Behind the Scenes

by Jen Turano

  “Thank you.”

  “As payment for my agreement, while I sort through the dance cards on the drive to Huxley House, you will explain to me—in detail, if you please—exactly what type of business opportunities you’ve been discussing with Asher, and how those opportunities may be connected in some way to that new path in life you believe God’s putting you on.”

  Permilia frowned. “I never said anything about the business opportunities having anything to do with my future path or God.”

  Giving Permilia a look that seemed to hold some type of significance—although what that significance was, Permilia really couldn’t say—Gertrude took to tsking under her breath in a rather telling way before she sailed out of the room, leaving Permilia with the distinct feeling she was missing something of grave importance.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Three

  “Is it my imagination or are we traveling in a somewhat roundabout way to get to Broadway and the Huxley residence?” Gertrude asked ten minutes later as they traveled down Lexington Avenue.

  “Mr. Merriweather was pulling at the reins so much that I’ve been allowing him his head, but no need to fret, we’re just a few blocks away from our destination. Since he’s now under the impression he’s in charge, he’ll be keener to allow me to steer him onto Twenty-Second Street, and from there, it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to Broadway.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that Mr. Merriweather might be happier if you were to find him a nice out-of-the-way farm, one where he could be put out to pasture and be in charge all day long?”

  Wincing, Permilia chanced a glance at her horse, relieved to discover he hadn’t picked up on the phrase out to pasture. “Good heavens, Gertrude, have a care with what you say. If Mr. Merriweather had heard you, well . . .” She gave a shudder. “Now that the weather is breaking, I’ll be able to take him for rides in the country, without a buggy attached to him, and that, I’m certain, will soothe his testy nature, at least until winter rolls around again. But for now, we need to get back to those dance cards.” She nodded to the dance card Gertrude had just pulled out of the muff. “Anything on that one that might be a match for the man Miss Miller described as inquiring about my shoe?”

  “I don’t think so, although, forgive me for pointing this out, but your handwriting leaves much to be desired.”

  “Which is probably why I had to invest in a typewriter because my editor could never figure out what I was trying to write. Because I had to purchase a typewriter, though, I soon discovered how difficult typing can be, which is why Miss Snook is now offering typing lessons on the typewriters I managed to find for her school at a great price.” She smiled. “I have high hopes that the young women interested in learning that skill will soon be able to find proper employment in offices around the city.”

  Setting the card aside, Gertrude pulled out another, scanned it, brought it closer to her eyes, then blew out a breath. “I think this one is simply describing Mr. Ward McAllister. He did attend as the Count de la Mole, didn’t he?”

  “He did indeed. And while I did make note of the idea that he was getting many admiring looks directed toward his well-turned-out legs, displayed in a pair of heavy silk stockings relevant to the time period of his costume, I purposely did not include that in my Miss Quill article, finding it a little too gossipy for me. That exclusion, I’m afraid, gave my editor an excuse to take me to task, as well as justify my dismissal, especially since the New-York Tribune had not a single qualm about the gossipy nature of Mr. McAllister’s well-displayed legs and wrote about them at length.”

  Gertrude gave a sad shake of her head. “It’s a troubling world we live in these days, Permilia. And because Mrs. Vanderbilt opened her home to the press, although in a somewhat covert manner, I believe the assumptions regarding what is fit for print are changing. Because of that, perhaps it was a blessing you got dismissed from your position. Your dismissal will now allow you to turn your efforts in a new direction.” She leaned forward and began waving a hand at something up ahead. “But enough about that for the moment. I think you might need to take Mr. Merriweather in hand. We’re almost to the turn that will take us to Broadway.”

  “Good heavens, you’re quite right.” Permilia took the reins in a firmer hand, and even though Mr. Merriweather tossed his mane and let out a few snorts, he did make the turn, although at a somewhat faster clip than Permilia would have made if she’d been in complete control. With a nicker of what sounded exactly like amusement, he set off, moving at a fast clip down the street that would lead them to Broadway.

  Once she was certain Mr. Merriweather was not going to do anything of a questionable nature, such as take another turn to get them off course, Permilia turned back to Gertrude, who was once again perusing old dance cards. “Did you find something?”

  “If I’m deciphering this correctly, you’ve written a description of a dashing pirate, then something about flirting and dinner.”

  Permilia shook her head. “Those were notes about Mr. Eugene Slater, and since I know for a fact that he was sitting down to dine with Lucy when I overheard the murder plot, he’s not our man.”

  “I wonder how his courtship of Lucy is going, now that he, your stepsister, stepmother, and father went off to Paris together.”

  “Because Lucy truly does seem attracted to Mr. Slater, even with the notion that Mr. Slater might be more interested in my father’s business than in her, I’m going to say the trip is going better than expected. Lucy, for all her willfulness, can be a charming young lady when she sets her mind to it, and Mr. Slater might be exactly what she needs, since I do believe he approaches life in a no-nonsense manner. And if he happens to impress my father on this journey, even though my father told Mr. Slater to his face that he was skeptical of the man’s motives, he may find himself in an enviable position someday, especially since I don’t see my father staying in the mining business forever.”

  “And your father and Ida?”

  “I’m hopeful they’re being civil to each other, and also hopeful they’ll take this time in Paris to put aside the hurtful words they said to each other and figure out a way to move forward as husband and wife.”

  “You believe they’ll stay together?”

  “Ida would never allow her position within society to suffer from a divorce, and my father would never abandon her, no matter that he married her for all the wrong reasons.” She smiled. “But enough about that. We’re almost to our destination, so we’ll have to put the dance cards away until after we finish our tea and get on the road again.”

  Nodding, Gertrude gave the dance card she was holding one last glance, then grinned. “Which is just as well since I really can’t decipher most of the notes you made. This one has champagne, lion, and it might be a Richmond, or Richard, or . . . Well, perhaps you can have a go at them later, since—”

  “Good heavens. May I see that?” Permilia held out her hand.

  Handing it over, Gertrude frowned. “What is it?”

  Reading her notes, which were a little difficult to decipher even though she had written them, Permilia raised her head. “He was dressed as Richard Coeur de Lion.” She closed her eyes, summoning up an image of the man she’d noticed at the ball. “He smiled at me and then began walking my way just a short time later, holding two glasses of champagne, one of those glasses seemingly meant for me.”

  She opened her eyes and found Gertrude staring back at her with her brow furrowed.

  “Was he the man you fled from?”

  “He was. Although I suppose that right there is exactly why I couldn’t place the man until now. I was so taken aback that a gentleman was bringing me champagne that I didn’t linger in his presence long, and . . . I wonder if he deliberately sought me out because of Asher?”

  “That doesn’t make any sense, since you didn’t go to the ball with Asher, nor had you spent much time with him up until the ball.”

  “True. Although isn’t it odd, now that I think about
it, that Asher and I really were rather comfortable with each other the night of the ball, given that we truly were not that well acquainted with each other?”

  “It’s not odd at all, if you consider that perhaps—and this is just a perhaps—he has something to do with the new path that’s being arranged for you to travel on, a path that Reverend Perry suggested you explore.”

  Permilia wrinkled her nose. “Hmm . . . I suppose there might be something to that, although I haven’t allowed myself to consider that particular matter much since I find the whole idea of Asher to be a little disconcerting. Now, however, is hardly the moment to dwell on that since we still have to puzzle out who the man in the Richard Coeur de Lion costume actually is.”

  “How would you suggest we do that? I didn’t notice the man at the ball, and you’d apparently never seen him until the night of the ball.”

  Taking a second to slow Mr. Merriweather’s pace when they reached the intersection leading into Broadway, Permilia got him heading in the right direction and then turned back to Gertrude. “The only solution I can think of is to pay Mrs. Vanderbilt a call later on today, after we have tea with the Huxley sisters. Since she created the guest list, she should know what our mystery man’s name is.” Permilia smiled. “She may even have a picture of him since she had Mr. Jose Maria Mora take individual photographs of her guests.”

  “I didn’t sit for a photograph.”

  “Well, neither did I, but that could have been because I left the ball early, and you were busy tracking Mrs. Davenport down every other minute.”

  “Excellent point, although we can’t simply pay a call on Mrs. Vanderbilt. Granted, she’s far more approachable than Mrs. Astor, but by the time we finish with our tea, calling hours will be long over. Besides, Mrs. Davenport mentioned something about Mrs. Vanderbilt having left for Europe to visit all the salons so that her fall wardrobe will be delivered in plenty of time for the next season.”

  Permilia bit her lip. “That’s unfortunate. But speaking of this mystery man, if he truly is an assassin, why wouldn’t he have done away with me after he learned my identity, and why, pray tell, would he have returned my shoe?”

  “Perhaps we should run those questions past your Pinkerton agents since they are highly trained professionals who are used to this type of intrigue. I’m just a companion.”

  Permilia sent her friend a smile. “You’re not just an anything, Gertrude, which I do hope you’ll take to remembering.” She nodded to the Huxley house, which was just ahead. “You’d best prepare yourself for the most interesting cup of tea you’ve ever had, although if you can put the curious nature of the Huxley sisters aside, you’ll find that they do serve a most excellent cup of tea.”

  Guiding Mr. Merriweather to the side of the street, Permilia put on the brake and then waited for Agent McParland and the agent he was paired with most often, Agent Scobell, to get down from their horses and take up their proper positions on either side of Permilia’s buggy.

  “Rather unusual way to get from Fifth Avenue to Broadway,” Agent McParland remarked.

  Before Permilia could answer, Mr. Merriweather gave a telling toss of his mane, which seemed to explain the detour far more sufficiently than Permilia would have been able to have done.

  “You’re a menace,” Agent McParland said to Mr. Merriweather before scanning the surroundings, and then, evidently feeling there was no danger lurking about, he stepped up to the buggy and assisted Permilia down to the sidewalk.

  “Before you take so much as a single step toward the Huxley residence, we need to go over a few rules,” Agent McParland said in what Permilia was beginning to recognize as his no-nonsense tone of voice.

  “Surely there’s no need for that.”

  He responded with a quirk of his brow, but then he blew out what almost sounded like a breath of relief and raised a hand in clear greeting.

  “Mr. Rutherford, thank goodness you’re here. Miss Griswold was just about to turn difficult.”

  Opening her mouth to argue with that assessment, Permilia suddenly found herself completely forgetting what she was going to argue when she turned her head and found Asher striding her way.

  He was smiling a smile that had her toes curling, but since she found her toes curling all too often of late when she was in his presence, she didn’t find that circumstance to be as disturbing as it had seemed only a week before.

  Sending him a smile in return when he stopped right in front of her, she took a second to look him up and down, her smile widening when he took hold of her hand and brought her gloved fingertips to his lips.

  “You’re looking very dapper today, Asher,” she said as her pulse began to rachet up a notch when he lingered over her hand.

  “You say that as if you truly do appreciate a dapper gentleman,” he returned, lowering her hand even as his smile faded ever so slightly.

  “And you say that as if you think there’s something wrong with a gentleman being dapper, but”—she grinned—“while I know it’s an accepted thought of the day that women prefer those rugged, disheveled types, probably because of all those popular dime-store novels, I, for one, prefer a well-dressed, well-groomed gentleman, and . . .” Her eyes widened, and her lips pressed shut when she realized what she’d just almost disclosed—a disclosure she hadn’t truly thought about, and one that was hardly proper to blurt out in proper company.

  She, Miss Permilia Griswold, found Mr. Asher Rutherford to be a more than attractive type, and . . . more to the point, she was . . . attracted to him.

  Everything about him appealed to her, from his expertly tailored suits, to the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and even his ability to haggle and argue with her over the cost of goods.

  He was a respectable man, an enterprising one as well, since he’d built his store not with a great deal of family money but through his own hard work and business savvy—and . . . she’d ruined any chance they had of a romantic relationship by tossing aside his offer to court her, which meant . . .

  “Ah, Permilia, this is a delightful surprise, and one I wasn’t expecting to find at the Huxley residence.”

  Blinking directly out of her thoughts, Permilia looked past Asher and discovered Harrison standing there, smiling back at her with his charming smile, one that did absolutely nothing to her pulse. Stepping up to greet him properly, she blinked again as her gaze traveled over him.

  “Harrison, do forgive me, I didn’t notice you there, but it’s lovely to see you, and I’m surprised to find you at the Huxley residence as well.” She found herself unable to pull her gaze from the plaid trousers he was wearing—a plaid that was unusual in that it was different shades of purple, not matching the purple in his jacket.

  “I’ve come to the conclusion he doesn’t see colors like we do,” Asher said.

  “Well, thank goodness for that,” she said with a grin, giving Harrison her hand, which he kissed before returning the grin.

  “Asher’s already informed me that I’m a fashion disaster today. Perhaps if you and he were to join forces and take me in hand, I wouldn’t be left to stumble around the city looking so interesting.”

  “I’m sure Asher’s capable of taking you in hand all by himself” was all she could think to respond.

  “I’m sure he is if I’d only cooperate. Although, while we’re on the subject of fashion, tell me this—do you find gentlemen who look as if they eat nails for breakfast and bullets for lunch to be fashionable and attractive?”

  She tilted her head. “While it is true that I did grow up in the very midst of gentlemen like that, not that they truly ate nails or bullets, I’ve recently come to the decision that I prefer refinement in a gentleman and appreciate a man who can wear a tailored suit with ease, and . . .” She stopped talking again when Harrison beamed a bright smile at her, patted her on the shoulder as if she were a clever girl, and strode away without another word, raising a hand to wave to Gertrude a second later.

  Turning back to Asher, she found hi
m watching her rather oddly, but before she could contemplate the look, she was distracted by the sight of Miss Mabel strolling out of the house, her strolling coming to a halt when she reached the wrought-iron gate that separated them.

  “This is an interesting surprise,” Mabel said as she glanced from Permilia to Asher and then took to studying the Pinkerton agents, who were studying her right back.

  “I’m not certain why you’re surprised to see me, Miss Mabel. You sent a note around to the Fifth Avenue Hotel less than an hour ago, asking me to come around for tea,” Permilia said.

  “I received a note at the store, inviting me for tea as well,” Asher added.

  Miss Mabel pulled her attention away from the Pinkerton agents. “How curious, although I imagine it must have been Miss Henrietta who sent the note.” She smiled. “She’s been worried about me since I’ve been rather maudlin of late, what with the regrets of my life plaguing me at the oddest of times.” Her smiled widened as she gestured toward the house. “Since all of you were kind enough to accept her spur-of-the-moment invitation, we mustn’t keep her waiting, so let us go and enjoy some tea.”

  As Asher took hold of her arm, and Gertrude and Harrison fell into step behind them, Permilia set her attention on Miss Mabel, who’d gone ahead of them and was now gesturing them into her home.

  For some odd reason, the gesturing sent a shiver of foreboding straight down Permilia’s spine. Slowing her pace, she glanced to the right and found Agent Scobell and Agent McParland taking up their defensive positions, while the two agents who’d apparently been guarding Asher darted around the Huxley house, evidently on their way to take up positions at the back of the house.

  Curiously enough, even the knowledge that the Pinkerton agents were diligently on the case did little to dispel the sense of foreboding.