It made for a quaint image. And also, perhaps, a disturbing one.
The footman, Moncrief, having traded his platter of champagne for a small sterling tray, was approaching at a trot across the gravel, his already-red cheeks going brighter as he ran. Mrs. Smythe would not have approved.
Even as Lilli glanced at that too-eager face and the square of paper he held out to her, she felt her insides twist: some unforeseen crook in her plans to secure George’s trust—and catapult herself beyond the threat of scandal and a tainted family name.
Resting on a sterling saucer, the soiled handmade envelope told her this was from no one she knew—nor was it from someone with whom she’d choose to correspond. Even as the footman stood there with his beagle’s face waiting for her to thank him, she plucked up the letter. And felt the steps of Biltmore shift.
No return address. A postmark from Asheville. Her name, then Care of George Vanderbilt—no Esquire—Biltmore Estate, North Carolina, was scratched there. Its lines only crude, uneven attempts at the English alphabet.
Of course she should have waited to open the letter, especially given that curling of her insides. But curiosity and revulsion had seized her at the same moment—and neither sat well with patience for long. Ripping the envelope open, she found only a card, soiled, with only a handful of words scrawled in the same stiff, jerking hand:
We got to talk. Soon.
Lilli let out a gasp before she could stifle it.
That he would risk communicating with her like this. Linking her name . . . Merde. The reckless fool.
Emily turned toward her from a few feet away. “What on earth in that letter has made you go pale, Lil?”
“Letter?”
“The one Moncrief just gave you. In your hand.” Emily swept to her side. “As if you wouldn’t tell your closest friend of some marvelously sordid tryst. Who is it, Lil? I know: the Duke of Marlborough has come to the States to claim you as his wife instead of my poor cousin Consuelo.”
“Consuelo,” Lilli managed to echo.
“It’s common knowledge, you know, about Consuelo’s attempts at escape, her screaming pleas from a locked room. My aunt Alva, though, remains determined her daughter will marry the duke. Quite the family scandal.”
Lilli flinched at that last word—and she rarely flinched.
Her mother had alluded to it, that word, just before Lilli had left for Biltmore. “You must be more open, Lillian, to offers of marriage. Particularly given our particular unknowns.”
Only the troubles four years ago had induced her mother to relocate from a city Mrs. Barthélemy adored—New Orleans—to the snobbish squalor, she called it, of New York.
And here Lilli was, far deeper in trouble than when she’d left New York.
Emily was dimpling now. “Whatever your secret, Lil, I’ll have it out of you eventually.”
She swept a hand toward the mountains beyond. “George needs to check in with his forestry crew, and I’ve suggested we all go along with him. I’m angling, of course, for your spending more time charming my perilously unmarried uncle.”
Exactly what she needed, Lilli thought. A brisk ride outdoors. To clear her head. Time in the saddle to think about what this letter meant. What she ought to do.
She turned. To find the mountain woman Kerry’s eyes locked on the note.
And then, evidently realizing it wasn’t her place to be staring at a guest’s private correspondence, she flushed and looked up. Lilli stared icily back.
Their gazes locked. Some sort of shock had sparked there in the girl’s eyes. Something about the note—its handwriting, perhaps?—that she must have recognized.
Emily was just looping her arm through Lilli’s. “Shall we then?”
The eyes of the mountain girl, the little tart, would not drop from Lilli’s.
To their left, Moncrief was standing, that ridiculous doggy grin on his freckled face.
Emily lowered her voice. “I do believe his gloves are a finer-grade kid than mine. Democracy is all well and good, but when the footmen are the better dressed, where does that leave us? One shudders to think.”
From the stables, George approached alongside a groom leading three horses between them, and just a few paces behind came Grant and Cabot, astride. Lilli made herself smile. She was becoming good at affecting ease—when what she was feeling was panic. She crumpled the letter inside her riding jacket.
But the girl Kerry was still staring at her. As if she were making some sort of connection between the sender and Lilli. As if this Kerry saw it for what it surely was.
A threat to Lilli Barthélemy of New Orleans, whom no one had ever dared threaten.
Chapter 16
Sal didn’t mean to threaten Vanderbilt’s guests with violence.
He didn’t even mean to stray from the serpentine series of holes he’d been digging. But the bay mare at the crest of the hill was favoring her left front leg as the group approached, and Sal caught the stoical set of her head.
“Remember,” the foreman called from the other side of the stream, “Mr. Olmsted’s insisting it’ll only look natural if nothing’s in a straight line. Ferns and shrubs in the front, bigger trees to the back.”
So focused was he on the horse, Sal paid no attention to anyone else—or their faces as he approached, a pickax gripped in his right hand.
It wasn’t until the riders reined in their mounts and one of the men muttered, “Best always to be aware of potential anarchists” that Sal followed their eyes to the tool he held.
On horseback, Schenck shot in front of him. “Shouldn’t you be working, Mr. Bergamini?” Vorking, he pronounced it.
“I have the concern,” Sal explained.
“The concern of mine is that you return to your work, Bergamini.”
Sal did so, reluctantly, but studied the mare from a few feet away.
Seeming unconcerned by whatever threat Sal might pose, Vanderbilt addressed Grant. “If you’d like to join Cabot while he interviews some of the men, remember, please, that mountain people should be allowed their dignity.”
Cabot dismounted and tethered his horse to a post oak. Then, with a nod to Sal, he walked toward where Tate and a cluster of others stood watching.
Grant began sliding less gracefully from the bay, who sidestepped on three legs as he struggled to release his left foot from the stirrup before flinging the reins over an oak branch and joining Cabot.
Waiting until Grant turned his back, Sal stepped to the mare’s peripheral vision, where she could best evaluate him. He spoke softly to her.
“You no feel good, cavallo. I see that. Non ti farò del male. I no will hurt you.”
Head sinking, the mare stared off into the distance—another bad sign. She stood stiffly as he ran a hand over her withers.
“You are well cared for, yes? I see your coat, brilla. It shines, amica mia.”
From several yards away, Sal could see that Cabot had seated himself on a log with several of the forestry crew. Asking questions.
“My impression, Mr. Tate, is that some here in your mountains may have received a surprisingly sufficient education—to a certain point. I wonder if you could tell me a bit about that.”
“Ain’t a bunch of illiterates, if that’s where you’re headed.”