Marblestone Mansion, Book 10 Page 2

  “I am happy to hear that too,” Abigail said. “Blair, are you trying to change the subject?”

  “Which subject? The ghost, the Provost, or my mother?”

  Cathleen and Leesil giggled, but Abigail was not amused. Instead, she concentrated on greasing all the scales of the pinecone and then set it aside. “I was just thinking. Why do we not build a float for this year’s Easter Parade?”

  “A float?” Loretta asked. “What for?”

  Abigail wiped her greasy fingers on a napkin and reached for her teacup. Her fingers were still slippery, and she might have dropped the cup if Brookton had not put his hand under it just in time. “Thank you,” she said as she held the cup with both hands, took a sip, and set it back in the saucer. “For charity, of course. We could have the children walk alongside, and carry cans in which to collect coins for the orphanage in Denver.” She leaned a little to the left while Dugan removed her slippery handled teacup, replaced it with a clean one, and filled it with hot tea.

  Leesil beamed. “What a lovely idea. Bravo, Abigail.”

  “What sort of float?” Vivian Mabs asked. “We know nothing of building floats.”

  “‘Tis why we have husbands, is it not?” Cathleen asked.

  “It is why some of us have husbands,” the unmarried Pearl scoffed.

  “Perhaps you might entice the druggist to help us?” her best friend Loretta suggested.

  For years, Pearl had her eye on the druggist, and her expression immediately changed to hopeful. “I believe I shall try it.”

  “And we have a new butler, finally,” Abigail said out of the blue. “He is a very good man and comes highly recommended from a family in Denver.”

  “What is his name?” Leesil asked.

  “Mr. Beauregard Johnston and he likes to play backgammon. I find trying to beat him quite the challenge. Of course, we cannot play it constantly, and I must have something to do when Claymore is not at home. I tell you, the loneliness will likely do me in someday. I simply have not enough to do.”

  “Have you thought of making hats?” Pearl asked.

  Abigail’s frown was so deep, the inside of her eyebrows nearly touched. “Hats? Why should I make hats?”

  Knowing full well her mother and aunt would have to stifle their laughter, Blair said, “Because you are so good at matching hats to outfits.” Cathleen glared at her daughter, while Gloria pretended she dropped something and bent down to hide her laughter. Leesil spit her sip of tea out.

  If Abigail noticed, she said nothing and simply reached for another pinecone. “Oh, well, I am flattered to be sure, but I know not the first thing about making hats.”

  Pearl had not caught the joke, looked at the others and then shrugged, “I was just wondering about that this morning. What new style do you predict for hats come spring? I think…”

  “Feathers, my dear,” Abigail interrupted. “No matter the size of the hat, absolutely everyone shall be wearing feathers by Easter…green ones, purple ones and even brown ones, although I am not fond of brown.”

  “There you see?” said Pearl. “I would never have guessed feathers. Why not just draw hats on paper and let someone else make them?”

  Abigail gave that some thought. “Perhaps I shall, once I have learned how to draw.”

  *

  As the evening of the harvest ball arrived, Abigail became more and more apprehensive. Claymore rarely said a word when he was home, not that she let him. He merely listened to her complaints at dinner, and then went off to tend his reading. In her opinion, nothing was going right. The seamstress raised the hem on her new gown too high, there was no time to lower it, and either her hat got smaller or her head had enlarged. Furthermore, there were changes in her figure that served to greatly baffle her. She was gaining weight, of all things. Abigail briefly entertained the idea that she was getting old, but that thought almost made her cry.

  And now this!

  Arriving at Marblestone before the guests, she marched into the ballroom to see that the decorations were arranged properly, and to her horror, the white rose petals were coming unglued. She arrived just in time to see one come free, float down, and land on one of the greased gourds. Extremely upset, she rushed out, grabbed the telephone in the downstairs sitting room, and put her hand over her heart. “Mable, Mrs. Whitfield here. This is an emergency!”

  “What emergency is it this time, Mrs. Whitfield?” the annoyed operator asked.

  “I must speak to Pearl at once.”

  “Is her house on fire?”

  “Not that I am aware of.”

  “Then what is the emergency?” Mable asked.

  “The emergency is…” she began, steadily raising her voice, “that her line is always so busy and I can never get through. Why the phone company neglects to properly service its customers is beyond my comprehension.”

  “Mrs. Whitfield, you cannot…”

  “Oh, just put me through!”

  *

  By the time Pearl arrived, Abigail and Blair had already resolved the petal problem and all was well. The guests came on time, everyone remarked favorably on the decorations, and the Harvest Ball went as planned. Ladies with their hair done up in ringlets wore autumn colors of red, gold, brown, and even yellow, and just as everyone agreed, the men were dressed in black as usual. The weather was pleasant, the music was lively, and young Doctor McCormick began to teach Blair a new dance called the foxtrot. The two of them were having so much fun, the rest of the guests soon attempted to learn it as well.

  Somewhat different from the waltzes they were used to, the missteps made everyone laugh. Even Claymore and Abigail made an attempt, albeit a short one. The only one who did not appear to be having a marvelous time was Cameron. He stood against the wall in the back of the room with Butler Prescot beside him.

  “See how they watch her?” he whispered to Prescot. “It matters not if they are old or young, married or without a wife…they all watch every move Blair makes. She is too young and I find it most disturbin’.”

  “We could lock her in a closet for a year or two.”

  “Dinna tempt me,” said Cameron. “She is far too trustin’.”

  Prescot slightly smiled. “Perhaps you would do well to marry her off early, but I pity the lad who makes her his wife.”

  “Pity him?”

  “Mr. Cameron, we have our hands full protecting her and we are many. How can one man do it alone?”

  “In that case, she must marry a man of wealth with many servants to protect her.” Her father kept an eye on Blair’s laughing eyes, and watched for her to appear again after she passed behind those who were taller on the dance floor.

  “Is she not to be wealthy in her own right?”

  Cameron puffed his cheeks. “Aye, she is, which makes her even more appealin’. We must keep her from marryin’ foolishly, and I can think but one thing to do. Blair must not be allowed to leave the house without someone with her.”

  “She might hate you for not trusting her.”

  “Then hate me, she shall. The world is a dangerous place for someone like Blair, and ‘tis up to me to see to her safety.”

  Prescot watched Cameron walk away, and then glanced around the room to make certain the guests were being served properly. A little while later, Doctor McCormick went to one of the tables, picked up a glass of punch, and then came to join Marblestone’s butler.

  “I cannot keep up with her,” the doctor admitted. “Blair makes a man feel old.”

  “How well I know,” Prescot agreed. “I find it harder and harder to do what I thought nothing of a few years ago.”

  “How old are you, Prescot?”

  Pretending to fear someone might overhear him, he quickly looked around. “My wife guesses I am thirty-four and far be it for me to correct her.”

  “How far off is she?”

  “Ten years.”

  Doc McCormick raised an eyebrow. I would never have guessed that myself. There is a doctor in France who claims to
have the secret to a longer life. He sells it in a bottle.”

  “Truly?”

  “That is what he claims. The question is…longer than what? If a man does not know the hour of his death, how can he know if he has lived longer?”

  Prescot chuckled. “A point well taken.”

  *

  For Abigail, the bad thing about balls and picnics, outings and sleigh rides, was a lack of anything to do the next day. She slept late, ate a late breakfast of oatmeal and toast, and then began to wander from room to room in a house that was far too large for two people. She knew nothing of designing hats, the Easter Parade was months away, and it was even too soon to gather the items that would go in her yearly Christmas baskets for the poor.

  There was no need to go shopping, for she owned everything she could possibly want, and the butler, Mr. Beauregard Johnston, had his duties to attend. In the library, she looked and looked, but none of the books caught her interest. Completely forlorn, she sat in a chair and cried.

  CHAPTER 2

  The duchess had much to do and all the time in the world to do it, now that she was safely tucked away amid ninety thousand residents in the French city of Quebec. Having been in France occasionally, it did not take long to remember how to say a few necessary words in French, and she even managed some of the dialect. In fact, she felt right at home there.

  Her exhausting travels caused her to lose weight again, and the gray had begun to seep into henna dyed hair that had turned mousy brown. Interestingly, the almost pure white on top seemed more pronounced each day, and she decided it had a certain charm. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she again considered doing something about it, but what for? She had no one to impress just now, and she was not fond of the hours it took to drench her hair in red dye. Besides, new inventions were constantly being announced in newspapers, and it was only a matter of time before someone found a way to make her hair black again without using poison.

  Therefore, as if she needed yet another reason, the duchess set out each day to collect American, Canadian, and British newspapers, take them back to her room, and diligently scrutinize each one. The world, she read, was changing all around her. Women were hemming skirts above the ankle, expressly to keep them from dragging on the ground, which as all women knew, was often quite filthy. Thankfully, eveningwear remained grand and daring. However, open top automobiles forced women to wear wide silk scarfs over their hats, and tied under their chins to keep them from flying off. Women’s hats in general were smaller, sometimes taller, and tilted to one side. Sleeves were shorter, skirts were narrower, and square necklines were all the rage. Men’s fashions had not changed much.

  Finished with the day’s newspapers, the duchess stood up, walked to her corner window and looked out. Her room was not lavish and for once, she did not care. It had a bed and a combination dresser and wardrobe closet. Two green Victorian style easy chairs graced the living area, as did a table, a pressed back dining chair, and a cast iron radiator. After some of the places she lately found herself sleeping in, the room was sufficient indeed.

  Quebec was not much different from many other cities where new dwellings and businesses blossomed outside the walls of the old city. Her hotel sat just inside one of the old walls and from her third-floor window, she could see an intersection below. On each side of the crossing streets were tall buildings with windowsill flowerpots, awnings over sidewalks, and large signs on second floors that advertised shops on the street level below. Handcarts, trollies, bicycles with loaded front baskets, large boxcar wagons, and automobiles, competed for the space to go from place to place. At the same time, policemen on foot or on horseback did their best to move the traffic along, and men wearing full-length aprons and boater hats shooed dogs away from their sandwich carts, and then smiled at prospective customers.

  The duchess sighed. She considered going out, but there were some days, she just didn’t feel like trying to navigate her way through the hustle and bustle below. Perhaps she would later. At length, she left the window and sat down at her table. First, she needed to decide on a new name, one that suited her perfectly. She had already used all her favorites, and in the end, if the name Victoria was good enough for a queen, it was good enough for her – not to mention it would be easier to remember. Her memory, she admitted, was not as good as it once was. Yes, Victoria Jacqueline Ballin would do nicely indeed. She moved her writing paper closer and jotted it down. Later, she would practice her signature until it was firmly set in her mind.

  That settled, she had to choose a place to live. Fortunately, she had accumulated more than enough money to accommodate a comfortable life most anywhere she chose. Of course, there were men in the world who preyed on wealthy women, so the duchess knew she had to be very careful from here on out.

  She considered going to Germany and perhaps getting into the good graces of Kaiser Wilhelm II, nephew to King Edward VII of England. Yet, she knew less German than French. The same applied to Russia, although she did read War and Peace and believed that it, of all countries based on the European hierarchy structure, showed greater promise where her ambitions were concerned. Alas, learning that language seemed even more problematic than learning German.

  Wherever she went, she intended to pass herself off as an American, and there was one thing she had neglected to do. Therefore, instead of staying in her room, she got up, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, put on her only remaining hat, and set out to find a library. If she did nothing at all for the rest of her life, the duchess was determined to learn that stupid American Pledge of Allegiance.

  She was in luck, for a minister at Morrin College managed to find a copy and wrote the words down on paper for her. Grateful, the duchess took the paper, handed the Presbyterian minister an American dollar, and fled just as he began to ask after her beliefs.

  *

  The end of October brought the usual Halloween celebrations, to mark an old Celtic belief that the dead could cross over into the world of the living. She cared nothing of that silliness, save when she was reminded of the masquerade balls in London she was missing for yet another year. The mournful duchess slept the night away instead.

  She cared even less for Christmas.

  While the inhabitants of Marblestone Mansion pulled their chairs closer to the hearths and began to eat preserved fruit instead of fresh, the duchess went to a library and borrowed books on a place in Europe she thought she might go to next. While the MacGreagors were wrapping Christmas gifts and preparing food baskets for the poor, she decided to shop for a new traveling case or two, and enough new clothes to fill them.

  For the most part, she couldn’t remember a happier time. Occasionally, she met someone she might have called friend, but they were the common people with whom she shared little. No matter, for her books kept her company and the cold weather kept her inside her room most of the time. A month or two more and the glories of spring would wrap its welcomed arms around her. By then, she would be on her way back to Europe.

  *

  In Peyton, Colorado, a little town east of the Black Forest, Earl Flood leaned against the trunk of a half dead apple tree. Not many people lived in Peyton, and those that did, tried to eke out a living farming land that suffered blizzards in winter, unbearable heat in summer, and an occasional tornado. Between nearly all the active farms, lay desolate land someone tried to farm, but abandoned. Life in Peyton depended on water, and water was not always easy to come by.

  Standing on one such parcel of barren land between the Flynn and the Linder properties, Earl lifted his father’s hand-me-down hat off his head, and ran his fingers through his sandy hair. No one had ever heard of Marblestone Mansion until Lillie Mae Flynn’s mother started getting letters and money from her daughter. And… no one was more interested in hearing about Hannish MacGreagor, the richest man in Colorado Springs, than Earl Flood. Considering the pay Lillie Mae sent home each month, MacGreagor had money to burn, and to Earl’s way of thinking, no one man had the right
to keep all that wealth to himself. Marblestone was begging to be robbed, and at seventeen, he was just the man to do it.

  For years, Earl had been convinced his father hated him. One little mistake, it seemed, and his father would take off his belt. That was before. Earl hadn’t taken a beating in months…not since he grabbed the belt out of his father’s hand. Earl’s eyes were filled with rage and he was tempted to give his father a swat or two, but the old man would have thrown him out, and he had little money and no place to go.

  He was expecting his best friend to show up, and was not surprised when he spotted movement in the field on the Linder farm. Snow from the latest blizzard had almost completely melted, but there was still a chill in the air, and after he put his hat back on, he buttoned his long, dark coat the rest of the way up. After the chores were done in winter, there wasn’t that much to do but think, and lately all he could think about was Marblestone.

  “Lillie Mae send another letter?” Willis Linder asked when he finally made it across the road to the tree where Earl stood. No two men could have looked less alike. Willis had curly blond hair, was a full head shorter, and because buying new overalls that fit was out of the question, he was forced to pin the bottom of his hand-me-down pants up into wide cuffs. Any other man would have been embarrassed, but Willis was used to it.

  Earl liked Willis. They were the same age, went to school together right up to the sixth grade, and stayed in constant touch. Willis was not smart about a lot of things, but Earl thought of him as a true and faithful friend. “Yep, her mother got one yesterday. It is all about MacGreagor’s daughter and what a looker she is.”

  “The one Lillie Mae takes care of?”

  “That is the one.”

  “I cannot wait to get a good look at her,” Willis said. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to warm them up. “I bet she is not nearly as pretty as Lillie Mae says.”

  “Why would she lie about that?”

  “I do not know, she sometimes exaggerates, is all.”