Murder at Marble House(70)
“I mean that Consuelo is unhappy about the match.”
“Oh.” I set my fork on my plate. “Well . . . yes, it’s true.”
“What’s wrong with the girl? My goodness, if I could arrange a duke for Gertrude, she’d be in raptures. If only we’d gone abroad last spring, instead of going back and forth between here and New York. Well, I suppose it couldn’t be helped, not with this house in its final stages of reconstruction. Oh, but still, if we’d met the young duke first . . .”
I let her go on, all the while knowing that shy, awkward Gertrude could never have landed a man so high on the social register; nor did I believe my cousin would have wished for so public a life. But if Aunt Alice enjoyed reveling in her disappointed hopes, who was I to disillusion her?
We spoke of other things as well, all the while skirting another concern of my aunt’s regarding one of her children, namely, Neily, and his association with a young heiress named Grace Wilson. As Uncle Cornelius’s primary heir, Neily was expected to make a brilliant marriage; yet despite the Wilson family’s wealth and Grace’s celebrated beauty, his parents didn’t deem her good enough. I couldn’t help attributing their dislike to the fact that Grace’s brother, Orme, had wed Carrie Astor—the Astors and Vanderbilts had been carrying on a thinly veiled social feud for years now. An upstart and a gold digger, Aunt Alice called Grace. That seemed harsh considering the Vanderbilts had built their fortune in trade only two generations previously. That hardly qualified them as old money, but once again I knew better than to argue with her.
Throughout our conversation, the greater portion of my thoughts dwelled on Marble House and Nanny’s revelation about Amelia Beaumont. I had detected something not wholly genuine about the woman; her mannerisms seemed too practiced, as if she were moving through the acts of a play. Granted, all women of the upper classes cultivated a poised exterior, like a kind of genteel armor, but somehow Lady Amelia’s armor didn’t quite fit. Thanks to Nanny, I now knew why.
I also now had three reasons to return to Marble House: search for my wildflower, the rugosa rose; question Hope Stanford about her temperance efforts and deduce how much she knew of her husband’s illegal activities; and learn more about Amelia Beaumont. I was impatient to be off.
Yet nearly an hour passed before Brady stepped out onto the loggia looking pale and a bit wild about the eyes. He circled me and went to Aunt Alice’s side, and leaned down to kiss her cheek.
“It went well?” she asked.
Judging by his pallor I wouldn’t have thought so, but Brady nodded somewhat shakily. “He gave me my job back.” He sounded baffled, as though he couldn’t quite believe it.
A jolt of surprise nearly sent my plate tumbling from my knees. I set it aside. “Brady, that’s wonderful!”
He shrugged and sat down on Aunt Alice’s other side. “I have you to thank for this, don’t I?” he said more than asked her.
“Nonsense. I merely suggested he speak with you.”
I tossed up my hands in a bid for details. “What did he say to you?”
“Awful things at first.” Brady shuddered. “What a scoundrel I am, a traitor to the family, don’t deserve the slightest regard, some things I won’t repeat . . . and then . . . it was the da—” He darted a gaze at Aunt Alice. “It was the oddest thing. He admitted part of him admired my gumption. Can you believe it? Said if I ever betrayed him or the family again he’d see me behind bars for the rest of my life, but as long as I’ve learned my lesson, he could use a man with ‘my cunning,’ as he put it, on the staff of the New York Central.”
I was dumbfounded—and not altogether pleased with Uncle Cornelius’s reasoning, I must confess. It saddened me to think of my exuberant, slightly naïve older brother being absorbed into the high jinks of the railroad business. Being Uncle Cornelius’s clerk was one thing, but contributing to the subterfuge that plagued the industry was quite another, and I despaired of the effect it would have on Brady’s erratic but essentially good-hearted nature.
For now I let it go. Brady had a job again, and in the short term that meant fewer nights spent carousing and fewer days nursing the resulting hangovers.
Brady and I said our good-byes to Aunt Alice, but as we approached the staircase Uncle Cornelius’s office door sprang open. “Emmaline, a word.”
The aroma of cigars enveloped me as I followed the old gentleman into the inner sanctum so rarely open to visitors. Cornelius Vanderbilt was a man of middling stature, sagging about the shoulders and middle, so ordinary looking few would ever guess he controlled a fortune, a dynasty, and countless individuals. Yet, when he wished, he projected an authority that sped one’s step in an eager effort to please. His ‘Emmaline, a word’ had prompted me to obey without hesitation. It surprised me, then, that once the office door closed he fidgeted and avoided my gaze.