“Terribly sorry not to be more help, Miss Cross.” Jamie seemed to misread my look of dismay as disappointment in him. “Is it very important?”
“I’m sorry, too, senhorita, but perhaps you’ll need someone smarter than this old man and that young Irishman”—Mr. Delgado cast Jamie a leathery grin—“to answer your questions.” He tapped his forehead. “We know our gardens. But I’m afraid that is all.”
“Thank you, Mr. Delgado, Jamie,” I said a bit absently. I regarded the petals in my hand another moment before tucking them back away in my purse. We bid each other good day, and as I turned away to let them resume their work, I happened to glance up at the house. A willowy figure stood framed in an upper window, a high-coifed, slender silhouette I immediately identified as Lady Amelia’s. She caught my gaze and very obviously flinched as if she had been caught observing us on the sly. She recovered quickly enough and waved, then turned back into the room. Had she merely been bored and looking for distraction, or had she been watching me for another reason?
I let myself into the house through one of the terrace doors. A maid dusting the painting frames in the main floor gallery greeted me cheerfully. A footman carrying silver polish and rags asked if he could do anything for me. Replying no, I asked him if his mistress was at home.
“I believe Mrs. Vanderbilt is resting in her room, Miss Cross.”
As with Mr. Delgado, I acknowledged his answer absently and kept going. My feet took me, as if of their own accord, up the stairs, not to Alva’s bedroom but to Consuelo’s.
My gaze swept my cousin’s bedroom—the shelves of costly European dolls, the heavily gilded furniture, the priceless art gracing the walls. A vase of fresh flowers caught my attention, but nothing in the mixed bouquet resembled my petals, nor appeared cultivated anywhere but in the estate’s gardens.
I ventured farther in and sat on the bed, in almost the exact spot where Consuelo and I had shared our last confidences. Wave after wave of remorse washed through me. Why had I listened to Aunt Alva and gone against my better judgment? More importantly, if I hadn’t, would Consuelo be here now, confiding in me, trusting me, as she had always done?
I glanced around again and suddenly realized what it was about this room Consuelo hated so vehemently. The dolls’ vacant eyes watched me impassively, yet behind their dull expressions I sensed Aunt Alva’s unyielding decrees. Her dictates were everywhere, from the paintings that reflected no young girl’s fancies to the incomparable workmanship of the furnishings that made one afraid to touch or sit or even breathe in the wrong direction.
This room symbolized Consuelo’s very existence in a way I’d never quite understood before, and now I realized part of my lack of comprehension had been due, quite honestly, to envy.
In my eyes she’d always had everything. Beauty. Intelligence. Privilege. Boundless resources. Had I believed those to be the ingredients of a happy, carefree life? On any ordinary day I’d have said no and meant it. But in my heart of hearts . . . I wasn’t so sure. I couldn’t but admit part of me had always been jealous of Consuelo in a way I hadn’t envied my other Vanderbilt cousins. I thought briefly of Gertrude, Cornelius and Alice’s elder daughter, just a year younger than I. She had been born to the same advantages as Consuelo, but possessed none of Consuelo’s beauty, nor the inherent grace admired by everyone who knew her.
Consuelo had been blessed in every way a person could be, or so it had seemed from my skewed perspective.
I dropped my purse onto the bed beside me and lowered my face to my hands. But I just as quickly raised my chin and squared my shoulders. Had I wronged Consuelo? Advised her improperly out of my own petty jealousy? I swallowed painfully, knowing I deserved no bouts of self-pity. If I were guilty, then I had no choice but to own up to my fault and do everything I possibly could to make amends. I had to find Consuelo. And I had to support her as she wished to be supported, her mother’s wishes be damned.
Even if I made a lifelong enemy in the process.
With that resolve urging me on, I left Consuelo’s room. I needed to go back into town, and I hoped I might borrow one of Aunt Alva’s smaller rigs to spare Barney the exertion. I didn’t get as far as the staircase, however, when humming through an open bedroom door sent me to the threshold.
Hope Stanford sat at the dressing table with a leather-covered jewelry box open before her. Lifting a garnet brooch, she held it up against her summery white blouse with its wide, leg-of-mutton sleeves. After a moment’s consideration she set the brooch beside the box and selected a pearl earring, which she held to her lobe in a gesture at odds with her no-nonsense manner and tight, unforgiving coif.