He shifted Sadie into a chair as Lucy set a plate of muffins topped with generous mounds of syrupy strawberries before her. Sadie picked up a strawberry with her fingers and popped it in her mouth with a grin.
“So what happened?” Lucy asked as she took her own seat.
“Uncle Thomas has been having seizures for the past few months,” he said. “None of the doctors they consulted had anything sensible to offer. Last night he had a big one and died a few hours later.”
“I can’t say I’m shattered at the news,” Lucy said. “Thank you for coming all this way to tell us, though. And thank you for bringing Sadie! My goodness, I saw her only last weekend, and it looks like she’s grown a whole inch.”
Lucy held out a cup of coffee for him, but he couldn’t take it. He looked away, embarrassed by this awful surge of emotion that suddenly choked him. He leaned over to kiss the top of Sadie’s head so Lucy couldn’t see his face. His baby smelled of lemon soap and happiness.
Except she wasn’t his baby anymore. She was a child who could walk around and dress herself and chatter up a storm. Bridget would be so proud of this beautiful little bundle of light and energy.
“Nick?” Lucy asked softly. “What’s wrong?”
He took a moment to gather his thoughts, for he didn’t know how to express this complicated swirl of grief and regret mingled with a blinding sense of urgency to make things right.
“You don’t know, Luce,” he finally said. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose a spouse. One day you’ve got a friend and a partner, and then the next . . .” He stopped, unable to keep talking on this subject. “Anyway, Aunt Margaret has got to be miserable, and I feel a little sorry for her.”
He reached for the cup of coffee, embarrassed that his hand shook as he drank. At least Aunt Margaret had known that her husband was ill and she’d had time to prepare for the wall of grief. It wouldn’t be like when Bridget died.
“Your aunt will be fine,” Colin said in a cool voice. “She’s a born survivor and always has been.”
Nick wasn’t so sure. Margaret had married into the Drake family and stood in lockstep beside her husband throughout the ongoing family vendetta, but all the truly vile things had been orchestrated by Uncle Thomas and their son. Now Margaret’s husband was dead, her son in jail, and her reputation in tatters. And in the last few years, Aunt Margaret had done something he secretly envied.
She had gotten a college degree. With her reputation destroyed and having lost all hope of joining the social elite of New York, she had rolled up her sleeves and made something of herself. The footman who had been passing Nick information said that after Margaret got her college degree, she put it to work teaching immigrant women how to read.
“I’m going to pay my condolences to Aunt Margaret,” he said. “It’s time to end this ridiculous rift. I’m going to Oakmonte, and if I’m welcome, I will attend Uncle Thomas’s funeral as well.”
Colin looked uneasy. “I wouldn’t get close to that woman. I’ve heard she set up some kind of school for immigrants, but it’s all in hope of cozying up to the charities run by the Vanderbilts. Margaret is, and always has been, a brazen social climber.”
Nick felt his blood heating. Maybe Colin didn’t mean to sound like a snob, but Nick was grateful for the reminder. This was the sort of disdain his daughter would someday face. The daughter of a plumber would never be genuinely accepted in the rarefied world of Manhattan high society. Outsiders needed allies. Sadie was going to need allies.
“Her motives don’t matter,” Nick said. Margaret was a human being, and today she was grieving. He would offer what comfort he could.
“I’m not sure you grasp the depth of her hatred,” Colin continued. “Two years ago, someone launched a campaign in London to have my title revoked.”
Nick blanched. “Can they do that?”
“It takes an act of Parliament to strip a man of his title. It almost never happens, but someone tried, sending anonymous messages to the House of Lords and publishing accounts in low-level newspapers implying I dabbled in underage prostitution. It was complete hogwash with no chance of success. The goal was simply to embarrass me, and that was accomplished. I hired an investigator to ferret out the source of the newspaper stories. He never learned the name, but the payments came from Saratoga, New York. Your aunt and uncle are the only people I know from Saratoga.”
A tug of old misgivings stirred back to life. Growing up, Nick had lived in terror of his uncle, but Margaret always hovered in the background. It was her husband who led the charge with the zeal of a jackal.
“So you don’t know if it was Thomas or Margaret who initiated the rumors?”
“Thomas and Margaret are a matched pair,” Lucy said. “Thomas was the public face throughout the lawsuit, but I always sensed that Margaret was the wind in his sails. I don’t think you should have anything to do with her.”
Colin and Lucy both stared at him, their faces guarded. Unforgiving. It wasn’t who he wanted to be.
“Thank you for breakfast,” he said as he abruptly stood. “I have no idea if Margaret will welcome me, or if she’ll hurl firebombs at the sight of me, but I know this much. I wasn’t perfect during that feud, and neither were you, Luce. I’m willing to forgive Margaret and try to mend the rift. My family isn’t big enough that I feel comfortable cutting people out of it. If Margaret is willing to put the past to rest, I will join her in it.”
Lucy looked hurt by his words, but Colin was grim. “I hope you don’t live to regret it.”
Chapter
Eight
Nick stared at the grand country estate of Oakmonte as the carriage rounded the bend. He’d heard about Oakmonte all his life but had never seen it. Sitting at the end of an emerald green lawn, it looked like someplace a duchess would live, which made sense, as Aunt Margaret had once aspired to grandeur. The daughter of a green grocer, she had adapted to life in the upper class like a duck taking to water. Her wardrobe was imported from Paris, and she hired French chefs and affected a mild English accent.
All that had come crashing down five years earlier when her son was arrested over a plot to assassinate President Roosevelt. Uncle Thomas tried to cover for his son and nearly went to prison himself, thoroughly ruining his reputation and his wife’s. The downfall of the family had been Lucy and Colin’s doing. Now Tom Jr. was in jail, Uncle Thomas was dead, and only Aunt Margaret remained.
Nick didn’t hate Margaret. On the rare occasions he had encountered her when he was growing up, she’d always been decent to him, usually giving him little wrapped chocolates from a tiny case she always carried. Those chocolates had been amazing, melting in his mouth within an instant and tasting so different from the cheap cocoa bars he bought for a penny. More than anything, he remembered the way she smelled. She wore rose-scented perfume that smelled better than anything in Nick’s world. To this day, he always associated the scent of roses with fancy rich ladies.
The carriage drew up the circular drive to the front of the house. “Can you wait a few minutes?” Nick asked the driver of the hansom cab. For all he knew, Aunt Margaret would fling him out of Oakmonte before he could cross the threshold.
“Aye, sir.”
Nick mounted the wide steps leading to the landing. He’d thought there’d be more activity. Uncle Thomas had died two days ago, and he’d expected there to be at least a few neighbors stopping by to pay their condolences, but all seemed peaceful. It was so quiet that he could hear the leaves rustling in the forest behind the house.
A servant answered the door at his knock.
“Is Mrs. Drake home? I’d like to pay my respects.”
He gave her his name, and the girl blinked in confusion a few times. “You’re family?” she said in surprise.
At his nod, she led him into the foyer of the house and asked him to wait while she disappeared down a hallway that gleamed with polished wood and smelled like lemon wax. A series of arched windows stretched the length of the front hall
, but most impressive was the double staircase descending from the second floor, the flights of steps encircling the room like a pair of welcoming arms. There had probably been a lot of fancy parties in this house back in the day.
Now it was eerily silent. The floorboards creaked a little when he shifted his weight, echoing off the high walls. He could even hear himself swallow.
Finally the clicking of footsteps announced the return of the maid. “Mrs. Drake is in the garden, if you’d care to follow me.”
So, it seemed he would be welcomed with no ceremonial hurling from the parapets. It would have been easier to get booted out.
Once outside, he spotted Margaret quickly. In the deep green garden, her black widow’s weeds stood out in sharp contrast. They fit her willowy figure perfectly, with a high ruffled neck that kept her chin raised. They were no blood relation, but Aunt Margaret had similar dark hair with icy blue eyes. She stood amidst a rose garden, a basket over one arm and a pair of pruning shears in her hand.
“This is a surprise,” she said as he approached. Her voice was cold, her face like stone.
“I came to offer my condolences.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Another surprise. I thought I heard the faint echoes of a celebration coming from Manhattan.”
He deserved that. He despised Uncle Thomas and felt no grief at his passing, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t feel sympathy for Margaret.
“It’s true there was no love lost between our families, but I am sorry for your loss. I came as soon as I heard.”
A hint of softening tinged her eyes, but it didn’t spread. “Is your sister with you?”
“No. Lucy had . . . she had obligations in the city.”
Aunt Margaret’s smile was bitter. “Rejecting her uncle’s obituary from the newspapers, I expect.” At his confused glance, she continued. “We were prepared for Thomas’s death and had his obituary already written. Our man of business wired it immediately to the New York newspapers. I just received word that every one of them has declined to print it. Did Lucy have something to do with that?”
“No, ma’am. Lucy is just a telegraph operator. She doesn’t have any say in what gets printed.”
“Her husband, then?”
It didn’t surprise him that Aunt Margaret wouldn’t even say Colin’s name. The hatred between those two ran deep.
“Ma’am, I’m not here to fight old battles. I want to make peace. I don’t have much of a family left, and neither do you. There’s no reason you and I can’t . . . I don’t know, can’t try to get along.”
Silence stretched between them. He had extended the olive branch as far as he intended. It was up to Margaret to make the next move. She remained on the opposite side of the rose garden, watching him through guarded eyes. It reminded him of a snake preparing to strike, but perhaps that was just decades of distrust handed down through the generations. No one had said mending this breach was going to be easy.
A few bees droned in the nearby flowers, and he swatted a gnat away from his face. He really hated the outdoors.
“Do you have any influence with the warden of Sing Sing?” she asked.
He blinked at the unexpected question. With enough money, a man could have influence with just about anyone, but that didn’t mean Nick was going to use it. “Maybe. Why?”
“I would like my son to attend his father’s funeral.” She kept her head high, her face expressionless, but for the first time, he saw the vulnerability just beneath Margaret’s spun crystal façade. She was on the verge of cracking.
A surge of pity welled within him. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good.” Aunt Margaret turned and began pruning a bush. The conversation was over.
Nick took the cab to the nearby town and wired a message to his lawyer. He offered to pay any costs associated with transporting and guarding a prisoner on leave. He spent a few hours in the village, cooling his heels while awaiting a reply. It was going to be a costly negotiation, and a number of palms would need to be greased, but money didn’t mean much to Nick. If he could buy a little goodwill from his aunt, he would do so.
In the end, a full day of negotiations came to nothing, and Tom Jr. was refused leave. Aunt Margaret was stoic as she absorbed the news, staring sightlessly at the cooks who were preparing a meal for the funeral luncheon. All of Uncle Thomas’s favorite foods would be served. Smoked salmon quiche, baked cheese and pancetta, and maple spice cakes. The kitchen was a flurry of activity, but Margaret stared out the window as though she were a statue, motionless.
Nick hated to bring up another potentially painful topic, but he desperately wanted to know.
“Will Ellie be coming to the funeral?” He hadn’t seen his young cousin since she was eight years old and mysteriously disappeared from Oakmonte. Of all the Saratoga Drakes, Ellie was the only one he liked, and he never quite understood why she had been shunted away so completely all those years ago.
The barest flinch crossed Margaret’s face at her daughter’s name. “No. Ellie is in Rome and won’t be able to get here in time.”
“I see.” He’d heard rumors of Ellie’s brilliance at the piano, but all he remembered was the sweetly annoying eight-year-old girl whose arms were barely long enough to reach down the length of the piano keyboard. She’d desperately wanted to play with her older brother and cousins, but she was several years younger, and Tom Jr. had no use for her.
“Why won’t anyone ever play with me?” she had sobbed as she trailed after them. Aunt Margaret would tell her to hush up and set the little girl back at the piano bench to continue practicing. The last time Nick had seen Ellie, she had been bawling her eyes out while trying her best to stumble through a sonata.
Well, it seemed Ellie had finally made something of herself and felt no compunction to return to the family that never had time for her.
Aside from Aunt Margaret, only six people came to the funeral. Two lawyers, a business associate, the priest, the local doctor, and Nick. Announcements had been posted at the local church, but no one else from the village came. The cluster of mourners looked pathetically sparse in the sprawling cemetery.
Nick shared a carriage back to Oakmonte with the family’s doctor, who was incensed by the poor attendance at the funeral. “The complete shunning by the community haunted Thomas. He adored Margaret and desperately wanted to make up for the damage he’d done to the family’s reputation. It was hopeless, and the stress aggravated his condition.”
“And my aunt?”
The doctor shook his head. “Margaret locks everything down behind that iron will of hers, and it’s hard to tell. I kept a careful watch on her at the grave site. Her face was utterly emotionless, but I saw something in her eyes. I couldn’t tell if it was grief or rage, but I fear for her. She and Thomas were completely devoted to one another. I don’t know how she will fare now that he’s gone.”
The funeral luncheon was an additional embarrassment. Tables groaned under the weight of a dozen quiches, maples cakes, and endless trays of diced fruits and vegetables. No one expected the high society of Manhattan to show up at Thomas Drake’s funeral, but Margaret had obviously expected members of the local community. She disappeared into her room immediately following the pitiful funeral, leaving Nick to make awkward conversation with the doctor and Bruce Garrett, a quarry owner from upstate New York. Bruce was a handsome man, with hints of silver threading through his coppery red hair.
“Thomas funded my limestone quarry when no one else believed a man like me could make a go of it,” Bruce said. “He may not have been an angel, but that sort of loyalty isn’t something I forget.”
Nick and Bruce had met several times before, and none of the meetings had gone well. Part of Nick’s new job was to oversee construction of a huge reservoir in upstate New York. The city was running out of water, and the state was about to break ground on the new reservoir on land not far from Garrett’s quarry, which was a problem. The watershed for the coming reservoir needed to be pristin
e, and the runoff from Garrett’s quarry was a constant source of tension between them.
Bruce lowered his head and glowered at the near-empty room. “Thomas was a pariah, but people ought to have shown up to support Margaret. Apparently the vipers wanted to deliver one last sting.”
Nick stared at the feast laid out before him. This grand social snubbing was the sort of petty meanness that had wounded Bridget to her core. She had a gentle kindness that could warm the coldest of hearts, but Bridget didn’t have a drop of blue blood, old money, or the ability to pretend that she did. The knives had been out for the girl with an Irish accent who had the audacity to join the upper class. Toward the end, Bridget began taking a carriage back to their old neighborhood to socialize with the girls at a millinery shop where she once worked.
All Nick wanted to do was escape this sad house where a grieving widow hid in her bedroom to avoid the blatant signs of her complete and total ostracism. At least the servants were respectful, but each time they came and went from the dining room, he caught them exchanging embarrassed glances with one another.
He wouldn’t participate in Aunt Margaret’s shame by abandoning her and running back to the city. He would at least make an effort to mend the badly frayed fabric of their shrinking family. More than anyone, he understood how tragically short life could be.
Nick awoke before dawn the following morning, restless to get home. The earliest train to Manhattan would not leave until ten o’clock, so he prowled the first floor of Oakmonte, searching for something to read. This house had been built to impress, with all the trappings of a grand estate, so surely there would be a library somewhere. He wandered down wide hallways with tall ceilings and walls covered with antique tapestries that looked like they’d been imported from a castle in Europe. Even so, his footsteps echoed. The house was cold, empty, and too large for one woman with no family left at home.
At the end of one hallway, he spotted a wall of books through an open doorway and headed toward it. He hadn’t read a book since graduating from school, even though he read two daily newspapers and three weekly magazines to keep abreast of the world around him. A house this isolated in the country wouldn’t have a current newspaper, but he could find a book to help pass a few hours.
A Daring Venture Page 9
