Newport: A Novel Page 3

  CHAPTER

  4

  Jim nearly tripped over a small marble statue of the Three Graces as he and Adrian followed the black-and-white-uniformed maid through Liriodendron’s foyer.

  “Steady, Mr. Reid.” Adrian caught him with a firm hand beneath the elbow.

  “What’s it doing at knee level where no one can see it?” Jim glared down at the offending sculpture. Arms entwined about each other’s naked bodies, the Graces paid him no heed.

  “It’s art,” Adrian said. “It’s not accountable to you.”

  Art or not, Jim thought there was too much of it. He was as big a fan of conspicuous wealth as the next man, but how could a body ever rest at ease in a place that felt more like a museum than a home? He craned his neck to peer into a side parlor as they passed by. Just as he’d suspected, one couldn’t hope to settle comfortably on the plush sofa there. A fierce gray Zeus posed in a nearby alcove, threatening to hurl thunderbolts at the slightest provocation.

  This was not to deny that Liriodendron was beautiful. It was, in an old-fashioned, lavender-and-crepe sort of way. It reminded Jim of afternoon teas in downtown Boston hotels, where powdered matrons sipped sweet weak oolong from paper-thin porcelain cups and stubbornly denied the existence of a chaotic world outside.

  He let out a low whistle as they passed through the French doors leading to the ballroom. Although acquiring an escape like Liriodendron was a privilege few could afford, at least the breathtaking ocean vista sparkling beyond the wall-to-wall windows was still available to all, free of charge.

  The outside of the house was every bit as grand as the inside. Fragrance from a thousand flowers hypnotized, and colors bloomed pure and clean against a vibrant green carpet of grass.

  Jim stopped for a moment to take it all in, quite sure that he could happily adjust to living this close to heaven. The click of footsteps against flagstone terrace jarred him from his reverie. Adrian now walked well ahead, led by the little housemaid, who every now and then shyly grinned up at him.

  Jim turned his back on paradise and jogged to catch up.

  The terrace wrapped around to the right of the ballroom, bordered on its edge by a waist-high stone retaining wall. An elegant wrought-iron table sat beside the wall, a silver coffee service on it hinting that, at the very least, one might expect to get a good cup of java before leaving.

  Not as cheering was the sight of Chloe Chapman Dinwoodie, draped across a chair like a discarded fur throw. A man with a head of graying blond hair stood behind her, one hand tapping a regular rhythm against her shoulder.

  The stiff arm the man extended toward Adrian might have been attached to a wooden soldier. “Nicholas Chapman.” His voice hit the ground before Jim and Adrian had even stopped walking. “My sister, Lady Dinwoodie. You, I believe, are my father’s attorneys. We know why you’re here. It’s vital that we speak with you before my father joins us.”

  Adrian returned the handshake as if such abrupt greetings were the height of propriety. “Adrian de la Noye. Allow me to introduce my associate, James Reid.”

  A cloud crossed Lady Dinwoodie’s face. “Have we met?” she asked, confusion lacing her words.

  Adrian accepted her limply proffered hand with an apologetic smile. “I’m sure I’d remember the honor, madam.”

  “Oh.” She withdrew her hand and settled back in the chair, brow still furrowed.

  “We have little time, so I must be blunt,” Nicholas said, although it was obvious that he was seldom otherwise. “I’m sorry you’ve wasted a trip, but it will be quite impossible to change our father’s will.”

  Adrian raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Chapman has been my client for many years. I am at his service.”

  “No, you don’t understand. Our father is not in his right mind.”

  “He’s nuts,” Lady Dinwoodie added helpfully.

  “Ah.” Adrian rocked back on his heels. “And why do you think this?”

  Nicholas jerked his head to the left as wheels on gravel sounded from the side of the house. “My sources say you’re a smart man, Mr. de la Noye. I’m sure you’ll see for yourself.”

  A man in a wheelchair rolled into view, accompanied by a striking dark-haired woman in a red dress. It didn’t require a formal introduction to know that this was Bennett Chapman, millionaire many times over.

  Although seated in a wheelchair, Bennett Chapman looked as fit as could be expected for a man of nearly eighty years. His white hair was plentiful, his beard trimmed close to his face. He looked as if he’d spent a lifetime working near the sea, for his complexion was ruddy and his chest and shoulders still broad. In fact, he wore the uniform of a commodore, although it wasn’t clear why: Bennett Chapman had never served on any vessel more official than his personal yacht.

  But even if his body had aged, Chapman’s eyes still demanded attention. Blue and penetrating, they seemed capable of peeling away the layers surrounding any story until a kernel of truth was exposed. Nicholas and Chloe had each inherited the color but not the intensity of that gaze. Nicholas’s eyes darted from side to side as he inspected each person in the group; Chloe’s looked likely to fill with tears at the merest perceived slight.

  “Mr. de la Noye!” Bennett Chapman’s voice gusted across the terrace like a strong north wind. “And this would be the praiseworthy Mr. Reid I’ve already heard too much about. Damn, Adrian, did you take the slowest route possible to get here? I see that my children have insinuated themselves into your good graces. Meet my intended, Miss Catharine Walsh.”

  Jim squinted toward Miss Walsh. She was no coed, but he thought her a looker all the same. If he had to guess, he’d say she was younger than both Nicholas and Lady Dinwoodie. And if first impressions of her determined mouth and spectacular figure held true, the Katzenjammer Kids had met their match. Here was a lady who wouldn’t be easily steamrolled.

  But suddenly Miss Walsh’s Cupid’s bow lips dropped open. Her dark eyes widened. Jim followed her gaze straight to Adrian, who pulled back as if pricked by a thorn. Miss Walsh regained her composure quickly, covering her slip by offering a graceful hand in greeting.

  “So pleased to meet you, Mr. de la Noye,” she said, and the even pitch of her voice made it clear that she intended to remain fully in charge of the matters at hand.

  The smile she turned toward Jim packed maximum wattage. “And you, Mr. Reid. How kind of you to make this trip out to Newport on Mr. Chapman’s behalf.” Her hand rested in his and, for a minute, it was hard for him to think about anything else as he met her liquid gaze.

  “Catharine, meet the children,” Bennett Chapman ordered, and Miss Walsh was gone, leaving behind only a trace of perfume.

  Adrian’s stare remained fastened on Catharine Walsh as she strolled across the terrace. Jim was not surprised to see the look of dismay on his face. Adrian had little patience for melodrama, and what had begun as a cut-and-dried task was rapidly sinking into a tangled family saga more commonly found in a dime novel. A flush had deepened his coloring. Then, with a slight shake of his head, Adrian returned his full attention to the scene unfolding before them.

  “Catharine, I present Nicholas and Chloe.” Bennett rolled himself to Miss Walsh’s side. “Not much to look at, but I’m obliged to claim them. Children, my bride-to-be.”

  A grimace splashed across Chloe’s face. Nicholas’s glare flicked over and past Miss Walsh as he turned abruptly to address his father. Miss Walsh paled and clasped her hands behind her back, making it clear that no friendly hand would have been presented to him even had he wanted it.

  “You’re in no state to marry,” Nicholas told his father. “You’re lucky we haven’t carted you away, put you someplace where people can prevent you from making stupid decisions like this.”

  “And you’re lucky I don’t beat the stuffing out of you,” Bennett Chapman said. “God, you’re an obnoxious prick, Nicky. Always have been.”

  “Do you see what I mean, Mr. de la Noye?” Nicholas Chapman demanded. Chloe slumped in h
er chair, the perfect picture of despair, but her reaction might have been due more to a hangover than to any deep emotional pain. Miss Walsh remained still, as regal and proud as a figurehead on a ship.

  Adrian walked toward the coffeepot on the table. “May I?” he asked, lifting it.

  “Oh, by all means,” Bennett Chapman said. “And pour me one while you’re at it.”

  “My God!” Nicholas exploded. “This isn’t a damn garden party!”

  “Well, it’s meant to be, you newt,” Bennett Chapman said. “It’s not my fault you and your sister decided to intrude. I didn’t invite you.”

  Nicholas took a step toward Adrian. “Mr. de la Noye, I implore you.”

  Adrian concentrated on the steady stream of coffee flowing from pot to cup. “Although there are many who would insist otherwise, willingly entering into the state of matrimony is not de facto proof of insanity. Your father’s decision to marry is not necessarily the product of a deranged mind.”

  “Damn.” Bennett Chapman stared up at the sky. “So they’ve decided I’m cuckoo, have they?”

  Nicholas ignored him. “Oh, it is in this case, I assure you. If I could speak with you and Mr. Reid privately . . .”

  Adrian passed the coffee cup to Bennett Chapman. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Your father is my client, not you. Coffee, Miss Walsh?” Their eyes locked. Adrian quirked an eyebrow, a silent question that Jim suspected had absolutely nothing to do with coffee.

  Miss Walsh turned away to study the sea. “No, thank you,” she said.

  “Oh, Nicky, who cares about privacy?” Chloe’s hand flopped over the side of her chair. “Do you think this little gold digger deserves it? Go ahead and ask Pop the question. Just do it.”

  A muscle twitched at one side of Nicholas’s mouth. “All right, although it doesn’t sit well to expose the family’s warts in public. Father, suppose you tell these gentlemen exactly why you’ve asked Miss Walsh to marry you.”

  Jim fumbled the cup and saucer Adrian had just handed him. The elder Mr. Chapman was a little too comfortable spewing the unvarnished truth. One could only hope he would apply some tact to his answer.

  But Bennett Chapman seemed to change before their eyes. Instead of the fiercely outspoken man who’d rolled himself out onto the terrace, a dreamy man settled back in the wheelchair, eyes glistening with tears.

  “Why, Nicky,” he said in a soft voice. “I explained all this to both you and Chloe when I telephoned to announce our engagement. I thought you understood.”

  “Explain it once again.”

  Bennett Chapman cradled his cup in both hands. His expression, so fearsome only a second before, took on the defenseless cast of a child. “Your mother wishes it,” he mumbled into his drink.

  Chloe’s pale skin flamed pink. Nicholas’s fingertips whitened against her shoulder.

  Jim took a quick swig of coffee as the missing puzzle piece of information clicked into place. No wonder the younger Chapmans were so prickly. Nobody in society wanted to admit to the stain of divorce in the family. Even Adrian had stiffened, although Jim couldn’t imagine that this was information he didn’t already know.

  “I’m sorry.” Adrian’s tone was gentle. “But, Mr. Chapman, could you repeat that for me?”

  Bennett Chapman raised brimming eyes to meet Adrian’s question.

  “Of course I’ll repeat it, Mr. de la Noye. I’m not ashamed. Elizabeth—my first wife—told me to marry Miss Walsh. She not only endorses this union, but blesses it. And, as I am to marry Miss Walsh, it is only fitting that I amend my will to reflect her importance in my life. Elizabeth feels very strongly about that as well.”

  Adrian set his coffee cup down onto the table. His stare landed hard on Catharine Walsh, as insistent and unavoidable as a guiding hand to the chin. Lesser men had faltered under this wordless inquisition, but Miss Walsh met it full on, locking her gaze in his until the two seemed intertwined. A breath of wind gusted between them, raising the hair on their heads and sending Miss Walsh’s skirt swirling against her legs.

  “You needn’t waste your time in confrontation, Mr. de la Noye.” Nicholas Chapman’s voice broke the standoff. “She’ll admit to nothing. But I’m sure she knows as well as you do that Mother died over thirty-five years ago.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  Adrian pulled away from Catharine Walsh’s magnetic stare, forcing himself back to the business at hand. His mind rapidly sifted through facts. He’d spoken to Bennett Chapman via telephone only last week. The man had seemed perfectly sane then, had even relayed his corporation’s stellar quarterly financial figures.

  “Crossed over, perhaps, but certainly not gone,” Bennett said now. “Is it so difficult to believe that my Elizabeth would stay in touch with the husband she adored?”

  “It’s difficult to believe she’d stay in touch with anyone at all.” Chloe fumbled for the flask in her garter, apparently thought better of it, and reached for a cigarette instead.

  As his client looked dreamily out at the horizon, Adrian recalled that there had indeed been something unusual about that last telephone conversation: Bennett Chapman had been very nearly pleasant. In fact, he’d sounded so different from his usual dour self that Adrian had mentioned it to Constance just before dinner that evening.

  He suddenly remembered her response. “He’s in love,” she had said, carefully lighting the dining room candles as she did every night.

  “Ah, women.” He’d smiled as soft candlelight enveloped them. “Always ready to assume romance in any situation. What makes you so certain that our Mr. Chapman has a paramour?”

  “Oh, nothing so tawdry as a paramour, Adrian. A sweetheart, perhaps.” Her brow had puckered in concentration over the last stubborn wick. A wisp of pale hair escaped a hairpin to rest against her cheek. Adrian reached out to tenderly tuck it behind her ear, breath catching as she caught his hand and pressed it firmly against her heart. Caught off guard, he’d pulled her closer, the insistent echo of his own heart more than pleased to give away the depth of his longing.

  “Why, darling!” Constance had curled against him. “Shall I hold dinner?”

  He’d pulled in a deep breath, regaining his composure before dropping a soft kiss onto her lips. “Constance, my dear—the children,” he’d whispered, raising her gaze with a gentle finger beneath her chin. “They’ll be down at any moment.”

  Constance had squeezed his hand before releasing it. “My dearest Adrian,” she’d said with a sigh. “You keep so much bundled up inside. You needn’t, you know; you’re perfectly safe with me. Anyway, Mr. Chapman’s romantic state is obvious. Do men honestly believe they achieve contentment on their own? Without good women behind you, you’re a troubled lot, always searching for peace. Mr. Chapman has been an unpleasant blowhard for years. You say that today he was jocular, eager to make conversation—he’s in love.”

  As usual, Constance would not be surprised to learn she was right. But as Adrian watched Bennett absently pat his fiancée’s hand, he was willing to bet that Catharine Walsh was not the cause of the anxious longing etched into the old man’s face.

  “Need we continue this conversation?” Nicholas asked in a low voice. “My father’s state of mind should be obvious to you both.”

  “Sir.” Jim Reid set his coffee cup on the table and crouched before the wheelchair until he and Bennett Chapman were nearly eye to eye. “When was the last time you . . . spoke . . . to Mrs. Chapman?”

  “When was that, Catharine? Two nights ago?”

  “Where did this conversation take place?” Coming from Jim, the question verged on innocent. With his long limbs and open Irish face, he was as unthreatening as a puppy.

  Bennett Chapman inched himself forward in his wheelchair, eager to share. “In the parlor. How Elizabeth would have loved that room had she lived to see it! I don’t know how they bring her to me, Mr. Reid, but it’s a miracle . . . amazing.”

  “‘They’?”

  “Catharine’s got
something to do with it, but it’s her niece, Amy, who really accomplishes the feat. She just has a way about her that calls Elizabeth back to speak.”

  Both Chloe and Nicholas had turned a chalky shade of white. This time Chloe did draw out her flask, and nobody made a move to stop her.

  Jim set a reassuring hand on the old man’s knee. “Are we talking spiritualism here, sir?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what you’d call it. I don’t even care. It brings Elizabeth back, and that’s all that matters.”

  “It’s . . . it’s a séance, then.” Chloe gulped.

  Adrian drew back, stunned. This was an old trick. False spiritualists had delivered messages from “the beyond” for decades, feeding eager patrons exactly what they wished to hear in exchange for profit.

  He turned slowly toward Catharine, pinning her with a cold stare. “Miss Walsh, I’d like to pursue this matter further with you. Privately, if you’d be so kind.”

  Her face remained an exquisitely controlled mask. “I’ve no doubt that you would, Mr. de la Noye.” She pronounced each syllable of his name with studied precision. “But I’m sure you’ll understand when I refuse your request.”

  For a moment her features wavered in his vision, contorted by a slow, simmering anger that started somewhere behind his eyes and threatened to boil over. He pulled in a deep breath and, through sheer force of will, harnessed his tongue.

  A small whirlwind of yellow and pink flew between them, coming to a stop at Catharine’s side. “So sorry I’m late,” it trilled.

  “Father, who is this?” Nicholas demanded sharply.

  “Why”—Bennett Chapman broke from his daze—“it’s Amy. Amy Walsh. She’s Catharine’s niece. Weren’t you listening, you dolt? I just mentioned her name.”

  Amy Walsh looked as if she’d fallen from a doll maker’s shelf. She was a tiny fairy of a young woman with wide blue eyes and delicate skin. Despite the current rage for bobbed coiffure, her blond hair cascaded over her shoulders in whimsical curls. She wore a smart pink frock and white T-bar shoes, which showed off her neat figure and pretty legs to perfection.