I knocked softly on the open door; her humming broke off and she looked up. “Oh, good afternoon, Miss Cross.” She smiled self-consciously and returned the earring to the box. “I was just going through some of my jewelry. Most of it was my mother’s, and I’m thinking of selling some, actually. A woman only needs so many baubles, after all.”
I grinned and stepped into the room. “Aunt Alva wouldn’t agree.”
“No, I suppose she wouldn’t. But she has had to endure some . . . let us say . . . wearisome influences in her life. Yet her heart is in the right place. She understands a woman needs independence, and that we should be taken seriously and have the same rights as our husbands.”
“Does she believe that? I wonder.” I perched on the chaise at the foot of the bed. “What about her own daughter?”
I shouldn’t have said it, not to a virtual stranger, but I couldn’t help myself. Maybe I’d simply grown tired of the Vanderbilt edict that family business never be discussed with outsiders. I wondered what Hope Stanford knew, if anything, about Consuelo’s absence. Aunt Alva had probably told her guests Consuelo was visiting a friend in town.
Mrs. Stanford swiveled about on her tufted stool to face me. “That is a bit different, isn’t it? Her daughter is very young. She needs a mother’s guidance.”
“She won’t always be young, Mrs. Stanford. But she’ll always have to live with the decisions her mother makes for her now.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true.” Mrs. Stanford tapped her chin. “But she’d also have to live with any disastrous decisions she might make if left to her own devices.”
Her reply held a certain sense, I had to admit. I folded my hands in my lap and leaned toward her. “So at what point should a woman be allowed her autonomy?”
“Oh, my dear, that is different for every woman, depending on her circumstances. Take you, for example. Any fool can see you are entirely capable of taking care of yourself. Were I your mother, I would certainly grant you a good measure of independence. Why . . .”
“Yes?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve never had a daughter. Two sons, but no daughters. It’s a shame, really, when I think of what I might have taught her. How she might have continued my efforts on behalf of women once I’m gone.” Her eyes had taken on a dreamy quality, but now her gaze sharpened on me. “Because, mark my words, it’s going to take many more years, decades perhaps, for women’s independence to be fully realized. Now, the temperance movement, on the other hand, will know success much sooner. We’re quite close to . . .”
She rambled on about senators, congressmen, and potential bills waiting to be drafted, but I paid scant attention. Time was wasting, and the sooner I returned to town the sooner I could show Jesse the petals I’d found. I hoped he’d send them to a botanist to identify, and I hoped they would turn out to be more traceable than simply something blown in off the cliffs. It wasn’t until Mrs. Stanford mentioned her husband’s name that I snapped out of my reverie.
“Mr. Stanford,” I repeated, blinking.
“Why, yes, dear. As I was saying, when we arrived in town—”
“Is he still in town?”
She flinched at my interruption. “Yes, he decided to stay with a bachelor friend while I visited with Mrs. Vanderbilt. We never expected my stay here to extend beyond a couple of nights, but, well, with all that’s happened, the police prefer I don’t leave Newport yet in case they have more questions, and I simply don’t have the heart to leave your aunt all alone until things settle down.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I murmured. Last night those men on Rose Island had said, “Hurry it up, dammit. Stanford’s waiting.” I’d discounted the possibility of there being any connection to Mrs. Stanford, but . . .
“Does your husband support the temperance movement?” I asked, once more interrupting whatever she’d been saying.
Her brows drew together. “Of course he does. That’s why we originally came to Newport. He’s been conferring with your town officials to shut down these ungodly taverns and usher in more wholesome means of entertainment. The imbibing of spirits only ever leads to . . .”
I blocked her out again. Why would a temperance supporter put in with molasses smugglers? Perhaps Derrick had been mistaken in his assumptions.
But what if he wasn’t?
I came to my feet, once again making Mrs. Stanford flinch at my abruptness. “I have to go,” I said. “Good day, Mrs. Stanford.”