Murder at Marble House(71)
To fill the awkward silence, I said, “Uncle Cornelius, thank you so much for giving Brady a second chance. I know it means so much to him, and to m—”
Here he cut me off with a piercing gaze. “It was for you, Emmaline. I forgave him for your sake. And only for your sake.”
“Oh . . . I . . . Uncle Cornelius . . . I don’t know what to say . . .”
“You don’t have to say anything. If you were a man, I’d have you work for me, Emmaline. I’ve never said that to a woman before, but it’s the truth. Dang shame you weren’t born a man. As it is, you’re a good, sensible girl saddled with a dunderhead of a half brother.” When I opened my mouth to protest, he held up his hand. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. Oh, he’s not stupid—far from it—but common sense? Not a speck! Just like his father. Thank heaven you’re Arthur Cross’s daughter and not the offspring of Stuart Braden Gale the Third. Even if he hadn’t been lost at sea, that man never would have amounted to anything but the wastrel he was. A fortunate day for your mother when his yacht went down.”
I gasped. “Uncle Cornelius!”
“Sorry.” He had the good grace to look contrite. “I won’t keep you any longer. I just . . . just wanted you to know . . . Well, dang it, you’re like a daughter to me, Emmaline.”
The poor man blushed to the tips of his ears. Like his wife, he wasn’t one to express his emotions—not the tender ones, at any rate. I believe they both held demonstrations of affection as detrimental to their children, as if too much praise and kindness might produce slackers and weaklings.
His clumsy confession made him all the more dear to me in that moment, so much so I went to him, held his shoulders as I rose up on tiptoe, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Uncle Cornelius,” I whispered, and hurried out the door.
Brady met me downstairs in the Great Hall. I seized his hand and tugged. “Come. Next stop, Marble House.”
Chapter 13
Some ten minutes later Brady and I stood braced against a battering summer wind that plastered our clothes to our bodies. I held my hat in place; he held his at his side and squinted against the salty, sandy gusts. My stomach sank in disappointment.
“Well, that’s it, then. I was wrong.”
Below us, bright pink rugosa roses dotted the cliff face, pouring from between the rocks in cheerful bursts of color. I’d found my wildflowers.
“Are you sure?” Brady leaned a bit over the edge, prompting me to grab on to his forearm. “The nearest ones are still a good distance away. They might merely resemble the petals you found.”
That inspired a moment’s hope, but then I shook my head. “As Jesse said on the telephone, there aren’t many flowers that continue to bloom this late in the summer. And considering their size and color . . . No, it’s the same. And this proves to me the wind carried them into the pavilion, and not the murderer.”
“Don’t despair, you’ve still got all the other clues.”
“You don’t understand. I’d thought this one would result in a breakthrough.” Why had I believed that? Why had I put so much stock in a tiny, wind-borne flower that happened to wedge itself beneath the pavilion railings? The ocean breeze slapped my cheeks as though to slap sense into my head.
Brady had continued leaning over, scanning the promontory that fell away in dizzying heights to the ocean beneath us. I tapped his arm. “Let’s go to the house. You can still be of help to me there.”
We found Aunt Alva in her morning room, and the fact that she wasn’t alone restored my spirits a fraction. Lady Amelia sat with her, enjoying a breakfast of pancakes, sausages, and fruit. Today she wore an ivory morning dress topped with an impossibly expensive, flowing caftan gown of beige silk stamped with a burgundy velvet design, and her beautiful golden curls were pinned at the crown of her head, encircled by a velvet ribbon that matched the gown. Amelia Beaumont looked the epitome of an aristocratic lady relaxing at home. She appeared so at home, in fact, that for a moment I wondered if Aunt Alva had had any inkling of what might be in store for her when she invited the younger woman here.
A permanent guest?
“Emmaline! And Brady . . .” Aunt Alva seemed genuinely pleased to see us. “Lady Amelia, may I present Miss Cross’s half brother, Mr. Gale . . . Stuart Braden Gale the Fourth.”
Brady, having removed his straw boater upon entering the house, waved it with a little flourish as he bowed to the ladies. At mention of his full name and numeral, Lady Amelia had sat up a little straighter, lifted her chin a little higher, and fully inspected Brady from head to toe. Yes, his was an impressive-sounding name, one that indicated an old Newport pedigree along with old Newport money. Unfortunately for Brady, as Lady Amelia would eventually learn, he possessed little of the former and none of the latter. While Gale was an old Newport name, and although Brady’s father had styled himself Stuart Braden Gale III, no one could ever find evidence of either Stuart Braden Junior or Senior.