Marblestone Mansion, Book 7 Read online

  “Another one?” Millie asked as each of them began to smile again. “How many does that make?”

  “Ten, so far as I know.” Mr. Lester finished his breakfast, picked up his uneaten muffin, and stood up. “Forgive me, but I am running late this morning.” Once more, he tipped his hat to Elaine. “I’ll tell Mrs. Crestwood you’ll be keeping her in your prayers, Miss Elaine.”

  Elaine’s mouth dropped, but she couldn’t think of anything to say in return, and by the time she did, he was gone. “Detestable man,” she muttered. Finished with her own meal, she stood up, gathered her plate and headed into the kitchen. She failed to notice all the chuckles and giggles from the others.

  By the time she came back, Gretchen was gone too. “What happened to Gretchen’s sister?” she was bold enough to ask.

  Her question was met with stunned silence. Millie became the most upset, and when the others saw the look on the supervisor’s face, they discretely excused themselves and left the room.

  Confused, Elaine picked up two more plates and then watched as Butler Prescot kissed his wife’s forehead and left.

  Millie put her napkin in her plate and slowly stood up, “Miss Elaine, if you say one more word about Gretchen’s sister to any of us, particularly to Gretchen, I shall personally see you are sent away. Do you understand?”

  “I do not see what all the fuss is about.”

  Millie gritted her teeth. “Not another word.”

  Elaine slowly bowed her head. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Millie lifted her daughter out of the highchair and carried her out of the kitchen.

  Elaine would have stuck her tongue out at Millie, but both cooks were still staring at her. This time, she was smart enough not to say anything as she gathered more dishes and took them to the washtub.

  Cook Halen shook her head. “I think the kitchen floor needs a good scrubbing.”

  Cook Jessie quickly nodded. “Indeed it does, and I know just the one what should do the scrubbin’.”

  “Who?” Elaine asked, coming back in to get more dishes.

  “You,” Jessie answered. “Dinna we say to mind your own business?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “But nothin’,” Jessie interrupted.

  “I am worked to death already,” Elaine protested, but she did not further argue. Once both of them sided against her, there was no point.

  *

  The modest accommodations in the women only hotel on east 30th street in New York City were tolerable, the duchess supposed, and she should know, she had lived in her share of deplorable places. It had not been easy securing one of the four hundred available rooms when the new hotel opened in spring. In fact, she managed to get her name on the waiting list just in time. The name she chose to use this time was – Nora Dell. The room cost the outrageous price of one entire dollar a day, but at least the public baths were free…humiliating, but free, and the room had a telephone, should she ever have a particular need for one.

  The Martha Washington Hotel had elevators, a restaurant and a ballroom. Just fifteen blocks away, a new theater was opening on Broadway, but what did it matter? She had yet to secure a gentleman with the necessary funds to take her to a show or to a ball. Furthermore, the only ball gown she had, was a low-cut lavender with small pearls scattered across the bodice. It was the gown she wore to the Grand Duke of Luxembourg’s disastrous birthday celebration.

  She managed to hang on to Lady Husher’s diamond and sapphire ring, and the exquisite string of pearls. Not yet forced to sell them to survive, Nora Dell wore them constantly for fear she might fall victim to yet another thief. Thieves and beggars seemed to be everywhere in the city, and one could never be too careful.

  Saving money was of the upmost importance, and to that end, she borrowed clothing whenever possible…not that she ever meant to return them. When they did not fit, she altered them using the sewing skills she gained when she was unfairly sent to a Colorado prison, merely for shooting a train conductor.

  Always fashion conscious, there was one style she refused to adhere to, no matter what the wealthy thought, and that was the flat-chested look. The designers, she supposed, were completely out of their minds to think the suppression of a woman’s bosom was appealing to the average man. She knew better, and she had eight previous husbands to prove it.

  Being well aware she could not find a husband if she kept herself stowed away in her room, she daily went for a stroll down 5th Avenue, where her beauty could be admired in full view of exclusive Manhattan residences. She held her head high, paused to admire something fascinating occasionally, and hoped to garner the attention of one or more wealthy men. As of yet, her luck was elusive, for not in months had she gained the attention of even one unattached millionaire. It appeared that those who could afford the life she believe she so richly deserved, already had wives.

  Of course, in a city bustling with manufacturing, there was certainly no shortage of unmarried men. She met them on the cable cars, on the streets and even in the market where she went to buy fruit in season. New York City was full of middleclass men and she received her share of offers, but their wages were scant, and they lived in bachelor flats that were no more accommodating than the dreariest of hotels. Yet, she saw nothing wrong with lively conversations and a friendly game of poker now and then. She learned a lot about the wealthy from the commoners, and usually won enough to pay her rent for another month or so. Yet, playing poker was not nearly lucrative enough, and if she did not secure a husband to care for her soon, she feared she would be out on the street again.

  From the commoners, she learned that those who gained their wealth from industry in America were not so very highly regarded, unlike those in England’s high society, who had old money to boast of. What did she care? Money was money, even if it was fraudulently gained by virtue of low wages and deplorable working conditions. Therefore, she paid no particular notice to the plight of anyone else but herself.

  The duchess had no real friends of the female persuasion, but she did have a few acquaintances at the hotel, and after a time, she found New York City acceptable. She admired the fine carriages, the tall buildings, the ornate horse watering fountains, and most of all – the abundant opportunities offered exclusively to the wealthy. Occasionally, she managed to be in the right place at just the right time. The wealthy were sometimes lazy and careless, which enabled her to borrow items of quality to add to her meager, but growing wardrobe. She even managed to add a pair of slightly oversized, button up walking shoes.

  However, there was one thing she sincerely did not admire about New York City – it smelled. Her hotel was located in the Rose Hill district, but if one imagined the sweet smell of roses, it was masked by the unbearable, pungent odor of horse manure in the streets. Far too often, the duchess was forced to hold her nose, and walk around the very dead carcass of a horse that had pulled its last load.

  To relieve herself of the unpleasantness, she boarded an electric cable car or one of the elevated railway trains just to get out of the heart of the city. Riding public transportation was not free, so to compensate, she went without a meal and hoped she was not losing too much weight.

  Of an evening, when her financial situation was foremost on her mind, which it constantly was, the duchess stared at the telephone in her room. She could easily call Hannish MacGreagor and demand the funds she lacked, for he had more than enough to spare. Why should he not support his first wife in the manner to which she believed she was entitled? After all, he lied to her, not once, but twice.

  First, he let her believe he had little left after he built Marblestone Mansion, and second, he promised to join her after she went back to Scotland. It was clear he never intended to. If that were not bad enough, he stripped her of her title, had her banned from Glenartair Castle, and consigned her to an insufferable little cottage with only two servants.

  Indeed, her situation was his fault and she was convinced he would send money, if for no other reason than to keep
her out of Colorado. Yet, each time she lifted the earpiece, she remembered his despicable butler. Prescot would not likely put the call through to Hannish, and it would be a waste. She could repeatedly call until Hannish could avoid her no longer, but she could not afford the extra expense. A letter was her only hope – if only she could think of something to say.

  Therefore, each night as she went to bed, her letter went unwritten.

  *

  It was a ghastly hot and humid day when the duchess stepped out of the Martha Washington Hotel. She wore a light green summer dress, with a white high collar, and puffy white sleeves that made her waist look small and appealing. As most did in the upper class, she wore her long, black hair loosely swept up in Gibson girl style, under a wide brimmed hat that almost matched the color of her dress. She looked everywhere for one that did match, but alas, the borrowed dress had obviously been made in Paris, and she suspected that particular shade would likely not arrive in America for years. Americans were so backward that way.

  In a hurry to catch the cable car she could see coming down the center of the busy street, the duchess impatiently waited for a carriage to pass, and then started across. Just then, an automobile came out of nowhere, the wheel hit a hideous pile of horse droppings, and slung the repulsive manure all over her dress.

  Her mouth dropped, her eyes narrowed, her face began to turn red and then…then…she turned her most furious glare on the thoughtless driver. Of course, that was before she realized he was one of only a few men rich enough to afford an automobile.

  The driver promptly stopped, hopped out of his splendid machine and hurried to her. “Oh, my,” he gasped looking her dress up and down. “Look what I have done.” He quickly removed his soft felt, Homburg hat. “I most heartily and sincerely apologize, Miss…”

  He was immaculately dressed, she noticed. He wore his slightly receding, short brown hair parted on the side, his face was clean shaven and his eyes were a softer brown than most. Over a high collar white shirt, he wore a pale gray silk Ascot bow tie, and a dark black jacket with brass buttons that matched the ones on his vest. He had impressive creases down the front of gray striped trousers that were cuffed just above the white toecap of his black, lace up boots. The duchess always paid close attention to details, especially trouser pressed creases. His attire and his mode of transportation spelled money…and plenty of it.

  “Dell,” she finally answered. The duchess thought to force herself to smile, but she was having great difficulty suppressing the rage that continued to build. With her gloved hand, she wiped a spot of unthinkable manure off her cheek and managed only half a smile. “You are forgiven.”

  “You are very kind, madam. I am Bernard Hathaway, but my friends call me Bernie. Allow me to make it up to you. I shall send a man around to fetch your clothes and have them cleaned, if…” he glanced down the front of her dress again, “if such is at all possible. If not, I shall be happy to have them replaced.”

  “I hardly think that necessary. I can manage.” People were starting to stare and the impulse to run and hide was almost more than she could bear.

  He ignored the traffic jam he was causing, took her arm and escorted her back to the sidewalk. “Then allow me to take you to dinner this evening.”

  “Your wife will not mind?”

  “She has long since passed, I regret to say.”

  Things were looking up. Inwardly, she was more than delighted, but outwardly, she respectfully lowered her gaze. “I am grieved to hear it.”

  “Move along!” someone in the street shouted.

  Bernie glanced that direction, and then took note of the name of the building. “Thank you. Shall I pick you up here at seven?”

  “Seven shall be fine.”

  Bernard Allen Hathaway put his hat on, tipped it, and then hurried back to his automobile. It was his lucky day. For what he had in mind, she would be perfect. She was beautiful, charming, held her head high, and she displayed a slight touch of innocence.

  It was indeed his lucky day…or so he thought.

  *

  As soon as he was gone, the duchess entered the hotel, marched across the lobby and darted into the crowded elevator. The pungent smell quickly drove everyone else out, and the remarks she heard before the door closed made her humiliation complete.

  Once in her room, she could not get out of her dress fast enough. She wadded it up, wrapped it in paper and tied it with string just in case he actually did send a man for it. Next, she scrubbed her face, washed a spot out of the bosom of her worn and tattered swan-bill corset, and examined the top of her hair. She could find but one small spot of horse manure on one side, and carefully washed that out as well. Even then, she could still smell the foul, intolerable odor.

  When she looked down, her lace-trimmed petticoat had a disgusting wet, brown spot right in front. It was the only petticoat she owned, but nothing else would do save to take it off, wash it as best she could, and hope it dried before he came to take her to dinner. Once that was done, she feverishly cleaned her shoes and her gloves, examined every inch of her body, washed herself repeatedly…and still, she could smell it.

  Unfortunately, the rising temperature of her anger did nothing toward drying her petticoat. She fussed and fumed, voiced her unflattering opinion of Mr. Bernard Hathaway under her breath, and repeatedly checked to see if it was any dryer than the last time she checked. It wasn’t. While other rooms facing the alley had pulley clotheslines strung from building to building, hers did not, which further aggravated her. Normally, she simply spread her washed clothing over the furniture to dry overnight, but time this day was limited.

  A knock at the door caused her to rush to put on a borrowed bathrobe, tuck the corner of the monogram embroidery inside the collar and peek out the door. To her relief, the monster with the automobile had indeed sent a man, and was waiting downstairs for the maid to retrieve her dress. The duchess closed the door, grabbed the package, handed it out and grumbled something that might have passed for, “Thank you,” although her foul mood prevented her from actually being grateful.

  At last, she had a brilliant idea. She opened the window wider, and began to wave her wet petticoat through the air, hoping to force the pungent odor out of the room. At length and completely exhausted, she sat down on the bed, wadded up the damp petticoat and threw it across the room. It was hopeless…it was all impossibly hopeless.

  *

  At precisely seven o’clock, Bernard Allen Hathaway drove up in front of the Martha Washington Hotel in New York City, and discovered his dinner guest was not waiting outside. That was just as he hoped, for no proper lady would do such a thing. He climbed out of his rented carriage, went to the door, opened it and there she was – a vision of loveliness and virtue in a soft blue dress and matching hat. She sat on a tufted red velvet sofa with her back straight, her head bowed, and her hands elegantly folded in her lap.

  The duchess nearly did not get ready in time. Her slip was still damp, but there was nothing she could do about that. It was the button hook that gave her the most trouble. In a hurry, she just couldn’t loop the hook around buttons on shoes that were, of course, not exactly hers. Neither was the silver handled buttonhook.

  Even so, she managed to arrive in time to position herself on the sofa, so that her blue eyes caught the light when she slowly raised her head. At the sight of him, she smiled and waited, but he made no effort to offer his hand. It was quite inappropriate for the man not to make the offer first…at least in London, but the Americans were not so carefully schooled in the art of exemplary manners. Unwilling to risk standing up in a less than graceful fashion, she held out her hand instead.

  “Miss Dell,” he said, finally taking her hand and helping her up. “I fear getting the stains out of your dress quite useless. Therefore, I insist you visit a friend of mine. She is a seamstress of the very best quality, and I have already instructed her to make two new dresses to express my most…”

  “It is not at all necessar
y, Mr. Hathaway…but if you insist.”

  “I do, I truly do. It is the least I can do.” He opened the door for her, followed her out and then guided her to his carriage.

  “A carriage?” she asked before she could stop herself.

  “My automobile is nearly out of petro, I fear. Have you ever ridden in one?”

  “A time or two in England,” she lied. The last year or two in London had not been what anyone would call conducive to living life in style. In fact, she had been downright destitute.

  “I thought I detected a British accent.”

  Any other time, she might have looked at him in disbelief, for rarely did it take that long for an American to spot her accent. For a moment, she worried that she was losing one of her bestselling attributes, even if it was phony, but she decided to worry about that later. She let him help her into the fully enclosed carriage and then waited for him to seat himself. “Where might I find this seamstress of yours?”

  “It is on our way. I shall point the shop out as we pass.” He tapped on the window with his stylish cane, and soon they were on their way.

  The evening had not yet cooled sufficiently and the humidity was still high, which made her disappointment at riding in an enclosed carriage more intense. She so looked forward to riding in an automobile. In fact, it was a pleasure she wanted desperately to become accustomed to. Not only that, Mr. Bernard Hathaway would take a little getting used to. He wore far too much Eau de Cologne for men, which she found quite overwhelming even with the glass windows partially open. No well-bread gentleman would do that either. Indeed, his lack of proper manners would likely tire her rather low level of tolerance sooner rather than later.

  As well, when he pointed out the dressmaker, he neglected to ask the driver to stop so she could see the address, and she just barely caught the name of the shop - Shirley Lenard’s Gowns. On the other hand, the prospect of ending up with one or two new gowns convinced her to be a bit more accepting of the man. That was before the carriage slowed down and she got another whiff of his overpowering cologne. At least the streets had been recently cleaned, and she could no longer smell the manure.