Murder at Rough Point (6 page)

Her inference, of course, seemed to be that she knew the identity of this patron, but that I was not worthy enough to be trusted with the information. “I understand the need for discretion, Miss Marcus. My article is to be a cultural piece, not an exposé.”

Color suffused Sir Randall's face as he eyed Miss Marcus and Niccolo. I thought of Sir Randall and Mrs. Wharton talking together earlier in the office, and how Teddy Wharton had stormed in to break up their tête-à-tête. I could not but conclude jealousy had been a factor. Was the same dynamic at work here? Did envy run rampant among this group?

Good heavens, I began to believe myself inadequate to the task of deciphering these people's social entanglements. Once again I resolved to focus on their art and nothing more.

“Sir Randall, would you like to take that walk now?”

He surprised me with a shake of his head. “If you wouldn't mind, Miss Cross, I'd prefer to walk alone for now.”

I said nothing, merely stepped aside so he could pass. He was halfway across the drawing room when Josephine called out to him.

“Perhaps you'd like Niccolo and me to accompany you.” A little sneer curved her rouged lips. Niccolo, perhaps unconsciously, raised a hand and pressed it to hers. A caution?

An awkward moment ensued while Sir Randall regarded the pair with ill-concealed distaste. Then he continued on his way. The terrace doors closed quietly behind him. I watched him descend the patio steps outside and disappear until he reached the rocky upswell in the lawn. He halted abruptly and leaned low. Had he tripped? My body tensed in preparation of hurrying outside to offer assistance. But no, swirls of brown and white leaped into view and flashed in the sun. Patch had apparently introduced himself to Sir Randall. Judging by how the pair continued toward the Cliff Walk together, Patch's overtures of friendship had been readily accepted.

I smiled. If anyone could lift a person out of his doldrums, as Sir Randall had put it, my boisterous pup certainly could.

A whisper behind me doused my smile. Miss Marcus was leaning to speak into the young Italian's ear. I was reminded of naughty schoolchildren telling secrets in class and felt little compunction about interrupting.

“Why are you unkind to him?”

She looked baffled for a moment, while Niccolo assumed an expression fast becoming familiar, one of innocence mingled with slightly perplexed incomprehension, as if he didn't quite understand English in all its nuances—which I was fairly certain he did.

Miss Marcus's frown cleared. She made a two-fingered gesture, prompting Niccolo to reach into his inner coat pocket. He slid out a silver case and flicked it open. Miss Marcus plucked a pre-rolled cigarette from a nearly full row. Was she trying to shock me? Respectable women didn't smoke, at least not openly, but I had seen it before.

Niccolo took one for himself and scraped a wooden match against the striker on the side of the case to light both. I was never fond of tobacco smoke, and the clouds swirling about their heads quickly set my nose itching. My gaze went instinctively and pointedly to the piazza outside the library's French windows, but the other two failed to take the hint.

Miss Marcus puffed several times, most of the smoke thankfully drifting out the open windows behind her. “You misunderstand, Miss Cross. I don't mean to be unkind to Randall, but to encourage him.” She puffed again, sending out fluffy white clouds while Niccolo exhaled long streams of gray through his nose. A pair of dragons, literally and figuratively.

“If you'll pardon me for saying so,” I persisted, perhaps unwisely, “he was feeling encouraged until you said those things to him.”

She simpered and smoothed her skirts with little flicks of her hand. “I'm afraid you don't understand our Randall. He isn't like the rest of us. For one, he isn't a professional, not in the sense I am, or Niccolo or your father. Our livelihood depends on our art, whereas Randall has a fortune and an estate back in England.”

As Niccolo nodded his agreement, I shook my head. “I don't understand what difference that makes to a person's self-confidence.”

“My dear, the rest of us understand the ups and downs of an artistic career.” To my vast irritation, she leaned forward and flicked the ash at the end of her cigarette into a lovely Capodimonte vase, carved with lifelike ribbons and flowers. Though not terribly invaluable—for Aunt Louise had emptied the house of its true treasures—it was a darling piece and certainly not intended for the use Miss Marcus currently assigned to it. “We grasp the ebb and flow of an artist's popularity,” she said with a haughty sniff. “Randall doesn't. His sculpture and his ego are intricately tied together.”

“And a professional artist's isn't?” If anyone possessed an unduly large ego, I thought, it was the woman before me. Still, I couldn't deny a growing interest in hearing more about the inner workings of an artist's psyche. Such details would add substance to my article. First I pushed the porcelain vase out of reach and replaced it with a more suitable silent butler of etched silver with an ivory handle. Then I took a seat facing the pair.

“Perhaps at first, when we are young and starting out,” she said after another contemplative waft of smoke. “But experience makes us wiser, Miss Cross. Randall began dabbling in the arts much later in life, and being a man used to having his way with a snap of his fingers—the European nobility is like that, you see—he simply isn't equipped to accept those momentary lapses in public interest. Besides, his latest works have been rather hideous.” She turned to Niccolo for consensus, but the young man only shrugged and smiled apologetically at me.

I raised a quizzical eyebrow. “And you feel disparaging him is an effective means of urging that acceptance?”

Miss Marcus snuffed out her cigarette and came to her feet. I'd clearly gone too far, been too impertinent. “You know, you very much remind me of your father, Miss Cross. It must be the Vanderbilt in you.” She didn't bother to elaborate on what traits she felt were characteristic of my father's side of the family. She looked down at her companion. “Come.”

As if
she
had snapped her fingers, he surged to his feet and together they went, where I didn't know or care, for all that I had been a great fan of the opera singer until approximately ten minutes ago. I probably wouldn't be obtaining much more in the way of artistic insights from Miss Marcus, if she deigned to speak to me at all again. So be it. Sir Randall might be a member of the English nobility, a wealthy man used to having his way, but something in him—vulnerability, sadness, a sense of brokenness—aroused an instinct that made me rear my head. Call it a demand for fairness. Call it plain stubbornness. A Vanderbilt trait? Yes, and one that had served me well through the years.

Even so, a small part of me wished this story had been given into the inept hands of my nemesis at the
Observer
, Ed Billings. Having to make heads or tails out of this situation would have served him right.

In the meantime, I picked up the Capodimonte vase and brought it to the kitchen for a good soak.

* * *

With a knock, Mother opened my bedroom door and peeked in. “I thought I'd see if you needed any help, darling. What are you wearing?” Her eyes lighted on the individual who had arrived in my room about twenty minutes earlier. “Edith. I didn't realize you were in here.” Mother's expression begged for an explanation, though her breeding would not permit her to ask.

I saw no reason to keep her in suspense. “Come in, Mother. Mrs. Wharton was just reading a passage in her manuscript to me as I dressed.”

“I see.” Mother assessed the other woman, perched with her very upright posture at the edge of the bed. She attempted a smile. “I didn't know the two of you were so well acquainted.”

“We aren't really,” Mrs. Wharton said, setting the pages of her manuscript aside. “Until this morning we had never spoken more than those few words of greeting when I met your daughter all those years ago. I had seen her at various functions here in Newport, of course, but never had reason to speak directly.” Her brow furrowed as she shifted her gaze to me. “Now that I think of it, it seems rather odd that a society reporter never found an opportunity to interview me. You weren't avoiding me, Miss Cross, were you?”

I turned back to the swivel mirror above the dressing table and patted my simple coif, a braid coiled at my nape. “Not at all,” I lied. “Merely happenstance, one I'm very glad has been rectified.”

“And I, too.” She looked from me to Mother, still hovering near the threshold and looking uncertain. Mrs. Wharton rose and retrieved her manuscript, hugging it to her. “I'll leave you two alone. I'm sure you have quite a number of matters you'd like to discuss.”

I continued inspecting myself in the mirror. I wore the one and only evening dress I had brought, consisting of tiers of beaded lace topped with an embroidered silk jacket cinched tight at the waist, both of the same champagne color.

“That's lovely.” Mother moved farther into the room, as if she had needed Mrs. Wharton to vacate the space before being able to stake her own claim. As she took in my attire, her gaze once again assessed and questioned.

“It's one of Cousin Gertrude's,” I explained, giving a tug to straighten the jacket and allow the wide lace collar to fall evenly over each shoulder. “From the House of Rouff. She virtually emptied her dressing room before shopping for her wedding trousseau this summer.”

“And it all went to you?” Did a slight twinge of envy accompany the question? Perhaps, but the longing in her eyes didn't seem directed at the dress, but at me. Did she resent the place my father's relatives held in my life? Did she believe they had supplanted her and Father in my affections?

Perhaps my parents should not have stayed away so long, then.

I hid my thoughts by smiling at her through the mirror. “No. Much will be tailored for Gladys, and other pieces were dispersed among younger cousins and even the servants.”

“Servants, in dresses like that?”

I straightened and turned around, my chin held a notch higher than was typical. “Perhaps they do what I do with many of Gertrude's castoffs, which is to sell them. Just two or three of those dresses will keep Gull Manor in coal and kerosene for the winter. The rest will provide many a hot meal at St. Nicolas Orphanage. But this”—I smoothed my hands down the jacket's lace and satin front—“I can wear as an ensemble or without the jacket, or pair the jacket with other gowns. It will serve well when I need to look my best.”

“You certainly do tonight, darling. We have some time before dinner is served. I'd hoped we might talk, just the two of us.”

“As a matter of fact . . .” I gestured to the bed, and we sat side by side. “What can you tell me about Josephine Marcus and Sir Randall?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean about the rancor with which Miss Marcus treats Sir Randall. I witnessed a bit of a tongue lashing today, and I fail to understand it. Is there a long-standing contention between them?”

“I see.” She sighed. This was not the conversation she'd hoped to have with me—that much was obvious. But neither was I ready for mother-daughter confidences. It was too soon, and I sought the safety of a more neutral topic. “Don't judge Josephine too harshly. She has her own disappointments to contend with, though she won't speak of them. It's made her generally resentful. I believe when Sir Randall expresses his own frustrations, it grates on Josephine no end.”

“Isn't her career going well?”

“It
was
. But things have begun to slow for her in Europe.” Her gaze darted to the door and she lowered her voice. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Always, I assure you.”

“Josephine was hoping Claude Baptiste would cast her as Carmen at the Metropolitan Opera House. It would mean a triumphant American homecoming for her.”

“Monsieur Baptiste told me he was only
considering
staging the production in New York.”

“Claude likes to tease. He pretends to hesitate, but everyone knows in the end he'll accept the Metropolitan's offer.”

“But he won't cast Miss Marcus? Why ever not?”

“I don't know, neither has confided in me. I reach my conclusions judging by Josephine's demeanor. If Claude
had
agreed to cast her, she would have told us by now. Josephine is not one to play coy, not when it comes to her career.”

“Interesting . . .” In a single afternoon I'd witnessed discord between the Whartons, Sir Randall, Miss Marcus, and even Niccolo Lionetti, for I hadn't forgotten Sir Randall's retort when the young musician attempted to intercede on his behalf. And now the stage director, Claude Baptiste, apparently made up part of the unsavory mix. I couldn't help but wonder about the former dancer, Vasili Pavlenko, of whom I had seen so little thus far. What kept him so busy in his rooms all afternoon? For that matter, I really hadn't seen much of Claude Baptiste either. Neither man had shown his face downstairs since luncheon.

What kind of associations had my parents made in Europe? And with so many resentments between them, what on earth led them to believe spending an artists' holiday together in this isolated house, at a time when Newport emptied of society and settled in for the winter, would yield benefits of any sort?

“Mother, why
are
you all here?”

At that moment the dinner gong sounded from downstairs. To my frustration, Mother smiled and rushed to the door as fast as her beribboned satin shoes could take her. “We'll talk more later, darling.”