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THE EVENING OF BERTHA Palmer’s charity ball arrived far sooner than Evangeline would have liked. She had made no headway in her investigation regarding the theft at the museum, while Freddie had only secured an interview with the formidable Mr. McDonald the day before. King Mike’s assurance of cooperation had not yet yielded any results. On this particular night, the two amateur sleuths were required to put aside their detecting in favor of preserving the goodwill of their client. They both dutifully climbed into Evangeline’s carriage for an evening of small talk and dancing at the Palmer mansion that neither one was in the mood to enjoy. The distance from Astor and Schiller Streets to their destination was only two city blocks, but etiquette rather than practicality demanded that they must arrive in a carriage.
Freddie gazed absently out at the darkened street down which they traveled and heaved a sigh. “Of all the pointless ways to waste a perfectly good evening.”
“Cheer up,” Evangeline offered. “Tonight’s revels may hold at least one curiosity to divert you. We are likely to meet a real live duchess.”
“Here?” The reporter’s tone was skeptical.
“Yes. Bertha told me that one of her guests is about to wed a British duke. Ever since Consuelo Yznaga married her impecunious viscount, it’s become au courant for American heiresses to purchase impoverished foreign noblemen as spouses. And now her namesake, Consuelo Vanderbilt, will be doing the same in November.”
“Miserable fellows don’t stand a chance,” Freddie muttered. “They’re being stalked like big game on the African veldt by great white huntresses intent on a trophy kill.”
Evangeline remained unmoved by his complaint. “I should think you might spare a tear as well for the young ladies being forced into these heartless matrimonial alliances. I’m told that Alva Vanderbilt was so ambitious to have her daughter marry a title that she broke up Consuelo’s engagement to the man she loved. When Consuelo objected, Alva is reputed to have said, ‘I do the thinking. You do as you are told.’ Insufferable creature. I have it on good authority that she once bragged, ‘I have always had absolute power over my daughter.’”
Freddie shrugged. “Maybe the duchess we meet tonight won’t have an overbearing mother.”
“Maybe,” Evangeline echoed in a small voice, not sounding at all convinced. “At the very least, one can hope that this new wave of marriageable girls shows more backbone in opposing the monstrous will of a domineering parent.”
The conversation terminated abruptly as the carriage approached its destination. Jack, the caretaker of Evangeline’s townhouse who doubled as coachman, guided his horse onto the circular drive behind several other vehicles waiting to disgorge passengers beneath the ivy-covered port cochere.
Evangeline glanced out the window to study the massive structure that dominated the intersection of Lake Shore Drive and Banks Street. It was the largest private residence in the entire city and had already earned the local nickname of “the castle.” The building offered physical proof that Bertha and Potter Palmer never did anything on a small scale. When originally completed in 1885, the three-story Romanesque-Gothic structure with crenelated turrets, towers, and a free-standing 80-foot spiral staircase ended up costing one million dollars. Toward the end of its initial construction, when expenses were topping $750,000, Potter Palmer told his bookkeeper not to show him any more bills. He didn’t want to know how much the castle would end up setting him back.
After the Palmers installed themselves in their mansion, it didn’t take long for the rest of Chicago’s social elite to build houses in close proximity to the castle. Because of its location bordering Lake Michigan, the area became known as the Gold Coast—instantly the most fashionable residential neighborhood in the city.
Evangeline was jogged out of her meditations when she realized that the carriage had pulled up to the entry and that Jack had opened the door, holding out his hand to help her alight. Once down on the pavement, she adjusted her ivory silk ball gown and waited for Freddie to descend.
“Come back for us at eleven o’clock, Jack,” Evangeline instructed.
Freddie handed the coachman qua caretaker a coin. “Have a drink on me while you wait for us.”
The driver flashed a gold tooth as he gave an appreciative smile. “You’re a gentleman and a scholar, Mister Freddie.”
Evangeline darted her friend a reproachful look before cautioning, “You won’t get drunk now. Will you, Jack?”
The coachman chuckled. “Don’t you worry, Miss Engie. I can hold my liquor. Besides, the horse already knows the way from here to the townhouse without me to guide him.”
The lady frowned in exasperation. “That thought gives me very little comfort.”
Before she could say more, Freddie intervened and took Evangeline by the elbow. “Come on, old girl. You’re holding up the carriage line.”
When the couple entered the castle, they were bowed into the vast central hall by liveried servants, where maids stood waiting to take their wraps.
Since Freddie had never seen the interior of the mansion before, he stood gawking at the three-story, ornately carved staircase directly before him until Evangeline plucked him by the sleeve to hurry him along. A servant gestured the couple toward a set of open double doors on the far-right end of the hall. From there, they traversed the mansion’s main parlor to get to the ballroom. Even though the core structure was roughly 10,000 square feet already, Bertha had wanted an addition to accommodate her art collection and a space to entertain foreign dignitaries during the Columbian Exposition in 1893. As a result, an 80-foot combination art gallery and grand ballroom was annexed to the north end of the castle.
Before they could reach their destination, Freddie and Evangeline found themselves behind a dozen people waiting to be received by their host and hostess. When the two eventually reached the front of the line, they were welcomed by the Palmers themselves. Bertha, as always, was bedecked in jewels and greeted her guests enthusiastically. She had once described herself as “the nation’s hostess and the nation’s head woman servant.” She clearly took her duties seriously on both counts. Her husband, Potter, possessed a more subdued manner, though he offered a cordial welcome as well. Potter looked all of his sixty-nine years, but he did his best to keep up with his forty-six-year-old wife’s energetic temperament.
“Engie, dear. So happy to see you,” Bertha smiled and kissed Evangeline. She and Potter both shook hands with Freddie. “And you’ve brought Mr. Simpson. How goes your investigation? Any news yet?”
Evangeline flinched at the sound of the dreaded question. Much to her surprise, Freddie intervened smoothly.
“We’ve made a little progress and identified a source who has agreed to help us. He may have some valuable information in a few days. You’ll understand if I don’t elaborate. It’s best not to divulge too many details at this stage of our inquiry.”
“Then, you’re making great strides.” Bertha clapped her hands in delight. “How wonderful!”
Relieved and not wishing to hold up the reception line, Evangeline took Freddie’s arm and made a graceful exit. “That was very good,” she whispered to him under her breath.
“It’s actually true.” The reporter faltered. “More or less.”
“Less rather than more, I think,” the lady countered. “Do you have any idea when McDonald might have something for us?”
Freddie shook his head. “Not a clue, but I’ll check with him by mid-week if he doesn’t contact me first.”
Their detective business concluded for the evening, the couple turned their attention to the mass of humanity gathered in the ballroom. Over one hundred of Chicago’s most prominent citizens had shown up for the occasion. The men were all dressed in black and white formal attire. The women had adopted what amounted to the current fashion trend for the spring season—pastel silk ball gowns styled in an hourglass shape with low necklines and short gigot sleeves over white satin opera gloves. Thankfully, trains were of a modest length and didn’t require yards of useless fabric slung over one’s arm while dancing.
The ladies all followed Bertha’s lead, in that they wore their most ostentatious jewelry, attempting to outshine one another. Some wore long strands of pearls, but many favored the choker or dog collar—a necklace made fashionable by Princess Alexandra, the future queen consort of England. Unlike the rest, Evangeline had opted for a modest circlet consisting of two short strands of pearls terminating in a large central ruby.
Freddie and Evangeline ambled along the edge of the dance floor to observe the activity. A few dozen attendees had gathered in a side gallery where a lavish buffet was being set out. Most of the rest were waltzing to the strains of an orchestra whose music drifted down from a second-floor balcony. A handful of other guests were either seated on chairs or admiring the paintings that covered every available inch of wall space.
Bertha had begun gathering works of art in 1891 for display at the Columbian Exposition, and her home now boasted the largest number of paintings by Monet, Renoir, and Degas outside of France. Not content to collect only one style of art, the lady of the manor displayed her treasures in three tiers across the walls. Each row was devoted to a different movement: Impressionism, the Barbizon School, and Romanticism. It was no wonder that such an avid collector of art would be a patron of the city’s Art Institute, for whose benefit this evening’s gala was being held.
Bertha slipped noiselessly up beside Evangeline, startling her. “There you are, Engie. Now that most of my guests have arrived, I can dispense with my welcoming duties. Come with me. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” She glanced at Freddie as she took Evangeline’s arm and drew her forward. “You too, Mr. Simpson. Please follow us.”
Dodging dancers and spectators, she wove a path to the small south gallery, which was raised three steps above the dance floor and tucked away from the main crush. A group of ladies had clustered around two women seated on a low divan against the wall. A man stood next to them. It struck Evangeline that the trio had the air of royals holding court.
The admiring throng parted when they spied Bertha approaching with two guests in tow. “Engie, Mr. Simpson, I’d like you to meet the Vangilder family. They are passing through Chicago on their way to England, where Miss Perdita Vangilder will soon wed the Duke of Bournmoor and become a duchess. We are delighted that the family has chosen to stay at the Palmer House while they’re here.”
As Bertha continued to elaborate and make introductions among the five people, Evangeline used the opportunity to study the newest darlings of Chicago high society. Mrs. Henrietta Vangilder, Hettie for short, had strongly defined features that suggested a decisive personality. Evangeline guessed her to be in her mid-forties, but her beauty refused to yield to middle age. Still a strikingly handsome woman, her hair was bluish black without a hint of gray. Her eyes were green and showed a quick intelligence, darting here and there as she grasped every detail told to her, assessing her surroundings and companions with alacrity.
Her son Cassius, in his early twenties, was about Freddie’s height of six feet. He had blond hair cut slightly longer than fashion dictated. His eyes were green like his mother’s and seemed to sparkle with mischief as if he knew a secret joke that he didn’t intend to share with anyone. His sister, Perdita, could not have formed a more striking contrast. She appeared to be a few years younger than her sibling. Her eyes were large and solemn, their color a grayish blue, while her hair was a nondescript shade of brown. Evangeline was struck by her shy bearing. For a young lady about to be elevated to the peerage, she showed no conscious pride in her impending matrimonial achievement, her withdrawn manner implicitly mocking the regal tiara she wore. Perdita kept her eyes cast to the floor. When asked a direct question, her gaze wandered toward her mother for confirmation before answering.
Evangeline broke out of her reverie as she sensed that the introductions had been concluded and that the party was lapsing into small talk. “How are you finding Chicago?” she asked the trio in general.
“A most fascinating city,” Hettie replied enthusiastically. “There’s so much bustle and stir to the place. One can’t help but feel energized.”
“And one can’t help but admire its many attractions,” Cassius added. He raised the quizzing glass that hung suspended from a gold chain around his neck and leaned in to peer down at Evangeline’s neck. “Lord, Miss LeClair, that ruby shows exceptional clarity.” He bent lower to examine the gem through his lens with keen admiration.
Freddie, apparently fearing that Cassius was scrutinizing Evangeline’s decolletage as well as her necklace, tried to interpose himself between the lady and her new admirer.
“Oh, Freddie, really!” Evangeline objected.
Apprehending that his motives had been misconstrued, Cassius straightened up, slipped the quizzing glass into his breast pocket, and gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “Do forgive me, Miss LeClair. I fear I’ve forgotten myself in my transport of ecstasy at seeing such a remarkable gem.”
“I apologize for my son’s zeal,” Hettie said. “You must understand that he is absolutely obsessed with precious stones. I sometimes joke that if he were ever forced to toil for a living, he would become a jewelry designer.”
“I must admit that I am entirely ruled by my aesthetic sensibilities.” Cassius sighed melodramatically and placed a hand over his heart. “Such a burden.”
“I hear that the Aesthetic Movement has fallen out of favor,” Evangeline observed archly. “Especially given Oscar Wilde’s current legal troubles.”
One of the ladies eavesdropping on the conversation gasped audibly. Several others snapped their fans open to conceal blushes of embarrassment at the allusion to Wilde’s trial for engaging in homosexual activities. Surprisingly enough, Bertha didn’t appear terribly troubled by Evangeline’s boldness. She was already quite familiar with her friend’s unconventional streak.
Cassius also didn’t seem fazed by the remark. “Ah, yes. Poor Mr. Wilde. For a writer of such genius—the author of The Picture of Dorian Gray—to be subjected to such slanderous lies. I’m sure it will all amount to nothing in the end.” The young man paused and smiled as a new thought struck him. “If not, I’ll have to switch my allegiance from Aestheticism to the next coming thing in artistic movements.”
“And that would be?” Evangeline prompted.
“Why, Decadence, of course.” Cassius gave a knowing wink. His listeners smiled in spite of themselves at the young man’s brazen effrontery.
Sensing that it was time to steer the conversation into safer waters, Evangeline transferred her attention to the bride-to-be. “And what about you, Miss Vangilder? How do you like our Windy City?”
The young woman quailed at the direct question. Her eyes flew to her mother in alarm.
“Answer the lady, my dear,” Hettie prompted.
“I... uh... I... It’s very nice,” Perdita replied noncommittally, blushing at being the focus of the group’s attention.
“Surely, you can find something more interesting to say than that,” Hettie rebuked lightly.
Perdita took a deep breath and tried again. “I do like... um... your Lincoln Park.”
“You do?” Freddie sounded perplexed. “Because of the zoological gardens?”
“No... uh... I mean for riding.”
“Oh, I see. The bridle paths are very fine,” Evangeline agreed.
“Riding is Perdita’s great joy in life,” Hettie elaborated. “She goes to the park at midday on Mondays and Thursdays without fail. I believe outdoor exercise is healthful for a young lady and have always encouraged her equestrian interests.”
“I’m sure she’ll find many opportunities to explore the English countryside on horseback after her marriage.” Evangeline addressed her next question to Hettie. “Speaking of which, when is the wedding to take place?”
“Toward the end of August, at the duke’s estate. We’re making our way slowly eastward, savoring our last days in our beloved homeland.”
“So, your family will be moving permanently to Europe?” Freddie asked.
“These days, I spend half the year overseas as it is. Aside from that, Cassius and I couldn’t bear to be parted from our dear girl.” Hettie gave her daughter’s hand a squeeze, causing Perdita to flinch.
“You’re not staying here to set up for yourself?” Freddie addressed Cassius in surprise.
The young man shrugged casually. “Oh, I anticipate finding many more opportunities across the pond than I can turn up here. Besides, Mother needs me.”
“Yes, Mr. Simpson,” Hettie added. “We simply can’t do without him.” Turning to her daughter, she added, “Can we, Perdita?”
“No, Mother,” the young woman murmured inaudibly, lowering her eyes.
After a few more conversational sallies, Evangeline and Freddie disengaged themselves from the Vangilder entourage and took a turn around the perimeter of the ballroom, stopping periodically to admire one picture or another.
“What did you make of that?” Freddie asked as he strolled arm in arm with his friend.
Evangeline raised her eyebrows. “Nothing. What should I have made of it?”
“I don’t trust that Cassius,” the reporter growled.
“Because he inspected my necklace a little too closely?” the lady asked pointedly.
“Idiot!” Freddie exclaimed. “It isn’t just that. My instincts are telling me that something is wrong. Why would he stay tied to his mother’s apron strings in Europe when he should be carving out a future for himself in the States?”
Evangeline stopped to study one of Monet’s haystack paintings. “Perhaps he expects better opportunities through his new aristocratic relations.”
“Maybe,” Freddie agreed grudgingly, still not convinced. “I keep harking back to something Big Mike said. He was dead sure that the museum theft was committed by somebody new in town.”
Evangeline whirled around to stare at her friend. “Are you insane? Why would a man with the wealth and social position of Cassius Vangilder stoop to petty robbery?”
“I don’t know,” the reporter admitted. “But something isn’t right about him.”
“Do you realize how many newcomers visit this city every day? It seems the height of absurdity that you would single out a socially prominent gentleman as your most likely culprit. I suspect you’re allowing your emotions to cloud your judgment.”
“What emotions?”
“You’re put out because I allowed him a level of familiarity that you consider inappropriate for such a new acquaintance. The fact that I permitted you to escort me to this gala doesn’t give you the right to dictate my behavior. I have assiduously avoided marriage to prevent myself from becoming any man’s chattel. I had hoped that my friends, at least, might respect my right to self-rule.”
Stung by the observation, which hit a little too close to home given his long-standing infatuation with Evangeline, Freddie defended himself. “I was only trying to spare you the trouble of fending him off yourself.”
Scarcely hearing him, Evangeline continued. “I did rather like the amber scent he was wearing. It reminded me of frankincense and myrrh. Very appealing.”
Freddie gasped. Her daring observation rendered him mute with shock.
“Just as I expected.” Evangeline laughed knowingly. “I made that comment deliberately, and your face tells all, my friend. You resent this interloper and eagerly search for excuses to justify your dislike. Our investigation would be better served if you applied reason to the case rather than personal prejudice.”
Deciding not to argue the point further, the reporter simply said, “Time will tell if my hunch about Cassius is right. Going forward, I’ll be keeping a close watch on him.”
Evangeline strolled ahead to scrutinize a Degas ballerina. “Do as you like. I’ll be visiting the museum tomorrow to have another chat with the two men who witnessed the robbery. Perhaps some relevant detail will emerge.”
“I also mean to find out what Mike McDonald knows about young swells who love to gaze at ladies’ bosoms.”
“Oh, Freddie!” Evangeline rolled her eyes heavenward. “That’s any male in Chicago above the age of thirteen!”