Charlotte roamed the perimeter of the Van Horne drawing room several times, first with Amelie and then with Eva at her side. Michael and Nathan were on opposite sides of the room, and John maintained a close proximity to Charlotte despite her assurance that she’d be fine in a house where the crush of guests threatened to blow out the exterior walls. She spied Dirk and a few constables she recognized mingling among the guests and tried to still an onslaught of nerves.
“How many people were on the original guest list?” Eva asked as they made another circuit.
“I thought fifty, but this appears triple that amount.” Charlotte frowned. If she couldn’t get close to the Friends, how would she read their reactions to her appearance? She had worked hard to resemble her mother down to the last glittering jewel. She’d followed the list, commissioned a seamstress, and hunted down old images of just the right hairstyle.
“When the activities begin,” Eva said, “the crowds will spread more evenly into different rooms. Are we still planning to use the ballroom for best effect?”
Charlotte nodded, feeling her stomach tighten. “Have you seen them? Are they here?”
Eva nodded. “The Paddletons and Carters are near the foyer. I’ve not seen the Fineboughs, but I think I saw the Worthingstones in the sitting room on the other side of the foyer.”
Charlotte blew out a quiet breath, trying to steady her nerves. She spied John across the room and caught his eye. He winked at her and then continued his perusal of the guests around her.
This will work . . . This will work . . .
She clutched the brass head of her cane. It was in the shape of a duck, which was ridiculous, but probably not so far removed from the instrument that had wounded her mother so gravely. The thought made her feel queasy, and her hand grew damp in her glove.
“Ugh,” she muttered and flexed her fingers, tucking the cane temporarily under her arm.
“Attention, esteemed guests!” Margaret Van Horne stood up high on something Charlotte couldn’t see, and its invisibility added to the older woman’s sense of wonder. She felt a swell of gratitude for the sisters, regardless of the party’s outcome.
“Welcome to 1869! The theme we’ve designed for this event took much planning and preparation, and we hope very much it has been a challenge for you! It is not often we reach back into the wardrobe only to find that what we need, we’ve already donated.”
The guests chuckled and murmured their agreement.
“We will award prizes throughout the evening for the best representation of two decades past, and we take this responsibility very seriously. We’ve also resurrected our famed Treasure Hunt to entertain and delight—” At this, the crowd applauded and laughed. “—and each room contains objects that can be identified by a riddle written here.” Margaret reached down and grasped a bundle of papers from Ethel, holding them high. “Mark each one as complete and return to this room for a delightful prize.”
“They are truly accommodating,” Charlotte whispered to Eva. “This must be the most absurd Bygone Era gathering to date.”
Eva grinned. “I enjoyed going through my mother’s old dresses. She keeps everything in a cedar closet. If you’re our age, this is delightful.” As the crowd began to move and disperse, she whispered, “Now is our chance—upstairs, quickly!”
Charlotte followed Eva out of the drawing room through the doors leading to the servants’ staircase. They quickly climbed up to the first story, entered through the back hallway, and followed the corridor to the ballroom, which was empty. The lights were turned down just enough to remove any harsh glare.
“I’ll be in the corridor,” Eva said. “And here are your Treasure Hunt paper and pencil. You just wander and scribble things, and the rest of us will herd the crowd.” She took Charlotte’s shoulders and looked into her eyes. “You look so lovely.” Her eyes misted. “This will work, dearest.” She clasped Charlotte in a quick embrace and then left the room through one of the two entrances out to the corridor.
Now that Charlotte was alone, the ballroom felt cavernous, and she felt very small. She clutched the cane in one hand and her paper and pencil in the other and wrapped her arms around herself.
The ballroom’s high ceiling reached the home’s upper story. A staircase led from where Charlotte stood to the second floor where it connected with a small Juliet balcony and glass door. She wandered to the huge windows on the wall and looked out over the back gardens. The gazebo was forlorn in its dying foliage, and frost covered the ground.
She tried the handle to the door leading to the outside balcony, and it opened without a sound, allowing the cold air to steal in from outside. A staircase led down to the lawn in a sweeping curve, and Charlotte imagined she would like to attend an event here during the summer.
Voices sounded in the corridor, and she quickly closed the door. She made a show of writing something on her paper as she looked at the walls, noting the light stream of guests who entered, laughing and talking to one another.
More people came and went until finally James and Phillipa Carter entered the room. Steeling herself, Charlotte approached them with a bright smile. “Well, hello, Mr. and Mrs. Carter. I did not see you here earlier.”
Phillipa’s lips parted in shock, and even Mr. Carter paused mid-step.
“By my word, Miss Duvall,” Mr. Carter finally said, an astonished smile breaking across his face. “You so resemble your mother!”
Charlotte smiled and patted her dress, moving the cane from where she’d tucked it under her arm. “Imagine my surprise when I found my mother’s favorite dressmaker! She knew exactly what to do when I described what I imagined my mother wearing. I hoped to feel a little closer to her by wearing it.”
Phillipa’s eyes were riveted to Charlotte’s cane, and then her gaze shot to her face. Mr. Carter did not seem fazed by it, other than to say, “Are you walking with an impairment, Miss Duvall?”
“Oh, yes. I was in an accident some weeks ago, and my knee occasionally gives me trouble.”
He nodded. “I hope you recover quickly. Now, then, about these riddles . . .” He wandered to the center of the room, looking at the painted murals on the walls.
Phillipa moved closer to Charlotte tentatively, and then, looking over her shoulder, put her hand on Charlotte’s arm. “My dear, you must . . .” She frowned, looking pained. “You must take care. You don’t know what kind of—”
She broke off as other voices sounded at the door, but she remained in front of Charlotte, effectively blocking her view. “You mustn’t be here, dressed like this, with these people.”
“Mrs. Carter, I absolutely must. If you bore my mother any affection, please do not hinder me.”
Her eyes widened. “It is because I bore your mother affection that I hinder you. If I could, I would whisk you away in an instant.”
“Carter,” a voice sounded, and Charlotte saw Mr. Worthingstone approach the center of the ballroom. “Don’t know why we let ourselves get dragged out to these things.”
“Mrs. Carter,” Charlotte whispered, “why did you react to my cane?”
She shook her head. “I can explain, but not now. Perhaps another time. Later.”
“Phillipa?” A feminine voice sounded behind Mrs. Carter, and she turned slightly as Mrs. Paddleton approached.
“Oh, hello, Winifred,” Phillipa said shakily.
“Have you solved any of the—” Winifred Paddleton stopped cold when she saw Charlotte. Her face blanched of all color, and she stumbled back.
Phillipa Carter grabbed the other woman’s arm and supported her weight as Charlotte heard the main doors quietly click shut.
She moved out from behind the two women to see the rest of the couples in the room. They’d only just entered, and some looked back at the doors in confusion. Amelie stood guard at the Juliet balcony door, keeping it open a crack, and the ballroom’s other set of double doors showed a sliver of light from the corridor.
Charlotte stood near the center of the room, allowing each of the guests to have a clear view of her, knowing she looked like her mother in the hours before her death.
“Hello,” she said, and her voice echoed to the ceiling and back.
If only she hadn’t been nervous, if only the moment hadn’t been fraught with meaning, she might have laughed at the expressions pointed at her. They ranged from shock to panic, and on some, anger.
“What is the meaning of this, Miss Duvall?” Anastacia Worthingstone hissed. Little wonder that she would be the first to find her voice. Of all the Friends, she was the most headstrong.
The four Jameses approached Charlotte slowly, as if pulled in by threads.
“Astounding,” Mr. Worthingstone said. “Miss Duvall, are you aware—”
“Of course, she is aware,” Mrs. Worthingstone snapped. “She has done this very deliberately!”
“I’m sure I do not know what you mean,” Charlotte said to the woman. “I was invited to a themed party, and so I dressed accordingly.”
“You . . . you saw no picture of your mother?” Mrs. Finebough now approached, the color high in her cheeks and her eyes like chips of obsidian in the low light.
“Of course I saw no picture of my mother,” Charlotte said evenly. “At least, not like this. I did see a picture of her on the autopsy table, however, with a wound in the back of her head that was made with something that probably looked like this.” She held up the cane, and Mrs. Finebough froze.
“You all seem to recognize the cane,” Charlotte continued. “Oh, not this one, certainly, but I am assuming one very much like it.”
She looked around at the people who were slowly forming a lopsided circle around her. “The point on this cane isn’t nearly sharp enough. I imagine the original must have been another kind of bird, or a shape with a much tighter point.”
Winifred Paddleton sucked in a breath and stared wide-eyed at the others. “You—”
“Not a word out of you,” Mrs. Worthingstone snarled.
“Anastacia, I think it is time for us to leave,” her husband said. “Enough of this charade.” His gaze lingered on Charlotte as though he still couldn’t believe his eyes.
“You loved my mother?” Charlotte asked him. “The consensus seems to be that your love for her exceeded her love for you, even as you all grew into adulthood.”
He swallowed visibly. “She loved me, as well.”
“James!” his wife hissed. “We are leaving.”
“The doors are guarded,” Charlotte said. “None of us are leaving this room until I have the truth.” Her voice was strong, and she was glad, because her knees shook. “My mother received two letters just before her death, both referring to an event on a ferry meant to celebrate an engagement.”
Phillipa cleared her throat and made her way closer to Charlotte. “That is true,” she said.
“Phillipa,” Gwendolyn Finebough growled. “Not another—”
“I’ve had enough of you!” Phillipa cried, her voice ringing high. It was clearly an unprecedented outburst from the woman because it startled everyone into frozen silence. “You will no longer do this thing!”
“What thing?” Charlotte asked quietly. “What is she holding over your head?”
“My son,” Phillipa said, her voice breaking. “I saw something that night, and she has threatened me into silence ever since. First with James’s life, and then with our son. Soon, I suspect she will threaten my grandson.”
“Phillipa?” James Carter stared at his wife. “What is this?”
“Oh, James. You have never known anything.”
“Did you see blood in the middle of the deck that night, Mrs. Carter?” Charlotte asked. “Someone did, and he gave testimony to that fact. Now he’s dead, so I suggest we air all that we know right now in this room.”
Mr. Finebough shifted his feet, and Charlotte looked at him. When he glanced away to his wife, some of the pieces fell into place for Charlotte.
“She was in love with you, Mr. Finebough,” she said in wonder. “You were the ‘James.’ The one she called James, not Jim or Jamie.” She shook her head. “Right there all along, and I didn’t see it.”
“I loved your mother to distraction,” Mr. Finebough said. “But we could never marry. Her dowry wasn’t enough, and my parents didn’t want ties to the least hint of scandal.”
“Shut your mouth, James,” his wife snapped.
He looked at her in disgust, and Charlotte guessed he was another man who usually remained in the shadows.
Mrs. Finebough stared at him in open-mouthed shock. “After all I have done for you!”
“You have done nothing for me, Gwendolyn, but bring grief and destruction on everyone.”
“You sniveling coward!” Mrs. Worthingstone moved closer to Gwendolyn and stared daggers at her sister’s husband. “You would have ruined everything we worked for!”
“You worked for?” Charlotte asked. “Husbands in positions of power, I presume? That was your pinnacle?”
Both women turned to Charlotte as one, and the hatred was palpable.
Phillipa Carter edged closer to Charlotte. “I did see blood on the deck that night,” she said. “And it dripped from the cane belonging to Finebough. Only he wasn’t the one holding it.”
Mr. Finebough ran a hand along the back of his neck with a quiet sigh. Amazingly, Charlotte thought, it sounded like relief. “I asked Kat to meet me on the deck once the party was underway and the drinks had started flowing. I only wanted a moment alone with her, but she met me there to tell me goodbye. She said she wouldn’t attend functions anymore where I was present, that it wasn’t fair to her husband. She asked me to refrain from any further contact, told me that in another life, things might have been different.”
Charlotte felt a lump form in her throat.
Mrs. Finebough moved forward, mouth open as if to speak, but Mr. Carter spoke first. “I want to hear this.” He crossed to stand next to the two women who were so full of ire.
Finebough looked at Charlotte. “I argued with her, begged her, but she was resolute. Your mother was a woman of integrity. She did not play your father false, not with me.” The sorrow etched on his face was deep. “It is because of me she is dead. Gwendolyn noted my absence and came up on deck to find me. When she saw Katherine with me, she stormed over, but Kat moved away. She said she was leaving, but she only made it as far as the middle of the deck when Gwen grabbed my cane and hit her in the back of the head.”
His voice broke, and he swayed on his feet. “Katherine fell, and from the severity of the wound, I felt sure she must be dead.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes as if to dispel the memory. “I panicked. I picked her up and shoved her over the railing at the back of the boat. Just as I turned back around, Phillipa came up the stairs.”
Phillipa Carter had tears streaming down her face, and she pressed her hand over her mouth.
“Soon after, Anastacia arrived. Phillipa left, but of course, she had seen too much, even if she didn’t hear the confession that Gwendolyn spilled to Anastacia. I knew the two of them would orchestrate everything that followed. Anastacia started screaming, and then it began.”
Silence fell hard in the room, and Charlotte saw the door crack open. John made eye contact with her, but neither of them moved. The situation felt volatile, brittle, like everything would crumble if she moved.
“What happened to you?” Charlotte asked Phillipa, whose tears continued in stream down her face. She put her arm around the woman, understanding finally why Phillipa had tried to encourage her to leave.
“They threatened me.” She glanced at the two women her husband stood guard over. “Soon after we were married, they had my husband’s assistant—his young nephew—killed to show they could get to James any time if they wanted to.”
Mr. Carter stared. “That was a robbery at my office!”
Phillipa shook her head with a sob. “And once we had our son, they knew my compliance was assured. I would never breathe a word of what I saw that night. Within two years, both of their husbands were elected to Parliament.”
“She is delusional,” Anastacia said, drawing herself up and smoothing her dress.
“We have another witness who will testify to Mr. Fairmont’s original police testimony,” Charlotte said. “Phillipa isn’t the only one who realized my mother’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“Who?” Mrs. Finebough demanded.
“Why do you ask,” Charlotte said, her shock wearing off and anger settling in its place. “So you can have him murdered also?” She glanced at James Finebough. “Unless you orchestrated Fairmont’s death.”
He shook his head and looked at the two women. “No. No, I did not.”
“He’s lying,” Anastacia whispered as Gwendolyn Finebough began backing away from the others.
John opened the main door to the corridor, and Michael and Nathan entered from the other direction.
Gwendolyn broke away and ran for the balcony door that led outside, and Charlotte cursed herself for not locking it.
The woman tore open the glass door and dashed out into the cold. Charlotte, fueled by fury, chased after her, ignoring the chorus of shouts behind her. Gwendolyn was at the bottom of the stairs and running across the garden by the time Charlotte had made it halfway down the stairs.
Then she slipped.
With effort, she pulled herself up using the icy wrought-iron railing. She kept running, following the woman who disappeared around the back of the gazebo. Charlotte tore after her, only to be caught in her stomach by a tree branch clutched in Gwendolyn’s fingers. Her breath left in an agonized wheeze, and she pulled at Gwendolyn’s hair as she doubled over.
Charlotte barely recognized the litany of words the woman hurled at her as she struggled and struck out at Charlotte again and again. In her mind’s eye, she saw her mother as she turned her back on the man she’d loved in order to honor the one she married. She saw an angry, vengeful, jealous wife strike out in fury, and it suddenly matched Charlotte’s own rage.
She tightened her fingers around the cane she still clutched, then swung upward, catching Gwendolyn on the chin and knocking her to the ground. Charlotte screamed at the woman, feeling all the painful years without her mother as she lifted the cane high.
Arms wrapped around her from behind and hauled her back as she brought the cane down, narrowly missing Gwendolyn’s head. Charlotte sobbed, robbed of coherent thought and so filled with sorrow and rage that she could hardly breathe.
“I have you,” John whispered in her ear. His arms were secure, his face against hers, and he shielded her from gusts of wind that blew through the garden. “Shh, darling. It’s over.” Nathan Winston and Michael Baker were close on his heels to handle Gwendolyn, whose angry sobs filled the air.
John held her close until Charlotte’s breathing had evened out. Then he walked her back into the house where the ballroom was a swarm of activity involving constables, the detectives who had hidden among the guests, and the Misses Van Horne who had watched the entire melee from the ballroom doors. John said something to Michael that Charlotte didn’t hear, and then he guided her from the ballroom and down the corridor to a library that was warm with a fire and the soft glow of lights.
She sank down onto a sofa, and he followed, pulling her up against his side. She rested her head on his neck, and he brushed her hair and tears away with his thumb. She did not know how she would ever stop crying, for everything. For her mother, for her father who had spent so many sad years locked away in his own grief, and for herself. She tightened her fingers in John’s waistcoat until they ached.
She eventually quieted, more because she was spent of energy than resolve.
“There,” he whispered, “it’s all right. It will all be right.”
“She’s not coming back,” Charlotte whispered, her voice breaking. “I found the answers, and she’s still gone.”
“I know, darling. I would fix it if I could. I wish I could. But you made it right. She is still gone, but you put the questions to rest, and you found justice for her. They will be tried, each of them, for their part in the crime.”
Her breathing eventually slowed, as did the tears. “I’ve cried in front of you again,” she muttered.
His chest rumbled with a quiet laugh, and he produced a clean square of pressed fabric from his pocket without her having to ask.
She mumbled her thanks. “I suppose I need to start filling my hope chest with embroidered handkerchiefs. I’m depleting your supply.” She sat back and looked at him, the fabric pressed to her nose.
He smiled and tucked a curl behind her ear. The entire side of her face was damp with tears that had matted her hair to her skin. “I’ll have Mason get more.”
“Thank you,” she said, finally wiping away the rest of her tears and holding the handkerchief loosely in her lap. “You solved my mother’s case. I shall be certain to give your superiors a good report.” She smiled, trying to be light, but her effort was weak.
“You’re welcome,” he whispered. He paused. “I love you.”
She nodded. “Will you marry me?”
He raised one brow and was silent for so long she felt insulted.
“Well?”
He nodded slowly. “Are you certain you’re not under severe emotional duress? Perhaps we should wait for clearer thinking before asking questions of that sort.”
“John Ellis, if tonight has taught me nothing else, it is that love is not guaranteed, that one doesn’t always love someone who will return it, and that with one blow, a life can end. I do not want to have regrets, and right now, this very minute, I want to know you are mine and I am yours.” Tears gathered again, just when she thought she’d never manage another. “I want to be your wife and live with you and share—”
He kissed her, holding her face in his hands and relishing the moment. “Yes, Charlotte, I will marry you.” He smiled and placed a kiss on her forehead.
“I did not envision having to talk you into it,” she groused quietly.
He laughed. “I asked you first, if you’ll remember.”
“You said you wouldn’t ask me ‘yet.’”
“Semantics.” He paused. “What of your career?”
She smiled. “I’m thinking I’d like to start a clinic for women and children like the one in New York. I’ve already mentioned it to the Van Horne sisters, and they are set to help me gather a cadre of potential donors. It’s where my heart is, and with female benefactors and staff, we can structure the bylaws as we see fit.”
He smiled. “I’m so glad.”
“John Ellis, are you crying?”
“Do not be ridiculous.” He kissed her soundly, and she suspected he was trying to distract her. “Are you ready to go tell our friends the good news?”
She sighed, still sniffling and feeling as though her head was stuffed with cotton. “Yes. However, I must confess that I have wanted to get you alone in a library again ever since the Fulbrights’ party.”
“Oh, darling. I’ll not tell you how many hours I’ve wished for the same thing. That was when I realized I wanted you for my personal physician.”
She laughed, grateful she still could. She stood and tugged his hand, and they walked slowly to the door.
“Do you want to speak to anyone else?” he asked.
“You mean the Friends?”
He nodded.
“I would like to hug Phillipa Carter. I would like to visit with her again soon.”
“Many burdens were lifted tonight, I believe.”
“Yes.” She nodded and managed a smile. “Thank you, Director Ellis, for lifting mine.”