“Where did you live before you came to Whitby?” Titus asked the judge.
“Not far away,” he said with a smile. “Whitby is a short trip from Lexington.”
Just north of Boston, then. Titus was surprised he’d never heard of the man before. He’d have to find out why. Not wanting to get deep into shoptalk at a dinner party, Titus asked, “Has anyone seen our host? I’d like to pay my respects before we sit down to dinner.”
Ranson Payne opened his mouth as if to answer him but it wasn’t necessary. A torrent of angry words erupted from an adjoining room, clearly in Arthur Muir’s voice.
CHAPTER 15
Elisabeth was just about to ask Adelia how her son, Lucien, was doing when she noticed how quiet the guests had gotten. Everyone was staring at a doorway that must have led to a connecting room.
“You should have allowed me to invite Melissa,” a young man’s strident voice said. “She could have been our hostess, rather than you bobbing around trying to fill in for our lack of one.”
“Our hostess? What makes you think a Chapman doxy could ever substitute for your mother?”
She recognized Arthur Muir’s voice then, and from what was said, had to assume the young man was his son, Duncan. She reflected on what Melissa had told her on the garden tour and thought to herself The course of true love never did run smooth.
“Melissa Chapman is a perfectly respectable young woman.”
“Even if I agreed with you,” Arthur Muir roared, “do you think Warren Chapman would allow his daughter to attend a dinner here?”
“That’s your fault. If you hadn’t made such a furor over that bloody cuckoo clock, her father wouldn’t be so opposed to our relationship.”
“Do not use such language when speaking of the last gift your mother gave me. I’ll hear no more of this. Leave this house now.” Muir’s voice had gone dead quiet. Elisabeth worried that the argument might have reached an irreconcilable turn. Unless Duncan was willing to apologize, which she doubted he was, father and son might be estranged forever.
A young man, his face and body soft with the easy living of the rich, stormed through the doorway and across the drawing room. His eyes focused straight ahead as he headed for the hall. The jacket he wore fluttered in a self-made tornado, exposing a flash of color tucked into the waist of his trousers. Could that have been a tussie-mussie? He was past her before she could discern any details.
“My apologies, ladies and gentlemen.” The elder Mr. Muir had appeared now, clearly still unsettled from the argument. He took several slow breaths. “I’m sorry for the behavior of my headstrong son.”
Fortunately for their host, a late-arriving couple entered the room, providing a new distraction. The man was past middle age, if his gray hair and mustache were any indication. He wore a pair of pince-nez glasses perched on his nose, the cord trailing over his jacket.
“Ah, Frederick,” Muir greeted him. “I’m so glad you and Aurelia could make it.”
“Sorry to be late, Arthur. I was over in Boston today to see my lawyer, and the dashed ferry was running behind.” He added a wry smile at the end.
“You ought to speak to the owner,” Muir said with a touch of irony.
“Believe me, I already have. And the captain of the boat as well.”
“Let me introduce you around.” Arthur Muir led the couple first to the group that included Ranson Payne and his wife, who had moved on to talk with the Brueghels. “I believe you know Mr. and Mrs. Payne?”
Frederick nodded.
Elisabeth watched as the threesome made their way through the room, for some reason leaving Titus and herself, along with the Cranes, for last.
“Have you met Frederick Goodwin and his lovely wife, Aurelia, since you’ve moved to Whitby?” Muir asked the lawyer.
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Titus responded. He murmured greetings to the couple, then turned toward her. “And this is my confidential secretary, Elisabeth Wade.”
“So nice to finally meet you, Mr. Strong, Miss Wade. I’ve heard a great deal about your legal prowess. Perhaps we should get together and discuss the possibility of a business arrangement. I may own the steamboat company, but I don’t always enjoy using it to go into the city.”
Ah! She thought she’d recognized the name, but couldn’t remember where she’d heard it. Now that she knew who the couple was, she gave Mrs. Goodwin a more careful examination. She appeared to be a few years younger than her husband, especially in the yellow polka dot gown she wore with a posy pinned to her waist.
Arthur Muir introduced the Goodwins to Judge and Mrs. Crane, then in words that flirted with being offensive, asked if they would excuse him as he wanted to speak with the others on a topic of importance. Of course, the bicycle tycoon wouldn’t have the same need to remain in the judge’s good graces that she and Titus would. Nevertheless, it seemed rude.
Once Crane and his wife moved out of earshot, Muir asked the steamship company owner, “Have you heard about the Whitby Yacht Club?”
Aurelia Goodwin seemed to fade into the background by the way she shrunk in on herself. Elisabeth wondered if she should go to her and engage her in some appropriate ladies conversation, but she was more interested in what Mr. Muir had to say since Titus had been engaged to draw up the club’s papers.
“I’ve heard some talk of it, yes,” Goodwin responded cautiously.
“We’re sure it will be a great success. The regattas we’ll hold should bring many people over to Whitby.”
“That’s probably true. If the races include some of the famous contenders for the America’s Cup.”
“Oh, they will,” Muir reassured him. “There’s just one thing we lack.”
“And what would that be?”
“A pier dedicated to the boats that sail in those races. You’ll have to agree that the marina is usually occupied by smaller craft, and the docks used by the fishermen aren’t at all appropriate. The members of the yacht club thought that since you’ve expertise in building such structures, we might convince you to do so for us.” Muir paused, and then added, “In exchange for the additional business the regattas would bring you.”
Goodwin removed his pince-nez and started polishing the eyeglasses with his handkerchief. He held them up to the light to inspect the lenses. He must have spied a smudge because he touched up one of them before replacing them on his nose. “Is there anything else?”
Elisabeth thought she detected a note of sarcasm in his words.
Muir apparently didn’t have the same reservation. “If we want to be in the same league as the New York Yacht Club, a clubhouse wouldn’t be out of order.”
“A clubhouse, hmm?”
“Yes, sir.” Muir must have realized he might sound too greedy. “Of course, it doesn’t have to be as grand as the New York Yacht Club’s, especially to start.”
“It’s late in the season to think about building a pier. Or a clubhouse. Perhaps I’ll consider the idea once you’ve held a regatta or two.”
“I’d so appreciate that, sir,” Muir said. Then, mission accomplished, he asked, “Shall we go into dinner?”
He led his guests to the hall, and Elisabeth saw what young Duncan had been alluding to. The man looked so alone without a woman to accompany him. A hostess would have made cheerful chatter with her guests, easing their way to their places at the table, commenting on the gowns the women were wearing. Arthur Muir marched rigidly ahead of them, eyes front, and went directly to the head of the table without a word.
The dining room was lovely. Dark wood wainscoting lined the lower half of the walls, with gold wallpaper in a floral pattern above that. A marvelous fireplace featured copious amounts of intricate carving over the mantle, and another coffered ceiling with several rows of beading displayed the woodworker’s talents. But, once again, her eyes were drawn straight overhead to an amazing painting of a sky filled with cherubs sitting on clouds.
Titus’s voice murmured beside her. “I believe I’ve found our pl
aces.”
She’d been paying no attention to her immediate surroundings as he’d led her around the dinner table, but brought her gaze down to his level now. They’d stopped near one end of the table. Her seat was at their host’s left, Titus beside her. A plate of three bluepoints had been put at every place. While the other guests shuffled into the dining room, she took the opportunity to ask their host, “Who is the artist who painted that lovely creation?”
Muir, who had been avoiding eye contact with anyone, now made contact with her. He beamed, as if glad to have something to talk about. “It is beautiful, isn’t it? That was painted by Annibale Gatti. I saw much of her work in Italy and commissioned it while I was visiting there.” He picked up a small fork and stabbed one of his oysters, signaling the start of the meal, while the butler circled the table with a carafe of white wine.
A woman? How unusual, thought Elisabeth. “She does lovely work.”
“That’s right. I hear you paint yourself.”
Elisabeth blushed and quickly swallowed her bluepoint as her throat constricted. She took a moment to pat her lips with her napkin. “Just a little. As a hobby.”
“A hobby now, but perhaps in some years, it might grow into something more.”
She doubted that would happen. She had a modest gift for painting watercolors, but hadn’t been blessed with the talent of Annibale Gatti. Or even that of any of the local artists, like Alain DeGarmo.
Fortunately, Arthur Muir turned to speak with Celia Crane, who was seated on his other side. Titus seemed to be deep in conversation with Stella Underwood.
“Isn’t that right?” Stella asked, her eyes focused on Elisabeth.
“I beg your pardon. Would you mind repeating what you said?”
“I was telling Mr. Strong that, contrary to popular opinion, most women quite enjoy reading serious books as well as novels.”
“I’m amazed you would have to convince him of that. He’s seen me often enough reading one of his law books.”
“Ah, but you aren’t most women,” he said gallantly.
“I thought the Chautauqua Club might read the new volume of Capital by Karl Marx,” Stella said, her face impassive. “I’ve heard it presents a compelling argument for the inevitable collapse of the capitalist order.”
Elisabeth blanched. Did Stella not realize who their host was? Or that Paul Brueghel was building an empire with his bookstores and publishing venture? Even if she were willing to tackle such a ponderous tome as Capital, she couldn’t imagine Rose reading more than a sentence or two of it. “I was thinking of The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle. The Loveday Brooke stories we’ve read have given me a taste for detective tales.” And would be tolerated more easily by the other members of the group.
“What would you think of Quo Vadis?” Stella asked. “I heard it’s a riveting tale of Nero’s Rome.”
She was given a moment to think as the butler took away her plate of oyster shells, to be replaced by a bowl of consommé.
Stella laughed. “I can see by your furrowed brow you’re not too sure about that one, either. I have an idea.”
She wondered what her next proposal would be. Stella’s ideas were often unconventional, and Elisabeth, while considered somewhat of a daring modern woman herself, was more traditional than her friend in many ways. “And that is?”
“Why don’t we take a trip into Boston and visit Brueghel’s Books? That way, we can examine the selections and choose one together.”
“That sounds like fun. When would you want to go?”
“What about this coming Monday?”
Her heart fell. She couldn’t possibly ask for a whole day off to go shopping, especially not so soon after Titus had been so generous as to give her half a day to make tussie-mussies. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to go then. What about Sunday?”
Stella shook her head. “Stores aren’t open on Sunday. It’s against the law.”
Of course. She knew that. She didn’t think. “Saturday, then?”
“That’s not really convenient for me.” Stella didn’t elaborate.
“I suppose you’ll have to go on your own, then.” She sighed and picked up her soup spoon. Dipping it in the broth, she didn’t really feel like eating it, and so swirled the spoon around in the cup.
Titus cleared his throat, and she looked up to see why. “We appear to have little work to do at the moment. Monday would be the perfect time for you to take a day off. Before we get too busy, and I need you six days a week.”
She stopped stirring the soup. “Are you sure?”
He squeezed her hand. “I’m sure. Enjoy yourself.”
CHAPTER 16
Elisabeth woke to the sound of birdsong outside her window.
Cheer-up, cheerily, cheer-up, cheerily.
A robin. It really was spring. She turned on her back, raised her arms until her hands were over her head, and stretched out the kinks. As she lowered her arms, the risen sun flashed in her eyes. Slightly panicked, she hopped out of bed and retrieved her watch from its place on her dresser.
Eleven o’clock!
It was much too late to go to church now. The Muir dinner party had kept her up significantly beyond her bedtime, and the heavy meal had worked more effectively than a dose of laudanum to put her in a soporific state.
She rang for Annie.
“Yes, Miss Elisabeth?” the girl said once she’d answered the call.
“Would you bring me some hot water so I can wash up?”
“Of course.” The petite maid-of-all-work dropped a small curtsey, then rushed out of the room, paying no attention to decorum.
Elisabeth chuckled to herself. Annie Cullwick might not have been a proper lady’s maid in a proper house, but she was perfect for her mistress.
The girl returned in a matter of minutes with a pitcher of hot water, which she poured into the basin on the washstand. “Would you like your breakfast?”
Elisabeth wasn’t sure food was what she wanted right now. After the eight-course dinner she’d consumed last night, complete with both a fish course of sole and a roast course of breast of partridge, she was sure she didn’t need to eat today. But she was contemplating an activity where she wouldn’t be near home or a café, so she should probably eat something. “Nothing too heavy. Perhaps a boiled egg and a piece of toast. And tea, not coffee this morning.” As an afterthought, she added, “I’ll dine in the kitchen. There’s no point in using the dining room for such a small meal.”
Annie furrowed her brow. “Does that mean you’ll not be having dinner here?”
Her maid had probably been planning that repast all week. It was the one time she could show off her newly acquired cooking skills, since Elisabeth only had a light supper in the evening on the days she went to work. “I was thinking I might not have dinner at all.” She rubbed her tummy. “I’m going out today. The weather is so fine, I thought I’d head up to the Point.”
Annie looked crestfallen.
“But I’m sure the fresh salt air will reinvigorate my appetite. Let’s plan on a late dinner, say, at four or five o’clock. I’m sure I’ll appreciate whatever you’ve planned then more than at noon.” She gave the girl a smile of encouragement.
Her face broke out in a grin. “That will be fine, ma’—, Miss Elisabeth.”
A short time after finishing her petit dejeuner (the French term for breakfast came to her as appropriate for the tiny meal), Elisabeth started walking north on Mayfield Road. She hoped one of the horse-drawn trolleys would come by soon, burdened as she was by the portable easel hanging from one arm and the box of watercolors she carried under the other. After going only a few blocks, she heard the clang of the bell. She halted at the next corner and turned to face the oncoming vehicle, hoping it would stop since she didn’t have a free hand to wave it down.
Fortunately, it did, and she climbed aboard gratefully. There weren’t many passengers, which was to be expected, because the summer season didn’t really start unt
il Decoration Day in May. But a few families with children and a young couple obviously in the throes of first love shared the trolley with her. As she’d expected, all of them rode out to the end of Shipwreck Point. The lighthouse was a major attraction of the village, as was the rough surf that bounded off the rocks at high tide.
She let the others get off before her, knowing it would take her a little time to settle the easel under her arm again. All of the families had brought a picnic basket, obviously intending to have their midday meal on the beach before returning to their houses or hotels. The young couple had not, certain they would be satisfied to feast on love. The girl unfurled a lacy purple parasol as she stepped down to the pavement.
Elisabeth wasn’t sure why she hadn’t noticed parasols before this spring, but it seemed as if every woman was carrying one now. She usually wore a wide-brimmed hat, since a parasol wasn’t practical when riding her bicycle, but seeing all the pretty ones, she wished she had one of her own. And a way to use it, which would probably mean taking trolleys and hansom cabs everywhere, which she certainly couldn’t afford.
After gathering her things and stepping down from the vehicle, she stood in front of the keeper’s cottage and surveyed the grounds. Reluctant to set up her easel too close to where the day trippers would be wandering and spreading out blankets on which to eat their picnic lunches, she walked around to the rear of the cottage, then along the rocky coast for a few yards to get closer to the lighthouse. But not too close. She wanted enough perspective to capture the entire structure, as well as the cornflower blue sky and dark green waves of the Atlantic Ocean. If she were lucky, a clipper ship might sail into Boston Harbor this morning.
Finding the perfect spot in the cottage’s shadow, she set up her easel and paints. She tore a sheet of watercolor paper from the large pad she’d brought, and fastened it under the clips, then opened a jar of blue paint and dipped her brush in a container of water. She lifted her eyes to her subject and spied someone else who had come to the far side of the lighthouse, not twenty yards away. A young man. His back was to her as he gazed out over the ocean. His stance was tense, his hands tightened into fists at his side. She hoped he’d leave by the time she was ready to paint the shore.
The Case of the Troubled Tycoon: A Gilded Age Historical Cozy Mystery (Shipwreck Point Mysteries Book 5) Page 8
