“I know,” she snapped, cutting me off. “But I assure you I’m no angel.”
“Then it’s just a coincidence?”
“No. We’re related. Her real name is Adelaide and she’s my aunt.”
“Your aunt?”
She nodded. “My mother was the oldest of five sisters. Adelaide is the youngest.”
I wondered how far I dared to pursue this. “Did I understand that your aunt had been ill?”
Her face became stony. “Aunt Adelaide is of a delicate nature. She is afraid of many things and does not like to venture outside the home, that’s all.”
Again I remembered the eyes of that child in the portrait. They had not seemed fearful. Had Reynold Bryce created her as he wanted her to be and not as she was?
“Are you acquainted with Reynold Bryce too? What does he say about this resemblance?”
“I’ve never met him,” she said. “He went to Paris before I was born and he never comes home these days. But I do plan to call on him when I’m in Paris. It should be rather fun to meet a real artist, don’t you think?”
“It should. I have friends who are hoping to be introduced to him. My friend is an artist, or rather wants to be recognized as an artist.”
“How lovely to be able to paint, or to do something exciting. I’ve been to a young ladies academy where all they care about is manners and looking pretty. So boring.” She sounded like a typical girl of her age and rolled her eyes, making me smile.
“Do other family members have such a strong resemblance to your aunt?” I asked. “What about your brothers and sisters?”
“I’m an only child,” she said. “My father died before I was born so I never knew him. For many years it was just Mama and me, but then she married again.”
“Ah, so you have a stepfather?”
“I do, and I hate him.” She spat out the words with venom. “He treats me like a child and won’t let me do anything. I had a nice sum of money settled on me and he won’t let me touch it. He is rude and overbearing and a bully. I can’t wait to escape.”
Ah, I thought. So that was why she was marrying the very proper Bostonian—to escape the domination of a hated stepfather. I was about to tell her not to rush into marriage with someone she didn’t love when a woman came flying down the deck, arms waving. “Ellie, so there you are, you naughty girl,” she called as if the girl was five and not a young woman about to be married. “Again you escape from me. Did I not tell you that it is not seemly to walk on the deck alone. One does not know if you will meet a sailor.”
“Ooh, I do hope so,” Ellie replied with a wink to me. “Besides I have met this charming married lady who is chaperoning me perfectly.”
The Frenchwoman looked me up and down and noted the quality of my dress. “Mille pardons, madame,” she said. “I apologize for my charge. She is headstrong and will come a cropper one day, I think.”
“I suspect Miss Ellie was like me. She needed to breathe some fresh sea air, rather than be stuck in the lounge all day. And as you see, no harm has come of her.”
The Frenchwoman gave me a nod, then took Ellie’s arm. “Come inside now. You will catch a nasty chill in this cold air without your shawl around you.”
Ellie looked back in my direction as she was led away. “I hope to see you again soon,” she said and I realized I hadn’t given her my name. As I went to find the nearest door to the second-class portion of the ship I heard the chaperone say, “You must learn not to talk to strange women, Eleanor. She had a most wild appearance and she was Irish too. What’s more I do not believe I saw her in the first-class dining room.”
I decided that I was heartily glad that Ellie was going to have those few days of freedom in Paris.
Ten
Of course I had to relate my findings to the ladies at the dinner table, but I gave just the bare bones of the story—that Angela in the painting was really called Adelaide and was the girl’s aunt. Also that Ellie had denied her aunt was mentally defective, merely anxious and timid and did not like to leave the house. I refrained from mentioning that Ellie had planned to spend a week alone in Paris or that she hated her stepfather. The women were impressed with my sleuthing and, having found out the truth, turned their gossip to other passengers, especially a couple whom they suspected of not really being husband and wife.
The dressing gowns on the cabin door swung a little more that night and I awoke in the morning to a gloomy gray day with rain peppering the windows. The promenade deck was deserted, apart from a sailor who was swabbing it down, looking very miserable in the process. There was no question of going outside. I sat reading in the lounge. Liam played, crawling over to other passengers and being fussed over everywhere. There was a concert in the afternoon and a whist drive in which I didn’t participate but which was won by our two widows, much to their satisfaction. I could feel myself slipping into a pleasant slow routine in a safe cocoon with the real world and its problems slipping farther and farther away. I had to remind myself from time to time that I had left a husband alone and in danger in New York.