Newport: A Novel (15 page)

A
drian propped himself on the edge of Bennett’s library desk, one hand wrapped around the telephone receiver, the other holding a small tintype in a silver frame. A stern-faced woman stared back from the portrait, her piercing eyes an indictment of every decision he’d ever made in his life. He grimaced as he once again took in her stiffly boned bodice and the prissy little ruffles sewn at the shoulders of her dress. With her light hair plastered flat from a center part and that accusing glare, Elizabeth Chapman had clearly added a touch of disapproval to every occasion she graced.

Constance came on the telephone line so quickly that it was almost as if she’d anticipated his call. “I’d hoped to hear from you,” she said, and the breathless lilt in her voice told him that she’d been working outside in her garden.

“You sound pleased with the world,” he said. “Digging in the dirt, my dear?”

“The roses are growing wild, finally in full bloom. All of my flowers are splendid—there will be vaseloads to greet you when you come home. And the sun—simply glorious today! I dragged myself inside only because I had a feeling you might phone.”

He could picture her, and it was far more pleasant than studying Elizabeth Chapman. Constance’s blue eyes would be bright from a morning spent in the fresh air, her blond hair swept into a haphazard twist beneath the wide-brimmed straw hat she wore to shield her fair complexion from the sun’s hot rays. Even with the hat, he knew his wife would go to bed that night with a mild sunburn across her nose and cheeks. Her skin would be warm to the touch, as yielding and fresh as ripe fruit.

Adrian allowed himself to savor the thought for a moment before continuing. “So you expected my call.”

“I did. And you know that my intuition is seldom wrong.” Her tone was prim, but he caught the playfulness behind the words.

“Very well, then, Mrs. de la Noye,” he teased. “Your intuition led you into the house just as the telephone rang. Has it anything to say about the call itself?”

He heard a rustle and assumed she’d lifted the hat from her head. Much of her hair would escape its knot now: Constance never had enough hair pins. “Well,” she said, “I’m afraid it says you aren’t coming home today.”

“Your intuition is correct. I’m so sorry, my dear. You know I’d like nothing better.”

“Fortunately for you, I know that only a good reason would keep you away.”

“Bennett Chapman has asked me to stay for his wedding. He and Catharine Walsh are to be married by Judge Thomas Bourne in Liriodendron’s parlor early tomorrow evening.”

“How lovely! Do send my regards, and tell the judge that he must come to dinner soon. Mr. Chapman must be delighted after spending so many years alone. I’ll send a gift from the family tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

“You sound less than thrilled, Adrian. Is there more?”

He glanced again at the picture in his hand. Elizabeth Chapman looked as if she might begin barking orders at any moment. “You’ll remember that the late Mrs. Chapman brokered this marriage. I never met her. She passed away years before I’d even entered law school. But as you can imagine, I’ve developed a keen interest in her over these past few days.”

“Of course,” Constance said. “She keeps popping up in the oddest of places.”

“I just came from an interesting breakfast alone with my client. He told me everything about his Elizabeth, spoke in great detail for over an hour about their years together.”

“You’ve told me how overjoyed he is to be in contact with her again. They must have shared a wonderful marriage.”

Adrian turned the tintype facedown on the desk. Since he hadn’t married Elizabeth Chapman, he was under no obligation to endure her censure. “Now, that’s where I’m baffled, Constance. They didn’t. The union was an utter failure.”

Even his usually loquacious wife was momentarily stunned into silence. “Goodness!” she finally said. “Are you sure?”

“Bennett’s morning coffee might as well have been wine for as much as it loosened his tongue. I felt like a priest hearing confession.
The marriage was arranged. He and Elizabeth were ill suited from the start. It seems he spent most of their years together . . . how to say this delicately . . .”

“Adrian, kindly dispense with decorum.”

“. . . catting about.”

“Frequently?”

Adrian thought of the satisfied curl of Bennett Chapman’s lip as the old man recounted each extramarital conquest. “Incessantly,” he said.

“Oh.” He’d always appreciated his wife’s ability to strip emotion from fact. She did not disappoint him now. “How interesting. Then why do you suppose Elizabeth Chapman has gone to such trouble to come back and suggest this second marriage?”

“That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me. I’d originally thought she might want to see Bennett happy, but now I’m not so sure. I could use a woman’s point of view in this.”

“Hmm.” He imagined his wife sinking into the chair beside the telephone table, brow furrowed in thought. “You’re quite right, Adrian. After what he put her through during their years together, I doubt she cares a fig about his happiness now. The disenchantment probably made her rather dour.”

“You can’t imagine,” he said, not even bothering to turn the tintype faceup.

“Oh, but I can. You may forget any idea that she’s returned through love. There’s something else at work here.”

“My thoughts exactly. Revenge, perhaps?”

“Is Catharine Walsh so odious?”

An image of young Cassie Walsh flooded his thoughts. It took a moment to remember that Constance had never heard of Catharine
before this association with Bennett Chapman. “No,” he said. “She’s not.”

If Constance wondered about his brief hesitation, she kept it to herself. “Perhaps I am a romantic, Adrian, but I prefer to think that once we pass to the other side, we become our better selves. I would hope that Mrs. Chapman has moved away from anger and pettiness. In addition, I can quite understand Mr. Chapman’s affection for the wife he treated poorly during her lifetime. He’s probably relieved to find that she’s forgiven him. But something else prevents Elizabeth Chapman from enjoying her eternal rest. This is a lady with intent. What does Jim think?”

“We’ve yet to speak of it.”

“You must remedy that. Jim Reid is a smart young man with a heart of gold. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you.”

“It’s that heart of gold that concerns me most these days.”

“Oh dear. Amy Walsh?”

“The same.”

“Then guide him, Adrian. Don’t leave him floundering. Our Jim deserves some happiness.”

Adrian reached for the tintype. The frame was heavy and intricately carved; he was sure it was pure silver. Bennett Chapman had surrounded himself with the best his fortune could buy, from the fine food and bootleg liquor that graced his table to expensive objects of art that pleased the eye. Yet captured forever within the confines of this ornamental frame was the image of a wife who had grown to despise him. Even now, tucked away each night between luxurious sheets of Egyptian cotton, Bennett’s grown children sent evil thoughts his way as they drifted off to sleep. No, Adrian didn’t envy his client’s substantial wealth. He had only
to think of Constance and the children to know that he was the richer man.

“Adrian.” There was a hint of weariness in his wife’s voice now, but she quickly masked it. “Do what you must, but hurry home when you can. I miss you so very much.”

“I miss you, too,” he said, swallowing hard. “Constance . . . perhaps we should talk when I get home. There are parts of my life I’ve never shared with you . . . incidents that happened years before we met . . .”

There was a pause. “Do these incidents affect our present?”

He thought briefly of Amy. She was twenty-two years old. Would it even matter?

Constance continued. “Are you happy? Do you still love me and the children?”

“With all my heart.”

“Then let your demons go, Adrian. We can certainly talk about them, but it’s not necessary on my account. I knew you had a past when I met you, remember? You were jaded by war, had separated yourself from the Delanos . . . you were clearly damaged. But you were also intent on helping the Reids and earning your way in this world through your own merits. I knew a good man when I saw one, and I still do. You’ve no need to explain to anyone chapters of your life that were closed long ago.”

He couldn’t argue the point just yet. In some situations, it was best to gather facts before plunging in. “You’re a remarkable woman, Constance de la Noye. Have I told you lately how fortunate I am to have you?”

“Not nearly enough,” Constance said calmly. “But that can be easily remedied.”

He fumbled for his cigarette case with one hand. “I’m afraid you may hear some unpleasant stories in these next few days. Nicholas Chapman is on a rampage.”

“Oh, he’s employed investigators? Then you may hear stories as well.”

“Excuse me?”

“Have you ever considered that
everyone
has a past, Adrian de la Noye? When you employed me as your stenographer, you only asked if I could take and transcribe shorthand.”

He slowly lowered the cigarette case to the library desk. “Darling. Is there something I should know?”

There was a long pause. Then Constance sighed. “No, darn it all. Aside from leaving the occasional broken heart here and there, I am perfectly spotless. But every once in a while I think it might be nice to be a woman of mystery. Hurry home, dearest.”

Adrian smiled as the line went dead.

J
im sat on the terrace for quite some time after Amy left, long legs stretched before him, feet resting atop the stone retaining wall. Amy’s perfume, enmeshed in the threads of his tweed jacket from the hasty hug she’d delivered before leaving, mingled with the fresh salt air. Damn that hug. He thought he’d safely stowed away every romantic notion he’d ever had concerning the younger Miss Walsh, but that was before she’d flung herself into his arms, eyes shining with soft tears as she gazed up at him.

“Thank you, Jim,” she’d said, a penitent picture of humility. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”

She’d drifted away before he could utter a protest, weaving her way back to the house like a weary little fairy in search of a leaf upon which to rest.

Had she wanted him to follow her? Should he have? In the end
he’d jammed his hands into his pockets and turned toward the sea, tired of being every girl’s buddy.

A jingle of keys stirred him from his reverie. Adrian crossed the flagstones from the house, the determined cadence of his steps indicating that there was a task at hand. Jim straightened. Adrian’s jaw was set, his eyes clear. Finally—the composed man he’d admired for years had returned.

“Welcome back,” Jim said. “So good to see you again.”

“I’ve come from the house, not Outer Mongolia.” Adrian did not break stride.

“I’m welcoming you back to rationality.” Jim scrambled to his feet and fell into step beside him.

Adrian quirked an eyebrow as they rounded Liriodendron’s massive corner. “I hadn’t realized I’d ever left that state.”

“You’re joking, right? I thought I’d lost you for good. I was ready to telephone the good Mrs. de la Noye in the hopes that she knew of some antidote I could slip you.”

“Come now, Mr. Reid. Surely it wasn’t that bad.”

Jim shortened his stride as he checked to see that no one was in earshot. “Oh, no? Let’s just say that the sharp lawyer I know would have figured out days ago that Catharine Walsh wasn’t Amy’s aunt.”

Adrian stopped. “I beg your pardon?”

Jim stopped too, nailing his mentor with a guileless stare. “Catharine Walsh grew up in your childhood home, didn’t she? Surely you should have known whether or not she had any brothers or sisters, and you would have inquired as to which one had been lost.”

He waited as Adrian brushed a nonexistent speck from the front of his sweater and looked up.

“That seems a bit of a stretch, Mr. Reid. Wherever did you get
the idea that Miss Walsh grew up in my childhood home? I’ve certainly never told you that.”

“Didn’t have to.” Jim folded his arms across his chest. “Do you remember what you used to tell my Granny Cullen every time she cut you a slice of her Madeira cake?”

“I’ve always had a weakness for Madeira cake. And your Granny Cullen had a wonderful way with it.”

“So you often said. You’d tell her it must be a gift of the Irish, since the only other person in the world who could produce such a splendid Madeira cake was your family cook while growing up—a Mrs. Mary Walsh, another fine lady of Irish extraction whom you admired very much.”

Adrian remained planted in the grass, a study in neutrality. Jim plunged on.

“It’s no secret that you know Catharine Walsh. Maybe the Chapmans are too self-centered to figure it out, but Amy and I noticed at once. In fact, I’m willing to go out on a limb here and say that Catharine is the Cassie the late Mrs. Chapman spoke of last night.”

“Oh, you think so, do you?”

“It’s a mere deduction, but it makes sense to me. I’d never even heard of Miss Walsh before this trip, despite the fact that you’ve introduced me to various friends over the years. Yet you obviously know her fairly well. She shares a last name with a beloved servant from your past, and ‘Cassie’ is a common diminutive of ‘Catharine’ . . .”

Adrian began walking again, no more hurried than before. “I’ve called for the car. It should be around front by now. Suppose you come for a ride with me? I’ve an errand or two to run before we draft Mr. Chapman’s will.”

Jim quickened his pace to catch up to him. That was it? There’d be neither confirmation nor denial? In a way, it was a good sign. It meant that Adrian had regained enough possession of his faculties to give nothing away.

They slid into the Pierce-Arrow in silence. Liriodendron slipped away behind them as Adrian navigated the circular driveway and drove out the front gate. Jim leaned his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes. Leaving the mansion was like leaving a well-appointed prison. If only he didn’t feel a nagging pull back again, as if he’d left something important behind.

“Not bad, Jim,” Adrian said. “I always knew you had it in you.”

“What?”

“Yes, Cassie Walsh grew up in my boyhood home.”

Jim blinked up at the automobile ceiling. “You’re kidding. I’m right?”

“Why are you so surprised? You’ve a fine mind. Very well, then. What else have you deduced about me?”

“Not much. You’re a man of many secrets. You’d have me believe you sprang fully grown from a battlefield during the Spanish-American War, and that only because of the actions of my father.”

“There’s some truth to that. Your father saved me in more ways than one.”

“But you had to have a life for him to save in the first place.”

“And?”

Adrian’s pause was so expectant that it seemed a shame not to fill it. “Okay. You obviously come from a privileged background. There’s nothing nouveau riche about your manners or your tastes; you’ve an eye for the finer things in life, and you know how to use
them. You’ve also the means to acquire them. Now, I know your law firm provides a comfortable income, but you must have an alternative source of funds somewhere. Your kindness toward me and my family is a blessing, but certainly not an inexpensive one.”

Adrian’s eyes stayed glued to the road as he turned the steering wheel to make a smooth left turn. “True on all counts. My compliments.”

“You seldom mention your parents. Are you still in touch with them?”

“Yes. When necessary.”

“I bet your marriage didn’t sit well.” Jim slid his mentor a sideways glance.

“Now you’re guessing,” Adrian said.

“You agreed earlier to give me more information about your past.”

“Not so. I agreed to give you enough information to aid our current situation. Be patient, Jim. I intend to keep my promise, and more, but allow me to choose the time. By the way, I’ve suggested to Bennett Chapman that we invite his late wife to join us for the wedding ceremony tomorrow night.”

Jim twisted in his seat to face him. “You mean . . . as in a séance?”

“Any other way would be positively gruesome, don’t you think?”

“Hmm. Are you sure this is wise? Having Bennett Chapman talk to his late wife in Judge Bourne’s presence might only prove Nicholas’s contention that his father is not of right mind.”

“Again, you’ll have to trust me.”

Amy’s tearful plea for safety played through Jim’s mind like a stuck gramophone record. “I’m surprised Amy has agreed to do this.”

“I haven’t asked yet. After her explosion in the dining room this morning, I wasn’t sure she’d be open to the request.”

“Oh. Well, she won’t be.” Jim settled back in his seat. “She’s scared to death.”

“Scared?” Adrian frowned as he shifted gears.

“Apparently Mrs. Chapman gets more insistent each time she comes to call. Amy wants to keep her away. She’s afraid that the late Mrs. C will show up one day and take up permanent residence inside her head.”

Adrian paled, but it didn’t stop him from continuing. “We’re still missing crucial information. We need another opportunity to speak with Mrs. Chapman.”

“You can suggest it, but . . .”

“I was hoping
you
would suggest it.”

Jim smacked his palm onto the seat between them. “Ask me to do something else.”

“I can’t. It’s clear that Amy Walsh wants nothing more to do with this, but it’s crucial that we meet at least one more time. If anyone can persuade her to do so, it’s you.”

“Why me?”

“Need I really elaborate?”

“There’s nothing between us anymore. I’m finished with it.”

Adrian guided the automobile toward the curb, slowing to park. Down the cobblestone street a ways, several navy recruits escorted a group of giggling town girls toward a movie theater. Jim sighed as their laughter floated back to the town car. What would it be like to ask Amy out on a bona fide date, to casually slip an arm around her waist as he plunked down change for a ripping Douglas Fairbanks adventure? Or Valentino. Maybe Valentino would be a better
choice. Amy might go all swoony over Valentino, and all those romantic feelings would have to transfer themselves
somewhere
. . . Without the trappings of Spookyville, was there a chance he and Amy might actually have a grand time together?

“Constance believes that a good woman might very well be the making of you,” Adrian said, following Jim’s gaze to the boisterous crowd down the street.

“Don’t tell me that,” Jim said glumly. “I thought your wife liked me.”

“She does. Quite a lot. And not only is she an excellent judge of character, but I’ve learned over the years that her instincts are usually correct.” Adrian turned off the auto. “I need to send a telegram, and then we’ll go back to Liriodendron. That will give you plenty of time to speak with Amy before we begin drafting the will.”

Jim opened his mouth to protest, then thought the better of it. His words wouldn’t really matter anyway. Adrian had made up his mind.

Another thought struck him. “Adrian.”

Adrian paused halfway through the auto door.

Jim cleared his throat. “Do you believe it’s really Mrs. Chapman coming through?”

Adrian slid back behind the steering wheel, gaze focused straight out the windshield. “I didn’t at first. But Mrs. Chapman delivers messages that undermine her messengers. She tells secrets nobody wants revealed. With that in mind, it’s only logical to believe that neither Miss Walsh would choose to invent her.”

“Logical?”

“Yes.” He turned toward Jim, a hint of a smile crossing his face. “And don’t forget: I knew your Granny Cullen too.”

Jim followed him out into the sun. So Adrian believed. Knowing that made him feel more confident about his own instincts.

Talking to Amy would be about as much fun as bouncing a ball against his head. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t rather do. But perhaps the only way out of this situation was to help it finish in the same way it had begun.