“That’s none of your business, for I know you’ll only run home to tell Mama. Suffice it to say I am in love and I am going to be married, and no one, not even you, can stop me.”
“Oh, Consuelo . . . surely you haven’t . . . please say he hasn’t . . .”
She raised her chin. “Defiled me?”
Those words coming out of her mouth shocked me nearly as much as the thought of such a thing happening to my beautiful, sheltered cousin. I nodded, my blood freezing in my veins as I awaited her answer.
“No.”
The breath and nearly all the energy I possessed rushed out of me. My limbs felt weak, yet I didn’t seek the support of the sofa. No, I remained standing, gazing down at my cousin’s defiant face. My instinct was to grab her by the scruff of the neck and drag her home, to end this unsettling chapter in the lives of everyone concerned.
And yet . . .
What if she really had found love with an honorable man? What if happiness awaited her, and all she need do was leave this island—and yes, everything she had known until now—and live a simple, honest life with a straightforward, unpretentious man, a life wherein they answered to no one but each other.
Did I or anyone have the right to deny her this? Did being born a Vanderbilt have to mean her destiny was predetermined?
Didn’t that contradict everything I believed in?
Still, I needed to be sure she fully comprehended what was at stake: everything she’d leave behind, as well as the struggles she’d likely face.
“This man . . . it’s not Winty, is it?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Emma! Winty? Really. As if I would ever give him a second chance.”
“Then won’t you please tell me who this man is?”
She combed her fingers through Muffy’s wispy fur. “No, Emma. Not yet, anyway. You won’t approve—no one will—but once we’re married you’ll see he is the right man for me.”
At that moment a little brass mantel clock chimed the half hour. I’d been here more than the agreed-upon twenty minutes. Where was Derrick? I couldn’t help a quick glance out the front windows—would I see him lurking among the trees? Perhaps he was watching the cottage but allowing me the time I needed to talk to my cousin.
I was beginning to doubt my ability to persuade her to do anything, much less return home.
With a cough, Marianne struggled to her feet and spoke for the first time since we’d entered the cottage. “Where are my manners? Shall I make tea?”
Consuelo quickly stood, bending to allow Muffy to leap with a gentle thud to the floor. “No, you sit, Marianne. I’ll make the tea.” Placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder, she coaxed her back into the chair. I followed Consuelo into the kitchen, hoping appropriate words would magically pop into my head.
As I stepped through the doorway I stopped short, caught by the sight of what sat in the middle of the battered oaken table.
A bowl of bright pink flowers with golden centers . . . Rugosa roses.
Consuelo had been talking to me, her words gone unheard by my ears. Now she fell silent, holding the tea kettle in midair between the stove and the water pump.
“Emma? What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
I pointed a shaking finger. “Where . . . where did you get those?”
“Oh, those are nothing special . . . yet so much more special than anything Mama has cultivated in her gardens or the hothouse. Don’t you think they’re lovely?”
“Damn it, Consuelo!” My swearing seized her attention and she flinched. “Where did those come from?”
“The cliffs.” She looked at me askance, as if I’d suddenly grown horns. “From Forty Steps. Why?”
I drew up with a gasp. Of course. Forty Steps, the wooden staircase that spanned the cliff face a bit north of Marble House . . . the very place where servants often gathered to sing songs, trade gossip, and enjoy their occasional time off. All anyone would have to do was lean over the railing and those flowers would be within reach.
I’d been right. Good heavens—the flower was the key, always present, a seemingly innocent, yet insidious connection between the victims, connecting everything and everyone. Rugosa roses . . . in the pavilion, in Lady Amelia’s jewelry box . . . and at Forty Steps, where the servants went. Where Katie sometimes went.
Where the murderer had gone as well.
Understanding flooded me, turning my knees to water. I gripped the back of a kitchen chair as a whistled song drifted from somewhere beyond the open windows.
“Who is that?” I demanded. But I knew. I knew. “Consuelo, quickly! We must—”
“Oh, he’s home early again,” she interrupted before setting the kettle back on the stove and breezing past me into the parlor.