by P. B. Ryan
“It’s the heat,” Nell said, although it was, in fact, a pleasantly cool evening. “I don’t have much of an appetite in the summer.”
“I’m sure you’re exhausted, too,” said Cyril, seated opposite her at the long, damask draped dining table. “It’s been a rather trying day for you.”
Jamie had been buried that morning in St. Catherine’s churchyard following a funeral Mass celebrated by Father Donnelly and attended by Nell, Cyril, and a handful of Jamie’s acquaintances, mostly young females who wept uncontrollably. Not so Nell, who had yet to shed a tear over her brother’s demise. She wanted to weep, she wanted to scream and rail, but it all felt vaguely unreal.
Upon their return to Falconwood, they found that the newlywed couple, the Meads, and August Hewitt had just arrived in four hackney coaches from the Falmouth train depot. Harry’s valet and Cecilia’s ladies maid, personal laundress, and hairdresser had traveled in one of the hacks; her luggage for the four-day visit occupied another.
Cecilia’s costume for this evening’s dinner, a confection of blue and gold silk taffeta, was one of four dozen gowns created for her by the House of Worth during the Paris leg of her honeymoon. The plunging, pearl-encrusted bodice gripped her handspan waist; the skirt, an engineering marvel of swags, ruffles, and ruching, was fashionably narrow in front, the bulk of it having been hauled up in back to form a mountainous bustle and a train that would have done the Empress Eugenie proud. Complementing the regal effect were the diamond combs tucked into the mass of blond curls atop her head. More diamonds dangled from her ears and encircled her throat, along with Harry’s wedding gift to her, a rope of pearls two yards long.
To Cecilia, who’d spent the better part of the afternoon being bathed and groomed, Nell’s modest, long-sleeved gown—dyed black yesterday, along with the rest of her wardrobe—was nothing less than pitiable; Nell could see it in her eyes. Oh, you poor thing, she’d exclaimed when Nell told her that she was in mourning for her brother. Black is so dreary, and so terribly unflattering. You must be in absolute despair.
“I must say, the Cape is a good deal more civilized than I had been led to believe,” said Silas Mead’s wife, an auburn-haired beauty named Althea who looked to be a good deal younger than he. “I’d expected something wild and desolate, but it’s really quite beautiful—this area, at least.”
“I’m told Falmouth Heights is where the better sort are summering now,” Cecilia said. “They say there are grand houses and hotels going up every day.”
“Too true,” came a sotto voce grumble from the head of the table. The patrician, silver haired August Hewitt, who’d built this house here twenty-five years ago precisely because Cape Cod wasn’t a fashionable summer destination overrun with Bostonians and New Yorkers, made no secret of his dismay over its sudden popularity.
“Perhaps we could build a house in Falmouth Heights,” Cecilia suggested to her new husband.
“I thought you wanted Newport,” Harry mumbled into his seventh glass of wine before draining it and holding it up for refill. Matrimony appeared to suit Cecilia better than Harry, judging from his omnipresent aura of resigned misery. Although as dashingly turned out as always—he sported a gold brocade vest with his white tie and tails—the “Beau Brummel of Boston” looked a good decade older than when he’d set out on his honeymoon four months ago with his glittering bride, her servants, and her myriad trunks and hat boxes. His eyes were dead and his skin sallow, pointing up the scar on his left eyelid and the bulge on the bridge of his nose, permanent reminders of his unsuccessful, absinthe-stoked attempt two years ago to force himself on Nell.
“We can build a house in Falmouth Heights and another in Newport,” Cecilia said. “Why not?”
“Yes, why not?” Harry drawled thickly. “What’s another hundred grand here or there?”
“Oh, don’t be such a grouch-pot.” Forming her rosebud lips into an exaggerated pout, she pitched her voice childishly high and said, “Please, Harry? Pretty please? Pretty, pretty, pretty—”
“Fine,” he growled. “Whatever you want. I can’t imagine what I was thinking, questioning your wishes.”
She let out a shrieking giggle of delight that made the glassware on the table quiver ever so slightly. Harry closed his eyes, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Imagining the decades of marital desolation stretching out before him, Nell almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
“It is beautiful here, extraordinarily so,” said Mr. Mead in an apparent attempt to redirect the conversation to its former subject. Though he looked to be in his sixties, and was almost entirely bald, the renowned lawyer exuded an aura of vigor and intellect that Nell couldn’t help but find attractive; no wonder he had such a pretty young wife. “I say, Hewitt, it’s a shame you can only get down here on weekends.”
“I was here for the entire first week,” said Mr. Hewitt as he scooped up a forkful of cake, “and when I come back here next weekend, I shall remain until the end of August. In the meantime, however, my business concerns must come first. The Tremont Street house is closed up, of course. I bunk with the Thorpes during the week.”
“Ah, Leo. Capital fellow. Say, I’d love to take one of those shells out tomorrow. What say you, Hewitt? Care to race me across the bay?”
“Good Lord, no. It’s been years since I’ve gotten into one of those things. The rheumatism, you know.”
“What about you, Martin?” Mead asked. “I know you won’t turn me down.”
“I hate to,” said the Hewitts’ fair-haired youngest son, “but I’ve got to go back to Boston tomorrow so that I can preach at King’s Chapel Sunday.”
“Oh yes, I heard you’d been ordained. Congratulations, son.”
“Thank you, sir.”
August Hewitt, a devout Congregationalist who had vigorously opposed Martin’s ordination as a Unitarian minister, glowered at the centerpiece of roses and candles.
Cradling her coffee cup as she lounged back in her chair, Althea Mead said, “Where do you live now, Martin? With the family house closed up, I assume you’ve gotten your own digs.”
“I’ve been staying at Will’s house on Acorn Street while I look for a place of my own. He gave me the key before he went overseas.”
Mr. Hewitt gestured for another glass of whiskey, prompting a fretful look from his wife. On those rare occasions when he indulged in more than his usual one or two glasses of wine, he tended toward belligerence.
“Oh, lucky Will,” said Cecilia, “going on holiday. Is he going to Paris? That’s my very favorite city in the world. We spent most of April there. I bought the most beautiful, beautiful things. Harry, why don’t we go back next month? We can buy one of those lovely townhouses with wrought iron balconies so that when we visit there, we don’t have to stay in—”
“France is at war now, remember?” Harry said wearily. “Against Prussia?”
Cecilia pulled a face. “I hate wars. I hope it’s over soon. Nell, if it’s over before you marry Dr. Hewitt, perhaps he’ll take you to Paris on your honeymoon.”
Cyril lowered his fork and stared at Nell.
Oh, hell.
When people ask about our presumed engagement, Will had counseled in his farewell letter, simply tell them that you ended it over my gambling, aimlessness, and various other bad habits and defects of character; no one will question that.
Avoiding Cyril’s eyes, Nell said, “We, um... Dr. Hewitt and I have ended our engagement by mutual agreement.”
“What?” Cecilia gasped. “Why?”
Harry snorted at the tactless question. Mr. Hewitt swallowed his brandy with a look of disgust, perhaps because of Cecilia’s rudeness, or perhaps because he simply loathed the very mention of Will’s name.
Nell said, “Um... well...”
Viola came to her rescue. “My eldest son travels a great deal, and it appears to be a difficult habit to break. He and Nell have decided, quite amicably, that it would put too much of a strain upon their marriage for him to be h
ome so infrequently.”
“Where does he travel to?” Cecilia asked.
“Wherever there are gaming hells and opium dens,” Mr. Hewitt muttered under his breath.
Those at the farthest end of the table might not have heard him, but Cyril, who was sitting fairly close, clearly did. He met Nell’s gaze soberly, then lifted his coffee cup and took a sip.
Martin evidently heard, too. Looking from his father to Cecilia, he said, “Actually, Will went to France at the request of President Grant to serve as a battle surgeon for Napoleon’s army.”
Mrs. Mead said, “The president himself requested him?”
“My brother was regarded as the finest battle surgeon in the Union Army.”
“That’s quite impressive,” said Mr. Mead.
With another glance at his father, Martin said, “Yes, isn’t it?”
* * *
“I won’t lie to you,” Silas Mead told Nell and Viola as he swirled his cognac in its snifter. “Massachusetts has some of the strictest divorce statutes in the country. The courts of the commonwealth only grant about three hundred divorces a year. That’s where I come in. “
From the parlor across the house, where the others had retired for postprandial liqueurs, chess, and conversation, came muffled piano music that sounded almost atonal until Nell recognized it as an appallingly heavy-handed rendition of her favorite piece, Beethoven’s “Moonlight” Sonata.
Cocking his head to listen, Mr. Mead said, “I know that’s not Althea. She plays with a rather more... delicate touch.”
“Silas, you are born diplomatist,” said Viola with a little chuckle. “That’s Cecilia, and she fancies herself quite the pianist. I fear I shall have to invent a rather creative repertoire of excuses to disappear after dinner while they’re here.”
Her excuse tonight was a desire to show Mr. Mead the artwork she and Nell had executed that summer—just a ruse, of course, for a private legal consultation about Nell’s marital situation, cooked up in advance between the three of them. Grabbing the candelabra off the dining table, she’d asked Nell to steer her wheelchair to the doomed greenhouse off the kitchen, which she’d long ago pressed into service as a studio. After a cursory tour of the paintings propped on easels and tucked into drying racks, the lawyer and Nell pulled up chairs and they got down to business.
“I’ve brought some papers for you to sign,” Mr. Mead told Nell. “I’ll file them next week and follow up on them aggressively, but you should know that this process, even if successful, can be extremely time-consuming. There are two facilitating factors that can speed things along and help to ensure a favorable outcome. First, it would be helpful if you could convince your husband not to contest the divorce.”
“I don’t think that will be possible,” Nell said. “He’s adamant that we remained married.”
Viola said, “Does he understand—really understand—that you have no intention of living with him again as his wife, even after he’s released from prison?”
“I’ve made that abundantly clear,” Nell said. “He says he objects to the idea of divorce on religious grounds, because the Church doesn’t recognize it, but really it’s because he just can’t let me go. When we were married, he became extremely possessive and jealous, with no reason to be. He tried to dictate what I could do and who I could talk to. I think he still wants that kind of control over me.”
“If you can think of any argument that might sway him,” said Mr. Mead, “now would be the time to make it. I’ll be going to Charlestown State Prison Monday to inform him that you’re filing a petition for divorce, and to ask for his cooperation. If you think it might help to write him a letter, I can bring it to him at that time.”
Nell said, “I’ll write one and give it to you before you leave.”
“Under normal circumstances,” the lawyer continued, “I would suggest that you offer him a generous financial settlement—that sometimes does the trick—but given that he has another twenty years to serve on his sentence, I’m not sure money would be a strong enough incentive.”
“You can try it,” Nell said, “but you’re right—I doubt it will make any difference.”
Viola said, “Do you think it would help to mention in the petition that he attacked Nell viciously?”
“Doubtful. It was a long time ago, and it would be difficult to prove. And, too, such incidents are generally viewed as private matters between husbands and wives.”
Viola muttered something very unladylike. “The second facilitating factor,” she said, “would be the use of influence and bribes, I assume?”
“As always, Viola,” Mead chuckled, “your candor is uniquely refreshing. I don’t call them bribes, though. I call them ‘financial incentives.’”
Imagining herself growing large with child while still wed to Duncan, Nell said, “I’ll pay whatever I have to pay.”
“That’s good to know,” Mead said, “but I suspect it won’t amount to very much, because of Mrs. Hewitt’s connections.” Withdrawing a notebook and pencil from the wallet pocket of his sleek black dinner coat, he told Viola, “Now would be the time to brag about your friends in high places. I know you’re acquainted with Charles Allen, the Attorney General, and with Mayor Shurtleff.”
“I’ve met Governor Claflin a few times, as well,” she said, “and we got along famously. And there are several Boston aldermen and members of the Common Council whose wives I’ve become friendly with from serving on charity boards. Oh, and there’s Horace Bacon, the criminal court judge. His wife is an acquaintance of mine, and I happen to know she’s got expensive tastes—more expensive than he can afford on his salary. He’s not above accepting the occasional payment for services rendered. I paid him myself a couple of years ago—or rather Nell did, on my behalf, when I was trying to help Will out of a fix he’d got himself in.”
Mr. Mead said, “That’s good to know, about Bacon, because he’s a close friend of Chief Justice Brigham of the Suffolk County Superior Court, which rules on divorce petitions. Anyone else?” He asked. “Anyone who might, perchance, have something to hide?”
“You engage in blackmail, too?” Viola asked with a mock shudder of excitement. “How deliciously low.”
“Not blackmail per se,” he said, “more like subtle threats—however, such tactics are always a last resort.”
“As I recall,” Nell said, “Judge Bacon was one of the men who paid Detective Skinner to keep their names out of the investigation into Virginia Kimball’s murder last year.”
“Charlie Skinner,” Mead said with a look of disgust. “Good riddance to that particular piece of human rubbish.”
“You know of him?” Nell asked.
“Oh, he had quite the reputation even before the police hearings in February. I was pleased when he was demoted, and delighted when he was kicked off the force altogether.”
As if she were a mother bragging about her clever daughter, Viola said with a smile, “His dismissal was due in no small measure to Nell’s efforts.”
“Well done, Miss Sweeney,” Mead praised. “You know, Skinner made himself the enemy of some very important men during those hearings. As you’re already aware, he was in the habit of taking bribes. If a gentleman found himself in a compromising situation—rounded up during a vice raid, say—he would have a nice, thick envelope sent to Charlie Skinner, and next thing you knew there would be no record at all of the arrest. But Skinner never forgot the names of those men, nor the nature of their transgressions, and during the hearings he put pressure on them to clear his name. That turned out to be impossible given his documented history of criminal activity, but he did manage to remain on the force, albeit as a uniformed patrolman. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt, while I’m trying to garner support for your divorce petition, for me to mention the fact that you were responsible for Skinner’s ouster from the force.”
Mr. Mead snapped his notebook shut and returned it to his pocket. “At the risk of giving you false hope, Miss Sweeney, I must say I�
��m feeling quite optimistic. It helps that your husband is a convicted felon, whereas you are a young lady of sterling reputation with some of the most notable men in the commonwealth vouching for you. The only factor likely to drag things out would be Mr. Sweeney’s lack of cooperation. If you can manage to talk him into agreeing to the divorce, I think it’s possible you could be a free woman within a matter of weeks.”
She gaped at him. “Oh, my God. That would be... That would be wonderful.” But first she had to talk Duncan into agreeing to it, and that would be much easier said than done.
“I’ll go through the process with you in more depth tomorrow,” he told her, “and have you sign the papers and so forth. When would be the best time?”
Nell looked to Viola, who said, “August usually takes a nap in the early afternoon. We could meet in my sitting room at, say, two o’clock.”
“After I return to Boston,” Mead said, “I shall keep in touch. In the interest of discretion, I take it I should address any correspondence to you, Viola, rather than to Miss Sweeney?”
“Yes, do,” Viola said. “I’ll be making it a point to get to the mail before August does, in order to intercept any communications from Mr. Sweeney or Mr. Skinner, but one can’t be too careful. If August were to get wind of this, God knows how he would react.”
Oh, thought Nell, I have a pretty good idea.
* * *
“Dr. Greaves had to leave,” Martin told Nell as she wheeled his mother into the parlor. “I told him he’d be better off spending the night than driving home in the dark, but he said he had patients to see early tomorrow morning, and that he had a very good carriage lamp. He asked me to apologize on his behalf for not saying goodbye to you.”
Dismayed, Nell said, “How long ago did he leave?”
“Just now.”
Excusing herself, Nell lifted her skirts and sprinted through the house and out the front door. She saw a dark figure in a top hat walking away along the lamplit path that led to the carriage house. “Cyril!”
