A Gilded Grave (26 page)

“What’s happening?”

“I don’t know, but they’ve fetched Mrs. Woodruff.”

“Oh no. Do you think he’s died?”

“I don’t know. Hurry.”

Elspeth held the bedroom door open. Several servants were running up and down the hall. Elspeth and Deanna padded barefoot toward Mr. Woodruff’s rooms.

The door had been left ajar and Deanna slipped inside. Mr. Woodruff’s valet was standing on the far side of the bed attempting to hold his master, who was thrashing violently. Two maids and Neville stood nearby waiting for orders. They were all in various states of dress. Neville had managed to put his trousers and jacket on over his nightshirt. The valet was wearing an elaborate smoking robe, and his usually impeccably oiled hair was sticking out, leaving patches of bald skin showing through the strands. A tragic tableau vivant.
In
the Sickroom.

There was nothing she could do, but she wanted to lend her support to Mrs. Woodruff if she could. When she saw Cassie huddled in a chair the corner, Deanna crossed the room to her.

“I heard them come for Mama,” Cassie whimpered. “What’s happening to him?”

“I don’t know, but your mama will know what to do.”

Deanna put her arm around Cassie and watched as the valet motioned for Neville to take Woodruff’s other side.

While the two men tried to calm his thrashings, Mrs. Woodruff, her hands as calm as if she were reaching for her
atomizer, opened a small bottle and measured several drops of liquid into a small medicine glass. Neville held Mr. Woodruff’s head while his wife poured the liquid down his throat.

Deanna was mesmerized by the motion, by the utter calm of it. She looked for Elspeth and saw her still standing in the doorway, her mouth slightly open. Her face etched in lines of surprise and horror—like the maid on the cover of
Pritchard the Poisoner.

Mr. Woodruff coughed and spluttered but sank back on the pillows.

“There,” Mrs. Woodruff said, returning the glass to the bedside table. “He’ll rest now that he’s had some of his medicine.” She seemed to notice the others for the first time. Cassie ran to her. “Now, now. Everything will be fine. You know your papa has these nervous attacks. Let’s let him get some rest.”

She herded them all toward the door. Deanna lagged behind trying to memorize the way Mr. Woodruff looked, the shape of the bottle, and what was written on it.

She didn’t believe Mrs. Woodruff would poison her husband. But it was uncanny how close to the novel cover the scene had been.

Mrs. Woodruff stopped at the door. “Deanna, will you take Cassie back to her room? There’s really no cause for alarm. He’ll be better directly.”

Deanna took Cassie and helped her down the hall.

She heard Mrs. Woodruff say, “I’ll just stay a little while longer, Neville.”

“Yes, madam.” And the door closed.

Cassie’s maid was waiting at her bedroom door. “Thank you, miss. I’ll take care of her now.” She practically shut the door in Deanna’s face.

The hallway had slowly emptied of servants. Deanna hadn’t seen Charles, whose bedroom was farther along the same hallway, nor had Lord David or Madeline made an appearance, though they probably were too far away to have heard the commotion.

“Did you see that?” Elspeth asked the moment the door had closed and they were alone in Deanna’s room. “It was just like the bottle in the picture.”

“Yes, but . . . you don’t believe Daisy saw Mrs. Woodruff poisoning her husband and was killed for it? She would never. Besides, she had several hundred guests the night of the ball, spent every minute making sure everyone had what they needed, overseeing servants and making sure the champagne was chilled.

“Do you really think she could’ve lured Daisy out to the cliff, pushed her over, and then returned to the ballroom, smiling and not even breathing hard?” Deanna snorted. “Ludicrous.”

Elspeth helped Deanna out of her robe. “You just don’t want it to be true because of who she is. Now, get back into bed. I want to go down to the servants’ hall before the excitement dies down and see what’s what.”

She hurried into the dressing room but was back almost immediately. Her face had drained of color. She was holding a folded piece of paper.

“What is it, Elspeth?”

Elspeth came forward and held out the paper with a shaking hand. “This—this was shoved under the door.”

Deanna took the paper and opened it. Written in large scrawling letters was a short message:

Take your mistress away from this place. Bad bad juju. More bad is coming. You must leave this house.

“Oh, miss. It’s from the voodoo man. I just know it. What does he want with us?”

“I think he wants to warn us,” Deanna said with more calm than she felt. “He helped us once. I don’t know. Maybe he is trying to help us now.”

“But we can’t leave in the middle of the night.”

“We’re not leaving. But we’re going to be very, very careful. You’re not going down to the servants’ hall. You can sleep in here on the chaise tonight.”

Elspeth nodded, ran into the dressing room, and pulled her linens into Deanna’s room. She threw them on the chaise on the far wall and jumped under them.

Deanna waited until she was settled, then turned off the lamp.
What more bad things are coming?
she wondered as she finally drifted off to sleep.

Before dawn, Mr. Woodruff lapsed into a coma.

D
eanna knew something was wrong the moment she entered the breakfast room the next morning. And not just because of the warning from Swan.

The breakfast room was sunny but empty. The chafing dishes were set up, but either everyone else had already eaten or was still abed. Which was possible, since they’d had a trying night.

Deanna didn’t have much appetite, but she knew that not eating never solved anything except maybe being a bit too fat. Usually hunger just made people irritable and too quick to lose their tempers. So she took a plate from the warmer and peeked into the first covered dish. As she spooned a dab of eggs on her plate, the butler entered with warm toast and hot coffee.

“Good morning, Neville. Has everyone been here and gone?” she asked.

Neville set the toast rack by her place and poured coffee. “Mr. Charles left early this morning.”

“Oh? Did he return to the city?”

“I don’t believe so. He said he would be back after luncheon. Mrs. Woodruff is taking breakfast in her room. None of the others have been down as yet.”

“And Mr. Woodruff?”

The butler shook his head. “It doesn’t look good, miss. The doctor was summoned earlier this morning.”

“Did he say what is wrong with him?”

“I couldn’t say, miss.”

“Neville,” Deanna wheedled, drawing out the butler’s name as they’d used to do as children when they tried to make him unbend.

Neville leaned in and poured more coffee. “The doctor says he must have had a stroke. He’s not responding.”

“Oh, dear. Thank you, Neville.”

The butler bowed. “Ring if you require something else, miss.”

“I’ll be fine.”

He bowed again and left the room.

Her mind racing, Deanna ate her breakfast alone.

She was sitting over her coffee trying to decide on a course of action when the door opened and the footman entered and presented a silver salver. There was an envelope on it.
Please, not a letter from Mama.

It was from Joe. He had to go to Manhattan. Today, of all days? She needed to tell him about Mr. Woodruff’s collapse and ask his advice about what to do.

Deanna wished she knew what was really going on. Something serious must have happened for Joe to go off to the city. Was it because of the papers he’d appropriated from the library? His note said he was going to talk with his father. Something about the business, then. Was it because Mr. Woodruff,
Charles, and Lord David had returned from the city earlier than expected?

Deanna hated not knowing what was going on.

And she was worried about being an imposition at Seacrest with Mr. Woodruff in such a sorry state. But maybe she could be of use to Mrs. Woodruff and relieve her of some duties so that she could sit with her husband.

After breakfast, Deanna went upstairs and quietly knocked on Mrs. Woodruff’s bedroom door.

“Come in.”

Deanna slipped inside and shut the door.

“Oh, Deanna. Come here, child.”

Deanna crossed to where Mrs. Woodruff was stretched out an a chaise of wine-and-gold brocade. She was wearing a light green taffeta dressing gown embroidered with lilac bunches and green ribbons. Delicate lace frothed about her shoulders and neck.

She looked like a confection, except for the pallor of her face and her sunken eyes, which even the artful machinations of her lady’s maid hadn’t been able to conceal.

A round table with a cup of untouched tea and a plate of uneaten toast sat at her elbow.

She held out her hand, and Deanna took it and dropped to her knees on the floor by the chaise.

“How are you? Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked Mrs. Woodruff.

“No, no, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. Nothing.”

“Oh, ma’am. It can’t be as bad as that. Surely he’ll recover.”

“Recover?” Mrs. Woodruff laughed. Her voice sounded strange, not like her normal jovial trill, and Deanna began to be really concerned, not only for Mr. Woodruff, but for his wife.

“We had some good times, Francis and I, especially at the beginning. Oh, the laughs and the jollifications we had. Every day was an adventure. I met him when we were both visiting Chicago. And fell in love almost at first sight.” She paused, frowned slightly. Her shoulders began to shake, and Deanna leaned forward to comfort her and realized that she wasn’t crying, but laughing. And Deanna grew really afraid.

“Shall I call your maid?”

“No, no. There’s nothing she can do.” She sat up suddenly, grabbing Deanna’s wrist. “Don’t leave me. Serpents. That’s what my papa said. Serpents, every last one of them.”

She was raving. Deanna tried to ease away just long enough to reach the bell pull, but Mrs. Woodruff held on tight.

“Don’t be afraid. I’m not crazy. Not anymore. The doctor says Francis is not likely to recover. He won’t wake up, you know. I shall miss the old reprobate.”

Reprobate? Surely she shouldn’t be talking about her husband in such terms, especially not to Deanna.

“Why don’t I send for more tea?” Deanna said. “You’ll feel better if you have something warm.”

“You’re such a sweet girl. I hope you’ll be a friend to Cassie.”

“Friends with Cassie? Of course I will. Always.”

Mrs. Woodruff sniffed and applied a lacy handkerchief to her eyes with her free hand. “Great times. He knew how to enjoy life. I loved that about him, But it seems he enjoyed it too much. Be careful when you marry, Dee dear.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Get a steady man. The dashers are charming but dash doesn’t last—they grow old, lose their hair, gain a belly. And when the dash is gone, there isn’t much left but the bills. So you just get yourself a steady man.”

“I will. I will,” Deanna said, her alarm growing. “Please let me get you some tea. Or a cordial.”

“That woman. All those women. All of them,” she continued. “Deanna, ring for my maid. I must get up. There are things to do.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

Her maid came in immediately, almost as if she’d been awaiting the summons. She gave Deanna a quick glance, dismissing her. Deanna leaned over and kissed Mrs. Woodruff’s cheek. “I’ll come back later.”

“But you’ll stay. Cassie needs you. And you’re all invited to the theater tonight.”

The theater?
Surely that outing would be cancelled. But Deanna nodded and fled the room, then stood outside the bedroom door trying to piece together what had just happened. Mrs. Woodruff seemed to have lost her mind one minute and in the next seemed perfectly normal. But the reminiscing and talk of private matters was disconcerting.

Elspeth pounced the moment Deanna was inside her room.

“Where have you been?”

“At breakfast, and then I went to see Mrs. Woodruff, and oh, Elspeth, she seems funny in her mind.”

“Forget her for a minute. When I went down for my tea, I heard that the Manchesters are leaving today.”

“What? Who said?”

“One of the parlor maids. She said the voodoo man was upstairs right now, packing their trunks.”

“Well, good riddance.”

“Do you think it’s because he warned them about the evil thing in this house?”

“I don’t think so. I think that was just his own way of trying
to understand all the events that have happened. I imagine they offered to leave because of Mr. Woodruff’s illness. I was thinking that we should go, too, but Mrs. Woodruff asked me to stay.”

“You mean we’re not leaving?”

Deanna shook her head. She knew just how Elspeth felt. She wished they could both go to Gran Gwen’s, where it was safe and comfortable. Joe’s grandmother always had a way of helping her with things she didn’t understand. But Mrs. Woodruff had requested she stay, though Deanna wasn’t sure whether she’d meant to stay close by or just remain at Seacrest.

Deanna snatched an embroidered pillow out of the way and slumped into the upholstered boudoir chair.

“She’s probably afraid to be in the house by herself,” Elspeth said.

Deanna snorted out a laugh. “She has a house full of servants and Cassie and Charles. I don’t think she’s alone.”

Elspeth stuck her nose in the air. “You know what I mean. And that kind of laughter is very vulgar.”

Deanna tossed the pillow at her. “So, what do you think we should do?”

J
oe’s head was still pounding the next day as the steamer he’d taken from Newport docked in Manhattan. He’d spent what was left of yesterday night at Bonheur, picking up a change of clothes and enlightening his grandmother on what had transpired at Seacrest.

“I don’t like having to leave, but I need to take these papers to my father. See if you can get Dee to move in here with you. There
is something sinister going on over there. I can’t be in two places at once. Why are you smiling? This is not a humorous situation.”

“Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.”

“I’ll try to return late tonight, if I can catch the last steamer.”

“We’ll be fine. You’re the one who should watch yourself.”

He’d dashed off a note to Deanna to let her know where he’d gone, and his grandmother had sent him to the station in her carriage. At the last minute, she’d run out to the carriage carrying a parcel.

“Cook insisted.” She’d thrust it at him.

When he’d looked inside, he’d found an apple, bread, and cheese, and a packet of headache powders, which he’d realized he needed as soon as the steamer’s warning horn split the air—and his head.

He’d stopped by the telegraph office and sent word to his father that he would be in the city that day to see him. He hadn’t had time to wait for an answer; he’d just hoped that his father was at home.

The city was teeming with activity. It was going to be a hot day. Already he could feel the perspiration pooling under his arms. He’d forgotten the traffic, the noise, the stench. Manhattan was not the place to be in the summer.

He was deliberating whether to take the omnibus across town to the Ballard residence on Gramercy Park, where his father would hopefully be waiting for him, or to stand in line for a hansom cab when he heard his name being called by Darby, their family’s town coachman. His father had sent the carriage for him.

Dodging people, street offal, and urchins vying to carry baggage for a penny (or steal it as an alternative), Joe made
his way to the dark maroon town carriage. Darby held the carriage door open as Joe climbed in, then they set off through the jumble of conveyances toward the East Side.

Gramercy Park was a haven of peace and shade in the crowded, sweltering city. Joe paused outside on the sidewalk just to look up at the townhouse. The Ballard home was Italianate, with balconies surrounded by heavy iron grillwork that somehow evoked security and ornament at the same time. The home had been in the family for several generations, and Joe hoped it would stay in the family. He could see himself and
his
family—if he ever had one—living here. He’d been busy during the winter and hadn’t had too much time to miss home. But now he was so glad his father hadn’t sold it and joined the exodus uptown to build yet another opulent marble mansion.

He shook himself from the unexpected reverie and climbed the steps to the front door, which was opened by their ancient butler, Harrison. He’d been in his prime during Joe’s grandfather’s time, had served the next generation well, and now was too old and loyal and tenacious to be “let out to pasture,” as he himself had pointed out.

“Harrison,” Joe said, handing him his fedora.

“Your father is in the library, sir.”

“Thank you. How are you keeping?”

“Fine, sir. This way.”

Joe followed the old man, concentrating so as not to tread on his heels. As if he’d forgotten the way to his own library. Or was he being treated like a stranger as punishment for choosing to live with the hoi polloi? Harrison was more of a social stickler than Joe’s father or grandfather had ever been.

His father was sitting at his desk, though he was completely
hidden behind an open copy of the
Tribune
; his identity confirmed by the cigar smoke that curled above the edges of the paper.

The paper came down. “You’re here. Fine. I suppose you’re hungry.”

“Ravenous, sir.”

He father reached back and rang the bell. “Marthe has made you a feast. I think she hopes to lure you back with her cooking.”