Marblestone Mansion, Book 7 Read online

  In a city that boasted exceptional hospitality and plush fine dining establishments, the duchess hoped he would take her to Delmonicos in Manhattan. It was, she had heard, the very place to eat if one wanted to rub elbows with the rich. Unfortunately, the carriage drove right past the extravagant six-story building. It was yet another disappointment, and she secretly vowed to be rid of the man as soon as she acquired the new clothing.

  Instead, the carriage continued on and on, until the tall buildings were out of sight and the streets became narrow. At last, it stopped and the duchess stepped out of the carriage only to discover she was in a far less reputable part of the city. Inside the restaurant, the tables were adorned with simple cotton instead of linen cloths, the silver, if indeed it was real silver, was not polished and she knew right away what served as dishes were certainly not imported china and fingerbowls. It was not her kind of place, to be sure.

  The waiter appeared to know who Bernie was and when he called him Colonel, she assumed her escort was ex-military of some sort. She might have inquired, but it was the first time she had ever been given a printed menu to choose from, and she found the description of several main dishes tempting. For a woman who was careful not to spend more than was necessary, she found the prices more than reasonable, which made it clear, he had no intention of spending any more of his money on her than was absolutely necessary. She was about to choose, when Bernie insisted she have steak and would not take no for an answer.

  “You shall see, it is the finest steak in the world,” he said.

  The duchess doubted that, but what could she do? It was a free meal after all, and she intended to eat every bite…within the rules of proper etiquette, of course. No need to let him know she was near destitution. “How much of the world have you seen?” she asked, once the ordering was done and the ordinary wine glasses were filled. She reminded herself to partake of the wine in moderation, for she had not eaten all day.

  “Not as much as I would like,” he confessed. “Have you met the King?”

  The duchess had to be very careful. The last thing she needed was to let it be known she was once connected to the London elite, who would gladly jump at the chance to lay bare all her past exploits to anyone who inquired. “I have seen him a time or two, naturally.”

  “Naturally. They say he came to Manhattan when he was Prince of Wales, but I was not fortunate enough to meet him. Now that he is king, he’ll not likely come back.”

  “I assure you, meeting the king is not as glamorous as they say.”

  “Perhaps not. Tell me, my dear, what do you do?”

  She was still annoyed at not being allowed to choose her own meal when she leaned forward. “If you must know, I am a bigamist by trade.”

  Bernie stared into her serious eyes for a long moment. At last, the corners of her lips began to curl into a smile. He not only chuckled, his chuckles turned into laughter, and his laughter into roars. The duchess, who constantly sought the admiration of men, had never caused that effect before. When she glanced around, everyone was staring at them. Instead of being ill at ease, she took a moment to survey the plain, the semi-handsome and the outright attractive men in the room, of which she could only find one. In her well-practiced demure way, she quickly lowered her gaze, glanced back to make certain he was still watching her, and then gave Bernie her full and complete attention. It was not her practice to give women anything more than a passing glance, and especially in a restaurant full of commoners. Unfortunately, the wife of the man she so blatantly flirted with, was well aware of who the ex-duchess of Glenartair was.

  “My dear, what a delight you are,” Bernie was saying. “What do you truly do?”

  “I am a writer.” The duchess had no idea where that came from, but there it was, and now she was stuck with it. She did know something of writing, for she worked with solicitor John Crisp on the book he wrote entitled, The Scandalous Exploits of Alexandra Sinclair, although she did most of the talking while he did the actual writing.

  “Might I be allowed to read some of your work?”

  “I wish you could. Sadly, the manuscript was lost at sea.”

  “At sea? My dear, were you shipwrecked?”

  “Nothing so romantic as that. I happened to offend a fellow passenger on the voyage, and she promptly threw all my papers overboard.”

  Bernie deeply frowned. “How preposterous of her.”

  “I quite agree.”

  “Can you not write it again?”

  “I have tried reconstructing some of it, but it is not nearly as much fun as writing it the first time.”

  “I suppose not. Are you familiar with the writing of H. G. Wells?”

  “I am not. What does he write?”

  “I shall loan you a copy of Anticipations of the Reaction of Mechanical and Scientific Progress Upon Human Life and Thought. It is a most fascinating look at what the future might hold for us all.”

  “I should be quite pleased to read it,” she pretended, for she could not think of a subject she was less interested in. “What do you do, if I might be so bold as to ask.”

  “I do as little as possible, and nothing that I do not thoroughly enjoy.”

  “You are not employed?”

  “Ah, I see. You wish to know my means of support. I am at my leisure, I dare say, although I do dabble in antiques occasionally.”

  The duchess found his explanation completely unsatisfactory, but not unusual. Men were secretive about such things, but she had her ways of finding out. It was like a game to her, a game she would have missed playing had he been more forthcoming. Antiques? What could a country that was little more than a hundred years old possibly have in the way of antiques…unless he managed to import them from Europe? That might be fascinating.

  “Good evening,” the waiter said, as he delivered the first course of their meal. He set a bowl of bean soup in front of each of them and then left.

  Bernie picked up his spoon and then proceeded to loudly slurp his soup.

  The duchess was horrified, but a woman in her particular circumstance could hardly object. Still, it was all she could do to mask her disapproval. It was then she spotted the remarkably large emerald and diamond ring on his middle finger. It was extraordinary and…it was also somehow familiar. In fact, she had seen one remarkably like it somewhere before, but where? It was of that she was thinking when she realized he was talking about the death of someone in his past. She feared her own death by virtue of boredom, but as it turned out, he had quite a story to tell.

  “It was the worst of all tragedies,” he began between slurps. “Perhaps you have heard of the Hoboken Dock disaster?”

  “I do not believe I have.”

  “Yes, well perhaps it did not make the London papers, but there was plenty written about it here. Sadly, I lost my sister in that disaster. It happened not far from here in New York Harbor. Several ships were docked on the loading piers and Mary went to visit friends aboard one of them. A very strong wind blew, enabling the cotton bales to catch fire. Warehouses filled with turpentine oil caused the explosions, and the sounds could be heard for miles. Three ships caught fire, as did several smaller vessels, further filling the air with smoke. Are you certain there was nothing in the London papers about it?”

  The duchess tried to think. That was the year she sailed to America, took that dreadful train ride to Marblestone Mansion in Colorado, turned right around and sailed home again. At the time, she was not the least bit interested in what was happening in the rest of the world. “I believe I did read something about it, but I had no idea it was so horrible.”

  “Hundreds died, including…” he paused to breathe deeply and then changed the subject. “But then, why am I burdening you with this, my dear. Let us talk of happier things.”

  “I agree. Have you any children?”

  “No, we were not fortunate in that regard. Now, tell me about you.”

  Before she answered, she consumed a spoonful of soup without slurping, hopin
g he might see the difference. He did not. “I am a widow and I too did not conceive.” She was so used to telling that lie, she felt not the slightest twinge of guilt.

  “Did you love him madly?”

  She wished he had not asked that question, for she was desperately trying to forget Jedidiah Tanner, the only husband she truly did love. “Very much so.”

  “When did he pass?”

  The truth be told, she either did not know or did not remember the date of the shootout in Kansas City, so she guessed, “He has been gone these two years.”

  “Then you are Mrs. Dell. Forgive me for misunderstanding.”

  “I was not offended in the least.” The duchess had already smiled at him so often, the corners of her mouth were beginning to hurt. It was then he started to recount the rest of his dreary, unimportant life. She wondered just how long it would be before he proposed, and if she could manage to keep pretending to adore him long enough. Somehow, being attentive seemed harder to accomplish with each new husband.

  “How is your steak?” he asked.

  “What? Oh, the steak. Indeed, it is the best I have ever eaten.” That seemed to please him, and she was grateful that he took to shoving food into his mouth instead of talking. The steak was good, but certainly not the best she had ever eaten. Soon, her mind drifted again. She thought about the two new dresses he promised, and tried to decide what color she preferred. Next, she considered what sort of house he lived in and if he had servants. He must, for he had no wife to take care of him, and his clothing were impeccably well kept. He had money, she was sure of it.

  He was talking again, about nothing of particular interest to her, while she continued to enjoy the nourishment needed to sustain her perfect figure. She nodded when appropriate, half listened, savored the potatoes with just the right spices, and then her thoughts turned to Hannish MacGreagor. She had not forgotten him, not for a second, nor had she forgotten her vow to seek her revenge. However, what she had in mind cost money – the kind of money the simpleton seated across the table from her had. Marriage to Bernie would be complete drudgery, but if she was to carry out her plan, she needed to get Bernie to the altar.

  Once more, his ring caught her attention. For the life of her, she simply could not remember where she had seen one like it before.

  *

  On the other side of the room, the handsome man and his wife finished their meal and stood up. The wife wrapped her arm around his, and as they walked past, she got an even better look at the woman who so boldly flirted with her husband. It was the ex-duchess alright; the one all of London society could not stop talking about. The wife smiled as she passed by. She simply could not wait to call her friend in London with the news.

  *

  Her first dinner with a wealthy man in months ended too quickly, but with her stomach full to the brim for a change, it took the duchess only a few seconds to fall asleep. The next day, she waited. Surely, he would call, but he did not. On the second day, she decided not to be there when he called. She got dressed, took the elevator down to the lobby and asked for her mail. There was never anything for her, and she was surprised to learn she had a package. That was before she remembered Bernie promised to send a boring book, and judging from the shape of the package, that was precisely what it was. Chagrinned, she took it back upstairs to her room, removed her gloves and opened it. Sure enough, it was the very book he mentioned, and it promised to be the most tiresome one she had ever read.

  In the very least, it meant he had not forgotten her, and she assumed he would come to retrieve it. On the other hand, he could well afford to buy another copy for himself. What was she supposed to do, spend the day reading it? She supposed so, removed her hat, sat at the table and opened the flap. To her delight, she found a short note telling her that the dressmaker was expecting her at precisely noon on the first day of the next week.

  Perhaps she could endure reading the book after all. The summer heat was stifling in her room, which caused her to unbutton her shoes and take them off. By afternoon, she was down to her corset and petticoat, both of which she considered taking off as well.

  In his book, Mr. Wells seemed exasperatingly fascinated with motors, wars and guns, none of which she found the least bit interesting. Nevertheless, she endeavored to read the first sentence of each and every paragraph in case Bernie asked questions. By the time she finished, she wore no clothing at all and fell asleep in her bed.

  CHAPTER 4

  After a few days of much needed rest, Cameron was eager to take up his position at the Whitfield and MacGreagor Construction Company. He assumed that after running an entire business himself, it wouldn’t be much of a challenge. He was right, but not for the reasons he expected. Hannish took his brother to the warehouse where Cameron got a good look at the hundreds of parts it took to build a house. Next, Hannish showed him the small room he used as an office and picked up a pile of papers on his desk. “We take inventory once a month and you shall be required to compare it to the deliveries.” Next, he introduced his brother to the men, and then took him to see the empty houses.

  Six houses, consisting of three basic floor plans, but with different front designs, lined each side of a dirt road. “How many have you ready to sell?” Cameron asked. He dismounted, tied his horse to a hitching post under the shade of a tree, and followed Hannish up to the front door of the first house on the row.

  “Fifteen. These are hard times. Many lads suffer no jobs and with the coal and hard rock miners on strike, few can afford a new house. Hopefully, sales will get better once the strike is resolved.” Hannish opened the door and walked into the empty parlor. “We bought this one from the Widow Swinton and have done a good deal to improve the place.”

  For the next two hours, they walked through fifteen empty houses, examining the workmanship and discussing what still needed to be done. “And the yards?” Cameron asked when they returned to their horses.

  “We thought to do the work ourselves, but now that the houses do not sell, ‘twould be extra time and wasted money. If the lads have little to do, we shall put them to work buildin’ picket fences to enhance the property. Just now, we have more than enough requests for highchairs.”

  “They would do well to plant more trees. This day promises to be as hot as the last.” He removed his hat, ran his fingers through his dark wavy hair, put his hat back on, and noticed a small, red-breasted blue bird sitting on the limb of the tree. “What sort of bird is that?”

  “‘Tis a blue jay, they tell me.” As soon as Hannish got too close, the bird flew away, followed by three more the brothers failed to notice in the tree.

  Cameron watched until they were out of sight. “So you plan no new houses this year?”

  “Nay, we see no need, unless you have an idea.”

  “We,” Cameron repeated, “I like the sound of it. Have you drawn up the partnership papers?”

  Hannish untied his horse’s reins, took hold of the saddle horn and mounted. “Aye, and they are signed. All that is required is for you to sign them.”

  “And pay the investment. Was that McKenna you spoke to on the telephone this mornin’?” He got on his horse as well, and rode beside his brother up the dirt road.

  “Aye. The trial continues, possibly for another week and the judge wishes to stay. She finds it fascinatin’ as well, though she cannae wait to see you.”

  “They are happy?”

  “Aye, they love each other deeply and hope to have more children soon. Little Nicky is a joy and he reminds me of our father. One side of his mouth turns up when he smiles, just as father’s did.”

  “I remember that.” All the way into town, the brothers shared favorite memories of the parents they lost to a train accident years before. Naturally, Hannish remembered more than Cameron did.

  The downtown part of the MacGreagor and Whitfield Construction Company was a modest two-room office on the upper floor of a two-story downtown building. It had an outer office suitable for a secretary, a
nd an inner office where Claymore worked, paying invoices and ordering materials. His favorite duty was showing the houses, when they were fortunate enough to have a buyer. The company was far from going under, but with no houses to build and no materials to order, Claymore’s biggest problem was boredom.

  As soon as they arrived, the brothers took off their coats and hung them on the freestanding rack. The office walls were sparsely decorated, Cameron noticed, with only a few pictures, and a board attached to the wall with hooks where keys to the new houses were kept. Empty chairs lined the wall for customers to sit in, and a small table held several drinking cups.

  “Your desk,” Hannish said, pointing to the one in the outer office. “To keep from havin’ to deal with them after we go home at night, we keep our personal books here as well. There are three sets – one for the Whitfield household, one for the mansion and one for the company. I doubt it shall be too tedious. We are invoiced each month for whatever our wives can manage to spend, and we dinna quibble over it.”

  “Does Leesil spend a great deal?”

  Hannish smiled and found a chair to sit in, while Cameron made himself comfortable behind the secretary’s desk. “Not without Abigail’s help.”

  Claymore was late, but that was not unusual, especially on Mondays when there was little to look forward to. On this day, he drove his automobile to town and was delighted to find a place to park right in front of the office. He turned off the motor and was about to get out, when the wondrous machine made a deafening loud pop. Claymore’s eyes bulged, a woman walking past shrieked and two men ducked for cover.

  “Confounded thing,” he muttered. He got out and thought to kick the contraption, until he remembered how expensive it was. His hands were shaking, but he managed to open the door to the building and dart inside. Thoroughly embarrassed and irritated, he took the stairs two at a time, which nearly wore him out at his age, and escaped into the privacy of the office. “Did you hear it?” he asked Hannish as he yanked the door open.