As she spoke those last words she took in my carriage dress, the dark blue one formerly belonging to my aunt Sadie, but which Nanny had freshened with new velvet trim and shiny jet buttons. Her assessing gaze didn’t stop until it reached my hemline, where Nanny had done a splendid job of concealing the slight fraying of the fabric where it skimmed the floor.
“Remember, Emmaline, as a duchess, Consuelo will never want for anything. And if it is a bit of independence she’s after, between her new title and her inheritance, no doors will be closed to her. Good grief, think of the good she’ll be able to do, if that is what she wants. She’ll have the means to fund charities, form scholarships—whatever strikes her fancy, so long as the cause is a suitable one and her husband is agreeable.”
Yes, independence. Aunt Alva’s definition of the word dripped its bitter irony on my already sagging spirits.
She reached out and gave my shoulder a little nudge. “Go on. She’ll be delighted to see you.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t think I’m not aware that she called you earlier. The little sneak. Why, I should have—Oh, but we’ll work it to our advantage, won’t we?”
“Our advantage?”
She nudged me again. “Just talk to her. She adores you. And make her come downstairs. Tell her I have a surprise for her.”
“What is it?”
Alva rolled her eyes. “A surprise. Now go.”
I turned and began walking, wondering how much Consuelo would adore me—or respect me—once she discerned my part in this debacle. Somehow the task ahead seemed even more difficult than tracking down a murderer, nearly being murdered myself, and clearing my brother of false charges. Gripping the cold, wrought-iron banister until my knuckles whitened, I started up the staircase.
Alva’s parting words drifted from the doorway of the Gold Room. “I’m counting on you, Emmaline. Do not let me down.”
The or else hovered in the air between us.
Chapter 2
Upstairs, I was met by one of the maids coming down the hallway. She held an oval silver tray, and cutlery and china clinked with each step she took, while the domed covers sat half off their platters. The aromas of hotcakes and eggs tickled my nose. Upon spotting me, the young woman, a slender, curly-haired blonde about my own age, jerked toward a doorway as if to duck into it and become as invisible as possible, tray and all. It was one of Aunt Alva’s rules that maids should never be seen, or, if they must, to make themselves as much a part of the background as possible.
But then Clara Parker recognized me. Although we had grown up in different parts of Newport, we had attended the same church growing up, and still did. She kept on toward me and offered a deferential smile, the kind that reminded me that, while she might not feel the need to hide, my Vanderbilt background sometimes made it difficult to meet my own neighbors on an equal footing. Such deference never failed to make me slightly uncomfortable, but I did my best not to show it.
“Good morning, Miss Cross,” she said, curtsying despite the burden she carried. “Nice to see you again.”
“Good morning, Clara. Was that Miss Consuelo’s room you just came from?”
Clara frowned down at the tray, then once more lifted her elfin face to me. “It was, miss. She’s hardly eaten a thing today. Poor dear.”
“She’s terribly upset, then?”
“She’s . . . well . . .” Clara’s large-eyed gaze held a trace of wariness as it skittered toward the staircase. She continued in a whisper. “Maybe you can cheer her up, miss.”
I nodded and allowed Clara to resume her duties. I moved on to Consuelo’s door, where my knock was answered with a tremulous “Come in,” and a sniffle I could hear through the paneled wood.
The room was a masterpiece of rose-colored silks and velvets framed in gold leaf, every piece of furniture and every priceless knickknack arranged just so. French provincial shelves held dolls from around the world, and Alva claimed the daintily carved chaise lounge in the corner had once graced a room in Versailles. A canopied bed draped in rich satin and ivory lace dominated the space, and I found my cousin lying carelessly across its rumpled surface, her chin propped on an elbow while with the other hand she grasped a gold-plated pen. An open book lay on the counterpane in front of her, and a gray Angora cat was curled against the curve of her waist, its chin resting on the bit of moiré silk sash that trailed from the back of Consuelo’s gown. The animal’s contented purrs traveled across the room. My cousin stole a teary-eyed glance at me and dropped her pen. She scrambled to her feet, swept across the room, and propelled herself into my arms.