Chapter 5
A woman with a snub nose set in a square face had made the accusation—my aunt Alva Belmont. I hurried into the entry hall as Aunt Alva swept across the floor to stand in front of Mamie Fish. She crossed her arms in a challenging manner and her blunt chin went up. “Well? What have you got to say for yourself?”
“Oh, Alva, don’t be ridiculous.” Mrs. Fish hadn’t so much as flinched, and met Aunt Alva’s challenging stare with one of her own. “Of course he’s coming. My guess is Caroline Astor got her clutches into him and came up with some ruse to delay him. I’m . . .” Here she showed an instant’s hesitation. “I’m going to make some telephone calls and track him down. Don’t you worry.” She raised her voice so all could hear. “Otto will be here soon enough if I have to go get him myself.”
I heard Aunt Alva’s humph even from several yards away. She noticed me and beckoned with a crooked finger. “Are you getting all this down?” she asked when I reached her. She pointed at my writing tablet, into which I’d indeed been scribbling.
“Do you really think this has all merely been a hoax?” I asked her.
Aunt Alva laughed. “No, of course I don’t. Mamie might be a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them.”
“Then why—”
“Because, dear Emmaline, I enjoy shaking her laurels. She needs it, from time to time. We all do. She expects it of me, as I do of her.” Still laughing, Aunt Alva signaled to a friend and started to move away.
An uneasy sensation gathered in the pit of my stomach. “Aunt Alva,” I called after her, bringing her to a halt. “You don’t have something to do with the prince’s delay, do you?”
“Good heavens, no, child. I enjoy teasing Mamie, but I certainly don’t wish to make an enemy of her.” Shaking her head at my outlandish suggestion, she went off to join her friend.
Still, I wondered if Mrs. Fish appreciated Aunt Alva’s joke. She didn’t look as though she were enjoying anything at the moment. She looked worried and out of sorts as she traced a path to the library and waved a hand to attract the attention of someone inside.
“Stuyvie,” I heard her hiss as I moved closer to listen. “Stuyvie, I need you.”
Stuyvesant Fish, president of the Illinois Central Railroad, excused himself from the card table, to which he had retreated during my sojourn in the ballroom. If his wife’s summons annoyed him, his expression showed no trace of it. A man with deep-set eyes and far more hair on his upper lip than the top of his head, he offered his wife a deferential smile and inquired what she needed.
“Otto’s not here yet,” she blurted in an urgent stage whisper.
“I know that, my dear. What shall we do about it?”
“I don’t know. I’d hoped you might have an idea or two.”
“I heard you tell Mrs. Belmont you’d make some telephone inquiries, did I not? I believe that would be the way to begin. Have your secretary do so immediately. Where is he staying?”
“At the Ocean House Hotel, I believe.”
“There you are, then. Have Miss Powers call over to the Ocean House.”
“But what if he’s not there? What if he decided to stop at, say, Beechwood, and Caroline Astor gave orders that no calls are to be put through to the prince? Then what?”
“Then there is little more we can do, my dear. But the night is still early. He’ll show up.” He reached to pat her hand but she yanked it away.
“But Stuyvie! What if he doesn’t? He’s a prince—if something has happened to him, it could cause an international incident. And he only came to Newport because of our invitation. We could be held responsible.”
“I hardly think so, my dear. And I’m sure he’s fine, merely detained.”
“Still, if he never makes an appearance, I’ll be a laughingstock. I can’t have that.”
Rather than becoming perturbed or angered, Stuyvesant Fish pulled back a little to bestow upon his wife a knowing grin, and in a conspiratorial tone said, “What is it you always say, my dear? They won’t laugh at me if . . .”
“If I can make ’em laugh with me.” Her hands went to her hips. “Stuyvie, what would I do without you?” They shared a laugh, and then she shooed him back into the library. “Go on, go back to your game. Only . . .”
He leaned in toward her. “Yes, my dear?”
“Make quite sure you win, Stuyvie. A nice, tidy bundle.”
He went away chuckling, and Mrs. Fish turned about to catch me lingering within hearing distance. Startled, I tried to pretend I’d been observing the goings-on in the hall, but she wasn’t fooled.
“You there.”
I slowly turned my face toward her and gestured at myself in question.
“Yes, you. Come here.” When I did, she snatched my writing tablet out of my hands. “What have you overheard? What have you written here?” She bowed over the tablet as if to make out the words, but as if terribly nearsighted, she repeated, “What have you written?”
“Nothing, ma’am. Only my observations on the festival so far.” Despite my denial, I braced for her anger and for her to order me out of the house. I’d of course taken an accurate account of Aunt Alva’s accusations, along with Mrs. Fish’s adamant denial. What I would do with the encounter, I hadn’t yet decided, but my journalist’s instincts had prompted me to keep a record.
To my bewilderment, Mrs. Fish continued searching the page, her gaze traveling but never alighting on any particular sentence or phrase that I could see. “There’s nothing here about a certain missing guest?”
“Um . . .” Dared I lie while she held the evidence in her hands? A realization dawned. Mamie Fish couldn’t read. Good heavens. I also realized I had better play along or I would certainly find myself out the door. “As you can plainly see, ma’am, there’s nothing there but details about gowns and upcoming weddings and trips to Europe. And to tell you truly, ma’am, I don’t understand the fuss over a guest’s late arrival. Guests are always late to my aunt Alice’s events. Aunt Alva’s, too.”
At that she looked up. “Is that right?”
“Yes, indeed.”
She thrust my notebook back at me and studied me with a shrewd gaze. Then her manner abruptly changed. “I need you to do something for me. Run up to the third floor. In the fourth room on the right from the staircase, you’ll find my secretary, Miss Powers. Have her start the search for the prince. I don’t care if she has to connect to every telephone in Newport.”
“Uh . . . yes, ma’am.” I headed for the stairs.
“Wait,” she called. When I returned to her, she said, “If she hasn’t found him in twenty minutes, come and find me.”
“Twenty minutes ? Are you sure that’s enough time—”
“That’s as much time as I’m willing to give it.” With that, she waved me away.
* * *
Exactly twenty minutes later, I descended to the ground floor to face the unpleasant task of informing Mrs. Fish her secretary had been unable to locate Prince Otto.
Misgiving gripped me, although only momentarily. I had begun to wonder about the Spouting Rock victim. Could he be Prince Otto? But no, the prince was purported to be a young man in his twenties, low of stature but broad through the shoulders, his hair and eyes dark. The Spouting Rock victim could lay claim to none of those attributes. Besides, surely someone would have reported him missing by now, for princes didn’t disappear without someone noticing. Still, my nape prickled. I had learned to suspect odd coincidences, and a dead man and a missing prince within a couple of days certainly smacked of an odd coincidence.
I found Mrs. Fish in the loggia off the drawing room. The lanterns suspended from the ceiling cast an orangey glow that smoothed years from the faces of those gathered there. The expansive windows had been thrown open to the night, and outside, where electric lights illuminated the side gardens, several of those scarecrows looked in as if wishing they, too, could join the festivities. Laughter drifted from within the foliage as some of the young people continued searching for Mrs. Fish’s hidden treasures. Two sharp-eyed, elderly matrons hovered among them, serving as chaperones.
Mrs. Fish was presently speaking to Isabel Clemson, a middle-aged woman with angular, pinched features and bland brown hair and eyes. To me, she always appeared as if she were recovering from a long illness, so pale and wan was she, though I had never heard of her being indisposed. I spotted her husband at the far end of the loggia with a group of men, and every now and again his wife cast him what I would call a nervous glance. But perhaps that was merely the woman’s habitual expression.
One of the old guard doyennes joined Mrs. Fish and the other women. “My daughter hasn’t had a spare moment since we arrived,” she announced. “Her dance card is full up, and her poor feet will be worn out by night’s end.” She swept Isabel Clemson with a haughty gaze and waved her fan furiously in front of her face. “Where is Thea? I haven’t seen her all evening. It isn’t like her to play the wallflower.” The woman made a show of searching the corners of the loggia. “And with your pedigree, Isabel, the prince is sure to take notice. Then again . . .” Rather than finish her sentence, the woman flicked a glance at Mr. Clemson, started to chuckle, and compressed her lips.
A tide of heat rose in Mrs. Clemson’s face. Without moving a muscle, she too darted a glance at her husband. “Thea isn’t feeling well tonight. Nothing serious. She complained of being a bit under the weather.”
A commonplace explanation, but then why that furious blush? Mrs. Clemson hailed from one of the early Dutch families that had settled in New York and made their fortune first in shipping, then real estate. Unlike my Vanderbilt relatives, whose money and status came much later in America’s history, Isabel Clemson’s social status rivaled Caroline Astor’s. So yes, the prince might indeed take notice of nineteen-year-old Thea, despite her slight overbite and tendency to squint.
Weren’t the Clemsons eager to see their daughter married to European royalty? Such a marriage increased a family’s standing considerably. I thought of my cousin Consuelo’s marriage to the Duke of Marlborough. To put it mildly, she hadn’t been at all keen on the union, but her mother had put such pressure on her daughter that, in the end, Consuelo had complied with Aunt Alva’s wishes.
This passed through my mind in seconds, while I waited for Mrs. Fish to spot me. When she did, she excused herself to her guests and came over to speak with me. Again, she used that stage whisper that must have been audible to everyone in the immediate vicinity.
“Any luck?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid not. Perhaps if you give it a bit more time . . .”
“Time’s up. Here.” She pressed a sealed envelope into my hand. Before she could say anything more, a handful of young people came into the loggia from outside, their chaperones trailing behind them. They were laughing and talking in animated voices. One of the elegant young ladies held a golden stone in her palm and peered at it in the lamplight.
“Look, I’ve found an amber pumpkin.”
“And I’ve got a tiny ruby apple,” another said, comparing the small treasure she’d discovered in the garden with the one her friend held.
A young man in their group called to Mrs. Fish. “By the way, one of your scarecrows has fallen over on the display on the far side of the garden. Lying down on the job, I’d call it. Thought you should know.”
As did the others, I gazed out the open windows to where, across the garden, a display of gilded gourds, pumpkins, and silken haystacks was presided over by two of those well-dressed scarecrows. One of them, indeed, sprawled drunkenly on its side, its head half propped against the decorations.
Mrs. Fish affected an annoyed expression. “All right, everyone, who’s been giving my scarecrows champagne punch?” This earned her a chorus of laughter. Then she turned back to me and spoke in a hurried whisper. “Deliver that note to Miss Powers. Tell her not to hesitate, but to follow these instructions to the letter.”
I couldn’t help a puzzled frown. Had Mrs. Fish written this note? Had I been mistaken in my conclusions regarding her literacy or lack thereof?
“Go, girl. Hurry!”
After racing back up three flights of stairs, I arrived breathless at Miss Powers’s room and handed her the missive. She carefully opened the envelope and read the message. “Mrs. Fish gave you this? No one else on her behalf?”
“It was Mrs. Fish herself,” I assured her, wondering at her accusing tone. What on earth did Mrs. Fish’s note contain? I almost wished I’d peeled back one corner of the flap to attempt to read the contents.
With a nod, Miss Powers went to the telephone the Fishes had installed for her use. She picked up the receiver, but hesitated and glanced over at me. “Thank you, Miss Cross. Your part in this is over, and Mrs. Fish desires you to return downstairs for the next phase of the evening.”
“The next phase?”
She didn’t offer any clarification. Taking this as my cue to leave, I did just that. On my way down, I again pondered the note, both the contents and the origin. I still believed Mrs. Fish to be illiterate. Perhaps she’d gotten her husband to pen the note for her.
More grumbling about the prince’s absence greeted me downstairs, along with disappointed mamas wondering if they should give up and take their daughters home. Mrs. Fish circulated through the rooms and assured everyone they would regret leaving early, as Prince Otto had been found, had apologized for the delay, and was this very moment on his way to Crossways. This raised a chorus of relieved sighs and applause.
My suspicions about this sudden development grew when I spied Aunt Alva’s attempts to stifle laughter behind her hand. Her husband, Oliver Belmont, sidled up beside her and shared in her chortling. I wished to find out what she knew, but before I could approach her, Mrs. Fish positioned me on the grand staircase opposite the front vestibule. She bade me stay put while she went scurrying around the house gathering the guests and herding them into the front hall. Many spilled over into the dining room, ballroom, and library.
Minutes ticked by, first punctuated by heavy silence, then whispers and murmurs as impatience once again mounted. People fidgeted. Some of the earlier suspicions were repeated, and I thought I detected tears gathering in the eyes of one hopeful debutante.
“It won’t be long now, everyone,” Mrs. Fish promised gaily. “Our guest of honor will be here any moment, and I’m counting on all of you to provide him with a good old, hearty American welcome.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” murmured a man standing on the step below me. He was handsome, tall and blond, with a slight bend in the bridge of his nose that spoke of a break, an imperfection that added charm, rather than detracting from his good looks. I recognized him as Harry Forge, a self-proclaimed bachelor and a few years older than my brother. Harry had no profession that I knew of, other than his real estate investments, many of which were across the sea in Europe. I hadn’t encountered him earlier, but perhaps he’d arrived late himself.
“Do you doubt Mrs. Fish’s word, sir?” I challenged him cordially. He turned to assess me, taking his time about it as he looked me up and down. A corner of his mouth lifted as he took in the plain attire that marked me as a journalist, or perhaps he pegged me as a lady’s maid who’d sneaked down for a glimpse at royalty.
“No, it’s not Mrs. Fish’s word I doubt. It’s the prince’s promise to show up at all tonight that I doubted right from the start.”
That reply surprised me, considering he must have known that, as a journalist, I might make a note of anything he said to me. And as a lady’s maid, well, servants were notorious for gossiping about their employers—and their guests. Lightly, I said, “Can the prince not be trusted to keep his word, sir?”
“When he wishes to, he does. Or when he remembers,” he added with a smirk.
“Are you and the prince well acquainted, then?” I had already guessed the answer. Surely a man with Mr. Forge’s looks and stature, not to mention his wealth, would be welcomed in the courts of Europe.
“You might say that. We’ve done our share of hunting in the past. Mostly big game in his home country. Red stag, boar, wild sheep, or what the local populace call ‘mouflon.’ ”
I raised my eyebrows in what he undoubtedly took for admiration, but if I admired anything, it was the beauty of the species he mentioned, not a hunter’s penchant for turning such creatures into trophies. “And is the prince quite a good hunter?”
“He would call it stalking, as many in Europe do. Unfortunately for him, while he is an excellent shot, his impatience more often than not foiled his intentions.”
A resounding clang of the door knocker startled everyone, and a hush fell. Mr. Forge turned back around to face the hall.
“Why, whoever could that be?” Mrs. Fish’s eyes sparkled with merriment, a sentiment mirrored in Aunt Alva’s countenance as well as that of Alva’s husband, Oliver. Mr. Fish squeezed through the crush to stand with his wife. Another clang sounded. “I suppose I had better get the door,” Mrs. Fish said gleefully, and waved a footman away.
She went into the vestibule and opened the front door wide enough to peek out, but not enough for anyone in the hall to see who waited to be admitted. Conversation once more buzzed. Mothers began nudging, and then pushing, their young daughters forward, until several debutantes stood at the front of the crowd, to be among the first faces the prince would behold. My gaze found Mrs. Clemson again. She stood at the outer edge of the crush near the drawing room, and I noticed her rather heaving for breath, as if she’d hurried into the hall. Her expression was guarded, even apprehensive.
From the vestibule, Mrs. Fish’s voice rang out. “Why, Your Highness, so good of you to come. Please do come in.”
She backed her way from the vestibule into the hall and sank into a deep curtsey. The company followed suit, the women curtseying while the men bowed from the waist. Only I remained upright, my gaze riveted.
No, that wasn’t quite true, for Katherine Pendleton also remained as straight and tall as a marble statue, her countenance as serene as it was prideful.
Mrs. Fish straightened and turned to address her guests. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you Prince Otto, nephew of the Austro-Hungarian emperor, Franz Joseph.”
Miss Pendleton’s chin inched higher even as the assemblage bowed lower still. As I watched for the prince’s entrance, my eyes went as wide as a harvest moon and my mouth dropped open—an expression soon to be mimicked by everyone present.
In walked a man in country tweeds—certainly no prince. He gripped a leash, and at the other end of the leash waddled a young chimpanzee wearing a satin tunic, a velvet cape, and holding what appeared to be a scepter. Upon stopping in the center of the hall, the little chimp let out a whimper, dropped his scepter, and scrambled up into his keeper’s arms.