Newport: A Novel (8 page)

T
hey scattered after dinner the next night like billiard balls following a good break. Nicholas left first, his quiet “Until later” more ominous than any loud, dramatic exit could ever be. Catharine was relieved to see him go. She preferred to partition her battles, handling each in its proper turn. The time to deal with Nicholas Chapman would come. For now she had a more immediate concern: Bennett’s interest in her company seemed to be waning.

He wore his age badly tonight, turning toward Lady Dinwoodie for assistance as he struggled to his feet from his seat at the head of the table.

“Let me help you, Bennett.” Catharine quickly rose from her chair. “Will you be retiring to the library with the gentlemen?”

He waved her away. “No, no, not tonight. I’m sure our guests will understand if I leave them to their own devices for a bit. I’d like
to sit in the parlor for a while before we begin. Perhaps Elizabeth will arrive early and we can spend some time together.”

“But the séance isn’t scheduled to start for over an hour.”

“I’ll come with you, Father,” Chloe said as if Catharine hadn’t spoken at all. “I wouldn’t mind sitting there myself.” She crooked her arm. Bennett took it, and they left the room chattering about Elizabeth as if she awaited them in the parlor with coffee and cordials.

Chloe had been an unpleasant drunk, but at least she’d been fairly predictable while in her cups. It was hard to tell what to expect from this newfound filial devotion.

Adrian rose next, and Catharine forced herself to study the fleur-de-lis pattern on the wallpaper behind his head. She hadn’t realized how much she’d relied on the laughable illusion that he didn’t recognize her. Now, with no doubt that he did, she felt utterly exposed, as if every move she made were subject to intense scrutiny. And what to do about the persistent emptiness that threatened to invade her every time their eyes met?

“Mr. Reid?” Adrian directed a sharp stare across the table at his associate.

Jim and Amy sat beside each other, chairs closer than Liriodendron’s housekeeping staff could possibly have placed them. A rosy blush dusted Amy’s cheeks as she laid a proprietary hand on Jim Reid’s sleeve, leaning close to murmur into his ear. Catharine could have pinched her. Things were complicated enough without mixing in an infatuation.

“Mr. Reid?” Adrian repeated, and Jim pulled away from the spell of Amy’s feathery whisper. “May I speak with you?”

“Yes.” Jim clambered from his chair like a student caught cheating. “Of course.”

Catharine watched them go, her mood sinking with each passing second. Adrian appeared so polished, the well-heeled image of a successful man. But she could see behind his poised façade. He was no more pleased about this newfound alliance between Jim and Amy than she was.

Amy lifted her water goblet to her lips, dreamy gaze set on some faraway landscape that only she could see. “I think I’ll take a walk.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Catharine said, voice low.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back in time.” Amy set the goblet onto the ivory tablecloth and pushed her chair back.

Catharine rounded the table, halting at Amy’s side. “What are your intentions toward Mr. Reid?”

“Oh, I don’t know. What are yours toward Mr. de la Noye?”

“I have no intentions toward Mr. de la Noye. In case you’ve forgotten, I am an engaged woman. I might even be a married woman someday. Isn’t there some way you could just prod Mrs. Chapman along a bit, one way or the other?”

Amy’s cool blue gaze pinned her in challenge. Catharine narrowed her eyes and glared back. They could sit here all night as far as she was concerned. At least she would know where Amy was.

Amy broke first, leaning back in her chair with a sigh. “You know I can’t make Mrs. Chapman do anything. She’s been unpredictable from the start.”

That was true. In all the years Amy had read palms and told fortunes back in Sacramento, nothing had prepared them for Mrs. Chapman. That shouldn’t have been the case: they had dabbled in
the spiritualist game for so many years that it had become routine, an easy and relatively harmless way to make a little extra money. Yet no matter how often Catharine ran the past months’ events through her mind, she couldn’t unravel the mystery of Mrs. Chapman.

S
ACRAMENTO HAD PROVED
a fine place to lay down roots, temperate and teeming with possibilities. Catharine had found a job managing a cigar stand in the lobby of the city’s finest hotel, a position that offered not only a modest salary but the chance to establish influential contacts as well. Wealthy men behaved in basically the same way wherever she came across them. A flirtatious smile here, a flattering comment there, and gentlemen passing through the hotel on business naturally assumed that every word leaving their lips was a pearl of great worth. Financial and social tidbits flowed freely, delivered by entrepreneurs keen to impress the striking lady behind the counter. Catharine had reaped a steady harvest of professional secrets from men who coaxed her from behind the cigar stand to dinner and a night on the town.

It hadn’t taken much analysis to convert these clandestine tips into wise personal investments. It was easy to confide during dinner dates that Amy had a gift that increased the capital of all who paid for her spiritual readings. The gentlemen always chuckled indulgently—until Catharine tossed out a stock tip or financial morsel that only a professional could know. Suddenly, the fish was hooked. And once back at the Walsh home, Amy reeled him in by listening earnestly to the “great beyond,” then passing along information that other magnates had indiscreetly whispered into Catharine’s listening ear.

It seemed a benign way to build a little nest egg. The captivated
men often returned with their ladies, who pined for readings filled more with romance than finance. Catharine made it a habit to read every article she could about the nation’s prominent families. That, combined with a survivor’s instinct for mining details, meant that Amy always had something of plausible interest to say. The two of them had lived more comfortably over the years simply by transferring information from one party to the next.

But Bennett Chapman had been different right from the start. Because the Chapman family business was so strongly centered on the East Coast and in Europe, Catharine had never expected to come face-to-face with anyone connected to it. The day Bennett approached the hotel humidors had sent her head spinning at the unexpected twist of kismet.

It was hard to make conversation at first. Bennett was more snappish than most, seemingly immune to pleasantries or banter of any sort. But then his fingers had brushed hers over a Hoyo de Monterrey. For one brief, unguarded moment, their eyes locked. Bennett grumbled and turned away, but not before Catharine realized that, despite his bad-tempered exterior, he had the same needs and vulnerabilities as every other powerful man she’d met. An afternoon’s worth of companionship at their home might even do him good.

“A tarot reading,” she’d suggested lightly. “Just as a diversion from your busy schedule. Who knows? Perhaps you’ll get a decent stock tip from the other world.”

“Waste of time,” he’d growled, but he’d come to the house anyway, unable to resist the chance to bolster his fortune.

Amy had reached for her tarot deck, serene smile in place. “Let’s choose a significator for you, shall we, Mr. Chapman? That’s the
card that will represent you in this reading.” She withdrew the King of Cups from the deck and placed him faceup on the Queen Anne coffee table between them. “He’ll suit you fine.”

Catharine settled onto the sofa beside Bennett as Amy shuffled the cards. His hand trembled a bit. She straightened her spine against a jab of remorse. There was no reason to feel guilty. She and Amy were only giving this man information he’d pay three times as much for elsewhere.

Amy spread the cards in a neat Celtic Cross on the coffee table. She did this spiritualist thing particularly well, for she possessed not only an aura of innocence but a true knack for reading people. When those natural abilities combined with the information Catharine provided, Amy’s readings were both engaging and effective.

“Do you see this card atop the significator?” Amy asked, pointing. “This card represents your situation as it stands now.”

Catharine glanced at the card, idly studying its depiction of Adam, Eve, apple tree, and serpent. It didn’t much matter which card Amy turned up. Her readings always had less to do with the cards themselves than with whatever words would satisfy their listener. Still, it was ironic that she’d presented The Lovers turned upside down to a man who obviously had no use for other people.

“Love reversed,” Amy said, almost to herself.

Bennett Chapman paled. “How do the cards know anything about me?” he asked, and Catharine looked up from the cards, startled by the quaver in his voice.

“It’s a mystery,” Amy intoned. “Shall I continue?”

He placed both hands on the head of his walking stick and pulled himself to the edge of the sofa. “Yes, yes. By all means!”

“The next card represents what crosses the situation, good or bad. You are lonely, sir, aren’t you?”

This was a definite deviation from the usual script. Typically this was the point where Amy introduced a financial tidbit, some hint of promised wealth.

But Bennett Chapman’s response came quickly enough that it was clear she was onto something. “Yes,” he said, and the word was so hollow that it was all Catharine could do not to stare at him. Here in her tiny parlor, this powerful millionaire, this captain of industry feared by many, suddenly seemed nothing more than a forlorn old man. She turned toward Amy, willing her to proceed at a quicker pace. Where was the clever stock tip that would pique Bennett’s curiosity? What had happened to the sage advice meant to encourage his return for several more readings?

Instead Amy doubled over in her chair and clutched her stomach.

“What’s wrong?” Catharine jumped from her seat. “Are you ill?”

All color drained from Amy’s face as she turned toward Bennett Chapman. “Who is Elizabeth?” she asked.

He started as if a jolt of electricity raced through his body. “Elizabeth?”

“Yes. There’s someone here named Elizabeth who wishes to speak with you.”

Startled, Catharine instinctively cased the parlor. Only the three of them sat there, shrouded in the afternoon shadows. Was Amy speaking of spirits? This sort of thing had never been in the repertoire before.

Bennett began to shake. “Elizabeth? Here? My God. She is . . . was . . . my wife. She passed away long ago.”

“She sends her love,” Amy said. She looked almost as surprised delivering the words as Catharine felt hearing them. “She knows you have been thinking about her lately.”

Bennett’s shaking became so pronounced that Catharine could not help but place a firm arm around his shoulders. Tears slipped from his eyes, but he did not seem to notice as they trickled down his cheeks. “Of course I’ve been thinking about her,” he whispered. “She was my wife, after all, and as I approach the end of my days, I am overcome with . . . she was quite a woman. No one will ever measure up to her.”

Amy’s voice softened. “She says that she cannot bear your aching. She wants only for you to be happy. If you care about her memory, she says, you will take another wife to make your last days on earth comfortable and sweet.”

“Another wife?” The words flew out of his mouth on a puff of forced air. “But—”

“She says that the opportunity is nearer than you think.” Amy spoke faster now, as if she were reading aloud. “She says you should marry my aunt, Catharine.”

“What?” Catharine barely recognized her own shocked voice as it echoed through the room. It did not surprise her that Amy knew some biographical facts about Bennett Chapman. Heavens, there was plenty of information about this man—and others—stashed away in the metal strong box they kept in their safe. But what on earth could have prompted the unexpected marriage message? And why hadn’t Amy said anything to her before blurting it out in the midst of a reading?

Bennett’s grasp tightened around the head of his walking stick.
No longer frail and malleable, he shot to his feet in a rage. “Fraud!” he shouted. “This is a despicable scheme to get your hands on my fortune, isn’t it? You ought to be horsewhipped! As it is, I’ll be paying a visit to the authorities on my way back to the hotel!”

“Sir, please.” Catharine stood as well, resting a hand on his sleeve. He shook it off. “Please, Mr. Chapman, we mean you no harm.”

He whirled toward her, brow lowered and walking stick raised to strike. She recoiled. Then, suddenly, his anger seemed to subside a bit. His gaze stayed hooked to hers, mellowing as he studied her face. Catharine blinked. What could he possibly have seen in her desperation?

“I’m sorry,” Amy whispered, “but Elizabeth has more to say.”

“Enough!” Catharine said, stare still linked to Bennett’s. “Amy, no more!”

“I’ve no choice.” The misery in Amy’s voice made them both turn her way. “I . . . I don’t know what’s happening any more than you do. I just started hearing words that needed to be said. I know it’s bold of me but, please, could you just listen a little longer?”

Bennett sank to the sofa as if his legs could no longer support his weight. Perplexed, Catharine followed suit.

Amy continued. “Elizabeth understands your disbelief and implores you to give her a chance to prove that it is she who comes to you now. She asks you to remember your wedding day, how the skies cleared of rain just before the ceremony and how the cherry blossoms bloomed outside the church.”

Bennett gasped.

“She gave you a gift that day. Do you remember?”

“Of course!”

“Yes, your pocket watch. You still carry it. The inscription on the back—do you recall what it says?”

“Yes,” he said. “How could I ever forget?” He fumbled with his watch chain for a moment, then drew out a gold watch. Flipping it over in his hand, he fixed Amy with a challenging eye.

She didn’t hesitate. “It says ‘Elizabeth Jane and Bennett William, May 15, 1869.’”