A Sudden Passing Page 12

  He showed me to the door in silence, neither of us having any idea what to say. Idle chit chat hardly seemed appropriate after a conversation of that magnitude. So, Charles tipped his head as I stepped onto the doorstep.

  “Thank you for coming, Rose.”

  I nodded back. “When we speak again, I hope it will be about better news.”

  “I hope so, too.” He smiled, his eyes and mouth crinkling at the corners, and then closed the door.

  Knowing the connection between General Hughes, Mr. Beckingham, and Charles Cresswell was an answer that only invited more questions. Who was orchestrating the killings? And now that Mr. Barlow was dead, was there yet another assassin we would have to contend with?

  As I walked down the sidewalk, the moon offering a faint amount of light by which to see, I felt a prickling down my spine as though I was being watched. Thoughts of assassins and “The American” left my head as I focused in on my immediate surroundings. I’d walked several blocks in deep thought, paying little attention to those around me or where I was going, but now I heard every footfall against the ground, every rustle in the landscaping. I looked back over my shoulder and saw no one behind me. A couple was walking on the opposite side of the street, but they turned the corner, leaving me once again alone.

  I continued on, every sense attuned to the world around me, and though I did not hear or see anyone, I could not rid myself of the feeling that I was being followed. The longer I walked without incident, however, the more I began to suspect I had fallen victim to paranoia. My conversation with Charles about assassins and staying vigilant had clearly unnerved me, and the feeling would subside as soon as I reached Aunt Sarah’s home, which was at the end of the next block. I hastened my pace, passing quickly in front of the large stone home next door, so I could finally move through the gates that had become familiar to me over the last few days and be put at ease. When I pushed the gate open was when I heard the footsteps.

  They came from behind, slapping against the ground as though running, and every instinct in my body told me to run. Instead, I grabbed the blade I had taken to stashing inside of my handbag and spun around, prepared to fight.

  Graham’s eyes widened at the sight, and he slid to a stop.

  “Graham?” I took a step backwards without lowering my weapon.

  He focused on the blade and backed away, as well.

  14

  “Are you going to stab me, Rose?” Graham asked solemnly.

  I lowered the blade to my side, my knuckles aching from my crushing grip around the handle. “Were you following me?”

  “I was,” Graham admitted, shifting from one foot to another, his two-toned oxfords slapping against the ground. I wondered how I had not heard him behind me.

  “Would you care to explain why?” I felt exposed, but also betrayed. Yes, I had lied to him, and I was certain I would be answering for that soon enough, but following me without my knowledge was an invasion of my privacy. Even though I had lied, I deserved an explanation.

  “Because you lied to me,” he said simply, never once taking his eyes from my face. “I knew you were lying to me, and I wanted to know why.”

  “You knew?” I asked.

  He nodded. “The moment I found you in the alley, I knew something had happened that you were not telling me. I have not spent so much time with you without paying attention, Rose. You may think me a silly man, but—”

  “I have thought no such thing.” It was only a partial lie. I believed Graham to be an intelligent man, if slightly too optimistic and prone to fits of romance.

  “Regardless,” he continued. “I knew you were lying to me, and when you refused to allow me to show you inside your aunt’s home, I wondered if it was not because you had business elsewhere. So, I waited around the block and followed you when you set out.”

  “You could have come to me,” I said. “You could have asked me why I had lied.”

  “And would you have told me you were going to visit Charles Cresswell? If I had stopped you with no knowledge of your destination, would you have revealed that truth to me?”

  My face flushed in embarrassment and shame, and Graham finally looked away, too upset to look at me. I would not have told him the truth, and suggesting otherwise felt like another betrayal.

  “Does Catherine know you visited her fiancé tonight?” he asked.

  “No one knows,” I said. “Save for myself, you, and Charles.”

  He nodded and kicked the toe of his shoe against the ground. “And would Catherine be disturbed to know the nature of your visit?”

  My eyes widened in surprise and my hand flew to my chest. “If you are suggesting that my relationship with Charles is anything other than friendly, I must tell you my honor is wounded.”

  Graham looked at me, hope flickering in his eyes. “Believe me, suspecting you of any kind of illicit relationship, especially with a man you will soon call family, wounds me in more ways than I can say. But what am I meant to think? You left our dinner under false pretenses so you could go and see him. There are not many excuses for that kind of behavior.”

  I slipped my blade into my purse and stepped forward to look into Graham’s eyes. Though I had lied to him and given him reason to doubt me, I wanted him to know I truly meant what I said. “You told me tonight at dinner that I am unlike other women.”

  He nodded and looked down at the ground, embarrassed by the romantic confessions he had made to me only a couple of hours before.

  “Then is it possible my motives could be unlike other women’s motives? That my reasons could be unlike those of ordinary people?” I asked, reaching out for his hand.

  Graham looked at my hand, considered it for a moment, and then wrapped his fingers around mine. He slouched in a mixture of relief and shame. “It is possible, Rose. Of course, it is. I should have given you the opportunity to explain before making an accusation.”

  “And I should not have lied,” I said. Though I knew, given the chance, the only change I would have made was waiting longer to set out for Charles’ home so Graham would not have followed me. Though I felt bad to have wounded him or given him reason to doubt me, I also had my reasons for being secretive. A man’s life was at stake, and I would not risk his safety or my own in order to spare Graham Collins’ feelings.

  “Why did you?” he asked, grabbing my other hand and pressing my palms together, his hands wrapped around mine like a cage.

  “I did not come to New York simply to celebrate the impending marriage of my cousin,” I admitted. “I also came to help her in solving a mystery.”

  Graham’s brow furrowed. “What kind of mystery?”

  “Would you be angry if I told you it was confidential?” I asked.

  He slowly released my hands, letting his own fall to his sides. “You do not trust me?”

  “Of course, I trust you,” I said quickly. “You have proven yourself to be a loyal friend to me, Graham. It is just that I do not want to prove myself disloyal to my cousin. She asked me to keep my investigation a secret, and that is what I’ve tried to do. It is why I lied to you at the restaurant. I did not feel ill; I was simply overwhelmed by the information I’d gathered and needed time to think. On the drive home, I realized I needed to speak to Charles immediately.”

  “And you swear there was nothing else to it other than that?” he asked. “Besides a sense of obligation to your cousin and a drive to uncover the next clue?”

  “I swear it,” I said, aware that it was the second time I’d been asked to swear that evening.

  Graham stared at me for a moment before his thin mouth turned up in a smile. “Okay, then.”

  He walked me through the gates of Aunt Sarah’s house and up the short path that led to the stone steps. When we were standing on the topmost stair, he turned to me and clutched my hands.

  “A loyal friend,” he said.

  I tilted my head to the side. “Sorry?”

  “Is that how you see me?” he asked. “As a loyal fr
iend?”

  “Oh.” I shifted uncomfortably, realizing the conversation had once again been steered towards the matter of our relationship, and I was no more prepared to give Graham an answer than I had been at the restaurant.

  “Because I hope I have become more to you than that,” he continued without waiting for my response. “As you have become much more than a friend to me. As I said at the restaurant earlier this evening, I’m not sure my life will ever be the same after knowing you. I don’t see how it could be. I told you that you are an unusual woman, and tonight has only proven that. You are unusually loyal, unusually perceptive, and unusually beautiful.”

  Nervously, my hand lifted to my left cheek, to the scar there. I’d done it unconsciously, more a nervous habit than anything else, but Graham noticed. As he had noticed my uneasiness at the restaurant. His hand followed mine, and he curled his finger and brushed his knuckle across my cheekbone, following the dent left there by the shrapnel.

  “And unusually brave,” he said softly, giving me a sad smile. “You have been through so much and despite every obstacle, you have taken care of yourself. But I want you to know, Rose, that I would love to be a helper to you. I want you to know that you can trust me with your secrets and all of your other motivations. You are a remarkable woman, and I would never wish to hinder you in that regard, but I would count it an honor to be considered amongst those you trust.”

  “I do trust you,” I interrupted. It was the simplest, most honest thing I could say.

  He smiled. “Thank you.”

  I thought the conversation was over. I thought Graham had said what he needed to say and was going to allow me to go inside, but when I attempted to pull my hand from his grip, he clung even tighter. When I looked back at him, he was bending to one knee.

  It took me several seconds to understand the image. Graham, kneeling on the ground, looking up at me with a glazed look in his eyes, a ring box open in his hand. His blonde mustache was a slash across his face, highlighting the bend of his smile.

  “We have only known one another a short time, but in that time, I have become certain of one thing, Rose Beckingham: I love you. I have turned my life upside down to be near you, and I do not have a single regret. I would travel across any ocean or continent to be the man lucky enough to be by your side. However, I do hope you will make it easy on me and promise to remain by my side, as well, by becoming my wife. My dear Rose, will you marry me?”

  The scene was so like and unlike anything I ever would have imagined. Here was a well-dressed, respectable, handsome man begging for me to marry him. The old me—Nellie Dennet—longed for nothing more. But now? What did Rose Beckingham want? A simple life with a respectable, handsome husband?

  Suddenly, a shaft of light cut across Graham’s face and then someone screamed.

  I turned to see Alice standing in the doorway, her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. “Rose is getting married!”

  There was a commotion behind her, and before I could say anything or move, Aunt Sarah and Catherine had joined her. Catherine’s mouth was hanging open in shock and Aunt Sarah had tears welling in her eyes.

  “Rose?” Catherine asked, turning to me. “What is going on?”

  “Graham proposed, clearly,” Alice said with a roll of her eyes.

  Graham stood up, his cheeks burning a vibrant shade of red, and closed the box.

  The snap of the jewelry box lid seemed to wake me up as if from a dream. I startled and then pulled my hand out of his and clapped mine together. “Well, I think we should continue this conversation another time.”

  Graham’s mouth opened to argue, but I was already shoving my way through the door, pushing on my cousins and aunt until they were forced back into the entrance hall. When I turned to shut the door, Graham’s face had fallen, his happiness given way to confusion, but I did not have the emotional energy left to feel sorry for him. Instead, I smiled, waved, and closed the door firmly.

  15

  Alice skipped around the entrance hall like a child on Christmas morning. “We could hold a double wedding in Somerset. Catherine, would you mind sharing your day with Rose? It would be very convenient and the social event of the entire season.”

  “She didn’t even say ‘yes,’” Catherine snapped, stalking towards me, her evening robe cinched around her waist. “Why didn’t you say ‘yes’?”

  “Girls,” Aunt Sarah cautioned, though no one seemed to be listening to her. “I don’t know that Rose’s love life is any of our business. We already interrupted her proposal. It was a proposal, wasn’t it, dear? That Graham Collins is so handsome and romantic. I had a servant put the flowers he brought you in a vase next to your bed. Such a gentleman.”

  “What are you going to say?” Alice asked, wrapping her arm through mine and pulling me towards the sitting room.

  I felt like a bit of food being picked at by birds, ripped and pulled in every direction. I yanked my arm free and moved towards the stairs. “I think I’m going to go to bed.”

  “You can’t!” Alice cried at the same time Catherine, shouted, “No.”

  I sighed. “I don’t have any satisfying answers for you.”

  “Are you going to marry him?” Alice asked, her eyes dreamy.

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. I had too many secrets to add yet another to my plate.

  “Do you love him?” Catherine asked. Her eyes held something deeper; a warning, perhaps? She knew what loving someone meant. Clearly, she loved Charles, and knowing Catherine, she would not approve if I settled for anything less. Not because she was the romantic type, but because she believed her way was the best way regardless.

  “I don’t know,” I repeated, feeling suddenly exhausted. My knees quaked, and I wanted to sit down on the stairs.

  “He is handsome,” Alice said, clinging to the stair railing with both hands and swinging back and forth. “And kind.”

  “He travelled all this way to protect you,” Catherine said grudgingly, eyebrows furrowed like she was trying to think of something negative to say, as well.

  Aunt Sarah nodded in agreement. “And he is enamored with you, my girl. He looks at you the way Charles looks at Catherine.”

  Catherine sneered at her aunt, annoyed with her relationship being compared to mine, and then turned to me. “He does seem to care for you.”

  “Thank you all for your help, but I’m going to go to bed,” I said quickly, turning and mounting the stairs before they could argue. “I will talk with you more in the morning.”

  From the moment I slid beneath my blankets until dawn when I placed my feet on the floor, my mind raced. My thoughts reeled with possibilities for my own life and Charles Cresswell’s. Suspects and wedding dress designs mingled together in my mind until I dreamt Charles Cresswell was wearing a white gown and attempting to murder Catherine.

  My feelings were jumbled, and when I dressed in a light gray walking suit and slipped from the house before anyone else woke up, it was the only decision I was certain of.

  I could not face my cousins and Aunt Sarah over breakfast. I could not discuss something I had not yet puzzled out in my own mind. And I could not stay at the house and wait for Graham to appear and ask the question again. Because the next time I spoke to him, I wanted to know my own heart. I wanted to be certain of my feelings and the response I would give him.

  As I walked past the luxurious homes that lined Fifth Avenue, I heard a distant horn. It could have been a car or a ship, and I wondered if Achilles was on his ship yet. If he had set sail for England to leave New York behind. I wanted to see him. Achilles had a way of seeing the world that made things clear. He could probably even reveal my own feelings to me. Though, he had already made clear his opinion of Graham. The last time we’d spoken, he had warned me to be careful of him. I knew the warning stemmed from jealousy, but I couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t some truth to it. Could I be with a man who was willing to throw away his own life in order to be with me? Could I ever retur
n the affections of someone who clearly cared for me so much? Achilles would never turn his back on his career in order to be with me or any other woman, proven by the fact that he’d told me he couldn’t stay in the city due to work. Even if I’d asked him to stay, he would have gone, and I could entirely understand the impulse. I understood Achilles. I did not understand Graham.

  Honestly, I did not understand men at all. Not when it came to romance. Living in an orphanage as a young girl limited my access to suitors, and when I became Rose Beckingham’s companion, I spent my time accompanying her and preparing her hair and dress for dances and dinners and social functions. Rarely was I allowed to attend, and if I was, my instruction was to not leave Rose’s side. There had been a few boys who had dared come close to me, but Rose usually persuaded them to look her direction, and I never much minded.

  I much preferred a mystery to romance. I felt more comfortable sneaking through dark rooms than I did on the dance floor. I would rather be eavesdropping on conversations than attempting to carry one. However, I was reaching an age where people would begin to question an unmarried woman. I had Rose’s inheritance to sustain me, but I would be a spinster soon enough, whispered about and mocked. Would I rather be an outcast able to solve crimes or a member of society playing the role of a dainty, dutiful wife?

  The questions plagued me with no answers in sight, so I turned my mind to the investigation, focusing my energy on a puzzle I might be able to solve.

  General Hughes, Mr. Beckingham, and Charles Cresswell had all been active participants at the Paris Peace Conference in 1919, and now two of the three had been killed by assassins, and according to the note Charles received, he was the next target.

  You are a fitting sacrifice for my better world.

  Whose better world? Who would consider the world a better place if the people responsible for creating peace were dead?

  I slowed my pace, the beginnings of an idea forming in my mind. Someone for whom peace was not achieved. Someone who viewed the Treaty of Versailles as a weak attempt at justice. Someone who had lost something in the war far greater than money. Someone with the power and position to command assassins.