Marblestone Mansion, Book 8

by Marti Talbott

  Prescot shrugged. “Do not ask, just say he is needed.”

  “Very well. When should we begin the interviews?”

  “I shall announce it tonight at dinner and we can start in the morning.”

  Alistair checked his watch and then leaned back in his chair. “Ask the cooks to come first. They both know about the duchess and they have a knack for keeping the servants from gossipin’. Gossip is precisely what we do not need just now.”

  Prescot stood up. “I best see to the family’s dinner. Promise you will let me be here when you interview Lillie Mae?”

  “I promise.”

  *

  Never had the duchess needed a new name more than now. She was certain Dr. Morris notified the authorities of her escape, but he might also have alerted the newspapers, complete with all the names she confessed to using in the past. Therefore, she settled on a nice Irish last name, and called herself Rebecca Lyons.

  She would have preferred riding in a Pullman compartment on the train, but by the time she reached Grand Central Terminal and bought her ticket, there were none available. The ticket master thought nothing of her fifty-dollar bill, and exacted the change efficiently. Unfortunately, the nearly twenty-four hour train ride to Chicago was not scheduled to leave for another three hours.

  Three hours? An eternity for one who wished nothing more than to escape the city undetected. For a time, she sat on a bench in the enormous waiting room, with its curved green ceiling and high windows that let in the light. A multitude of people sat on wooden benches while others went up and down the grand staircase. She repeatedly glanced at the huge clock, but when she spotted two policemen, she decided sitting in the terminal was not her best choice. Rebecca Lyons picked up her hatbox and traveling bag, quickly walked out the door, hurried across several lanes of a busy street, and darted into a bookshop.

  The duchess needed something to read on the train anyway, was immediately drawn to the latest London newspaper, and picked up a copy. Next, she browsed several prominently displayed books. The House on the Borderland caught her eye, as did Anne of Green Gables, both of which she had not read. They looked interesting enough.

  Then she saw it.

  The book cover was scarlet with the title imprinted in gold. It was:

  The Scandalous Affairs of Alexandra Sinclair.

  The duchess could not move. She felt her face begin to flush, and knew if she did not hasten to do something, her mind would go completely blank. Becoming catatonic just now would ruin everything and there was only one thing she could do. She closed her eyes and imagined herself wearing something she often dreamed of – an enormous emerald ring surrounded by two rows of diamonds. It took a moment, but once the ‘red lady’ had sufficiently passed, the duchess relaxed.

  What bad timing. When she shared her story with the author, she was next to destitute and all she cared about was her share of the income. Yet, all these years later, the publication of the book spelled disaster. She fully intended to return to London someday; convinced that England’s grand society would have forgotten all about her after so many years. Now…now, she was likely the talk of the town once more.

  At first, she decided not to buy a copy. Why should she, she already knew what was in it? On the other hand, she might actually enjoy reading about herself. Perhaps she might send it to Dr. Morris once she was carefully hidden away. Yes, that was exactly what she would do. What better way to make him regret calling her a liar?

  With less than half an hour left, she put the other books back, paid for the London newspaper and the book about her, rushed to the station and boarded the waiting train.

  Her heart was racing as she chose a window seat near the back of the passenger compartment, set her bags on the floor, and then scooted down in the seat. There was a chance the authorities would search the train for her, and she could hide, she supposed, in the facilities, but that was probably the first place they would look. Instead, she turned her face toward the window, hoping her wide-brimmed hat would hide most of her face and her graying hair.

  The seconds ticked by so slowly, she thought she might pass out, but then…the conductor came to collect the tickets and the train began to move. The whistle blew, the engine chugged, the wheels began to pick up speed, and at last, she was leaving New York City. Even so, she had to take several deep breaths to calm her nerves.

  Completely unaware of the woman seated beside her, or anyone else for that matter, she tucked the newspaper in the seat beside her, and then turned her attention to the book. John Crisp had published it after all, and where was her share of the money? In the solicitor’s pocket, that’s where. The very idea confirmed what she had known all along – in the entire world; there was no one she could truly trust.

  The duchess despised Solicitor John Crisp for a moment more, set her irritation aside, opened the book and got ready to read.

  It was then she noticed the name of the author.

  It was not John Crisp; it was Lady Maude Okerman? How in the world did she get ahold of the book? Feeling even more defeated, the duchess closed her eyes and hung her head. With Lady Okerman behind it, any chance that London’s high society did not know about the book vanished into thin air. After a time, the duchess opened her eyes, turned to the last page, and read a short article about the author. Not in her wildest dreams did she expect to see what it said – Lord Okerman was dead.

  Dead? He looked healthy enough the last time she saw him, which was on the shores of Scotland. She brushed that horrible memory aside, turned back to page one and began to read:

  Alexandra Sinclair was not her real name, but then, neither was Alice, Caroline, Eleanor, or Olivia. Her real name was Gormelia, a name only a Scot would give his daughter.

  The duchess closed the book and stared out the window. Why must she always be called Gormelia? She hated the name as a child, and she liked it even less now. Her anger was beginning to rise again, until she realized it was the one name Dr. Morris would recognize. After all, how many women were cursed with a name like Gormelia? How she wished she could see his face when he realized she had been telling him the truth all along.

  She returned to her book and read the next paragraph.

  I first met the woman I knew as Olivia at London’s first ball of the season in 1894, where my husband made no secret of his desire to be with her. He...

  Suddenly, the duchess caught her breath. “Good heavens, she knew.”

  “What?” the young woman seated beside the duchess asked.

  “Forgive me; I did not realize I was speaking out loud.”

  Gloria Whitfield glanced at the outside of the book. Her hair was just as red as Abigail’s, although her eyes were a lighter green. She was dressed in a dark traveling suit with a white hat and a purple purse that hung by a chain from her wrist. “The Scandalous Affairs of…”

  The duchess closed the book and laid it face up in her lap. “Alexandra Sinclair.”

  “It sounds delightful. Is it good?”

  “I have only just begun to read it. Are you from Chicago? I am in need of the name of a reputable hotel.”

  “No, my home is in Colorado.”

  “Ah yes, Denver.”

  “Colorado Springs.”

  The duchess looked away long enough to compose herself. “Colorado Springs? How fascinating.”

  “How so? I find it quite dull after the excitement of New York City.”

  “I have read there are many wealthy men in Colorado Springs.”

  Gloria giggled. “All with very wealthy wives.”

  The duchess smiled. “How unfortunate.”

  “You are not a wealthy wife?”

  It was the duchess’ turn to snicker. “Widowed, and not wealthy enough, I am afraid.”

  “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. Are you married?”

  “Engaged. I am on my way home to break the news to my parents.”

  “Will they not approve?” the duchess asked.

&nbs
p; “They shall approve of him, but not that we plan to make our home in New York. Mother would much prefer I live near her in Colorado. My brother and his wife chose to live in England, and I dread telling her we are both deserting her.”

  “What shall you do in New York?”

  “Mr. Harrington, my intended, is part owner of a shirt factory there, and a coal mine in Pennsylvania. My father owned three mines in Colorado, so you might say I grew up knowing all about the mining industry. Mr. Harrington says he shall be pleased to have a wife who understands him.”

  “You are marrying into wealth?”

  “I hardly need to, but I suppose I am. It is Mother’s mistake, you see. She insisted I go to a finishing school in Connecticut. I liked it well enough, but college was much more appealing. I was then given leave to attend Goucher Women’s College, in Baltimore.”

  “Have they no colleges in Colorado Springs?”

  Gloria paused before she answered. “I have not heard of one. I do know they have recently built a very fine high school.”

  “What is a high school, precisely?

  “High schools are the latest thing and are being built all over America. Most one-room schools overflow with students these days. Girls are now required to attend school, just as boys are, but most girls stop going at twelve or thirteen. Those that wish to attend, or whose parents insist upon it, may now attend the upper grades in the high school.”

  “I see.”

  “Did you finish school?” Gloria asked.

  “Unfortunately, I too stopped going at age twelve. I was convinced I knew all I needed to know. If you went to college in Baltimore, how did you come to be in New York City?”

  “I met my intended in Baltimore, and after I graduated, I took a room in a boarding house in New York City to be near him. Mother thinks it is because I love the shops there. She insisted I arrive home with all the latest fashions.”

  “And shall you?”

  Gloria nodded. “I had already begun to buy my wedding trousseau when she suggested it.”

  “Good for you. I intend to do some shopping in Chicago before I continue on.”

  “You would have done better to buy them in New York.”

  “Perhaps, but I find the city a bit overwhelming.”

  “It can be, if one is not familiar,” Gloria admitted.

  When the conductor came to their seats, the duchess held her breath, certain she was about to be found out.

  “Miss Whitfield, your compartment is ready,” said he.

  Surprised, the duchess asked, “Whitfield?”

  Gloria stood up and offered her hand to the duchess. “Gloria Whitfield and you are?”

  Instead of shaking her hand, the duchess held up the book and winked, “Alexandra Sinclair.”

  Gloria laughed and followed the conductor through the door that led from the seating compartments to the Pullmans.

  The duchess watched her go and then once more stared out the window. Charles, the most boring and childish of all her husbands, did say he had a sister, but how odd to meet her just now. At least, knowing that Charles was still in England meant there was one less person who might recognize her in Colorado Springs. That was a relief.

  So Charles had married again. If she did not know already, his poor wife would soon learn what a simpleton her husband truly was. Perhaps Charles had grown up since then, but the duchess doubted it. Suddenly, a dazzling thought occurred to her. If Charles was simpleminded, perhaps his parents were too.

  A plan – an altogether new plan was beginning to form in her mind.

  *

  As evening turned to night, the duchess went to the dinner compartment and bought a sandwich. She envied Gloria Whitfield, not only because she was born into wealth, but also because she would be spending the night in a sleeping compartment. Bone tired, the duchess finished her sandwich, put the book in her hatbox, settled into her seat and tried to sleep. It seemed as soon as she managed to drift off, the train stopped. She sat up to see what the matter might be, only to discover passengers, mailbags, and various goods being loaded and unloaded. It was the first of several annoying and bothersome stops that night.

  The next morning, just as she had enjoyed her freedom for nearly twenty-four hours, the conductor informed his passengers that Chicago was the next stop. “Finally,” the duchess breathed. She gathered her things, straightened her wrinkled clothes and put her hat back on. The train belched black smoke, the wheels squealed, and at last, it stopped.

  “Welcome to Grand Central Station in Chicago, Illinois,” the conductor shouted.

  *

  The Whitfield and MacGreagor Construction Company warehouse was located on the outskirts of the fast growing town of Colorado Springs. Inside, shelves with wooden boxes held a multitude of nuts, bolts, nails and tools. Along the walls, carpenter aprons hung next to window frames and finished doors. In the corner lay scraps of lumber to be used during the winter months to build highchairs. Outside was an expansive yard where stacks of lumber waited to be hauled to building sites. The carpenters and helpers normally left early in the morning, but on this day, members of the clan stayed behind to attend the meeting Hannish called.

  Only five families came from Scotland to live in America after the castle burned down. They were the sons and daughters of the original MacGreagor clan, and those men that did not have shops, worked for the construction company. When all the clansmen were gathered, they numbered fifteen fathers, sons and servants, and included the two newest members – Mother O’Connell’s sons, Samuel and Ben. Hannish liked both his brothers-in-law, but he favored Ben more and hoped he would become a master craftsman someday. The O’Connells lived on Scot’s Row with the rest of the clan. Samuel was married to Francis and had three children, but Ben had not yet chosen a wife.

  By tradition, clan elders were given special treatment. They were allowed to say as much and as often as they wished, and their wisdom was highly regarded. The MacGreagor Clan in Colorado Springs had only one such elder – Provost MacGreagor. To honor him, Hannish brought the desk chair out of his small office, waited until the Provost got comfortable, and then waited even longer until the Provost gave his nod.

  Some of the men sat on the shorter piles of stacked lumber, while others stood. Some were clean-shaven, some had beards and mustaches, and two preferred mustaches alone. As different as they were in facial appearance, all of Clan MacGreagor’s men were tall, muscular, and hard working.

  “Do we be at war?” Provost Finnean MacGreagor asked.

  “Nay, but I am in need of your help.” Hannish stood next to his brother and folded his arms. “‘Tis about Olivia.”

  “The lass you married in Scotland?” Thomas asked.

  “Aye, the lass I stupidly married in Scotland. You have greatly honored me by not mentionin’ her since you came to America, and I thank you for it.”

  “There was no need. We dinna like her and were pleased when you sent her away,” said Thomas.

  “What wife?” a confused Ben asked.

  “Forgive me, I forgot you dinna know,” Hannish said. “When I was not much older than you, I unwisely married a lass who sought only position and wealth. Too late, I discovered she was a bigamist with four husbands before me, and only one had divorced her. She uses many different names, so we call her ‘the duchess’.”

  Samuel whistled through his teeth, “Four husbands?”

  Hannish continued, “She is Blair’s natural mother. Six years ago, the duchess threatened to take Blair.” Samuel started to ask another question, but Hannish held up his hand to stop him. “I shall explain later. To keep her away from Blair, I had the duchess put in a lunatic asylum and yesterday, she escaped. Therefore, we must assume she is on her way here.”

  The disgruntled Provost shook his head. “I knew that lass to be trouble from the moment I lay eyes on her.”

  “Does Blair know?” Samuel asked.

  “She knows she is adopted, but she knows nothin’ of her mother and we wis
h to keep it that way.”

  “Is that wise?” Provost MacGreagor asked.

  “Possibly not,” Hannish answered. “Yet, what do we tell her? Is there one among us who wishes to hear his mother is a lunatic?”

  “I see your meaning,” the Provost conceded. He began to look all the other men in the eye one by one. “Ye best not tell your wives. Some of them…one or two…have taken up Abigail Whitfield’s practices.”

  “It best not be my wife,” Thomas MacGreagor said.

  “I’m not sayin’ whose wife ‘tis, just sayin’ we best keep this amongst we lads,” the Provost held.

  “What would you have us do?” Cowan asked.

  “Keep an eye out for the duchess,” Hannish answered. “If you spot her, do nothin’ but send word and I shall handle the matter. I caution you, she is dangerous.”

  “How dangerous?” Ben asked.

  Hannish answered, “She shot a train conductor.”

  Lorne’s eyes widened. “There’s a story we have not heard.”

  “Nor have I the time to tell it just now,” Hannish muttered.

  “What does she look like?” Samuel asked.

  “She looks just like Blair,” Cameron answered.

  “Can we not take turns watchin’ the train station?” Cobb asked.

  The Provost stroked his beard. “I like watchin’ the trains come and go, and I’ve little to do otherwise.”

  “What about before and after school?” Thomas asked.

  “Dugan shall drive the school wagon. He knows the duchess well. Yet, if you be near there, ridin’ past the high school would do no harm.”

  “Bless be when school lets out and the children tend the spring plantin’,” said the Provost. “Blair will be a stayin’ home then.”

  “True, but that might be worse,” Hannish admitted. “We cannae keep Blair home and she shall want to visit her friends often.”

  “Suppose Blair’s mother tries to take Justin instead?” Ben asked.

  Hannish closed his eyes, and put a hand on his forehead. “I had not thought of that. She knows about Justin. She sent a letter congratulating me after his birth.”