Bees in the Butterfly Garden (3 page)

2

A young man worthy of a lady’s attention must be impeccable in manner and dress. He must be humble yet confident, strong yet sensitive to his ladylove’s nature, and above all else, he must put the needs of others before his own.

Madame Marisse’s Handbook for Young Ladies

Near Peekskill, New York

Ian Maguire rubbed the soft fur behind Roscoe’s ears. He needed the comfort of the massive dog just then, if only to steady his hands after writing explicit instructions for the undertaker who waited nearby.

He could barely read his own writing. But there they were, directions for the stonemason on what was to be inscribed upon John’s headstone.

Behold and See as You Pass By

As You are Now so Once was I

As I am Now You Soon will Be

Prepare for Death and Follow Me

Ian had nearly begged John—Skipjack to those who knew him best—not to order such words to reside over him until the end of time. Not to bring such a dour warning out here to the country air they loved, the air that had served them far better than that stinking cloud hovering over New York City.

But John had been insistent. He’d changed in the last few months of his life, had acted as if he’d known death would summon him sooner than any of the rest of them suspected. The inscription itself gave no clue as to why John had presumed the quickness of death, other than the fact that it might be imminent for anyone—something Ian would rather not consider.

It was all Kate’s fault. She’d changed John with her new talk of hellfire, God’s judgment, and all that. She might have kept it to herself if she’d known John’s heart had been brittle as glass. The stress of life had proved too much for him.

Ian folded the instructions and handed the page to the undertaker, who would see to all of the details. With it he sent enough money for the cabinetmaker to build a proper coffin—the newer kind, with lining—and for the stonemason to brick over the grave as an extra precaution, even though John would be buried here on Ian’s own property, a safe distance from the city. No physician’s experiment would John be.

Ian returned to the bedroom where his friend’s body waited. Roscoe followed, the tips of his nails sounding a familiar tap on the uncarpeted floor. Pubjug was in the room, watching over the body alone for the moment. If Ian didn’t count Kate, he and Pubjug would miss John the most.

Served Kate right not to be here when John died, though it was a shame his last moments had been in a borrowed bed. That was Kate’s fault too, having recently thrown John out of her flat. Until they could be wed, of all things! After all this time.

Ian saw Pubjug seated on the chair near the bedside, arms folded, legs sprawled. Barely awake. Ian jabbed his shoulder when he passed.

“I’s watchin’, Pinch,” Pubjug said, calling Ian by a leftover nickname that only he—and John—ever used anymore. “He ain’t moved a mite, not a mite.”

“It’s all right, Pubjug. You can go now. I’ll watch over him for a while.”

Even as Pubjug left the room, Ian knew it was no use. John didn’t need to be watched over anymore. Ian believed the doctor who’d said John was dead. He no longer breathed. Ian had placed his hand under John’s nose often enough just to make sure, ever since he found him when Roscoe started howling that dawn, alerting Ian that something was amiss.

Now Roscoe took up the place he’d been coaxed away from earlier, on the bed and close to John’s cool body. The undertaker would be back shortly to shave and redress him, pack his body in ice to preserve it as well as he could before moving him down to the ballroom, where even now furniture was being rearranged and the dining table brought in. Ian hoped John would look better than he did at the moment, with a few days’ stubble on his chin and his mouth frozen open.

No one could see him this way. They should see him as the man he’d always been in life: strong, handsome. Though no longer charming or decisive or confident. So confident he could make someone believe up was down or the other way around if he wanted. All that was gone now.

Ian ignored the pain in his gut as he thought once again about the note he’d sent with Keys that morning—the one that was to be delivered first thing. Why had he done it? Why had the first note been to her? It wasn’t because John had said to take care of Meggie, because that hadn’t, in fact, been his most urgent instruction.

No. John had indeed told Ian to take care of her . . . but to do it from afar. Just as John had done all his life.

And yet visions of Meggie had come to Ian all morning. Surely she would be sorrowful over her father’s death. Perhaps she would be unable to keep herself away, despite the purposeful lack of invitation to help with the details of her father’s burial. Perhaps she would come here at last, and they could mourn their loss together.

“I don’t care what he said. I’m going in there.”

The sound of protest barely registered before the door burst open and there, obviously hastily coiffed, dressed in her habitual red, stood Katherine Kane, called Kate. For a woman nearly ten years older than Ian, she had been a lovely counterpart to John’s own youthful good looks. No doubt the reason that, together, they had profited so well from unsuspecting prey. They’d been too difficult for mere mortals to resist.

“John!” Kate brushed past Pubjug, who looked helplessly toward Ian before backing out of the room and closing the door.

Roscoe greeted her with a wagging tail and submissive ears, along with a little whimper as Kate approached John’s side. She brushed the top of the dog’s enormous brown head in an acknowledgment of their shared suffering, but it was barely more than a graze.

If she saw Ian, she ignored him as she fell at John’s side, a torrent of tears already dampening her unpowdered cheeks.

Despite his best intention, Ian was unable to remain cool in light of her grief. He watched her stroke John’s face, his hair, his brows; she tried closing his mouth, which remained stiff and unyielding against her effort. She uttered words Ian couldn’t decipher, except
no, no
and
too soon
.

Then she pressed her face to John’s chest, deep sobs racking her body.

Ian let her cry. But not for long. He pulled her from the bed, and for a moment she turned to him, nearly forcing an embrace as if to extract some small comfort. Ian let his arms fall around her, but even as he did, she backed away.

“Why didn’t you send word to me sooner? I had to find out from Dice, and he said Keys had the list of those who were to be told. I wasn’t even one of them!” Her words were barely out before Ian felt the imprint of her palm against his cheek. “How dare you! How dare you try controlling this, the way you’ve tried controlling everything else lately!”

Roscoe whined again, leaving the bed to stand between Ian and Kate. Ian wanted to rub the sting from his face but refused to give Kate the satisfaction. Instead, he rubbed Roscoe’s ear, but the action wasn’t calming enough to stay his tongue. “Maybe if you hadn’t banished John from the only bed he’s known for the past three years, you would have been the one controlling who heard the news.”

If she had a retort, she caught it between pursed lips. New tears appeared, and she turned back to John’s body. She sank to his bedside, bent close enough for her own tears to dampen his cheek.

“You know why,” she whispered, not to Ian but to the body in front of her. “You know it was right for us to part, if only for a little while. We were to be married, weren’t we, darling? This very week.” She put her head on his chest again. “But you’ve gone on without me.”

Ever since they’d met, she’d been able to make John do just about anything she wished. Precisely why Ian and the others disliked her. The vision of him as their leader had blurred with visions of her.

Kate continued to cry, and Ian wanted to tell her to go, to leave him alone with his own grief.

Instead, he left the room, taking Roscoe with him. There were still details to be seen to if they were to have visitors both tonight and tomorrow.

Because once word of John’s death circulated through New York, Ian was certain he would be juggling more than just a few visitors at a funeral.

3

It is generally unwise for a lady to travel without an escort. In emergencies, however, the wise traveler will arrive well in advance for ease of departure, use baggage of the best quality to avoid breakage in transit, avoid wearing such fabrics as velvet or lace (known to attract dust), and be careful not to draw the attention of strangers.

Madame Marisse’s Handbook for Young Ladies

New York City

Although the shop was in a respectable neighborhood, south of New York City’s exclusive Ladies’ Mile, where Meg had often shopped at the Marble Palace, Macy’s, and Lord & Taylor, she knew a moment of hesitation as the driver directed the hansom to the curb. But Meg refused to acknowledge her whisper of fear. This was New York! And even though she was here alone for the very first time in her life, this was the city she’d once wanted to claim as home.

Peering through the carriage window, Meg saw the sign identifying Yorick’s Household Goods. The wide plate-glass display windows on each side of the threshold showed off wares beneath an awning protecting the goods from the sun.

Meg swallowed, but her mouth remained dry. All those times she’d been the one to set an example for other girls at school haunted her now. Certainly some families, even upstanding ones, allowed their ladies to shop without a chaperone, but this simply wasn’t permitted among the girls from Madame’s school, not even for Meg as an exemplary student. Just taking the train into the city and then the carriage ride here—alone—had been an infraction Meg hadn’t been willing to commit since she was fourteen years old. Since then she’d succumbed to the life she’d been dealt: as the favorite, most accomplished student at Madame Marisse’s. The one who was good at being good.

Any time for hesitation was long past. She’d made up her mind last night, only hours after receiving word of her father’s death. And this morning, before either Hazel or Beatrice had arisen, Meg had packed a bag—much as she had that early morning four years ago. Only this time she hadn’t thought about taking any food, and she’d asked Mr. Pitt to take her to the train station. If her father’s laying out lasted the customary three days, she intended to stay at least another day. So she’d dressed in the one black gown she owned, reserved for occasions such as this, knowing she would play the part of the grieving daughter. She also left orders for her darkest burgundy gown to be dyed black as quickly as possible so she would have another gown to wear during her period of mourning.

Leaving her bag on the seat beside her now, she asked the cabbie to wait. Then she saw herself into the shop.

A little bell jingled when she pushed open the door. It was a surprisingly quaint feature for a specialty shop, since she knew most of its northern neighbors had clerks greeting customers. But she could tell there was a need for the bell here. Not a clerk to be seen. With such poor service, it was no wonder this shop couldn’t earn a spot closer to the more fashionable real estate up Broadway.

She looked around. While the view from the street had been common enough—household and sewing goods neatly displayed—inside the shop was something else. The first shelf she viewed shared its goods with a thin layer of dust, as if it had been quite some time since anyone had tended to the inventory, let alone been interested in a purchase. How on earth had her father made enough money to support her at Madame Marisse’s with such humble business interests?

She eyed another door behind a plain oak counter. “Pardon me?” she called. “Is someone here?”

No answer. She looked around again, noting the limited choices, the general lack of attention to detail in each display. She was nearly tempted to rearrange a set of dishes when the door at the back of the shop opened and someone emerged, a tall man who looked surprised to see her. He was finely dressed—his attire included gloves and a fedora—and he did not offer any help. Instead, he walked past her and out the front door.

Meg looked again at the inner door. It was ajar.

“Pardon me?”

A moment later another man peered around the edge of that door. She saw his white cap of hair first, then wrinkle-shrouded eyes that widened upon sight of her. He disappeared before she could say another word, finally opening the door wide enough to pass through while he pulled away an apron that had hung around his neck.

“May I help you?”

Meg nodded. “I hope so. Are you the proprietor here—or a clerk in his service?”

He didn’t look directly at her; rather he looked around the store as if checking to see that nothing had been disturbed. “I am the proprietor,” he said. “Mr. Thomas Yorick. How can I help you?”

“I came because you are my only means to contact my father, an investor in this shop. John Davenport.”

He gasped—she was quite sure of it, though he hid it well with a little cough. Instead of looking around anymore, he turned his gaze on her. He had to look up to see her face, and his white brows rose, lifting some of the wrinkles around his faded hazel eyes.

“Your father, did you say?”

“Yes. John Davenport.”

Now those brows fell, gathering in the middle. “And who are you, young lady?”

“My name is Margaret Davenport, but my father always called me Meg.”
Meggie,
she silently amended but wouldn’t say that name aloud. She’d always hated when he’d called her that, such an affectionate and familiar form of her name, as if he’d known and loved her. “I received word yesterday . . . about him . . .”

She stopped speaking because he leaned closer to study her, and she in turn leaned back to maintain a standard distance.

“Yes, you have his eyes, just as he said you did. Blue stolen straight from the sky.” Mr. Yorick grinned, and different wrinkles appeared on his face, on his upper cheeks—deeper on one side than the other, making that grin appear lopsided. “Blue of the sunniest day.”

“My hired carriage is waiting outside, and I was told you have my father’s household address. I intend going there now.”

The man was already shaking his head. “No, no, you needn’t trouble yourself. He’s not here in the city, you know.” He was already turning, and Meg’s heart sank to her stomach for fear of being sent away without completing her mission. She knew her father wasn’t here, not in spirit anyway. But in body, at least. She would say good-bye to him and remember him in death, perhaps more fondly than she had while he lived. And perhaps, just seeing his home, she would gain a glimpse of what her life might have been had he truly acted a father to her.

The proprietor glanced out the shop window. “Do you have the means to travel outside the city, miss?”

“I’m familiar with the train schedules.”

“Very good, then.” The man withdrew paper, ink, and a gold-tipped writing instrument from beneath the counter. “Go to the station at Chambers and Hudson, to pick up the Hudson River train. Buy a ticket to Peekskill. Have you traveled the Hudson line before?”

She nodded. Every so often she had taken the Hudson line for student outings to explore historical sites from the Revolutionary War.

Mr. Yorick blew on the ink before handing her the paper. There was no name attached to the unfamiliar address he’d written.

“And this is where my father’s funeral will be held?”

“Yes. I received word about it yesterday afternoon. You’ll be traveling on your own, then?”

She nodded again, determined to hide the fact that this was the first time she’d traveled by herself any farther than a few hours’ distance from her school.

He eyed her as if reading the truth. “You might as easily get off at Croton, but it’s a bit farther by carriage from there. Take the train as far as Peekskill; you won’t regret the extra expense.”

“You’ll be going, then?”

“To this address? Oh, I should say not.” He winked. “It’s a bit closer to Sing Sing than West Point, if you know what I mean.”

She nodded, though his words—and wink—meant nothing. If the address was closer to Peekskill than Croton, what had that to do with either Sing Sing or West Point? But she didn’t ask because he looked a bit too amused over his own choice of words.

Meg turned away, and as she reached the door, he called after her, “My condolences.”

As she settled in the carriage, an unjustifiable feeling of sadness came upon Meg. Her stomach grumbled from lack of nourishment, but she’d been unable to eat and even now had no desire for food. This was a journey she had to make, although she wasn’t sure why. If money were love, then John Davenport had loved her well. But if love were smiles and embraces and companionship, then he’d loved her not at all. Why honor his passing?

This should be an adventure, if nothing else—at long last she was beyond the school and on her own. What was she mourning? A father she’d barely known?

She’d never understood the fascination he’d stirred in Hazel and Beatrice. Even Madame Marisse must have been moved by his charm; otherwise she never would have taken in Meg. Not when admission into her school normally meant a thorough exploration of background—and not just of bank accounts, but of pedigree. Other than money, the only things in Meg’s past were questions.

Meg remembered the day she’d vowed to never again inquire about her father and whatever lineage she’d inherited. She’d been nine years old, and her father had brought Ian Maguire with him to visit her. It wasn’t long after that Meg had made her first of several attempts at escape. Not to run to her father, but to run away from the life he’d designed for her.

Why should her father need her—or love her, for that matter—when he had a surrogate son upon whom to lavish all his affection and attention? Though the two had barely exchanged a word in her presence—the boy was as awkward as her father had been—Meg knew. She knew whatever place she might have once held in her father’s life had been filled. By Ian Maguire.

The carriage slowed at the train station, drawing Meg’s attention from her thoughts. Folding the paper and stuffing it inside the fringed pouch she carried, she withdrew enough money to pay the cabman. Then she took her satchel and went in search of the ticket office.

Nothing stood in her way now. Meg could finally discover her past—and with that knowledge, better plan her future.