Bees in the Butterfly Garden (19 page)

“Were you looking for something? Someone?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, I—that is, I was on my way . . . out . . . near the foyer . . . and I saw the open door to this room.” She attempted a smile. “Curiosity got the best of me, I’m afraid.” She looked again at the painting with the hope of keeping his attention on it rather than upon her. “It’s quite something, isn’t it?” She wished her voice wasn’t so breathless. Did she sound as guilty as she must look?

“I’ve often wanted to hold our morning prayers in here, just to be near it. But the room is too small to host the entire staff.”

Tingles along the back of Meg’s neck would surely have her visibly squirming if she did not move. She stepped toward the door.

“Wait,” Nelson said, bending to retrieve her forgotten sketchbook. He handed it to her with a smile. “You know you’re welcome in any room of the house, don’t you, Meg?”

His kind and gentle tone was too much for her. Murmuring a feeble “Thank you,” she flew through the doorway, her step not slowing until she was up the stairs and inside her room.

20

It is through fashion that one reveals status, influence, and ability to control oneself both emotionally and physically. Fashion is, in fact, the first and foremost tale that will be told of you.

Madame Marisse’s Handbook for Young Ladies

Instead of watching the maid coil her hair, Meg looked at Evie’s reflection in Claire’s mirror. The girl was reclining on the bed behind them, staring up at the ceiling while she bounced a foot balanced upon one knee amid a pile of her petticoats.

“When I’m old enough to attend a ball,” Evie said to no one in particular, “I’m going to put henna in my hair until it’s completely red. I’ll go without a corset
or
a bustle, and I’ll have flowers sewn into a Chinese silk gown. And I won’t wear heels on my shoes, either.”

“Red hair!” Claire exclaimed. “Just wear a sign round your neck declaring yourself a complete social outcast.”

Evie rolled over to glare at her sister’s reflection. “Why shouldn’t I be a social outcast? That’s what you’ve wanted to be ever since Jude left. And Nelson is no better, with that work he’s always doing. I’m surprised you’re both going to the ball tonight, even if it is just because of Meg.”

“Evie! Can you ever put a rein on your tongue? We’re attending the ball because everyone invited has agreed to donate money to the hospital.”

She rolled over again, and Meg saw only her profile. “My red hair won’t make me a misfit. It’ll make everyone talk about me, and I’ll be the most popular girl at every ball. Wait and see.”

“I like the idea of going without a corset,” Meg said. Although she didn’t like encouraging most of Evie’s wild talk, a positive remark now and then might remind Evie they weren’t enemies.

Evie faced the mirror with a challenge in her eyes. “Then why don’t you go without one tonight?”

Meg smiled at Evie’s reflection through the two maids, one standing behind her hair and another behind Claire’s. “My dress is made for a corset. I couldn’t wear it without one.”

“Try it and see. At least then you’d have people talking about you, too.”

“Evie!”

Evie scowled at her sister. “You know, Claire, if someone were to record my name every time you used it, it could fill volumes.” She turned her gaze back to Meg; Claire’s admonition did nothing to remove the open curiosity growing on Evie’s face. “There were all kinds of rumors about your father at school, Meg. Did you know about those?”

Hoping they attributed any increased color in her face to the waving iron the maid used to crimp Meg’s hair, she nodded. She’d heard a few of those rumors.

“In all the years I went to school with you,” Claire said, her tone far more gentle than the one she used on Evie, “I don’t think I ever met your father. But he did visit you.”

“Yes. He was a very private man.”

“Was? I didn’t know he’d passed on. When did it happen?”

Meg’s throat constricted, and it felt like a weed from the garden had lodged there—the sticky kind with sharp edges. Accusations from Kate about denying her father echoed in her head. But Meg had no choice except to carry on with her lie of omission, or Claire would be aghast at best and send Meg away at worst. “Some time ago.”

Evie pulled herself from Claire’s bed. “But did you know everyone said the Miss Hibbits—
both
of them—were madly, secretly in love with him? Girls heard them call him ‘that handsome devil.’”

Meg didn’t doubt it. Little had she known how close they’d been to an accurate description.

When Claire reached over to place a tender hand on hers, Meg nearly jolted in her seat.

“I’m so sorry, Meg. Does that mean you’re all alone in the world?”

The words were true . . . and yet suddenly Ian’s face came to mind. He was here in New York City, and somehow he reminded her she wasn’t alone. Surprisingly enough, the notion of his connection to her father seemed rather pleasant instead of stirring the old resentment she’d felt for so many years.

She sent a quick smile at Claire. “Not with friends who’ve been closer to me than family.”

Claire squeezed her hand, and only then did Meg realize Claire thought she’d referred to her.

Out of training and the habit of offering the correct response even when not entirely sincere, Meg returned the smile.

Too late, she realized that despite every effort to steel her heart against the Pembertons, her smile wasn’t as calculated as it ought to have been.

Ian pulled at the stiff white collar of his shirt, shrugged his shoulders to adjust the fit of his black tailcoat, and smoothed the red silk of his city vest. Never had he longed more for a pair of cotton trousers instead of these pinstripes, a plain black tie instead of a formal cravat, and a sporting cap instead of this top hat. He’d long ago realized discomfort came with wealth. Elevated purpose, nobility of character—which everyone assumed accompanied wealth—seemed like so much nonsense if it was exhibited only through personal inconvenience.

But this wasn’t the first time he’d played a gentleman, and he knew as soon as he walked past the threshold of the Markingham home, he would forget the nuisance of fine clothing. In fact, the demands of the evening called for this to be his last thought concerning anything so mundane.

The prospect of seeing Meg again was already doing its job to distract him. This was business, and like it or not she was to be part of it. He’d timed his arrival not too late but certainly not early. She was likely already here.

He’d opted to walk from the Glenham Hotel on the corner of Twenty-Second and Broadway, despite the threat of rain. A brisk walk never failed to aid concentration—and gave him a fair view of the neighborhood. Carriages converged on the block of the Markingham home, making the street all the narrower for too much traffic. Another reason he was glad to have walked.

One carriage caught his eye as it glistened in the gaslight. It pulled out of the congestion, obviously only recently having let off its occupant. The carriage itself was nondescript: typically black, a Quinby coach so common in the city. But the familiar driver revealed who that occupant had been.

Brewster.

Ian hurried inside, eager to scout out the man himself. For a thorough search, though, Ian must first gain welcome. Before his arrival he’d acquainted himself from afar with the host, hostess, and most importantly, their son. Davis Markingham II—the generational tag no doubt added to increase the impression of age to their money. Those who knew him well, Ian had learned, called him—

“Dex!”

Ian issued the bold call to the young man standing between two women on the far side of the crowded foyer—a foyer absent of Brewster, as far as Ian could tell.

The man looked up. His roaming gaze went easily past Ian, only to return with some confusion as Ian approached, hand outstretched.

“Good to see you, old man!” He pounded one of Dex’s shoulders, then burst fearlessly into his full act: the first lines of Schubert’s song cycle
Winterreise
. Ian was not a great tenor, but he could hold a tune like any Irishman.

After hearing only the first few words, Dex fell to its spell. He joined in with his far superior talent, as loud and marked as Ian had hoped. At the first pause, both men laughed and joined in a hearty handshake.

“Of course you remember me, Dex!” Ian said. “Vandermey, man!” Then he pulled away to bow more formally to the ladies beside Dex. “Ian Vandermey, at your service. I admit I received no invitation for tonight, but when I saw a notice in the paper about your event, I sent a donation to Dex’s mother immediately. I explained Dex and I went to school together, and she insisted we surprise Dex tonight. I suppose you’ve already guessed he made the glee club while passion alone failed to grant me a spot.” He nudged Dex with an elbow. “Dex went on to tour with the best of them, and I stayed behind, ever diligent in my studies.”

“Vandermey, you say?” Dex was clearly searching his memory—after all, Ian’s research had revealed the man had been at Harvard less than seven years ago and should recall it in detail. But Ian doubted Dex would deny what he could not recall, not at a charity ball among those whose social status had yet to make the top tier.

So Ian offered some help. “Yes, you remember, of course, how we cheered at Hamilton Field? You know, at the game! The first football match between Harvard and Yale, in ’75! I ought not speak of too many details of the day, considering the ladies, but how we celebrated that victory!”

Ian’s laugh was as contagious as ever, and soon Dex joined in, confirming to the women beside them that Ian was indeed his old college chum. Embarrassment over a forgotten schoolmate had no place in high society.

And Ian knew he was in.

Meg left several dances free on her card, feigning delicacy of stamina. Although she’d never been formally introduced to New York society, she did have the stamp of approval by being a Pemberton guest, which therefore put her in demand. Geoffrey was her most persistent suitor of the night. His face had fallen when she told him she’d promised the first dance to Nelson, but lightened when she gave him her second and a claim to another line farther down her card.

Claire introduced her to many suitable and capable dancers, as well as other women to chat with. But Meg noticed the women did not exude much eagerness to spend time in Claire’s quiet company, leaving Meg in Claire’s semi-isolated realm. Having learned Claire’s self-imposed seclusion was likely a result of her shattered heart, Meg was content to stay by her side. She had no desire to meet or impress new people, as these functions were designed to do for someone not already known in such circles. While skipping dances was frowned upon as a failure of the host to provide enough dance partners, this was yet another rule Meg was glad to break.

For the moment, though, Claire danced with a young man whose smile never left his face, even while Claire failed to look his way. She danced in his arms, her pale loveliness undeniable and marred only by her restrained expression. Despite the reminder not to think of Claire as her true friend, Meg couldn’t help wondering just how utterly devastated she must have been to remain unhealed after so long.

Meg was tempted to ponder the thought, even as she told herself not to. She was becoming far too fond of Claire as it was. But something caught her eye—rather, someone—simply because of the intense stare aimed directly her way.

A moment later Mr. Brewster stood before her, bowing formally with a smile on his fair-skinned face. “Good evening, Miss Davenport. I trust the evening finds you well?”

“Why, Mr. Brewster!” she said, hoping her face didn’t reflect the absolute shock she felt at seeing him. Here! “How nice to see you.”

“Likewise. Tell me, my dear, has your visit with the Pembertons been . . . profitable?”

She spared a glance around them, seeing that for the moment the other ladies she had been standing near were either dancing or engaged in conversations of their own. “I’ve enjoyed myself more than I can say, thank you. And how are you? It appears you need no help in garnering invitations to society events after all.”

He leaned close, so close that she caught the scent of peppermint on his breath. “My dear child, who said I had one?”

Meg blinked in an effort to control what she knew to be widening eyes.

“I came to see you, of course,” he continued, low, though he’d pulled back his face to a more polite distance. “To offer you a bit of advice that your father’s protégé seemed loath to give you. Advice on how best to use your time with such a family as the famous Pembertons.”

“And what would that be, Mr. Brewster? Advice that would secure me as your partner rather than Ian’s?”

He laughed as if she’d said something witty. “You’ve no more an obligation to me than you have to Maguire, but to work with him is to work with me. I’m quite certain I’ll be able to convince him that we would all be better off enjoying each other’s cooperation. It’s in that vein I offer you a bit of direction, nothing more. To use as you wish.”

She wanted to express her doubt that Ian would so easily work with Brewster, but his offer intrigued her. “What sort of direction?”

“You know only of the gold,” he said, glancing once over her shoulder. “But there is something just as valuable in that house, something they won’t soon miss should you be wise enough to recognize it.”