Chapter Eighty-Four
Late that afternoon Henri DuMont, aged eighty-three, closed his eyes for the last time as he spoke to Jeremy, who stood by his bedside. The first to know he was gone, Jeremy gently placed a hand on his brow and said, “Good-bye, old friend.” Cries immediately went up. Armand sobbed uncontrollably before his tearful sons, Abel and Jean, and Philippe, veteran of many wars, bowed his head in an attitude of inconsolable grief. Armand’s wife stood beyond the bed waiting to offer her arms to her husband and sons while Bess, stiff-shouldered, lips pressed together, stoically drew the sheet over the face of her husband of forty-eight years.
In the hall outside Henri’s bedroom, Thomas and Jessica waited for the inevitable news with Jeremy Jr. and his wife. Upon hearing the sounds of mourning, Thomas placed his arm around Jessica’s shoulders. “He is with Papa, Mother.”
“Yes,” Jessica said, her voice forced through the pain of her grief. “Such a good friend he was, so noble and generous.”
Thomas wiped his eyes and left his mother to be with Bess while he went downstairs to the drawing room to impart the news to Vernon and Regina and their Warwick contemporaries, Brandon, Richard, and Joel. Regina discerned his message before he spoke and rose to embrace him. “You want me to walk home with you, Daddy?” she asked when he said he must go down to tell her mother.
“No, Poppy. Stay with Abel and Jean. They will need your comfort.”
Thomas walked the short distance to his house, his footsteps dragging. God, he wished he could be with Jacqueline Chastain. One of the dearest men on earth had died, and the earth was poorer for it, and he wanted to be in the presence of a woman who appreciated that loss and understood his pain.
When he’d met Armand at the Fairfax, his friend told him Jacqueline had accepted his offer to design hats for the store and manage the counter of women’s accessories. As part of her salary, she would retain the apartment over the shop with the understanding her earnings would increase to cover the cost of lodging should the property be rented.
Grateful, deeply moved by his longtime friend’s generosity, Thomas had asked, “Armand, what with Jacqueline Chastain’s reputation compromised, aren’t you taking a chance she will be bad for business?”
“I have faith that my customers will know a lady when they see one,” Armand had answered.
It was not a title he could apply to his wife, Thomas thought in repugnance as he let himself into the house. Sassie, Amy’s daughter, eight years old, ran forth to welcome him. “Miss Priscilla is upstairs, Mister Thomas.”
He touched her cheek. It was wet with tears. The DuMont servants had passed along word on the avenue that Mister Henri had died. Henri had always seen that Petunia and Amy and now Sassie had special treats from the store, especially at Christmastime. “I liked him so much,” Sassie said, her mouth quivering. “He was such a nice man.”
“Indeed he was, little one,” Thomas said. “I’ll go up. No need to tell the mistress I am home.”
He found Priscilla trying on hats. A black assortment of them was on the bed. Christ! A clothes fiend, his wife was already deciding what to wear for the funeral. She turned to him from her mirror, assuming a face appropriate for the sadness of the occasion. “Amy brought up the news, Thomas,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I know how fond you were of Henri. How is Bess?”
“How do you think she is?”
She shrugged, dropping her mask. “I was just asking.”
Thomas gestured toward the hat collection. “What are those?”
“What do they look like?”
He was so tired of this sort of verbal volley in their limited conversations. “Which ones are from Mrs. Chastain’s shop?”
Priscilla turned back to the mirror. “None. They’re from the DuMont Department Store.”
“Where are the ones you purchased from the Millinery Shop?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You say the name as if you’re familiar with it.”
“Where are they, Priscilla?”
“In the wardrobe over there. Why do you care?”
He opened the wardrobe doors to find a melee of women’s hats stacked unmindful of the crush to feathers, ribbons, and flowers. Their price tags were still pinned to them. Priscilla had never meant to wear them. She never intended to serve as a pied piper to lead other women to Jacqueline Chastain’s door, as she’d claimed. Thomas carefully pulled a black hat from the pile. “Here,” he said, “this is the one I want you to wear to the funeral.”
Her face paled slightly. “Why?”
“As advertisement of Mrs. Chastain’s talents. Isn’t that why you bought them? I met with Armand today, and he tells me that someone has been sending around poisonous letters maligning Mrs. Chastain’s character, the idea being to drive her out of town. Apparently, it worked. Her shop is closed. I can’t imagine who would do such a reprehensible thing, can you, Priscilla?”
Thomas saw the movement of a quick swallow make its way down his wife’s creamy throat. “No, I can’t, but why wear the hat if…if she’s out of business?”
“Oh, she’s not entirely. Armand has hired her as a hat designer and overseer of one of his women’s departments. That means she gets to stay in town, and I think it would be very gracious of you to wear her hats as a statement of your support. Let Howbutker see that you don’t believe a word of the drivel those letters contained. Did you receive one, by the way?”
Priscilla swallowed again. “No, I did not.”
Thomas began removing the hats from the wardrobe, setting them on tables and chairs. “The perpetrator knew better than to send one to you, I’m sure.” He studied each of the feminine creations, memorizing their details, conscious of his wife’s apprehensive attention. “I don’t recall you wearing any of these,” he said.
Priscilla emitted a nervous laugh. “Why would you? You never notice such things.”
“I’ll remember these. Where are your others—the ones you do wear?”
Silently, her expression tense, Priscilla pointed to another wardrobe. Thomas tugged at the bellpull, then opened the wardrobe doors. Without a word, he began pulling hats from shelves and tossing them onto the bed with the others. Amy appeared. “Someone rang?”
“I did, Amy,” Thomas said. “Please collect the hats on the bed and distribute them to your friends or take the whole bunch to your church for its rummage sale, whatever pleases you. Miss Priscilla will not be needing them. When you have finished, place the hats on the table and chairs in the vacated space in the wardrobe.”
Amy’s enlarged eyes said Uh-oh, but she replied, “Yes, Mister Thomas. I’ll go get some cotton sacks to put them in.”
When the door closed, Thomas narrowed a needle-sharp eye at his wife. “I don’t believe anything else needs to be said or done concerning this matter, do you, Priscilla?”
Taut-faced, Priscilla said, “I suppose not.”
“Very good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to ride out to Somerset to visit my father’s place of rest.”