Philanthropy. Lilli made a mental note. Mountains and art and philanthropy were all roads to their host’s heart. Part of the challenge of attracting George Vanderbilt’s attention: the forms of flirtation Lilli excelled at fell rather flat.
They swept next into a vast banquet hall. She gaped at the table that appeared capable of seating forty or so, the three-story ceiling, the organ whose pipes ran up one side of the hall, the tapestries that filled the entire facing wall and looked awfully old.
“Fourteenth century,” their host offered before she could ask.
Emily clapped her hands together. “Your people have lit all three fireplaces for our visit today. And there’s even a string quartet. George, how lovely.”
The four musicians near the bank of fireplaces picked up their bows now, “Sheep May Safely Graze” floating through the hall.
Behind them came a small grunt. Mrs. Smythe stood with her arms crossed over her chest. “Housemaids had to be instructed on the proper way to lay a fire indoors. Bless my soul, the staff here that’s not brought from England, they’ve grown up living outdoors as much as in. My job’s a bit of the training chipmunks about it.”
George Vanderbilt patted the housekeeper’s arm. “Carry on, Mrs. Smythe.”
Now he was gesturing for them to follow him past several other grand rooms and down a tapestry gallery.
Lilli nodded toward the tapestries. “They’re lovely,” she offered. Which sounded bland even to her.
John Cabot fell in beside her. “I understand you’re from New Orleans.”
“Yes.” She should manage something more friendly than that. He was better looking than Grant, after all. But she’d no wish to speak of New Orleans. Especially not now.
Cabot must not have caught the chilliness in her tone. “When I was a freshman at Harvard four years ago, several of us on the Crimson staff . . .” He faltered there, as if reminded of something quite awful. But then went on. “We followed a story in New Orleans. It involved the death of your police chief and the violent aftermath.”
Bristling, she drew a deep breath. And kept her tone airy. “My mother and I reside now in New York. We have little interest in being reminded of New Orleans.”
“As I recall, the murder of the police chief was never solved. Hennessy, I think, was his name.”
“It was most certainly solved.” She shot this back before she could think.
Startled, Cabot stopped walking. “The group of Italians who were arrested . . .”
“Were the perpetrators,” she said. “A mafia vendetta. The police chief named the Italians with his last breath.”
As he opened his mouth to speak again, Lilli held up her hand. “Mr. Cabot, you had your reasons a moment ago—mysterious as they might appear to onlookers—for not wishing to discuss a game of football in which you apparently were ejected for . . . what was it? Excessive brutality?”
She watched him flinch. “Perhaps, then, you can abide by my wish to avoid the subject of New Orleans entirely.”
Her voice had risen to a pitch she’d not intended, audible even over the strings. The others turned now and stared, as if they could see on her face the horror she’d so carefully tucked away out of sight when she’d dressed to come out this morning. The questions about her own father she carried inside her like internal wounds.
Cabot’s face had grown hard again. “Consider it done,” he said quietly. Then turned stiffly away.
In John Quincy Cabot, Lilli realized, she’d not made a friend.
Chapter 12
Lilli forced a smile—a charming nonchalance—in that center of stares.
Clasping his hands behind his back, Cabot was focusing on something else: the Sargent painting of Vanderbilt’s mother.
In the next room, two stories of bookshelves still under construction covered all four walls. A balcony ran the perimeter, interrupted only by the fireplace that commanded one side of the room.
In the midst of the scaffolding, Moncrief suddenly appeared, holding a platter of hors d’oeuvres in one hand and a tray with flutes of champagne in the other. He looked like the lady holding the scales of justice—if the lady’s face had been flushed and freckled, and without the blindfold. Lilli laughed aloud, and had to stifle it into a cough.
“Astrakhan caviar,” the footman gushed. “With toast points. And Pommery Sec champagne. All the very best of the best, it is. Good gear comes in small bulk, we’d say back home.”
At his elbow, Mrs. Smythe blanched, whispering acidly, “Without the commentary about the bevvies next time.”
“More than ten thousand volumes,” Emily was announcing. “That’s what it will hold when it’s finished—and thousands more elsewhere. Is that right, George? He’s had most of them rebound to match in their literary series and groups. Things like that matter to George.” Emily added this last comment as if there were something deeply peculiar about it. Though endearing.
He seemed to take no offense. And turned to touch the spine of several books—intimately, as if they were old friends.
Lilli tried on her best look of ecstatic and awed. But this much unmoving, unspeaking paper and ink was making her feel constricted. As if someone had hauled on the strings of her corset and blocked her exit to the outdoors.
“Emily has often mentioned,” she managed, a little nauseous, “what a well-read man you are, with ex . . . with expansive tastes.” She’d nearly said expensive. Which was also true. Just not something one said aloud. “How noble to create a monument to the books you cherish.”
Their host tilted his head, considering. “Although monument would imply a static memorializing. Whereas books, once read, become fully a part of us.”
Emily shot a sympathetic look at Lilli, whose arrow had clearly missed not just the bull’s-eye but the whole target this time.
Lilli moved to inspect the carved black marble fireplace. The others pressed forward into the library’s center to study the painting on the ceiling.
“The Chariot of Aurora,” their host was saying, “by Pellegrini. It’s actually thirteen separate canvases, although as you see here, only a few have been install—”
The library door burst open.
“Forgive me, Mr. Vanderbilt.” The man at the threshold stood, breathing hard. His riding boots were covered in mud, leaves sticking to their sides.
Outside the door, the shadow of a second man shifted.
Vanderbilt addressed his guests. “Some of you met my estate manager, Mr. McNamee, yesterday.” He turned back to the newcomer. “Come in, Charles.”
McNamee hurried forward—oblivious to the mud he was tracking.
“I wouldn’t ordinarily have barged in like this, but I’ve an issue with an intruder who came onto the estate looking for work.”
“Much as I’d like to hire every last able-bodied man in the mountains . . .”
“Forgive me, but this one, a Marco Bergamini, carries with him . . .” McNamee reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small rectangular card, creased and badly stained. Lilli could spot an embellished V at its top.
She stepped to where she could peer back toward the tapestry gallery. A man stood there, broad shouldered, dark tumble of hair, square chin, not recently shaved. An olive cast to the skin. As the man glanced up, she realized with a start that she’d met him. The bandit from the forest who’d grabbed for her horse.