Murder at Marble House(11)
“Calvin is entirely in favor of me driving the demon spirits out of American society. He was standing right behind me, making sure none of those drunken heathens dared accost me as I did the Lord’s work.”
“But I don’t understand what purpose it served to—”
Mrs. Stanford cut off Lady Amelia’s words by striking the table with her fist. My gaze flew to her hand, crisscrossed by blue veins and raw at the knuckles. “My action served notice that the time for sobriety has arrived. It also sent a good number of those men running for cover. If nothing else, their drinking for the night ended early.”
“They probably crossed the street and slipped into the next closest tavern,” Lady Amelia said under her breath. I appeared to be the only one who heard her, and I stifled a laugh.
“What an inspiring story,” Alva exclaimed. “Such a good, loyal man, your husband. Why, I wish . . .” She trailed off with a sideways glance at Consuelo, whose cheeks reddened. Yet Consuelo met her mother’s gaze with a lift of her eyebrow, as if daring Alva to say one unkind thing about her father. For once, Alva seemed disinclined to meet the challenge.
As the conversation drifted, my cousin raised her teacup to hide her lips and whispered to me, “So Aunt Sadie was a suffragette?”
“In a way, yes,” I whispered back. “But not in favor of temperance. And in her view it was hardly worth voting anyway until women were able to run for office.”
Consuelo had taken a sip of tea and at my words she sputtered. “Good heavens, Emma. No wonder you’re the way you are.”
I opened my mouth to demand what she meant by that, when Grafton stepped through the terrace doorway, a figure swathed in varying shades of plum half-hidden behind him.
“Madame Eleanora Devereaux,” he droned with the slightest curl of his lip, and then stepped aside.
A woman came forward, her jeweled turban, beaded necklaces, and countless bangles glittering in the sunlight. Clattering as she moved, she bobbed a little curtsy, holding both arms out with a theatrical flourish. She wore a shapeless frock with arm slits rather than sleeves, and the sides of the garment caught the breeze like violet sails. Her eyes were lined with kohl, her skin powdered, her lips and cheeks rouged—almost shockingly so. She reminded me of a tropical bird, from her flashy attire to the penetrating look in her eye as she surveyed us without blinking.
From across the table came a breathless murmur, almost too low to be heard. “Ellen Deere.”
I peered over at Mrs. Stanford, but her face was a blank, her lips the same thin line as usual. I swung back toward the newly arrived guest to find her staring daggers across the table, straight at Hope Stanford. But only for the briefest moment. Then her expression cleared, became serene and cordial.
Aunt Alva came to her feet. “Consuelo, darling. This is your surprise!”
Chapter 3
“Come, Consuelo!” Aunt Alva held out a hand as she urged her daughter to stand. “Come meet Madame Devereaux. She is here to read your fortune. Isn’t that exciting?” She turned her attention to the rest of us. “Madame Devereaux will read all of our fortunes in the garden pavilion just as soon as she has set up for us.” She gestured to the bit of curving roof just visible above the tall hedges lining the garden path. “Her instruments for divining the future were delivered earlier, and in a little while we’ll all head across the garden to hear what life holds in store for us. Remember, ladies, choose your questions wisely!” She ended on a note of laughter, but the women around the table traded wary looks, myself and Consuelo included.
My better sense proclaimed the medium a charlatan. Such individuals typically preyed upon the elderly, the bereaved, and the desperate. But even if the woman could genuinely divine the future, did I really want to glimpse what lay in store for me? An uneasy sensation told me I didn’t, that such things were best allowed to unfold as they would. Consuelo’s troubled expression mirrored my sentiments.
But her mother wasn’t about to let her daughter demur. “Come here, dear,” she said with barely suppressed impatience.
Consuelo stood and approached the medium. Though Madame Devereaux had seemed tall standing beside Grafton, I realized now that was merely an illusion conjured by the height of her turban. Her dress consisted of layers of draped fabric in shades of amethyst, violet, lavender, and lilac, flowing unbelted from her shoulders to the floor, essentially hiding her figure and making it impossible to determine if she were slim or stout.
Her numerous bracelets jangled as she held out her hand to Consuelo. “Miss Vanderbilt, a great pleasure.” Her voice was deep, throaty, and held a hint of an accent that wanted to be French, but wasn’t quite. At least, not the French accent I’d learned at school.