calmed and drifting off to sleep—poor thing was exhausted, both physically and emotionally—I rejoined Derrick and Consuelo in the small lobby that had once served merely as the central hall of a private home. Hefting Muffy’s basket, Consuelo came to her feet.

“Are you ready?” I asked her.

“I think so,” she said. “Will you come with me?”

“Of course I will.” I shot a glance at Derrick. “We both will.”

Consuelo frowned. “Do you think that’s a good idea? Mama might object to an outsider hearing about family matters.”

“I think it’s a perfect idea. After what Derrick endured on our behalf he’s hardly an outsider. And besides, bringing him will set your mother off-kilter just enough for you and me to be able to get a word in edgewise. But . . .” I hesitated, my sweeping glance encompassing her from head to foot and back. “What are you going to do?”

I meant about the Duke. Consuelo let a long moment pass before replying, “I’m not entirely sure. I’m hoping the answer comes to me on the ride home. But I’ve learned something, Emma, about both the world and myself. There are realities that cannot be ignored and rules that cannot be broken, or chaos results. I was raised in a certain way and I can’t hide from that. I can’t pretend I’m something I’m not any more than you can.”

With her head held high she swept away and pushed through the street door. She hadn’t answered my question, but neither had she avoided it. Something in those final words bored through me, especially when Derrick offered me his arm. I took it and we joined Consuelo outside, but her voice echoed inside me. I broke rules and too often found myself swimming in chaos. Repeatedly I told Derrick I wouldn’t marry him, yet here I was, on his arm. Like Consuelo, I had a decision to make. Wholly accept the person I was—and send Derrick away once and for all—or continue pretending I could have my independence . . . and him, too.

When we arrived at Marble House some twenty minutes later, Aunt Alva astonished us all. Instead of launching into the expected tirade about where Consuelo had been and how she could have been so inconsiderate as to have caused so much worry, she silently, tearfully wrapped Consuelo in her arms and held her tight.

This happened right inside the front door, amid the cold, formal surroundings of marble floor and walls and soaring ceiling. Hardly what one envisions for a joyous reunion. Grafton, quick to act, had shooed any servants in the vicinity below stairs, relieved Consuelo of Muffy’s basket, and now skillfully ushered mother and daughter through the house and into the relative privacy of the morning room, where, at this time of day, no one would likely happen by. Derrick and I followed at a distance, respectful of this intensely personal moment while at the same time cognizant of my promise to remain at hand for Consuelo.

He and I lingered in the corridor just outside the doorway. While Derrick turned to gaze out the French doors at the rear of the property, I couldn’t help watching as Consuelo and Alva parted just enough to look at each other.

Shock filled Consuelo’s expression. “Mother! You’re ill!”

“No, dearest, not ill. Only worried about you. Are you well? Did you . . . come to any harm?”

“No, Mama. I am quite well. And I’m sorry I ran off.”

“Are you? I’m sorry I forced you into an engagement you didn’t want.”

Just as my mouth dropped open, Aunt Alva made a telling gesture that suggested her remorse might not be as sincere as she’d have Consuelo believe. With a hand pressed to her heart she made a clearly visible struggle to catch her breath; she even added a raspy little cough. For effect?

Hmm . . . Yes, the strain of Consuelo’s disappearance had taken its toll on Aunt Alva; I’d seen that for myself in recent days. But I’d still maintain the woman was as healthy as any of the costly horses in her stables.

“Come, Mama, sit down.” Quickly Consuelo pulled out a chair from around the table and pressed her mother into it. She took the chair beside it and sat with her knees nearly touching Alva’s. “You
are
ill,” she said, reaching for her mother’s hands. “Please don’t lie to me. You’re ill and it’s my fault, isn’t it?”

“It’s nothing, really. I’m sure to recover completely now that you’re home. The doctor said . . . oh, never mind. Consuelo, where were you? I worried so!”

Consuelo caught my eye through the doorway. Before parting with Jesse, the five of us—Derrick and Marianne included—had agreed upon the story that would enter the record books as well as the newspapers. It would be a sordid tale involving James Reid, Amelia Beaumont, and Madame Devereaux, wherein James would be accused of double homicide. To explain Consuelo’s presence at the crime scene and her seeking help at a neighboring cottage, we would put out that she had gone for a carriage ride with her family’s “good friend” Derrick Andrews—quite properly, of course, in an open carriage no one needed to know was mine—and, upon hearing shouts and screams from the Reids’ cottage, they stopped to investigate. There would be no mention of Consuelo running away, and especially no hint that she had ever so much as spoken to James Reid. If the accused decided to bring her name into his testimony, the rest of us would deny all knowledge of his claims.

Yes, we would be perpetrating a fraud. Yes, Jesse in particular would be compromising his scruples. But at the same time we were saving a young woman’s future. Consuelo’s reputation would never recover should the truth ever get out. Whatever her future held, we would see to it there would be no shadow cast by recent events.

“I was with a friend,” she said now in reply to her mother’s question. “No one you know, Mama, and I’m not going to reveal her identity to you. Suffice it to say she stepped in when I most needed someone and if not for her, I wouldn’t be here right now. I mean I wouldn’t be
home,
” she added hastily when her mother’s eyes widened with alarm.

Then Alva turned a suspicious look on me.

“No, Mama, I wasn’t with Emma. It was Emma who found me today and persuaded me to come home.”

“Who’s
that?
” Alva thrust a finger at Derrick’s back.

I placed a hand on his arm. Wincing slightly, he turned around and we walked into the morning room. “Aunt Alva, I’d like you to meet Derrick Andrews, of the Providence Andrews family. He was of great assistance to us today. Derrick, Mrs. Alva Vanderbilt.” I knew better than to introduce her as Mrs. William Vanderbilt, what with the recent divorce.

Her eyes narrowed. “Andrews, as in the Providence
Sun,
I presume?”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Vanderbilt, and yes, my family owns the
Sun
. But, no,” he said in response to her unspoken question, “I’m not here in any official capacity. You’ll see no articles about any of this in our paper.”

Her light scowl persisted for several more seconds. Then she apparently dismissed him. “Consuelo,” she whispered with a tremor, “the Duke is on his way to Newport. What shall I tell him when he arrives?”

Once again her hand strayed to her heart—one would swear unconsciously. Yet I knew her. Alva Vanderbilt never made a move that wasn’t both planned and determined.

Consuelo straightened in her chair, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin—the posture of a confident, independent woman capable of guiding her own life. A fierce light I’d never seen before entered her eyes. To me, she became suddenly older, worldlier, more her mother than ever before, yet, somehow, more beautiful than I’d ever seen her.

“You’ll tell him he’s most welcome. And that I accept his proposal of marriage. I shall be his wife. I shall be the Duchess of Marlborough.”

T
hat night I wrote my article for the Newport
Observer.
Was it the article I truly wished to write—would have written, under normal circumstances? No, because for my cousin’s sake it contained inaccuracies my reporter’s heart found difficult to live with. Still, it was with pride and no small sense of elation that I delivered my account of the Murder at Marble House into Mr. Millford’s hands the following morning.

I stood at his desk, bouncing a little on the balls of my feet as I handed the sheaf of paper across to him.

He didn’t glance up from the figures scrawled beneath his nose. “Hmm . . . morning, Emma. A little busy right now. What’s this?”

“My article, Mr. Millford.”

He still didn’t glance my way. “Was there a function last night?”

“No, Mr. Millford. I cracked the case, found Madame Devereaux’s murderer, and here—” I shook the paper to rattle it. “Here is my account of the whole affair.”

He peered up at me from over the rims of his spectacles. Furrows formed above his nose. “You did, eh?”

“I did, sir.”

“Hmmm . . .” He reached up and took the article between his middle and index fingers, as if afraid to grasp it fully. Several tense moments crawled by as he scanned my handwritten words. “Hmmm . . .”

“Well?” My voice rose a notch.

“Well, what?”

“Mr. Millford, you promised if I got the story you’d give me the headline. In my name,” I added, enunciating each word.

“I did, did I?”

“Mr. Millford, you know you did.” Despite the conviction of my claim, I wondered. The man often said things he later forgot, whether genuinely or conveniently. I held my breath as I waited.

Finally, he nodded. “All right, Emma. You’ll have your headline.”

“Oh, Mr. Millford, really?” Quickly realizing the stupidity of that question, I gathered what I could of my professional dignity, thanked him, and headed back home. The next morning, Sunday, I ran to greet the delivery boy halfway down my driveway.

“Good morning, Miss Cross.” He brought his bicycle to a halt and reached into the basket stuffed full of the day’s edition. As he handed it to me, he eyed my dressing gown and hastily pinned-up hair. “Something special in the paper today?”

“You bet there is, Peter. My first real headline.”

“Do tell.”

I shook the paper to unroll it, then stretched it open to unfurl my headline in all its bold-print glory.

 

BAILEY’S BEACH TO HOLD SWIMMING RELAY FOR CHARITY

 

“What?” I stared at the front page, but no matter how hard or how long I searched, my story simply wasn’t there. “I don’t understand. He promised . . .”

“Miss Cross?”

I lowered my hands, the paper crushed between them. “Nothing. Have . . . have a nice day, Peter.”

With that I turned and dragged my feet back up the drive. Inside, I shoved the paper into Nanny’s hands. “He broke his promise. Oh, damn that man!”

“Emma! A lady doesn’t speak that way. But which damn man broke his promise?”

I waved a hand in the air and walked mutely past her into the morning room. There, at the table, I sat absently stirring my spoon around in the porridge Katie set in front of me; I neither saw nor ate any of the sweet concoction of oats, honey, and raisins. My stomach pitched and rolled. My pulse points hammered away and my temples throbbed. How could Mr. Millford do this to me?

“Oh, Emma, look.” Nanny spread the newspaper open in the middle of the table. “Here’s your story. Your first real news article. How nice is that?”

I dropped my spoon into my bowl, raising a little splash, and jumped to my feet. Bending over the table, I frantically scanned the articles on the two open pages. Then I plunked back down into my chair, heartsick and furious.

“The middle of page four? He stuck it on page
four?
And judging by the size of it he must have edited out half of what I wrote. And the byline—E. Cross? Not Emma, but
E
? Oh, Nanny, this is so unfair. This is a travesty.”

Wallowing as deeply as I was in my misery, I didn’t at first notice that Nanny didn’t move to comfort me as she normally would have done. Instead, she stood silent and unmoving, her plump arms folded across her chest as she used to do when Brady or I had been naughty. When I finally glanced up at her, she caught my gaze with an uncommonly stern one and raised an eyebrow above the rim of her glasses.

“It is a start, Emma. A small triumph, but a triumph all the same. Now pick yourself up and start planning your next article, which, with any luck, will be on page three.”

Dear old Nanny.

 

As abruptly as I had entered my cousin’s world, I just as quickly made my exit. The Duke of Marlborough arrived in Newport in early September, along with a crisp wave of autumn air. I was not at Marble House to help welcome him. I wasn’t invited, nor had I expected or wished to be. I was, after all, merely a poor relation, as far beneath a duke’s notice as the servant who shined his shoes. Besides, I could not have smiled and pretended to be delighted for Consuelo’s good fortune. I could not have raised my glass to toast her impending nuptials.

However, I did have occasion to glimpse the Duke, for I covered a host of other social events held in his honor: a lawn tennis tournament at the Casino, a cotillion at the country club, and several receptions, dinner parties, and balls.

I did hear, or rather Nanny heard through her unerring grapevine, that Consuelo made her mother proud through it all. She impressed the Duke with both her beauty and bearing, and the date for the wedding was set for November 6.

I wished her well and vowed to keep her in my prayers.

Within a week of James Reid’s arrest, Clara Parker had been released and cleared of all charges. In a generous mood—getting her way did that—Aunt Alva offered her her job back, but for now Clara was visiting her parents off island in New Bedford. Anthony Dobbs was a free man as well—for now. He still faced extortion charges, yet the smirk he sent my way in town just yesterday spoke of an abundance of confidence. It wouldn’t surprise me if he never spent another moment inside a cell.

In the meantime, life at Gull Manor continued as always, as steady and predictable as the daily tides, except that our number had grown by one. Marianne and Katie took to each other immediately, in their quiet way becoming fast friends. Marianne’s health improved daily, partly due to the care she’d received at the hospital and partly, I was certain, due to the healing effects of Nanny’s hearty cooking and our fresh ocean air.

Her lot was to improve even more one sunny, blustery morning, when the bang of the front door springing open echoed through the house.

“Employment,” Brady cried out upon stumbling with loud footsteps into my front hall. “For Marianne!”

His none-too-steady pronouncement prompted me to abandon my breakfast and stick my head out the morning-room doorway. “What are you yammering about, and where were you all night long?” I studied his rumpled suit, disheveled hair, and crooked smile. “Stuart Braden Gale, are you drunk?”

From behind me came Marianne’s breathless question. “Did he say employment? For me?”

Brady managed to steady his stride as he continued down the hall. Just before he reached me he straightened his coat with a tug and ran a hand over his mussed hair. Where he had lost his hat, only the wind knew. “Good morning, sister.”

I turned my face away and fanned my hand at the air in front of my nose. “Phew! Goodness, Brady, it isn’t even eight yet. Shame on you!”

“Not to worry, Em, this isn’t from this morning. It’s left over from last night.” With that he leaned in to kiss my cheek. I pulled away, but only a little, and his dry lips grazed my temple. I shook my head in admonishment.

“Do you honestly think that makes it any better?”

With a hand on my shoulder for leverage, he circled me and strolled into the morning room. There he accepted a quickly poured cup of coffee from Katie, who lingered as if ready to catch the mug should it slip from his hands. He managed to hold on to it and straddled the chair I’d vacated moments ago. With his chin resting on the carved oak back, he grinned up at me where I stood framed in the doorway. “You can blame Neily. He did the pouring. He’s decided to forgive me, you know, and it would’ve been rude of me to deny his hospitality. But—” He broke off for a gulp of coffee, then made a face when the hot liquid apparently scalded his mouth.

I walked into the room and reached for my own cup, all the while making sure not to let the disapproval slip from my features. Not that Brady’s carousing surprised me or particularly exasperated me, as long as it didn’t happen too often—and lately, it hadn’t. In fact, this was the first time I’d seen my brother tipsy since before that awful night he was accused of murder at The Breakers. Yet, someone had to be the voice of his conscience, and in recent years the task had fallen to me.

“But what?” I demanded, one hand around my cup and the other perched at my hip.

“Grace Wilson was with us for a little while last night—oh, don’t scowl, Em, it was all quite proper. Grace and her brother came by the country club for supper while Neily and I were there. Anyway . . .” He trailed off and this time nearly did spill his coffee as he attempted to turn around to face the table. His feet caught in the chair’s legs, which immediately became in danger of toppling. I steadied him with a hand on his shoulder at the same time Marianne leaped up and snatched his cup before it fell.

He let go a bark of laughter before finally managing to untangle himself and swivel to face the table. “Thanks, Marianne. That would have been an awful hot mess.”

“Mr. Gale, you mentioned my name just before,” Marianne said, setting his coffee cup on the table. “May I ask why?”

“Indeed you may, for it’s the whole reason I had Neily’s driver bring me here this morning rather than sleep it off at The Breakers. I knew you’d want to hear right away. Grace Wilson—she’s a lovely young society girl—needs a lady’s maid. Are you interested ?”

He might as well have told Marianne an English duke had just arrived in town and wished to marry her. Her face lit up with such joy I felt the echo of it in my own heart, and for a moment I thought she was going to hug Brady. She didn’t, but turned and caught Katie in her arms and the two cried out happily. It was at that moment Nanny shuffled into the room.

“What’s all this fuss about?”

“Oh, Mrs. O’Neal, I’ve got employment!” Marianne’s face turned somber as she regarded Brady. “It’s true, isn’t it, Mr. Gale? What if this young woman meets me and doesn’t care for me? She might not offer me the job. I’ve never actually been a lady’s maid before, although before we . . . we left the Duke’s employment I’d been training to—”

Brady held up a hand. “The job is yours if you want it.” He glanced a bit sheepishly at me. “Once I said it was a favor for you, Em, Neily and Grace didn’t hesitate. Miss Wilson would like to see you later this morning, Marianne. She said around ten.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gale. Thank you.” She said it several more times before Katie whisked her away to prepare her for her interview.

I pulled up a chair beside Brady. “Thank you. That was well done.”

“Proud of me?”

I leaned closer as if to kiss him, and instead delivered a playful slap to his cheek. “Don’t be haughty. But, yes, dear brother, I’m proud of you.”

“I suppose you’ll be moving back to town soon, Brady.” After filling a bowl with porridge, Nanny sat down across from us. “Now that you’ve got your job back and all.”

“It is about time I returned to the old digs. I’m horribly outnumbered here, what with all you ladies. Rather like a buck trampling the flowers. What do you think, Em? Sick of me yet?”

“No one feels trampled, Brady. Stay here as long as you like. But if you’re longing for your privacy, that’s fine, too. Just do try to stay out of trouble.”

He seemed about to retort when the telephone rang. I jumped up and made my way to the alcove beneath the stairs.

“Hello, Emma?”

The voice at the other end sent a little jolt through me. “Yes, Derrick. Good morning. How are you feeling?”

We hadn’t spoken in a couple of weeks—not since escorting Consuelo home. I’d driven Derrick back to his hotel, saw him into the lobby, and thanked him fervently. He’d waved off my gratitude with a gallant nod, shook my hand, and wished me well. He told me he’d remain in Newport a few more days until his doctor thought it safe for him to travel, and then he’d return to Providence. Then we’d lingered, silent and awkward, until he’d said, “Well, then,” and I’d responded with, “Yes,” and watched as he climbed the stairs to his room. Our parting bore the stamp of finality, and I hadn’t expected to hear from him again, at least not so soon.

It was better that way; it was time for both of us to move on.

“The head’s still a bit tender,” his voice said now into my ear, “but the dizziness is gone.”

“I’m glad to hear it. So, I suppose you must be home now?”

“Ah, you could say that, yes.”

In spite of all my convictions, that “yes” made my heart sink just a little, and I struggled to keep the disappointment from my voice. “That’s good. I hope you had an enjoyable trip. Your family must be very pleased to have you back.”

“Emma, I’m not in Providence. I’m still in Newport. Can you meet me in town in a little while? At my hotel? There’s something I need to show you . . . and discuss with you.”

Oh, dear. Was he going to propose again? He was, wasn’t he? Why else would he still be in town? And after all we’d been through, after he’d nearly lost his life because of me, how could I bear to hurt him?

I had no wish to. Yet, however much affection I felt for him, I couldn’t but admit that part of me had been relieved to see life return to normal, to be able to carry on with my days in a calm, rational manner. To feel in control and wholly myself again, which simply wasn’t the case when Derrick was near. Consuelo’s words echoed inside me.