I stopped just at the top of the few steps leading down to the main floor of the room. Two under footmen passed into view from the dining room, where they appeared to be gathering up the silver, probably to be taken below stairs and polished. Above me along the open gallery that looked down upon the Great Hall, a maid exited one of the bedrooms with an armful of linens. I let my gaze slide past her, higher and higher, until it came to rest on the ceiling, painted to resemble a clear, sunny afternoon sky.
I pulled my gaze earthward as voices drifted in from the terrace that spanned the rear of the building. Listening, I could make out Uncle Cornelius’s and Aunt Alice’s voices . . . and the higher, eager tones of my youngest cousin, Gladys. They were discussing an upcoming yachting excursion. I listened for Gertrude’s voice but didn’t hear her, and as the downstairs seemed quiet but for the soft murmurs of working servants, I crossed to the staircase and hurried up. I found Gertrude in her room, still in her dressing gown, though a pile of dresses littered her bed and she seemed to be studying them with a critical eye.
“Oh, good morning, Emmaline,” she said when I stepped through the open doorway.
I smiled. It always both amused and annoyed me that most of my Vanderbilt relatives, with the exception of Reggie and Consuelo, called me by my full name rather than the shorter version I preferred. The men could be nicknamed; hence there were Reggie, Neily, Willy K., etc. Ah, but nothing so sporting or casual would do for the females of the family; thus, we remained Emmaline, Gertrude, Consuelo, and the rest. I had long since given up trying to persuade them otherwise.
“This is a lovely surprise,” she continued brightly, “especially since I was just thinking of you.”
“Were you?” We embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks in the European fashion Gertrude had learned during her travels last summer.
She leaned over her bed and selected a sleek frock with a matching jacket, both the color of spring leaves. She held them up for my perusal. “Do you want this? The color simply doesn’t work with my complexion. I’d told Mama that when she chose this fabric, but she wouldn’t hear it. Now that she’s actually seen me in the outfit, however, she can’t help but agree.”
Even I had to admit neither the color nor the tailoring suited my tall, substantially framed cousin.
“Oh . . . I . . .” I reached out a finger and stroked the brushed sheen of the silk bodice. I couldn’t begin to estimate how much the walking ensemble had cost—more than I could ever afford, that much was certain. That she could simply give it away with hardly a thought . . .
“Do take it, Emmaline. I know Nanny O’Neal can take it in a bit and shorten the hem, and make it just perfect for you. And with your dark hair and hazel eyes, I do believe the color will do quite well for you.”
“Thank you, Gertrude.”
She waved away my gratitude. “I’m assuming you’re in your little rig, so I’ll have it sent over later. Now, was there something you wanted to see me about?”
From her expression I judged she hadn’t heard yet about Madame Devereaux’s murder. I needed to be careful. Although I believed I could trust Gertrude with a confidence, tensions existed between her mother and Consuelo’s, and if Aunt Alice gleaned so much as a hint of Consuelo’s disappearance, she’d no doubt find a means to use it against Aunt Alva, socially if in no other way. The two women were forever trying to discredit one another, each being intent on rising to the top of the social register as The Mrs. Vanderbilt. I was not about to let Consuelo become ammunition in their genteel warfare.
So, pretending to be preoccupied with the piles of satin, silk, and lace covering Gertrude’s canopied bed, I casually asked, “Have you heard from Consuelo lately?”
“No, and I feel just awful about it,” she said without hesitation. “Poor Consuelo. I know she’s not happy about this engagement to the Duke. I’m not sure I understand, not completely, but she is young still and I can see how marriage in general might seem a rather frightening prospect.” She absently reached for a white linen tennis dress with a big, square collar and navy blue piping at the cuffs and hem. She held it up in front of her. “I’ve been wanting to call on her, but Mama’s refusal to invite either Aunt Alva or Consuelo to my coming-out ball made for such an awkward situation between us.” She held out the tennis dress. “Do you want this, too?” She didn’t wait for my answer but tossed it beside the bright green walking outfit.
Although I had rarely in my life played tennis, I nodded my thanks and said, “So you haven’t spoken to her in a while, then?”