Murder at Beechwood (24 page)

I plucked my hat from the coat rack and set it on my head. Ed made little noises in his throat as he skimmed my account. Then he glanced up.

“This is everything?”

I met his gaze without blinking. “Everything as I experienced it. If I missed anything, you'll have to hunt it down for yourself. But that shouldn't pose any problem for a reporter like yourself.” With that I smiled and bid him good morning.

That very evening the
Observer
ran Ed's article nearly word for word as I had written it. Did it scald my professional pride to see Ed's byline beneath the commentary I had written? Of course it did. Just as having omitted key details mortified my reporter's ethics. But this wasn't the first time I had sacrificed journalistic integrity to protect people I cared about. No reporters would come swarming around Judith Kingsley hoping for a glimpse of her bastard child. Nor would anyone ever know Nate Monroe targeted her and her family for any reason other than greed and a misguided desire for revenge. That knowledge allowed me to hold my head up higher.

T
wo days later, I returned to Beechwood to visit what remained of the Monroe family.

“We're leaving for New York tomorrow,” Eudora told me.

We sat on the loggia overlooking the sea and, closer, Mrs. Astor's rose garden. Mrs. Astor herself had returned inside, leaving us in privacy. A dry, sunny day, the air smelled crisp and sweet and stirred our skirts and hair gently. Butterflies hovered over the blossoms vying with the occasional bumblebee for nectar. In such idyllic surroundings, I found it hard to imagine the horrible scene we had witnessed on the awful day of the lawn party.

Likewise, in studying my companion closely, I detected no trace of the Eudora I'd encountered on my last visit here, a woman lost in guilt and excessive brandy. Or had it been something other than guilt driving her to drink? Perhaps she had feared, as I had, that her husband still lived and would return to retake control over her life.

“We set sail for France next week,” she said after a sip of tea. “It's all arranged. I'm closing the Fifth Avenue house. Eventually, I intend putting it up for sale.”

Her gaze drifted past me and beyond the roses to the two figures near the hedges that marked the Cliff Walk. They walked hand in hand toward us, waving as they came closer. I waved back.

Eudora watched them. “Daphne and Lawrence will marry in France, as soon as my husband's will has been executed. A small wedding. They don't desire anything fancy.” She raised her cup to her lips as if to drink again, but set it back in its saucer. “People will talk, of course, without a proper period of mourning. But they don't wish to wait any longer than they must, and I haven't the heart to insist otherwise. It's time those children started living. Time we all did.”

She lifted her teacup, yet hesitated again. “Nate
will
be mourned, Miss Cross. Wedding or no, he will always be in our thoughts. And in our hearts.”

In the silence that descended, culpability bore heavily on me. “I'm very sorry, ma'am, that I wasn't able to save him. . . .”

“No, Miss Cross.” The cup went back to its saucer with a clatter. Reaching across the table, she raised my chin on the tips of her fingers, forcing me to meet her gaze as Nanny used to do when she wanted my full attention. “Nate's death was not your fault. Just as the terrible crimes he committed were not his fault. Not really.”

At my puzzled look, she scowled, though I had the distinct impression she was not scowling at me. Her next words proved me correct. “Nate was a boy who longed for his father's approval and never quite got it. Virgil knew that of all the ways to control a person, withholding one's regard from those who greatly desire it is the most effective method. My husband was a bad man. A murderer, even from the grave. He killed Nate and those other people, just as if he had performed the deeds with his own hands.”

I wondered at the wisdom of voicing my curiosity, but went ahead and spoke my thoughts. “How do you suppose Nate came to know about . . . well . . . everything?”

“Judith Kingsley? The child?” Eudora stared out at the lawn again. “I don't blame her, by the way. You can relay that message to her, if you like.”

“I will. She and her mother are staying with me at Gull Manor. I think she'll be very glad to hear it.”

“As to your question.” She sighed. “I suspect Virgil told him, perhaps to persuade Nate to help ensure that Wyatt went overboard during the race. And then when it was Virgil instead who went over . . .”

“It pushed Nate over the brink.”

“Yes, I believe my son was quite insane in the end.”

“I'm so sorry.” How inadequate. I wished I had more comforting words for her. Lawrence and Daphne reached the loggia, coming up the steps and passing through its central arch.

“Emma!” Daphne held her skirts and ran up the last couple. She seized my hands, raised me from my chair, and danced me around in a circle. “I'm so happy to see you before we leave.”

Suddenly her mirth ceased and she looked sheepishly at her guardian, soon to be her mother-in-law. “I'm sorry, Eudora. But we owe Miss Cross so very much.” She turned a brilliant smile on me. “You will always be a favorite of mine. Shall we write? Often?”

I promised her we would. A more subdued Lawrence kissed my cheek and thanked me quietly. We sat around the garden table and talked for a little while longer. Then I wished them well and took my leave.

I had another call to make before returning home.

 

An eerie quiet blanketed The Breakers. I felt it the moment I drove Barney through the gates. The place felt forlorn and deserted, as if its very heartbeat had ceased. Even the sea sounded muffled and far away. Inside the house, my somber welcome continued as a subdued Mr. Mason escorted me into the Great Hall.

Aunt Alice called to me from the gallery above. “Emmaline, please come up.”

She moved to wait for me at the top of the staircase, donned in perhaps the most casual attire I'd ever seen her wearing: a lawn shirtwaist tucked into a voluminous, navy blue skirt. Her graying hair had been simply dressed in an upsweep pinned at the crown. The only jewelry shimmering at me were a pair of gold earbobs and a brooch at the juncture of her collar.

When I reached her she took my hand and hurried me into her own bedroom, done up in soft creams and golds with a rotunda of windows like the music room below it.

“Is it true you're harboring Neily?” she demanded in a whisper.

“Harboring?” The accusation stung. “I would hardly call it that. He is staying with me, yes, but only because he's feeling very much alone right now.”

“As well he should. When I think of what he has done to his father . . .”

My temper surged, yet I dredged up the patience due the wife of a critically ill man. “I won't take sides, Aunt Alice. Whatever I can do for you, I will do. Just as I'll do what I can for Neily. I love you all equally.”

Alice Vanderbilt was one of the strongest people I had ever met, stronger perhaps than even her husband. So when her face crumpled and she reached for me, a significant piece of my heart shattered for her.

“Oh, Emmaline. You're a good girl, aren't you?” She pressed a damp cheek to mine, then pulled away, already reassembling her mask of composure. “All right. I shall make no further demands of you. Would you care to see Cornelius now?”

“Yes, if that's all right.”

She started to lead the way, then stopped. “Brace yourself, dear. I know you saw him at the hospital, but it still may come as something of a shock.”

That proved a greater understatement than I could have imagined. I entered Uncle Cornelius's bedroom to find him propped up in bed, one side of his face drooping lower than the other. But that wasn't what stole the breath from my lungs and made me sag despairingly against the door frame. No, it was the sight of the nurse, perched beside him at the edge of the mattress, a bowl in one hand while, with the other, she spoon-fed the man I had known all my life as one of America's, perhaps the world's, most powerful individuals.

 

I visited with Uncle Cornelius for about ten minutes before fatigue began to drag at his eyelids and his nurse shooed me from the room. In that time I held his hand and chatted quietly about nothing of great consequence. One might say I put my skills as a Fancies and Fashions reporter to good use, avoiding topics that might agitate him in the slightest. Needless to say Neily's name went unspoken, yet I felt it hovering between us, a splintered bridge that could not be crossed.

I returned home after that. After settling Barney in with a brisk rubdown, water, and fresh hay, I entered through the kitchen. A happy din at the front of the house met my ears. I immediately felt my spirit surge, renewed and revitalized, and I quickened my pace to the parlor.

The room was in shambles, with pillows tossed willy-nilly to the floor, some of the furniture moved, and a space cleared in between. In that space Brady sat with Robbie on his knees, bouncing him gently. Robbie had grown capable of holding up his head, and even sat upright with support. Neily and Grace, Mrs. Andrews, Judith, and Nanny surrounded the pair, and by their expressions I could see they had been enjoying themselves immensely. Nanny peered up at me through her half-moon spectacles and grinned, then nodded. All had been well in my absence, her gesture said. Mrs. Andrews greeted me with a fond expression, one usually reserved only for her grandson. Then she slid to the floor like a doting grandma to tickle Robbie beneath his chin.

I had opened my home to Lavinia and Judith. Although
Lavinia's Sun
had been saved, the fire, as well as the water that had doused it, had caused enough damage to render the yacht uninhabitable until the repairs were complete. Another development precluded their returning to Providence by other means—Mr. Andrews, upon learning of his daughter's circumstances, declared the disgrace intolerable and refused to speak to her or see her.

“He'll come around,” his wife insisted. “His pride has been hurt and one can hardly blame him. He needs time. Once he understands he may not only lose his daughter but his firstborn grandson, he'll have a change of heart.”

In the middle of August I received word that Neily and Grace had eloped. I rejoiced in their happiness, especially when Grace promised in her letter that they would visit Newport again in the fall. Even so, the news of their marriage drove home to me how quickly circumstances, and the world I had grown accustomed to, could change.

It was soon after one of Nanny's hearty breakfasts that Derrick arrived in a coach large enough to accommodate the family and the luggage they had brought to Gull Manor. My muffin and porridge curdled in my stomach, and judging by the sour expressions worn by Katie, Stella, and Nanny, they felt the same. Brady had said his good-byes to the Andrews family the night before and hadn't been seen since. It had warmed my heart in these past weeks to see my half brother so taken with a baby. He was so much a bachelor, I wouldn't have thought it of him.

While Judith and her mother readied themselves upstairs in the guest room they had shared, Derrick asked me to stroll with him out behind the house. Something in his voice made me wish to remain inside among the others where unwelcome words could not be spoken. But I steeled myself and followed him outside.

He wasted no time in getting to the point. “I'm leaving Newport with my mother and Judith today, Emma. I might not be back for quite some time.” He angled his gaze toward the sea. “I wanted you to know.”

“I think I already did. They need you.” My throat tightened and I swallowed. “Your nephew needs you. It's only right that you be with them.” After a hesitation marked by the ruckus of seagulls picking along the hollows of the rocky shoreline, I asked, “Where will you go?”

“Italy.”

“Oh!” A shock went through me. I hadn't expected him to be so far away.

“My mother's sister, my aunt Elizabeth, lives in Tuscany. It's a beautiful estate, very private. There, Judith can be free from prying eyes and wagging tongues. She'll merely be a widowed relation visiting with her son.”

“That sounds best.” What had I just said? My reply had been automatic, for in that moment I had no inkling what words left my lips.
Italy
swarmed round and round my brain, drowning out all else.

“When I return, Emma, I'd like us to start over. Truly come to know one another.” What was he saying? I only half heard, half understood. “You have been right. We have never had time—simple time that wasn't defined by danger and urgency—to learn about each other. Our likes and dislikes, our hopes for the future. It was folly, my asking you to marry me when I did. I can only hope we can forget our hasty past and start again. Slowly. Is that possible, Emma?”

“I . . . yes . . . When you return.”
If you return,
I added silently.

Another silence stretched as my heart slowly descended to my feet. I would have given anything in that moment to keep him from leaving, from walking out of my life. But there was nothing I could say, or
would
say, to prevent him from letting his honor guide him.

I tried to be brave and smiled even as I blinked away a threat of tears. “Well, then.” I extended my hand. “Have a safe trip and . . . and take good care of Robbie. Or whatever Judith will choose to name him.”

He took my hand and tugged me to him, seizing me in a kiss that pledged he would return. Or, I amended silently as I kissed him back, pledged the
intent
to return. I believed with every fiber of my being that he meant it. His kiss carried that much power. Whether in reality he would return, or
when
he would, only time would tell.

We returned to the house to find everyone in the entry hall, Judith and her mother in their traveling clothes, Robbie wrapped snug and in his mother's arms. Tears streamed down Katie's cheeks. Stella looked devastated and practically stared a hole through the floor. Nanny folded her hands primly at her waist and gave last-minute advice to mother and grandmother. They nodded tolerantly.

Then Mrs. Andrews turned to me and opened her purse. “Miss Cross, I hope you didn't think we'd leave without paying you for your services. You've been most kind and accommodating, and my daughter and I wish to show our appreciation.”

“My services . . . ?” Astonishment and yes, indignation made me rigid. A surge of heat engulfed my face. There it was, then. After everything we had been through and what had seemed to be a pleasant coming to terms, Mrs. Andrews still saw me as little more than a servant. Helpful, accommodating—to use her word—but certainly not her equal.