Bees in the Butterfly Garden (8 page)

“You might have knocked on the door instead of sneaking in,” Meggie said to his back.

If she was still hoping to continue their fight, he wanted none of it. He did not turn to face her as he said, “I tried.” Then he moved out of the room, leading the way down the stairs.

9

The true colors of ladies and gentlemen are revealed at every meal.

Madame Marisse’s Handbook for Young Ladies

Dinner was served on the veranda that stood atop a freshly mown hill sided by trees outlining a path to the Hudson River below. The wide expanse instantly brought Meg visions of gardens. If this house needed anything, it certainly needed that.

Maguire sulked through most of the meal. Meg wanted to gloat, but when she saw his gaze travel to the door that led to the ballroom, where her father’s body awaited burial, she felt chastised. He wasn’t sulking; he mourned her father. That dog was in there too; she saw him through the glass. Lying at the foot of the table upon which her father’s body lay.

Halfway through the meal, another gentleman joined them, although the manner in which he plopped a bottle of something near his plate, then sat down without so much as a greeting, made her wonder if she’d used the term
gentleman
too generously. He’d half filled his plate before she realized no one, not even Kate, was going to make a proper introduction.

“My name is Meg Davenport, sir.” She offered the traditional bow of her head, waiting for him to introduce himself in return.

He grunted with the slightest of nods.

Meg looked from Kate to Maguire. Neither said a word, just continued eating.

She looked again at the man. “And you are . . . ?”

“Pubjug’s the name.” He took a bit of meat dangling from his fork and added, “Sorry about your father, miss. He was my best friend.”

She looked away from the sight of the man’s full and working mouth. “Thank you, Mr. . . . Pubjug.”

“Just Pubjug. It’s a nickname. We all have them, you know.”

“Like a . . .” Maguire seemed to search for a word, though it was clear he wished this man, Pubjug, hadn’t shown up at all. “A club.”

Pubjug laughed. “A club! I like that, Pinch! I earned my name at a little bar in the Bowery when I was just a boy. The place were run by a coupl’a John Bulls, so we called it the Pub as if it was in England. And I once drank an entire jug of—”

“Pubjug knew your father longer than any of us did,” Maguire interrupted. “They were childhood friends.”

Pubjug nodded, unfazed over the interruption. “Your pa and I grew up in the same neighborhood, over on Fifth Street in the Bowery. I still live there, mostly.”

Meg’s heart skipped. “So you knew my father’s family? His parents . . . my grandparents? Brothers and sisters?”

“He ain’t got no brothers or sisters, least not’ny more. Had a sister once, but she died in a fire. ’Bout killed John’s ma. She never could dance after that. Always got winded and short for breath, on account of the smoke she took in trying to save her little girl. Shame, too. My pa said she was the finest dancer at the hall.” He offered a brief laugh that was altogether amused. “’Course she’d have had to give up the dancing anyway, after John’s pa quit tendin’ bar in the dance hall.”

The food in Meg’s mouth went tasteless. Her grandmother a dancer—someone who
danced
, in public! Visions of a half-clad woman pirouetting in front of a bunch of gawking men filled her mind. And with the full approval of a husband who poured liquor!

“Your father came from humble means,” Maguire told her, though the statement ended a bit more gently than it had begun.

Meg had countless other questions but for a long moment could only stare straight ahead, oblivious to anything in front of her. She came from a long line of those who cared little for any of the rules she’d been fed from the earliest days of her life.

“You said my grandfather left the dance hall. Why? For other work?”

“Went to work at the mission hall till the day he died,” Pubjug said.

“From the dance hall to the
mission
hall?”

Kate nodded and took a sip of the water in front of her. “That’s part of the reason your father was so interested in what I learned at a revival meeting that changed my own life.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” said Maguire, who swiped at his mouth with a napkin, then stood with a shove to the chair beneath him. “I trust you’ll limit the conversation to happy memories, Kate.”

He fairly stomped to the door of the ballroom but opened it only long enough to call to his dog. Then the pair walked away.

Never, not at school and not even in the homes of any fellow students, had Meg sat at a table where people came and went without the slightest consideration of etiquette.

“He don’t like to listen to the things Kate likes to talk about,” Pubjug said before taking a long drink directly from the bottle he’d brought. “’Specially when she brings up the revival meetin’.”

“Unfortunately it’s true.” Kate watched Maguire walk off.

Meg spared a glance at Maguire as well. “Perhaps he has a guilty conscience.” Providing he had one, of course.

“Guilt? Perhaps a little. But it’s more than that. He’s like a spurned lover when it comes to God.” Kate smiled at Meg. “Only I wonder why Ian believes God did the spurning, when it must have been the other way around.”

Ian threw a stick and Roscoe shot after it, trotting back proudly but not letting go when Ian reached to reclaim it. He didn’t have the energy for a tug-of-war. In times like this he contemplated training the animal, but such notions were usually short lived. More than one encounter with a guard dog had left Ian with an understandable fear of trained dogs. He guessed turning Roscoe into a soldier—even for protection—wouldn’t be easy on either end.

Ian lifted one foot to rest it on an old tree stump by the water’s edge, staring at the river flowing by while petting the dog’s sizable head. Roscoe played his part well enough. He was a faithful, affectionate companion, and that was all Ian expected of him.

“Well, boy, it’s back to the city after tomorrow. If I can’t convince Keys to flip back to me, we’ll have to work on someone else to take his place.”

Police training took three months. Even if Ian found someone tomorrow to put on the job for his purposes, it would take too long. If he didn’t go through with this break-in quickly, Brewster could easily call himself John’s replacement and everyone but Ian would likely accept it.

But if Ian went through with this heist, and if it went as well as he expected, even Brewster would have to admit Ian didn’t need him. Working side by side with Brewster—each with their own men—was fine with Ian. It was submitting to him, running every idea by him the way Ian had done with John, that Ian hoped to avoid. There was only one John Davenport, and Brewster was no equal.

Ian walked along the river, picking up more sticks and throwing them rather than wrestling away the ones Roscoe retrieved. Other images invaded his mind—some he wished to throw away as easily as he did the sticks. But Meggie’s face was like a boomerang, returning between every thought of John’s death or the coming burglary.

The sun had sunk low on the horizon before Ian tracked back to the house. Tomorrow afternoon would be here soon enough, and before then he needed to come up with some way to persuade Keys back to his side. A bigger share might work; Keys’s greed was as famous as his caution, something Ian could understand. Money was security, status, the blood of life. If Ian could buy Keys’s loyalty, it would be worth it.

By the time he reached the veranda, all trace of dinner had been cleared away. He let himself in through the ballroom door and paused by John’s side, knowing by tomorrow at this time his friend and mentor would be buried, forever beyond Ian’s sight. Roscoe plopped at his feet.

“Good-bye, my friend,” Ian whispered. “And thank you.”

At last he turned, following the spill of light he spotted coming from the parlor. His first thought was to hope Meggie might be there. And even as he reined in that hope, his footsteps hastened when Kate’s familiarly stern voice was met with laughter. Though Ian had never heard it before, he instantly recognized that laugh as belonging to Meggie.

“I’ll have no part in such a thing! It’s not a game,” he heard Kate say.

Another laugh from Meggie met Kate’s words. “Why not? Where else could I ever learn such a talent?”

Ian stopped at the threshold. “What kind of game?”

Kate stepped in front of him. “Ian, I’m glad you’ve returned! Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”

“Now I know something’s wrong. You’re never glad to see me, Kate, and I didn’t think you believed I possessed enough sense to spare for anyone else. What’s going on?”

“I’s showin’ her how to lift a purse, Pinch. Same as I showed you.”

Ian looked past Kate, past Pubjug, then on to Meggie with growing horror. In that moment he knew he had no hope, not a trace, that she was still ignorant of her father’s occupation. Desperate to deny it, he kept his voice calm and his hands at his sides. “That’s an old game, Pubjug. Something Meggie’s father wouldn’t approve of her learning.”

He looked at her again, seeing her gloat in all-knowing confidence. By contrast, in the corner of Ian’s vision, stood Kate. Looking as guilty as she no doubt was. Why had he left Meggie alone with them?

An explosion of anger shot through him. Marching past Meggie, he stood toe-to-toe with Kate. “You’ve betrayed his memory. Betrayed
him
by telling her.”

“I haven’t! Meggie had a right to know. I’m convinced John himself would have wanted her to know so she wouldn’t doubt his love.”

Ian spun around to face Meggie again. “Are you assured of that love now? Have you seen the light, changed your mind about him? Or do you think the worst of him instead?”

Meggie squared her shoulders, and her gaze met his without a hint of cowering. How was it that she could replicate that look in her eye, the same one her father had used when he wanted his way, without ever having been taught by him to do so?

“At least I understand why he kept his secrets—and what’s more, I understand myself better than I did this morning. Kate did the right thing in telling me, and I can only believe it wasn’t my father you were trying to protect, or me, but yourself.”

The words had the power to pierce Ian, had his heart stood still long enough to receive that piercing. He leaned toward her the way he always did when he wanted to reinforce his words. “I haven’t given a thought to myself since your father died, which is more than I can say of you.”

If she was insulted, she didn’t show it. “If you’re worried I might have you investigated for whatever crimes you’re guilty of—and my guess is there are many—then you can rest assured I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Trying to teach me honor, Meggie?”

“Given your eavesdropping earlier, it’s a lesson you obviously need to learn.”

He ignored her jab and shot his next words at Pubjug. “What were you thinking? Is that any kind of thing to teach little Meggie?”

Meggie huffed. “Little Meggie! Which reminds me—my name is Margaret, but I’m called
Meg
, not Margaret and certainly not Meggie. I’ll thank all of you to remember that.” She glared at Ian. “And why are you scolding Pubjug, anyway? It was my idea.”

“Oh, now, Miss Meggie—er, Meg,” Pubjug said, “that ain’t true. I was the one that said it might be in your blood, same as you got your papa’s eyes.”

“It doesn’t matter whose idea it was,” Ian said. “It ends right now.”

Meggie gasped. “Why, you pompous, overbearing, meddling reprobate! You have no right to give orders to me or to Pubjug.”

He used a stare that made many men cower, but she stood unwavering.

“You haven’t the stomach for your father’s life,
Meggie
.” Then he turned to address the others. “I suggest we all go to bed. Tomorrow will be another busy day.”

Pubjug started to shuffle from the room, and even Kate turned away. But Meggie stayed where she was. “How dare you dismiss this before it’s even begun! Pubjug, come back here. Show me what you were going to show me.”

“It’s probably best that we end the day,” Kate said gently. “It’s been tiring for all of us.”

“And I . . . don’t . . . I don’t like arguing.” Pubjug’s old eyes never attempted to meet Meggie’s gaze. “So good night, then.”

He left the room somewhat quicker than he’d tried before, and Kate went along with him.

“You might have them bullied,” Meggie said to Ian, “but you won’t do that to me.”

Ian caught her arm and put his nose almost to hers. “You’re going back to Connecticut tomorrow, Meggie, to count every garment and comb and jewel your father ever gave you as the loving gifts he meant them to be. Then you’re going to contact each one of the acquaintances you made at that fancy school and beg them to introduce you to any and every eligible, wealthy bachelor they know so you can be securely settled in matrimony for the rest of your life. That’s what you’re going to do. And you’re not going to play any more ridiculous games with Pubjug. Do you hear me?”

“Oh, I hear you, Maguire.” She ripped her arm from his grasp. “Just don’t expect me to listen. I’ll be going to New York City and staying with Kate.”