Suddenly, my limbs don’t work. Is Old Gin planning tosellSweet Potato? The after-hours trips here and Old Gin’s optimism shuffle into place. Maybe he was meeting with potential buyers at the Driving Club, showing her off on the track. She’d certainly command a good sum, maybe even three hundred dollars. He knew I’d protest if he told me. She is part of the family.
Sweet Potato skitters, feeling me gripping her flanks.
The sound of an approaching horse pulls Mr. Porter’s gaze behind me. “‘He will come like a thief in the night.’”
I gape as the rider tumbles by.
Mr. Porter blows out a low whistle, probably meant for the piebald, but my eyes are drawn to the rider. The tail of Mr. Q’s shirt blows freely from the back of his slim-fitting jacket. His sleeves are pushed up, showing the bronzed skin of his arms, which move rhythmically as he trots.
“Must be late for his practice run,” says Mr. Porter.
Under Mr. Q’s calfskin swashbuckler, as Mrs. English called it, with its dented crown and folded-up sides, a scratch runs down the smooth slope of his cheek. I bet I know whose fingernail made that mark.
“I’m sorry, I have to go.”
Twenty-Eight
Caroline is not at the water trough, and so after letting Sweet Potato slake her thirst, we head for the cemetery.
It’s not hard to find her. I simply follow the rotten odor of forbidden fruit. That, and the sobs echoing through the Innocenti vault. The angels keep a stiff upper lip, having gotten more than they bargained for when they took this job. Beneath the heavy boughs of a hemlock, Frederick stands as still as a chess piece, only moving when Sweet Potato whinnies. I tie Sweet Potato to the neighboring tree.
Inside the vault, Caroline weeps over her lap on one of two stone benches. Her jacket, hat, and gloves appear hastily thrown on the bench behind her, watched over by her sleek violin boots. On the back wall, melted candles form shapeless blobs in an alcove. At the front, a marble tomb is big enough to house an entire family of skeletons, and could not have made a comfortable bed, at least not on the outside.
Caroline looks up at me, her blotchy skin wet with tears and snot. “Go away.”
The stone bench cools my backside along with my temper. I try to drum up my old dislike for her, but it is like sucking on a bone that has lost its flavor. Heaving and moaning, Caroline spends her grief by the dollar, until her purse empties and she’s down to nickel hiccups and penny whimpers.
“You are too high a nut for a two-timer like Mr. Q.”
She squeezes her arms over her wet blouse, her face tight. “Of course, I know that. The man has scant fortune, and his head is as empty as all his promises. I cannot abide a stupid man even more than a stupid woman.”
“Then why spend tears on him?”
“Because.” She swings her gaze back to the crypt, her head jutted forward like a vulture. Her bottom lip begins to tremble. “Edward heard a rumor that Mama had an affair.” Her voice tightens under the noose of hysteria. “That she had an illicit daughter.”
“Who—you?”
“No, Merritt. Of course, me! He said he could never betroth himself to me in light of such a scandal.”
“But you don’t want to marry him.”
“No. But if word gets out, no one else will want to marry me either.”
“I thought you didn’t want to marry anyone.”
“I don’t, but what if I decide I do?”
“I say you are better off without those who base marriage on such shallow rock.” An image of the milk-livered Mr. Q galloping toward the racetrack after delivering such a shocking blow throws sand even in my face. “Do you think he started the rumor himself?”
She shakes her head. “You give him credit where none is due. He says the information is reliable.”
Who would have that kind of information? The memory of a hooded figure brushing past me at the Riggs’s cathouse brings all other thoughts to a screeching halt. The woman smelled of lilac. I was too distraught at the time to realize who she was: Melly-Lee Saltworth. As they say, a pinch of salt beats a lick of sugar, and it’s true in her case—shrewd gets you farther in life than sweet. Tampering with Caroline’s face cream was just the opening shot. Buying information on Caroline was clever, actually, a way to fell the enemy without a public battle, one that Miss Saltworth would surely have lost.
“What if it’s true?” Caroline presses two soft fingers into her temples. “If Papa finds out, he will disavow us.” Her eyes clamp shut, squeezing out more tears.
“No. Mr. Payne would not leave you to ruin. You are his crown jewel. Remember when he hired the Silver Saddle Militia to make sure no boys showed up to your fourteenth birthday picnic?”
She sniffs. “May as well have asked a bunch of foxes to guard the henhouse.”
