Murder at Wakehurst Read online

  “Whatever you prefer, then, Ethan. Is Mr. Andrews back from Providence yet?”

  “He’s expected tomorrow.”

  The prospect cheered me. Derrick had been gone just over two weeks, since before I’d gotten word about Uncle Cornelius. There wouldn’t have been much he could do if he had been here, except perhaps accompany me to New York. But that might have been a signal to the family I wasn’t yet ready to give.

  I let Ethan get on with his work, as unlike me, he hadn’t come to the fete as a guest, but as an employee of the Messenger. Despite members of the Four Hundred often complaining about how the press hounded them and invaded their privacy, at times like tonight’s party they invited in the society columnists with instructions to record as many details as possible. How else would those not here be able to admire the untold riches on display?

  After exchanging my wine for a frothy punch, I hurried to rejoin Neily and Grace. I met them where the four geometric segments of the garden converged at a marble statue at the center. With Grace on one arm, Neily offered me his other. “Planning to have a go at the archery?”

  “Of course I am,” I replied without hesitation. “I might not be much of a horsewoman, but I can hit a target. Most of the time,” I added with a laugh. “Grace, how about you?”

  “No, I’ll be a spectator, thank you.”

  We joined the small crowd at the west edge of the garden and watched the current group of four send their arrows hissing through the air to hit the targets with solid thumps. I was gratified to see that no one missed; in fact, one competitor hit a bull’s-eye nearly dead center and a cheer went up.

  Holding her bow gracefully out to one side, Miss Imogene Schuyler curtsied to her admiring audience. A tall beauty, Miss Schuyler hailed from a Dutch family who had first touched our shores more than two hundred years ago. They had made their fortune in New York real estate, putting them on par with the Astors and the Stuyvesants. Her blond hair, piled high and dressed with jewels, framed flawless features and dramatically pale skin, while her silk gown poured like liquid silver from her shoulders to the tips of her beaded shoes, accenting her torso and hips along the way.

  She had outshot even the men, but none of them seemed to mind. Rather, they added their congratulations and assurances that Miss Schuyler would win tonight’s competition.

  “Hmph,” Grace whispered in my ear, “we’ll see about that. Imogene Schuyler is a spoiled brat and doesn’t need any further encouragement to believe herself superior to everyone else.”

  I bit back a grin. Did I hear a touch of jealousy in Grace’s tone? When she had still been a single young woman, the beautiful Grace Wilson, with her stunning auburn hair and green eyes, had been the toast of many a social season. Even now, as Neily’s wife, she remained a much-admired woman. She had no reason to envy young Imogene Schuyler, but perhaps being in the family way made her feel vulnerable.

  Relinquishing her bow to the next competitor, Miss Schuyler went to the side of a young woman dressed simply in nut-brown silk, wearing little jewelry, and bearing a stoic expression. So plain was she in her appearance, my first thought was that Miss Schuyler had brought her maid with her. They spoke some words to each other, shared a quiet smile, as if they knew something that eluded everyone else, and turned their attention back to the archery. If they were friends, they were an odd pairing.

  “Do what you can to outshoot her, Emma, not to mention outshine her,” Grace said, relieving me of my goblet of punch and giving me a nudge.

  “I’ll do my best.” I turned to my cousin. “Neily, shall we?”

  He put in our names, and after another several rounds, our turn came. There were two sets of lines on which competitors were to stand, one for women and, several feet farther back, one for men. A little murmur went up when I paced to the latter and stood beside Neily. He winked at me. I winked back. Archery had been a favorite pastime at The Breakers when we were children. Of course, not the Italian palazzo that stood on the property now, but the original turreted, wood-framed house that burned down in 1892. During the summers when the family had been in residence, I had often been invited to visit my cousins. Archery, croquet, cricket, and badminton were but a few of the activities we had enjoyed together.

  Maude Wetmore, home from a recent trip abroad, stood on the other side of Neily, but closer to the target. Jerome Harrington, a young scion of a banking family, stood at Maude’s other side. We were each supplied with a leather brassard to protect our forearms.

  My competitive instincts took over as I placed my feet solidly on the ground, left foot forward. After nocking my arrow, I raised my bow and checked the rotation of my elbow to ensure my arm extended straight out with my bow perfectly vertical. I scrutinized my finger placement on the bowstring as well. Tuning out the voices and movements of our audience, I focused on the target, steadily drew back until my hand came just below and to the right of my chin, held my breath, and, without further ado, released my arrow. It sang through the air straight and strong, with almost no arch. I smiled a fraction of a second before it hit the bull’s-eye with a solid and satisfying thunk.

  “Well played, Emmaline.” Neily’s arrow had struck a bull’s-eye as well, but mine had hit closer to dead center. Our two companions also shot well, with Miss Wetmore’s arrow hitting smack on the bull’s-eye’s outer line and Mr. Harrington’s landing just outside of it.

  As I accepted Neily’s compliment with a confident grin, a woman’s voice called out, “But we shall see if she can do it again, shan’t we?”

  Although I didn’t immediately recognize the voice, the cross expression that realigned Grace’s features inspired me to follow the path of her gaze. Imogene Schuyler stared back at me, the unspoken challenge on her features clearly meant to unnerve me. It was then I remembered that Miss Schuyler had become engaged to Jerome Harrington only last month, a perfect merger of real estate and banking. She must have hoped for a dual win at archery for herself and her fiancé. Her friend appeared to hold similar sentiments, as she arched an eyebrow at me from behind a pair of oval spectacles.

  Neily and I traded glances. He smoothed a hand down his mustache and beard and showed me a confident grin—confidence that extended to me as well as to him. I accepted the next arrow and repeated my technique exactly. Once again, my shot soared true, coming to rest well inside the bull’s-eye’s boundary. A third shot proved there had been no luck involved in the first two.

  My efforts were met with a hearty round of applause, although another quick glance in Miss Schuyler’s direction confirmed my suspicion that she had not joined in. Her lips were pinched, her eyes narrowed. How odd, I thought, her caring so much about winning a silly competition among friends. And besides, there were still others yet to compete. It was quite possible I’d be unseated.

  Still, a sense of accomplishment warmed the air around me, until a wave of guilt came crashing down. What was I doing joining in on the evening’s merriment? I had come only to help Grace keep an eye on Neily, not to enjoy myself. Thoughts of poor Uncle Cornelius, not to mention Aunt Alice and the rest of the family, doused whatever pleasure I had derived from proving my skills with a bow. I hoped someone would do better than I had.

  Neily had moved off with a group of his peers, while Grace had been surrounded by several of her female friends. I went to her, and when the circle failed to open for me, I patiently waited for a lull in the conversation before whispering in her ear, “Grace, Neily seems fine tonight. I think I’ll go.”

  She whirled to face me. “Emma, you can’t. The night is still young. I won’t have a moment’s peace if you’re not here.” For good measure, her fingertips strayed to the front of her dress, just below her waistline, in a reminder no one else but me would notice. I wanted to cry foul play, that it was unfair of her to use her secret pregnancy to persuade me to stay. But I did no such thing, and for that matter, neither did I leave.

  Grace linked her arm through mine and drew me into the circle of her friends. Among th
em, only young May Goelet had the good grace to greet me and offer condolences for Uncle Cornelius. Then she congratulated me on my good showing at archery. The rest smiled tightly and changed the subject. It was nothing new for me. As a Vanderbilt cousin, I sometimes mingled with high society, but I had never penetrated further than the fringes, and usually only because I’d done some family or other an enormous favor, as I had for the Goelets the previous summer. Other than that, most of the Four Hundred considered me beneath them, a woman who worked, for goodness’ sake, and who should therefore know her place.

  Within minutes, Grace was whisked away by a pair of friends to see some new art acquisition inside the house. She glanced back at me apologetically, but I waved her on.

  I searched the premises for Neily and spotted him in front of the stage in a crowd of about a dozen other guests. He appeared to be enjoying himself—rather too much, I feared.

  Once more with goblet in hand, he was waving it in wide arcs toward the actors. As I went closer, I heard him reciting their lines along with them, to the great amusement of his fellows. While an actor and actress played out the argument between Petruchio and Kate over whether the sun or moon presently inhabited the sky, Neily imitated both voices, reaching exaggerated high notes for Kate and plunging to a baritone for Petruchio. He made a fairly good job of it, stumbling over only the occasional word or two.

  My senses went on the alert, but I wouldn’t interfere unless absolutely necessary. How would it look, after all, for a man’s female cousin to take him in hand? Neily wouldn’t thank me for it—that much I knew.

  With all the dramatic excess he could muster, he continued belting out lines, drowning out the actors and raising the mirth of his companions. Again I made no move to intervene. At least he hadn’t gotten up on the stage—yet. His antics had young ladies tittering behind their fans; matrons raising their eyebrows in mild disapproval; gentlemen stroking their beards to conceal their chuckles. This sort of boisterousness was nothing new among the younger men of his set, and he would be forgiven for it tomorrow.

  My only qualm centered on knowing Neily as well as I did. He was not typically boisterous at parties. He didn’t normally bring attention to himself. Neily was bookish and of a much more serious nature than most of his peers. Very much like his father, and his behavior rang a warning bell inside me. But again, I wouldn’t meddle unless absolutely necessary.

  Keeping him in my sights, I remained at the edge of the gathering. After a few minutes, I let my attention wander and scanned the garden, once more taking in the details of gowns and jewels and Mr. Van Alen’s costly decorations. Several of his footmen passed in my view as they carried the archery equipment, including the targets, away from the improvised course and up to the veranda. I supposed the awards for the best archers would be handed out at the end of the evening.

  I had just turned back to watch Neily when a strident clanking broke out behind me. The noise of it alarmed me, and I twirled back around. Near the center of the garden, two men in protective face masks, flowing shirts, and trunk hose, those funny, ballooning short pants men had worn during the Renaissance, were prancing back and forth, dueling with swords. Though they parried and lunged in a mock display, their thrusts still had enough force to make me gasp in fear of their lives.

  After a few moments of watching them, I realized their actions had been carefully choreographed, and I relaxed. The spectacle caught the attention of most of the guests as well, and cheering went up. I heard wagers laid. Even the actors paused their scene to watch. Someone shouted a suggestion for Mr. Van Alen to challenge the winner, and I was reminded of a story I had heard years ago. Apparently, William Backhouse Astor had been none too pleased at the prospect of his daughter marrying into the Van Alen family, and had expressed his disapproval loudly and publicly. Upon hearing of it, James Van Alen challenged his soon-to-be father-in-law to a duel—pistols at dawn! Luckily, both men had backed down, and Mr. Van Alen married Emily Astor with no further ado.

  I let go of my fears that the sword fighters would come to harm, but the sound of their clashing grated on my nerves and prompted me to retreat farther from the center of activity. I found myself near a tall hedge bordering the south end of the garden, deserted at the moment. Or so I thought. No sooner had I arrived in my quiet corner than angry words hissed back and forth on the other side. Several archways were carved at intervals in the thick foliage to allow access to the lawn on the other side. I stopped well before the first arch, poised to listen.

  “You most certainly were flirting with that woman,” a female voice accused. “Stop denying it. Don’t you dare insult my intelligence.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” countered a youthful male voice. “She’s an actress, for heaven’s sake, and not even a very good one. Do you seriously think I’d flirt with a creature like that? Or, if I did, that it could possibly mean anything?”

  Who were they? Their voices might be young, but I heard nothing of innocence in their mutual animosity.

  This was wrong of me, I acknowledged with a pang of guilt. I began to move away.

  The woman spoke again, her voice sizzling with contempt. “I will not be made a fool of.”

  “Then you’d better grow yourself a stiff upper lip, hadn’t you? Men will have their fun. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  A feminine gasp penetrated the tightly packed leaves. “It has everything to do with me, if I’m to be your wife.”

  “If? Thinking of backing out?” A low vibration in his voice implied a subtle threat that raised the hackles at my nape and my concerns for the woman’s welfare. “You do and you’ll lose your reputation for all time. You know how it works. No matter the reason for breaking our engagement, you’ll be damaged goods from now on. People will talk. They’ll whisper behind their hands about you and that friend of yours.”

  “Do not make me loathe you.”

  “It is your privilege to do so.” My mouth dropped open at his nonchalant arrogance.

  There was a pause, so strained I could feel the tension through the hedge. He made the word friend sound tawdry. Why?

  “Now you see here,” the woman said evenly. I could practically see her standing taller, piercing him with an unblinking, unapologetic glare. “I am the one bringing the money into our marriage. If you wish to enjoy any of it, you had better toe the line.”

  “Threaten me, will you?” He let go a laugh. “Or else what, my dear?”

  “Or else I shall tell my father what you’ve been up to, that’s what.” A sharp thwack accompanied those words, followed immediately by a grunt.

  I heard footsteps and the swishing of hems through the grass on the other side of the hedge. Quickly I moved away, toward the stage, but not before I heard one last parting shot from him, no doubt aimed at her retreating back. “Go ahead, Imogene. It was your father who insisted on the marriage in the first place.”

  At that moment, Imogene Schuyler swept into the garden proper, her head high, her curls proudly glinting with jewels, her gown flowing like quicksilver, and her eyes utterly dry. Even beneath the fairly lights, she resembled no pixie about to grant a wish, but rather an imp intent on destroying anything that crossed its path. I cringed at the thought of her realizing I had been listening, but she breezed by me without a glance in my direction. Even when the colorful image of the jester bounced into her path, executing a perfect backward somersault with a chime of his bells, she merely circumvented him without missing a step, leaving him to gaze after her with one hand on his hip.

  Only once did her head turn, when she passed the stage. Watching her from behind, I couldn’t guess at whom she glanced, but I did see who returned it: an actress dressed as Titania from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She and an actor playing Oberon had replaced the earlier Petruchio and Kate. The woman had striking eyes, tilted and heavily lashed, and silvery blond hair, although quite possibly she wore a wig. Imogene quickly looked away, but Titania’s gaze followed her across the ga
rden.

  One more person moved into Miss Schuyler’s path and attempted to halt her progress: a bearded gentleman with thick silver hair and a slope to his nose so like Imogene’s he could only be her father. Judge Clayton Schuyler had stepped away from a circle of acquaintances and beckoned to her. “Imogene, come here, please.”

  Strictly speaking, the Schuylers were not members of the Four Hundred, though the distinction was an academic one, at best. They were a Philadelphia Main Line family, meaning they were among that city’s oldest and wealthiest residents, their estates situated in the beautiful countryside along the Pennsylvania Railroad’s Main Line, which connected one end of the state to the other.

  Perhaps Judge Schuyler wished to introduce her to his acquaintances; perhaps he objected to his daughter walking unescorted through the fete. When she failed to stop, he attempted to snatch her hand, but she sidestepped him and hurried away. I wondered where her mother was. Then I spotted her friend, standing alone by the center statue, watching Imogene traipse toward the house.

  Moments later, I heard a cough from behind the hedge and Jerome Harrington came skulking through an archway. His palm cradled his cheek and a careless flop of hair obscured one eye. When he lowered his hand, I saw the welt where his fiancée had struck him.

  So did most everyone else in the general vicinity, for suddenly dazzling light flooded the south end of the garden, as well as the other side of the hedge, as previously unseen electric bulbs burst to life. Jerome Harrington raked the hair back from his face and stood blinking in the glare, the ruddy handprint on his cheek blazing for all to see.

  Chapter 3

  Mr. Harrington shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and strode off through the garden. Like Imogene, he pretended not to see the stares that followed him as he shouldered his way through the crush. He kept going until he disappeared onto the veranda. He had distracted me from watching Imogene and I lost track of which way she had gone. I hoped she hadn’t also retreated to the house. If they met again inside, who knew which of Mr. Van Alen’s treasures might go flying in fits of temper?