Newport: A Novel (25 page)

February 1898

C
assie propped her head on one hand to study Adrian asleep beside her. “We’ll go back to Poughkeepsie,” he’d said, as if the two of them would be greeted at the Delano home by a wedding banquet instead of by enraged parents. Back to Poughkeepsie, where his father had probably worn a rut in the floor after pacing for days, all the while sharpening well-crafted lectures entitled “Family Embarrassment in Europe” and “The Need to Accept the Responsibilities of Manhood.” Adrian’s latest escapade—the one called “Abominably Unsuitable Marriage”—would probably end in disownment. Yet her new husband slept untroubled beneath the eiderdown, so much at peace with himself and his bride that one might imagine he’d unexpectedly married into royalty.

If he didn’t fear returning home, then why should she?

She let her head fall back against the cool pillow, eyes unblinking as she stared up at the ceiling. Adrian Delano was the best friend she’d ever had, well worth loving—how on earth could she have let this happen to him? Hot tears started in the corners of her eyes. Irritated by her own weakness, she reached up to angrily brush them away. The time for crying was long past.

Adrian shifted to his side, instinctively pulling her close. She clutched his arm as if it were a life preserver.

“Cassie?” He struggled to open his eyes. “Go to sleep, sweetheart. The train home leaves early.”

She couldn’t help flinching at the word “home.”

He tucked her more securely against his chest, already lost to the tides of sleep. “Stop worrying,” he mumbled. “I’m not afraid. I’m ready to deal with this.”

She bit her lip. He could deal with what he knew. It was the part she hadn’t told him that plagued her.

Adrian had been away from his family for a very long time. He hadn’t spent the winter holidays with them in the New York town house, enduring all the pomp and pageantry surrounding his sister’s debutante ball. There’d been the business of dress, of escorts, of guests, followed by a stupefying procession of bachelors who’d graced family social events in order to see if Edith Delano suited their fancy. Parties at home, dinners and dances about town . . . Cassie had watched them all from her vantage point as Edith’s lady’s maid, had learned about each eligible bachelor well before he crossed the marble threshold.

Her fingers slid down Adrian’s arm to entwine with his. He murmured his approval, although she could tell from his breathing that his sleep had grown deeper.

Maybe he was right after all, and everything would be fine. He seemed so certain of it. Besides, what good did it do to doubt? They were married now. Perhaps the ceremony had been less than dignified, but it was legal all the same, performed by a reputable officer of the court. And as for Adrian—she’d loved him since girlhood. She would do her best to make him happier than he’d ever been.

She fell into a restless sleep as new snow swirled in the night air.

The dream, of course, was waiting, just as it had waited nearly every night for almost two months now. There she was again, sorting hair ornaments in Edith’s New York City bedroom, half listening to the rise and fall of voices from the dining room downstairs as the current crop of gentlemen tested their wit over dinner. Time became jumbled in dreams: it seemed only seconds before
he
was at her elbow, the suitor who should have been tucked away in the dining room with the rest but had somehow managed to climb the stairs to find her alone.

The smell of tobacco pierced her nostrils as a hand clamped across her mouth. Strong fingers closed around her throat, loosening just in time for her to drag in a ragged gasp before passing out. A man’s body pinned her against the mattress; his rough hand explored beneath her petticoats. She pushed against him as best she could, but over and over and over again pain ripped her apart as he grunted like an animal above her.

Cassie bolted upright in the cottage bed, hot tears mixing with the perspiration that dripped from her brow. Adrian stirred, but she calmed herself enough to murmur that all was well. He smiled in his sleep, turning his back to her to burrow more deeply into the quilts.

It would never, ever end. She would live with the results of that horrible night forever.

The dream was kind in one respect: it never forced her to revisit her assailant’s face. But she knew it well enough . . . she knew everything about the man. He was heir to a fortune, considered quite an eligible catch. His people hobnobbed with the wealthiest of families . . . that fact had been brought back to her with an alarming thud when she’d seen the newly constructed Liriodendron rising proudly above the crashing surf. If his tentacles could reach her even here, in Newport, then was any place safe?

Taking care not to disturb Adrian, Cassie left the bed and reached for her robe on the bedpost. Her hand hovered above it as she glanced down. Illuminated by the brightness outside, her naked body seemed nearly otherworldly. She ran a tentative hand down one full breast, finally letting it caress the slight fullness of her abdomen. There was nothing otherworldly about the baby she carried.

She should have continued to play her game with Peter, no matter what the outcome. Perhaps she never would have fooled him, and maybe he never would have proposed marriage. But once he appeared to be the father of her child, he might at least have done the honorable thing and supported the baby. Lying about the baby’s paternity to Peter would have been easy, for she didn’t care a fig about him. But Adrian . . . Adrian, who had always been so kind to her, who was willing to risk his own inheritance to stay by her side . . . how could she put him in this position? How long would it be before social paths crossed and he found himself face-to-face with her past? She knew how it would go: her assailant would find a way to reveal everything, to destroy her husband’s reputation along with his love for her. And Adrian would have risked all to end up a pathetic fool.

She shivered as she pulled on her robe, drifting toward the
window as if the answer to her dilemma lay outside in the soft snow.

She deserved disdain. She knew this deep in her soul, for the dream, however persistent, always omitted one important fact: she had met that heinous man before, back in Poughkeepsie. And she had flirted as coyly with him as she flirted with all of the suitors who found her such a delightful change from plain and awkward Edith Delano. She’d allowed pride to cloud judgment, taking secret pleasure in the knowledge that all of Edith’s wealth could not make the young woman more desirable than Cassie herself already was.

She had brought this on herself, no doubt—but Adrian did not deserve to share her downfall.

Willing each foot forward, Cassie slowly crossed the room. Her open carpetbags were already packed for the trip tomorrow. The robe dropped to the floor as she stepped into her drawers. Her fingers fumbled with the buttonhole, their clumsiness a silent protest; she pushed the button through with a savage shove. At least Adrian’s sleep seemed sound enough. Even so, she quickly donned chemise and corset but did not waste time tightening the laces. Gaining speed, she yanked on her corset cover and all four petticoats from her carpetbag . . . she’d need the space they occupied.

Transformed into a silent whirlwind, she rummaged briefly through Adrian’s packed trunk to draw out his gold cufflinks and studs, along with Edith’s pearls. Her heart burned with her own deceit as she counted the money in his billfold. It was for his own good. The loss of money and objects now was nothing compared to what he’d lose if she stayed. Someday she’d find a way to return it all: the cufflinks, the pearls . . . everything. She left him a little more than the cost of his train fare home.

Her breath caught as she remembered the amethyst-crested signet ring. Now, that was rightfully hers. Hadn’t Adrian implied as much when he’d slid it onto her finger during their vows? Grateful for the slightest shred of honesty, Cassie skimmed across the floor to retrieve it from the nightstand by her side of the bed.

She turned toward Adrian one last time. His tousled hair reminded her of the boy she’d known, but the angular cheekbones and stubble of his beard made it clear that the time for their childhood games was over forever. The corners of his lips turned up in a slight smile, as if he visited a marvelous dream. She gripped the bedpost to keep from diving back into the snowy sheets beside him, where she could entwine herself around his warm body and never let go. A deep, empty chasm gaped open within her. Carefully, she bent toward her husband.

Adrian shifted in his sleep with a sigh. Cassie pulled back, stung.

Quietly, she lifted both carpetbags and slipped into the hall. She stopped just long enough to reach for Adrian’s heavy coat as well as her own, sliding both over her shoulders as she disappeared into the night.

E
nough.” Jim grasped Amy’s arm in concern. “She’s had enough.”

Amy did indeed look slightly green, but she shrugged away from his hold, advancing toward Nicholas Chapman with a slow, even gait. She stopped a foot away from him, as if closer contact might contaminate.

“You’re my father,” she said in disbelief.

Nicholas stared at her. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Mrs. Chapman says . . . you’re my father.”

Jim caught her as her legs gave way, scooping her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing at all. One quick glance toward Adrian and he nearly dropped her back to the ground. Her words should have induced an emotional earthquake, yet his friend stood silent and calm. A quick image of Adrian and Catharine on the rocks the night before flashed through his mind: Adrian already knew.

Nicholas swiveled toward Catharine. “Does she understand
what she’s implying? That you . . . that I . . . it’s insane! I never met you before this past week. Tell them!”

Catharine bit her lower lip. The ball of light glowed near the sofa, steady as a sentinel.

“Put me down,” Amy said, and Jim obliged. She placed a light fingertip on each temple, closing her eyes in concentration. “Mrs. Chapman says that a wrong must be righted, and that since the living were too spineless to do it, she had no choice but to do it herself.”

“Mother . . . what are you talking about?” Chloe’s quizzical haze transcended alcohol.

Ashen, Bennett turned to his bride. “What is the meaning of this?”

Catharine stepped past him to face Nicholas, a barely suppressed tide of anger causing the pearls on her headdress to tremble. “You don’t remember me at all, do you.”

“No, of course not. Why would I?” He stood his ground as she drew closer.

“Then your hatred for me has been born of nothing more than fear that I would gain your father’s fortune?” She was genuinely surprised.

“What else could it possibly be, Miss Walsh?”

She allowed her scorn free rein. “You may call me Mrs. Chapman. I rather like the sound of that name dripping from your lips. And you are mistaken. We met many, many years ago, although you certainly never bothered to ask my name.”

Amy’s eyes remained closed, her voice as plaintive and clear as a child’s. “Nicholas, your mother suggests that you remember a certain dark-eyed lady’s maid in Poughkeepsie . . . and later in New York.”

The words seemed to unfurl through Nicholas’s mind like a ribbon. Slowly, his face changed to putty, the eyebrows dropping from their haughty arch, the cheeks slack. A vein throbbed in his forehead as he flexed his fingers. “My God,” he said. “You’re . . . that girl. Edith Delano’s maid.”

“Catharine.” A quaver in Bennett’s voice betrayed his authority. “I must insist on an explanation.”

“And you’ve every right to one, Bennett,” Catharine said. “Perhaps Nicholas might provide it since I’ve wanted one myself all these years.”

“I owe you nothing,” Nicholas said, but his gaze strayed from Catharine to Amy as if the young woman’s existence was even more unbelievable to him than that of his late mother. “You were there for the taking.”

“You’re right, you owe me nothing,” Catharine countered coldly. “Your mother has taken care of your debt in full, hasn’t she?”

The ball of light grew more diaphanous. Jim looped a defensive arm through Amy’s as it passed by, but it no longer seemed interested in her. Instead it bobbed before Bennett, almost as if inviting him to dance.

“Can you hear her?” Amy asked. “She wants to be the one to tell you what happened. She thinks it’s important that you know.”

“It’s all lies!” Nicholas shouted. “It’s clever effects with lights and mirrors, concocted by the most brilliant grifter I’ve ever met. Watch!” He punched through the light, only to pull back with a cry of pain.

Chloe sprang to his aid, gasping as she covered his fist with both her hands. “Your skin! It’s like ice!”

Bennett stared into the light. “Elizabeth?” Pale splashes of gold
and pink illuminated his countenance as he leaned toward the essence of his first wife. “What did you want to tell me? I’m listening.”

The light brightened and dimmed in response.

Bennett recoiled. “Amy, perhaps it would be best if you just told me what she’s saying.”

Amy listened for a moment. “She won’t say. She prefers to tell you herself.”

A shadow of fear crossed the old man’s face as he stumbled backward. “Elizabeth . . . my sweet . . . you know I never meant you any harm, don’t you? I’ve tried my best to repent for my boorish behavior. I’ve done all you’ve asked me to do. I’ve married Miss Walsh . . . I’ve changed the will . . .”

The light intensified.

Color flooded back into Amy’s cheeks as she tugged Jim’s arm. “She’s finished with me . . . for good,” she whispered, and Jim wondered if relief might have temporarily blunted the shock of discovering her father’s identity. “She only wants Bennett now.”

Bennett glared at his son, then turned to plant an awkward kiss on Catharine’s cheek. With a resigned nod, he bent toward the ball of light. “Very well, Elizabeth,” he said. “It appears I must do your bidding for the rest of my days in order to keep peace between us. Tell me.”

Suddenly his eyes opened wide in shock. His body grew rigid as he began to wheeze. One arm flailed through the air.

Judge Bourne started forward as Bennett Chapman collapsed to the ground. “Bennett!”

Adrian dropped to one knee beside the old man, grasping his wrist in search of a pulse. “Jim. Telephone for help.”

“Look!” Chloe jerked a shaking finger toward the light. The
iridescence had elongated into the shimmering shape of a woman. Resolute even in shifting form, she hovered above Bennett’s prone body.

“M-Mother!” Nicholas nearly choked on the word.

The figure turned its head. Nicholas shrank from the disdain etched in the milky features. Elizabeth Chapman returned her attention to her husband, extending her hand in a shadowy invitation before vanishing.

“She’s gone!” Chloe cried.

Adrian gently lowered Bennett Chapman’s arm to his chest. “So is he, I’m afraid,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”