Bees in the Butterfly Garden (18 page)

19

You gotta be willin’ to take the risk—that’s worth somethin’, ain’t it?

Stevie “Crow” Cobb

Convicted of bank robbery without stepping foot in a bank, for acting as a “crow” while those inside divested the bank of its holdings

Code of Thieves

Worthless. Every single one. Nearly one million dollars in notes and bonds, which should have reaped at least a third of that total in ransom, was now worthless paper. Suitable for nothing but tinder, confetti, or the outhouse.

Although Ian had already shared the bad news with the others, the truth repeated itself over and again in his mind. No moment, no thought, no action or purpose was without the weight of failure looming overhead. The money Ian had counted on obtaining would not be his after all.

Money that, even with his caution and smaller split, Ian had already thought of as his own. And the power that went with it.

In spite of his certainty that even Brewster couldn’t have foreseen or prevented this fiasco, Ian knew he was a failure. To vanquish the feeling, he went on a gambling spree, but even that brought only lackluster winnings. Nothing was as it should be. Not since John’s death.

And with each invasive thought of John came one of Meg. Knowing where she was, what she hoped to do, tempted Ian more than ever. Once word of Ian’s misfortune spread, it was a near certainty that Brewster would emerge from his lair. He would never let go now.

Like it or not, if Meg was lucky or smart or wily enough to learn anything about the Pemberton gold, she was going to offer that information to one of them.

It might as well be to Ian. There was only one way to forget this latest loss, and that was to replace it with an even greater victory.

Surely the Pemberton gold could erase any trace of this failure.

“Tell me, Miss Davenport,” said Geoffrey Mason, who had invaded the garden suspiciously soon after Claire took Evie away on an errand in an open carriage, “what kind of birds do you hope to attract here, without the dovecote my mother objected to? It’s not a very large spot.”

Meg glanced up from the oversize sketch pad balancing on her hip to take a broader look around the square plot. Most of the greenery had proved to be weeds of one sort or another, although an attempt had been made to add some shape to the growth. She was drawing a replica to see which shapes she might fit into her final design.

“I’m hoping to attract as many butterflies as birds,” she said, returning to her drawing. Beneath the tall trees of heaven in the corners, pigweed and mugwort nearly dominated the ground. But amid all that she’d spotted the same milkweed they had at the school, known for attracting butterfly larvae. For receiving only a few hours of sun a day, the weeds were surprisingly healthy.

“But we’ll leave the pokeweed because it has berries that birds like. Hopefully by adding a bit of thistle, we’ll attract some finches and orioles too.” She shifted so that her back was nearly to him as she continued her sketching. Meg had no real desire to let Geoffrey stay too long; she’d planned to use this unprecedented time relatively alone at the house to search for clues about the Pemberton gold.

“What, no crows?”

Meg was unfortunately acquainted with the ways of crows, having seen more than once how they robbed eggs from other birds’ nests. “Why would I want to bring to the garden those thieving pests?”

No sooner had the words been uttered than she wondered if she had something in common with the crows.

“Oh, crows are the best of all wild American birds!” Geoffrey said. “I’ve watched them both here in the city and out in the country, and I assure you they’re the smartest birds around. Once I saw a crow drop a bottle of spice seeds it found who knows where. The bottle had a little string around its cap, and the bird picked it up in his beak.”

“And you found that admirable?”

“But you don’t understand! He had to drop it
three times
to crack the bottle—it was a sturdy little thing. He had to drop it from the correct height and on pavement, not grass. Only then could the bird enjoy the contents. Magnificent intelligence from a bird’s tiny brain! You should design a place to leave corn kernels to attract them.”

“I think I’ll leave the crows to Central Park, thank you. Now, Mr. Mason, you must go. I’d like to finish my sketch, and I cannot do so with you distracting me from my work.” Calling him Mr. Mason was not so much an effort to follow the rules of etiquette as it was to place some distance between them. Geoffrey, although good-humored, had become increasingly friendly with his frequent visits—perhaps too friendly.

Instead of stepping away, he reached around her to take the sketch pad from her hands and let it rest on the wrought-iron table behind them. “There is to be a charity ball hosted by the Markinghams, and even my family has been invited. Anyone who is no one in New York will be there, as consolation for not being in Newport. I expect since the Pembertons are in town, the Markinghams have dared to invite them and that you’ll be going as their guest. But I’d like it if you would let me—my family, that is—escort you instead.”

Despite an appealing affection growing in her heart for Geoffrey, Meg knew she must decline. “But of course you know I can’t. What would Evie say . . . or do?”

He glowered at her. “You cannot seriously allow that child to alter your behavior.”

“No more than you’ve done, waiting until Claire rode off with her in the carriage.”

He looked away, obviously guilty as charged. “I’ll have a talk with her and explain the age difference is too much for me. I should have been more forthright from the start, but the women in my family suggested I might not want to offend a Pemberton, no matter how young.”

“Perhaps they’re right. You do live next door.”

That sparkle in his brown eyes—the one that came with his blatant honesty—glimmered her way. “It’s not the Pembertons’ proximity; it’s their money. And their placement on the social scale my family measures as important. But it’s ridiculous. Evie is a child! I shouldn’t have to stem my interest in you because of some silly infatuation on her part.”

“It’s more than that for Evie. She’s a very spirited and determined girl.”

“One I can’t ever imagine taming. I already pity the man she marries—and fear for her children.” When Meg took up her sketch pad again, he still remained standing in front of her. “If you won’t go as my guest, will you at least promise me the first dance? And more than one after that? Evie won’t be present to monitor us.”

“But her spies will be; I’ve heard about that from Claire. Bribed servants who will report everything you do.” His look of annoyance was so plain, Meg tried cajoling it away. “My advice to you is to leave the country, find a foreign wife, and return only after you’ve become a father. Perhaps then Evie will realize you won’t wait.”

“Go ahead and laugh at my misfortune,” he said, at last turning away and retreating toward the leaded-glass doors. He continued speaking as he went over the threshold. “There he goes, the man who could never marry. Why, you ask? Oh, because he’s hounded by the devotion of Evie Pemberton.” Then he turned back, bowed politely, and wished Meg a good day.

“Don’t forget about a place for the corn,” he called from inside the house. “It’s the crow’s favorite food. . . .”

Meg found herself laughing, suddenly sorry she had to send him away. She could see why Evie was enamored with him. Geoffrey was not only handsome; he was witty and willing to talk about things other than himself and his own future, unlike so many men of society. If Geoffrey adhered to one principle in life, it was to be true to his thoughts—and unafraid to share most of them.

She waited a few moments, finishing only half of her sketch. Undoubtedly one of the staff had seen Geoffrey to the door, or at least heard him leave. She was glad he’d left the door open from the garden. She could go inside without anyone hearing, as long as she kept her footsteps quiet.

Meg knew where she wanted to investigate. There were two offices in the house. One, upstairs, belonged to Nelson. She’d seen him going in and out of it often enough and had followed him in there one day under the pretext of asking him about a social engagement they would be attending.

She’d half hoped to find some sort of safe, thinking an upstairs office might be more secure than the office on the first floor. But other than a rather large desk, a shelf of books, and a row of cabinets and various furniture in between, there had been no sign of anything more. Unless, of course, a safe was hidden in a wall. Behind the bookshelves? The cabinetry? A smaller safe behind the single portrait hanging on one of the inner walls?

Or perhaps she might find bank papers there, something to suggest where the Pembertons stored the majority of their gold. But she hadn’t spotted anything atop his desk—at least not in plain sight—with the cursory glance she dared while in Nelson’s company.

Still, she would save revisiting that spot. Today she would explore the office on the first level, the one belonging to Mr. Pemberton himself. If any clue about the gold was to be found, that was probably the best place to start.

Meg stepped inside the house, gripping her sketchbook to her chest and standing completely still. She did not even allow herself to breathe as she listened. The best servants, of course, were neither seen nor heard, and those employed along Fifth Avenue were certainly among the best.

Earlier in the morning the house had enjoyed the staff’s diligent attention: a daily dusting, a polish here and there on a rotation known only to those who cared for the brass knobs and fixtures, and replacements of such things as greenhouse flowers from the florist and the bowl of fresh fruit in the dining area. Luncheon had passed, and dinner was still hours away.

On other afternoons Meg had learned these hours were spent quietly if a visitor wasn’t being received or calls weren’t to be made. When they were at home, Claire liked to read or crochet, and Evie was most often hidden away in the aviary, likely reading books she did not find in the Pemberton library.

Meg stepped through the dining room, past the small parlor, pausing long enough to glance in the library. Finding it empty, she entered, going to one of the two doors she knew offered access to Mr. Pemberton’s private place of business. Her heart sank to find it locked.

She’d practically expected that. Perhaps the other door—the one in the hallway, just out of view from the foyer—would allow entrance. She found her way quietly out of the library, then tiptoed altogether because she had no logical reason to enter a hallway leading exclusively to the office only a Pemberton had a right to visit.

To her great surprise, the door was wide open. She stopped, listening but hearing not a sound. Surely even the quietest maid would make some sort of noise if she were cleaning. The whisk of a carpet brush. The flutter of a feather duster. Meg stepped closer and listened again.

Nothing.

Three more strides took her inside the room. The first thing she saw—a desk—had upon its corner a carved wooden cross, giving her the immediate feeling of standing on the threshold of a sanctuary, a holy and protected place. The room was lit by a pair of high windows, too high to offer a view of the street outside but sending in beams of light that reminded her of rays from above . . . of God watching. She shivered, then shook the thought away.

Turning round to take in the room’s entirety, she found one spot of light on the wall behind the door, just now in the path of the sunbeam from the opposite windows. The light fell on a painting that took her breath away, catching her gaze with a force she could not resist.

It was a portrait of Christ on the cross between the two others crucified at His sides. The colors arrested Meg first: the white of His loincloth, the red of His blood against skin that was neither white nor brown but somewhere in between. Gold lettering glimmered on a sign affixed above His head, a head haloed in a crown of gray thorns. All of it was rich and pure, depicting a suffering man upon a suffering earth with its dark skies and angry, tormented clouds. She thought if she could regain her breath, she would smell rain in those thunderclouds above the Lamb of God.

The lighting—from the sky outside as well as the light depicted in the portrait itself—allowed almost no notice of the other two figures on the canvas. One looked away from the Christ, lost in his own misery. But the other’s eyes were fixed on Jesus, as if by watching Him, his own pain could be withstood. There was longing in his gaze.

Meg stood still, struck by the beauty—but no sooner had she realized the full impact of the work than another thought threatened to send her running from the room. The eyes looking to the Christ with such hope belonged to a thief.

“It’s magnificent, isn’t it?”

“Oh!” She dropped her sketchbook, the voice behind her startled her so. She turned to see Nelson.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you.” He looked at the artwork, a knowing smile on his face. “I can get lost in it too.”

Meg looked around the room, wondering how he could have entered so silently. She was sure the office had been empty upon entering, and the hall door was too near her to have been used without her seeing him.