Chapter 10
When I arrived at The Breakers shortly after ten o’clock, I left my carriage on the service driveway, near the children’s playhouse, and walked up to the house. When Theodore Mason, the butler long in the employ of Cornelius and Alice Vanderbilt, admitted me, voices rumbled from somewhere beyond the Great Hall. One of them sounded like the youngest Vanderbilt brother, Reggie. I hoped the other belonged to Max Brentworth of the Newport Gas Light Company. I questioned Mason about whether my aunt and uncle, Alice and Cornelius Vanderbilt, had arrived from New York.
“It’s not clear yet whether Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt will be coming up this year, miss.”
“Oh, dear.” My relatives loved this house, and no wonder. Built in the style of an Italian palazzo, it boasted ornate yet airy rooms and glorious views of the Atlantic Ocean. The Breakers had been designed to impress, to awe, perhaps even to intimidate, yet for those who knew its secrets, this was also a comfortable, cool, welcoming haven from the bustling world of New York and beyond. Cornelius and Alice would not stay away without very good reason. “Is Uncle Cornelius doing as badly as that?”
I expected him to summarily reassure me. He did not. “Mr. Vanderbilt is fighting his hardest to come back from his illness. He needs our prayers.”
“He has them. And every week I remind the congregation at St. Paul’s to keep him in theirs.” I gestured to the Great Hall. “Who is here, then? I believe I hear Reggie’s voice.”
Mason rolled his eyes a bit. “Yes, that’s Mr. Reginald. He and Mr. Brentworth of the gas company seem to be having a difference of opinion. The trouble is I believe Mr. Reginald’s opinions differ from his parents’ as well. Would you like me to announce you?”
“No, if it’s all right, I’ll just go on in. I’ll see if I can help settle their differences.”
As I climbed the carpeted steps from the vestibule into the Great Hall, I heard Mason murmur, “Good luck.”
I followed the voices across the Great Hall. The doors onto the loggia stood wide open, emitting ocean breezes that swept through the hall and were cooled by the marble floors and walls. The gentle bubbling of the indoor fountain, a delightful surprise beneath the main staircase, lent to the illusion created by the painted ceiling three stories high of this being an outdoor courtyard. I passed the fountain and entered the billiard room, where I found my younger cousin, Reggie, and Mr. Brentworth in what seemed a lively debate.
“It’s archaic and no longer needed,” Reggie was saying. He held a billiard cue in his hands, and in emphasis of his statement he loudly sent the cue ball skidding into a cluster of balls. No ball rolled into a pocket, and Reggie lined up his next shot. Clearly, this was not a friendly game between the two men, for Mr. Brentworth held no cue stick and watched my cousin with a perplexed look.
“Mr. Vanderbilt, your parents wanted both electricity and gas lighting for this house. You mother was explicit about it. While she appreciates the convenience of electricity, it is her opinion that people look their best by gas lighting and that is what she wishes for the affairs held here each summer.”
Reggie propelled the cue ball once again. It ricocheted off a bumper and went wide, missing the other balls. Reggie swore and straightened. “Yes, well, Mother won’t be holding her usual affairs here anymore, at least not in the near future, if ever. Don’t you know my father is laid up—”
“Reggie.” I stepped into the room, surprising both men. Reggie beamed at me.
“Hello, Em. It’s good to see you.” He hurried over to kiss my cheek, and when I removed my hat he took it from me and tossed it rather haphazardly onto a nearby sofa.
“I thought I’d stop by and see who had come up from the city. Is it only you?” Reggie nodded and I turned to the other man, extending a gloved hand. “You must be Mr. Brentworth, of the Newport Gas Light Company. I’m Emma Cross, Reggie’s cousin.”
I could see by his expression that being Reggie’s cousin didn’t do much to recommend me to him. “Very nice to meet you, Miss Cross. I believe, that is, don’t you own Gull Manor that used to belong to Miss Sadie Allan? I believe we installed the gas system originally, and have done maintenance on the place.”
I smiled my most brilliant smile. “Indeed, you are right. The lines are clear and working properly, thank you.”
Reggie returned to the billiard table and leaned to strike another ball. The force of his shot sent it bouncing off the cloth surface. With a clunk it landed, rolling, to strike another cluster. Two balls dropped into a corner pocket. “When are you going to electrify that old pile of stones you live in, Em?”
I didn’t miss the tightening of Mr. Brentworth’s mouth. So I hadn’t misunderstood as I’d entered the room, and neither had Mason been wrong when he said Reggie and Mr. Brentworth were experiencing a difference of opinion. But what was Reggie up to?
“Oh, I don’t know.” I smiled at Mr. Brentworth. “I’m not one for fixing what isn’t broken. Gas suits me perfectly fine.”
“If it’s the expense you’re worried about, I’m sure my parents would—”
I stopped Reggie right there with a “No, thank you.” Though my Vanderbilt relatives had shown me boundless generosity over the years, I remained careful of what I accepted from them. Their gardeners tended my property every so often, and they had equipped Gull Manor with a telephone. Living so far out of town, the device could potentially save a life, should one of us fall ill or have an accident. But I valued my independence, and though Aunt Alice and Uncle Cornelius wanted only the best for me, their definition of what was best didn’t always agree with mine.
“I’m fine with the way things are, Reggie,” I said.
“Suit yourself.” To Mr. Brentworth, he said, “You can schedule your blasted inspection if you want, but it’ll be a waste of time.”
“Really, Mr. Vanderbilt . . .”
“Reggie,” I interrupted, “are you actually proposing ripping out the gas system? Have you spoken to your parents about this?”
“I’ve taken charge of the house in their absence. Neily can’t, since Father won’t let him set foot on any of the properties, and Alfred is too busy running the New York Central. And now that Gertrude is married, she could care less about the place.”
I doubted that, but I was beginning to understand what fueled my cousin’s high-handedness when it came to managing the house in his parents’ absence. His eldest brother, Neily, had been the heir apparent until he angered his parents by marrying Grace Wilson. Before that, he had been entrusted with important family and business matters. Next in age, Alfred had taken Neily’s place, and following his father’s apoplexy two years ago, had stepped in as head of the New York Central Railroad, along with his uncles William and Frederick.
What, then, for young Reggie, who was no longer a child yet not quite an adult? His parents had never set high expectations for him. Perhaps, being the youngest son, he had been seen as a spare rather than an heir. They loved him, perhaps too much, and had allowed him more freedom than he knew how to use productively.
He tapped several more balls with varying results, and now positioned his cue for another shot. I circled the table to him and took the stick from his hands. “Reggie, you’re going against your mother’s wishes. If I were you, I’d let Mr. Brentworth do his job and stay out of it. You’ll be building your own house one of these days, and then you may do as you like.”
He made a face. I placed the cue back in his hands and turned aside, but not before catching a whiff of spirits. It didn’t surprise me. Reggie had been indulging in alcohol these past few years, beginning at far too young an age. I’d mentioned it to Neily once, but he had shrugged it off. Reggie was merely doing what many young men did, he told me. It would pass, nothing to worry about.
But worry about my young cousin, I did.
“Fine,” Reggie said at length. “Go talk to Mason about it.” With that he dismissed the hapless Mr. Brentworth, who hesitated a few feet beyond the billiard table with his hat in his hands.
I smiled at him again. “There then, Mr. Brentworth. You may schedule your inspections and any repairs and maintenance you deem necessary. I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt are grateful for the personal attention you give to the safety of all who dwell beneath this roof.”
“I take my business seriously, Miss Cross.” He gave a little bow. Though I didn’t entirely doubt his word, I might have pointed out that he had never personally called on me at Gull Manor to schedule maintenance of any kind. In fact, it was up to me to make sure my own gas lighting system was kept in good order. But then, I was merely a cousin several times removed from the present Vanderbilt family.
Mr. Brentworth excused himself. Reggie gave him no acknowledgment, but as soon as the man disappeared into the Great Hall, he made another face and shook his head. “Desperate to keep us all dependent on his outmoded system.”
“Reggie, your mother did specify that she wanted both. I remember her saying so during the planning of the house.”
“Senseless. Why, do you know the Berwinds will have only electricity? Theirs will be the first house to do so. No stinking gas in their new cottage.”
“It doesn’t stink.”
“It does. What’s more, it turns the walls and ceilings black.”
“Not if it’s properly maintained, which is why Mr. Brentworth is here. I see no reason why you should be bullying the poor man.” I shook my head but smiled at the same time. “You’re growing more incorrigible by the minute, Reg. What you need is—”
“A motorcar,” he supplied with a bounce on his toes.
“I was going to say employment,” I corrected him, feeling a bit like a scolding, elderly aunt.
He scowled good-naturedly. “Pshaw on that idea. Have you heard about motorized carriages, Em? They’re coming soon, any day now, and I intend to be one of the first to have one. Just picture it, me racing around this island . . .”
“You’ll probably kill yourself and everyone in your path.” I spoke with laughter. Reggie could be contrary, stubborn, imperious, and downright rude, but somehow he always retained a boyish enthusiasm that endeared him to those around him—most of us, at any rate. I wished I could remain stern with him, help him find a useful path in life. But he’d only laugh and tease me, and make me laugh in turn.
Though I would have liked to follow Mr. Brentworth and attempt to strike up a conversation with him as he made his notes for the maintenance to be scheduled, Reggie insisted I play a round of billiards with him. I hadn’t the talent for it, and though I managed to sink a few balls into the pockets, he beat me easily. He offered me some of the same libation he was enjoying, but I declined. I had little taste for whiskey or brandy, unless it was a few drops in a strong cup of tea.
While we played, I decided to take advantage of an opportunity and ask him some questions. “Did you know Oliver Kipp?”
He glanced up from aligning his next shot. “Ollie? Sure. We were at St. Paul’s together in Concord.” I nodded as he said this. All the Vanderbilt boys were educated at St. Paul’s Academy in New Hampshire, and from there went on to Yale. Neily and Alfred had excelled in their studies at St. Paul’s. Reggie’s performance had been rather less spectacular. “We ran in different circles, though. He’s a couple of years older than me.”
“Was,” I corrected him.
“Oh, right.” He straightened and leaned his cue stick against the table. “Poor Ollie. I heard what happened. Poor devil just couldn’t handle the pressure, I guess.” He wrinkled his nose. “Didn’t seem like him, to freeze up like that.”
“No? What was he like?”
“Steady. Logical. He was bookish, you know. Wanted to be a military lawyer.”
“Oftentimes bookish men don’t have the stamina for battle.”
“Like you would know?” He laughed as I conceded his point, then sobered. “You’re right, though, from what I’ve heard. But Ollie wasn’t the nervous type. There was nothing reckless about him. I don’t think he ever made a move without thinking it through first. Like I said, he was steady. The kind of man who would make a good officer and attorney.”
I grew more and more puzzled as Reggie contradicted what I’d learned about Oliver Kipp. “In your opinion, was he the kind of man whose broken heart would induce him to drop out of West Point and rush off to war?”
“Em, haven’t you been listening to me? Ollie thought about things, weighed the pros and cons, the benefits and disadvantages. He never rushed into anything.”
Oliver Kipp, a budding lawyer and officer who approached life with careful consideration, versus a West Point dropout who enlisted in the army to forget the woman who broke his heart. Which one had been real? If the former, what events set him on a collision course with fate, and why?
More than ever, the link between Cleo and Oliver, both alive and in death, seemed key in discovering who had murdered her—or perhaps both of them, whether directly or indirectly.
Reggie and I played another few rounds. Finally, Mr. Brentworth came to take his leave, informing Reggie that he and Mr. Mason had settled on a date for the work to be done. I placed my billiard cue into the rack on the wall and retrieved my hat.
“Mr. Brentworth, I walked here,” I lied, seizing yet another opportunity. “I wonder if you would mind giving me a ride into town?”
Before he could answer, Reggie said, “I’ll order one of our carriages to take you, Em.”
“That’s all right, Reggie. No need to bother. If Mr. Brentworth is agreeable, I’ll arrange for a ride home later.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Reggie murmured.
Mr. Brentworth bobbed his head to me. “I’d be happy to oblige, Miss Cross.”
“Lovely. Along the way perhaps you could advise me on how often I should have my gas lines inspected.”
Minutes later, as I settled onto the carriage seat, I slid closer to Mr. Brentworth by a couple of inches that might or might not have given a certain impression. If Mr. Brentworth believed me to be subtly flirting with him, all the better, though I didn’t sit so close as to confirm his suspicions. We chatted about the lovely summer weather, my uncle Cornelius, the grand house we had just left. This gave me an opportunity to bring up another sumptuous mansion, Ochre Court.
“I saw that you attended Mrs. Goelet’s ball the other night,” I said sadly.
“Yes, that’s right. You were covering the event for your newspaper, weren’t you? Which one is it?”
“The New York Herald. Never did I suspect I’d be reporting on such a tragic event.”
“No, indeed.” He guided us along Bellevue Avenue, each of us nodding at the acquaintances we passed.
When he didn’t seem about to add anything to the subject, I ventured an opinion. “Electricity is perhaps too new to be trusted. Would you say so, Mr. Brentworth?”
“Electricity is nothing new, Miss Cross. Its current uses are new, and therein, perhaps, lies the problem.”
“Then you believe more work is needed.”
“As with any innovation.”
He was being rather evasive. I tried to trigger more of a reaction. “You’re not against it, then?”
“Why should I be?”
“You are the owner of a gas company.”
“Gas isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.”
He had just echoed my own thoughts. Was he truly this confident in his business prospects? “But not everyone feels the same, sir. Yesterday, I witnessed men protesting outside the Newport Illuminating Company. And I heard that just this morning at The Elms—”
Mr. Brentworth tugged the reins and brought the carriage to a jarring halt. My hand flew to my breastbone as I lurched forward, then flopped backward against the back of the seat. Mr. Brentworth turned angry features toward me. “I’ll thank you to leave this carriage at once, Miss Cross.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Down from my carriage.” Within his glowering gaze and the tightness of his fists around the reins, I sensed a growing fury that made me fear for my safety. “I’ll not move another inch until I am rid of you. So unless you wish to sit here indefinitely, you’ll go.”
“But . . . what did I say?”
“Now, Miss Cross.” The order came through clenched jaws, convincing me to step down. I had no sooner done so than Mr. Brentworth set the horse to a brisk trot that raised a dusty draft around my hems.
What had I done? I thought back over the last few statements I had made. I’d spoken of Cleo Cooper-Smith’s death at Ochre Court, and then the Newport Illuminating Company. Yes, and his demeanor had instantly changed. Yet, that wasn’t entirely true. During the whole conversation, he had been reticent, agreeing or disagreeing with me in brief snippets that revealed little of his true thoughts.
But talk of the protest outside Newport’s electrical company had sent him into a kettle of rage. Presumably, the protesters, or most of them, had been Mr. Brentworth’s own workers, and the same could surely be said about this morning’s ruckus at The Elms, where gas workers opposed the building of a house powered solely by electricity.
Had Max Brentworth sent them? Or instigated their unrest with threats that they would all soon lose their jobs?
Perhaps he, or one of his workers, had somehow rigged the tableau and caused Cleo’s death. Mr. Brentworth’s behavior today certainly didn’t clear him of suspicion. Yet, from the grave, Oliver Kipp whispered to me that if Max Brentworth had a hand in Cleo’s death, it had nothing to do with emerging technologies.
* * *
Mr. Brentworth might have ordered me from his carriage, but he hadn’t left me stranded in the middle of nowhere. I stood on Bellevue Avenue several streets up from Ochre Point. A short walk would bring me back to my carriage at The Breakers. I retreated along the way, but turned in sooner than I might have and raised the heavy knocker at Ochre Court. The time had come for me to have a talk with Ilsa Cooper-Smith. I could no longer avoid it, though her sister had died only two days ago.
A heavy stillness continued to pervade the house. Swaths of black crepe covered mirrors and draped the mantels, while closed doors sealed the entrance to the drawing room. The butler informed me Mrs. Goelet was not receiving, but nonetheless showed me onto the rear terrace, where I found Grace and Mrs. Goelet’s sister-in-law, Mrs. Robert Goelet. Of Ilsa Cooper-Smith, I saw no sign.
They occupied a garden table beneath the shade of the arched loggia, with their respective children, baby Corneil and the beautiful little Beatrice. The child seemed unaffected by the trauma of Cleo’s death, was just then playing with the abundance of lilacs spilling over the wide rim of a bronze urn. She turned around, a spray in her hand, no doubt hoping for her mother’s appreciation, and spotted me coming out from the Great Hall.
“Mama, who’s that?”
Grace, cooing and teasing Corneil’s rosebud lips with a fingertip, looked up. “Emma, how lovely. Do come sit with us. Harriette, have you met Miss Emma Cross? She’s Neily’s cousin.”
Harriette Goelet was as blond as her daughter, and possessed a similar ethereal beauty, as if she had just stepped out from a Renaissance painting. The expression she showed me, however, was less than angelic. Clearly, she shared the opinion of most of her peers, that someone of my station had no business intruding on her lovely summer day. For Grace’s sake, I pretended not to notice and took a seat at the table with them.
Grace immediately transferred Corneil into my arms. “Here you are. What do you think of my son?”
“Oh, Grace, he’s lovely.” A pain stabbed deeply and sharply at my heart, and as I instinctively cradled the baby close to my bosom and lowered my face to inhale his lovely baby scent, Grace exclaimed at what a natural mother I’d make.
“It’s as if you had experience.” Her hand flew quickly to her lips. “Oh, I’d forgotten. I’m sorry, Emma.”
“No, it’s quite all right, don’t worry.”
“How is Robbie? Do you hear much news of him?”
She spoke of the newborn we had sheltered at Gull Manor during the summer of ninety-six. How instantly the child had burrowed into our hearts, mine and Nanny’s and Katie’s. He had left us too quickly, gone as if he had never arrived, leaving us with empty arms and a too, too quiet house. Corneil reminded me of that time, and of how I had realized then how very much I might be giving up if I decided never to marry.
My mouth curved in a small, bittersweet smile. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you, Grace?” I accused her without rancor. Grace had made it abundantly clear she would like to see me married to Derrick.
She had been raised on the notion that every woman should marry, that every woman should wish to. My indecision baffled her, for to her it seemed a clear choice, as it would have been to Nellie Bly. Marry a rich man. Derrick Andrews was certainly that. Yet I had known women who chose not to marry, or at least put marriage off until they felt confident it was the right decision. My own aunt Sadie had remained single her entire life, choosing independence and self-sufficiency over the security of having a man see to her needs. And last summer, I had seen with my own eyes the spirited determination of Senator George Wetmore’s two adult daughters, each of whom had turned down numerous suitors because they would not marry without love, or allow themselves to be valued for their inheritances alone.
I therefore stood in good company with my unwomanly stubbornness, as many would term it, but as with all of life’s decisions, there were compromises to be made and sacrifices to suffer.
The baby whimpered and I jostled him gently. When his dimpled little hand closed around my hat ribbon, I let him tug the bow loose. I regarded Grace and Harriette. “How is Mrs. Goelet? And Ilsa?”
“Still understandably upset, as are we all.” Harriette’s manner remained stiff, though not rude. “That is why we’re here, to be on hand should my sister-in-law need us.”
I regarded her daughter, busily collecting lilac blossoms. She ran to her mother and deposited her little handfuls of purple petals into Harriette’s lap. I nodded at the child as she once more toddled to the balustrade. “And Beatrice?”
“She hasn’t mentioned a word about what happened,” Harriette replied. “Other than that she wished she could have her red rosebud back.”
“Her rosebud?” Grace lightly frowned in question.
“Yes. Do you remember the posy she handed to Cleo during the tableau? The flowers were supposed to have all been white. Beatrice had slipped in a single red rosebud. I don’t even know where she came by it.” Harriette’s gaze scanned our surroundings, as if she were searching for the rosebush. There were numerous varieties growing on the property, and probably on her own property next door.
“Perhaps during a walk with her nurse,” I suggested.
“Yes, I suppose.”
“I’m glad to see you, Emma, but what brings you here today?” Grace asked.
“I’m hoping to speak with Miss Ilsa,” I replied, deciding for now not to mention that I also hoped to speak with Mrs. Hendricks, the housekeeper.
Harriette looked perplexed. “Why would you need to speak with Ilsa?”
“I have a couple of questions concerning her sister’s passing.”
“Such as what? What business—”
Grace reached over and pressed a hand to Harriette’s wrist. “It’s all right. Emma has experience with such things. She can help find the answers to what happened to Cleo.”
Harriette searched Grace’s gaze for a long moment before she nodded and turned her attention back to her daughter. I followed her line of sight, and saw, beyond the terrace, a young woman with a parasol strolling on the lawn. She stepped up to the raised gardens and approached a stone railing, where she stopped to look out over the Cliff Walk and the ocean beyond.
“Is that Miss Goelet?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s May,” Grace replied. “She’s been unsettled by all that’s happened, too.”
“I’d think she would be more than unsettled, and yet I remember you telling me, Grace, that she and Miss Cooper-Smith weren’t especially good friends, for all they were close in age.”
Grace and Harriette exchanged glances, and Grace said, “They got on well enough, but their interests were rather different.”
How different could the interests of two debutantes be? I rose from the table. “If it’s all right, I’d like to have a word with her.”
I didn’t wait for permission, but neither Grace nor Harriette protested as I started down the terrace steps. Behind me, little Beatrice cried out, “May I go, too, Mama?”
Harriette obviously demurred, for I heard no footsteps pattering to catch up with me. I purposely walked with an audible stride so as not to startle Miss Goelet with my approach. She turned as I reached her, her expression becoming puzzled, and perhaps a bit wary.
“You’re Miss Cross, the reporter. I remember you from the tea party and the ball.”
“That’s right.” I smiled, hoping to put her at ease. “I wondered if I might ask you some questions about Miss Cooper-Smith. You see, I’m assisting the police in discovering what happened to her.”
“Why you?” She sounded merely curious.
“It’s something I do from time to time. My occupation puts me in a position to be useful.”
“I see.” She played with the bow on the handle of her parasol. “Well, I don’t know anything about what happened to Cleo.”
“No, I didn’t suppose you did, but you knew her.”
“Not well, I’m afraid.” She frowned. “That is to say, I’d known her for many years, but I cannot say we were good friends. Not as our mothers were.”
“Then she didn’t tend to confide in you?”
“Rarely.” She folded her parasol and leaned it against the railing, then turned to peer out over the ocean again. “This has been dreadful on my mother. First my father a year ago, now this.” She placed a hand on the stone rail and smoothed it back and forth where two sections met to form a wide angle. “Do you see how this balustrade is shaped? It’s like the bow of a ship. Mama has always loved to set sail. She loves traveling overseas, but often Papa would have preferred to stay here. So he had this upper garden shaped like the bow of a ship so she could stand here and pretend. He thought, perhaps that way, she might be more willing to stay home.” She laughed sadly. “It didn’t work, and we sailed to England last year. That’s where Papa died, you know.”
“Yes, and I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” She bowed her head, hiding for a moment beneath her hat brim. When she reemerged, the wary look had returned. “I don’t mind you asking me questions, Miss Cross, but please leave my mother be. She’s taking this very hard.”
“I can understand.”
“Can you? You see, she blames herself for my father’s passing. She regrets having gone to England last summer, and thinks perhaps if we had stayed home Father would still be alive.” She shook her head sadly. “I don’t believe so, and I’ve tried to dissuade her of the notion. And now, she blames herself for Cleo. She thinks if only she hadn’t thought of installing the Edison bulbs, Cleo might still be alive.”
“I sincerely hope in time your mother will come to feel differently.” I didn’t add that this, too, made me determined to find the truth. No one should have to bear the unnecessary guilt of another person’s death.
“Thank you, Miss Cross. But you didn’t wish to ask me about such things. You want to know about Cleo.”
“Yes. Miss Goelet, were you aware of who her beaux were?”
The question startled her. She compressed her lips before replying. “I believe she had many hopefuls. Many of them attended the ball. Cleo had a way of attracting male attention.”
I didn’t doubt that. “Was Oliver Kipp among them?”
“Oliver?” She shrugged, unperturbed by the name. “I suppose for a time. At least I’d seen them together last spring. But more recently she had her eye on someone else.” I heard a faint derision in her voice. She tapped her fingers against the railing, perhaps unconsciously. Finally, she murmured, “Robert.”
“Your brother? But he’s—”
“Younger than Cleo was, yes. But he is also going to be a very wealthy man someday rather soon. And I think . . .” She turned to face me again, careful not to brush her skirts against the stone balustrade. “I doubt very much Cleo loved Robert, but I believe she saw our family as a haven where she could be safe.”
“Safe from what?”
“I’m not sure exactly. But lately, she seemed nervous, jittery. Oh, it might have been because of the ball. Every girl has an attack of nerves before her coming-out. But I did notice her paying much more attention to Robert these past several days than ever before.”
“Do you think he returned her regard?”
“Miss Cross, you know how boys are.” She sighed. “He was flattered and followed her about like a pup when he thought no one was looking, especially Mama. He left her alone at the ball, of course.”
I found this especially interesting. “You mother would not have approved of them marrying?”
Miss Goelet shrugged. “Heaven only knows. I doubt very much Mama was aware of Cleo setting her cap for Robert, if indeed that is what she had done. She might only have been trifling with him while waiting to see who would offer for her.”
I decided to subtly change tack. “The tableau was the most elaborate I’d ever seen or heard of. Was your coming-out similar?” I knew very well that Miss Goelet’s coming-out had been a much more dignified affair. Did Miss Goelet feel any jealousy toward Cleo, that perhaps her mother had done more for a friend’s daughter than her own?
“Good gracious, no.” A chuckle accompanied this assertion. “Oh, my parents spared no expense for me. It was wonderful and sumptuous and I felt like a princess. But I didn’t feel any need to dress the part of an ancient queen and put on such a display.”
I perceived no prevarication in her answer. I believed her sincere. “Then why do you think your mother planned such extravagance for Miss Cleo?”
“She didn’t. The tableau vivant was Cleo’s idea. And Mama went along with it because she promised Cleo’s mother she’d do her best by the sisters.” Her lips pursed regretfully. “For Cleo, at any rate. There wasn’t a coming-out for Ilsa, for obvious reasons. It would only have served to emphasize her lack of prospects.”
Yes, poor Ilsa. But Cleo’s insistence on a Cleopatra-themed tableau vivant seemed to confirm my theory that the Cooper-Smiths had been intent on hiding their penury until Cleo had secured an engagement. Yet she had issued a direct cut to Silas Griggson’s attentions, a man who could have made her richer than many wives of the Four Hundred. Which in turn led me back to my theory that the Cooper-Smiths, and perhaps Cleo personally, had something to fear from Silas Griggson.
* * *
When I returned to the terrace, Grace handed Corneil to a maid who in turn tucked him into a wicker pram, thickly padded and lined in satin. Grace stood. “Come with me. We’ll see if Ilsa is feeling up to speaking with you.” Once we reentered the house, she grasped my forearm and spoke quietly. “I asked my sister about Cleo’s gowns, and yes, she most certainly did pay for them. She seemed reluctant to discuss it further so I didn’t press her. But it’s safe to assume the Cooper-Smiths have found themselves in reduced circumstances.”
“Thank you, Grace.”
When we reached Ilsa’s door on the second floor, Grace knocked softly, then retreated down the corridor. Ilsa seemed surprised to see me, but invited me inside. I expressed my sympathies and inquired after her health, and asked if there was anything I could do for her. Her replies were gracious and subdued. She looked pale and drained, as though she hadn’t slept in days, which, understandably, she might not have. She offered me a seat and refreshment. I accepted the former, declined the latter.
“I’ve been asking questions concerning your sister’s passing because I care very much about the truth of what happened,” I said as we made ourselves comfortable in the sitting area of her bedroom. “Some of the answers have led me back here, to you.”
“What kind of questions have you been asking, Miss Cross?” Though she had seemed calm enough at first, now her hands worked convulsively, clutching one moment, fidgeting with her skirts the next, only to then grip the arms of her chair. “I don’t understand. I know you are a reporter, but . . .”
I leaned toward her, speaking quietly. “Ilsa, I know the man, the electrician, who has been blamed for your sister’s death.” She compressed her lips, frowning, and I hastened to reassure her. “I wish to see your sister laid to rest with no lingering questions about how she died. As I was saying, I know Dale Hanson quite well. I’ve been acquainted with him my whole life. He is not an irresponsible person, or a heavy drinker, or inept at his profession. I do not believe he is responsible.”
“Then . . . who?” Again, her hands fluttered and fussed. “And how can I help you? I have no idea what happened. How could I?”
I responded diplomatically, not wishing to unduly distress her. “Perhaps you know more than you think. I would like to help you remember everything you might have observed before and since the night of the ball.”
“Oh . . . all right.” Her fingers twisted together.
“When you and I first met, you were in the ballroom. What were you doing there?”
“I told you at the time. I was making sure everything would be perfect for Cleo.”
I nodded as if I had merely been refreshing my memory. “And while you were in the drawing room and ballroom, did anyone else come in? Besides me, of course.”
“No one. I was alone the entire time.”
“Did you go up onto the dais?”
“I did. I wanted to be sure the Edison bulbs were placed just so, to show off Cleo to her best advantage. And the flowers, of course. I wanted to make sure they were fresh.”
“How afterward, you left the ball somewhat early, before the tableau. Where did you go?”
Her mouth turned down as she no doubt remembered Mrs. Russell’s unkind words, and how her sister failed to come to her rescue. She murmured, “I went up to my room for a bit.”
“And when you came back down . . . ?”
“It was time for the tableau. I went into the drawing room along with everyone else.” She sighed. “You see, Miss Cross—”
“Emma, please.”
“You see, Emma, I never saw anything out of the ordinary. I don’t think I can help you at all.”
She stood up, her uneven gait taking her to the window. Looking out, she fiddled with the edge of the curtain. I spoke to her back. “Ilsa, can you tell me if your sister had ever shown an interest in Lieutenant Dorian Norris? You know who he is, don’t you?”
She spun about as quickly as her infirmity would allow. “Of course I know Lieutenant Norris. He and Oliver went to war together. And before that, his family attended many of the same events as my family. What do you mean, did Cleo ever show an interest? As in wishing to marry him?”
I nodded even though that hadn’t been my exact meaning. I watched the effect this notion had on her. She seemed utterly taken aback. Had Mr. Griggson been lying in his claim about a dalliance between Dorian and Cleo? Or had Dorian’s illicit attempts to meet with Camille confused Mr. Griggson into believing he’d been trysting with Cleo? Ilsa’s next words seemed to suggest so.
“Cleo never paid him any special attention that I noticed.”
“Before he went off to the war, Oliver and your sister broke off their liaison.”
Ilsa sighed again, this time deeper, laden with regret. “Yes, they did.”
“Are you sure it had nothing to do with the lieutenant?”
“She never mentioned him. Never met him anywhere on her own. I’d have known, Emma. She and I were close. She wouldn’t have kept something like that from me.”
“Wouldn’t she? Even if she felt guilty for rejecting one man in favor of another?”
Ilsa adamantly shook her head. “She wouldn’t have had any opportunity to sneak off and meet anyone without my knowing.” She limped back to her chair and sank heavily into it. A pang of guilt struck me. These questions were draining what little stores of stamina she possessed. But for Cleo’s sake, and for Dale’s, I had no choice but to persist.
“Were you angry with her for anything?” I alluded, of course, to those unkind words of Cleo’s, and also to how so much attention centered on Cleo, with few if any expectations raised on Ilsa’s behalf. Why wouldn’t she have resented her sister? It was a risky question, and I braced for her to lash out and protest her innocence in her sister’s death. Her reply astonished me.
“Yes, I was angry with her. More than that. I was incensed with her.”