Murder at Marble House (13 page)

“Thank you.”

His hands moved gently up and down my back, warming me further. “How do you feel? Does anything hurt? No, don’t try to move too much yet.” He gently cupped my head and lowered it back to his chest; and when he spoke again the rumble of his voice traveled through me with the steadying strength of brandy. “I wanted to carry you to safety,” he said, “but I was afraid to move you. There were those rocks we hit and if anything is broken . . .”

I shook my head against him. “I don’t think so.” I stretched slightly, wiggled my feet, and moved my legs. “I ache all over, but it’s a dull ache. Nothing sharp.”

He released a breath. “That’s good.”

“What about you?”

“The exercise did me good.”

I chuckled, then started to sit up. “We should go.”

“In a minute. Just give me another moment to . . .” With one hand he gathered up my hair, lifting it off my back. He rolled us until we lay side by side, and then his face was close, his lips closer. And yet he didn’t kiss me; not quite. He merely touched his lips to mine, our foreheads pressing, his nose grazing my cheek. We stayed like that for some moments before he slowly eased away, sat up, and helped me to my feet as he rose to his.

“You’ll be the death of me yet, Emma Cross.”

The words were anything but flattering, but the tone in which he spoke them lit a flame in my heart.

The sky had lightened, the eastern horizon tinged with pink. The place where we lay was adjacent to a row of houses whose yards faced the harbor. People would be stirring soon and we needed to make haste back to my carriage—and he to his, I supposed. “How on earth did you follow me without my knowing?”

“Oh, Emma . . . dear Emma.” He chuckled softly. “Once I saw the direction you were headed in, and in those clothes . . .” He tugged on the sleeve of the man’s coat I somehow still wore. “It wasn’t hard to figure out where you were going. I stayed well behind, and when you turned your carriage onto Walnut Street I continued on foot.”

“But at what point did you
start
following me?”

He smiled that same smile he’d shown me when I’d first accused him of spying on me. I should have been furious. Only, I couldn’t deny the simple fact that if he hadn’t trailed me, I’d be dead.

“We’ll collect your carriage and mine,” he said briskly. “I left it at the end of Third Street. And then I’ll follow you home. If you think you can drive, that is.”

“You don’t have to do that—”

“Are you going to waste your breath arguing with me?”

I couldn’t help a quick roll of my eyes. “No, I suppose not.”

As we proceeded down the street the distance between us grew—not by any conscious agreement, but instinctively. We walked as a pair of men would, close enough to speak without being
too
close. Yet I continued to feel the echo of his arms around me, and I found it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying until he cast me a dubious frown.

“Do you think you have the strength to handle your rig?”

“We’re talking about Barney here, hardly a challenge. I’ll be fine. But speaking of conveyances . . . I’ll need to replace the McPaddens’ dinghy.” I blew between my lips. How would I scrape up enough cash for a boat, even a small one? And how would I ever explain it to them?

As if he read my thoughts, Derrick said, “I’ll take care of it.”

“No, I couldn’t let you do that.”

We turned onto Walnut Street. I continued protesting about how the night’s debacle was entirely my fault and I would take proper responsibility for the damages I’d caused. Derrick brought us to a halt. With his hands on my shoulders, he turned me to face him.

“Shut up, Emma. For once, please just shut up.”

I had nothing to say to that.

 

When we arrived home we unhitched both rigs—mine, and Derrick’s hired curricle—and settled Barney and his guest in the barn with oats and water and piles of fresh hay. The chores helped settle my nerves. We worked in companionable silence, and once the task had been accomplished, Derrick and I strolled to the house, the invitation for him to join me unspoken. . . not needing to be spoken. I wasn’t ready to relinquish his company yet, and he seemed equally intent on remaining. When we reached the kitchen door he opened it for me, and I was overcome by a rush of how it might be to share a home with this man, to share those casual daily acts such as having breakfast, planning our days, settling in together each night....

A cheerful fire in the kitchen hearth greeted us as we stepped inside. A pot of coffee simmered on the stove, and the aroma of baking bread made my stomach rumble.

“I was just about to send out the cavalry.” Nanny stood in the doorway of the corridor that led to the morning room, her tight-lipped expression one of mingled censure and relief. She wore her dressing gown wrapped tightly around her faded cotton nightdress; a kerchief secured the coil of her salt and pepper curls.

I embraced her and kissed her cheek. “Oh, Nanny, have you been up all night?”

“Of course not,” she retorted as she hugged me back. Despite her denial, the shadows beneath her eyes told a different story. “I can see
you
haven’t slept a wink,” she concluded after assessing me from head to toe.

“Actually, we did get a bit of sleep,” I said, then regretted it when her eyebrows shot up. Before I could explain, Derrick spoke.

“I assure you Emma’s virtue is safe, Mrs. O’Neal. Which is more than I can say for the rest of her, with the way she insists on chasing danger.”

I swung about and struck him on the biceps, hard. Not that it fazed him in the least. Nanny clucked her tongue and, grabbing two towels off the counter, wrapped them around her hands and went to the stove.

“You both look like something the tide dragged up. Smell like it, too. You should both go and get changed. Emma, I’m sure you can find something of Brady’s for Mr. Andrews.” The oven door hinges whined. The toasty scents of breakfast bread—stuffed with raisins and walnuts, and dusted with cinnamon—enveloped me and I knew, in a way I hadn’t up until then, at least not wholly, that I was home. That I was safe. Once again relief poured through me, this time sapping the remaining strength from my legs. I sagged, and before I knew it Derrick’s arm was around me. He pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and lowered me into it.

“I need something to eat first or I’ll faint,” I said. A nod from Derrick indicated he’d gladly put the needs of his stomach over clean clothing.

Nanny sliced her savory-sweet bread and handed it round while Derrick poured the coffee. The hearth fire snapped and hissed. I was glad we’d stayed here in the kitchen rather than moving to the morning room. This felt homier, cozier, like when I was a child and padded downstairs before any of the rest of my family to steal some private time with Nanny. Gradually my remaining anxiety eased away. I chewed slowly and, with a finally clear head, began to contemplate the events of last night.

“One thing is certain,” I said, breaking the pensive silence, “if Consuelo
was
on Rose Island, it wasn’t by choice.”

“What makes you so sure?” Derrick asked.

“She would never have anything to do with men like that. Never.”

Nanny plucked a walnut from her slice of bread and popped it into her mouth. “What if she was there against her will?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think she was there at all. Whatever those men were doing, I don’t think it had anything to do with her. They were criminals . . . some kind of smugglers is my guess.”

I looked to Derrick for consensus. He nodded faintly. I waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t I prompted, “Well? What do you think they were up to?”

He shrugged a shoulder, cradling his cup in both hands. “Judging by the barrels we saw, molasses, possibly.”

“Why on earth would anyone smuggle molasses?” Nanny laughed as if this were the most ridiculous notion in the world. “You can buy it anywhere. Not as if it’s illegal or anything. I’ve got plenty right in the pantry.”

I had to admit, I couldn’t fathom an answer. Once more I looked to Derrick, who reluctantly met my gaze.

“Molasses is used in rum making. It would seem someone is going into business for himself, distilling black market rum to avoid paying the liquor tax. Could be trying to corner the market, create a monopoly by running legitimate distillers out of business.” His gaze sharpened, practically pinning me to the back of my chair. “Whatever their intentions, it had nothing to do with your cousin and therefore nothing to do with you.”

“Hear, hear,” Nanny murmured.

I scrunched up my nose. “Maybe not, but what’s Winthrop Rutherfurd’s part in all this? I can’t see him putting in with rum smugglers.”

“A coincidence?” Nanny suggested.

“I doubt it. Just as I doubt it’s any coincidence the Curtises are away.”

“Who are they?” Derrick asked.

“The couple who run the Rose Light. When I spotted Winty heading out to the island yesterday, Angus told me they were away for a few days.”

Derrick made an impatient gesture. “Winty? Angus?” “Angus was the boatman who rowed me out to
The Valiant
yesterday afternoon. Winty is Consuelo’s pet name for Winthrop Rutherfurd.” I blew out an equally impatient breath. “Do keep up.”

Nanny chuckled and Derrick sent me a glower. “Could
Winty
be having money troubles?” he asked.

I glanced at Nanny. “Have you heard anything to that effect?”

She sipped her coffee. “He wanted to marry Consuelo, didn’t he?”

“Because he cares for her,” I shot back.

“The Rutherfurds are an old family, Emma,” she said mildly. “And none of the old families is as wealthy as they used to be.”

“That’s right,” Derrick said. “It’s the so-called nouveau riche who control the bulk of the wealth in this country now. People in industry like your Vanderbilt relatives and yes, my family. The Vanderbilts’ hands are sooty from the railroads. The Andrewses’ hands are ink-stained from the newspaper business.” He held up his hands as if to prove his point, though there were no stains that I could make out, nothing to indicate he’d ever worked a hard day in his life. “People like the Rutherfurds didn’t believe in soiling their hands in business, and as a result their fortunes have been dwindling away for generations.”

“I suppose it would be naïve of me to insist he wanted Consuelo only for herself.” I sighed. Consuelo had certainly believed it, at least until Winty had stepped all too willingly out of the picture once Alva made it clear she’d never allow them to marry. Yes, elopement remained a possibility, but Consuelo would be disinherited, virtually penniless. Would Winty want her then? “Poor Consuelo . . .”

“Emma . . .” Derrick placed a hand over mine where it lay beside my plate. “Don’t you think it’s time the police were notified of Consuelo’s disappearance? How long has it been?”

“Two days.” Across the table from me, Nanny nodded her agreement. “I know you’re right,” I said, “but Aunt Alva . . .”

“What are you most afraid of?” Nanny asked. “Your aunt Alva’s temper or your cousin coming to harm?”

Her words put matters into perspective and I realized the decision was already made. “I’ll go to Jesse tomorrow. Surely he’ll be able to keep things quiet and out of the newspapers.” I couldn’t help eyeing Derrick. We were newspaper people, he and I; we both knew the lure of a good story. “Consuelo’s disappearance would make national headlines, Derrick. You’ll keep my confidence, won’t you? Please promise me.”

A glimmer of hurt entered his eyes. “Do you honestly think I’d betray your trust for a headline?”

“No, of course not,” I said quickly. But hadn’t I? Or was I just exhausted and not thinking straight? “Derrick, I’m sorry. I needed to be sure.”

He came to his feet. “You know, Emma, perhaps you’ve been spending too much time with your Vanderbilt relatives.”

“What does that mean? Derrick—”

“It means you need to learn to take people at their word and trust them. Good day, ladies.” With that he crossed to the kitchen door and was gone.

I stared after him, then looked to Nanny in hopes of gleaning some sort of comfort. There was none to be found, just a look of disappointment and a sad shake of her head.

 

After Nanny’s warm breakfast and a hot bath, I slept for several hours. One might think nightmares would have awakened me at every turn, but the truth is I slept like the dead and dreamed of nothing. Not of my missing cousin, not of those murderous men on Rose Island, not of the chilling, rocky depths of Narragansett Bay . . . and not even of Derrick, whom I’d wronged inexcusably that morning. Exhaustion claimed me completely, and I might have slumbered in that dreamless state until the next day if the telephone downstairs hadn’t jangled me awake sometime in the mid-afternoon.

I bolted upright, disoriented at first, confused by the angle of the sunlight hitting the backs of the window curtains. What was I doing in bed in the middle of the day? It took only a glint off the ocean through a gap in the curtains, and another jingle of the telephone bell, to bring the memories flooding back. Could the caller have news of Consuelo?

Katie’s Irish tones drifted up the staircase as I hurried down, securing my dressing gown around me. “Miss Cross isn’t available just now—”

“I’m here, Katie.” My slippered feet slid on the floorboards as I circled to the alcove beneath the stairs and glided to a stop in front of her. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Millford from the paper, miss.”

I practically snatched the earpiece from her hand. We sidestepped each other and Katie made her way down the corridor to the rear of the house. “Mr. Millford? What happened to my article yesterday morning? The one about the murder at Marble House? Why wasn’t it—”

“Emma, glad I caught you at home,” he said, neither acknowledging my question nor pausing for pleasantries. “How quickly can you get into town?”