A Sense of Entitlement (A Hattie Davish Mystery)

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “He’s known about this for weeks and he promised that he would attend. I even invited Maestro Jacobi because he favors him. Is it too much to ask?” Davies and I remained silent, both knowing a rhetorical question when we heard one. Without another word, she walked away.

  “She’s quite disappointed,” I said as Mr. Davies straightened some nearby silverware.

  “Yes, she does seem rather”—the butler hesitated, obviously searching for the most appropriate word—“put out.”

  “Mr. Mayhew’s snub of his wife’s party definitely qualifies as a reason to feel put out,” I said.

  “I’m sure the master had his reasons,” Davies said, defending his employer while shaking his head.

  “She’s put out by more than her husband snubbing the party, if you ask me,” the footman James said as he walked past carrying a tray of crystal goblets. “Where’s Mrs. Astor? We’re still not good enough for that great lady?”

  “James!” Mr. Davies scolded. “Yours is not the place to comment. Now put the goblets over there.”

  “Isn’t the music delightful?” Britta said, standing next to me. With our duties temporarily at a lull, several of the maids and I crowded at the end of the third-floor hallway. With the window cracked open, we listened to the music and peered down at the party scene below. The musicians had begun only a few minutes ago. Earlier, people had mingled on the lawn, sipping champagne and eating the picnic fare: salmon croquettes, lobster mayonnaise sandwiches cut into leaf shapes, minced ham roll sandwiches in purple silk ribbons, a variety of custards, cakes, fruits, ices, and cheese. Lady Phillippa was there, as were the two girls I’d met in the hall yesterday, Cora Mayhew and her friend Eugenie Whitwell. I had spied Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy almost immediately. Except for the fact that Miss Lucy was thinner and Miss Lizzie was more plump, the two elderly sisters looked exactly the same as I remembered them.

  Now that everyone was seated I could get a good look at the woman named Mrs. Grice seated with them. Dressed in an expensive but simple gray and white lawn dress and wide-brimmed straw hat with white egret feathers, she sat ramrod straight, barely moving except her head and thin neck a bit from side to side when the necessity arose. She appeared to be in her early sixties, and her well-coiffed hair was silver, her skin pale and surprisingly smooth but for deep wrinkles at the corners of her mouth—a permanent scowl on her face. Not an easily approachable woman, I thought. And then she smiled at something Miss Lizzie said. It transformed the woman’s proud, haughty demeanor and I couldn’t deny the resemblance to Walter. Could one of his relatives be in Newport? Wasn’t his family from St. Louis? Maybe he had an aunt or distant cousin from out east. But why was she sitting with Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy?

  Crash!

  Something below us, a tray of glassware from the sound of it, had smashed to the ground. The music stopped. Britta and the other housemaids bolted down the stairs, knowing they were responsible for cleaning up what was now lying in pieces on the floor. I stayed where I was and watched Mrs. Mayhew signal for the music to continue as Nick Whitwell, a glass of champagne in his hand, staggered into view. He threw the glass, sending it shattering to the ground, and then grabbed someone else’s glass at the nearest table. Crossing the lawn, he continued drinking from or tipping over every glass within his reach, creating havoc and general disapproval as he went. Cora and Eugenie, as one, leaped up and confronted Nick. He tossed his straw hat at them. It sailed past the girls and landed in the custard on a young gentleman’s plate. The man laughed, but the girls, both glaring at Nick, grabbed him, each taking an arm. As they steered him to his seat at Mrs. Mayhew’s table, I could see the front of him for the first time. His tie was undone and a streak of spilt red wine darkened the front of his white shirt and tan waistcoat. I shivered. It looked like blood.

  Eugenie and Cora pushed Nick into his seat next to a middle-aged couple. If I hadn’t remembered their names from the seating chart, their furious expressions and resemblance to the drunken man would’ve told me they were Mr. and Mrs. Harland Whitwell, Nick’s parents. I’d recognized Mr. Whitwell from the Newport Casino a few days ago; he’d arrived with five of his gold-banded Cuban cigars and now only had two. I hadn’t known until now that he was related to the rude young man who had accosted me in the hallway. I was beginning to realize that Newport’s high society consisted of a small but elite inner circle. I looked again at Mrs. Julia Grice. Could it be—?

  “Hattie,” Britta called from the stairwell. “Mrs. Crankshaw is looking for you.” I immediately descended the stairs and found the housekeeper in her office off the Servants’ Hall.

  “Right!” she said when she saw me. “This urgent telegram arrived a few minutes ago for one of the guests, but all of the footmen are serving. I want you to give it to Mr. Davies. I’d do it, but I found the maids loitering and I have to keep an eye on them. I don’t take well to loitering.”

  “Of course,” I said, glancing at the name on the envelope, Harland Whitwell. “But isn’t there a telegraph operators’ strike going on?”

  “You ask too many questions, Miss Davish, but yes, that’s why this can’t wait until after the party. It was wired to Providence and then delivered by post. It’s two days old already. Now go!”

  I ran upstairs and found Mr. Davies coordinating the serving of the second dessert course, fruit ices served on a bed of frozen calendula petals, and gave him the telegraph. I watched from the buffet table as the butler found Mr. Whitwell and stood by waiting to deliver the note. Mr. Whitwell was arguing with his son. I couldn’t hear the words, but the father’s face was red and tiny beads of spittle clung to the corners of his mouth. He was furious. His wife, Mrs. Jane Whitwell, a plain, round-faced woman in her mid-fifties, who looked slightly ridiculous in her very expensive but very youthful pink and white lawn dress of puffy sleeves, flouncing lace, rosebuds, and wide silk bows, placed her hand on his arm, gently restraining him. Suddenly Nick leaped up.

  “To hell with you then!” he shouted.

  He pushed his way through the tables, knocking over a serving table, and staggered across the lawn toward the ocean. He kicked at one of the peacocks, sending the bird skittering away. I was glad that Bonaparte was nowhere to be seen. Cora and Eugenie stood to follow. Mrs. Mayhew caught Cora’s eye and shook her head. Cora and then Eugenie sat down again, both following Nick’s progress with their eyes. Mrs. Mayhew turned back to face the music. Mr. Davies, as if nothing had happened, leaned over and offered Mr. Whitwell the telegram. After reading the telegram, Mr. Whitwell shook his head, said something to his wife, and threw his napkin onto the table. He took his leave of Mrs. Mayhew, who, quite put out by yet another disruption, ripped the skin from her bottom lip with her teeth as she took his hand. Mr. Whitwell whispered something in her ear, patting her gently on the back. She nodded and smiled as they parted. He dashed by me, as fast as a man needing the use of a cane can dash, as he left.

  Not having to guess the nature of the argument between father and son, I wondered what was in the telegram. First Sir Arthur, then Mr. Mayhew, and now Mr. Whitwell. They had all received news that prompted immediate departures. Sir Arthur had urgent family business in England. From what Lady Phillippa had said, Sir Arthur’s father, the Viscount, was gravely ill. But what about Mr. Mayhew and Mr. Whitwell? As they were self-made men of industry and banking, respectively, I could assume business had called them away. Or was there something to Mrs. Mayhew’s suspicions? Mr. Mayhew had arrived a day earlier than she knew and then left a day earlier than she’d planned. And I hadn’t forgotten about the incident with the trunk. I shook my head, annoyed with myself. Obviously my mind was too idle as I stood here waiting for Mrs. Mayhew’s word. I needed to find something more constructive to do than speculate about the lives of the people I worked for and their friends. If only I could go work on Sir Arthur’s manuscript. A few hours of typing would straighten me out.

  “Miss Davish.” Mr. Davies saying my name pulled me out of my own thoughts.

/>   “Yes,” I said.

  “Mrs. Mayhew would like to see you when the music is done.”

  “Yes, of course.” Mr. Davies went back to his duties while I waited where I was. Biding my time, I tapped my foot to the beat of the jaunty waltz the musicians began to play. Instantly I was taken back to my early childhood, before my mother’s death, when she would play Irish jigs on the old fiddle she brought with her on the boat. My father would dance, or at least attempt to, making us both laugh by his uncoordinated, flailing moves. Looking back, I realized that after her death my father never allowed music in our house. Thus I never learned to play piano like other girls. I’d used my dexterous fingers to learn to type instead. What happened to her fiddle? I wondered.

  “Miss Davish,” Davies hissed. Startled out of my reverie, I realized the music had stopped and people were politely applauding. Everyone stood and formed little groups on the lawn.

  “Thank you, Mr. Davies,” I said. “Seems I too was caught up in the music.” He nodded as I passed and made my way to Mrs. Mayhew’s side.

  “You asked for me, ma’am?” I said.

  “Davish, there are some ladies here who—”

  “Hattie, dear!” Miss Lizzie cried. She wrapped her arms around me and kissed me on both cheeks. My face flushed with embarrassment. I adored Miss Lizzie and was happy to see her, but such a display of affection wasn’t appropriate in front of Mrs. Mayhew. From her expression, Mrs. Mayhew was as surprised as I was.

  “Oh, let the girl breathe, Lizzie,” Miss Lucy chided.

  “We’re just so happy to see you,” Miss Lizzie said. “Aren’t we, Lucy?”

  “You know each other?” Mrs. Mayhew asked.

  “Oh, yes. Hattie discovered who killed our dear leader, Mother Trevelyan, last fall.” An awkward silence ensued. Murder wasn’t a polite topic of conversation at a garden party.

  “Oh, ah, yes, well. I had heard about that. I didn’t realize that the secretary in question was my own Miss Davish,” Mrs. Mayhew said. She stole a quick glance at me, her expression unreadable, before turning back to the elderly sisters. “How awful for you ladies.”

  “Yes, but Davish bore the brunt of it,” Miss Lucy said. She looked me up and down. “Still worn-out, I see. I’ve seen old boots on a military man look better. Don’t you ever sleep, Davish?” I smiled. They hadn’t changed a bit.

  “We had no idea you would be here, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “But then I saw you standing over there in the doorway. Your last letter said you were still working with Arthur on his book.”

  “As you can see, she’s working for me now,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “I quite rely on her, you know.” The old ladies nodded their approval. I tried not to blush at the compliment, but inside I reveled in the praise. “Lady Phillippa is here if you’d like to inquire about Sir Arthur. I do believe he had to rush off to England on urgent business.”

  “That would explain him giving you up, Davish,” Miss Lucy said. “Can’t think of any other reason.”

  “You gave us a delightful surprise,” Miss Lizzie said. “Now we get to return the favor. Julia, dear, there’s someone we’d like you to meet.” This last comment was directed at the woman wearing the wide-brimmed hat with egret feathers who had been sitting with them. I coveted the older woman’s hat but not her attitude. The music and fine food had done nothing to relax her pinched mouth.

  “Miss Hattie Davish, may I present you to Mrs. Julia Grice,” Miss Lizzie said. “Dr. Grice’s mother.” My heart raced, my breath became rapid and shallow, and my fingers began to tingle.

  Is Walter here as well?

  Without thinking, I glanced about me, looking for him, and was rewarded not by a sighting of Walter but with a frown from his mother. Of course he wasn’t here. I would’ve seen his name on the guest list. I returned my attention to the woman in front of me.

  How extraordinary, I thought, to meet Walter’s mother not in Eureka Springs or St. Louis but in Newport. Quickly I grew self-conscious as the woman waited silently, staring at me. Was she expecting me to speak first? What should I say to Walter’s mother? First impressions were so important.

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” I said, trying to keep the tremor from my voice.

  “Hmm, yes, well,” Mrs. Grice said. There was no easy smile for me.

  “I trust Dr. Grice is well?” I asked.

  “Yes, Walter is quite well, thank you.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. As on many occasions before, Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy saved me from my predicament.

  “Mrs. Grice is our guest at Moffat Cottage, dear. We met this winter while she was visiting Dr. Grice in Eureka and we invited her to visit us this summer.”

  “But don’t be looking over our shoulders for the good doctor,” Miss Lucy said perceptively. “Dr. Grice was too busy to join her.” I had to consciously not let my disappointment show.

  “And how do you come to know my son?” Mrs. Grice said. It almost sounded like an accusation.

  What could I say? That I’d met him during a saloon smashing? That he’d carried me through the streets of Eureka Springs when I’d been unconscious after a fall? That he left her side at Christmastime and traveled across the country when he thought I needed him? That he was joining me for an early morning rendezvous when we discovered a dead man? That every letter he’d ever sent was preciously preserved in a locked box that traveled with me everywhere? What could I say but, “We met in Eureka Springs. At the same time as I met Miss Shaw and Mrs. Fry.”

  “And he was sweet on her too, wasn’t he, dear?” Miss Lizzie said.

  My cheeks burned with embarrassment as Mrs. Grice’s eyes flared open and she pursed her lips even tighter.

  “I don’t think so. A servant?” Mrs. Grice declared indignantly.

  “But Julia, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, confusion registering on her face.

  “Lovely party, Charlotte,” Miss Lucy said, suddenly changing the subject.

  Mrs. Mayhew looked at Julia Grice and then at me. Mrs. Mayhew’s countenance was tranquil, all but her lower lip, which she was biting again, a sure sign of her indignation.

  “Thank you, Miss Lucy, but I would have Mrs. Grice know that Miss Davish is not a simple servant. She is an extremely capable social secretary who comes highly recommended. She has worked in the best of households and I can say with confidence that only the best work for me.” Whether she was simply defending her choice in staff or whether she actually believed what she was saying, I silently thanked Mrs. Mayhew for her confidence in me. I could see now why Mr. Davies and Mrs. Crankshaw would not hear a negative word about their mistress. She’d earned their loyalty. I only hoped I could live up to her ideal. “And I believe she could easily find many an eligible bachelor who could be sweet on her. Even my own Cora’s fiancé, Nicholas, mentioned her charms.”

  I shivered at the thought of Nick Whitwell talking of me to his future mother-in-law. Which charms had he mentioned? My callused fingers? My helplessness? My fear? He was not one I’d considered eligible for anything but being a drunken brute.

  “I meant no disrespect to you, Mrs. Mayhew,” Mrs. Grice said, smiling. How lovely her face was when she smiled. Just like Walter, I thought. She glanced my way, hesitating, wanting to say something to me, but instead frowned slightly, then added, “Thank you for a lovely afternoon.” Mrs. Mayhew nodded.

  “Yes, lovely party, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, nervously picking up three bonbons in the candy basket on the table next to her. She popped one into her mouth. “And such a beautiful house. I do so love the peacocks.”

  “Thank you. You’re excused, Miss Davish,” Mrs. Mayhew said.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said, nodding my farewells to the other women. I was relieved to be able to return to the house and the typing I had to do. As I retreated toward the house, the women continued chatting mindlessly about the delightful view, the ingenious colored gelatin molds the ice cream was served in, the lovely weather.

 
; “Wherever did you find so many hollyhocks?” I heard Mrs. Grice ask.

  Could my first meeting with Walter’s mother have gone worse? I didn’t think so. I’d warned Walter from the start that we were unevenly matched. How I wished he were here! When I reached the house, I looked back. The cluster of women I’d left had broken up. Mrs. Mayhew was mingling with the other guests; Mrs. Grice had moved on and was speaking with Mrs. Jane Whitwell while a rotund naval captain in full dress uniform had captured Miss Lizzie’s and Miss Lucy’s attention. Miss Lucy caught my eye. I gave her my bravest smile and she winked. I went to my work with a lighter heart and a pledge to write Walter that night.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Come with us, Hattie,” Britta said.

  With dinner over, I was typing at the large desk in my sitting room making progress on Sir Arthur’s manuscript when Britta, Sena the kitchen maid, and James the footman interrupted me.

  “Mrs. Mayhew has given permission for some of us to have a few hours off tonight, since we missed our time off this afternoon. We’re going to the Forty Steps.”

  I’d read about the Forty Steps but hadn’t had the opportunity to see them yet. In my efforts to acquaint myself with my new surroundings, beyond the atlas and city directory, I’d read a tourist guidebook, In and Around Newport 1892, I found among the books in my room. It mentioned the Forty Steps as a “well-known” place that had recently been improved for seeing the “rocks below.” With no other description, I’d been intrigued. With a possible way down from the cliffs to the rocks and their associated plant species beckoning, I couldn’t resist.

  “Thank you, Britta,” I said, slipping my rubber overshoes into a bag along with a few specimen jars and my plant press. “I’d love to join you.”

  We were joined downstairs by a few more maids I’d barely met and one of the groomsmen. As we walked, Sena, a girl of sixteen with fuzzy brown hair, small green eyes, and a bulbous nose, who until this moment had spoken but a few words to me, suddenly began emulating Mrs. Crankshaw by talking fast and asking me questions. Sena skipped along as she did.