There are realities that cannot be ignored and rules that cannot be broken, or chaos results.... I can’t pretend I’m something I’m not any more than you can.
I was what I was: simple, often headstrong Emma Cross, who never could and never would be comfortable putting on airs. And Derrick couldn’t change what he was: the scion of a wealthy, powerful family for whom propriety and appearances were too vital to be ignored. If Brady was a buck trampling the flowers here at Gull Manor, in Derrick’s world I’d be the goose ruffling the feathers of all the swans.
“Derrick, I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” I said into the telephone.
He was not to be deterred. “It’s important. Please.”
I squeezed my fingers around the ear trumpet. If Consuelo could find the courage to face a future she didn’t want, surely I could find the courage to tell Derrick Andrews once and for all that, while I would always care for him, I would never be his wife. Surely I could find the fortitude to finally set him free.
But that, I knew, could not be accomplished over the phone.
“I’ll meet you outside your hotel in an hour.”
After asking me to drive us to the Point, Derrick was oddly silent during the ride. Despite my reporter’s nature I didn’t question him. My answers would come soon enough.
He directed me down Third Street, and when we came to Walnut Street, he instructed me to turn right. We halted in front of my family’s three-story clapboard home.
“What are we doing?” I asked with a little chuckle when he didn’t immediately say anything. “You’re being terribly mysterious.”
His indrawn breath somehow raised butterflies in my stomach. When I thought I could stand it no longer, he said, “I’ve purchased a house here on the Point.”
“Oh, is that all?” Another, lighter chuckle released some of my tension, although not all. So he wouldn’t return once and for all to Providence and disappear from my life. I admit to a host of mixed emotions, some of which I didn’t care to examine too closely. Yet I couldn’t deny a surge of relief that when we did say good-bye, it wouldn’t be forever. “You were afraid I’d disapprove, were you?” I looked around at the houses lining the street, most of which had been occupied by the same families for decades, some for generations. “I wasn’t aware any homes were for sale. Which is it?”
“That one.” He raised his hand to point.
My jaw dropped open. He pointed to the house I’d grown up in.
A frantic parade of explanations ran through my mind: it was a joke; he actually meant the house next door; he’d only rented one of the apartments . . .
But there was no mistaking the line of his forefinger, or the apologetic frown tightening his brow.
“But you can’t have.” My voice shook slightly. “It’s not for sale. I’d have known if it had been for sale.”
“They didn’t want you to know, Emma. Your parents needed the funds, and they assumed you’d try to stop the sale. One of the tenants is moving out in two weeks. I’ll take over that flat.”
The trembling that began in my heart spread to encompass all of me. “Oh, God. Please tell me this is a joke.”
When he said nothing I dropped the reins and climbed down from the rig. Blindly I scrambled over the curbstone and headed for the front door. I don’t know what I would have done when I reached it—barged inside, startling poor Mrs. Carter and her sister as they sat hunched over their knitting?
I never made it that far, for Derrick came up behind me and seized my wrist. He turned me about, and I very nearly swung my free hand, palm flat, against his cheek. Oh, I wanted to slap him—every fiber in my being demanded it. Yet my hand stopped in midair as the two of us stood frozen, there on the narrow brick walkway, me panting and Derrick beseeching me with his eyes.
“How could you? How could you betray me like this?”
“Would you rather it had gone to strangers?”
“I’d have bought it myself!”
“With what?”
I tugged to free my wrist, but he held on relentlessly. “Uncle Cornelius . . . or Aunt Alva. They’d have bought the house for me.” Yet even as I made the claim, I knew—I
knew
—I couldn’t have accepted their money. Castoff clothing and telephones were one thing, but a house? Damn my pride, but yes, I would have allowed my family’s home to go to strangers rather than accept my relatives’ charity on so large a scale.
Another realization hit me. It wasn’t Derrick who had betrayed me. It was my parents. Yet again. Always so caught up in their own artistic world, so oblivious to the realities of anyone else’s. But, after all, this was their house—or was—to do with as they pleased. Another blow struck me. I’d wanted them home not long ago, when Brady had been accused of murder. I’d wanted my parents here to help, to offer comfort, to lean on....
They were not coming home. Ever. Perhaps that is what this house had come to mean to me—a promise that they would be back someday. But this drove home the fact that they’d chosen Paris, and all that city had to offer, over their children. I shouldn’t have been surprised. But the wound cut deep all the same, so deep that for a moment I couldn’t breathe.
“You could have said something,” I said weakly. “Instead, you sneaked around, buying my home out from under me.” Why was I continuing to blame him? Somehow, I couldn’t stop myself from lashing out at him. Perhaps only because he was here, while my parents were not. “What about Brady? Shall he have his things removed immediately?”
Derrick released my wrist. “Brady can continue to occupy the top floor.”
“How accommodating of you.”
“Free of charge.”
I shook my head. “We won’t accept your charity, Derrick.”
“Emma, please.” He reached for me again, not to seize me, but to lay a placating hand on my shoulder. The weight of it infused me with warmth. I wanted to step away, but I couldn’t . . . simply couldn’t make my feet move. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Father’s financial agent heard about the house going up for sale and contacted me immediately. He knew I was thinking about investing here in Newport. It all happened very fast—”
“Have you not heard of the telephone, Derrick? It’s a wonderful invention, and a very fast means of communication. I have one in my home, in case you’d forgotten. I’m sure the Atlantic House Hotel has at least one at their guests’ disposal.”
His hand left my shoulder. His cheek gave a telltale twitch. “I thought it was the best solution—better, as I said, than letting your house go to strangers.”
“I intend to buy it back,” I announced, surprising myself, and him, judging by his expression. When he started to speak, I cut him off. “No, I don’t have the money—yet. But in time I will. Somehow. I’ll work harder, write more articles. Promise me, Derrick. Promise me that when I have the money, you will sell me my house back.”
He studied me a long time. Gradually the pain of guilt smoothed away and the familiar Derrick reappeared: patrician, confident, and just a little bit cocky. “You know, Emma, there’s a way for this house to be yours without your having to buy it.”
He smiled his dashing, heart-melting, infinitely infuriating grin, and everything inside me froze. I braced for his next words, certain I knew what they would be. A war of uncertainty waged inside of me, along with a wisp of anger. Would he actually dangle my childhood home in front of me as an enticement to marry him? Could he be so manipulative?
The words never came. He merely stood there, smiling, allowing his implied meaning to stew inside me. Villain.
I raised my chin. “I’m going home. Would you like a ride into town?”
“No, thank you. I need to speak with the tenant who’s moving. I’ll make my way back into town later.”
“Well, then, good day to you, sir, and enjoy your house. For now.” With that I strode past him, climbed back into my carriage, turned Barney about, and drove away, leaving Derrick standing in front of his new property, thinking whatever he would.
It was only once I’d turned the corner that my eyes began to burn and my surroundings blurred. Good gracious, I’d lost my house, my childhood home....
No, that wasn’t it, not entirely. I couldn’t have said exactly
what
it was. Mere emotional exhaustion, perhaps. Yet, by the time I reached the other end of Third Street, the breeze had dried my tears to sticky tracks against my cheeks and, in spite of everything, a little smile forced its way to my lips. I might have lost my house to a sneaky rogue who believed he could manipulate me . . .
But I hadn’t lost
him
—I hadn’t lost Derrick, however much I kept telling myself I needed to set him free.
No, he would be here, an on-and-off Newporter, and—
I put from my mind any further thoughts of what that would mean. I simply refused to consider it.
Derrick would be here, and for now . . .
That was enough.
Chapter 1
Newport, Rhode Island, June, 1896
I
sat up in bed, my heart thumping in my throat, my ears pricked. I’d woken to high-pitched keening, an eerie, unearthly sound that gathered in the pit of my stomach. There had been no warning in last night’s starry skies and temperate breezes, but sometime in the ensuing hours a storm must have closed in around tiny Aquidneck Island. I knew I should hurry about the house and secure the storm shutters, yet as I continued to listen, I heard only the patient ease and tug of the ocean against the rocky shoreline, the sighs of the maritime breezes beneath the eaves of my house, and the argumentative squawking of hungry gulls flocking above the waves.
With relief I eased back onto my pillows—but no. The sound came again—like the rising howl of a growing tempest. Throwing back the covers I slid from bed and went to the window. With both hands I pushed the curtains aside.
And stared out at a brilliant summer dawn. Long, flat, gently rolling waves, tinted bright copper to the east, mellowed to gold, then green, and then a deep, cool sapphire directly beyond my property. The sky was still a somber gray, but clear and wide, a few stars lingering to the west. The gulls dove like gleaming white arrows into the water and swooped away to enjoy their quarry.
I could only conclude I had been dreaming, even when I’d thought I was awake. Well, I was certainly awake now. I grabbed my robe, slid my feet into my slippers, and quietly made my way downstairs.
I needn’t have muffled my footsteps, for as I entered the morning room at the back of the house I found Katie, my maid-of-all-work, as well as Nanny, my housekeeper, already setting out breakfast. The inviting scents of warm banana bread and brewing coffee made my stomach rumble.
“You’re both up early,” I said.
“Mornin’, Miss Emma,” Katie replied in her soft brogue.
Nanny’s plump cheeks rounded as she smiled at me, her half-moon spectacles catching the orange light of the kerosene lantern. “Something woke me. I’m not quite sure what.”
“That’s so odd—me, too.” I picked up the small stack of dishes and cutlery on the sideboard and carried them to the table. Katie looked at me uncertainly, then half-shrugged and made her way back to the kitchen.
She had been in my employ for a year now and had yet to grow accustomed to the informal machinations of my household. At Gull Manor we never stood on ceremony; there was no strict order of things, but rather a daily muddling through of tasks and chores and making ends meet. That was my life—by my choice and by the gift of my aunt Sadie, who had left me the means to lead an independent life.
Part of that gift included this house, a large, sprawling structure in what architects called the shingle style, with a gabled roofline, mullioned windows framed in timber, weathered stone, and enough rooms to house several families comfortably. Set on a low, rocky promontory on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, Gull Manor was a very New England sort of house that seemed almost to rise up from the boulders themselves and to have been fashioned by the whim of rain, wind, and sea. Yes, it was drafty, a bit isolated, and required more upkeep than I could afford to maintain it on the proper side of shabby, but it was all mine and I loved it.
Katie returned with a sizzling pan of eggs, and I asked her, “What about you, Katie? What brought you down so early?”
“Oh, I’m always up before the sun, miss. A leftover habit from being in service.” She placed the frying pan on a trivet on the sideboard and turned quickly around. “Oh, not that I’m not still in service, mind you . . .”
“It doesn’t always feel like it, though, does it?” I finished for her.
“No, miss. And for that I’m grateful. Now . . . I’ll go and get the toast . . .”
Nanny, in a faded housecoat wrapped tight around an equally tired-looking nightgown, heaped eggs on a plate, placed a slice of banana bread beside them, and went to sit at the table. I did likewise, and when I’d settled in and picked up my fork, I hesitated before taking the first bite. “Have you seen our guest yet this morning?”
Nanny shook her head. “That sort don’t rise with the sun.” “Nanny! That’s unkind. Please don’t refer to Stella as ‘that sort.’ We agreed—”
“We agreed, but I still worry that you’re crossing a line, Emma. Out-of-work and disgraced maids are one thing, but . . .” She pursed her lips together.
“Prostitutes are another,” a voice behind me said.
Nanny glanced beyond my shoulder, and I twisted around to see the figure standing in the doorway. Stella Butler wore my old sateen robe buttoned to her chin. Her ebony hair, tamed in two neat plaits, hung over each shoulder, making her look anything but a jaded woman. High cheekbones and slanting green eyes marked her a beauty, but today that beauty struggled past obvious fatigue and the downward curve of her mouth. She met our gazes with defiance, but the spark quickly died. She bowed her head and released a sigh.
“I’m sorry. I’m grateful to you, Miss Cross. I promise I won’t stay long and I’ll pay you for every scrap of food I eat.”
I stood and pulled out the chair beside my own at the round oak table. “You’ll stay as long as you need, and as for payment, I’m sure we’ll work something out, something mutually beneficial.”
Nanny harrumphed. Without another word Stella scooped up a small portion of eggs and a slice of banana bread I deemed too thin, and returned to the table. I was about to admonish her to take more, that she needed to keep up her strength, but thought better of it. Stella obviously had her pride, and if she was going to carve out a better life for herself than the one she’d been living, she would need that pride as much as strength.
“I’ll be right back,” I told them. “I’m going to see if the newspaper came yet.”
“I would think the storm kept the delivery boys from venturing out at their usual time,” Stella said without looking up.
“You too? This has been the strangest morning.” I glanced out the window. The sun had fully risen, gilding our kitchen garden and the yard beyond. A few fair-weather clouds hovered over the water. With a shrug I headed for the front of the house. It was as I reached the foyer that the wind suddenly picked up again, sending an unnerving cry crawling up the exterior façade to echo beneath the eaves.
I hadn’t been dreaming. What kind of a strange storm was this?
Bracing for a blustery onslaught, I opened the front door.
“Nanny! Nanny!” I shouted, and fell to my knees. There was no gale battering my property, or any other part of the island on which I lived. The keening and the cries I’d heard that had yanked me from sleep were not those of a summer squall.
They were those of a baby, tucked into a basket and left on my doorstep.