A Scandal in Newport

by Pamela Sherwood

  Despite their masks, plumed hats, and long, shoulder-length ringlets, Amy recognized the Cavaliers as Theo Van Horn and Tony Ogden. No amount of lace and feathers could disguise those brawny builds, though she could not yet tell which was which. Strange that they should have chosen such similar costumes, she mused; only the colors of their suits—scarlet and peacock blue, respectively—were different. As both appeared to be pursuing Sally, one would think each would want to set himself apart from his rival.

  The music ended and the dancers bowed to each other and began drifting from the floor, the men returning ladies to their chaperons or handing them off to their next partners. But Sally and her Cavalier, Amy noted with a touch of dismay, were heading towards her alcove. Grimacing, she shrank back in her chair, drawing her full skirts out of the line of sight. While she’d resolved to be more cordial to Sally in future, she did not feel inclined towards conversing with her at present. And even less inclined towards playing gooseberry between Sally and one of her beaux.

  Fortunately for her, the couple paused before the mass of flowers shielding the alcove, though their conversation reached her ears clearly enough.

  “I’m so glad I was able to come,” Sally was saying. “Poor Mama developed a terrible migraine this afternoon and had to retire early. But she knows how I’ve been looking forward to this all week, so she consented to my going with the Ogdens. Wasn’t that lucky?”

  “Very lucky.” The Cavalier’s voice was low and husky. “I would have been devastated if you hadn’t been here.”

  They were standing so close that Amy could hear Sally’s little intake of breath before she resumed, “I do love masquerades, don’t you? It’s such fun to dress up and be someone else for the night. You make a very dashing Cavalier, Theo.”

  Theo. Amy’s hand tightened about her fan as the Cavalier replied, “And you make a delightful Cinderella, right down to your silver slippers. Though I hope you’re not planning to vanish at the stroke of twelve.”

  Sally gave a soft giggle. “Oh, no—unlike Cinderella, I mean to stay all night! Or at least as long as the Ogdens do,” she amended.

  “Good. I’ve been hankering to get you alone all evening.”

  Another charged pause, then, “Well, you have me alone now, don’t you?”

  “No, I meant really alone. Just the two of us—just for a little while.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t, Theo! What if people see?”

  “They won’t notice if we time it right, and if we leave the ballroom separately. Come on, Sally,” he urged, “meet me in the garden in five minutes—by the fountain, say. It’ll be perfectly safe, I promise.” His voice took on a caressing note that he probably thought was seductive. “Don’t you want to be alone with me, Sally—no parents, no chaperon, just Cinderella and her dashing Cavalier?”

  Why, that conceited… Don’t do it, Amy silently willed the girl. Have a bit of sense.

  “You know I do,” Sally responded breathlessly. “All right, Theo. I’ll meet you!”

  “That’s my girl.” Satisfaction dripped from every syllable. “Five minutes, then.”

  Amy sensed, rather than saw them move away, each heading in different directions—for the moment. It’s none of my business, she tried to tell herself, but her conscience would not stop niggling at her. It was one thing to flirt with a beau or two at a party, even to steal a moment or two of privacy. Young American ladies weren’t as strictly chaperoned as their English counterparts. Perhaps Amy had been more influenced than she knew by her time abroad, but…

  If Sally wasn’t careful, she could end up compromised and obliged to marry—whether she wanted to, or not. Plus, there was a better than average chance that Theo had designs on the Vandermere money. What harm could it do to follow Sally to the rendezvous at a discreet distance—and intervene if it became necessary? In her mother’s absence, someone ought to be looking out for her. None of the Ogdens were, Amy noted with a jaundiced eye—not Mrs. Ogden, last seen gossiping with the other matrons, or Mabel Ogden, currently flirting with a cowboy on the other side of the ballroom! Even Tony, whom she would have imagined to be watching Sally and Theo like a hawk, was nowhere to be seen at present. Which was probably why Theo was making his move now.

  And so it was that, five minutes later, treading as softly as she could in her dancing slippers, she trailed Sally from the ballroom. Not quite a half-moon tonight, but the girl’s white gown and glittering tiara made her easy to spot. Keeping to the shadows, Amy followed her quarry along the path leading to the garden. Ahead of them, she could hear the soft plash of the fountain, glimpsed its waterspout and marble basin, both ghostly white in the darkness. She ducked behind a tree as Sally came to a halt before the fountain, looking about with a half-eager, half-guilty air for Theo. Amy peered out from her hiding place as well, seeking the white plumes and lace collar of a Cavalier.

  Then she saw them: emerging from behind the surrounding hedges, the sound of their approach concealed by the soft, dense grass and the gush of the waterspout. Two men, hooded, in dark clothes, one of them holding a sack, the other a coil of rope, stealing towards the unwary girl awaiting her beau in the moonlight…

  “Sally, run!” Amy shouted at the top of her lungs, and flung herself headlong at the kidnappers.

  Chapter Six

  What of the heart without her? Nay, poor heart,

  Of thee what word remains ere speech be still?

  A wayfarer by barren ways and chill,

  Steep ways and weary, without her thou art…

  —Dante Gabriel Rossetti, “Without Her”

  * * *

  New York, 9 September 1891

  * * *

  Weary but content, Thomas climbed the stairs to his chamber in the Newbolds’ townhouse and let himself in.

  A full productive day and a sketchbook with only a few blank pages to show for it. Perhaps somewhere in it was the basis for the masterpiece he’d promised Amelia.

  Amelia. The thought of seeing her again—no later than this weekend—sent a pleasurable hum through him. He’d missed her keenly this last week or so, her hand on his arm, her laughing presence at his side. Her sometimes pointed observations about New York life. Even her endearing—and persistent—attempts at seduction. If she only knew just how hard it was for him to resist, how much restraint it took not to bury himself in her warmth and sweetness…

  Or perhaps she did know, and was currently hatching additional stratagems in anticipation of their reunion. And while Thomas had no intention of succumbing to her wiles before their wedding, he found himself looking forward to his fiancée’s inventiveness. To her unique mixture of innocence and naughtiness that kept him willingly on her hook.

  Setting down his sketchbook and the rest of his gear on the table, he began to ready himself for bed. Some might claim that New York never slept, but in Thomas’s experience, even the fastest dynamo ran down eventually. And as it happened, he was the last one awake; Mr. Newbold and Andrew had long since retired for the night, according to the staff.

  He undressed, then lay down on his luxurious bed and closed his eyes, yielding to sleep without a struggle…

  The moors rolled away from him on all sides, lush, green, and familiar, and a surge of unexpected nostalgia tugged at him like a thread tied about his heart. Devon… the home of his childhood, and looking not one whit changed since then. He half-expected to hear children approaching at a run, laughing and teasing: his brothers and sisters, accompanied by the Martin brood, their constant playmates and companions.

  Then, as if the very thought had conjured her into being, he saw her standing on a rise just ahead of him. A slender girl of no more than medium height, wearing a green dress and a paisley shawl, the wind ruffling her luxuriant brown curls.

  A face he’d once known as intimately as his own. He’d dreamed of Elizabeth before, but it had been many years since he had last done so, and his memories were softer, more poignant than actively painful. A tinge of sadness for what they’d
missed was ever present, but mostly he recalled the affection and camaraderie of their earliest days as friends, before they became sweethearts. In his waking moments, he thought that she and Amelia would have liked each other very much, had they ever met. Both women had brimmed with vitality, had such bright, laughing spirits—and both had been staunch advocates of his art.

  He lengthened his stride to join her on the rise and they stood for a moment in companionable silence. Then she turned her head and he saw that her great brown eyes, which he remembered as so merry, were somber now—with a hint of urgency in their depths that stirred his own anxiety to life.

  “Elizabeth,” he began. “Will you not tell me what’s wrong?”

  She continued to gaze at him and he saw her green dress—the one in which he’d painted her—pale to white, the skirt billowing out to twice its breadth, while a misty veil settled over her features. Features that were also blurring, changing… the brown eyes turning a deep blue, the shape of the face altering.

  And it was his current fiancée’s face he saw now, beneath the veil, but her eyes were wide and fixed with terror, her usually radiant complexion nearly as white as her gown.

  “Amelia,” he said more sharply. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

  Her lips parted as though she were about to speak. But all he could hear was a thunderous pounding in his ears… no, a pounding in his room, and a hoarse voice calling his name.

  He jerked awake, lay dazed and stupefied for a moment, but the pounding continued. Throwing aside the blankets, he stumbled out of bed to answer the door.

  Adam Newbold stood on the other side of it, his face ashen, looking as though he’d aged ten years in one night.

  Dread seized his heart. “Sir, what’s—”

  Newbold held out a shaking hand—and Thomas saw the crumpled telegram in his fist. “Amy—our Amy… she’s been kidnapped.”

  The next hours passed in a blur of packing and preparation, but by mid-morning, the three of them were on their way. Silence hung over their shared railway compartment like a pall, broken only by the clacking of the tracks and the occasional shrill whistle of the train.

  Thomas stared out the window, trying not to remember another train journey with tragedy at its end, seeing only her face as it had last appeared to him, the bright smile, the steady resolution in her eyes as she saw him off at the ferry. The teasing note in her voice as she’d enjoined him to paint a masterpiece, the way she’d held up her face for his kiss, the feel of her, warm and lithe in his arms…

  Other memories, older memories crowded upon the new: Amelia confronting him in his studio, challenging him as no other woman had. Assessing his work with a surprisingly discerning eye. Posing for him in Cornwall, all tart tongue and sweet dishabille in her artfully draped Liberty gown. Discovering his secret longing for her—and literally throwing herself into his arms. Reclining on his studio couch, wearing a sheet and nothing else as she smiled provocatively up at him. “Must I ask you to kiss me as well?”

  He caught his breath as pain knifed through him, followed by a surge of anger no less powerful for its present impotence. Someone had stolen her—from him, from her family, from everyone who loved her, and there was going to be hell to pay. Whatever ransom the Newbolds had to produce would pale in comparison to the price Thomas was prepared to exact from the kidnappers. And from the rage he sensed brewing beneath their fear, he knew that Adam and Andrew felt exactly the same way. If even one hair on her head had been harmed…

  Never again. No other woman would have to endure this. The abductors should have quit while they were ahead. Once Amelia was safe and back where she belonged, those blackguards would be found, even if Thomas had to tear apart every corner of Newport to do it. And then there would be a reckoning.

  He leaned his forehead against the windowpane and closed his eyes, meaning only to rest them for a moment. But when he next opened them, the train was pulling into the station.

  The afternoon was well advanced, a broiling sun beating down on them when they disembarked at the Newport ferry landing and climbed into the waiting carriage. The remainder of their journey was as silent as the previous stages of it had been.

  Bellevue Avenue had never looked more stately and remote, and the façade of Shore House appeared likewise quiet, eerily so. Beholding it, one would never guess that, just last night, one of its inhabitants had been suddenly and violently ripped away from her peaceful existence. The helpless fury Thomas had been suppressing threatened to rise to the surface and he pushed it down again, viciously. Call it breeding or sangfroid, but an Englishman—especially an English aristocrat— remained calm and collected, even in the face of disaster. Giving way to his anger and fear would not benefit Amelia. For her sake, he had to keep a cool head and not act until he had more details of her abduction. Then, perhaps, he would know best how to proceed. Nor must he leave her family out of the equation; they had as much to lose as he. Our Amy, Adam had said…

  Brooks, the Newbolds’ butler opened the front door and ushered them in at once. Easy to see from his pallor that he too was affected by Amelia’s abduction, though, to his credit, he carried himself as stoically as any of his English counterparts, informing his master that Mrs. Newbold was waiting for him in the parlor.

  Adam thanked him distractedly and strode towards the room in question. “Laura!”

  Amelia’s mother, her face as white as a sheet, appeared in the doorway almost at once. Even from a distance, Thomas could see that her eyes were red-rimmed and heavily shadowed from lack of sleep. She took a step towards Adam, who went at once to her side. Husband and wife clung to each other in tearless anguish.

  “I’m here now, my love.” Mr. Newbold’s voice was hoarse, barely audible as he buried his face in his wife’s disheveled fair hair. “And we’ll get her back, I promise.”

  She choked back a sob, but nodded vigorously, her spine straightening visibly at his words. Remembering Amelia’s own strength, Thomas felt his throat tighten. “I’ll never forgive myself for not watching her more closely! But she seemed so happy at the masquerade, talking with her friends and dancing… I never dreamed that something like this could happen, not in Newport!”

  “None of us did, my dear,” Mr. Newbold assured his wife. “You are not to blame for this in any way. We’ll get her back,” he repeated, more strongly.

  Another woman, whom Thomas belatedly recognized as Mrs. Russell, a Newport matron and a family friend, now emerged into the passage. “Adam. Thank God you’ve arrived. I’ve been here since—since it happened. I thought Laura shouldn’t be alone.”

  He raised his head. “Thank you, Elvira.” Still supporting his wife, he led the way into the parlor. The rest of them followed without question.

  “Tell me everything,” Adam ordered, guiding his wife towards the sofa. “Everything you couldn’t relay in a telegram.”

  She swallowed, but nodded. “It happened close to midnight. The last time I saw Amy, she was sitting out a dance in a corner. But when I looked again, she wasn’t there. I didn’t worry too much about it—she might have gone to the refreshment room or the necessary. But then Sally Vandermere came running into the ballroom…”

  “Sally?” Thomas interrupted. “What has she to do with what happened?”

  “The kidnappers tried to grab her first,” Laura explained. “From the sound of it, Amy wasn’t even the intended victim. It was Sally, and Amy saved her!” Her eyes filled, but she managed to continue. “Sally was out in the garden—she said two hooded men with ropes came out from behind the hedges. Amy must have followed her because she yelled at Sally to run, and then… she threw herself between Sally and the kidnappers!”

  Dear God. Thomas’s heart seized. His brave, wonderful girl…

  “Sally ran back to the ballroom, practically in hysterics,” Mrs. Newbold went on. “She told everyone what had happened, and we ran out to the garden, but the kidnappers were gone and they’d taken our daughter—” Her voice broke, and she c
losed her eyes, pressing the back of her hand to her lips.

  Mr. Newbold’s arm tightened about his wife; his own face was grey and drawn. “Have the police been contacted?”

  “Yes, though by the time they arrived, Sally was too overwrought to give a very coherent account,” Mrs. Russell replied. “Half of Newport is buzzing like a kicked beehive over this. The other half has practically barricaded itself behind closed doors.”

  “What about the kidnappers?” Thomas asked urgently. “Have you heard from them yet?”

  Laura opened her eyes. “The ransom note hasn’t come, so far. We’ve been waiting. Waiting all night and all morning too, for some kind of word…”

  “It’ll come, Mother.” Andrew spoke for the first time. “Though I’ll wager they’ve been knocked head over heels by this. They were after Sally, and got our Amy instead.” A flicker of grim amusement crossed his face. “I don’t imagine she went quietly.”

  The tension in the room eased the merest fraction. “She upset their plans,” Thomas observed. “They’ll have to adjust them accordingly.” He met Andrew’s eyes and mustered a bleak smile. “Let us hope she’s giving them hell right now.”

  “It’s Amy—can you doubt it?” her brother said lightly.

  Mrs. Newbold made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. “As long as they don’t hurt or mistreat her…”

  “They won’t, my dear,” Adam interrupted, his voice stronger and more authoritative now. “If we’re dealing with the same villains responsible for those abductions in New York, which seems likely, then I daresay Amy is safe enough because they want that ransom. We just need to sit tight until they contact us, and then—we can act accordingly. In the meantime,” he glanced around at his family, “we must keep our wits about us.”

  “I’ll ask for coffee and sandwiches to be brought,” Mrs. Russell said. “You’ll need to keep your strength up, all of you.”