Murder at Marble House(12)

My cousin hesitated. The tension had returned to her neck and shoulders, and I guessed Consuelo wanted no part of the afternoon’s entertainments. Yet after a pause, she grasped the medium’s hand and gave it a single, cordial shake. “How do you do?”

Madame Devereaux gasped. Snatching her hand back as if Consuelo had placed an ember in her palm, she staggered backward. Her eyes shot wide open, then glazed over as she stared at Consuelo. Her mouth gaped like that of a beached fish.

“You’ll never be happy. Never be happy with him,” she intoned in a strained voice. “Oh, child . . . you poor child . . . stay away from him. Never, never trust him. Consuelo Vanderbilt . . . hear me. You’ll never know happiness with a scoundrel such as he. . . .”

“Whatever do you mean?” Consuelo demanded when the woman trailed off, her voice fading like the lingering note of a plucked harp.

Her mother hurried forward and sandwiched herself between Consuelo and the medium. “There, there, now, Consuelo, dear—”

Before Alva could say another word, Consuelo snapped, “Let her speak, Mother. What does she mean?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Alva whirled about to face the medium. “You didn’t mean anything, did you? Just a little joke, although not a particularly funny one, to be sure.”

Madame Devereaux blinked several times and gave her head a little shake. “I . . . I’m sorry, Mrs. Vanderbilt. Yes, just a joke to . . . to break the ice. I’m sorry if . . .”

“That was no joke.” Consuelo’s voice trembled. “And I insist—”

“Consuelo,” her mother said through gritted teeth, “we have guests.”

“I don’t care. I—”

“Emmaline,” my aunt called to me, “please take my daughter into the house. Up to her room, in fact, until she calms herself.”

“I am calm, Mother.”

Alva’s voice plunged to a whisper. “Do as I say, Consuelo. Madame Devereaux didn’t mean anything, so do stop making a scene. Go upstairs. Now.”

Side by side, Consuelo and I climbed the stairs with a good deal less spirit than when we’d descended them.

“She makes me want to run away.”

I slung an arm about her waist but said nothing as we followed the graceful curve up to the second floor. I wasn’t about to speak in my aunt’s defense, not when she’d essentially humiliated Consuelo in front of the others, treating her like a naughty child when all Consuelo had wanted was some kind of reassurance after the medium’s odd, ominous prediction.

When we reached her bedroom, she opened the door. In a streak of gray, Muffy darted out past our ankles and barreled away down the hall.

“Oh!” Consuelo cried. “Stop her! Mother hates it when she gets downstairs.”

It was too late. Muffy had reached the staircase and galloped down. “I’ll go get her,” I said, fearing if Consuelo went her mother would think she was disobeying and scold her yet again.

Downstairs in the entry hall I glimpsed Muffy’s swishing tail darting toward the library, and when I entered the room she scampered beneath the desk. I bent down to coax her out, but she crept past my groping hand, shot out from under the desk chair, and leaped onto a glass-fronted cabinet. As soon as I came to my feet, Muffy dived onto a satin brocade sofa, sending a hiss through the down-filled cushions. That was her mistake, for there I had her, trapped between my open arms and the sofa’s high back.

“Got you, you imp. And not a moment too soon. Do you have any idea what Alva Vanderbilt would do to you if she caught you pawing her precious Italian brocade?” I scooped the furry being into my arms, and when I expected her to struggle against me, she instead went limp and rested her head against my shoulder. Her whiskers tickled my neck. “Oh, you just wanted to play, didn’t you, you naughty thing? Don’t like being cooped up in a bedroom all the time, do you?” Just like Consuelo, I thought sadly.

Before I could set out to return Muffy to her mistress, voices drifted through the open library windows—the ones that overlooked the terrace.

“You’ll do as I say.” My aunt’s hissing voice raised the hairs at my nape.

Curious, I moved to the window, standing where the curtain would hide me. The four houseguests were strolling in the gardens, and snippets of their conversation and laughter bounced on the breeze. Closer, Aunt Alva and Madame Devereaux stood together near the garden table. Those same breezes fluttered the edges of the medium’s frock and prompted Aunt Alva to grasp the brim of her silk-covered hat. Both were red-faced and gesturing angrily.