Nell Sweeney 01 - Still Life With Murder by P. B. Ryan

Author:P. B. Ryan
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Mystery, Romance, Mystery & Crime, Historical
ISBN: 0425191060
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 2003-06-30T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

“Has anyone seen the new production of Offenbach’s Bluebeard at the Tremont Temple?” inquired Mrs. Thorpe as she daintily prodded her meringue a la crème with a pastry fork. Eugenia Thorpe was fine-boned and drearily elegant, in striking contrast to her husband Leo. So dusty-pale was she from head to toe—hair, skin, gown—that she might have faded away altogether in the rosy-gold haze of candlelight were it not for the glitter and snap of her jewels, the flashing stab of that fork.

“We saw it!” replied Winifred Pratt, a chittering little sparrow of a woman. “We thought it was smashing!”

“We have tickets for next Friday,” Viola said, “Mr. Hewitt and the boys and I. I’m so looking forward to it.” Her spirits had risen steadily in the five days since her cognac-fueled tête à tête in Nell’s room, bolstered by the prospect of securing Jack Thorpe’s help in freeing her son. Her good spirits seemed to have rubbed off on her husband as well. When she’d confessed to him, in the midst of a searing hangover Tuesday morning, that she’d drunk up his hundred-year-old cognac, he’d stared at her for a long moment, then calmly forgiven her. It was his fault, he’d said. She’d been distraught; this had simply been her way of making him see that.

At Viola’s request, Nell had made inquiries at dozens of hotels and rooming houses this past week in an effort to ferret out her son, but to no avail. Still, Viola remained optimistic, as did Nell, at the prospect of recruiting Jack Thorpe’s help in finding Will and saving him from the hangman.

Having evidently judged the meringue and found it lacking, Mrs. Thorpe laid down her fork and lifted her glass of sherry. “Yes, well, we saw Bluebeard in Paris when it opened two years ago, and I must say, I was unimpressed. I understand it’s intended to be a comic operetta, but at times it bordered on the burlesque. You must let me know what you think of it, Viola. Your taste is so much more...eclectic than mine.”

“Tasty!” Gracie, seated on Nell’s lap in her best organza frock—which made her look like a faerie child emerging from a chrysanthemum—pushed a spoonful of glacè pudding into her governess’s mouth. “Yum?”

“Yum.” It was yum, as had been the entire meal, the courses for which—served one after the other, à la Russe, by a hushed battalion of servants commanded by Hodges—were beautifully inked on menus propped against salt dishes at each place: Raw Oysters, Champagne; Green Turtle Soup, Sherry; Salmon in Hollandaise Sauce, Chablis; Vol-au-vent a la Financiere, Champagne; Pâté de Foie Gras Suisse, Madiera; Roman Punch; Roast Fillet of Beef with Mushrooms, Burgundy; Salad, Italian Style, Cheeses; Quails a la Maitre d’Hotel, Port; Pastries, Ices and Jellies, Sherry; Fresh Fruits, Claret; Nuts, Candied Ginger, Sugar Plums, Coffee, Liqueurs.

August Hewitt’s scowl—a reflex with every noise or movement from Gracie’s direction—softened when he noticed his wife smiling at him from the other end of the long, flower-heaped dining table.

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