Bees in the Butterfly Garden (28 page)

Before she could refuse, before she could offer even the slightest glance of apology to Evie, Geoffrey claimed her hand and led her away.

“I see now why you were so distracted during the first half of the concert,” Geoffrey said quietly. His tone held something akin to sadness. “You were looking for your cousin, weren’t you? Hoping to see him here today?”

She let her gaze meet his, knowing that a lack of denial said enough. Still, it wasn’t easy to withstand his unhappiness. He’d only been kind and friendly to her, and if she were anyone but her father’s daughter, she might have enjoyed his company.

“It’s difficult to compete with someone who’s had a place in your heart for any length of time,” he said as he set a slow pace beside her, “but I don’t intend giving up.”

Meg grabbed the hand that rested on hers. She wasn’t sure it was right letting him think that Ian held more a place in her heart than he did. She knew only that they were partners; the rest was too confusing to sort out just yet. But it served her purpose to rebuff Geoffrey. He only complicated what she’d come to do. “Please do, Geoffrey. I cannot be what you want me to be.”

He leaned in on her, so close she was afraid he would kiss her. He stopped only inches away. “But you already are.”

Then Evie joined them, and any more such talk was tucked away.

27

It is essential for the young hostess to provide an evening of effervescent pleasantry, fit for fond memories. Vulgarities in any form are to be avoided at all cost, so as not to cause dyspepsia in her guests.

Madame Marisse’s Letters to Young Wives
, No. 5

“You cannot be serious!”

Evie’s protest over the proposed dinner procession echoed from one end of the parlor to the other. The three of them, Evie, Claire, and Meg, sat planning an event that was still four days away—days that hopefully would not prove to be four more filled with quarreling. Perhaps it was a good thing they’d forgotten about planning the picnic Nelson and Claire once mentioned; that would no doubt be a source of as much contention as this dinner party.

“Don’t imagine I’ll be any more pleased to walk in with you, Evie,” Claire said, “but it’s only one evening, ten feet from here to the dining room, and there is simply no other way.”

Meg looked between the bickering siblings, afraid Claire was correct. She was hardly thrilled with the arrangement herself, but if they were to follow decorum as set by London—and really, no company dinner did otherwise—then they must do it by rank.

Of course this issue would have been avoided altogether if they hadn’t invited Kate, but Evie would hear nothing of that. Or it could have been solved with something as simple as the truth. Kate was not nobility and as such didn’t need to be given preference. But as it was, Nelson, being the temporary head of the household and therefore the host, would escort “Lady” Kate into the dining room. She would sit at his right hand. That much was not in dispute.

Nomi was the eldest and therefore next in line of importance. This was some cause of concern, since it would have been simple for Claire to act as hostess and expect Ian to escort her. On the other hand, the whole purpose of the evening was to allow Meg to enjoy Ian’s company in front of Geoffrey, a plan which Evie fully endorsed. But because they’d agreed to allow Evie to join them, it meant one less seat available for another gentleman, leaving Ian the only available escort for Nomi.

It also meant putting Mr. and Mrs. Mason together, an obvious social mistake in a setting that was designed to expand one’s chances at diverse conversation. But there was nothing to be done for it.

In Claire’s display of humility that seemed to rankle her only because it meant walking in at her sister’s side, she suggested she and Evie go after everyone else. It wasn’t being last that seemed to bother Evie, but rather the irksome idea of Meg walking in with Geoffrey.

“Don’t forget we’re allowing you to dine with us as a favor to you,” Claire said to Evie’s continued scowl. “You’re the one so eager to grow up.”

The frown did not ease. “You couldn’t set a table with only nine people. I’m as necessary to the evening as either of you.”

“We could always invite one of Nelson’s associates and leave you off the list entirely,” Claire suggested. “That way I could at least walk in on the arm of a man instead of a child.”

“You won’t do any such thing. Not that you would hesitate to thwart me, but being a dinner partner to some other man would mean being false to your silly memory of Jude.”

Meg cleared her throat. “I think you’re forgetting, Evie, that this dinner was practically your idea.” Or at least that was what Meg wanted everyone to think. She’d done nothing more than make a suggestion to Evie, and the child had taken over just as Meg had hoped. “You haven’t been properly introduced into society as of yet, and even though this is a simple dinner party for neighbors and friends, it’s still stretching the rules to include someone your age.”

“Oh, all right, I won’t argue anymore.” Her glare softened somewhat when she turned to Meg. “Except having you sit with Geoffrey through the entire meal spoils the whole idea.”

Meg shook her head. “But I don’t plan to charm him, Evie. I plan to convince him of the truth: I have no intention of marrying him or anyone.” Perhaps if she told herself that often enough, and pronounced it publicly, she would believe it.

“Or anyone?” The shocked question came in unison from both Claire and Evie.

“Well, at least not anyone I know.”

“Not even your so-called cousin?” Evie asked.

Meg felt warmth scroll up from her heart to her forehead. Why did everyone insist she felt more for Ian than she wanted to admit? And yet it did no harm to let Evie think what she wanted.

“It’s true Ian is only a distant sort of cousin, honorary rather than blood. My friendship with him began when my father died and is on my father’s behalf.” Establishing anything more would no doubt make her create a labyrinth of lies too complicated for her to keep straight, so she wouldn’t try. “Just know that I’m no competition for Geoffrey’s attention, Evie.”

Claire was shaking her head, setting aside the list of menu ideas—another area of dissension they’d visited earlier. “I’m not at all sure this idea is a good one. For one thing, we’re practically encouraging her infatuation with Geoffrey. Anyone can see he’s too old for her and still considers her a child.”

“For now!” Evie insisted.

“When he leaves home for college or to travel again, he may come home with a bride, Evie. One his own age. I’m only trying to spare you future heartache.”

Evie was clearly unconvinced.

Meg picked up the paper Claire had set aside. She needed this dinner party to take place for altogether different reasons. Claire might resent her little sister, but in this case she was entirely correct about the evening lacking any element of protection for Evie’s young heart. Something Meg would rather not dwell upon too long.

“Getting back to the menu,” she began, “did we decide on three courses? We ought to have at least that many for ten of us and perhaps four
quelque chose
to start with.”

Evie laughed. “You can call them kickshaws around here, Meg. Claire isn’t much better than I at French.”

“All right, then,” Meg said. “What shall we have for the kickshaws? Shrimp? Or oysters? Both, perhaps, and celery, too.”

“Oh, Claire, can we have Cook make some candied fruit, the way she did at Christmastime? And a centerpiece of sugar flowers and figurines!”

Claire frowned. “We told Cook this was a simple dinner, remember?”

“Then we can order in for a confection centerpiece. I saw an advertisement for table ornaments in the newspaper just the other day. It’ll save ever so much time but be fitting for Lady Weathersfield. I’m sure she’s used to fancy dinners. We don’t want to disappoint her or disgrace our house, do we? And beside that, think how Mrs. Mason will appreciate it. She likes a fuss to be made over her.”

Claire nodded. “Very well; I’ll see about ordering something.”

Meg listened, wishing she could ease some of their eagerness for the designated evening. Kate, in all likelihood, had never graced her own table with sugar figurines. And Mrs. Mason . . . well, there was something about her that inspired Meg to remind her that even though half the families along Fifth Avenue could afford to pave the streets with gold, this was not the footstool of heaven.

The evening was set for Thursday, and invitations had already gone out. She had four days left—more importantly three nights—to discover more information about how to access the office corner. If it housed a safe as she suspected, she would supply Ian with access to the house, a floor plan he would be familiar with after this dinner party, and instructions on how to reach the safe that she would describe as he’d requested. He would know what to do after that to complete their plan.

The clock from the library struck three. Meg stood in the office, desperate to find what she was looking for. She had only tonight left; the last two nights had proven fruitless.

There was little light without a moon to shine through the two high windows. She was forced to use a candle. It was a risk, of course, but she would keep it well away from the windows. She closed the door to the library to prevent any shadows from escaping that way. The paraffin candle Meg had borrowed from the dining room earlier would leave behind no scent, unlike the bayberry in her room.

Keeping her back to the painting, she stared at the desk. That cross, the one that stood on the edge—was it only decorative, a symbol of Mr. Pemberton’s faith? But why have it when the painting did the same thing? Had she missed something as obvious as what this cross might be?

Meg touched the carving, tipping it forward, then backward as if it were the secret lever Ian had described. But nothing happened, not even when she lifted it.

Almost nothing.

The cross in her hand, so smoothly carved, so stark a representation of the painting she’d turned her back on, beckoned her to look at what she’d vowed to ignore. But Meg refused to turn around.

She returned the carving to its spot, then rounded the desk and got down on her hands and knees. She’d searched here already, but if there was a lever behind this desk, Meg would find it—without a moment wasted staring at a portrait that was nothing more than canvas and paint.

Meg settled the candleholder on the floor behind her and pushed the chair out of the way. Then she rolled back the carpet as far as the heavy desk allowed and ran her hands along the smooth, cool tiling.

Nothing.

Surely if there was a secret lever, it couldn’t be too difficult to access, if one was to open the corner with any regularity. But repeating the action, lingering over tile edges, pressing and pulling at the lines of grout lest any seam conceal a hinge, she still found nothing.

At last Meg sank back on her feet, a soft moan escaping that she hadn’t realized was trapped inside. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps the room had been designed with the hall in front of it for the very reason she’d first assumed: the occupier of this room wanted no distractions, thus the only windows were up high for the benefit of light, but no view or compromise of privacy. Perhaps the measurement shortage in the hall meant nothing at all.

Still, it made no sense. The parlor, on the opposite end of the house, had no such secret corner. She’d measured that just to be sure. It appeared only this corner, in this room, was inexplicable.

She looked around the room again. The only place she’d steered away from was the painting. She didn’t want to go near it. Even as she turned away to restore the rug and chair to their original placement, the struggle waged within her. Superstition. Irrational fear. Omens.

Which was, of course, ridiculous. She knew God wouldn’t approve of what she was doing, but did she honestly believe He cared? Surely if her father or Ian were here, they wouldn’t let misplaced guilt or premature remorse prevent them from doing whatever they needed to do.

With that thought, she strode forward, candle high in one hand and the other hand outstretched. She touched the edge of the picture’s frame, half-expecting some kind of shock—like the jolt from a metal stair railing or a fireplace poker after walking across a carpet on a dry day. But nothing happened; the portrait accepted her touch as if it had expected it. Welcomed it.

She slid her fingertips behind the frame, starting high, barely disturbing the way it hung so solidly from the wall.

And there it was, high enough to be hidden by any work of art—something much smaller could certainly have accomplished what this massive portrait did with such excess. Her fingertips brushed against a narrow but smooth indentation. Sliding her fingers in as far as it allowed, she felt the lever. Like the ceramic beneath her slippered feet, it was cool, made of steel or iron. She pulled it; it lowered only as far as the edge of the indentation, so the painting hiding it was in no danger of damage.

Instantly she heard a dull click and she spun around, still holding the candle. A shadow appeared that was not there before—a long, straight line near the corner. It beckoned her. She went to it, pulling wider the gap.

Thrusting her candle into the darkness, she realized the wall hid neither a room nor a safe. Looking down, she saw the narrowest of stairwells—plain, unadorned wood steps with metal sidings. Gingerly she tapped a toe to the top stair; it was sturdy and would accept her weight.

Still, she hesitated. She lifted the candle again, looking at the walls. They were plain block without so much as a spiderweb in sight, and yet fear accompanied her excitement. It was one thing to face the insects she knew in the garden, another to face the unknown in pitch black.

But she knew what she must do.

There was no railing, nothing but the stark, cold wall to provide balance on the narrow stairs. Three of the four walls were easily within reach, making her feel closed in, trapped, even with the secret door left open. The steps were steep, little better than a ladder. As she descended, the air grew cooler. And though the walls likely did not grow any closer than they’d been at the top of the ladderlike stairs, it was as if they engulfed her with each step she took.

Meg stopped, lowering the candle to see what waited at the bottom. How much farther could this squeezed staircase go?

Dank air licked the candle’s glow as if threatening to extinguish it. Though unsteady, the flicker remained intact all the way to the last stair, where she paused to look around. Her eye caught on a line in the wall in front of her, her candle’s glow reflecting what appeared to be a narrow bead of dampness between the cement blocks. A rag of some kind had been wadded on the floor below to catch the seepage.

There wasn’t much space; the walls down here in no way matched the room above. But the flame did its job—it revealed what she most wanted to see. There it was, behind the stairway.

A safe. Nearly as tall as Meg, made of some kind of metal. The handle was of the lever kind, with a dial above it. From her spot on the stair it was too dim to read the brand, but she could see there was lettering etched or painted in an arch on the very top of the door. She would have to approach the safe for a better look.

So she did, holding the candle high as she stood before the safe. The brand was Madison.

That was all she needed.

Like a trapped animal darting to the only way out, Meg nearly dropped the candle on the way up the stairs. But she settled it back on its holder, lifted her nightgown and robe out of the way, then rushed to the office with her feet moving faster than her heartbeat.