Alyssa Maxwell's Blog

Newport, RI, July 1899

Bellevue Avenue teemed with color, fragrance, and a wide-eyed wonderment at the country’s newest technology. It was the summer of 1899, and something extraordinary had arrived on the shores of Aquidneck Island—something that promised to change our world forever.

Overhead, a deep cerulean sky embraced a vista of gleaming, sun-golden clouds, while the deepest greens of the European beech trees swept the avenue’s front lawns and gently grazed the borders of perfectly geometric flowerbeds. But oh, the spectators who had gathered today. A sea of people had turned out in their very best summer attire, wealthy vacationers and workaday Newporters alike having dug deep into their wardrobes, trunks, and cupboards. Seersucker and linen and fine flannel suits for the men. And for the women, silks, cottons and muslins, moirés and taffetas, all in vivid florals and stripes, each outfit topped by a hat sporting blossoms and ribbons and feathers and even whole birds, dyed impossible hues to match the wearer’s attire . . .

“Good gracious, Miss Cross, have you ever seen such frippery?” The speaker hovered at my shoulder, his notepad and pencil at the ready. Ethan Merriman held the position of society journalist for a small local newspaper, the Newport Messenger, and I, Emma Cross, had the unlikely distinction, as a woman, of being his editor-in-chief. “Why, I keep thinking some of these chapeaux are going to take wing and fly right off the wearers’ heads.”

I replied with a laugh and said, “In New York, such hats have been all the rage for some time now.”

“Poor birds,” he cried heartily and scribbled some notes.

I returned my attention to the crowd. It seemed all of Newport lined Bellevue Avenue from Bath Road in town, past the Casino shops and along the fence lines of the city’s most costly properties, all the way to Ledge Road at the very southern tip of Aquidneck Island. Adults stood a good half dozen deep along the sidewalks on either side, and children perched in threes and fours on gate posts and perimeter walls, or straddled the lower boughs of trees.

“Is anything wrong, Miss Cross?” Ethan had stopped scribbling, his pencil held aloft over the page while he studied my expression.

Had I forgotten to school my features? It seemed, at least to me, that only one individual in this happy multitude was experiencing twinges of apprehension and finding it necessary to admonish herself time and again not to show it. Experience in recent years had left me cynical of such crowds; hard lessons had taught me at best to suspect the antics of our wealthy summer cottagers, and at worst, to dread them.

“It’s nothing, Ethan. Just something I . . . need to do when I return to the office.”

“You should enjoy yourself, Miss Cross. Parades like this don’t come about every day, you know. And there’s that fat envelope you’ll receive at the end.”

“You’re absolutely right.” The envelope he spoke of would contain a portion of the entrance fee from the participants of the parade. Today’s event wasn’t merely for the entertainment of Newport’s citizens, but would raise funds for several charities, including one near to my heart, St. Nicholas Orphanage in Providence. Ethan was right, and I put on a cheerful face for the children’s sake. This seemed to appease him, for he returned to jotting down his observations.

Perhaps I worried for nothing and I’d be proven wrong. Perhaps it was nothing more than that, unlike the colorful multitude, I wore my typical workaday outfit: a dark blue pinstriped skirt and a starched shirtwaist that boasted a mere smidgeon of lace at the collar and a bit of ribbon piping at the cuffs. My plain straw boater sat straight and smart on my head, my hair pulled back into a tidy French knot. I hardly presented an aspect one would consider festive.

But as a working woman, I had learned not to compete with the ladies of the Four Hundred, that elite number of guests who fit comfortably into Caroline Astor’s New York ballroom, and which had come to define the parameters of society’s most prominent members. My wearing anything approaching finery today would have been an affront to their sensibilities, an impertinent suggestion that I might be as good as they. Never mind that I was a cousin of the Vanderbilt family; that I was the great, great granddaughter of the first Cornelius.

Unfortunately for me, or perhaps fortunately, depending on one’s point of view, I traced my lineage through one of the “Commodore’s” daughters, and that formidable old curmudgeon hadn’t believed in leaving much of anything to women. My lack of fortune combined with the benevolence of a great aunt who had left me with a house and a small annuity had led me to what I considered my vocation and a measure of independence most women never dreamed of.

Speaking of my vocation, I very nearly opened my velvet handbag—rather threadbare at the edges, to be sure—to dig out my own writing tablet and nub of a pencil. It had become a professional habit during the past several years. But as editor-in-chief of the Messenger, a position I’d come into last summer, I was no longer required to tale meticulous notes on every frock that entered my field of vision, or the height and shape of every boot heel, or which young lady held the arm of which eligible gentleman. That responsibility belonged to Ethan, and I knew I could trust him to make a fine job of it.

“I should move through the crowd now,” he said, and I waved him on. His dark hair slick with Macassar oil, he weaved his tall figure along the sidewalk, his pencil flying across his notepad. From time to time he stopped to speak with this or that spectator and jotted down his or her reply. He possessed an unerring sense of which of our summer denizens sold the most papers to our readers. And yet it was with a twinge of envy, one I couldn’t entirely explain, that I watched him go.

I threaded my own way through the milling spectators, stopping periodically to chat with friends and acquaintances. For a penny I purchased a small bundle of roasted peanuts from a vendor cart. In vain I searched the faces around me for Nanny, my housekeeper, and Katie, my maid-of-all work, who had ridden to town in my carriage with me earlier. I couldn’t find them but never mind, we had an agreed upon place where we would meet later.

The crowd stirred with a tremor of excitement, like an electrical current that shivered through the air. Once again, a vague foreboding rose up inside me, and I found myself bracing for . . . I didn’t know what, only that it would not be anything good. Then, a woman with dark, curly hair piled high beneath a hat sporting a bird as large as a cormorant approached one of the objects of Newport’s present fascination.

I could not have said what color the Duryea Runabout automobile might have been. Giant bunches of blue and pink hydrangeas bedecked every outer inch of the vehicle, along with an artificial tree sprouting American Beauty roses growing behind the leather seat. My relative, Alva Belmont, primly mounted the running board and climbed unassisted into the vehicle, where she stood on the floorboards facing out over the line of similarly-decorated vehicles stretched out behind her toward Bath Road. In many respects, these motorcars didn’t appear much different from ordinary carriages, except for the engines mounted beneath the chassis or behind the seats. Aunt Alva had organized today’s event, and now at her signal, the other participants began clambering into their flower-strewn automobiles and readying themselves for Newport’s first-ever auto parade.

Among them I recognized, of course, Vanderbilts and Drexels, Oelrichses and Goelets, Taylors and DeForests and a gaggle more who were brave enough to display their fledging skills at the steering tiller. I noticed Harry Lehr helping a now aging Caroline Astor into his automobile, and Winthrop Rutherford, who had once been my cousin Consuelo’s sweetheart, handing Miss Fifi Potter onto the rich, brocade seat of a Riker Electric Triumph sporting green and white clematis and tiny Japanese lanterns. This was, after all, a competition, and prizes would be awarded to the most gaily decorated autos as well as the most proficient motorists.

Farther down Bellevue Avenue, directly in the path of the vehicles, wooden figures littered the roadway, forming an obstacle course to challenge the drivers’ skills. For more than a week now, our summer cottagers had been practicing in fields and on their own driveways, resulting in several mishaps, or so my friend Hannah, a nurse at Newport Hospital, had confided to me. Injuries had been minor, thank goodness, and I hoped today would see no further accidents.

Aunt Alva caught my eye, waved, and grinned as she pointed toward a Hartley Steam Four-seater with bright yellow wheel spokes idling not far from me. Brilliant blue cornflowers enveloped the vehicle, with an umbrella of the same blossoms shading the front and back bench seats. Three individuals stood beside the auto, their heads together in some inaudible but fierce debate. I grinned back at Aunt Alva, understanding.

I couldn’t resist moving closer to the Hartley. The engine puttered and tufts of steam panted from its exhaust pipe, while the chassis shivered on its wheels as if with pent up excitement. I knew each of the individuals continuing their deliberations beside it. They were Newporters, albeit far above my own social and economic standing. The one closest to my own age saw me and offered me an encouraging smile. I approached the group.

“Miss Cross, do lend your efforts to our own in persuading our mother to ride in the parade.” Miss Gwendolen King, only two years my junior, raised an eyebrow and winked with amusement. She wore her golden brown hair upswept into a bun beneath a tilted straw hat crowned with a burst of flowers that matched those on the automobile. Her carriage suit, too, was of a brilliant blue, and the parasol she carried in her gloved hand promised an equally dazzling display once opened. “Mother is being most stubborn and not at all sporting.”

“I hadn’t been aware your family had purchased a motorcar,” I replied with a laugh. As a former society reporter, I still kept track of such happenings. But Gwendolen King knew very well I’d never venture to persuade her mother of anything; it wouldn’t have been my place.

“We certainly have not,” Mrs. Ella King said forcefully and with a pointed glare at the third member of their party, her son, Philip. For a middle aged woman, Mrs. King, a widow these five years past, had retained a slim figure well-suited to the elongating lines of her summer frock, of a paler blue than her daughter’s but which nonetheless complemented the vividness of the cornflowers. Her hair, too, was a lighter blond than Gwendolen’s, partly due to strands of encroaching gray, and framed her face with a middle part. She wore a hat with a large bow and a feather that curled cunningly along the line of her cheek.

Mrs. King’s expression and tone lightened when she spoke again to me. “Nor do I plan to own one, Miss Cross, and you may quote me on that. Give me a sound horse any day. I’d far rather canter across the countryside than motor down an avenue. Really, what is all the fuss about? I don’t believe these contraptions will last as long as the paint covering them. And all the work simply to start them! Fill this tank with water, that tank with gasoline, open this valve, light the pilot—my head positively spins. We didn’t dare turn it off when we arrived. It’s all well and good to dress up a motorcar as we’ve done today for a bit of entertainment, but I hardly believe them dependable when it comes to daily life. What do you think, Miss Cross?”

“I think time will tell, ma’am,” I replied tactfully. In truth, I envied the parade entrants and wished I’d secured an invitation to ride along. I’d ridden in an automobile while in New York City and had found the experience exhilarating, if a bit unnerving. “But I can’t see automobiles ever completely replacing horses.”

Mrs. King gave a little sniff and tugged a lace glove more firmly onto her hand. “I should think not, indeed.”

“Mother gave me no choice but to borrow for the occasion, though I’m eager to exchange my cabriolet for one of these beauties just as soon as can be. An electric one, though, if I have my way.” Twenty-one year old Philip patted the automobile’s rear panel as if stroking a prized horse. And he might have been, for it was obvious he coveted not only a vehicle of his own, but
the status that went along with owning one. His boastful intentions reminded me of my younger cousin Reggie Vanderbilt, a young man with too much time on his hands and too few responsibilities to keep him occupied. And as with Reggie, I detected in Philip’s blue eyes the gleam of craving but no spark of ambition.

Apparently, his mother thought so to, for she said, “If you want an automobile, son, you must choose a profession, work hard, and earn one. But your horse and cabriolet will prove far more trustworthy, mark me on that.”

Philip rolled his eyes and emitted a long-suffering sigh. “Really, Mother, you’re positively archaic. And of course Miss Cross believes motorcars are the wave of the future, as do I and most other people. She’s simply too polite to say it.”

Oh, dear. I didn’t like being thrust into the middle of a family dispute. With the siblings being of one mind contrary to their mother’s opinion, I decided Ella King needed an ally. “What I do know is that Mrs. King is one of Newport’s most accomplished equestriennes, rides some of our finest horses, and is peerless in the art of dressage.”

“Why, thank you, Miss Cross.” Mrs. King beamed with satisfaction. She was so delighted by my pronouncement that she placed her hand in her son’s and allowed him to hand her up into the front passenger seat of the Hartley. She smoothed her skirts and leaned down to address me again. “Will you be following along on foot?”

“I will, Mrs. King. I shan’t miss a moment of the fun.” The parade would proceed from our present location, on the avenue between the granite walls of Stone Villa and the shingle-style architecture of the Newport Casino, all the way south to Ledge Road at the end of Bellevue Avenue.

Mrs. King nodded in satisfaction, but fidgeted with her purse strings and repeatedly compressed her lips. I turned to her son and murmured, “I trust you are knowledgeable when it comes to operating a motor vehicle?” As always, I felt protective of my fellow Newporters. I would loathe to see Mrs. King, a generous philanthropist, come to any harm.

He replied with a laugh that did nothing to fortify my confidence in him, his breath being laden with a sharp scent of spirits. While he turned away to assist his sister into the Hartley’s rear seat, my stomach sank. Was Philip simply enjoying the day? I wished to believe it, but I knew better. I’d worked the society pages too long not to have heard the gossip about him.

“It would be awfully sporting of you to let your mother take the tiller,” I suggested to him, hoping I sounded lighthearted rather than worried.

“As if she would. I think not, Miss Cross.”

“Your sister, then. She wouldn’t be the only woman driver. My aunt Alva intends to operate her vehicle.”

As if I’d suggested something so outlandish as to not warrant the least consideration, he grinned and shook his head at me. Then he circled the Hartley and swung himself up onto the seat beside his mother. With a salute he dismissed me, or so I thought. “I’ll own one of these yet, Miss Cross, mark my words.”

Perhaps, but his mother’s expression told a different story.

Applause and cheers went up, and I shaded my eyes as I glanced along the avenue to see Aunt Alva’s Duryea Runabout began creeping forward. Beside her, her husband Oliver shouted instructions which I’m quite sure she ignored. The grind of gears, the hissing of steam, the whine of electric motors, and several backfires filled the air as, one by one, the entrants in line prepared for the trek. I prepared for my own trek on foot, but before I could take the first step a woman’s voice carried shrilly above the commotion.

“Enjoy your privileges now, Mrs. King. They shan’t last much longer, I promise you that.”

Startled by the threatening nature of those words, I turned back to the Kings’ automobile. A woman in dusky violet wearing an ostridge-plumed hat stood gripping the top edge of the side panel as if to hold the motorcar in place. She set one booted foot on a lower spoke of the front wheel.

“How dare you.” Philip’s profile hardened and the knuckles of his right hand whitened around the steering tiller. “Release this vehicle at once or I’ll accelerate and let you be dragged along.”

As I took in this shocking exchange, Philip’s mother put a hand on his forearm to quiet him and peered down at the defiant woman. “Mrs. Ross, haven’t you done enough damage? Your demands are irrational and unjustified. Please, go away and let us be.”

The name, Ross, struck an awareness inside me. I had heard it before, and knew this woman, Eugenia Webster Ross, had been an unwelcome fixture in the King family’s lives for more years than they would have liked to count.

Mrs. Ross emitted a harsh laugh, her sallow complexion darkening with anger. “Be assured, I shall never go away, nor will it do you a lick of good to wish me gone. Kingscote and everything in it rightly belongs to me, and I’ll not rest until I see you out of the place and myself in my proper position.” Her accent told me she didn’t hail from New England, nor any state in the north of the country.

“Don’t listen to her, Mama.” Gwendolen slid along the back seat, putting more space between her and the woman. She even tipped her hat brim lower to block Mrs. Ross from her view. “She’s obviously unbalanced.”

The vehicle in front of the Hartley, a two-seater electric Rambler decked out in roses and a fortune’s worth of vibrant, multi-hued dahlias, rolled forward. It was the Kings’ turn to move. Philip released the brake and with clenched teeth repeated his earlier threat. “You’d do best to release your hold now or you will find yourself dragged along the road.”

Mrs. Ross lowered her foot and let go of the seat with a flick of her fingers as if to dislodge an unsavory substance from her glove. But then she raised a fist in the air and shouted threats as the motorcar rolled away. She captured the attention of the spectators on either side of the roadway, though only momentarily. The spectacle of so many automobiles proved too tantalizing to allow a common feud to dampen their excitement. Eugenia Ross was left to vent her anger on deaf ears.

That was, until she whirled about and encountered me.

“You’re Emmaline Cross, aren’t you?”

Her bluntness took me aback. I blinked, rendered briefly mute. She might have learned my name in relation to my position at the Messenger, but she and I had never met. I wondered how she recognized me by sight, but didn’t give her the satisfaction of expressing my surprise. “I am.”

“Are you a friend of the Kings?” Her southern accent asserted itself more insistently.

“As much as someone in my position can be a friend of the Kings, yes,” I replied without irony, but rather a simple statement of fact.

“More fool you. Do you know who I am?” She spoke the words as if challenging me to a contest of wits.

“I didn’t at first, until Mrs. King mentioned your name. Then I realized you are the woman who has been attempting for years now to undermine the Kings’ rightful inheritance from their uncle William.”

“William Henry King was my relative and owed the King family nothing. They took advantage of his bearing the same name and invented their ties to him.”

“That hardly makes sense.” I started to chuckle at the ridiculous claim. Motorcars rumbled past us, their tires crunching on the hard-packed dirt of the avenue at a pace not much faster than most people walked. Mrs. Ross took issue with my lightness of mood.

“You find funny, do you?” She stepped closer, the pointed toes of her high-heeled boots nearly touching mine. Her dark eyes on a level with my own, she attempted to stare me down. Her shoulders squared, and her chin jutted at me with menace. I suddenly felt threatened and darted glances around me, hoping someone would notice my discomfort and come to my aid. No one did. No one returned my glance, too enthralled as they were with the passing automobiles festooned in their floral displays. “Is it also funny, Miss Cross, that they shut him away in an asylum and took control of his money?”

“Mrs. Ross,” I said with feigned calm, albeit my heart pounded in alarm, “is there something you wished of me? Can I be of assistance in some way?” I hoped not, for I wanted only to be away from this woman, but it was all I could think of to defuse the situation.

My words did seem to placate her. Her threatening posture relaxed and she opened the space between us by several inches. I breathed more freely, then nearly choked on a gasp when she said, “Take up my cause.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Write an article telling my side of the story. I’ve been vilified for years by the press. Let people know my cause is just.”

“Is it?” That was more than I knew. “Will you explain the exact nature of your supposed relation to William Henry King?”

“Supposed? Why you . . .” She moved closer again, prompting me to pull back. Though she was approximately my size, the fury flickering in her nearly black eyes made me once again fear for my immediate wellbeing. I might have called out to the nearest spectator, except that at that moment, someone called my name. A moment later, a firm, warm hand came down on my shoulder.

“Emma, is there a problem here?”

I recognized the voice immediately and craned my neck to look up at Derrick Andrews, standing slightly behind me. He smiled, his face shaded by the brim of his boater, the grosgrain band of which matched the rich amber brown of his suit coat. His hand dropped to his side, but its warmth and reassurance lingered. Ignoring Mrs. Ross for the moment, I turned to face him, hardly able to contain the flurry of emotions set loose by his sudden appearance. Happiness, exhilaration . . . apprehension. I took a steadying breath and schooled my features to reveal none of it—not here, on a bustling parade route. “I didn’t know you were in Newport.”

“Only just arrived. With my mother,” he added with a quirk of his eyebrow only I would have noticed. Yes, the source of my apprehension—Derrick’s mother, Lavinia Andrews. “I’d hoped to surprise you. I see I have.”

A gleam in his eye mirrored my own delight. He looked perfectly wonderful—fit and robust, and slightly tanned from his summer pursuits of golf and tennis and riding. “She wished to see the parade. In fact, she’s riding in an auto, several back.” He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “She’s staying on a couple more days to attend the Jones’s charity cotillion.”

“Oh, is Edith in Newport, too?”

Before my excitement could take hold at the prospect of reuniting with the budding author, Edith Jones Wharton, Derrick shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. She’s still in Europe.”

I let my sense of letdown pass. “It’s good to see you.”

He leaned closer, bowing his head to deliver his murmur to my ears alone. “And it’s wonderful to see you, Emma. Wonderful to see you smiling back at me. I feared my time away might have . . .” His face hovered barely a kiss away from mine, though our lips never touched. His smile turned wistful. “Well . . . it seems something or other always sends us in separate directions.” He raised his hand and gestured with his chin. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

I whirled about. I’d completely forgotten about Mrs. Ross, still standing near me and staring daggers now at both Derrick and me.

“We are not friends, sir.” Eugenia Ross fingered the strand of golden pearls hanging over the front of her bodice. “I approached Miss Cross in hopes of persuading her to do a bit of unbiased reporting on my behalf, but it seems she is too heavily influenced by those she considers her superiors.”

Both Derrick and I opened our mouths to reply. What he might have said, I couldn’t say, but I intended to relieve this woman of her misconceptions, there and then, by assuring her the Messenger reported only verifiable facts, and thus far she had verified nothing about her outlandish claim. Before either of us could speak, however, Mrs. Ross set off toward Bath Road.

“She’ll miss the parade,” Derrick said as he watched her strut away. “What did she mean by unbiased bit of reporting?”

“She’s Eugenia Ross. Does the name mean anything to you?”

“Indeed it does. There was that big to-do at the McLean Asylum in Massachusetts a few years back. She tried to have Willie King released and actually managed to do it on one attempt. The courts ordered him placed back into custody the very next day, and then he was moved to the Butler Hospital in Providence. She’s tried multiple times again, but to no avail.” He glanced again toward Bath Road, but the woman in question had disappeared from sight. “Good grief, is that really the same Eugenia Ross?”

“The very same.” I told him what had occurred between her and the Kings before Philip had driven away down the avenue. The vehicle’s bright yellow spokes and brilliant blue cornflowers stood out against the dusty road, and I could see that the Hartley had reached the edge of the Kings’ own property, Kingscote. The automobiles had picked up speed as they proceeded, though none seemed to be moving at the heady fifteen miles per hour they were capable of. The Kings would reach the obstacle course a few dozen yards farther along. I worried again about Philip’s ability to handle the vehicle, and turned back to Derrick. “I’d like to walk. Will you accompany me, or do you need to rejoin your mother?”

He had secured my hand in the crook of his elbow before I’d finished asking the question. Dare I say my fingertips felt utterly at home there, against the strong muscle covered by sturdy serge? “Mother will be just fine. In fact, why don’t we hurry along before she catches up to us?” He set us in motion with a brisk step, while deftly steering us through the milling spectators.

“I take it your mother’s opinion of me hasn’t changed.”

He said nothing, his jawline going tight.

“It’s all right. I’m used to it by now.”

“I’m not,” he said tersely, then sighed. “If not for my father’s health and my need to be in Providence making sure the Sun continues to thrive . . .”

He spoke of his family’s primary newspaper, though they were invested in numerous others throughout New England. I shook my head when he continued to speak. “You needn’t explain, Derrick. I understand.”

“I don’t want you to think it’s all merely an excuse to keep me away.”

“I don’t. Your faith in my abilities to run the Messenger says all I need to know.” Indeed, Derrick had bought the small local newspaper less than two years ago, had taken it from little more than a failing broadsheet, and in mere months had built up its influence and its subscriber list. Last summer, when family duties had called him back to Providence, he asked me to take over the running of the Messenger as its editor-in-chief. We had known each other several years by then, had shared both harrowing and meaningful experiences on multiple occasions, and yet had always seemed at cross purposes when it came to the affections we each harbored for the other. He had once proposed, early on, long before I had been ready to consider such a thing. And then, as he had said, something or other had consistently sent us in separate directions.

Our moods lightened after that. We continued down Bellevue Avenue, caught in the general flow of spectators, chatting and catching up since we’d seen each other several months ago. We passed Kingscote with its Gothic peaks and gingerbread trim, but I refused to let Eugenia Ross invade my thoughts. I had been apprehensive at the outset of the parade, and, in a way, Mrs. Ross had given substance to my misgivings. For now, at least, she was gone, leaving me to enjoy a festive, beautiful summer day on the arm of a man I esteemed and cared for very much, and who shared those feelings for me.

Under a thick canopy of shade trees, we passed Bowery Street. Berkeley Avenue came into view, and just beyond, the obstacle course with its wood and canvas figures representing pedestrians, delivery carts, trolleys, and more. The first few automobiles weaved their way around the barriers, the laughter of the occupants audible above the puttering engines. I saw Aunt Alva’s Runabout swerve perilously close to an object that, in the distance, appeared to be a mule pulling a plow.

“Slow down, Aunt Alva,” I couldn’t help uttering under my breath, eliciting a laugh from Derrick. I wondered if her husband, Oliver, clutched the edges of his seat in trepidation for his very life.

My cousin, Willie Vanderbilt—Aunt Alva’s son—waved to me as he drove past with his new wife, Virginia. Their automobile had been transformed into the shape of a locomotive decorated with immense gilded bows interwoven with white tulle, and at each corner of the vehicle hung a golden cage of canaries amid trailing vines and poppies. It was all truly fantastical, and anyone suddenly transported to the scene would have believed themselves to be dreaming or to have taken leave of their senses.

The bright sunny spokes and blue blossoms of Philip King’s Hartley Steamer brought my attention back to the family as they, too, entered the course. My worries for them eased, as Philip seemed to be guiding the automobile well enough. He wobbled a bit along the course, but certainly no more than Aunt Alva had. Perhaps the whiskey I’d detected on his breath had been the result of but one drink.

Derrick and I fell to discussing newspaper business. The Messenger’s profits had been steadily rising in the past year, especially now that the summer people were back in town. We discussed our newest investors—or his, really. I couldn’t claim even the smallest share in the business, for I couldn’t afford to buy in and was, essentially, merely an employee. But if one’s heart and hopes mattered, I was as heavily invested as anyone else.

One topic I avoided was that of my former office manager, Jimmy Hawkins. Once employed by the Sun, Jimmy had come down from Providence to work with Derrick when he’d first purchased the Messenger. Jimmy had stayed on to work with me when Derrick returned to Providence, but things hadn’t proceeded as one might have hoped. I’d had to let Jimmy go, and when Derrick first asked me why, I had answered vaguely that Jimmy and I simply hadn’t worked well together and he had decided to return to the Sun. Apparently, Jimmy had given Derrick a similar explanation.

I doubted Derrick believed either of us. The next time I’d seen him, last winter, he’d made the same inquiry, and I’d given him the same answer, resulting in a look of disappointment that made me wish I’d told him the truth.

Almost. But doing so would have meant explaining how Jimmy had betrayed both Derrick’s and my trust, and would reveal the role Derrick’s father had played in the deception. That, more than anything else, stilled my tongue, for I didn’t wish to come between father and son.

Would he bring it up again? We reached Bellevue Court, walking on the opposite side of the avenue from the building site of The Elms, one of Newport’s newest and largest homes to date. An actual house had taken shape, although there was still much work to be done. Last year, the site had been a giant rectangular opening in the ground while the engineers and electricians had prepared Newport’s first all-electrical system, with no gas power as backup. The plans hadn’t been without controversy, as workers from our local gasworks, the Newport Illuminating Company, had marched to the site to protest what they saw as the eventual loss of their jobs. So far that hadn’t happened, and now I mentioned this to Derrick, as much to discuss the prospect as to forestall any questions he might have been planning to ask about Jimmy.

“There are several all-electric mansions going up in Providence now, and New York, too, although The Elms will beat them to completion.” He smirked. “I think that’s important to Ed Berwind,” he added, speaking of the home’s owner and president of the Berwind-White Coal Mining Company.

I started to answer, when the sound of skidding tires gave way to a crash, a crunch, and the splintering of wood.

Early the next morning, (Phoebe and her grandfather) made their way, arm in arm, across the tiered gardens, bright with late season mums and roses and flame-like celosia, and through the gate in the privet hedge that separated the formal gardens from the service grounds. An autumn sharpness tinged the air and a bright golden hue tipped the ends of the leaves overhead. Soon, green and gold would turn to fiery reds and russets, and fall would burst forth in earnest. Phoebe was grateful for the sun’s lingering warmth.

Their destination lay beyond the hothouses with their bright white framework that stood rather like rib cages against the sky. There, another hedge, this one of yew, once again shielded the pleasure gardens from the working areas. Phoebe kept having to slow her pace to avoid overtaxing Grampapa. Ever the gentleman, he had gallantly offered his arm to her, yet it was she who steadied them over the graveled path.

“Thank you for posting Keenan Ripley’s bail last night, Grampapa. But was I right to bring the matter to you?” She had fretted over the decision and wondered if she should leave the Ripley brothers to solve their own dilemma. Goodness knew, plenty of families bickered over land and inheritances. Julia had inadvertently entered just such a feud last spring, one that had yet to be resolved. Members of Julia’s deceased husband’s family, the Townsends, continued to squabble over the terms of his will, while Julia’s pregnancy left much in question. A lot depended on whether she gave birth to a boy or a girl.

Phoebe had been forced to become involved in that dispute, but she had lain awake last night wondering if she was overstepping her bounds by intervening this time. The Ripleys were not her family. She barely knew either man, really.

But of course, matters were more far reaching than that. The servants were hurt and confused by Mr. Peele’s sudden departure, and the change in circumstances had left dear Mr. Giles more disoriented than usual. That certainly was her business. As was Stephen Ripley depriving William of his proper breakfast before starting work. Grampapa hadn’t approved of that one bit.

“We’ll talk to the man and hear his side of things,” her grandfather replied. “There is always more than one side to everything.”

They arrived at the yew hedge, gracefully carved into vertical, undulating waves of green, to find it deserted, at least the side on which they stood. Though growth since the last trimming was minimal, the smooth, rounded contours of the nearly solid wall of foliage were marred by errant leaves that dared to poke beyond the rest as if stretching forward to catch the attention of passersby. This didn’t surprise her, however. It would certainly take more than a day, or even two, to complete such a task.

“They must be working on the other side. Let’s walk around,” Grampapa suggested.

Phoebe pricked her ears to listen for the telltale snip-snip of the clippers, as well as bits of conversation between Mr. Ripley and William. She heard only the morning song of birds and the rustling of the breeze. They reached the end of the hedge and walked around.

“Where are they?” Phoebe peered along the hedge, some two dozen yards long, cast into deep emerald by the angle of the sun. The gardener’s cart, hitched to its pony, stood about halfway down, partly filled with foliage cuttings. The long handle of a rake also stuck out of the cart’s barrow. The blond-maned pony stood placidly in his harness enjoying whatever treats Mr. Ripley had stuffed into its feed bag. Phoebe could see where a long section at the farther end of the hedge had already been trimmed back into a perfectly even, gently waving plane, but she detected no sign of Mr. Ripley or William.

Then, in the deep green shadow of the lawn, a darker shadow stood out. . . .

“Is that his ladder lying on the ground?” Grampapa frowned into the distance. As Phoebe’s eyes adjusted, she indeed made out the lines of a stepladder. Grampapa started forward. “Come, my dear. I fear Mr. Ripley has had an accident.”

They hurried along. The closer they got, the clearer it became that Mr. Ripley’s ladder wasn’t the only object lying on the ground. A few feet from it, right where he would have landed had the ladder fallen and tossed him from its rungs, lay a figure clad in work denims and a flannel shirt. A pair of spectacles glinted up at her from beyond the tip of a nose, as if trying to crawl back up where they belonged. A brown tweed flat cap lay upside down inches from a wheat-blond head.

“It’s Stephen Ripley.” Alarm sent Phoebe hurrying ahead of her grandfather. “Mr. Ripley, are you all right?” She wondered where William was, and then answered her own question. Gone for help, of course. But then, why hadn’t they passed him on their way here from the house?

The pony snorted and continue munching. Behind Phoebe, Grampapa’s lumbering footsteps thudded through the grass. “Is he terribly hurt?”

Mr. Ripley lay unmoving, but, oddly, holding his hedge clippers.

“I don’t know. Mr. Ripley! Mr. Ripley?” Phoebe started to crouch beside him, but something held her upright. She was about to call out his name again, until she realized he wasn’t holding the clippers at all. The clippers were turned the wrong way around, the handles facing out and the sharp ends sunk—
Her hand went to her mouth.

The clippers had been plunged into his torso. A pool of blood seeped out from under him to weave lurid, spidery patterns in the grass. A frigid numbness swept through Phoebe, and the world around her darkened and blurred.

Cowes, Isle of Wight, April 1920


Phoebe Renshaw pressed a hand to her stomach in a futile attempt to ease the incessant gnawing inside. At a stern look from the countess, her grandmother, she remembered she shouldn’t set so much as a finger against her frock, lest she wrinkle the ivory silk organza and ruin the effect of the folds and tucks and artful draping. Despite Phoebe turning twenty-one on her next birthday, her grandmother still had the ability to command her behavior with a twitch of a silvery crescent eyebrow.


Her sister, sixteen-year-old Amelia, wore the same frock, and they sported matching cloche hats covered in organza, lace, and coral silk roses, which seemed rather much for Phoebe’s plain features but on Amelia looked a picture of springtime beauty, as if she had stepped off the cover of the latest edition of La Mode. Yet Amelia’s features mirrored Phoebe’s own ominous sentiments, which continued to tie her stomach into impossible knots.

Phoebe braved a glance at Eva, hoping Grams didn’t notice. The lady’s maid who had served the Renshaw sisters these past eight years had eschewed her dependable black today in favor of a deep blue, neatly tailored suit that accented her trim figure and whose pleated skirt swayed smartly just below her calves.

Eva’s gaze collided with Phoebe’s for the barest instant, but that instant told all. Eva’s expression loomed as overcast as the sky outside, as steely as the choppy waters of the Solent, that wide waterway between the Isle of Wight and the mainland, spread out before the Royal Yacht Squadron clubhouse. They had borrowed a room on the upper floor, in which to ready themselves for the coming ordeal. . . .

The irony that the original tower of this building had been commissioned by Henry VIII was not lost on Phoebe. Cowes Castle hadn’t been a home to kings, but rather a fortress commanding the Solent and the entrance to the river Medina to keep out invaders from France and the Holy Roman Empire. This had been intended as a place of war, and its connection to that particular monarch seemed terribly ill omened. Six wives, two of whom met horrible ends . . .

Phoebe tried to shake the morbid thoughts away. What right had she to judge Julia’s actions, much less whether those actions would bring her beautiful eldest sister happiness?

“Phoebe, come here and help with this.” Grams flicked a slender, long-fingered hand impatiently. Unlike Eva, Grams had adhered to basic black, her wardrobe having varied little since Papa died, though today her mourning was softened by the sheen of silk trimmed with deep lavender velvet.

Grams was determined that the next few hours would take place with smooth precision, and for a moment resentment rose up in Phoebe. Julia wouldn’t be doing this if not for Grams. An ember burned against Phoebe’s heart, and the words she’d tamped down last night and all morning threated to leap, flaming, from her tongue.

It felt awful to be so angry with someone you loved so much.

Grams beckoned again with a jerky motion of her hand. Yes, even she was feeling her nerves today, though for entirely different reasons than the rest of them. And Julia?

Phoebe didn’t know what she was feeling. They had enjoyed a brief few months last year of getting along as sisters should. Then everything had changed, and Julia’s manner had returned to the cool disregard of previously. And her admitting—finally—the reason for her derision hadn’t helped. If anything, it had made matters worse, for Julia seemed to go out of her way to avoid Phoebe, or at least avoid being alone with her.

She crossed the room to the small circle gathered around her sister and gingerly grasped the edges of the lace veil while Eva and Hetta, Julia’s new maid, secured it to the platinum and diamond circlet that embraced her golden, upswept hair. While the circlet had been in the Renshaw family for many generations, the veil had been Grams’s mother’s, the Honiton lace made in Devon and designed by the same William Dyce who designed the lace for Queen Victoria’s wedding gown. But that was the only harkening back to a bygone age. Julia’s dress, a sleek garment of ivory satin with an overlay of beaded lace, a drop waist, and whisper-sheer sleeves, represented the very latest in bridal fashion. Phoebe’s and Amelia’s frocks had been designed to complement, but not overshadow, Julia’s.

Julia didn’t speak as they fussed around her, but gazed placidly out the wide window overlooking the Solent. In the middle of the harbor, a steamer yacht weathered the tossing waters with barely a wobble. Even from here, it appeared a small ocean liner, with its stacks and masts and tiered decks. And yet how grim a scene it made, Phoebe thought. Though newly refurbished after its service during the war, the vessel took on the dismal pallor of the sky and the waterway surrounding it and made no promise of happy sailing. Another omen? Phoebe wondered how Julia felt about spending her honeymoon on the twelve-hundred-ton, three-masted steamer named Georgiana, after her soon-to-be husband’s first wife.

“There now.” Grams smoothed her fingertips down Julia’s sleeves and stepped back with a satisfied, if slightly cunning, smile. “Let’s have a look at you. Oh, Julia, you’re stunning.”

“You are, Julia, truly,” Amelia agreed. Phoebe heard her frail attempt to infuse the comment with enthusiasm. “Just beautiful.”

Eva nodded her concurrence. “Indeed, my lady. There can never have been a lovelier bride.”

“Oh, ja.” Hetta Brauer had been Julia’s personal maid for several months now, but her English remained barely existent. Julia preferred it that way after discovering her last lady’s maid eavesdropping and selling secrets to the scandal sheets. A sturdy, good-natured girl with a hearty flush to her cheeks and thick blond braids she wore looped about her ears, she looked as though she might have been plucked only that morning from a flower-carpeted mountainside in her native Switzerland. “Lieblich.”

While the others gushed their approval, Phoebe struggled for words but found none she could, in good conscience, speak. Yes, Julia looked beautiful, but then with her golden hair, deep blue eyes, and classic features, she always did. That wasn’t the point.

Phoebe merely smiled and hoped the gesture appeared sincere.

“Thank you,” Julia said simply.

Grams made another adjustment to the veil. “A shame he’s only a viscount. I had hoped for an earl at the least, perhaps a marquess. But, of course, Gil is a very wealthy viscount. You’ll have a good life, my dear.”

While the fortunes of many of the landed families had dwindled in recent years, Gil’s had burgeoned, thanks to early investments in motorcar engines. During the war his factories had produced munitions and airplane engines, and he continued with the latter in peacetime. No one could accuse Gil Townsend of not taking advantage of opportunities when he saw them.

“Yes.” A little tick contracted the skin around Julia’s right eye. “And, after all, I had my chance at a marquess, Grams, and look how that turned out.”

Grams pursed her lips tightly and said nothing. True, Julia had very nearly become engaged to Henry Leighton, Marquess of Allerton, the Christmas before last. That is, everyone had believed they were about to become engaged—all except Julia, who’d had other ideas. It turned out Julia had been right, but it was all a moot point now, anyway. Henry was no longer the Marquess of Allerton. Henry was simply . . . no longer.

“What time is it?” Julia averted her face when Grams tried to adjust a pin curl framing her cheek. “Is it time to go yet?”

Eva consulted a porcelain clock ticking pleasantly on a nearby table. “Not just yet, my lady.”

Julia frowned. “Then I’m ready too early. I can’t very well sit and make myself comfortable until we leave.”

“Don’t you dare sit.” Grams darted a scandalized glance at each sister. “None of you may sit, not even for a moment. I won’t have you looking like wilted washerwomen. Eva, would you please watch for the cars and let us know when they arrive?”

Eva nodded and slipped out of the room.

“Oh, dear, how are you all going to ride in your grandfather’s motorcar without wrinkling? I hadn’t thought about that.” Grams’s expression registered something approaching horror. “What shall we do? Good heavens . . . Oh, I know. We could all walk up to the church.”

“Arrive at my wedding on foot? Are we peasants now?” Julia aped Grams’s scandalized look of a moment ago. “Shall I take off my shoes and stockings and go barefoot?”

“Oh, Julia, don’t be ridiculous. I simply don’t want you to wrinkle.”

Julia tossed her head, but only slightly so as not to dislodge her headpiece and veil. “What would people think? No, I’m going in the Rolls-Royce, and there’s an end to it.”

A storm gathered between Grams’s brows, and she looked about to retort. She wasn’t used to being spoken to in such adamant terms by her granddaughters. By anyone, for that matter. But in this instance, she obviously agreed with Julia. An earl’s granddaughter surely could not arrive at her wedding on foot. “Yes, yes, well, I suppose your grandfather mustn’t walk even a short distance these days. You girls will go in his motor, and he and I, along with Fox, will ride in Gil’s sedan.”

This reminder of Grampapa’s health sent a cold fear through Phoebe. He had suffered chest pains last summer, a symptom of his ongoing heart condition. He seemed thinner of late, paler, his zest for life on the wane. . . .

“You must try not to sit too . . .” Grams was saying. She paused, searching for words. “Rigidly.”

“Perhaps you should lay us out on the seat and stack us one on the other,” Julia muttered under her breath. Luckily, Grams appeared not to have heard.

Amelia went to her and sweetly said, “We’ll try our best, Grams.”

Grams nodded and looked about her, as if searching for something. “I’m going down to telephone the church and make sure everything there is ready. And then I’m going to make sure Fox hasn’t gotten up to any of his usual nonsense.” Grams left Phoebe and Amelia alone with their sister, except for Hetta, of course, but she apparently understood little of what they said.

Julia strolled to the window, her short train swishing across the area rug. A sigh came from deep within her. “Well. It won’t be long now.”

Phoebe had promised herself she wouldn’t do this, but at the eleventh hour, she simply couldn’t help herself. She practically launched herself at her sister, knowing she might have only moments before Grams returned. “Julia, are you certain—quite certain about this?”

Julia didn’t bother looking around. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s not too late to change your mind.”

Julia chuckled. “Tell that to the church full of people and the caterer who is even now setting up the buffet on Gil’s steamer.”

“Never mind that. Gil is almost forty years older than you. Julia, think. What you do today will affect the rest of your life.”

“The rest of Gil’s life, perhaps.”

“And what about Theo? You know you—”

Julia turned to Phoebe, her dark blue eyes sparking. “Forget about Theo. I have. A marriage between us would never work. Grams would never . . .” She let the thought go unfinished.

“No, perhaps Grams wouldn’t, but isn’t it time you stopped worrying about what Grams wants and do what you want?” The words stung of betrayal to her grandmother, for all they were justified. “This is your life, Julia. Your life.”

“I’m marrying Gil, and there’s an end to it.” The same words she’d spoken to Grams about riding to church in the Rolls-Royce.

Unlike Grams, Phoebe wouldn’t be put off so easily, not about this.

Light footsteps brought Amelia to Julia’s other side. “Theo loves you, Julia, and you love him,” she said. “Isn’t that what marriage is? Gilbert Townsend is a good enough man, I suppose, but can you truly say you love him, enough to tie yourself to him for the rest of your life?”

The door opened, and Phoebe spun around, expecting to see her grandmother. But it was only a waitress, come to deliver more refreshments. Didn’t she know Grams would have an apoplexy if she caught them eating in these clothes before the wedding?

“The rest of Gil’s life,” Julia said yet again in reply to Amelia’s question. “He’s much older than I, as you’ve both already pointed out countless times. He’ll be gone soon enough, and then I may do as I please.”

Phoebe whispered a caution. “Julia.” With a flick of her gaze, she indicated the waitress setting down her tray on the low table near the sofa.

Julia remained oblivious to their audience. “If I can present him with a son before he goes, so much the better for me. Our child will inherit, and my place as Viscountess Annondale will be firmly established, and my fortune fixed for life.”

“Julia!” Amelia whisked a hand to her mouth, her eyes round and filled with the same dismay that raised the gorge in Phoebe’s throat.

“You don’t mean this,” Phoebe said, almost pleading. “You don’t have to do this. You—”

The door opened again, this time marking Eva’s return. She stopped short and stared across the room at them, no doubt sensing the strangling tension. Julia seemed not to notice her arrival as she spun fully around to face both Phoebe and Amelia. She reached out and seized Phoebe’s wrist.

“You listen to me and listen well. Grams didn’t want me to tell you this. She said you’d each learn in your own good time. But it’s high time you both knew the truth. Our family is no longer what it was. The money is dwindling. If each of us doesn’t marry well, Fox won’t be able to support us. He won’t be able to maintain the estate. We’ll lose everything.”

Julia spoke of their youngest sibling, fifteen-year-old Fletcher, whom everyone referred to as Fox or Foxwood—the estate he would one day inherit from their grandfather. Reminding Fox of his future inheritance and responsibilities had been a way to help him cope with losing his father in the war and having to grow up too quickly, and to prompt him to a better understanding of the role he’d one day assume—not that it had done much good. Fox remained an impertinent child who reveled in tormenting his sisters behind their grandparents’ backs.

But the thought of Fox inheriting an empty title, a bankrupt estate . . . Surely Julia couldn’t mean things were that bad. Phoebe understood that no family had emerged from the war quite as wealthy as they had been, and she knew Grams worried about that, but . . . She shook her head, unable to absorb Julia’s claim. “I know the war and the death duties—”

“It’s not just the war. It’s everything. Most especially how far agricultural prices have fallen in the past couple of decades. Foxwood Hall doesn’t support itself any longer and hasn’t for some time now. We’re slowly losing it. We certainly will if we girls don’t do our duty.”

“I know why you’re doing this,” Amelia whispered. Her eyes misted, and her shoulders shook beneath her ruched cap sleeves. “It’s because you love Theo, isn’t it? You think Gil will die soon, and then you can marry Theo and be happy. But, Julia, what if it doesn’t work out that way?”

Julia pressed her face close to Amelia’s and said in a voice she never used with her youngest sister, “Don’t you dare ever say that again, to anyone. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The door opened again, and this time Grams called out to them. “What are you lot doing huddled by the window? Come along. The motorcars are here. It’s time to go. Amelia, are you crying? My dear, sweet child, I know you’re overjoyed for your sister, but you don’t wish to arrive at the church all blotchy faced.”

Phoebe and her sisters grabbed their wraps and filed from the room. Eva leveled a look of sympathetic support on Phoebe and touched her arm as she passed by. The waitress, still standing by the sofa table, also watched them go. Good heavens, Phoebe had forgotten about her, while the woman had simply stood there eavesdropping and enjoying a good bit of family drama. Well, no matter. She could gossip with her fellow servants all she liked. The Renshaws would never see her again.

Outside, she, Julia, and Amelia accepted a footman’s help and slid carefully into the backseat of Grampapa’s Rolls-Royce. Her grandparents were driven to the church in Gil’s Mercedes-Knight tourer. The short ride along the Esplanade and up the hill to Holy Trinity Church seemed to take forever, but was over all too soon.A Murderous Marriage

Murder at Ochre Court releases Tuesday, July 31st!


At the end of book 5, Murder at Chateau sur Mer, Emma Cross had a big decision to make, and yes, readers, I left you hanging. I'm sorry! In Murder at Ochre Court, we learn what her decision was and how it affected her life. We also may have the answer to another pressing question or two, but shh... no spoilers! As most of you know,

I've brought up Emma's role model, Nellie Bly, on numerous occasions during the series. Here, Emma actually meets her, and while what ensues is completely fictional, Nellie's views concerning marriage are taken from history.

Without further ado . . .


Newport, Rhode Island

July 1898


“Take my advice, Miss Cross, and marry a rich man. Then you may do whatever you like.”

The train from New York City to North Kingstown, Rhode Island, jostled me from side to side on the velvet seat while trees and shrubs and the occasional house streaked past the window to my right. The car was about half full, and soft murmurs and light snores provided accompaniment to the rumble of the tracks. I had faced forward as I usually do, not at all liking the sensation of being propelled backward through space at unnatural speeds. The woman in the seat opposite me, however, seemed to have no such qualms. She sat upright—not rigidly, but proudly, one might say, the kind of bearing that spoke of an unwillingness to bend to the persuasion of others.

“But,” I said and paused, still baffled by her last bit of counsel, “you achieved so much before you were married, ma’am.”

“True enough. But I was lucky, and I was willing to do whatever it took. Are you so willing, Miss Cross?”

Why, yes, I believed I was, but before answering, I studied her, taking in the square chin, the blunt though not unpleasing features which, like her posture, projected an air of uncompromising confidence. I sighed. I’d spent the past year in Manhattan reporting for the New York Herald and pursuing my fondest dream—only to find myself enveloped by the same frustrations that had thwarted my career in my hometown of Newport. What was I doing wrong?

Elizabeth Cochrane Seaman, better known to the world as journalist Nellie Bly, smiled slightly at my hesitation. “There is only one sure path to personal freedom, Miss Cross. Money. And for a woman who has none, there is only one sure way of obtaining any. Marriage.”

“But—”

“Ah, you’re going to argue that marrying for money is wrong, that such a woman is destined for unhappiness and will find herself subject to her husband’s whims.”

I nodded.

Her smile grew. “I didn’t say to marry just any man. Do you imagine I’d be willing to exist in anyone’s shadow, husband or otherwise?”

A face with patrician features and dark eyes formed in my mind’s eye, but I dismissed it, or at least the notion of marrying a certain man for his money. That opportunity had come and gone and I had never regretted, for a moment, standing on my convictions. No, that wasn’t quite true. I would never marry for money, but there were times I wondered what my life would be now had I given in to temptation . . . .

A jolt brought be back to the present. “Your living in someone’s shadow is hard to fathom, Mrs. Seaman, with everything I’ve read about you. But your husband is—” I broke off, appalled at the impertinence of what I’d been about to utter.

“Forty years older than me, yes, that is correct.” Unfazed, she darted a glance out the window, blinking against the rapid flicker of sun and shadow against the moving foliage. “Still, we are compatible. I am quite fond of my husband, Miss Cross, and we are happy together. I have compromised nothing, yet I have achieved my goals and am living the life I desire. That is precisely because I have always known what it is I want, and I have never veered from the course that would take me exactly where I wished to be.”

The train jerked as it switched tracks, tipping us a bit to one side. I caught myself with the flat of my palm against the seat. Mrs. Seaman merely swayed as a willow in a breeze, then steeled her spine. The train slowed as the trees yielded to the wooden platform and green-painted depot darkened by soot. The sign read North Kingstown. I unsteadily got to my feet and reached to retrieve my valise from the overhead rack. Even though I stood on tiptoe, the bag, having slid from its original placement, eluded my grasp. A gentleman from across the aisle intervened, easily sliding out the thickly brocaded piece and swinging it down into my arms.

I thanked him before turning back to the individual I’d idolized for more than a decade, who now left me confused and not a little uncertain whether my admiration had been warranted or not. Everything I’d believed about this remarkable woman, this brilliant journalist, tumbled about my mind in chaos. Was she no different from my Vanderbilt aunts and all the other society matrons, whose lives seemed to me as empty and artificial as paper flowers?

She winked at me. “You see, Miss Cross, men are not the enemy. Find one you can trust, one who makes you laugh, and most importantly, one with enough money to make your dearest desires come true.
***

For more, go to https://www.alyssamaxwell.com/single-...

“Henry, don’t you dare ignore me!” came a shout from behind the drawing room doors, a command nearly drowned out by staccato notes pounded on the grand piano.
“Henry!”

Stravinsky’s discordant Firebird broke off with a resounding crescendo. Voices replaced them, one male, one female, both distinctly taut and decidedly angry. Phoebe Renshaw came to an uneasy halt. She had thought the rest of the family and the guests had all gone up to bed. Across the Grand Hall, light spilled from the dining room as footmen continued clearing away the remnants of Christmas dinner.

With an indrawn breath she moved closer to the double pocket doors.

“I’m very sorry, Henry, but it isn’t going to happen,” came calmer, muffled words from inside, spoken by the feminine voice. A voice that sounded anything but sorry. Dismissive, disdainful, yes, but certainly not contrite. Phoebe sighed and rolled her eyes. As much as she had expected this, she shook her head at the fact that Julia had chosen Christmas night to break this news to her latest suitor. And this particular Christmas, too—the first peacetime holiday in nearly five years.

A paragon of tact and goodwill, that sister of hers.
“We are practically engaged, Julia. Why do you think your grandparents asked my family to spend Christmas at here at Foxwood? Everyone is expecting us to wed. Our estates practically border each other.” Incredulity lent an almost shrill quality to Henry’s voice. “How could our union be any more perfect?”

“It isn’t perfect to me,” came the cool reply.

“No? How on earth do you think you’ll avoid a scandal if you break it off now?”
Phoebe could almost see her sister’s cavalier shrug. “A broken not-quite-engagement is hardly fodder for scandal. I’m sorry—how many times must I say it? This is my decision and you’ve no choice but to accept it.”

Would they exit the drawing room now? Phoebe stepped backward intending to flee, perhaps dart behind the Christmas tree that dominated the center of the hall. Henry’s voice, raised and freshly charged with ire, held her in place. “Do I? Do I really? You listen here, Julia Renshaw. Surely you don’t believe you’re the only one who knows a secret about someone.”

Phoebe glanced over her shoulder and sure enough, two footmen met her gaze through the dining room doorway before hurrying on with their chores. Inside the drawing room, a burst of snide laughter from Henry raised the hair at her nape.

“What secret?” her sister asked after a moment’s hesitation.

“Your secret,” Henry Leighton, Marquess of Allerton, the man Phoebe’s grandparents had indeed invited to Foxwood in hopes of a subsequent engagement, said with a mean hiss that carried through the door.

“What...do you believe you know?”

“Must I outline the sordid details of your little adventure last summer?”

“How on earth did you discover...?” Julia’s voice faded.

It registered in Phoebe’s mind that her sister hadn’t bothered to deny whatever it was.

“Let’s just say I kept an eye on you while I was on furlough,” Henry said, “and you aren’t as clever as you think you are, not by half.”

“That was most ungentlemanly of you, Henry.”

“You had your chance to spend more time with me then, Julia, and you chose not to. I, therefore, chose to discover where you were spending your time.”

“Oh! How unworthy, even of you, Henry. Still, it would be your word against mine, and whom do you think Grampapa will believe? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed.”

“You are not walking away from this, Julia!” Henry’s voice next plunged to a murmur Phoebe could no longer make out, but like a mongrel’s growl it showered her arms with goose bumps.
The sounds of shuffling feet was followed by a sharp “Oh!” from Julia. Phoebe’s hand shot instinctively toward the recessed finger pull on one of the doors, but she froze at the marquess’s next words. “This is how it is going to be, my dear. You and I are going to announce our engagement to our families tomorrow morning, and shortly after to the world. There will be parties and planning and yes, there will be a wedding. You will marry me, or you’ll marry no one. Ever. I’ll see to that.”

“You don’t even know whether or not anything untoward happened last summer,” Julia said with all the condescension Phoebe knew she was capable of, yet with a brittle quality that threatened her tenuous composure. “You’re bluffing, Henry.”

“Am I? Are you willing to risk it?”

Phoebe’s breath caught in her throat at the sounds of shuffling footsteps. She gripped the bronze finger pulls just as Julia cried out.
“Let go of me!”

Phoebe thrust both doors wide, perfectly framing the scene inside. Julia, in her pale rose gown with its silver-beaded trim, stood with her back bowed in an obvious attempt to pull free of Henry’s hold. A spiraling lock of blonde hair had slipped from its pins to stream past her shoulder. Henry’s dark hair stood on end no doubt from raking his fingers through it. His brown eyes smoldering and his cheeks ruddy with drink, he had his hands on her—on her! His fingers were wrapped so tightly around Julia’s upper arms they were sure to leave bruises.

For a moment no one moved. Phoebe stared. They stared back. Henry’s tailcoat and waistcoat were unbuttoned with all the familiarity of a husband in his own home, his garnet shirt studs gleaming like drops of blood upon snow. Anger twisted his features. But then recognition dawned—of Phoebe, of the impropriety of the scene she had walked in on—and a measure of the ire smoothed from his features. He released Julia as though she were made of hot coals, turned away, and put several feet between them.

Phoebe steeled herself with a breath and forced a smile. “Oh, hullo there, you two. Sorry to barge in like this. I thought everyone had gone to bed. Don’t mind me, I only came for a book, one I couldn’t find it in the library. Julia, do you remember where Grampapa stashed that American novel he didn’t want Grams to know he was reading? You know, the one about the boy floating up that large river to help his African friend.”

“I don’t know...” Julia looked from Phoebe to Henry and back again. She brushed that errant lock behind her ear and then hugged her arms around her middle. “I’ll help you look. G-good night, Henry.”

“Oh, were you just going up?” Without letting her smile slip, Phoebe shot a glare at Henry and put emphasis on going up.

A muscle bounced in the hard line of his jaw. His eyes narrowed, but he bobbed his head. “Good night, ladies. Julia, we’ll talk more in the morning.”

He strode past Phoebe without a glance. Several long seconds later his footfalls thudded on the carpeted stairs. Phoebe let go a breath of relief. She turned to slide the pocket doors closed, and as she did so several figures lingering in the dining room doorway scurried out of sight.

There would be gossip below stairs come morning. Phoebe would worry about that later. She went to her sister and clasped her hands. “Are you all right?”

Julia whisked free and backed up a stride. “Of course I’m all right.”

“You didn’t look all right when I came in. You still don’t. What was that about?”

Julia twitched her eyebrows and turned slightly away, showing Phoebe her shoulder. Yes, the light pink weal visible against her pale upper arm confirmed tomorrow’s bruises. “What was what about?”

“Don’t play coy with me. What was Henry talking about? What secret—”

“Were you listening at the door?”

“I could hear you from the middle of the hall, and I think the servants in the dining room heard you as well. Lucky for you Grams and Grampapa retired half an hour ago. Or perhaps it isn’t lucky. Perhaps this is something they should know about.”

“They don’t need to know anything.”

“Why are you always so stubborn?”

“I’m done in, Phoebe. I’m going to bed.” Her perfectly-sloping nose in the air, she started to move past Phoebe, but Phoebe reached out and caught her wrist. Julia stopped, still facing the paneled walnut doors, her gaze boring into them. “Release me at once.”

“Not until you tell me what you and Henry were arguing about. I mean besides your breaking off your would-be engagement. That comes as no great surprise. But the rest... Are you in some sort of trouble?”

Julia snapped her head around to pin Phoebe with eyes so deeply blue as to appear black. Her forearm tightened beneath Phoebe’s fingers. “It is none of your business and I’ll thank you to mind your own. Now let me go. I’m going to bed and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll do the same.”

Stunned, her throat stinging from the rebuke, Phoebe let her hand fall away. She watched Julia go, the beaded train of her gown whooshing over the floor like the water over rocks.
“I care about you,” Phoebe said in a barely audible whisper, something neither Julia, nor the footmen, nor anyone else in the house could possibly hear. She wished she could say it louder, say it directly to her prideful sister’s beautiful face. And then what—be met with the same disdain Julia had just shown her? No. Phoebe had her pride, too.

#

Eva Huntford made her way past main kitchen and into servants’ dining hall with a gown slung over each arm. Lady Amelia had spilled a spoonful of trifle down the front of her green velvet at dinner last night, while Lady Julia’s pink and silver beaded gown sported an odd rent near the left shoulder strap. Eva briefly wondered what holiday activities could possibly result in such a tear, then dismissed the thought. Today was Boxing Day, but she had work to do before enjoying her own brief holiday later that afternoon.

“Mrs. Ellison, have you any bicarbonate of soda on hand? Lady Amelia spilled trifle—oh!” A man sat at the far end of the rectangular oak table, reading a newspaper and enjoying a cup of coffee. She draped the gowns over the back of a chair. “Good morning, Mr. Hensley. You’re up early.”
“Evie, won’t you call me Nick? How long have we known each other, after all?”

It was true, she and Nicolas Hensley had known each other as children, but they were adults now, she lady’s maid to the Earl of Wroxly’s three granddaughters, and he valet to their houseguest, the Marquess of Allerton. Propriety was, after all, of the utmost importance in a manor such as Foxwood Hall. Familiarity between herself and a manservant wouldn’t be at all proper. “A long time, yes, but it’s also been a long time since we’ve seen each other.”

He smiled faintly “I saw you yesterday. And the day before that.”

“True, but only surrounded by others, or when passing each other in the corridors.” She turned to go. “In fact, I should—”

“Oh, Evie, do stay. I’ve craved a moment alone with you. Don’t look like that. I only wish to...to express my deepest condolences about Danny. My very deepest, Evie. A bad business, that.”
Her throat squeezed and the backs of her eyes stung. Danny, her brother... She swallowed. “Yes, thank you. A good many men did not come home from the war.”

“Indeed.”

Hang it all, this would never do, not on Boxing Day. In a couple of hours she would be free to trudge home through the snow to spend the afternoon with her parents, and they must not glimpse her sadness. She gave a little sniff, a slight toss of her head. There. She smiled at Mr. Hensley. “Tell me, what are you doing down here at this time of the morning? Won’t his lordship be abed for hours yet?”

“Already up and out, actually.”

“On such a cold morning?” Shivering, she glanced up at the high windows, frosted over and sprinkled with last night’s light snowfall.

Mrs. Ellison turned the corner into the room, her plump hand extending Eva’s requested soda, fizzing away in a measuring cup. She handed Eva a clean rag as well. “Who’s up and out on this frigid morning?”

Eva moved a place setting aside and spread the velvet gown’s bodice open on the table. She dipped the rag in the soda. “Lord Allerton, apparently.” She looked quizzically over at Mr. Hensley.

He set down his newspaper. “At any rate, his lordship isn’t in his room. I inquired with the staff setting up in the morning room and no one’s yet seen him today.”

“One supposes he’s gone out for a walk despite the weather, then.” Eva dabbed the dampened cloth lightly at the stain on Lady Amelia’s bodice, careful of the embroidery and the tiny seed pearl buttons.

“Or perhaps a ride in that lovely motorcar of his?” Mrs. Ellison suggested with a sigh.

“No, I called down to the motor shed and his Silver Ghost is still there.” Mr. Hensley frowned in thought, a gesture that did not diminish his distinguished good looks. He was several years older than Eva and had briefly courted her sister before entering into service as an under footman right here at Foxwood. The years had been more than kind to him, she couldn’t help admitting. The slightest touch of silver at his temples might be premature for a man of thirty, but on Nick Hensley the effect was both elegant and charming. Perhaps more so than a valet needed, she added with a silent chuckle.

“Oh, wouldn’t I relish a ride in that heavenly motorcar!” Mrs. Ellison took on a dreamy expression. “Ah well, back to work.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up. Good morning, Vernon, Douglas.” Eva greeted the two footmen, along with other staff members arriving for breakfast after finishing their morning chores of laying fires, sweeping floors, and setting up the breakfast buffet. An instant later Connie, the new house maid, skidded to a halt in the corridor and, with a visible effort to catch her breath, came into the room. “Good morning, Connie. Everything all right?”

The girl scanned the room with large, worried eyes. “Did Mrs. Sanders notice my late start this morning?”

“Were you late? Well, no matter,” Eva assured her. She hoped she was correct, and that Connie wouldn’t be facing a scolding later from Mrs. Sanders. “It’s Boxing Day and I suppose we’re allowed a bit of leeway. Is everyone ready for their holiday later?”

Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, was a rare treat for the manor staff. Eva planned to spend the afternoon at her parents’ farm outside the village, but first she needed to set her ladyships’ gowns to rights. After a final inspection of the now nearly-invisible stain, she moved Amelia’s velvet off the table to make way as more staff gathered round.

She was just on her way to deliver the gown to Mable, the laundress, before settling in with needle and thread to mend the beaded strap on Lady Julia’s frock, when Lady Amelia came bounding down the back staircase and launched herself from the bottom step. She landed with an unladylike thwack mere inches away from Eva.

“Good heavens, my lady!” Eva sidestepped in time to avoid being knocked off her feet and spilling her burdens to the floor. She hugged the gowns to her. “Is there a fire?”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Eva. I didn’t mean to give you a fright.” Lady Amelia’s long curls danced loose down her back, and in her haste to dress herself she’d left the sleeves on her crepe de chine shirtwaist undone. “I was looking for you.”

“You know I would have been upstairs to help you and your sisters dress in what?” She glanced at the wall clock. “Twenty minutes.”

Amelia Renshaw’s sweet face banished any annoyance Eva might have felt. At fifteen she was a budding beauty. Not Lady Julia’s glamorous, moving picture star beauty but a quieter, deeper sort that one often finds in country villages like Little Barlow. Her hair was darker than Julia’s but still golden, a color reflected in her eyes, which sometimes shone hazel and other times brown, but always with those bright gold rims. If Phoebe took after their dear but somewhat plain mother and Julia took after their dashing father, Amelia had inherited a pleasing combination of both that would surely endure throughout her lifetime.

“If you’re worried about your frock, my lady, look.” Eva held out the gowns, using one hand to unfold the bodice of Amelia’s green velvet. “I’ve almost got the stain out and Mable will vanquish what’s left.”

“Oh, I don’t care about that,” Amelia said with a dismissive wave. “You keep the gown. I wanted a private moment to wish you happy Christmas.”

“Lady Amelia, where would I ever wear such a garment? And as for Christmas, you wished me happy yesterday.” Slinging both gowns over her shoulder she reached to button up the girl’s wide cuffs. “Had you forgotten?”

“Yes, but yesterday was a work day for you and this afternoon you’ll be free to enjoy as you like.” She switched arms so Eva could button the other sleeve. “I may wish you happy from one carefree person to another. That’s quite different, don’t you think?”

Puzzled, Eva frowned at her young charge, but only for an instant. “I think it’s a lovely gesture and I thank you very much, my lady.”

“There’s more. I wanted you to know there’s a special surprise in your box from Phoebe and me. Oh, there’s something from Julia, too, something she purchased, very lovely and thoughtful, but Phoebe and I made our gift ourselves. But you’re not to open your box until you’re at home with your parents.” Amelia bounced on the balls of her feet with excitement. “We made one for your mother as well.”

“How sweet of you. But you’re very mysterious, aren’t you?” Eva reached out and affectionately tucked a few stray hairs behind Amelia’s ear. In some ways she was blossoming into a gracious young lady, while in others she was still very much a little girl. One with sadly too few memories of her mother. Poor child, one parent lost to childbirth—along with the babe—and the other to war. Eva hoped she helped fill the gaps, on occasion at least, even if only in the smallest ways. “Whatever it is, Mum and I are sure to love and treasure it always. Happy Christmas to you, my lady.”

To her mingled chagrin and delight, Lady Amelia reached her arms around her and squeezed.

#

“With this deplorable weather keeping us inside, we’ll have to use our imaginations to keep ourselves occupied this afternoon.”

Maude Renshaw, Countess of Wroxly—Grams as Phoebe and her siblings called her—stood as tall as she had as a young woman, if the photographs were any indication. If anything she seemed even taller now, although Phoebe knew that to be an illusion created by her predilection to always wear uninterrupted black, from the high-necked collars of her dresses to the narrow sweep of her skirts. With smooth hair the color of newly polished silver worn in a padded upsweep culminating in a topknot at her crown, Grams was a study in dignified elegance that caught the eye and held it whenever she entered a room.

Strengthening the illusion of Grams’s Amazonian height, Phoebe’s youngest sibling, Viscount Foxwood—Fox—walked at Grams’s side, her hand in the crook of his elbow. Fox had yet to enjoy a major growth spurt, much to his chagrin as this set him a good head shorter than many of his classmates at Eton. Together they led the small procession of family and guests into the Petite Salon, tucked into the turret of what had been the original house.

This room was one of Phoebe’s favorites. It’s creamy paneled walls offset by bright white wainscoting and an airy cove ceiling made a welcome contrast to the dark oaks and mahoganies in other parts of the house, while rich colors of scarlet, blue, and gold, and the rotunda of windows overlooking the south corner of the gardens, lent warmth and a cozy touch.
An enthusiastic blaze danced behind the fireplace screen, and Mr. Giles and the footmen, Vernon and Douglas, stood at attention, waiting to serve. The table had been laid with leftovers from last night’s dinner—roast goose and venison and beef, with Mrs. Ellison’s savory apple-chestnut stuffing, among other delicacies, and for dessert, the leftover bread pudding and cranberry trifle. Phoebe hoped Amelia could manage to reserve all remnants of trifle for her mouth today and not her attire. At any rate, it was all easy fare designed to allow the kitchen staff, along with the rest of the servants, to finish up early and set out on their afternoon holiday. The day promised adventures for everyone—for the servants as they pursued their personal interests, and, Phoebe thought wryly, for the family and guests as they endeavored to look after themselves for these next several hours.

“Where is my son? It’s not like Henry to be late to a meal.” Lucille, Marchioness of Allerton, regarded her son’s vacant seat at the table. It was no secret that Lady Allerton doted to extremes on her elder son—and always had. Phoebe regarded the marchioness. Where Grams’s stoic self-discipline had sculpted her figure into lines of angular elegance, a less diligent outlook, and perhaps a habit of overindulgence, had softened the Marchioness’s figure, rounded her hips and shoulders and upper arms, and produced rather more chins than a body needed.

“He and Lord Owen must have gone out,” Grampapa remarked. He turned his broad face toward Mr. Giles, who perceived the question without needing to hear the words.

“I believe Lord Owen is still in his room, my lord. If Lord Allerton has gone out, he left no message that I know of.”

Lady Allerton’s frown deepened. “Hmm... That, too, is most unlike Henry. Did he take his Silver Ghost?”

“No, my lady. His motor is still in the shed.”

“Hmm... How very odd.”

“Really, Mama, why all the fuss?” Lord Theodore Leighton—Teddy— reached for a roll and his butter knife with a bored expression. “Henry’s a grown man.”

He fell silent without any further reassurance and buttered his bread with meticulous strokes as if creating a work of art. This proved no simple task, not for Teddy, and Phoebe quelled the urge to reach over and offer her assistance. The knife quivered in his grasp, bringing attention to the scarred flesh of his fingers and the backs of both hands. The rippled skin ended at his sleeves and reappeared in angry blotches above his collar to pull the left side of his face into a perpetual sneer. Phoebe wondered that he hadn’t grown whiskers to hide the scars. Like Henry, this second son of the Leighton family was handsome, or had been, before the war had left its mark on him.
Mustard gas, in the trenches of the Battle of Somme. Phoebe remembered the day a distraught Lady Allerton had telephoned to deliver the awful news. Teddy’s injuries had taken him out of action for nearly six months, but when everyone had expected him to return home, he returned to the trenches instead. He made it abundantly clear at every opportunity he wanted no one’s pity, no one’s help. He’d butter his own roll, thank you, if it took all morning.

Phoebe tried never to feel sorry for him, even tried to like him, but he made it a ticklish task, especially in moments like this. This might be Henry they were talking about, but he and Teddy were, after all, brothers and Teddy exhibited not the slightest concern.

Still, while the elder generation discussed where Henry might be, Phoebe couldn’t help hoping he might never return. She glanced across the table at Julia. Had her argument with Henry driven him away? She noted that Julia’s arms were well-covered in deep blue chiffon, with a velvet shawl draped over that, to hide any evidence of last night.

Well, as Teddy had said, Henry was a grown man who might do as he pleased. Phoebe, on the other hand, saw little in her future now that the war had ended, other than an endless procession of luncheons, dinner parties, and a parade of potential beaux. She sighed.

A mistake.

“What’s wrong, Phoebe?” Beside her, Amelia looked both pretty and smart in a new shirtwaist with blouson sleeves and ribbon piping that matched her blue eyes.
“Wrong? Nothing.” She hoped Amelia never learned of Henry’s boorish behavior of the night before.

“Then why are you moaning?”

“I am not moaning. I sighed. There is a difference.” Phoebe leaned back in her chair and cupped her mouth to prevent Fox overhearing. Fox always seemed to be listening in on other people’s conversations, storing away bits of information to be used at his convenience at a later time. “The truth is, I’m horribly bored, Amelia. I miss...” She paused. How to phrase this without sounding unfeeling and self-absorbed? “I miss the activity of the war. Not the war itself, mind you. I’m happy and relieved it’s finally over. But we made a true difference to a good many people. And now...I fear life has lost its color.”

Her sister nodded, her eyes keen with understanding. “That all we’ll have to look forward to from now on are parties and such, like in the old days?”

“You read my mind exactly. And all that seems so purposeless now. I’ve been thinking—”
“You should be thinking of finding a husband before the dust gathers on that shelf you’re sitting on.” Fox whispered out of the side of his mouth, his gaze still fixed across the table at the elders as if he hadn’t been listening in on Phoebe and Amelia.

“I’m nineteen, Fox. That hardly qualifies me for any shelf and besides, what difference should it make?” Phoebe shook her head at him. “It’s a new world and women will no longer be relegated exclusively to the home. We have choices now.”

“That’s right,” Amelia put in eagerly. “Many choices.”

Fox finally deigned to turn his face to Phoebe, his lips tilting in a mean little smile. “You think so? As you said, the war is over. The men have come home. Time for you ladies to return to the roles God designed you for.”

She nearly choked on her own breath. Only a throat-clearing and a glare from Grams prevented her from retorting—and perhaps wringing her brother’s neck.

“I propose that directly following luncheon, Julia play the piano for us.” Grams pinned her hazel eyes on Julia, turning her proposal into an adamant command that brooked no demurring.
“And following Julia, I wouldn’t mind regaling everyone with a song or two.” This came from Lady Cecily Leighton, Henry’s maiden great aunt. Phoebe glanced up at her, alarmed by the suggestion. Lady Cecily had proved herself thoroughly tone deaf on more than one occasion, and once Phoebe had had to endure an entire hour of jumbled and stumbling notes. If that weren’t enough, the woman’s outfit today reflected sure signs of a growing disorientation, with her striped frock overlaid by a knee-length tunic of floral chiffon. A wide silk headband sporting a bright Christmas plaid held most of her spiraling white curls off her shoulders and neck, giving her the appearance of some kind of holiday gypsy. The poor woman’s maid must have been aghast when her mistress left her room.

“Of course, Cecily, dear.” Grampapa spoke softly and gently, as he did when Phoebe was small. His perfectly-trimmed mustache twitched as he smiled. “We shall look forward to it.”

Phoebe managed to suppress a groan, but Fox could not. Grams shot another glance across the table, while Grampapa’s eyebrows twitched out a warning.

“After Julia serenades us—” Fourteen-year-old Fox pulled face —“And Lady Cecily, too, may we find something exciting to do? Grampapa, couldn’t we take the rifles out for some skeet shooting? It’s not so very cold. Is it?” He directed that last question to Henry’s younger brother, Teddy, who thus far had been silently filling his plate.

“Fox,” Grams said with a lift of one crescent-thin eyebrow, “I believe indoor activities are more appropriate for days such as this.”

“Oh, Grams...”

“Fox.” Grampapa’s stern tone forestalled the complaint Fox had been gathering breath to utter.
Fox made a grinding sound in his throat and Phoebe whispered to him, “When are you going to grow up?”

“When are you going to stop being so boring?”

“Terribly sorry to be late for luncheon, everyone. I had some letters to write. Do forgive me.” Clad in country tweeds, Lord Owen Seabright strode into the room. He bowed ruefully and took the vacant seat beside Julia. His gaze met Phoebe’s, and she raised her water goblet to her lips to hide the inevitable and appalling heat that always crept into her cheeks whenever the man so much as glanced her way.

Lord Owen Seabright was an earl’s younger son who had taken a small, maternal inheritance and turned it into a respectable fortune. His woolen mills had supplied English soldiers with uniforms and blankets during the war. He himself had served as well, a major commanding a battalion. Unlike Teddy Leighton, Lord Owen had returned home mercifully whole.

If only Papa had been so fortunate....

She dismissed the thought before melancholy had a chance to set in. Of course, that left her once more contemplating Owen Seabright, a wealthy, fit man in the prime of his life and as yet unattached. After years of war such men were a rarity. He’d been invited to spend Christmas because his grandfather and Phoebe’s had been great friends, because Lord Owen had had a falling out with his own family, and because Fox had insisted he come, with Grams’s blessing.
If an engagement between Julia and Henry didn’t work out, Owen Seabright was to be next in line to seek Julia’s hand. Phoebe wondered if Owen, or Julia for that matter, had been privy to that information. She herself only knew because Fox had told her, his way of informing her he’d soon have Julia married off and Phoebe’s turn would be next.

Or so he believed. What Phoebe believed was that Fox needed to be taken down a peg or two.
“Henry isn’t with you?” Lady Allerton asked.

Lord Owen looked surprised. “With me? No. Haven’t seen him today.”

“No one has, apparently.” With a perplexed look, Lady Lucille helped herself to another medallion of beef Bordelaise. “I do hope Henry hasn’t gotten lost somewhere.”

“Odd, him going out on foot alone like that.” Grampapa’s great chest rose and fell, giving Phoebe the impression of a bear just waking up from a long winter’s rest. “Ah, but he can hardly lose his way. He knows our roads and trails as well as any of us. Spent enough time at Foxwood as a boy, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but Archibald,” Grams said sharply, “things look different in the snow. He easily could have taken a wrong fork and ended up who knows where. Or he might have slipped and twisted his ankle.”

“Good heavens,” Lady Allerton exclaimed. “Is that supposed to reassure me?”

“Should we form a search party?” Amelia appeared genuinely worried. Phoebe sent her a reassuring smile and shook her head.

“Oh, Grams, don’t be silly.” Fox flourished his fork, earning him a sharp throat-clearing and a stern look from Grampapa. The youngest Renshaw put his fork down with a terse, “Sorry, sir,” and shoved a lock of sandy hair off his forehead. “But even if he was lost, he’d either end up in the village, the school, or the river. He’s not about to jump in the river in this weather, is he?” The boy shrugged. “He’ll be back.”

He sent Julia a meaningful look. She ignored him, turning her head to gaze out the bay window at the wide expanse of snowy lawn rolling away to a skeletal copse of birch trees and the pine forest beyond that. Far in the distance, the rolling Cotswold Hills embraced the horizon, with patches of white interspersed with bare ground where the wind had whipped the snow away.

Phoebe brought her gaze closer, and noticed a trail of footprints leading through the garden and back again. Henry? But if he’d gone out that way, he had apparently returned to the house.
Grams narrowed her eyes shrewdly on Julia. “I do hope there is no particular reason for Henry to have made a sudden departure.”

This, too, Julia ignored.

“As Lawrence Winslow did last summer,” Grams muttered under her breath. Although everyone must have heard the comment—Phoebe certainly had—all went on eating as if they hadn’t. Grams seethed in Julia’s direction another moment, then returned her attention to her meal.

Apparently, not everyone was willing to pretend Grams hadn’t spoken. “Julia, you and Henry get on splendidly, don’t you?” Fox snapped his fingers when she didn’t reply. “Julia?”

She turned back around. “What?”

Phoebe was gripped by a sudden urge to pinch her. Though last night had obviously left her shaken, this sort of indifference was nothing new. It began three years ago, the day the news about Papa reached them from France, and rather than fading over time her disinterest had become more pronounced throughout the war years. By turns her sister’s apathy angered or saddened Phoebe, depending on the circumstances, but always left her frustrated.

“Stop it,” Amelia hissed in her brother’s ear, another comment heard and ignored around the table. “Leave it alone.”

Phoebe observed her little sister. Had Amelia been privy to last night’s argument, or had she merely grown accustomed to Julia’s fickleness when it came to men?

“My, my, yes, he’ll be back.” Lady Cecily spoke to no one in particular. She had been intent on cutting the contents of her plate into tiny pieces, even her deviled crab sandwich. She didn’t look up as she spoke, but next attacked an olive. Her blade hit the pit and sent the green sphere spinning off the plate and onto the table cloth with a plop. She giggled as she tried without success to retrieve it with her fork, saying, “He must return soon, for isn’t there an announcement Henry and Julia wish to make today?”

Lady Allerton leaned in close and plucked up the olive. With an efficiency born of habit, deposited it back onto the elder woman’s plate. “You asked that this morning, Aunt Cecily. And no, there is no announcement just yet. Why don’t you eat something now?”

“No engagement yet?” Lady Cecily looked crestfallen. She held her knife in midair. “Why is that? Julia dear, didn’t Henry ask you a very pertinent question last night?”

Julia finally looked away from the window as if startled from sleep. She blinked. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

“We were all very tired last night, what with all the Christmas revelry.” Grams’s attempt to sound cheerful fell flat. The Leightons might be second cousins, but they would not have been invited to spend the holiday at Foxwood Hall if Grams hadn’t held out hope that Father Christmas would deliver a husband for Julia. The war had left so few men from whom to choose. “Henry and Julia shall have plenty of time to talk now things have calmed down. Won’t you, Julia?”

“Yes, Grams. Of course.”

Phoebe doubted her sister knew what she had just agreed to. Fox sniggered.

“If you don’t stop being so snide,” she whispered to him behind her hand, “I’ll suggest Grampapa send you up to the schoolroom where you belong.”

Fox cupped a hand over his mouth and stuck out his tongue “Then you should stop impersonating a beet every time Lord Owen enters a room,” he whispered back.

“I do no such thing.” But good gracious, if Fox had noticed, was she so obvious? She sucked air between her teeth. But no, Lord Owen was paying her no mind now, instead helping himself to thick slices of cold roast venison and responding to some question Grams had just asked him. She relaxed against her chair. Lord Owen was a passing fancy, nothing more. He was...too tall for her. Too muscular. Approaching thirty, he was too old as well. And much too....

Handsome, with his strong features and steely eyes and inky black hair that made such a striking contrast next to Julia’s blond.

Yes, just a silly, passing fancy....

“Well now, my girls.” Grampapa grinned broadly and lightly clapped his hands. “I believe it’s time to hand out the Christmas boxes, is it not? The staff will want to be on their way.”

“Yes, you’re quite right, Grampapa.” With a sense of relief at this excuse to escape the table, Phoebe dabbed at her lips and placed her napkin beside her plate. “Girls, shall we?”

Amelia was on her feet in an instant. “I’ve so been looking forward to this. It’s my favorite part of Christmas.”

Julia stood with a good deal less enthusiasm. “Not mine, but come. Let’s get it over with.”

#

Eva could finally feel her fingers and toes again after slogging through snow and slush across the village to her parent’s farm. Mum had put the kettle on before she arrived, and she was just now enjoying her second cup of strong tea and biting into another heavenly, still-warm apricot scone.
Holly and evergreen boughs draped the mantel above a cheerful fire, and beside the hearth a small stack of gifts waited to be opened. Eva eyed the beribboned box from the Renshaws. She wondered what little treasure Phoebe and Amelia had tucked inside.

Mum huffed her way into the room with yet another pot of tea, which she set on a trivet on the sofa table. “Can’t have enough on a day like today,” she said, as if there had been a need to explain. “As soon as your father comes in from checking the animals we’ll open the presents.”
“I think they’re lovely right where they are,” Eva said. “It’s just good to be home.”

“It’s a shame your sister couldn’t be here this year.”

“Alice would if she could have, Mum, but Suffolk is far, especially in this weather.”

“Yes, I suppose...” With another huff Mum sat down beside her, weighting the down cushion so that the springs beneath creaked and Eva felt herself slide a little toward the center of the old sofa.

A name hovered in the air between them, loud and clear though neither of them spoke it. Danny, the youngest of the family. Eva’s chest tightened, and Mum pretended to sweep back a strand of hair, when in actuality she brushed at a tear.

Danny had gone to France in the second year of the war, just after his eighteenth birthday. Not quite a year later, the telegram came.

“Ah, yes, well.” Mum patted Eva’s hand and pulled in a fortifying breath. “It’s good to have you home for an entire day, or almost so. I’d have thought we’d see more of you, working so close by.”
“Tending to three young ladies keeps me busy, Mum.”

“Yes, and bless them for it, I suppose. It’s a good position you’ve got, so we shan’t be complaining, shall we?”

“Indeed not. Especially not today. But...I hear you huffing a bit, Mum. Are your lungs still achy?”
“No, no. Better now.”

The door of the cottage opened on a burst of wind and a booted foot crossed the threshold. Eva sprang up to catch the door and keep it swinging back in on her father, who stamped snow off his boots onto the braided rug and unwrapped the wool muffler from around his neck.

“Everyone all right out there, Vincent?” Mum asked. She leaned forward to pour tea into her father’s mug.

“Right as rain.” He shrugged off his coat and ran a hand over a graying beard that reached his chest. “Or as snow, I should say.”

“Come sit and have a cuppa, dear. Eva wants to open her gifts.”

“Oh, Mum.”

They spent the next minutes opening and admiring. Eva was pleased to see the delighted blush in her mother’s cheeks when she unwrapped the shawl Eva had purchased in Bristol when she’d accompanied Lady Julia there in October. There was also a pie crimper and a wax sealer with her mother’s initial, B for Betty. For her father Eva had found a tooled leather bookmark and had knitted him a new muffler to replace his old ragged one.

From them Eva received a velvet-covered notebook for keeping track of her duties and appointments, a linen blouse Mum had made and embroidered herself, and a hat with little silk flowers for which they must have sacrificed far too much of their meager income. But how could she scold them for their extravagance when their eyes shone so brightly as she opened the box?
Mum gripped the arm of the sofa and pulled to her feet with another of those huffs that so concerned Eva. “I’ll just check on the roast. Should be ready soon. Oh, Eva, you’ve forgotten your box from the Renshaws.”

So she had. “There’s something inside for you, too, Mum.”

“You have a look see, dear. I mustn’t burn the roast.”

“All right, I’ll peek inside and then I’ll come and help you put dinner on, Mum.”

She picked up the box and returned to the sofa. Her father grinned. “So what do you suppose is in there this year?”

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” She tugged at the ribbons, then pulled off the cover and set it aside. The topmost gift was wrapped in gold foil tissue paper. The card on top read To Eva with fondness and appreciation, from Phoebe and Amelia. She carefully unrolled the little package, and out tumbled a set of airy linen handkerchiefs edged in doily lace, each adorned with its own color of petit point roses. A pink, a yellow, a violet and a blue. Eva didn’t think there were such things as blue or violet roses, but her heart swelled and her eyes misted as she pictured the two girls bent over their efforts, quickly whisking away their gifts-in-the-making whenever Eva entered their rooms.

“Oh, look, Dad. See what the girls have for me. Aren’t they perfection? And here’s a fifth, with a tag that says it’s for Mum.”

He craned his neck to see. “Look a mite too fine for the use they’re meant for.”

“Oh, Dad.” Eva chuckled and glanced again into her box. “And here’s a card...” She took out a simple piece of white paper, folded in half. She unfolded it. “It reads, ‘For the Huntfords, for their pains.’ Odd, there’s no signature.”

“Isn’t that jolly of the Renshaws to remember your mum and me.”

“I’ll bet it’s a bit of cash, like last year. Let’s see...” Eva bent over the box to peer inside. The breath left her in a single whoosh.

“Well? What’s next in that box of surprises?” Dad leaned expectantly forward in his chair. “Evie? Evie, why do you look like that? Surely they haven’t gone and given us one of the family heirlooms, have they? Evie?”

“I... Oh, Dad...Oh, God.”

“Evie, we do not blaspheme in this house,” her mother called from the kitchen. She appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a dish rag. “Eva, what on earth is wrong? You’re as white as the snow.”

“It’s...it’s a ring,” she managed, gasping. Her hands trembled where they clutched the edges of the box. Her heart thumped as though to escape her chest. “A s-signet ring.”

“Oh, that’s lovely, dear. So why do you look as if you’ve just seen a ghost?” Her mother started toward her. Her father’s rumbling laugh somehow penetrated the ringing in Eva’s ears.

She held up both hands to stop her mother in her tracks. “Mum, stay where you are. Don’t come any closer.”

“Why, Eva Mary Huntford, what has gotten into you?” The sullenness in her mother’s voice mingled with that incessant ringing. A wave of dizziness swooped up to envelop Eva. “What sort of signet ring could make my daughter impertinent?”

Eva looked up, the room wavering in her vision. “One that’s still attached to the finger.”
Murder Most Malicious

Newport, RI, June 29, 1896

I sat up in bed, my heart thumping in my throat, my ears pricked. I’d woken to high-pitched keening, an eerie, unearthly sound that gathered force in the very pit of my stomach. There had been no warning in last night’s starry skies and temperate breezes, but sometime in the ensuing hours a storm must have closed in around tiny Aquidneck Island. I knew I should hurry about the house and secure the storm shutters, yet as I continued to listen, I heard only the patient ease and tug of the ocean against the rocky shoreline, the sighs of the maritime breezes beneath the eaves of my house, and the argumentative squawking of hungry gulls flocking above the waves.

With relief I eased back onto my pillows—but no. The sound came again—like the rising howl of a growing tempest. Throwing back the covers I slid from bed and went to the window. With both hands I pushed the curtains aside.
And stared out at a brilliant summer dawn. Long, flat waves, tinted bright copper to the east, mellowed to gold, then green, and then a deep, cool sapphire directly beyond my property.

The sky was a still a somber, predawn gray, but clear and wide, with a few stars lingering to the west. Like polished silver arrows, the gulls dove into the water with barely a splash and swooped away to enjoy their quarry.

I could only conclude I had been dreaming, even when I’d thought I was awake. Well, I was certainly awake now. I grabbed my robe, slid my feet into my slippers, and quietly made my way downstairs.

I needn’t have muffled my footsteps, for as I entered the morning room at the back of the house I found Katie, my maid-of-all work, as well as Nanny, my housekeeper, already setting out breakfast. The inviting scents of warm banana bread and brewing coffee made my stomach rumble.

“You’re both up early,” I said.

“Mornin’, Miss Emma,” Katie replied in her soft brogue.

Nanny’s plump cheeks rounded as she bid me good morning, her half-moon spectacles catching the orange flame of the kerosene lantern. “Something woke me. I’m not quite sure what.”

“That’s so odd—me, as well.” I picked up the small stack of dishes and cutlery on the sideboard and carried them to the table, noticing the web of small cracks in the porcelain of the topmost plate. Katie looked at me uncertainly, then half-shrugged and made her way back to the kitchen.

She had been in my employ for a year now and had yet to grow accustomed to the informal machinations of my household. At Gull Manor we never stood on ceremony; there was no strict order of things, but rather a daily muddling through of tasks and chores and making ends meet. That was my life—by my choice and by the gift of my aunt Sadie, who had left me the means to lead an independent life.

Part of that gift included this house, a large, sprawling structure in what architects called the shingle style, with a gabled roofline, weathered stone and clapboard, mullioned windows framed in timber, and enough rooms to house several families comfortably. Set on a low, rocky promontory on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, Gull Manor was a very New England sort of house, one that seemed almost to rise up from the boulders themselves and have been fashioned by the whim of rain, wind, and sea. Yes, it was drafty, a bit isolated, and required more upkeep than I could afford to maintain it on the proper side of shabby, but it was all mine and I loved it.

Katie returned with a sizzling pan of eggs, and I asked her, “What about you, Katie? What brought you down so early?”

“Oh, I’m always up before the sun, miss. A leftover habit from being in service.” She placed the frying pan on a trivet on the sideboard and whirled about. “Oh, not that I’m not still in service, mind you...”

“It doesn’t always feel like it, though, does it?” I finished for her.

“No, miss. And for that I’m grateful. Now... I’ll go and get the fruit...”

Nanny, in a faded housecoat wrapped tight around an equally tired-looking nightgown, heaped eggs and kippers on a plate, placed a slice of banana bread beside them, and went to sit at the table. I did likewise, and when I’d settled in and picked up my fork, I hesitated before taking the first bite. “Have you seen our guest yet this morning?”

Nanny shook her head. “That sort doesn’t rise with the sun.”

“Nanny! That’s unkind. Please don’t refer to Stella as ‘that sort.’ We agreed—”

“We agreed but I still worry that you’re crossing a line, Emma. Out-of-work and disgraced maids are one thing, but...” She pursed her lips together.

“Prostitutes are another,” said a voice behind me.

Nanny glanced beyond my shoulder and I twisted around to see the figure standing in the doorway. Stella Butler wore my old sateen robe buttoned to her chin. Her ebony hair, tamed in two neat plaits, hung over each shoulder, making her look anything but a jaded woman. The bruises with which she had arrived at Gull Manor had faded, thank goodness. High cheekbones and slanting green eyes marked her a beauty, but today that beauty struggled past obvious fatigue and the downward curve of her mouth. She met our gazes with defiance, but the spark quickly died. She bowed her head and released a sigh.

“I’m sorry. I’m grateful to you, Miss Cross. I promise I won’t stay long and I’ll pay you for every scrap of food I eat.”

I stood and pulled out the chair beside my own at the round oak table. I gestured to the well-worn seat cushion. “You’ll stay as long as you need, and as for payment, I’m sure we’ll work something out, something mutually beneficial.”

Nanny harrumphed. Without another word Stella scooped up a small portion of eggs and a slice of banana bread I deemed too thin, and returned to the table. I was about to admonish her to take more, that she needed to keep up her strength, but thought better of it. Stella obviously had her pride, and if she was going to carve out a better life than the one she’d been living, she would need pride as much as strength.

“I’ll be right back,” I told them. “I’m going to see if the newspaper came yet.”

“I would think the storm kept the delivery boys from venturing out at their usual time,” Stella said without looking up.

“You, too? This has been the strangest morning.” I glanced out the window. The sun had fully risen, gilding our kitchen garden and the yard beyond. A few fair-weather clouds cast playful shadows over the water. With a shrug I headed for the front of the house, my slippers scuffing over the floor runner. Ragged edges and the occasional hole suggested the rug needed replacing, but it would be some time yet before I could justify the expense.

It was as I reached the foyer that the wind suddenly picked up again, sending an unnerving shriek crawling up the exterior facade to echo beneath the eaves. I hadn’t been dreaming. What kind of a strange storm was this?

Bracing for a blustery onslaught, I opened the front door.

“Nanny! Nanny!” I shouted and fell to my knees. Here was no gale battering my property, or any other part of the island on which I lived. The keening and the cries I’d heard, that had yanked me from sleep, were not those of a summer squall.

They were those of a baby, tucked into a basket and left on my doorstep.

Releases May 26th!

Consuelo came to a halt beside a rosebush. I stopped beside her and waited for her to speak. She remained silent, staring at the scarlet blossoms but not seeming to see them. Her eyes held a faraway, pensive look.

“Is something wrong?” I asked her gently.

“It’s what Lady Amelia just said about her parents separating, and her being taken far from home, from her brother and her father. It’s so sad, Emma. It’s . . . it’s exactly what’s happening to me. If I marry the Duke, I’ll leave this country. I won’t see you or my friends or my brothers anymore. Soon, it'll be as if we don't even know each other. We’ll be strangers.”

I slipped an arm around her waist. “You and I will never be strangers. I can promise you that.”

I reached out and plucked a rosebud, careful not to prick my thumb, and handed it to my cousin. She bowed her head to it, dabbed at a tear with her free hand, and inhaled deeply. Her lips parted as if she were about to say something more, words that never came.

In that instant, a scream ripped across the garden.

**

Gripping each other’s hands, Consuelo and I set off running down the path. Another scream filled the air and echoed off the rear of the house behind us. Up ahead, Mrs. Stanford and Lady Amelia came to sudden halts in front of the pavilion. Just inside the wide archway, the Misses Spooner stood clutching each other’s hands. Aunt Alva was lost in the shadows under the pavilion roof.

“Oh, good gracious, Emma, what can it be?” Consuelo squeezed my hand as we ran, her fingernails cutting into my flesh. Then we, too, reached the pavilion. My hand flew up to press my bosom. Consuelo cried out.

“Is she . . . is she . . .” Roberta Spooner—or was it Edwina?—craned her neck to see around Aunt Alva.

Aunt Alva didn’t utter a word. I pried Consuelo’s fingers from my hand and then pressed forward, placing a hand on Lady Amelia’s shoulder so I could squeeze between her and Mrs. Stanford and continue up the two steps into the pavilion. The aroma of some pungent incense tickled my nose and stung my eyes. I stepped around the Spooner sisters and came to Aunt Alva’s side. My breath froze in my throat.

I saw Clara first—Clara Parker, the young maid I’d spoken to outside Consuelo’s room that morning, who had fretted over how little Consuelo had eaten and who had hoped I might be able to cheer my cousin up. Clara, her severe black frock contrasting sharply with the white pinafore and starched cap she wore, stood facing us, the whites of her eyes gleaming in the shadows, her head moving side to side in a continual gesture of denial. The already-petite girl seemed further diminished by the fear magnifying her eyes, and by the incongruously cheerful yellows of the sunflowers, daisies, and black-eyed Susans that bedecked the pavilion.

To mirror the happy destinies about to be foretold?

Or to sit in garish contrast to the gruesome image that greeted me as I lowered my gaze.
A figure swathed from head to toe in varying shades of violet sat slumped over a cloth-covered card table, her head angled awkwardly to one side. The jeweled turban had fallen off her head and rolled to the edge of the table, and short, thin wisps of graying brown hair stuck out in all directions from her scalp. I moved farther into the pavilion until I could see her face; her eyes protruded from their sockets, staring unblinkingly at the crystal ball inches away. A colorful deck of cards fanned out from beneath her cheek, several of them scattered on the floor beside the table amid a sprinkling of coins. Her lips were a sickly shade of blue and . . .

A crimson gash scored her throat. My stomach roiled—but no. I looked again and realized there was no blood anywhere. Instead, around her throat a scarf of deep red silk was twined so tightly her neck bulged from around the fabric.

“Dear God.” I circled the table and shoved a stupefied Clara aside. From behind Madame Devereaux’s chair, I grabbed the woman by the shoulders. I hauled her upright, then leaned her limp body against the back of the chair.

In a frenzied blur I dug my fingers around the silk scarf to loosen its grip. Even as the ends slipped free I knew it was too late. Madame Devereaux had breathed her last, and no amount of hoping would coax her lungs to fill again. A trickle of blood spilled from the corner of her mouth. Her lips gaped and her tongue lolled, showing where she had bitten clean through. A bruise was already forming on her temple, where her head had struck the table in front of her. Or . . . perhaps she’d been struck, before being strangled.
A whimper came from one of the ladies grouped in the entrance of the pavilion. I looked up at them to see them gaping, dumbfounded. Then, as one, they lifted their gazes to the person whose presence I’d all but forgotten.

“I didn’t . . . I didn’t . . .” Clara stammered. She stood with her small back plastered to one of the structure’s carved columns, looking like a child called to the headmistress’s office and babbling incoherently.

Aunt Alva’s arm came up, her forefinger aimed at the maid. “Your hands were around her neck. I saw you.”

“I swear . . . I didn’t . . . I swear . . . she was like that . . . I only tried to help . . .”

“Shut up,” Aunt Alva ordered. “Just shut up.”

Her command may have silenced Clara, who clamped her lips tight, but it also released a flurry of cries and exclamations from the other women. Alva whirled about to shush them. Her gaze must have landed on her daughter, because she immediately said, “Go back to the house. Tell Grafton to call for the police. Go, Consuelo, now.”

I don’t know how much my cousin saw. I wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but when I looked up from the sight that held me so horribly entranced, she had gone.

With my last giveaway, I asked entrants to answer a question: What most attracts you to a book? Is it the cover, blurb, author, genre, or something else?


This isn't by any means scientific, mind you, but two answers appeared noticeably more than the others – cover and genre, both of which had more than double the responses of either author or blurb. I was a little surprised that "author" didn't get the most votes, because I do know a lot of readers follow specific authors. But I'm not at all surprised about covers. I know when I'm in a bookstore, or just browsing online, it's covers that initially capture my attention.


As I said in answer to a question posted by author Tracy Weber in one of my Facebook groups, I look for mystery covers that reflect themes that interest me in my personal life. In Tracy's case, I wanted to read Murder Strikes a Pose, the first in her Downward Dog Mysteries, because I enjoy yoga. I picked up The Merlot Murders and The Chardonnay Charade by Ellen Crosby because, hey, I enjoy a nice glass of wine in the evening! And I'm currently reading Murder at Hatfield House by Amanda Carmack because I love Elizabethan history (all history, actually), and I was intrigued by the cover image of a woman in a red cloak running toward the palace.


In all three of those cases (or four), the cover made it quite clear to me that certain themes ran through the story. The fact that all four are murder mysteries is where genre comes in. I wouldn't have been attracted to the covers if I hadn't already gone straight to the mystery section.


Then again, once I read and enjoy an author, I'll keep them on my radar for future releases. There are definitely times when I'll go straight for a certain author's latest release that I've been breathlessly awaiting. For me, those three factors encourage me to pick a book off the shelf. It's then that I'll look over the back cover blurb, and then flip the book open to see how it reads. My biggest problem? There are so many wonderful writers I can't possibly get to them all.


So how about you? Let's continue this very serious, scientific analysis. What prompts you to eagerly and happily hand over your hard-earned cash for several hours of unbridled enjoyment?

Tomorrow, March 25th, is release day for Murder at The Breakers. I'm bouncing off the walls with excitement, but I'm also very aware and very grateful for how I got here. So...


I'm celebrating my release by celebrating the people who helped make it happen – my amazing, generous, talented Critique Group!

We've been critiquing together for years now, and if not for the support of these very special ladies I probably wouldn't be celebrating the release of Murder at The Breakers this week.

Come by my website (http://alyssamaxwell.com) from 3/25 through 3/29. I'll be giving away a book from each of them, plus two of my own, to seven random winners.

Here's just a sampling of the skills and techniques I've learned from each of them, and I've included their websites so you can find out more:


Cynthia Thomason: from Cindy I've learned how to create a cozy, small town environment filled with unique individuals who create a sense of familiarity and belonging – the kind of characters that feel like family during the course of a series. http://www.cynthiathomason.net/

Kat Carlton: From Kat I've learned about fast pacing, keeping the stakes high, and introducing conflict and suspense into each scene. http://www.katcarltonauthor.com/

Nancy J. Cohen: From Nancy I've learned how to think like a mystery writer. To keep track of motives, clues, and all the rest and proceed logically from crime to resolution while at the same time introducing twists and turns to keep the reader guessing. http://nancyjcohen.com/

Sharon Hartley: from Sharon I've learned how to write tighter and to create a determined, single-minded, smart heroine who will not be deterred from whatever she believes is important. http://www.sharonshartley.com/

Zelda Benjamin: from Zelda I've learned how use story imagery and sensory details to generate relationship chemistry and sensuality while keeping the story sweet. http://www.zeldabenjamin.com/

It's easy to enter our giveaway - just tell me what initially attracts you to the books you buy.

Happy Reading, and don't forget to celebrate the special people in your life!

I recently participated in a Monday Blog Hop where each week, 2 authors answer 4 questions about their writing process. Here are my answers. If you're a reader and a cozy mystery lover, I hope my answers tweak your curiosity to find out more about my books. If you're an aspiring writer, I hope something here sparks an idea or helps you along with your own writing process. So.....

What am I working on?

Right now I'm in the middle of my third Gilded Newport Mystery, Murder at Beechwood. This will follow Murder at The Breakers, which comes out on the 25th of this month (so excited), and Murder at Marble House, which releases at the end of September. Like this blog hop that takes you from author to author, murder takes my sleuth hopping from one Bellevue Avenue "summer cottage" to another in Gilded Age Newport. Emma Cross is part native Newporter, which makes her stubborn, determined, and hearty, but she's also a second cousin of the Vanderbilts, which gives her entree into high society when she needs it—as does her job as a society reporter for a local newspaper.

I'm fascinated with family dynamics, so family plays a big part of these stories. Emma's parents are living abroad in Paris with other expatriated, starving artists, and there are times she feels a bit abandoned. Her Vanderbilt relatives help fill the gap, and while they can drive her crazy with their somewhat skewed view of the world, she also appreciates their generosity towards her and genuinely cares about each of them. As I researched the Vanderbilts, I also came to appreciate them as individuals, rather than symbols of a bygone era, and I can honestly say I've developed a fondness for them that I believe shows on the page.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I've been told my settings are so vivid the reader feels as if she's there. I treat setting as another character in the book, one which can directly affect the plot. Setting is never arbitrary to me - there are specific reasons I choose one location over another. With these books, I have a personal connection to Newport through my husband and his family, who are Newporters going back several generations. But the fact that Newport is on small Aquidneck Island, and that in the 1890s the only way on or off was by boat, makes it especially appealing as a cozy mystery setting. That kind of close environment creates an intimate society where everyone knows everyone else—and their business—and to me that's an essential part of a cozy.

Why do I write what I do?

I write historicals for the simple reason that I love them, and because for some reason when I put my fingers to the keyboard, my words take on a historical tone. Can't help it. I suppose it's a direct result of the kind of reading I've done since a pretty young age. I always gravitated toward historical stories, and grew up on authors like Louisa May Alcott, the Brontes, Jane Austen, and Daphne Du Maurier. I also love the challenge of finding ways to solve a crime without modern forensics. This means paying especially close attention to what's present at the crime scene and where it's placed, as well as having my sleuth piece together information through questioning people and then verifying their alibis through her various "sources." Added to that is the fact that as a young woman, she also has to work around the social restrictions of the times in order to preserve her reputation and not shock the bejesus out of her Vanderbilt relatives, who are highly shockable.

How does my writing process work?

With this series, I took a lot of time developing the characters before I did any writing. Recurring characters are important—they help create a sense of familiarity for the reader—so you need to build a strong foundation for them. History helped me quite a bit when it came to the wealthy families like the Vanderbilts and the Astors, but Emma's immediate family and friends are fictional, so I spent a lot of time "getting to know them" and how they fit into Emma's life.

Next, I turn to the victim. Who will be murdered, where, and how? History helps in this decision process, too. I look for a significant event at the time of the book and build around that. In the summer of 1895 the Vanderbilts held a ball and coming-out party for their daughter, Gertrude, in their newly rebuilt Breakers, which had burned down three years prior. It was THE event of that summer, and everyone in society was there that night—including cousin Emma, of course. What better time to stage a murder, right? The second book is built around the engagement of young Consuelo Vanderbilt to the ninth Duke of Marlborough. The poor girl wanted no part of being this man's wife (she was in love with someone else), but her mother was so determined she even (perhaps) faked ill health to persuade her daughter. Consuelo becomes an integral part of the mystery in that book, although the victim is a fictional person. For the current work in progress, I chose Mrs. Astor's Beechwood because historically, Caroline Astor was THE queen of society and as such, she officially kicked off each summer's festivities with a ball and entertainments on her lawns overlooking the ocean. Can you imagine how dismayed the poor woman would be to have such sordid business linked to her good name?

Clues, motives, secrets and red herrings come next. For me, writing a mystery is like solving a giant puzzle, and I need to know what the pieces are before I can put them together. Once I have everything in place, I begin writing the actual story. Things usually change a bit along the way, because sometimes the characters have different or better ideas than I had, but my synopsis still serves as a guide to keep me from becoming utterly lost. And having planned well, writing the book becomes a pleasure.

So there you have it! Writers, is there anything you'd like to share about your writing process?