Newport: A Novel (14 page)

J
im half carried Amy out of the house, listening as her ragged breathing grew calmer the farther they got from the dining room. It was as if a stranglehold had been pried from her throat, and not a moment too soon. By the time they reached the back terrace, a hint of pink had returned to each of her cheeks. Even her grip on his arm felt steadier—sure enough, in fact, that he felt no compunction about plucking her fingers from the sleeve of his flannel jacket and stepping abruptly away from her side.

Amy looked up, startled. “Are you all right? I know it was creepy back there, but that’s my problem, not yours.”

“You really take the cake, don’t you?” Jim jammed both hands into his pockets and turned away.

“I don’t understand.”

An angry buzz started in his ears. “Don’t bother to look confused,
Miss Walsh. I’ve got your number now. You’re a calculating flirt. Worse, you’re a fraud.”

He heard her indignant gasp. “How dare you!”

He whirled around to face her, finger pointed at her nose. “I was brought up to believe in the spirits, but after your performance today, it’s clear that ‘Mrs. Chapman’ is composed of nothing more than scraps of information nicked from clueless dupes like me.”

Amy’s mouth dropped open. “How can you say that after what I just went through back there? It was like some horrible wave was trying to suck me under and drag me out to sea! It took everything I had to break free—I couldn’t wait to get out of that room. And to think I was about to thank you for helping me!”

His own naïveté made him wince. “Save your breath. I’m finished with it—
all
of it.”

“You can’t just walk away, Jim Reid. I need you!”

He batted away the thought that she might actually mean it. “For what? There are plenty of other men out there for you to make fools of, and you do it so awfully well. Can’t say I didn’t bring it on myself, though—I should have realized that anything I told you in confidence could and would be used against me.”

Her lower lip trembled. “I don’t understand. I would never hurt you on purpose.”

He shook his head hard, trying to shield his sense of reason from her plaintive tone. “Darn it, Amy, why did you have to tell everyone that I can’t see in the dark? You promised me you wouldn’t.”

“I told you before,” Amy said in a small voice. “I have no control over anything Mrs. Chapman says.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe that anymore.”

“Jim.” Her hands scrabbled across his chest, gathering his jacket into two large hunks. “Jim, please. I’m scared to death. I think . . . I think I could have died in there.”

He looked down at her and breathed a silent curse. Were those real tears welling up in the corners of those clear blue eyes? How did she manage to look so utterly helpless, like a bird that had just fallen from its nest?

“You handled yourself just fine,” he mumbled, staring down at his scuffed buckskins.

“No, Jim, listen.” The crack in her voice made his eyes lock with hers. “I’m afraid to go back in there. I don’t want to speak for Mrs. Chapman anymore.”

“Then don’t.”

“I don’t think I have a choice,” she whispered.

His brows lowered in concern. Carefully, he disengaged her fingers from his lapels and led her over to one of the wrought-iron chairs by the table. “What do you mean? Who’s forcing you? Is it your aunt?”

“Don’t you mean my mother?” she demanded flatly.

He dragged a chair to her side and sat. “Of course. Your mother. Amy, level with me—after all these years, did you honestly have no idea that Catharine Walsh was your mother? Not even an inkling?”

She glowered at him. “No, of course not. She told me that my parents died when I was a baby. I was just a kid, Jim. Why would I question information like that?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, you’re not a kid anymore. It’s time to take responsibility for your life, and that includes your actions here. You and Catharine made money in California by hoaxing folks with fake psychic phenomena, didn’t you.”

She at least had the grace to blush. “Not exactly. Besides, this isn’t anything like that.”

“Oh, I understand that part. This is a bigger fish, a bigger scam. If you’ve seen the error of your ways and don’t want to do it anymore, then tell Catharine you’ve had enough. She can’t force you to do something you don’t want to do.”

“She’s not forcing me. She wants to see it end, too.”

He looked puzzled. “Then I don’t get it. Who’s forcing you to continue the charade?”

“Her.” The word dropped to the flagstone like a two-ton weight. “Elizabeth Chapman. It’s like she’s on a mission or something. Each time she comes, her presence gets stronger and stronger. When we started, she was content to tell me what she wanted to say and then hover in the background while I repeated it. This last time it took every ounce of strength I had to keep her from rushing through me to deliver the words herself. I don’t know if I can keep pushing her back. Don’t you see, Jim? One day very soon, she’s going to totally take over my mind, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back.”

She was either truly scared or she’d missed her calling to go on the stage. A fine sweat misted her forehead as her hands began to shake. Jim felt his own fingers grow cold.

“Okay, Amy,” he said. “Say I decide to believe you when you tell me that Mrs. Chapman is real. Say she isn’t some cleverly crafted fiction of yours, set up for the sole purpose of parting the rich from their money. Why has she come? What does she want?”

Amy looked so miserable that he couldn’t stop himself from wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders. “I’m not sure,” she said, leaning her head against his chest. “She always seems happy to see Bennett. That’s what struck me most in the beginning—her
eagerness to reunite with the man who I suppose was the love of her life.”

Jim mulled over her words. He’d excelled at case analysis in law school. Even now, his ability to extract a cogent argument from a pile of facts was among the strongest of his legal skills. But this situation offered no solid, tangible details. Assuming Mrs. Chapman really did exist, she certainly didn’t adhere to the laws of physics. Even the law of cause and effect would prove worthless here. Clearly, this was something entirely different—this was a matter of the heart, and no rational deduction could help him where that was concerned.

“What else do you feel when you deliver Mrs. Chapman’s words?” he asked.

Amy nestled more comfortably into his arms. He instinctively tightened his hold. “She’s very eager to see Bennett and Aunt . . . and Catharine . . . married. She pushes hardest when she delivers that message, as if she wants to fly through me and set the matter to rights herself.”

“Yes, it’s clear she wants that wedding to happen as quickly as possible. Does it stem from concern about her widower’s happiness?”

“I don’t think so. I feel there’s something else she wants to say, something of great importance that she hasn’t been able to voice yet.”

“Why? You don’t block any of her words, do you?”

“No, of course not. Good grief, I’d be happy if she’d just spit it all out and leave me alone. Apparently the right moment hasn’t come yet. She’s waiting for something to happen, but I don’t know what.”

Jim fell silent. Why had Elizabeth Chapman chosen this particular
young woman as a conduit for her messages? Surely there were other “psychics” available, and they lived a heck of a lot closer to Liriodendron than Sacramento, California.

“Amy, do you remember why Bennett Chapman was out in California when he met you?”

“He was on his way home from a business meeting in San Francisco. He visited Sacramento on a whim. Now he believes that Elizabeth may have guided him there.” She stopped. “Why so many questions?”

“It’s just the way I’m made,” Jim said slowly. “Whenever there are a lot of puzzle pieces scattered about, I feel obliged to fit them all together.”

“I understand perfectly,” Amy said with a sigh. “I’m usually that way, too. Problem is that in this case, I’m one of the biggest puzzle pieces of all. Before this morning, I assumed I was Amy Carolyn Walsh, daughter of Charles and Susannah Walsh. Now I have no idea who I am.”

“Why don’t you ask your mother?”

“Why should I believe anything she tells me?”

Jim nodded. The response, though harsh, was understandable.

“Will you help me?” Amy reached up to pull him close.

His guard was slipping, and fast. Her lips were so close, and there was nothing he wanted more than to kiss them. What a dandy distraction that would be, the perfect way to give his busy mind a rest.

Too bad he couldn’t escape the feeling that that was exactly why Amy had placed herself in his path.

With a sigh, he reached up and disengaged her arms from around his neck. “What would you like me to do?” he asked.

A shadow crossed her face, but she continued as if nothing unusual
had passed between them. “I’m sure there will be more séances,” she said quietly. “I don’t think they can be avoided—Mrs. Chapman is determined to deliver her final messages, and even if I don’t want to be her mouthpiece anymore, I have no doubt she’ll find a way to speak through me. That’s what happened this morning.”

“And?”

“You’ve got to make sure I come back.”

The skin on the back of his neck prickled. “Back?”

“Don’t let her take over forever, all right?”

He searched her frightened face, longing to find a hint of deceit shadowing her lips, a guilty blink or two, anything that would let him believe that she was nothing but a clever con artist. One false note and he could righteously walk away. But no matter how hard he looked, all he could detect was fear. Amy wasn’t lying.

He knew the right thing to do.

He grasped her trembling hand in his. “You have my word,” he said.

February 1898

C
assie Walsh observed Peter Phillips from beneath lowered lashes as she bid good night to their host and hostess in the parlor. Tiny red spider veins snaked beneath his fair skin, and the voracious expression he sported had probably become so habitual that he had no idea it was even there.

“A pleasure, Miss Weld,” he said, holding her hand in his for a second too long before release. He tried to capture her eyes as well, but the amount of liquor he’d consumed eliminated any possibility of a straight gaze. “You’ll come to the wedding with your cousin Saturday morning, of course.”

Cassie opened her mouth to respond, but Adrian, appearing just behind her right shoulder, spoke first. “We’ll see. Family obligations may require my cousin to depart tomorrow morning as planned.”

“Ah.” Peter straightened. “Then you must plead my case, Adrian. You’re a far better litigator than I. Tell your family that good company has done wonders to ease your sweet cousin’s sorrow.”

Cassie did not need to look to know that Adrian wore a bitter smile. She’d caught that same expression on his face throughout the evening as Marjorie Phillips prattled gamely in his ear, hoping for a positive reaction of any sort.

“Your wrap, cousin,” he said now, dropping her evening cloak across her shoulders as if it weighed a hundred pounds. She found herself with no choice but to let final pleasantries float on the air behind them as he tucked an insistent hand beneath her elbow and propelled her out into the frigid night.

“I’d prefer to walk back to the cottage,” he said, starting down the front walkway. “It isn’t far. Or are you wearing ridiculous shoes more suited to fashion than practicality?”

It was cold, but the challenge in his voice sent hot blood coursing through her veins. Besides, a bracing slap of frosty air would probably do him good. She’d noticed him drain several glasses of wine throughout the evening, each with less enjoyment than the one before.

“Of course we can walk,” she said haughtily. “I’m hardly the fragile flower you usually escort; women in service can’t afford to be. Tonight was a refreshing change for me.”

“Change?” His mouth twitched. “Oh, you served tonight. Make no mistake about that.”

The dark undertone in his voice raised her hackles. She swallowed back a sharp retort as he left her to dismiss the waiting carriage. Adrian wasn’t the only one who’d had a bit too much wine
that evening. There was little to be gained through a tipsy spat, though, especially one in which she might not be in top form.

He returned to her side, grip firm as he plucked one gloved hand from her fur muff and slipped it securely through the crook of his elbow. “Let’s go,” he said.

Cassie glanced at him as they walked down Bellevue Avenue. In her younger days, Adrian Delano had reminded her of a medieval knight. With his keen gaze and sharply cut jaw, there seemed little reason to alter that perception now. His gait was sure, his muscles tight where her fingers rested on his arm. All he lacked was a sword.

“So,” Adrian said, and she remembered a little too late that not all sword slashes were physical. “Is it your intention to trade yourself from one sort of service into another?”

“I don’t understand,” she said primly.

“Oh, I think you do.” His voice was silky, inescapable in the darkness.

She sighed, too tired to keep up a pretense. “Why are you so shocked? For better or worse, you knew why I wanted to come here. Are you simply surprised that I’ve captured someone’s eye so quickly?”

“Peter? All you had to do to catch Peter was bait your hook with décolletage . . . which you did. Now, reeling him in will require actual work.”

“How insulting you are!” She stopped short and tried to yank her hand away from his arm. He held on tightly with his free hand.

“Cassie, listen to me. Do you know anything at all about Peter Phillips?”

“Yes.” She studied the tips of her shoes peeking from beneath the hem of her dinner gown. “I can tell quite a bit about him. He drinks too much and is a horrible flirt. He will never be faithful to the woman he marries and will grow corpulent and childish as he ages. But since his money comes from family wealth as well as a professional salary, he can be counted on to provide a steady income. Am I correct?”

Adrian’s shoulders sagged. “And that’s better for you than what’s back in Poughkeepsie?”

“You don’t know the half.”

“Then tell me.”

“No!”

He studied her for a moment, and she knew exactly what he saw. She’d allowed a little too much emotion to creep into her response; the concern on his face could only be a reaction to fear reflected on her own. She pulled her hand from his grasp and continued briskly down Bellevue, snapping the spell that had fallen between them.

Adrian reached her in three long strides. “You’re too clever and beautiful for the likes of Peter,” he said. “If you only knew how my friends and I pity whatever poor lady the man ends up marrying.”

“I don’t need to know that. I already know how you and your friends regard women of my station, and it certainly isn’t as ladies.”

This time, he was the one who stopped, so suddenly that she stumbled into him. He caught her in his arms, righting her beneath the glow of a nearby streetlamp. “That isn’t fair,” he said, resting his hands on her shoulders. “I’ve never treated you with anything less than respect, even when you were a pigtailed little nuisance hiding from your mother.”

She stared at him. She saw nothing of the drunk she’d lifted off the lawn in Poughkeepsie the night before, nor of the sallow wreck she’d accompanied to Newport earlier that day. Beneath the brim of his top hat, Adrian’s eyes were clear, and she recognized that firm set of his mouth from the days she’d watched him ponder his next backgammon move in the clandestine games they’d shared.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re right. You’ve never been anything but kind to me. But, honestly, what do you expect me to do? I don’t have your abundance of choice.”

A carriage rumbled down Bellevue, its illuminated lamps a reminder that they stood on a very public street. Adrian’s arms dropped from her shoulders to his sides, leaving behind a warm tingle where his palms had rested.

She slid her hands into her muff and fell into step beside him. He smelled pleasantly of cologne, tobacco, and wine. She drew in a deep whiff, startled by how familiar he seemed.

Adrian cursed himself for not anticipating that Cassie would be even more beautiful in the moonlight than she’d been in the diffused candlelight of the Phillips’s dining room. He hadn’t expected the unfortunate wave of longing that threatened to engulf him each time he glanced her way.

Her vulnerability stabbed at his heart. It had been easy enough to protect her years ago when she’d risked little more than a tongue-lashing. It was harder now that the stakes were so much higher.

“Cassie . . . you were frank with me last night, and I hope you’ll allow me the same liberty now.”

“Say what you want.” Her gaze remained fixed straight ahead. “You won’t offend me.”

He cleared his throat. “Men like Peter Phillips do not always harbor honorable intentions.”

Her laugh sliced through the air like broken glass. “Was that meant to be a profound revelation?”

“I know you see him as a gentleman, but . . .”

“Don’t worry. I am well aware of the shortcomings of your class.”

Her bitterness broke the steady rhythm of his gait but did not prevent him from continuing. “You’re young, Cassie, and you grew up in our household, where such . . . shortcomings . . . do not exist in great excess.”

“The men in your family are no different from any others of your class.” Her voice was hollow. “You all believe you’ve got the right to take whatever you want, whenever you please.”

“That’s not true!”

“Oh? Can you honestly tell me that your exploits in Europe have been greatly exaggerated?”

“I regret Europe with all my heart.” His retort was sharper than intended.

She turned toward him, surprised. “No need to pillory yourself, Adrian,” she said gently. “We each do what we must to stay afloat in a given situation. At least you have the capacity for contrition, which is more than I can say for many.” Her hand latched on to his elbow again, sliding down his arm until their gloved fingers intertwined. Adrian accepted the offer of absolution with a grateful squeeze.

The outline of the cottage came into view, stark against the winter sky. Inside, Mrs. Vickery had lit the lamps, and the windows
glowed with soft light. Surrounded by barren branches, the place seemed lonely, eager to welcome any signs of life across its waiting threshold.

Cassie shivered as Adrian unlatched the garden gate.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“A little.” She hesitated, then allowed herself to rest against him. He understood at once how hard it was for her to admit weakness of any sort.

“So am I,” he told her, wrapping a steady arm around her waist to help ward off the chill.

“I’ve missed you more than I thought,” she murmured into his coat. “I’d forgotten how easy it is to talk to you. You’ve always seemed to know me so well.”

He fumbled for the key as they walked up the cottage steps. “I’m honored that you think so,” he said, opening the door and ushering her inside.

Cassie stopped in the middle of the room, eyes closed. “So cold,” she said.

He could see that she was. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips a little chapped. A visible shudder raced through her.

“Poor Cassie,” he said, suddenly remorseful. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have insisted on the walk. I was feeling peevish.”

“No, I liked the walk. I just need a few minutes to thaw.”

He peeled off his gloves. “Give me your hands.”

She held out her hands as obediently as a child. He worked her gloves over icy fingers, then enclosed her hands in his. They felt like little blocks of ice.

“You
are
cold,” he said, stroking her fingers.

“Insubstantial evening wear.” She managed a smile through chattering teeth. “And perhaps you were right after all about the impracticality of my shoes.”

“You should have told me.” He eased her closer, arms tight around her in an effort to calm her shivers.

She nestled against him, one errant strand of hair brushing his cheek. “Your mood was wicked enough when we left the Phillips’s house. I was too tired to dodge your barbs.”

It didn’t take long for her shaking to subside.

“Better?” Adrian peered down at her.

She nodded. Then, without a word, she coiled an arm around his neck, tugged him toward her, and kissed him.

The kiss was sweet, nothing at all like the frenzied encounters he’d experienced in Europe. And yet, he sensed insistence beneath it, an invitation to so much more. Her hand slipped inside his overcoat to rest against his shirt; as if of its own accord, his finger traced the outline of her small ear, coming to rest beneath her chin. Her lips tasted of champagne, and it seemed that he could never drink enough.

Then, with a surprised gasp, she stepped out of his embrace. “Thank you, Adrian,” she said, her cheeks pink. “I’m much warmer now.”

He struggled for air as she backed away down the short hallway, ducking into the first bedroom as if it offered respite from a storm.

“Oh, look!” Her voice, steadier now, floated through his ears as he slowly removed his coat. “Mrs. Vickery has made up the other room after all. Shall I take that one?”

He watched her retreat, trying to find his voice. He wanted to tell her that he’d be happy to share his bed with her, that he’d be happy
to share any space at all with her. Instead he simply nodded. “Take whichever room suits you,” he said finally, tossing his coat onto the nearby sofa in an attempt at nonchalance.

She appeared in the hallway again. She’d discarded her cloak and her shoes, and pulled combs and pins from her hair as she walked. “Forgive me, Adrian, but I need to sleep. I’m exhausted. Must I really leave tomorrow?”

He stared, mesmerized, as thick locks of hair dropped about her shoulders in an uneven rhythm. “Stay,” he said, and his tongue felt thick in his mouth.

She was in his arms again, and this time he was well aware of the press of her full breasts against his chest. “Thank you,” she whispered into his ear, and was gone before propriety demanded that he ease her away. “Good night,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t stay up too late.”

He sank down onto the sofa as the bedroom door closed behind her, unable to face the visions of Cassie that would surely invade his dreams.