Newport: A Novel (3 page)

C
atharine Walsh reached for her hairbrush, whacking her hand against a heavy glass bowl of rose petal potpourri on the way. Swallowing back a mild expletive, she flexed her fingers then grasped the handle. The rough tug of the bristles through her dark, bobbed curls felt good. At least it reflected action. The pervasive air of lethargy in the guest room left her cranky and on edge, and she knew from experience that neither state of mind allowed for clarity of thought.

She was staying in Liriodendron’s Flower Room, a bucolic guest bedroom so festooned with floral imagery that staring at the walls too long made her eyes water and her nose itch. She was not given to sentimentality, so the delicate blossoms everywhere oozed more romanticism than she cared to handle at one time. The room faced the sea, which should have offered nothing more than soft breezes and the gentle whisper of surf. Instead, voices floated through the
open window—the same quarrelsome voices that had encouraged Catharine to feign a headache that morning instead of joining Bennett Chapman at the dining room table for breakfast. The Chapman heirs had arrived in a flurry of self-importance last night, the plastered Lady Dinwoodie relying upon her chauffeur to keep her upright, her older brother, Nicholas, striding stiffly through the front door nearly an hour later. Catharine had fled to her room before coming face-to-face with either. The meeting she dreaded was unavoidable, but she still had the right to put it off for as long as she could.

She drifted toward the bedroom window to take a peek. Just as she’d suspected, these two neither looked nor sounded better in the morning sun.

“I can’t help it if I’ve a delicate constitution!” Chloe Chapman Dinwoodie’s high-pitched voice made one ponder the relative benefits of deafness. Her white chiffon frock danced in the breeze as if searching for the adolescent girl it was meant to adorn. Catharine stifled a groan. Chloe was a few years older than her own forty-three. Why had no one told Lady Dinwoodie that clothing and affectations charming on a young woman of eighteen merely made her a frump at forty-five?

But meeting the indisposed Chloe was nowhere near as unnerving as the thought of dealing with her brother. Catharine hung back, determined to ignore the low rumble of Nicholas Chapman’s voice. Yet despite her will, she found herself edging closer to the window, drawn to him like Faustus to Mephistopheles.

“You’re a drunk, Chloe,” Nicholas was saying. “There’s nothing delicate about that. I’d appreciate it if you could reform just long
enough to assist me. Employ the same wits you use to circumvent Prohibition, and we can’t help but succeed.”

Chloe sank down into a lawn chair, limp hand draped across her forehead. “Oh, all right, Nicky. Tell me what you have in mind.”

Catharine ducked behind the curtains as Nicholas spun toward the window, his narrowed eyes scanning the façade of the house. But his check was apparently habit, a perfunctory move provoked by a suspicious mind. As brusquely as he’d turned toward the house, he bent toward his sister, his black suit and beaky nose conjuring images of a crow. Strands of his thick blond hair rose and fell like pieces of straw in the brisk wind.

“It’s just as I expected,” Catharine murmured, resting a hand atop the dresser to steady herself. “There are no surprises here.” It took a few more deep breaths than she’d anticipated, but eventually the thumping of her heart slowed to a more reasonable rate. She brushed a nonexistent speck of dust from the front of her dress and straightened up, jaw set.

The Chapmans’ voices were no longer audible, but that didn’t matter. Catharine knew very well why Bennett’s children had made the inconvenient trip to Liriodendron, and it certainly wasn’t to bestow warm nuptial blessings and wish her well.

A soft knock on the door drew her away from the tableau unfolding outside.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but I’ve a note for you.” One of the housemaids stood in the hallway, a folded piece of paper extended before her. Her Irish brogue was as thick as if she’d just disembarked from the boat that morning. Catharine veiled her irritation: Bennett still adhered to the last-century affectation of importing domestic help
from the British Isles, as if guests might actually believe they’d somehow stumbled into one of the great family manor houses of Europe.

She took the paper from the maid’s waiting hand. “There’s no need to ‘ma’am’ me, Nellie. ‘Miss Walsh’ will do just fine.”

Nellie burned pink. “Mr. Chapman hopes that your headache is much improved. He wants you to accompany him out to the terrace to meet his son and daughter.”

“Will Miss Amy be joining us?”

Nellie glanced toward the note. “I’m not sure.”

A real headache started pounding above Catharine’s left eye. Amy apparently had taken off again, galloping who knew where, leaving Catharine alone to face the lions.

But it wasn’t fair to drop her foul mood onto Nellie. The poor young thing was merely the messenger, after all. “Oh, very well. You may tell Mr. Chapman that I’ll be along in fifteen minutes.”

“Shall I wait until you’ve read the note, ma’am? In the event you wish to reply?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for thinking of it, Nellie.” Catharine unfolded the paper in her hand. As expected, her eyes met Amy’s hasty scrawl.

Dear Aunt Catharine,
Amy had written in large, loopy letters. Catharine could already tell that this note would be yet another that raised more questions than answers.
I’m not in the mood to meet them yet. I’ve gone for a walk. I hope you understand.

It took everything she had not to crumple up the page.
I hope you understand
. As if it would have mattered whether she understood or not. Amy would have done precisely as she pleased anyway. And, since she was twenty-two years old, that was probably her right.

Nellie remained in the doorway, a picture of practiced serenity. As Catharine met her gaze, she realized that the maid was not as young as she’d originally thought and that her knowledge of Liriodendron ran far beyond the linens and silver.

“Please send somebody out to find my niece,” Catharine said evenly. “And inform her that her presence is requested on the terrace. Immediately.”

Nellie nodded, then retreated down the hall.

Catharine waited until she could no longer hear the maid’s footsteps before stepping back into her bedroom and closing the door firmly behind her.

She’d never expected this wedding business to take so long. When she and Amy had arrived in Newport six weeks ago, she’d expected to be Mrs. Bennett Chapman by mid-May. Now it was June. This had dragged on long enough for Bennett’s progeny to come swooping down like vultures.

An exclamation from Chloe brought her back to the window. There were no discernible words, but Lady Dinwoodie’s discontent was evidenced by her piercing whine and fluttering hands. Nicholas whipped about to face the ocean, his shoulders so squared that pebbles could bounce off the hard plane of his back. His comment to his sister was carried away by the wind, but his anger remained clearly etched in each line of his rigid stance.

Catharine sank to the floor and rested her head against the wall. Neither Chloe nor Nicholas had a right to be angry about anything. They’d been spoon-fed every advantage right along with their childhood farina. Even now, decades out from beneath Daddy’s roof, neither had any apparent cause for complaint. The Chapman heirs were well-off even without their father’s will. Chloe’s foppish
British husband had enough personal wealth to keep her in more than crumpets for the rest of her life, and Nicholas owned a lucrative percentage of the family’s textiles empire. There were no grounds for griping—or for bad behavior.

Yet they behaved badly quite frequently. Lady Dinwoodie’s outlandish New York antics had reached even Catharine’s local newspaper back in Sacramento, where people usually didn’t give a fig about East Coast snobs. And as for Nicholas Chapman, even the society pages had long ago stopped calling him an “eligible bachelor.” Everybody knew by now that he was too much of a selfish tightwad to ever share his wealth with a wife. Of course, as far as Catharine was concerned, no amount of money could ever make that hateful man marriageable in the first place.

She sighed. There was nothing for it but to go out to the patio and meet the loathsome two. She smoothed her dress—low-waisted and simply cut, its deep vermilion hue flattered her dark coloring and hugged her body. Current fashion may have favored boyish figures, but Catharine knew that men preferred curves. Mother Nature had made her far more alluring than Chloe Chapman could ever hope to be, even without the girlish flounces on her frocks and a personal fortune to call her own.

In the scheme of things, she decided, she had no other choice but to look upon the arrival of the wretched offspring as an unfortunate intrusion, a bump in a road that should have gone more smoothly. But it wasn’t yet a disaster.

Catharine took one last steadying breath, raised her chin, and sailed from the room.

J
im nearly tripped over a small marble statue of the Three Graces as he and Adrian followed the black-and-white-uniformed maid through Liriodendron’s foyer.

“Steady, Mr. Reid.” Adrian caught him with a firm hand beneath the elbow.

“What’s it doing at knee level where no one can see it?” Jim glared down at the offending sculpture. Arms entwined about each other’s naked bodies, the Graces paid him no heed.

“It’s art,” Adrian said. “It’s not accountable to you.”

Art or not, Jim thought there was too much of it. He was as big a fan of conspicuous wealth as the next man, but how could a body ever rest at ease in a place that felt more like a museum than a home? He craned his neck to peer into a side parlor as they passed by. Just as he’d suspected, one couldn’t hope to settle comfortably on the
plush sofa there. A fierce gray Zeus posed in a nearby alcove, threatening to hurl thunderbolts at the slightest provocation.

This was not to deny that Liriodendron was beautiful. It was, in an old-fashioned, lavender-and-crepe sort of way. It reminded Jim of afternoon teas in downtown Boston hotels, where powdered matrons sipped sweet weak oolong from paper-thin porcelain cups and stubbornly denied the existence of a chaotic world outside.

He let out a low whistle as they passed through the French doors leading to the ballroom. Although acquiring an escape like Liriodendron was a privilege few could afford, at least the breathtaking ocean vista sparkling beyond the wall-to-wall windows was still available to all, free of charge.

The outside of the house was every bit as grand as the inside. Fragrance from a thousand flowers hypnotized, and colors bloomed pure and clean against a vibrant green carpet of grass.

Jim stopped for a moment to take it all in, quite sure that he could happily adjust to living this close to heaven. The click of footsteps against flagstone terrace jarred him from his reverie. Adrian now walked well ahead, led by the little housemaid, who every now and then shyly grinned up at him.

Jim turned his back on paradise and jogged to catch up.

The terrace wrapped around to the right of the ballroom, bordered on its edge by a waist-high stone retaining wall. An elegant wrought-iron table sat beside the wall, a silver coffee service on it hinting that, at the very least, one might expect to get a good cup of java before leaving.

Not as cheering was the sight of Chloe Chapman Dinwoodie,
draped across a chair like a discarded fur throw. A man with a head of graying blond hair stood behind her, one hand tapping a regular rhythm against her shoulder.

The stiff arm the man extended toward Adrian might have been attached to a wooden soldier. “Nicholas Chapman.” His voice hit the ground before Jim and Adrian had even stopped walking. “My sister, Lady Dinwoodie. You, I believe, are my father’s attorneys. We know why you’re here. It’s vital that we speak with you before my father joins us.”

Adrian returned the handshake as if such abrupt greetings were the height of propriety. “Adrian de la Noye. Allow me to introduce my associate, James Reid.”

A cloud crossed Lady Dinwoodie’s face. “Have we met?” she asked, confusion lacing her words.

Adrian accepted her limply proffered hand with an apologetic smile. “I’m sure I’d remember the honor, madam.”

“Oh.” She withdrew her hand and settled back in the chair, brow still furrowed.

“We have little time, so I must be blunt,” Nicholas said, although it was obvious that he was seldom otherwise. “I’m sorry you’ve wasted a trip, but it will be quite impossible to change our father’s will.”

Adrian raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Chapman has been my client for many years. I am at his service.”

“No, you don’t understand. Our father is not in his right mind.”

“He’s nuts,” Lady Dinwoodie added helpfully.

“Ah.” Adrian rocked back on his heels. “And why do you think this?”

Nicholas jerked his head to the left as wheels on gravel sounded
from the side of the house. “My sources say you’re a smart man, Mr. de la Noye. I’m sure you’ll see for yourself.”

A man in a wheelchair rolled into view, accompanied by a striking dark-haired woman in a red dress. It didn’t require a formal introduction to know that this was Bennett Chapman, millionaire many times over.

Although seated in a wheelchair, Bennett Chapman looked as fit as could be expected for a man of nearly eighty years. His white hair was plentiful, his beard trimmed close to his face. He looked as if he’d spent a lifetime working near the sea, for his complexion was ruddy and his chest and shoulders still broad. In fact, he wore the uniform of a commodore, although it wasn’t clear why: Bennett Chapman had never served on any vessel more official than his personal yacht.

But even if his body had aged, Chapman’s eyes still demanded attention. Blue and penetrating, they seemed capable of peeling away the layers surrounding any story until a kernel of truth was exposed. Nicholas and Chloe had each inherited the color but not the intensity of that gaze. Nicholas’s eyes darted from side to side as he inspected each person in the group; Chloe’s looked likely to fill with tears at the merest perceived slight.

“Mr. de la Noye!” Bennett Chapman’s voice gusted across the terrace like a strong north wind. “And this would be the praiseworthy Mr. Reid I’ve already heard too much about. Damn, Adrian, did you take the slowest route possible to get here? I see that my children have insinuated themselves into your good graces. Meet my intended, Miss Catharine Walsh.”

Jim squinted toward Miss Walsh. She was no coed, but he
thought her a looker all the same. If he had to guess, he’d say she was younger than both Nicholas and Lady Dinwoodie. And if first impressions of her determined mouth and spectacular figure held true, the Katzenjammer Kids had met their match. Here was a lady who wouldn’t be easily steamrolled.

But suddenly Miss Walsh’s Cupid’s bow lips dropped open. Her dark eyes widened. Jim followed her gaze straight to Adrian, who pulled back as if pricked by a thorn. Miss Walsh regained her composure quickly, covering her slip by offering a graceful hand in greeting.

“So pleased to meet you, Mr. de la Noye,” she said, and the even pitch of her voice made it clear that she intended to remain fully in charge of the matters at hand.

The smile she turned toward Jim packed maximum wattage. “And you, Mr. Reid. How kind of you to make this trip out to Newport on Mr. Chapman’s behalf.” Her hand rested in his and, for a minute, it was hard for him to think about anything else as he met her liquid gaze.

“Catharine, meet the children,” Bennett Chapman ordered, and Miss Walsh was gone, leaving behind only a trace of perfume.

Adrian’s stare remained fastened on Catharine Walsh as she strolled across the terrace. Jim was not surprised to see the look of dismay on his face. Adrian had little patience for melodrama, and what had begun as a cut-and-dried task was rapidly sinking into a tangled family saga more commonly found in a dime novel. A flush had deepened his coloring. Then, with a slight shake of his head, Adrian returned his full attention to the scene unfolding before them.

“Catharine, I present Nicholas and Chloe.” Bennett rolled himself to Miss Walsh’s side. “Not much to look at, but I’m obliged to claim them. Children, my bride-to-be.”

A grimace splashed across Chloe’s face. Nicholas’s glare flicked over and past Miss Walsh as he turned abruptly to address his father. Miss Walsh paled and clasped her hands behind her back, making it clear that no friendly hand would have been presented to him even had he wanted it.

“You’re in no state to marry,” Nicholas told his father. “You’re lucky we haven’t carted you away, put you someplace where people can prevent you from making stupid decisions like this.”

“And you’re lucky I don’t beat the stuffing out of you,” Bennett Chapman said. “God, you’re an obnoxious prick, Nicky. Always have been.”

“Do you see what I mean, Mr. de la Noye?” Nicholas Chapman demanded. Chloe slumped in her chair, the perfect picture of despair, but her reaction might have been due more to a hangover than to any deep emotional pain. Miss Walsh remained still, as regal and proud as a figurehead on a ship.

Adrian walked toward the coffeepot on the table. “May I?” he asked, lifting it.

“Oh, by all means,” Bennett Chapman said. “And pour me one while you’re at it.”

“My God!” Nicholas exploded. “This isn’t a damn garden party!”

“Well, it’s meant to be, you newt,” Bennett Chapman said. “It’s not my fault you and your sister decided to intrude. I didn’t invite you.”

Nicholas took a step toward Adrian. “Mr. de la Noye, I implore you.”

Adrian concentrated on the steady stream of coffee flowing from
pot to cup. “Although there are many who would insist otherwise, willingly entering into the state of matrimony is not de facto proof of insanity. Your father’s decision to marry is not necessarily the product of a deranged mind.”

“Damn.” Bennett Chapman stared up at the sky. “So they’ve decided I’m cuckoo, have they?”

Nicholas ignored him. “Oh, it is in this case, I assure you. If I could speak with you and Mr. Reid privately . . .”

Adrian passed the coffee cup to Bennett Chapman. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Your father is my client, not you. Coffee, Miss Walsh?” Their eyes locked. Adrian quirked an eyebrow, a silent question that Jim suspected had absolutely nothing to do with coffee.

Miss Walsh turned away to study the sea. “No, thank you,” she said.

“Oh, Nicky, who cares about privacy?” Chloe’s hand flopped over the side of her chair. “Do you think this little gold digger deserves it? Go ahead and ask Pop the question. Just do it.”

A muscle twitched at one side of Nicholas’s mouth. “All right, although it doesn’t sit well to expose the family’s warts in public. Father, suppose you tell these gentlemen exactly why you’ve asked Miss Walsh to marry you.”

Jim fumbled the cup and saucer Adrian had just handed him. The elder Mr. Chapman was a little too comfortable spewing the unvarnished truth. One could only hope he would apply some tact to his answer.

But Bennett Chapman seemed to change before their eyes. Instead of the fiercely outspoken man who’d rolled himself out onto the terrace, a dreamy man settled back in the wheelchair, eyes glistening with tears.

“Why, Nicky,” he said in a soft voice. “I explained all this to both you and Chloe when I telephoned to announce our engagement. I thought you understood.”

“Explain it once again.”

Bennett Chapman cradled his cup in both hands. His expression, so fearsome only a second before, took on the defenseless cast of a child. “Your mother wishes it,” he mumbled into his drink.

Chloe’s pale skin flamed pink. Nicholas’s fingertips whitened against her shoulder.

Jim took a quick swig of coffee as the missing puzzle piece of information clicked into place. No wonder the younger Chapmans were so prickly. Nobody in society wanted to admit to the stain of divorce in the family. Even Adrian had stiffened, although Jim couldn’t imagine that this was information he didn’t already know.

“I’m sorry.” Adrian’s tone was gentle. “But, Mr. Chapman, could you repeat that for me?”

Bennett Chapman raised brimming eyes to meet Adrian’s question.

“Of course I’ll repeat it, Mr. de la Noye. I’m not ashamed. Elizabeth—my first wife—told me to marry Miss Walsh. She not only endorses this union, but blesses it. And, as I am to marry Miss Walsh, it is only fitting that I amend my will to reflect her importance in my life. Elizabeth feels very strongly about that as well.”

Adrian set his coffee cup down onto the table. His stare landed hard on Catharine Walsh, as insistent and unavoidable as a guiding hand to the chin. Lesser men had faltered under this wordless inquisition, but Miss Walsh met it full on, locking her gaze in his until the two seemed intertwined. A breath of wind gusted between
them, raising the hair on their heads and sending Miss Walsh’s skirt swirling against her legs.

“You needn’t waste your time in confrontation, Mr. de la Noye.” Nicholas Chapman’s voice broke the standoff. “She’ll admit to nothing. But I’m sure she knows as well as you do that Mother died over thirty-five years ago.”