His back to
The Valiant,
his shoulders bent to his task, Angus replied with a grunt that sounded like a
no.
I didn’t attempt to press his memory. Though few town locals had actually met her, nearly all of Newport recognized my cousin from catching glimpses of her riding in her parents’ carriages. If Angus had encountered her he’d have known it, and what’s more, he had no reason to lie to me.
Unless, of course, he’d been well-paid for that lie. I shook my head and sighed. I was becoming paranoid, suspecting guilt at every turn.
Soon the lively noises faded to a low hum behind us, and for me at least, the tranquility of the harbor and the salt-tinged breezes filled my lungs and eased my troubled mind.
My respite was short-lived. Upon arriving at
The Valiant,
a 300-foot steam brigantine that dwarfed all other craft anchored nearby, my nerves began to buzz. What excuse would I give Consuelo’s father, my uncle William Vanderbilt, for intruding upon his afternoon?
I didn’t have long to contemplate my options, for as soon as the skiff gently thumped against the yacht’s hull, the call of my name poured down from the top deck.
“Emmaline, is that you?”
I glanced upward, squinting against the bright sky to make out my uncle’s face peering down at me. He held a pair of binoculars in one hand. He’d obviously been observing the sights and had spotted me on my way here. “Good afternoon, Uncle William. Am I disturbing you?”
I hoped he didn’t have guests, for that would make my task so much more difficult.
“No,” he called down. “Come on up. Do you need help?”
A flight of spindly wooden steps with a rope railing spanned the side of the ship from the waterline upward to the promenade deck, just below the deck upon which my uncle stood. “No, thanks,” I shouted up at him. “I can make it just fine.”
Angus rowed the boat closer to the steps. Reaching out, he grasped the hemp railing and held us steady as I stood and carefully picked my way to the side of the skiff. I slipped a foot onto the lowest step, wrapped a hand around the rope, and swung myself up and over. For a moment the world seemed to spin out from under me. Though I’d grown up on an island and small craft like Angus’s were second nature, boarding a yachting vessel always taxed my equilibrium. My knuckles whitened around the thick twine railing and I stood a moment, feet braced on the step and my legs rigid, until steadiness returned.
“Not much of a sailor, are you,” Angus remarked.
I shook my head. “You’ll wait here for me?”
“Are you hiring me to wait here, Emma?”
“I am, Angus.” I did a mental calculation of the coins presently weighing the purse that dangled from my wrist. Well, if I didn’t have enough I’d send Brady down later with more. “Please don’t leave me stranded here.”
Angus let go a snort. “As if King William up there wouldn’t see you safely back to land.”
I let his derision of my relative pass without comment and started up. Uncle William met me at the top, swung me off the steps, and deposited me firmly on the solid deck.
William Vanderbilt was a younger, trimmer, more handsome version of his older brother, Cornelius. Though the resemblance was plain to see, where Uncle Cornelius was blunt featured and heavy-jawed, on Uncle William those same features took on longer lines and smoother planes that lent an aristocratic elegance his brother was missing. Uncle William smiled more easily, and those smiles reached his blue eyes without the secretive, calculating look his brother often bore whether he willed or no. And where Uncle Cornelius was solid and stocky, Uncle William’s frame was much more athletic, his step more energetic.
“Emmaline, dear, what brings you here? Are you all right? It’s awful what happened at Marble House yesterday. I’ve tried calling, but your aunt Alva won’t come to the telephone.”
Then he couldn’t know about Consuelo, at least not yet. When it came to a sharp intellect, Uncle William was no less astute than his older brother. On my way here I’d realized I couldn’t very well announce that Consuelo had vanished without a trace, or her disappearance would become a national emergency within minutes. Aunt Alva wanted Consuelo found without sparking rumors, and while I entertained doubts about the wisdom of that course, I’d respect her wishes for the time being.
Thinking quickly, I apologized again for intruding upon my uncle’s afternoon and smiled brightly. “I’m fine, thank you, Uncle William. Consuelo and I had plans to meet in town, but since she said she’d be stopping by to see you I thought I’d row out and meet her here.”
“Consuelo has no plans to come here today that I know of.” His expression became skeptical and I realized my mistake, confirmed by his next words. “You mean to say that after what happened yesterday, her mother allowed her out of the house?”
“Oh, well . . . Aunt Alva thought a change of scenery might be best. Besides . . .” Within the folds of my skirts I crossed my fingers. “Consuelo is meeting with a dressmaker in town. She’s ordering some things for her wedding trousseau.”
“Alone?” Uncle William’s doubts seemed to grow with each word I uttered. I found myself wishing I’d never come, much less opened my mouth.
“Surely not alone.” I tried a bit of lighthearted laughter, but it came out harsh and jarring. “I’m sure one of the maids accompanied her. And me, once I meet up with her.”
“Ah.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Emmaline, is there something going on I should know about? Is Consuelo all right? Has my ex-wife done something unconscionable again?”
The question sent my pulse spiking, for it was one I myself pondered. Did Alva have anything to do with Madame Devereaux’s murder or Consuelo’s disappearance?
Before I could answer, Uncle William drew my arm through his own and escorted me through the nearest doorway, into a parlor fitted out with velvet furnishings and dark-wood tabletops. He sat me down on a small sofa and settled beside me. “Well?”
“Consuelo is fine. Well, not fine exactly. Who could be fine after nearly witnessing a murder? Which she didn’t actually, so you can set your mind at ease on that count. She saw very little at all, really, because the other ladies and I were blocking her view.” I was babbling, but I couldn’t seem to stop. Our close proximity magnified the concern in Uncle William’s face and made it blasted difficult to continue lying. Which might explain the snippet of truth that fell next from my ingenuous lips. “But you should know she isn’t at all happy about marrying the Duke of Marlborough.”
As soon as the statement was out of my mouth I wanted to smack myself. What was I thinking? That it would help Consuelo’s case if her father knew the truth? That he would step gallantly in and undermine Aunt Alva’s plans, save his daughter from her unhappy fate, and then what? Allow her the freedom to choose her own future?
He wouldn’t. I knew that even before he looked down at his hands, breathed a deep sigh, and looked back up at me with a regretful frown. “Emmaline, you have altogether too much time on your hands. I don’t mean to criticize and Lord knows, I find you to be a steady, resourceful young woman—most of the time.” He patted my wrist. “But don’t you think it’s time you found a nice young man and settled down? Or better yet, let your aunt Alice make a good match for you. She’s just dying to see you married into a good family.”
He referred to his brother Cornelius’s wife, who was always on the lookout for a suitable bridegroom for me. No one too lofty, considering my less-than-stellar origins, but as Uncle William implied, someone from good stock, maybe one of the old New England families of modest fortune.
It was my turn to sigh. “I didn’t come here to discuss my prospects, Uncle William. I take it Consuelo isn’t here, then?”
“I haven’t seen her.” I watched his face carefully and detected no guile, but then again why would he lie? “Would you like to search the boat?”
I chuckled despite my disappointment. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Sudden ire claimed his expression, taking me aback. “Believe me, Emmaline, even if Consuelo wanted to visit me, she wouldn’t dare because she knows how her mother would react. Alva would make her pay—pay dearly. The woman is doing her confounded best to turn my own children against me. It hasn’t worked so far with the boys—”
“It hasn’t worked with Consuelo either,” I hastily assured him.
“No? Give Alva time, she’ll work her devil’s magic. Let me tell you, it doesn’t surprise me a murder took place on the Marble House property. Everything that woman touches turns evil.... Good grief, it wouldn’t surprise me if she herself . . .” Scowling, he trailed off, unaware he’d echoed my own thoughts.
“She deserves to be toppled from her self-made throne,” he continued. “Wouldn’t it serve her right if the murder creates a scandal she’ll never recover from, that makes her a world-renowned social pariah. . . .” His smile, more a sneer, sent a foreboding shiver through me.
I sprang to my feet and stared down at him, awful possibilities gripping me like claws at my nape. Could kindly Uncle William have had reason to see Madame Devereaux dead? Reasons that had nothing to do with the woman herself, but with the wife who had so recently divorced him? Though unwelcome at Marble House, he did still have access to both the house and the grounds; the staff would never question his presence there. It begged the question, how far would a bitter man go to satisfy his need for retribution?
Then again, Alva had divorced William because she had discovered he’d been unfaithful. How
did
she discover his infidelity? Fortune-tellers, however deceptive, had their ways of uncovering the secret truth about people. And come to think of it, while fortune-tellers and mediums were all the rage among fashionable society, Aunt Alva had never struck me as fanciful enough to put stock in the supernatural. Yet she knew Madame Devereaux well enough to invite her into her home.... I wondered how, and under what circumstances, they had met before.
Oblivious to my speculations, Uncle William stood up beside me. “Would you like some lunch before you go?”
“No, uh . . . no, thank you.” The thought of food made me queasy. Did I believe Uncle William—or Aunt Alva—capable of murder, not to mention framing an innocent woman for the crime? No, not in my heart. But my believing it or not had little bearing on whether it was true. “I think I’ll . . . uh . . . head back into town . . . and wait for Consuelo at the dressmaker’s.”
“When you do see her, tell her to come visit me. Just to stick a blade between her mother’s ribs and give it a little twist.” It was his turn to chuckle, a cold sound that left me trembling. With a hollow smile I left him and began the climb back down to Angus’s skiff.
Chapter 7
“W
here to now?” Angus asked me as he shoved off from
The Valiant.
“Where to, indeed.” I sighed. Thus far all I’d achieved today was to widen my circle of suspects to include Winthrop Rutherfurd and my own Uncle William. Add Aunt Alva to that list, and it seemed everywhere I turned a suspect appeared out of the air. The queasiness of minutes ago seemed to settle in permanently. And yet my common sense ordered me to let it go, to acknowledge that events had sent my imagination and my suspicions barreling out of control. Uncle William? Aunt Alva? It was ludicrous. I’d promised Jesse I’d let the police solve Madame Devereaux’s murder. It was time I focused on what I had promised to do: find my cousin.
“Back to town,” I said half-heartedly, with no particular plan in mind. Where else could I search?
I set my sights toward where Long Wharf stretched into the harbor, but something closer caught my eye. A skipjack bounced across the waves twenty yards or so away. Some thirty feet in length, its two sails flashing silvery in the afternoon sun, the vessel maneuvered easily between the other pleasure craft, fishing boats, and freighters navigating Narragansett Bay. But that’s not what held my attention. No, it was the man at the helm, whose stance and figure might not have attracted my notice if I hadn’t just seen him that morning.
“Angus, may I borrow your binoculars?”
He reached to hand me the pair occupying a corner of the bench beside him. “Suit yourself. Bird-watching?”
I nodded and discreetly wiped the lenses on my skirt before raising the device to my eyes. It took only seconds to confirm the identity of the man guiding the skipjack. There were two other men with him, neither of whom was familiar to me. They headed in the direction of Rose Island, twenty acres of sand and rocks about a mile out on the harbor. The island held only one structure, the Rose Light with its attached living quarters, inhabited by the lighthouse keeper and his wife. What on earth could Winty want there? And why would he be manning a boat typically used for oyster dredging? Hardly what one would call a gentleman’s sport craft.
As the sailboat rounded the west side of the island, which faced away from Newport, Winty’s reason for using the shallow-bottomed skipjack became apparent, for the shoals on that side of the island would scrape a deeper V-shaped hull. With a frown I shifted my gaze toward the island’s landward side. The Curtises’ dock and boat slip lay vacant, their own small sailboat nowhere in sight. Clear blue skies and the bay’s light chop left little reason why the couple wouldn’t have taken the opportunity for a trip into town. In all probability, their clapboard house and the attached tower were deserted.
“Angus, any idea when the Curtises are due back today?”
“They’re not coming back today.”
Surprised, I lowered the binoculars. “Where are they?”
“Took a little vacation south.”
“Then who’s operating the light?”
He shrugged. “City hired someone for the time being. Don’t know his name.”
“Angus, would you take us out farther, please?”
“Are you hiring me to—”
“Yes, I’m hiring you to take me farther out on the bay.” My purse felt decidedly light for the occasion, but again, I could send Brady with more money later to make up the difference. In my impatience I wished I could have rowed myself out, but wouldn’t that have set tongues wagging about that poor Vanderbilt relation who not only drove her own rig, but rowed her own boat. I’d never have heard the end of it from Aunt Alice.
Angus shrugged and turned us about. He didn’t appear to pay me any attention as I brought the binoculars back up to my eyes. If he found anything strange in my request, he showed no sign of it.
I didn’t worry about Winty glimpsing me in return, for there was enough boating traffic today to conceal me, if one didn’t know where to look. And if Winty hadn’t noticed me on his way out to the island, there was no reason for him to be looking for me now. Within minutes, Angus had rowed us far enough out that I could once again see the skipjack, only now instead of cutting a path through the water, it drifted gently, moored a mere few yards out from the island’s rocky ledge.
What happened next made me feel foolish. Abandoning the helm, Winty bent down to retrieve something I couldn’t see from the deck, and when he straightened it was to toss a baited line into the water. He sat on the bench seat spanning the width of the deck at the rear of the craft and adjusted the fishing pole in his hands.
Here I was, my suspicious mind leading me to imagine I was spying on a guilty moment, to discover a man who wanted only a private place to fish. I opened my mouth to tell Angus to start back to shore, but in the next instant I snapped it shut.
Working quickly, Winty’s two companions, men dressed not as he was in a stylish linen suit, but in the coarser jersey and corduroy of workmen, hoisted some dark-colored object over the side of the boat. I blinked as the water sent up a splash, and thought I saw something catch the sunlight at the water’s surface. Not the heavy thing that had caused the splash, but something buoyant and lighter in color. Something that might blend with the waves and the frothy whitecaps, at least by day. By night . . . I wondered. Might that floating object stand out against the darkened waters?
Leaning, the rough-clad men peered down into the water until, seeming satisfied, they straightened, moved to the other side of the boat, and hauled up the little anchor that had kept them moored as they completed their peculiar errand. Winty reeled in his line and returned to the helm. He turned them about until the sails caught the wind, and the craft once more skipped its way around the island and then across the harbor toward the wharf.
“What was that all about?” I murmured. Winty’s fishing—a diversion to distract from whatever those two men had tossed in the water?
I thought of asking Angus if he’d ever noticed Winty skulking about Rose Island before, but then I became aware of a sound I’d been hearing all along, that of my old neighbor whistling a gay tune as he sat staring into the water beside him. No, it was my guess that by design Angus noticed little during his jaunts on the harbor. He finally glanced up at me. “Ready to go home?”
I nodded and showed him a crooked, sheepish smile. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention this to anyone.”
“Mention what?” He appeared genuinely puzzled.
“Nothing. Thank you, Angus.”
He merely gripped the oars and set both shoulders to the task of turning us about and heading landward. Need I say I nearly had to bite my tongue to keep from asking him to head over to Rose Island instead, so I could see what Winty’s companions had tossed in the water.
A small voice inside me asked why it mattered, what business was it of mine what Winthrop Rutherfurd did? But his connection to my cousin made it my business.
Might Winthrop have been marking a spot for a later rendezvous to secrete Consuelo off Aquidneck Island, perhaps a signal for where a boat should put in? Her mother dreaded the idea of their eloping, but that would certainly save her daughter from her unwanted marriage to the Duke. Good heavens, it made sense. Why, even now she might be holed up in the lighthouse, awaiting her chance to escape. And Mr. and Mrs. Curtis were conveniently away.
I had to return to Rose Island, but now wasn’t the time, not in full sunlight when someone might see me. Later then, once darkness fell, I’d go alone. At night the Rose Light would shine its beams out across the water, deepening the shadows directly below it, shadows that would safely conceal me.
If Aunt Alice, or anyone in society for that matter, could have seen me later that night, the shock waves would have been felt from one end of New England to the other. Yet I thanked my deceased aunt Sadie once again as I pulled on her old work trousers, button-down shirt, boots, and corduroy workman’s coat. Aunt Sadie had always said a single woman—as she had been by choice—had work to do, and she’d be damned if she went about sowing her garden or mending the house shingles in petticoats and lace.
A tweed cap stuffed with my hair and pulled low over my brow completed my look for the evening. I even smeared a bit of coal dust across my chin to give the illusion of beard stubble should anyone peer too closely as I drove beneath a streetlamp. Satisfied, I turned away from my mirror.
“Well?”
From her perch at the foot of my bed, Nanny surveyed me with a pout. “It’s not a good idea, you know.”
“Yes, well, it’s been more than twenty-four hours and I still haven’t found Consuelo. If my suspicions are correct, I can’t let this opportunity slip away. Or
she
might slip away.”
“Then let Jesse handle it.”
“I can’t, Nanny. I promised Aunt Alva complete secrecy. Calling in the police is a last resort.” My promise, however, weighed heavily on me. What if Consuelo hadn’t run off voluntarily? What if . . . but I refused to entertain the notion that she’d come to harm.
“Send Brady,” Nanny suggested next.
“Have you lost your wits? Brady? Oh, he’s the soul of discretion, all right. No, Nanny, I have to go, and don’t you dare breathe a word to him about this. I promise I’ll be careful. One hint of danger and I’ll turn right around and row back to the harbor.”
“Someone might recognize you.”
I glanced again in the mirror. “I doubt that.”
“Someone might recognize Barney and the carriage.”
This made me pause and sent my bottom lip between my teeth. I’d been so engaged in making sure I’d be unidentifiable that I hadn’t given a thought to my means of transportation. I glanced at the clock; it read nine forty-five. “Well, it’s late. Most locals are either getting ready for bed or they’re sitting in a tavern already beginning to see double. It’s the social set that will be traveling the streets now and they aren’t likely to spare me a glance. Besides, at night Barney could be any brown horse and the rig any black carriage. It’s not as if there’s a shiny gold crest on the side panel proclaiming my identity.”
“And what if the McPaddens’ rowboat isn’t where you’re expecting it to be? For all we know, the thing rotted away years ago,” Nanny persisted. “What then? Are you going to swim out to Rose Island?”
I snapped my hands to my hips. “You’re making me regret ever telling you my plans. You know that, don’t you? If the McPaddens’ rowboat isn’t docked behind their house, I’ll find another. This
is
the
Point
we’re talking about. Every house on the water has a boat.”
“Why is this your obligation, Emma?” Nanny asked so quietly I had to prick my ears to hear her.
“I just told you. I promised Aunt Alva—”
“No, Emma. The question I’m asking isn’t
what
you promised, but
why
you made the promise. Why do you think it’s your responsibility to put yourself at risk to find Consuelo?”
“I . . .” I turned back to the mirror, gazing at the reflection of the young man I’d become. But that young man could barely bring himself to meet my gaze. He glanced away and found Nanny’s unwavering questions staring at him through the glass.
“Look at me, Emma.” She waited until I turned back around before continuing. “If you can’t tell
me
the answer, at least tell yourself.”
The tops of my leather work boots suddenly became fascinating, and I fell to studying them. I knew the answer to Nanny’s question, but in rushing around today to try to find some trace of Consuelo, I’d managed to avoid the truth.
I felt responsible—wholly responsible. I couldn’t help thinking that if I hadn’t betrayed her yesterday, if I hadn’t taken her mother’s side in trying to persuade her to see the sense in marrying the Duke of Marlborough, she might now be safely tucked away in her bedroom. I’d tried to believe my encouragement had been for the best, to help her face the unavoidable future bravely, but, oh, how my words must have singed Consuelo’s heart. That I, her older cousin, should take her mother’s side . . . should do anything other than fight for what
she
wanted . . . She’d trusted me, confided in me, and I had let her down completely. How devastated she must have been. How utterly bereft and alone.
“I have to do this, Nanny,” I whispered. “If anything happens to Consuelo, it’ll be my fault.”
Nanny shook her head, her expression as serious as I’d ever seen it. “No, Emma. It won’t be your fault. It might be her mother’s fault, or her father’s, or the fault of this man who wants to marry her for her money, or . . . and don’t turn away again . . . but Consuelo isn’t necessarily blameless in all of this either.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? If she did run off, shouldn’t she take responsibility for her own actions?”
“She’s a frightened girl, practically a child . . .”
Nanny’s eyebrow rose. “If you believe that, aren’t you treating her just like her mother does? Like a beautiful but empty-headed doll?”
Was I? An answer prodded, but it wasn’t one I liked to acknowledge. “Either way, I can’t simply forget all about what happened. I can’t go on with my everyday life with my cousin out there somewhere, missing and possibly traumatized.”
“No.” Nanny sighed and perused me with an assessing look. “I don’t suppose you can.”
She knew me far too well to continue arguing with me. I went to her and leaned down to deposit a kiss on her cheek. Her soft skin smelled of lavender and I breathed in the fragrance, the sense of comfort I’d known since my earliest days bolstering my determination. Unfortunately, being the source of my stubborn courage probably wasn’t what she’d had in mind.
“Don’t worry, Nanny dear. I’ll be careful, and I’ll be home before you know it. Promise.”
That only brought a frown. “And if you’re not?”
“Then send the cavalry.” Standing straight, I touched two fingers to my cap brim and headed for the door.