"Hello, Wilhelm," Grace greeted the driver as they approached, a uniformed porter behind them pushing their things on a cart.
"Miss Grace," the man replied, doffing his chauffeur's hat. The German accent was heavy in his pronunciation.
"How is Marta?"
As the man opened the rear door, he replied, "Well. She's just as well as always. She's looking forward to having you in the house again, even if it is only for the weekend."
"Wilhelm, this is John Smith. A friend of mine."
The older man bent at the waist briefly. "Sir."
Smith nodded and slid into the back.
It took a full hour to reach Newport and, as they scaled the majestic bridge going onto the island, Grace felt a lick of anticipation in her stomach. The house at Newport was her true home, a place she loved as if it were a living member of the family. The vivid summer days and soft summer nights of her youth at the ocean's edge were more clear in her mind than what had happened the day before at the office.
And with the way things were going with the Gala, the chronological amnesia was a good thing. She still didn't have a suitable auction piece and there were some serious problems with the food for the event.
Thanks to Fredrique's interference, the caterer had come up with an obscure menu of Asian fusion that was so kinky and over the top, Grace had had to ask them to start all over again. Serving blowfish at the Gala just wasn't what she had in mind—it was expensive, and deadly if prepared incorrectly. She wanted to offer the guests fine fare, not a trip to the Lenox Hill emergency room.
She put the responsibility for the menu snafu firmly in her own court. She'd assumed that her call to Fredrique when she'd first learned of his meddling had been sufficient to get him to back off but clearly she'd been wrong. According to Lolly Ramparr and her staff at NightWorx, he'd showed up at their shop and refused to leave when they told him it was their understanding he wasn't involved with the Gala this year. When he kept giving orders, Lolly had tried to reach Grace, who'd been in a meeting and unavailable. Freder-ique had then demanded Lamont be called and Lou had promptly vouched for the authority the man was assuming. Lolly had done what he'd said.
Obviously, Grace was going to have to try again with the man. Perhaps in writing.
It was damned inconvenient to have to fire someone you never hired, over and over again, she thought.
Grace lowered the window, leaned her head into the cool sea breeze and took a deep breath. The turmoil of everything seemed slightly removed as she looked over the ocean and she was grateful for the respite.
"You like it here a lot, don't you," Smith remarked.
"I love it here," she murmured, watching a sailboat charging through the waves.
"Your family's place is right on the ocean, isn't it? "
She nodded. " Willings isn't the largest of the estates, but it's got beautiful sea views and a wonderful garden."
"Interesting name."
She smiled, remembering the story.
"My great-great-grandmother, who was from Grosse Pointe, Michigan, hated the idea of summering in Newport after her marriage. Her family had always spent July and August in the Adirondacks and she regarded the lack of crisp clear air at the ocean's edge as a respiratory insult."
"I can think of some worse ones," he said dryly.
"She was a woman with high standards." Grace looked over at him, pleased that they were talking about something other than the logistics of the job he was doing for her. Since the night he'd spent in her bed, she'd had the impression he'd deliberately kept the conversation professional. "After much cajoling, and some serious architectural planning, my great-great-grandfather presented her with a set of house plans. She indicated that if the place lived up to its potential, she might be willing to come seaside. Two years later, in 1879, the builders were finished, she was indeed willing, and the mansion had its name."
They turned onto Bellevue Avenue, passing Marble House and the Breakers, the former summer homes of the Vander-bilt family that were now open to the public through the Preservation Society of Newport County. A quarter of a mile later, Wilhelm pulled off onto a circular driveway and halted the car in front of a three-story mansion.
Grace hesitated before looking up at the towering white house with its terraces; columns, and porches. It was the first time she'd been back since the funeral. Then, she'd been distracted and overwhelmed by the guests offering their condolences. Now, in the quiet, she could feel the absence of her father much more keenly.
"Your mother is awaiting your arrival anxiously,” Wilhelm said while opening the car door for her.
Grace stepped out and slowly approached Willings's formal entrance. Five white marble steps led up to a pair of massive, wrought iron and glass doors that were set inside a columned portico. Above the doors, dangling down from the ceiling on a thick black chain, there was an old-fashioned, heavy lantern still lit by beeswax candles at night. A pair of boxwood topiaries in stone urns framed the doors and Grace recalled having decorated them with red, white, and blue ribbons on the Fourth of July when she was young.
Wilhelm walked by, holding some of their luggage and glancing repeatedly over his shoulder. Smith was close on his heels, carrying the rest of their things easily and thus breaking one of the butler's hard-and-fast rules. The old man had never been comfortable with guests being self-sufficient and had long disapproved of Grace's own independence. He regarded her unpacking for herself or merely driving into town to get her own groceries as a failure in the natural order of things. His Old World ways were part of the reason she loved him.
Grace followed the men through the front doors and, as the sound of their footsteps echoed through the vast foyer, she tried to see her home through Smith's eyes. The typical response of people as they came inside for the first time was of awe and wonder and the architects had planned for just such a reaction. There were marble fireplaces on either side of the hall with enormous gilded mirrors hanging above them. Massive brass doors opened to the formal dining room and a parlor but neither they nor the glittering chandelier hanging from the ceiling were the main attraction. Ahead, rising up like the wings of a great bird, was a bifurcated marble staircase. Among all the home's details, the stairway, with its two arms joining together to form the second floor's landing, had been photographed the most.
She glanced over at Smith. He wasn't looking at the art or the architectural details. He was marking the doors and windows, and she smiled to herself. For all the interest he was showing the decor, they could have walked into a dim cave, and she liked the fact that he wasn't impressed.
As she shrugged off her coat, she saw her father's stand of walking sticks in the corner. They were a variety of shapes and sizes, some ivory handled and thin, some thick and gnarled as tree roots. She could remember her father taking them on their walks around the grounds, a stylish ornament he would use to point out flowers that interested him or boats on the horizon.
Wilhelm was taking her coat just as her mother came in from the parlor. Carolina was dressed in a pale cream suit, looking elegant as a tea rose.
"Darling, how was your trip." As they embraced, her mother's attention was on Smith. "Grace, won't you introduce us?"
"This is John Smith. Er—John, this is my mother, Carolina Woodward Hall."
Her mother offered him a thin hand and a thinner smile. "We don't know many Smiths. It is s-m-i-t-h, correct? "