Murder at the Breakers (2 page)

With no available parents, somehow I had become the guiding force in Brady’s life. Even at twenty-one I was the steadier of the two of us, the more practical, the one who remembered that food and clothing and a roof over one’s head couldn’t be won at poker or dicing. But when I couldn’t guide him, I picked him up, dusted him off, gave him a lecture, and fed him honey cakes and tea. Why that last? Because despite his many failings—and they were numerous—there remained some endearing quality about Brady that brought out my motherly instincts. What can I say? I loved my brother. And I would do what I could to keep him on the straight and narrow.

“Promise me your intentions are honorable,” I demanded in a whisper.

“I swear it, Em.”

With a nod and an audible breath, I agreed to help him. I just prayed I wouldn’t regret it.

At a little after nine that evening, I turned my buggy onto Victoria Avenue and drove the short distance to the end of Ochre Point. Half-stone walls topped by gleaming, curling wrought-iron fences and backed by immaculately trimmed hedges marked the perimeter of The Breakers property along Ochre Point Avenue. Flanked by two pairs of massive stone pillars, the soaring iron gates stood open to the long sweep of drive leading up to the house’s hulking outlines, illuminated against the night sky by the interior lights and countless gas lanterns.

Shipley, the gatekeeper, stood ready to turn away anyone who didn’t hold up one of Alice Vanderbilt’s gilded foolscap invitations. He hailed when he recognized me and waved me on through the gates, chuckling only slightly. He knew as well as I that I’d raise eyebrows driving my own carriage, especially after Aunt Alice offered to have one of her drivers collect me. I hoped I could pass my horse and vehicle off to a footman before either of the elder Vanderbilts saw me and tsked at my “outlandish behavior.”

I maneuvered carefully past the stylish black victorias and sleek broughams lining the drive and occupying the open pavement in front of the grand porte cochere. With so many footmen and drivers milling about in their colorful livery, the area had taken on the festive atmosphere of a midsummer fair. A footman in the Vanderbilts’ distinctive maroon livery came running to help me down.

“Good evening, Miss Emmaline. Beautiful night, isn’t it? You’re looking mighty fine, if you don’t mind my saying.”

Such was my rapport with many of the servants here; after all, I was closer in circumstances to most of them than to my well-heeled relatives. I thanked him heartily and made my way beneath the arched portico that jutted from the ornate marble façade of the four-story, seventy-room “summer cottage.” The Venetian-style villa easily dwarfed its Bellevue Avenue neighbors, even the stately Marble House, built two years earlier by yet another branch of the Vanderbilt family.

The absence of one servant in particular was enough to make me stop just inside the door. “Bateman,” I said to the head footman, “where is Mr. Mason tonight? Surely he isn’t ill?”

I could think of no other reason that would prompt the Vanderbilts’ long-time butler, Theodore Mason, to miss such an important event.

The good-looking, fair-haired young man cast a glance over his shoulder at the bustling entrance hall, then leaned closer to me. “He’s been dismissed, Miss Emmaline. For stealing. Mr. Goddard caught him at it.”

I gasped in disbelief. But before I could ask questions, more guests entered behind me, forcing me to continue on down the marbled hallway, through a set of wrought-iron doors, and to the steps of the Great Hall, where the family waited to greet their pre-ball dinner guests.

There, Aunt Alice stood at the head of the informal receiving line. “Why, Emmaline, how enchanting you look, my dear.” She gave my sash a tug and smoothed her plump hands over my gown’s newly refurbished sleeves as if she could somehow fuss my attire into a more fashionable state. A thoughtful gleam entered her eye, and if she was remembering my pale green gown from last year’s midsummer cotillion at Rough Point, well, she would be correct.

“Thank you for inviting me for dinner, Aunt Alice.”

The actual fête wouldn’t begin for another two hours. I and about thirty other “close family and friends” had been invited to a pre-ball meal.

“Yes, yes, of course, dear,” she said heartily. Her gaze dropped to my right hand; she, of course, knew better than to wonder if I’d brought along a lady’s maid. “No valise?” she observed.

“No, Aunt. I won’t be changing for the ball.” No, I’d been hard put to come up with one dress appropriate enough for a night at The Breakers. Meanwhile, I longed to ask her about Mr. Mason, but I knew tonight would be the wrong time to raise the subject. Instead, I leaned down to kiss her round cheek.

She gave my shoulders an affectionate squeeze. “You know, Emmaline, our nice Mr. Goddard has been eager for your arrival. I’ve seated him beside you for dinner. Be pleasant with him. I do believe he wishes to ask you to dance later.”

I mumbled something noncommittal, but Aunt Alice heard what she wished.

“Oh, good, he’ll be so pleased. Cornelius, here is our lovely Emmaline. . . . Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Greerson . . . and Mrs. Astor, how very good of you to come. . . .” With practiced finesse, Aunt Alice handed me off down the receiving line.

Uncle Cornelius tweaked my cheek. Of average height and build, with graying hair and the sloping posture of an accounting clerk who spent long hours poring over ledgers, the fifty-three-year-old head of the Vanderbilt family would hardly have turned heads on a busy sidewalk. Until, of course, one met his gaze; those dark eyes seared and skewered and gave no quarter. And yet for me, he very nearly beamed with one of his rare smiles.

“You’re looking robust, Emmaline. Comes from breathing the sea air year-round, I expect. How are your parents?”

“They write that they’re well, Uncle, thank you for asking.”

“Your father sell any paintings lately?”

“Yes, just last month,” I was happy to be able to tell him.

“Make a good margin on it?”

I hadn’t the vaguest idea what Father made on his paintings. Occasionally my parents wired me a few dollars to help with the running of Gull Manor, but otherwise I made due with the small annuity Aunt Sadie had left me along with the house, and what wages I earned on my own. But I smiled and said, “I believe so, yes, Uncle.”

“Good. Though for the life of me I’ll never understand why he didn’t want the position I offered him at New York Central. Artists—bah!”

There was little I could say to that, so I merely smiled. Strictly speaking, Cornelius Vanderbilt wasn’t my uncle. We were second cousins twice or thrice removed, but addressing that steadfast, imposing old gentleman by merely his first name—or his equally formidable wife, for that matter—was a notion more daunting than even my stout heart could rise to.

His attention, too, passed to the Greersons and Mrs. Astor, and I moved on to greet the rest of the family. Neily kissed the air near my cheek and mumbled a stiff good evening. Gertrude, the star of the evening and a good head taller than I, hugged me enthusiastically. We paused to admire each other’s gowns, hers a feminine confection of white chiffon, mine a flounced watered silk that had seen the better part of a decade. At least the mossy color set off my hazel eyes nicely.

“Nanny did a splendid job,” she whispered with a genuine smile, knowing full well my gown had been turned more than once, with new sleeves, fresh lace, and a beaded sash recently added in an attempt to bring the frock up to date.

“They won’t let me stay up for the ball,” Gladys, the youngest Vanderbilt, complained in my ear when I bent down to hug her.

“I’ll try to sneak up later to keep you company,” I whispered back. “And you can help me write my article about the ball for the society page.”

She giggled and kissed my cheek. “Don’t forget.”

I promised I wouldn’t and moved up the wide, carpeted steps into the Great Hall. I’d been in the house a handful of times since its unofficial reopening in the spring, but the breadth and depth and soaring height of this room, with its ornate gilding and carved Italian marble, still forced the air from my lungs in a giddy rush. I glanced up at the faraway ceiling, painted to give the illusion of the sky poised above an open courtyard.

The original house had been a larger version of my own Gull Manor—timbered and shingled, with gabled rooftops and sprawling wings. But when that house burned to the ground three years ago, Cornelius and Alice had commissioned a stone and marble gargantuan to be built in its place, insisting it be the grandest, most sumptuous mansion New England had ever seen. I couldn’t imagine one more majestic.

Or more ostentatious. But that was an opinion I kept to myself.

The moment our intimate dinner ended the servants rushed into the dining room to set up for the 300-odd guests who would be supping there at midnight. I ran upstairs to a guest room to freshen up, and by the time I descended the grand staircase the festivities were in full swing.

Although much of the house had been fitted out with electricity, Aunt Alice favored the richer glow of traditional illumination, especially for an event such as this. I couldn’t say which glittered brighter, the gaslight and candlelight shimmering on the myriad treasures and artwork that filled my view, or the guests who had spent small fortunes on tuxedos and ball gowns and rummaged deep into the family vaults for their finest jewelry. I fingered the cameo pinned to the ribbon at my throat—a gift from Aunt Sadie—and nearly felt ashamed of the tiny teardrop diamonds hanging from my ears.

Then again, when I considered how many disgraced maids I could help with the kind of money these people tossed blithely away on an average afternoon, well . . .

A lively Strauss waltz filled the air. As I made my way through the hall, greeting acquaintances, I wondered what Brady might be doing. Was he here already, maybe somewhere below stairs waiting for his chance to sneak . . . where? I still didn’t know what he planned to do tonight.

“Good evening, Emma.”

I looked up into the handsome face of Jack Parsons, a bachelor friend of my father’s from his university days. They had been roommates at Yale, but where Father had studied the fine arts, Mr. Parsons had prepared himself for business and finance. Word had it he’d made millions following Uncle Cornelius’s lead in the railroad industry.

“How are you, Mr. Parsons?” I managed without blushing, even as I took in the features that if anything had gained more appeal with the advent of fine wrinkles around the eyes and mouth. I admit I’d once entertained a bit of a schoolgirl fascination with the distinguished yet rakish Mr. Parsons. I suppose I must admit, too, that it hadn’t been all that long ago.

“I’m fine, Emma, just fine,” he said in that easy way he had. “I had a letter from your father last week. Thinking of paying him a visit in Paris this fall.”

“Oh, he’d like that. . . .”

We chatted until a hail drew my attention.

“Emmaline Cross! Emma, over here!”

Through the crowd I spotted a familiar face. And while that face hadn’t always brought me pleasure during our childhood, tonight Adelaide Peabody Halstock’s slightly crooked smile summoned a grin of my own. I excused myself from Mr. Parsons.

“Oh, it took forever to make my way in,” my old schoolmate said as she took both my hands in her own. Her satin evening gloves spanned her forearms like liquid pearl, making my own gloves appear thin and yellowed in comparison. We both pretended not to notice the difference. “Did you know the family has practically set up court in the Music Room to greet all the guests? I declare, Gertrude and Alice are sitting on gilt and velvet thrones.”

I had to look up a bit to meet her gaze. “Aunt Alice means to make an impression tonight.”

“She has certainly done that.” Adelaide swept the room with an appreciative glance.

The beadwork on her gown clattered lightly as she leaned to kiss my cheeks, and suddenly even Nanny’s efforts on my own gown seemed sadly inadequate. This, too, we pretended to ignore. “We must steal somewhere quiet later and catch up,” she said. My hands ached slightly in her grip; Adelaide had been athletic in school, a champion in tennis and archery, even cricket. “But first I’d like for you to meet my husband. I was so disappointed you couldn’t make it down to the city for our wedding. It was a splendid affair.”

It didn’t slip my notice that, after marrying a New York shipping and railroad magnate, Adelaide had picked up the habit of referring to New York City as “the city,” as if no other metropolis were of any account.

“I’m certain it was and I’m terribly sorry, Adelaide, I just couldn’t get away last summer.” I didn’t bring up the reason, didn’t say the word deemed so unspeakable in mixed company, but I saw the knowledge of it in the flash in Adelaide’s green eyes.

I
worked,
and it had been the need for wages that had kept me from leaving Newport during the high Season of ninety-four to attend her wedding. Even tonight, though I was a relative and an invited guest, I should have been working, making careful mental notes of all in attendance—what was worn, what was served, what was said, all of it to be included in a society page article for this week’s Newport
Observer.

I say I should have been, because that night all I could think about was Brady.

Adelaide tossed the blond curls I’d always envied. “Come meet Rupert. Now, where is he?” Releasing my hands, she linked her arm through mine and we wove a path across the dance floor. “He hasn’t been well recently, so I’m doubly delighted he could be here tonight.”

I hid a smirk. Phrases like
doubly delighted
would scarcely have been in the vocabulary of the former Adelaide Peabody, who, like Brady, hailed from a staunch old Newport family—at one time a wealthy family who had owned several of the city’s most popular hotels. But then times changed and rich summer tourists began building their “cottages” rather than staying in hotels. That happened a generation ago, and Adelaide’s family sank into hard times.

The memory raised my sympathies for her, as well as for her husband. Politely, I said, “I’m sorry to hear Mr. Halstock has been poorly.”