Murder at Rough Point (3 page)

“Yes, I don't often perform in Providence, and I remember that opening night.” She pouted full, pink lips—rouged, if I wasn't mistaken—and awakening dimples in either cheek. “It rained dreadfully and I feared no one would come.”

“A little rain could not have kept us away, Miss Marcus. You were divine.”

She tipped her head, her blond curls caught up in a beaded band sporting a tulle bow at one side. “I'm sorry, I don't believe I heard your name.”

“Josephine, this is Emma Cross.” Something in the way Mrs. Wharton spoke my name once again raised my guard. My reporter's instincts reared up inside me, banishing the starry-eyed admirer of renowned opera singer Josephine Marcus.

I returned to my seat beside Mrs. Wharton and removed my tablet and pencil from my purse. “Will you be performing in the area while you're here, Miss Marcus? The Casino, perhaps?” I couldn't contain the hopeful note in my voice, although I knew full well the social Season had ended weeks earlier and it was a rare performer indeed who could be coaxed to entertain our local populace.

“No, I'm here to calm my nerves and enjoy a bit of sea air.” Miss Marcus sat opposite us. Whereas Mrs. Wharton perched properly upright with the straightest of postures, which I attempted to emulate, the opera singer reclined against the cushion at her back—a woman who sat as she pleased and, I guessed, did as she pleased, convention be damned. “I'm afraid I'll be no use in providing gossip for your newspaper article, Miss Cross. The spring and summer seasons have left me quite diminished.”

“I don't write a gossip column, Miss Marcus,” I told her as politely as I could, although the very word raised my hackles. “My Fancies and Fashions page is about styles and trends and follows society activities during the Season.”

“That's not all Miss Cross does, Josephine.” Mrs. Wharton went on to describe the more harrowing tales I'd retold in print. Then she and Miss Marcus traded pleasantries of the sort people do when they know each other well but haven't seen each other in recent days. I listened, jotted down a note or two that might be of interest in my article, but my attention was momentarily drawn elsewhere.

The drawing room looked out onto a covered veranda and the main terrace, both of which overlooked the sea. Two men presently came up the terrace steps. They were young men, not yet thirty, I estimated, and they were laughing. When one stumbled on the top step the other reached out to steady him with a firm hand. This only elicited more laughter. Then they sobered and traded quieter words.

I had a good look at them then. One was all darkness—hair, eyes, even his complexion, which possessed a smooth olive sheen particular to Mediterranean climates. He again raised a hand, this time to push a mop of thick curls off his forehead. That hand was large, the fingers long and slender, and beautifully tapered.

But it was when the other turned in my direction that my breath stopped. Where the first was dark, this man was light—hair, eyes, skin, and even the way he held himself and the way he moved, as if he might at any moment grasp the breeze and fly out over the ocean. The fanciful notion nearly made me chuckle out loud. Here I had thought I had regained my professional perspective. But his was an artist's face surrounded by wavy light brown hair, or at least the sort of face artists loved to capture, with its chiseled cheekbones, strong chin, and intelligent brow. And yet the mouth—the mouth was soft, gently bowed, almost feminine in its lushness....

“Ah, that's Vasili and Niccolo you see out there, Miss Cross.” Miss Marcus's grin was feline and, I thought, cunning. “They've been out exploring the Cliff Walk. Thank goodness neither went over the side.”

The men entered the veranda, first sitting to remove their boots and step into shoes before opening the drawing room doors to come in. They seemed startled at first to see Mrs. Wharton and me, and greeted us with brief bobs and good mornings. They continued through to the Great Hall, their steps echoing off the high ceiling.

“I assume they're part of the retreat,” I said. “Who are they, may I ask?”

Josephine Marcus looked almost sorry for me. Mrs. Wharton said, “My dear, that's Vasili Pavlenko—the pretty one with the light brown hair.”

“And the delicious figure,” Miss Marcus added in a stage whisper. “He's perfect—absolutely perfect from head to toe. But then, ballet dancers usually are.”

“A dancer,” I mused. “How wonderful.”

Mrs. Wharton's hand came down on my wrist, startling me with its abruptness. “No, dear. Not any longer. Vasili sustained an injury that prevents him from dancing professionally ever again. It is his great sorrow. He's now a choreographer with the Imperial Russian Ballet. Do not mention his past unless he brings it up first.”

“Thank you for warning me. I won't. And the other . . . ?

“The dark one is Niccolo Lionetti.” Miss Marcus wrinkled the perfect slope of her nose, but rather than a negative gesture there was something proprietary in her expression, though she elaborated no further.

“Is he a dancer, too?” I asked.

“Goodness, no.” Mrs. Wharton laughed again in that easy way she had. “Niccolo plays the cello, and quite beautifully, I might add. He's in demand in every major city in Europe. I expect the same will soon be true here in America once he's played on a few stages.”

“I see. And whom else can I expect to meet?”

My question sent furtive glances back and forth between Edith Wharton and Josephine Marcus. Mrs. Wharton said casually, “There is Sir Randall Clifford, of course. He's interested in buying Rough Point.”

“I didn't know it was for sale.” Indeed, Mr. Dunn hadn't mentioned that very pertinent fact, nor had Uncle Frederick and Aunt Louise.

“Nothing is certain yet,” Mrs. Wharton explained. “I'm sure it's no secret to you that they've grown tired of Newport. One cannot blame them for wishing to unload the place.”

“No, I don't suppose so.” My thoughts turned inward. I couldn't help thinking about how much had been lost to me already, and how much more stood to be lost. My cousin Consuelo, gone away and unlikely to return to Newport anytime soon; Cousin Neily—dear Neily—also out of the country indefinitely; and his sister, Gertrude, had left as well, having married Harry Whitney in August. My childhood home on the Point had been sold—to a man who, despite my every resolve, held a significant part of my heart, and now he was gone as well with no definite plans of returning. Then there was Uncle Cornelius, victim of a stroke during the summer, from which he might never fully recover. On top of all that, I barely saw my brother Brady these days, working as he was in New York City at the offices of the New York Central Railroad.

Was I about to lose another piece of my world? I tapped my pencil on the open page before me, so hard the point splintered and a tiny shard of lead went flying toward the hearth. “Is that everyone?”

Another question answered my own as a gentleman I hadn't seen previously strolled in from the Great Hall. With one hand in the pocket of his smoking jacket and the other held dramatically out to his side with the fingers curled upward, he spoke in a heavy French accent. “
Quoi
, Mademoiselle Cross? Has no one told you?”

I
knew
Miss Marcus and Mrs. Wharton had been withholding something. A suspicion began to take root. “Tell me what? Is there something else I should know?”

Mrs. Wharton was on her feet in an instant. “Miss Cross, this is Monsieur Claude Baptiste. He is a stage director. Claude, come and greet Miss Cross properly. She'll be spending a good deal of time here with us over the next two weeks.”

“
Oui, très bien
.” He crossed to me and with a little bow, took my hand and raised it to his lips. “A pleasure, mademoiselle.” He didn't hold me in his attentions for long, for presently he addressed the other two women. “Have either of you seen Vasili?”

“He just passed through a moment ago,” Miss Marcus told him. Her eyes narrowed and that catlike smile flashed again. “With Niccolo. Didn't you pass them along the way?”

“
Non
,” came his stiff reply.

“Check the billiard room,” Mrs. Wharton suggested brightly. The Frenchman nodded and went on his way.

I longed to demand what that had been about—why the exchange left me feeling puzzled and uneasy. But it wasn't my place to question these people about their private affairs. That would have been overstepping my professional boundaries. As if she heard my silent musings, Mrs. Wharton once more sat beside me and placed her hand on my own, as if she and I were fast friends, confidantes.

“I've just had the most splendid idea. Instead of you traveling back and forth every day to check up on our progress, why don't you stay on? You can dash home now and pack a bag, and this way you can truly immerse yourself in our artistic world, so to speak.”

It didn't take a genius to recognize her effort to distract me. “Mrs. Wharton, please, what is this secret—”

Her hand tightened around mine. “All in good time, my dear. Please trust me. Yes, there is still a surprise or two—” She broke off and darted a quick glance at Miss Marcus. “But I can promise you, all will be revealed. Now, will you stay?”

“I have responsibilities at home, and there is my job . . .”

“Nonsense. If you're needed at home, you can be there in a matter of minutes. I believe the telephone wires have been extended to Gull Manor?” When I nodded she raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment of my rapidly dwindling protests. “As far as your job is concerned, the Season is over, Miss Cross. Surely you'll miss no urgent soirees in the next two weeks.”

“I suppose not.”

“Good. Then do stay. We'll have more chance to become better acquainted, and I'll have ample opportunity to run my ideas by you. As I said, my book is about interior design, and who is more familiar with Newport's grandest homes than you—besides their owners, of course, but most of them have left until next Season.”

My better judgment, along with my reporter's instincts, wished to demand full disclosure about these surprises Mrs. Wharton spoke of. Yet I found myself caught in a spell woven by this unexpected favor she showed me. And I must admit, rather ashamedly, that thoughts of how she might advance my own career may have rendered the tiniest influence on my decision. “Yes, all right. I'll go home now and pack what I'll need.”

“Yes,” Miss Marcus agreed. “Go now so you'll be back by luncheon, and you can meet everyone all at once. We're a lively group, Miss Cross. I'm sure we'll all confound you with our chatter and arguing—yes, we're prone to arguments every hour of the day—but it's all in good fun. We're the best of friends. Comrades, all.”

I didn't know quite what to make of that speech, so I smiled and came to my feet. “I'll be off then.”

Mrs. Wharton stood as well. “I'll come with you, if I may. Did you know my husband and I can see your estate from the upper windows of Land's End? I've always envied you your vantage point, there on your little peninsula. I'd love to see the view from your perspective.”

That Edith Wharton might have gazed across the distance to Gull Manor slightly unnerved me, as did the notion of her walking through my front door into the house's undeniably shabby interior. “My home is no estate, Mrs. Wharton. It's quite ramshackle as you'll see.”

She merely grinned. “Let's go.”

Somehow I weathered her foray into my home, though I cringed at every step she took over my increasingly threadbare rugs, and gritted my teeth when she sat on the faded settee in my front parlor. Worst of all, perhaps, was Nanny's pinched lips as she stiffly greeted my guest, for Nanny, too, remembered the day of Mrs. Wharton's visit to our Point home. It was Nanny who had held me when I cried that day, and she who had distracted me from my woes by handing me a freshly baked cookie, patching my knee, and taking me for a walk to pick wildflowers. I wished for an opportunity now to whisk her aside and explain that I no longer considered Mrs. Wharton the enemy, but no such opportunity presented itself. I packed quickly and my guest and I climbed into one of Uncle Frederick's smaller buggies that had followed us over, driven by the footman I had seen earlier, a handsome young man of towering height named Carl Davis. I knew him only vaguely, although his father, Hank, worked for Stevenson's Livery in town. Barney might as well remain at home in familiar surroundings, since I would not be needing him during my sojourn at Rough Point.

“Your home does not disappoint, Miss Cross,” Mrs. Wharton was gracious enough to say as we left Gull Manor and my embarrassment behind.

“You're too kind,” I murmured in return.

“Not at all. It's plain to see Gull Manor is the home of a young woman of independent means, and that, my dear, is worth more than all the satin brocade and fine velvets a fortune can provide. You are very lucky.”

I thanked her and left it at that. I didn't doubt her sincerity, but I found her statement oddly naïve. If Mrs. Wharton and others like her truly felt that way, why didn't they shun their satin brocades and fine velvets in favor of a simpler life? Such individuals touted ideals, but were perhaps unwilling or unable to make the sacrifices to achieve those ideals. They didn't understand that for someone like me, there were no sacrifices. There was only life, which I lived as I must.

* * *

When we arrived back at Rough Point, Howard Dunn met us in the Stair Hall. “Luncheon will be served in half an hour.” A twitch of his miniscule mustache suggested he perhaps found something distasteful in having to convey this information. I waited until he disappeared into the dining room before turning to Mrs. Wharton.

“Mr. Dunn is the estate manager, if I'm not mistaken. Why is he acting as the butler? Has Mr. Johns taken ill?”

“No, we asked for as little service staff as possible.” She and I climbed the stairs, and at the half landing, beneath the portraits of Aunt Louise and Uncle Frederick that gazed down on us from opposing walls, I stopped her with a comment.

“I admit that surprises me greatly.” As far as I knew, Mrs. Wharton had always been surrounded by servants, just as my Vanderbilt cousins were, or Mrs. Astor or any other member of the Four Hundred.

“This is to be an artistic holiday, Miss Cross. Having too many servants about would only be distracting. All we want is for someone to cook our meals, discreetly serve and clean up, and leave us to ourselves.” Stained glass showered a rainbow of colors from the mullioned windows above us, bringing vivid life to the browns of the woodwork, the dark Persian rug, and the velvet sofa set into the wide bay of the half landing. Mrs. Wharton shielded her eyes from the brightness and preceded me to the upper half of the staircase. “You'll be surprised at how well we can do for ourselves. You might even mention it in your article. An artistic quirk, if you will.”

I agreed that would make an interesting addition to the article. I followed her up, noticing how, as soon as she reached the top, her pace slowed, became almost dragging as she turned to the right and led me past the main bedrooms and through a doorway that had been propped open with a brass doorstop. Here the corridor jogged to the right and became narrower, while polished parquet woodwork gave way to plain floorboards. I judged we were now above the kitchen and pantries, and I followed Mrs. Wharton into a small bedroom furnished in utilitarian oak. A maid had placed my bags on a double bed framed in brass and was presently unpacking. Like the footman, I didn't know her well. In fact I recognized her only from my past visits to Rough Point. She placed a folded pile of my cotton underthings into a tall chest of drawers, followed by stockings and a few light scarves.

“I hope this will do and you won't see it as a slight,” Mrs. Wharton said. “As a relative of the owner you should have one of the better rooms, but I'm afraid they've all been claimed. We all decided Randall should have Frederick's bedroom, since he's interested in purchasing the house.”

“This is lovely,” I assured her, and meant it. A bright quilt draped the bed, the morning sunlight animating a patchwork design that reminded me of stacks of books turned this way and that on library shelves. Such a coverlet would never have been found in the main bedrooms, but its homey touch made me smile and reminded me of the one I made with Nanny's help when I was twelve. Admittedly, mine paled by comparison. I also realized this quilt constituted the room's only source of heat, as there was no fireplace or heater. But there needn't be, I supposed, in a house used only in the summer months. A sturdy wardrobe, a plain dressing table furnished with a kerosene lamp, and a simple chair completed the room's luxuries and provided all I would need.

The maid turned to me. “Shall I hang your gowns in the wardrobe, Miss Cross?”

“I can manage, thank you.”

She was a slim woman not many years older than myself, with small hands that darted quickly as she went about her tasks with barely a sound. She organized my toiletries in the dressing table and slipped out of the room so discreetly I didn't notice until after she had gone. If these artists wanted as little intrusion as possible, this woman would certainly perform her job well.

“I'll help you hang your gowns,” Mrs. Wharton offered.

“That's all right. There isn't much to hang.” Indeed, I'd brought one evening gown suitable for dinner, a muslin day dress, and a couple of skirts and shirtwaists I could wear interchangeably. I unpinned my boater and set it on the end table beside the bed, then sat to remove my lace-up boots and slip on the low-heeled house shoes I'd brought, a tad worn but with a lovely embroidered design. Lastly I removed my carriage jacket and replaced it with a tasseled scarf I tossed around my shoulders. “There, I believe I'm ready for luncheon. Shall we go down?”

From the doorway, a throat cleared. “Not just yet, Emma.”

I gasped and nearly stumbled over my own feet. This was the second time today I'd utterly lost my equilibrium at the sound of a voice from my past.

“This is your surprise,” Mrs. Wharton whispered. “I'll have Mr. Dunn hold lunch another twenty minutes or so.” She hurried out of the room, leaving me to face this startling development alone.

Could an additional twenty minutes possibly be enough? Could two hours? Somehow I found the presence of mind to open my mouth. “Father?” For it was indeed my father who had spoken. A figure clothed in apricot muslin stood behind him, tentatively gazing over his shoulder at me. “Mother.”

* * *

“Darling, we're here because we longed to see you.” My mother reached across the sofa we presently occupied, she at one corner and me pressed against the armrest on the opposite side. We had traded embraces, but the distance that had separated us these four years could not be breached simply by occupying the same room again. Perhaps it was ungenerous of me, but I wanted explanations for this sudden and secretive appearance and so far none had been forthcoming, including my mother's present claim. The words were correct enough, but as for the sentiment behind them . . . Instinct told me there was much more to this reunion.

My father looked on from his stance near the front-facing window and uncharacteristically said little. I believed I understood why. Upon first seeing him moments ago, I had called him
Father
, a distinct departure from Dad, as I had typically addressed him in the more modern, familiar way. Now the word simply wouldn't form on my tongue. I would have liked to attribute the change to my having grown up in the ensuing years, and not to any simmering resentments on my part.
Father
felt more natural to me and I decided not to examine my motives too deeply.

Sunlight from outside framed him from behind, while the room's shadows obscured his features so that I couldn't guess what he might be thinking. Still, my brief view of him in the more revealing light of my bedroom had showed a few more wrinkles around his eyes than I remembered, a more silver sheen to his hair. He did, however, move with a young man's vigor that reminded me of his friend, Jack Parsons. The memory made me sad, so I forced my mind to concentrate on the present. I continued my perusal of my parents.

Mother's waistline had thickened a bit and a few light lines scored her forehead, but that was to be expected. Although my parents were now in their late forties, time had treated them well. Mother's sandy blond hair, so like my half brother Brady's, was pulled up in a chignon with a fringe of curls hanging loose to frame her face. The apricot day dress suited her coloring, especially her hazel eyes that mirrored my own in color. I could easily imagine candlelight shedding at least a decade from her actual age.

“Why didn't you send word you were coming?” I asked, not for the first time. “Why the furtiveness?”

“Furtiveness? Oh, darling.” Mother's arm, draped across the sofa back, slid lower until her hand covered mine. I perceived an instant's hesitation, as if she couldn't quite decide whether or not to leave it there, before her fingers relaxed. “We wished to surprise you, that's all. And I see we succeeded.”