A Scandal in Newport

by Pamela Sherwood

  He said with difficulty, forcing words past a sudden tightness in his throat. “It’s always— haunted me, that I didn’t reach her in time. That she was gone before I arrived.”

  She caught his hands in hers, squeezing them gently. “Hush—you came as quickly as you could. And there was nothing you could have done! Pneumonia is like that, the doctors say. Horribly swift—but at least she did not suffer in the end.”

  So they’d told him at the time—and he’d always wondered if that had been a kind lie, meant to console the otherwise inconsolable. But he wished it had been true for Elizabeth’s sake. that at the last, she’d simply fallen asleep in one world, to wake again in the next. “I loved her.”

  The declaration came out husky and not entirely steady.

  “I know.” Eleanor lowered her head to brush a kiss across his knuckles.

  He took a breath. “And—I love Amelia too. Being with her is like… seeing the sun again, after a week of rain.”

  She nodded, her eyes brimming but a faint smile curving her lips. “Then, I’m happy—truly happy—for you.” She cleared her throat and said more briskly, “So, have you set a wedding date? Your family’s been remarkably close-mouthed about the details so far.”

  “Amelia’s doing—she’s determined not to steal her sister’s thunder. But we’re planning on an autumn wedding—late October or early November—in New York.” He smiled. “She would very much like a grand affair, and I’m of a mind to indulge her.”

  “Very uxorious of you!” she teased. “So, you’ll be going over soon, I imagine?”

  “Right after James and Aurelia’s wedding. Amelia is convinced I’ll find New York artistically stimulating—and she could be right. But most of society will be in Newport for the summer, so we’ll be spending some weeks there as well.”

  “I’ve heard Newport can be lovely at this time of year, though I’ve never been there. You must write and let me know how you find it.”

  “Very well. And I’m sure Amelia would also be glad to write you.”

  “Talking of whom, I’ve kept you from her quite long enough,” Eleanor said. “And Warrender probably wonders where I’ve disappeared to, as well. Let’s go back inside.”

  “With pleasure.” He offered his arm and they left the terrace together.

  Within moments of their reentering the ballroom, Lord Warrender materialized to reclaim his wife and whisk her off for the set starting to form on the dance floor. Looking around for his fiancée, Thomas spied her in a quiet corner with her twin, both of them admiring Amelia’s ring. James stood behind Aurelia’s chair, watching the sisters with undisguised affection.

  Amelia’s face brightened when she saw him approach, and she rose with alacrity to meet him. No Englishwoman would have shown her eagerness to be with him so openly, he mused, and while some might find such behavior forward, he found it deeply flattering—even satisfying, in a curiously primal way. There was indeed something to be said for American directness.

  “Well, sweetheart, did your sister approve?” he asked, offering his arm.

  “Completely.” Again she held out her hand to admire the play of light on the stones in her ring. “She was especially impressed to learn you’d designed it yourself. And she thinks we’ll be very happy together.”

  “I think I’ve managed to convince Eleanor of the same thing,” he told her.

  “Have you? Oh, I’m so glad! I know she very much wants you to be happy. Would the Warrenders come to our wedding, do you think?”

  He considered the matter, then nodded. “Yes, I believe they’d be willing to make the crossing for it. By the way, Eleanor would also like it if we both wrote to her about Newport, as she’s never been there.”

  “No? Well, then, I’ll be sure to do so. Not that there will be much to report, besides some Society gossip,” she added, shrugging. “Nothing really dramatic ever happens in Newport. Shall we go and join the dancers? I think they’re setting up for a polka now.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Thomas replied, leading her onto the dance floor.

  New York, 12 August 1891

  * * *

  Dearest Relia,

  I write this in the complete expectation that you’re unlikely to read this until you return from your honeymoon, which I hope you are enjoying to the fullest. And I have no doubt that James is doing his utmost to ensure that very result!

  Our crossing was uneventful, the weather fine, and the sea as smooth as glass for most of the voyage. I did have to retire to my stateroom for the first few days. Not from mal de mer—just the usual monthly inconvenience. Fortunately, I made a quick recovery, quicker than the last time. Thomas says it must have been the sea air, but I prefer to think it was Thomas himself and simply not wanting to waste any time we might have to spend together.

  I can see you smiling, Relia, and I can’t blame you one bit! I held out such a long time against love, and now here I am: head over heels. And I think—I hope—it’s the same for Thomas, even though he hides his deeper feelings so well. In any case, we had a lovely time, strolling together on the promenade deck and watching dolphins frolic from the rail. Thomas wanted to sketch them, and managed to capture some of their leaping motion, though he considers the finished sketches too rough to be shown to anyone at present. (He sketched me as well, and declared the result far more satisfactory.) My one regret is that I could not, alas, tempt him into any display of affections more intimate than a kiss, but that was probably due to Mama’s frequent presence. I have every hope of changing that, now that we’re no longer at sea!

  Anyway, we arrived in New York three days ago, and tomorrow we leave for Newport. I know that you have completely switched your allegiance to Cornwall, but you must admit that Newport is beautiful in the summer, and I’m looking forward to seeing dear Shore House again. And even our friends—and we did have some true ones, like the Livingstons and the Russells, as opposed to those dratted Vandermeres. And there’s Bailey’s Beach, the Cliff Walk, and the Casino—all of which I can now share with Thomas. I can hardly wait to see what he makes of the place, as he’s never had the opportunity to visit it before. (He likes New York, by the way—the energy appeals to him—and he went off yesterday and the day before to sketch in some places you and I were never allowed to venture.)

  But I’d bet you my newest parasol that those Fifth Avenue harridans who used to snub Mama will be fawning all over her now, wanting to know every detail of your wedding to James and what it’s like to have an earl for a son-in-law! And I daresay there will be a lot of interest in Thomas as well—and not just from Newport’s pushy mamas!

  He assures me, however, that he is mine alone—not that I require such assurances, but it’s beyond sweet to hear. As I am sure you already know, dearest.

  I’ll write again, from Newport.

  All my love to you and James,

  Amy

  Chapter Two

  Retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom.

  —William Congreve, The Double Dealer

  * * *

  Newport, August 1891

  * * *

  “This is what you call a cottage?”

  Amy suppressed a smile at the incredulity in Thomas’s voice. It wasn’t often she saw him nonplussed. “Perhaps ‘cottage’ might be understating it, a bit?”

  “More than a bit.” His bemused gaze traveled over the palatial sitting room of the Newbolds’ summer home, taking in the pretty marquetry tables and the Louis Quatorze chairs. “I was expecting something considerably smaller, possibly with a thatched roof. Not something that could hold its own with one of England’s great houses.”

  “Oh, Shore House isn’t anywhere near as grand as Blenheim or Castle Howard!” Amy protested, though she had always loved her family’s pretty Georgian-style manor house and felt secretly pleased by the compliment. “It’s actually quite modest, compared to some of the places here. Wait until you see the Ogdens’ new house, The Cliffs. We’re dinin
g there tonight.”

  He raised a quizzical brow, stretching out his long legs as they sat down upon the sofa together. “Now, are the Ogdens good friends or mere acquaintances?”

  “Somewhere in between. Which describes many of our Newport neighbors, I suppose,” Amy confessed with a wry smile.

  Sympathy kindled in his eyes. “You’ve mentioned before that life here—wasn’t always easy for your family. I gather Newport society tends to be more exclusive than most?”

  “Highly exclusive,” she confirmed. “And we were—well, not shunned exactly. Papa’s family name was old enough, if Mama’s money was comparatively new. And some of our neighbors even became good friends to us. But I did… sometimes feel—among the highest sticklers—that we were included at parties and dinners only on sufferance.”

  He took her hand, a rare demonstrative gesture for an Englishman. “A wretched way to feel. I’ve seen some society dragons in London spread just that sort of misery among young ladies desperately trying to fit in. I hope you did not take it too much to heart.”

  Amy squeezed his hand in reassurance. “I tried not to. I mostly minded for Mama’s sake.” Laura Newbold was as much of a lady as any born within the Four Hundred, and Amy’s blood had always boiled at the grudging acceptance and occasional snub meted out to her mother by the more snobbish Knickerbocker matrons. “Although,” she added with a mischievous smile, “I’m sure her stock has risen considerably, now that one daughter’s married to an earl and the other’s engaged to a famous artist and a duke’s grandson!”

  Thomas’s brows rose again. “Is this to be a triumphal procession, then? Should I walk behind the carriage tonight in chains, like a spoil of war?”

  His tone was light, but Amy glanced at him more closely. She’d learned some time ago that Thomas’s levity could mask any number of more complicated emotions. Drat the man—he knew she loved him for himself and not his birth… or his talent, prodigious though it was!

  Fortunately, his eyes held amusement rather than pique or hurt. Relieved, she drew his hand, still linked with hers, up to her cheek and held it there. “No, I want you in the carriage, right beside me. Exactly where you belong.”

  “An excellent reply,” he said gravely, and kissed her.

  “So, is The Cliffs a bigger house than The Sands?” Thomas asked, some hours later as the Newbolds’ carriage rolled smoothly along Bellevue Avenue. “Because cliffs are bigger, generally speaking. Or is The Sands considered bigger, because there’s more sand than cliff?”

  Amy stifled a giggle. “Oh, hush! We’re almost there, and I’ll never keep a straight face if you go on like this!”

  His eyes crinkled at her. “I merely wished to know how one keeps from confusing all these houses with remarkably similar names. The Cliffs. The Sands. The Dunes. The Tides.”

  “Thomas has a point,” Amy’s father observed mildly. “Especially as Newport residents make a practice of trying to outdo each other on general principle. Not only are most houses here similarly named, several have been designed by the same architect. A fellow by the name of Hunt.”

  “Richard Morris Hunt,” Amy’s mother confirmed. “He’s just finished The Cliffs after more than three years of work! At least, that’s what Lucy Ogden told me. And I hear he’s now working on a summer home for the William K. Vanderbilts, which will have fifty rooms!”

  “Fifty!” Amy echoed, startled. “Good heavens!”

  “Nothing like living modestly, is there?” Thomas murmured.

  Amy choked back another giggle just as they approached the curving drive to The Cliffs. She had the satisfaction of seeing her fiancé’s brows rise and hearing his faint intake of breath as he took in the edifice rising before them. But the Ogdens’ new residence had been designed along the lines of a French château, lofty and majestic, so such a reaction was not unwarranted… even from an English aristocrat effortlessly at home wherever he went!

  Thomas wasn’t the only one impressed by The Cliffs. Amy saw her mother’s hand tighten on her father’s arm once they’d descended from the carriage. And Adam Newbold, not always the most demonstrative of men, patted his wife’s hand reassuringly as they headed towards the steps. Amy could admit to a certain flutter of apprehension herself, but only to herself. It was just a house, after all, albeit a very grand one, to which they’d been openly invited. She tilted her chin a little higher, glad that they all looked their best tonight: Thomas and her father in impeccably tailored black-and-white, Mama and herself in lilac and peach silk organza, respectively.

  Once they were inside, a footman in dark blue livery escorted them into a grand salon—all frescoes and Italian artwork—where Mrs. Ogden, regal in oyster silk and pearls, was holding court among what looked like some two dozen guests. Amy felt her smile congeal when she recognized an all too familiar face in the crowd: Sally Vandermere, flanked by her parents. The same parents whose graciousness towards the Newbolds had always been tinged with condescension and who—Amy had no doubt—had encouraged their son to break with Relia after the riding accident that had lamed her.

  Amy darted a glance about the room. Well, at least Stupid Charlie didn’t appear to be of the party tonight. Relia might regret having caused her faithless former sweetheart pain by rejecting his renewed courtship in Cornwall, but Amy had no such compunctions. Charlie’s loss was James’s gain. Still, she conceded grudgingly, there was no real harm in Sally herself. She’d always been as friendly and guileless as a puppy, sure that she would be liked everywhere she went. And being reasonably pretty, wealthy, and impeccably placed in New York society, she certainly wasn’t disliked! Amy could only hope that Sally’s attention would be diverted elsewhere this evening, so they needn’t interact much. Or better yet, not at all. There were several attractive young men in attendance, including Mrs. Ogden’s son Tony, who might provide an excellent distraction for a young lady so recently out.

  Thomas caught her eye and sent her a faint smile: he knew exactly how she felt about the Vandermeres and why. Returning his smile, Amy felt some of her annoyance subside. No matter how aggravating a situation, everything became more bearable when you had someone who understood, she reflected. And only Relia understood her better than Thomas!

  Mrs. Ogden spotted them at that moment and approached with outstretched hands and a benevolent smile. “Ah, Laura,” she greeted Amy’s mother. “So delighted to see you. Welcome back to Newport, my dear.”

  Better and better. Amy’s lingering irritation drained away at their hostess’s welcome and her mother’s visible pleasure in it. Perhaps, despite the Vandermeres’ presence, this evening would be a success, after all.

  Dinner was unquestionably a success: five sumptuous courses prepared by a French chef and served up in a palatial dining room worthy of Versailles. Better still, Amy found herself seated far away from any of the Vandermeres. Her only disappointment was that Thomas was not seated beside her, but she could at least see him and occasionally catch his eye across the table. And there was a certain pleasure in watching him from afar: the light from the chandelier gilding his leaf-brown hair and illuminating his angular features, that bred-in-the-bone elegance that was so much more distinctive than mere good looks.

  Not that he didn’t look a perfect treat in evening dress. Every inch the aristocrat, in fact, and more than one young lady present eyed him with appreciation and speculative interest. Eat your hearts out, my dears—he’s mine.

  As if he could sense her thoughts, Thomas looked up from his plate and glanced in her direction. Their eyes met, his brilliantly green in the lamplight, and his sculpted mouth curved in a faint smile that sent a pulse of heat through her. Especially when she thought about that mouth pressed against her own—and other sensitive parts of her anatomy. Thomas might be adamant about waiting until their wedding night, but he’d no object to a certain amount of experimentation before then, and he was nothing if not… inventive.

  Given the drift of her imaginings, it was probably just as well that Mrs
. Ogden rose from the table a few minutes later. Demurely lowering her eyes, Amy accepted the footman’s assistance in extricating herself from her heavy brocaded chair, then followed the rest of the ladies out of the dining room.

  Mrs. Ogden’s parlor was smaller but nearly as grand, its walls papered in flowered silk and its furniture agleam with polish. Much to Amy’s amusement, once all the ladies were comfortably settled, their hostess turned her attention to Amy’s mother, pressing her for details of Aurelia’s wedding.

  “Was it very well-attended?” she asked. “Your new son-in-law’s an earl, after all.”

  Laura Newbold smiled. “Well enough, though Cornwall is quite far removed from London. James and Aurelia both wanted a quiet, simple ceremony—he much prefers the country to the town.”

  “As Relia herself does,” Amy chimed in. “But it was a beautiful wedding all the same, just right for them.”

  “Do you also mean to marry in England, Amy?” Mrs. Ogden inquired, regarding her with renewed interest. “I understand that your fiancé has aristocratic connections too.”

  “Actually, my wedding will be in New York this autumn. Early November. Thomas’s family are making the crossing for it, and James and Relia too.” Amy was determined to have her twin as an attendant, though there would be other bridesmaids as well.

  “We’re holding a ball at Shore House in two weeks’ time to celebrate the engagement,” Mrs. Newbold added with pardonable pride. “I hope you and your family will be able to attend.”

  “We should be delighted, dear Laura,” Mrs. Ogden replied, beaming. “Indeed, I suspect all of Newport will be clamoring for an invitation!”