“I do not lie.” The medium’s lips curved disdainfully downward. “I am an ethical woman.”
“Whom do you think you’re dealing with? A fool? You’re a fortune-teller.” Aunt Alva’s eyes narrowed dangerously. She thrust a finger squarely at the woman’s chest, just as she had with me earlier. “That makes you a fraud, a con artist. And believe me when I say I can make your life exceedingly difficult. So difficult you’ll never practice your hokum anywhere again, except perhaps in a Providence prison cell.”
The medium blanched. “I am no fraud,” she said, but a good portion of her conviction had drained away, along with her almost-French accent.
“Here is what you are going to do.” Aunt Alva stepped toe-to-toe with the woman, and I pressed closer to the window so as not to miss a word. “You are going to go down to the pavilion and prepare to tell our fortunes. When it’s my daughter’s turn, you are going to spread your cards across the table, gaze into your crystal ball, and with every shred of false enthusiasm you can muster, you will convince her of the glorious, loving, successful future she’ll enjoy as the Duchess of Marlborough.”
Or else.
I heard the warning as clear as day, though the words once again went unspoken.
Or so I thought. After a pause during which the tension shivered palpably in the air between the two women, Aunt Alva eased closer and brought her lips beside the medium’s ear. Madame Devereaux turned a shade of scarlet that sent my pulse leaping with alarm. Muffy twitched her tail as I squeezed her too hard, pressing forward as I was with my head nearly out the window in my attempt to hear what my aunt was saying.
My efforts proved unfruitful. But when Aunt Alva leaned away with a cunning smile, the medium’s features froze in dismay. “You will tell her the man you meant, the man who would only make her miserable, is Winthrop Rutherfurd,” Aunt Alva said, “or you will be very, very sorry.”
Madame Devereaux gave a wobbly nod.
“Have you all thought of what you wish to ask Madame Devereaux?” Aunt Alva led her guests along the garden path toward the pavilion. Her smiles and the carefree swinging of her arms belied the conversation I’d overheard no less than twenty minutes earlier. Now she seemed as cheerful as the summer sunlight glittering on the ocean beyond the cliffs at the rear of the property. The Spooner sisters trailed immediately behind her, the tiny blossoms on their wide hats rivaling Alva’s meticulously tended flowerbeds.
“I’d like to ask Madame Devereaux if dear Roberta will ever find a husband,” the sister who must be Edwina said, tittering into her hand.
“Me? What about you, sister? At forty-eight you remain as unmarried as I.”
“Quite true, Roberta, but I remain single by choice. Whereas we all know you have been pining over that Mr. Armandale for years now.”
“Mr. Armandale doesn’t appear to be the marrying kind,” Roberta replied wistfully.
Behind them, Hope Stanford and Lady Amelia seemed locked in a heated debate.
“You must take a stand, my dear. The property is yours by rights. Your grandfather left it to you in his will. Do not allow yourself to be swindled.”
“He may have done, Mrs. Stanhope, but the law in England supersedes a man’s last will and testament. I may have been Grandpapa’s favorite, but the title will go to my younger brother, and with it all the property. There is simply no way around it.”
“Bah!” Hope Stanford swatted her fingertips at a bush beside the path as if the branches had somehow offended her. “Such laws, that leave women destitute or dependent on the charity of their menfolk, need to be changed.”
“I agree wholeheartedly, ma’am. But that’s not likely to happen until women can vote.”
“Then we must be tireless in our efforts, on both sides of the ocean,” Mrs. Stanhope concluded in her no-nonsense way.
“Lady Amelia,” I said, gathering my hems and trotting a few steps to catch up to them, “are you from England, then?”
The emerald in her hat caught a sunbeam and momentarily blinded me as she turned toward me. Blinking, I saw that her smile held approval. “You’re very observant, Miss Cross. You noticed that I don’t sound particularly English, didn’t you?”
“If you’ll pardon my saying so, you sound more as though you’re from New York’s Fifth Avenue than London’s Mayfair. Am I wrong?”
“No, indeed. You see, my parents separated when I was sixteen. My mother is an American, a Wentworth as a matter of fact, and she brought me to New York to continue raising me among her family.”