Murder at Wakehurst Page 2

  “Katie,” Nanny called into the kitchen, “please bring Miss Emma another plate of eggs. She let the first ones go cold.”

  “Never mind, Katie,” I countermanded. “Nanny, I’m fine. Just not hungry. I promise I’ll eat a good lunch.”

  “Hmph.”

  The ringing of our telephone saved me from further debate, and I hurried out of the morning room and to the front of the house. There, however, I stopped in my tracks while the jangling continued, for in the alcove beneath my staircase lurked another reminder of Uncle Cornelius’s kindness. When his summer cottage, The Breakers, had been built on Bellevue Avenue, he’d had electricity and telephones installed. At the same time, he had insisted on installing one of those latter devices here at Gull Manor. I had protested. It had seemed so extravagant, but he had adamantly insisted.

  “You’re all alone out there on Ocean Avenue, Emmaline,” he’d said in that firm way of his. “You and that housekeeper of yours, two defenseless women living on the edge of the ocean far from town. Anything could happen. Do you think I’d ever forgive myself if a simple telephone call might have saved you?”

  There had, of course, been no arguing with that.

  I hurried the last few feet along the corridor and snatched the ear trumpet from its cradle. “Emma Cross here.”

  “Emma, it’s Grace.”

  My heart lurched. Why would Neily’s wife be calling me, especially first thing in the morning? I happened to know she rarely rose before ten o’clock. And like most members of the Four Hundred, New York’s highest society, Grace Wilson Vanderbilt disdained using telephones, considering them intrusive and vulgar. Typically, she had her social secretary, butler, or housekeeper make her telephone calls for her.

  “Grace, has something happened? Are you and Neily all right? Little Corneil? Where are you?”

  “Emma, calm down. We’re in Newport, at Beaulieu. And we’re fine. I’m terribly sorry to worry you, but I’ve a favor to ask. An important one.”

  “Goodness, Grace. I’ll admit you did give me a fright.” I leaned against the wall while my racing heart gradually slowed. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s Neily.” I heard a combination of distress and resignation in her voice.

  “I thought you said nothing is wrong.”

  “Nothing is . . . yet. But there’s a party at Wakehurst tomorrow night and Neily is insisting on going.”

  “Now, while he’s in mourning?”

  “That’s what I said. No matter the situation between his parents and us, he just lost his father and has no business socializing. He’s being so stubborn about it. He insists he lost his father years ago, and therefore has nothing more to mourn now. But you and I both know it’s not as simple as that, or he wouldn’t have gone to the funeral. I’m afraid he’ll drink too much, something will set him off, and he’ll end up doing or saying something regrettable.”

  “Oh, Grace, has he been drinking?” I knew all too well how some men resorted to alcohol in times of strife.

  “No more than usual,” Grace assured me, but went on to add, “not yet, anyway. But I’m afraid being out among people might encourage him to overindulge. He’s not in a good state of mind. He’s angry, and whether he wishes to admit it or not, he’s also grieving.”

  Angry—yes. As for grieving . . . Grace was right in that however much Neily might deny it, he had lost a parent. He must not only be mourning his father’s loss, but also regretting the lost opportunity to ever make amends.

  “I’ll talk to him, Grace. I’ll try to make him see the folly of attending this party.”

  “Talk to him? No, that’s not what I’m asking. He won’t listen. His mind is made up.”

  “Then . . . what do you wish me to do?”

  “Come with us, Emma. Please. At least if you’re there, you can prevent him from doing something foolish. If he gets in a state and I try to restrain him, he’ll consider it nagging. Coming from you, he’ll see the sense in it.”

  “Grace, I don’t know . . .” The mere thought of attending a function among the Four Hundred exhausted me. In fact, it seemed callous and selfish of James Van Alen to hold a party at Wakehurst at this, of all times. True, the event would have been planned weeks ago, and true again, the remaining members of the Four Hundred would be leaving Newport shortly in favor of their winter homes, so that a postponement wouldn’t have been practical. Had it been me, however, I would have canceled and sent my regrets to the invitees, many of whom had prospered as a result of their acquaintance with Cornelius Vanderbilt.

  “Emma, please. I’m frightened for Neily’s sake.”

  “I do have to work the next morning, you realize.”

  “Pooh. You work for your beau, and he’ll forgive you an hour’s tardiness this one time. Please do this for me.”

  Her quiet pleas broke through my reservations, and I let out a sigh. “All right, I’ll come.”

  “Thank you, Emma. I’ll send over an outfit for you to wear. It’s a Renaissance theme.”

  I very nearly groaned out loud. “A fancy-dress ball?”

  “No, not exactly. He wishes us to wear clothing that is reminiscent of the period. Inspired by it, but not what one would call a costume, because as he said when I inquired, that would be inelegant. Van Alen’s calling it an Elizabethan Fete. You know how he is about all things English. The invitation came on parchment, handwritten in old-style script, in metered rhyme, no less. Would you like me to read it to you?”

  “No, thank you,” I quickly replied. I hoped I wouldn’t feel pressured to dance, and perhaps I could keep an eye on Neily while remaining along the edges of the festivities. My heart certainly wouldn’t be in it, but Neily and Grace were dear to me, and perhaps Neily would be persuaded to leave early. With that thought to bolster me, I said my good-byes, hung up, and went about my day. But a sense of misgiving never quite left me.

  Chapter 2

  Despite Grace’s assurances that it would not be a fancy-dress occasion, I admit I had feared what she would send for me to wear to James Van Alen’s fete. Would my neck be imprisoned in a stiff, scratchy ruff that would leave my skin irritated for days to come? Would the weight of the skirts drag at my every step? Or perhaps a steel farthingale would deny me the relief of sitting for even a moment.

  I needn’t have worried. She sent a simple forest-green silk gown with an overskirt parted in the front to show off the beautiful details of a lighter green damask beneath. Over it went a rose velvet jacket, beribboned and beaded, which flattered my proportions, while the tight sleeves, which puffed at the shoulders and elbows, made me feel like a princess of yore.

  Nanny put up my hair with my enameled combs and added tiny rhinestones, which she had attached to hairpins, for extra sparkle. I’d have to go without my diamond teardrop earrings, which had been a gift from my parents. I had decided earlier this summer that someone else needed them more than I did and had gladly parted with them. I only hoped that they had proven useful in helping a young woman begin a new life. Before I left the house, Nanny tied a black ribbon around my upper arm, in memory of Uncle Cornelius.

  Wakehurst sat across from Ochre Court on the landward side of the road, a short walk from The Breakers. A stately house of limestone blocks, peaked gables topped by spires, and leaded, diamond-paned windows, it had been designed after Wakehurst Place in Sussex, England. Like my uncle Frederick Vanderbilt, James Van Alen had wished his home to emulate the estates of England’s landed nobility. The house had been designed by Dudley Newton, a Newport architect who had also fashioned Mr. and Mrs. Fish’s Crossways, but with markedly different results. Their house could be called neo-Colonial and was purely American in design.

  Neily helped Grace and me down from their victoria carriage. He wore his typical evening attire, but in place of the usual white satin vest and cravat, tonight he sported burgundy silk damask, with garnet shirt studs. Grace looked positively regal in matching burgundy velvet and an array of diamond and ruby jewelry.

/>   The candles glowing in Wakehurst’s windows issued a warm welcome to arriving guests. A melody, played on harp, lyre, and mandolin, drifted from the gardens, along with a muted hum of voices. Etiquette brought us into the house first, where we were greeted by a pair of footmen liveried in doublets and hose. The vestibule opened onto a vast corridor, the Long Gallery, which sprawled the length of the house. Directly opposite the front door, the Jacobean staircase sheltered a fireplace and seating arrangement that conveyed a cozy greeting to all who entered.

  The footmen guided us, and several other newly arrived guests, along the priceless Persian rugs lining the Long Gallery. Doorways at the far end led into the dining room and the library, both of which had been disassembled from European palaces and reconstructed here. A pair of mastiffs—shockingly large, but placid and amiable—had trotted out from one of the rooms behind us, perhaps awakened from a nap by our arrival. They followed us when the footmen led us through the dining room and outside onto a veranda covered by a gaily-striped awning. From there, we descended a set of stone steps to the garden, stretching from the side rather than the rear of the house. Box hedges, sculpted trees, flowerbeds teeming with autumn flowers, and pathways lined in brick formed the perfect symmetry of a sixteenth-century formal garden.

  We might have stepped back in time. The fantastical scenes devised by the Four Hundred to impress each other never failed to amaze me, and this fete proved no exception. Tiny lanterns, like fairy lights, had been strung liberally through the beech and elm trees, while torches flickered over the flowerbeds. The string ensemble we had heard from the front drive sat together beneath a bright blue pavilion, while guests strolled the walkways with etched silver goblets in hand. Holding court over it all, the manor house rose up like a fortress against the night sky, pinioning the clouds with its peaks and spires.

  A small army of footmen in doublets circulated among the guests. By the aromas scenting the air, I surmised the folded pastries contained a variety of game fowl. There were skewers of veal and venison and tender cuts of beef; shrimp and oysters, stuffed olive leaves, and a host more to tempt the pallet. Though small tables were scattered throughout, there would be no sit-down dinner. James Van Alen intended to keep his guests busy tonight.

  On the east border of the garden, a stage had been set up, and on it several actors, male and female, were reciting lines I recognized from Shakespeare. To complete the scene, a fellow in a jester’s costume, complete with parti-colored hose, fool’s scepter, and bells, tumbled and twirled down the walkways. His stocky, muscular body moved with a grace I would not have thought possible as he called out good-natured insults to passersby, making them laugh. The dogs took an interest in him, probably because of the bells, sniffed him thoroughly, and ran off in a new direction.

  For the others, it might have seemed like a page out of a fairy tale, but for me, the effort of getting through the night loomed like an endless ordeal. I resolved to simply put one foot in front of the other and perform the task Grace had set for me: watching out for Neily.

  As the three of us circulated, I recognized among the guests several members of the Astor and Berwind families; Mr. and Mrs. Fish; John Morgan and his wife, Fanny; George Jay Gould and his wife, Edith; and a good number of others of the Four Hundred despite the lateness of the Season. Their jewels, satins, and brocades glittered in the torchlight. There were, however, no other Vanderbilts present, as they were in mourning. I felt a stab of guilt, and suddenly regretted wearing anything but black.

  “Jimmy Van Alen’s outdone himself this time,” Grace said with a sardonic chuckle, which made me believe that, like me, she would have preferred to stay home.

  “They don’t call him the American Prince of Wales for nothing. By Jove, I think it’s splendid.” Neily gazed around like a child at Christmas. Did anyone but Grace and I perceive the forced nature of his wonderment? He snatched two silver goblets from the tray of a passing footman and held one out to me. “Emmaline?”

  “No, thank you. Grace may have it. I don’t think I’ll have anything stronger than lemonade tonight.”

  “You disappoint me, Emmaline.” He pressed the goblet into my hand. The metal imbued warmth into my palm and the scents of cloves and cinnamon rose on wisps of steam. “I demand you have fun tonight,” Neily said with uncharacteristic vigor. “Besides, wine won’t agree with Grace. Not just now.”

  “Why ever not?” A possible answer occurred to me before I’d finished asking the question. I whirled on Grace, experiencing a genuine burst of happiness for the first time in days. “Grace, are you. . . ?”

  She nodded, beaming. “Yes, but only just, so no telling anyone.”

  Despite her command for discretion, I couldn’t help throwing my free arm around her. “I’m so happy for you both, and for little Corneil. Does he know yet? I don’t suppose he could possibly understand, but he’ll be a darling big brother, I’m sure of it.”

  Cheers and applause drew our attention to the strip of lawn on the west side of the garden. Neily walked a couple of paces in that direction. “What could that be about?”

  A number of guests had gathered there, and now, as they shifted, I saw an archery course with four targets set up parallel to the garden. “It looks like an archery competition,” I said, and Grace cast me a significant look. I understood. She thought the competition would be a good way to keep her husband occupied and out of trouble. I agreed. It would also be an efficient means of prying the wine goblet out of his hand, at least temporarily. “Come, Neily. Let’s join them.”

  He bounded on the balls of his feet. “Let’s, indeed.”

  Before we took many steps, however, a shadow fell before us and a figure blocked our path. “Zounds, I did wonder if you’d come, good sir.”

  James Van Alen, Wakehurst’s owner and our host this evening, let go several more exclamations conveying his zeal at finding Neily in attendance. A man of about fifty, he wore a thick mustache, but was otherwise clean shaven, with neat dark hair that had only begun to gray and recede at the temples. His enthusiasm for sports kept him fit, while his passion for living kept him youthful, so that he seemed nearer in age to Neily, only in his twenties, than Neily’s father, who had turned fifty-five on his last birthday. Once married to Emily Astor, he’d been widowed for nearly twenty years and exhibited no signs of wishing to remarry. I had no doubt being considered one of the Four Hundred’s most eligible bachelors also kept him young.

  His slightly glassy eyes and high color suggested he had been imbibing liberally tonight, but his use of Elizabethan phrasing surprised us not in the least. He used such language frequently as a matter of course, whether he’d been drinking or not, earning him a reputation of being an eccentric.

  “Van Alen.” Neily gave the man’s hand a hearty shake. “And why, pray tell, should I have stayed away?”

  “Forsooth, you should not have, my young friend.” The reply left little doubt as to Mr. Van Alen’s sentiments concerning the feud between Neily and his parents. Had any uncertainties remained, he dispelled them by first assessing Grace through his monocle, and then raising her hand to his lips. “My dear Mrs. Vanderbilt, who ‘doth teach the torches to burn bright,’” he quoted from Romeo and Juliet while still bending over her hand. “ ‘It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night, like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear.’”

  Grace blushed prettily and laughed. “What a scoundrel you are, Jimmy.”

  He shared her laughter and turned to me. “Mistress Cross, Newport’s lovely young scribe. I do hope you’ll take careful note of everything I’ve done to make this evening memorable.”

  “She’s here as a guest, Jimmy, not a reporter.” Grace slipped her arm through mine as if to challenge him to refute her claim. I braced for him to remember he had not included my name on his guest list. Instead, he smiled politely and shifted his attention back to Neily and Grace.

  I took the opportunity to slip away, hoping to exchange my goblet of wine for something rather less robust
. I made sure to keep Neily and Grace in my sights, as I intended to return to them as soon as Mr. Van Alen moved on to other guests.

  “Miss Cross, I certainly didn’t expect to find you here tonight.” The familiar, youthful face of Ethan Merriman made me smile in earnest. Ethan worked for the same newspaper I did, the Newport Messenger. He had, in fact, more or less followed in my footsteps as a society reporter. But whereas I had chafed at being relegated to a traditionally female role within the profession of journalism, Ethan enjoyed it wholeheartedly. I noticed his gaze drop to the black ribbon encircling my arm.

  “Trust me,” I said with a rueful flick of my eyebrows, “I hadn’t expected to be here, either. Nor do I particularly wish to be. I only came at the request of my cousin’s wife.”

  “I saw you enter with Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt.” With a grin, he held up his pencil and writing tablet. “I made a note of it, with descriptive comments on your attire. You look positively royal, Miss Cross.”

  “Borrowed from Mrs. Vanderbilt,” I assured him. “You know, Ethan, now that I’m no longer the Messenger’s editor-in-chief, we needn’t stand on formality. You may call me Emma.”

  Only a few weeks ago, I’d given up the position I’d taken on as a favor to a dear friend, and which had seemed a great triumph for me when I’d accepted. How many women could boast of commanding a team of reporters, typesetters, printers, and newsboys—even at a small publication such as the Messenger? But a year into the job, I’d realized not only was I wrong for it, but it was wrong for me. My passion lay in reporting, not administrating, and the Messenger’s owner, Derrick Andrews, and I had come to an amicable agreement. He had summarily fired me as editor-in-chief, and promptly rehired me as the Messenger’s chief news reporter. What a vast relief it had been.

  Ethan eyed me dubiously as these thoughts passed through my mind, his own mind obviously working over what I had said. “I don’t think I could, Miss Cross. Wouldn’t feel right.”