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momentary lapses in public interest. Besides, his latest works have been rather hideous.” She turned to Niccolo for consensus, but the young man only shrugged and smiled apologetically at me.
    I raised a quizzical eyebrow. “And you feel disparaging him is an effective means of urging that acceptance?”
    Miss Marcus snuffed out her cigarette and came to her feet. I’d clearly gone too far, been too impertinent. “You know, you very much remind me of your father, Miss Cross. It must be the Vanderbilt in you.” She didn’t bother to elaborate on what traits she felt were characteristic of my father’s side of the family. She looked down at her companion. “Come.”
    As if she had snapped her fingers, he surged to his feet and together they went, where I didn’t know or care, for all that I had been a great fan of the opera singer until approximately ten minutes ago. I probably wouldn’t be obtaining much more in the way of artistic insights from Miss Marcus, if she deigned to speak to me at all again. So be it. Sir Randall might be a member of the English nobility, a wealthy man used to having his way, but something in him—vulnerability, sadness, a sense of brokenness—aroused an instinct that made me rear my head. Call it a demand for fairness. Call it plain stubbornness. A Vanderbilt trait? Yes, and one that had served me well through the years.
    Even so, a small part of me wished this story had been given into the inept hands of my nemesis at the Observer , Ed Billings. Having to make heads or tails out of this situation would have served him right.
    In the meantime, I picked up the Capodimonte vase and brought it to the kitchen for a good soak.
    * * *
    With a knock, Mother opened my bedroom door and peeked in. “I thought I’d see if you needed any help, darling. What are you wearing?” Her eyes lighted on the individual who had arrived in my room about twenty minutes earlier. “Edith. I didn’t realize you were in here.” Mother’s expression begged for an explanation, though her breeding would not permit her to ask.
    I saw no reason to keep her in suspense. “Come in, Mother. Mrs. Wharton was just reading a passage in her manuscript to me as I dressed.”
    â€œI see.” Mother assessed the other woman, perched with her very upright posture at the edge of the bed. She attempted a smile. “I didn’t know the two of you were so well acquainted.”
    â€œWe aren’t really,” Mrs. Wharton said, setting the pages of her manuscript aside. “Until this morning we had never spoken more than those few words of greeting when I met your daughter all those years ago. I had seen her at various functions here in Newport, of course, but never had reason to speak directly.” Her brow furrowed as she shifted her gaze to me. “Now that I think of it, it seems rather odd that a society reporter never found an opportunity to interview me. You weren’t avoiding me, Miss Cross, were you?”
    I turned back to the swivel mirror above the dressing table and patted my simple coif, a braid coiled at my nape. “Not at all,” I lied. “Merely happenstance, one I’m very glad has been rectified.”
    â€œAnd I, too.” She looked from me to Mother, still hovering near the threshold and looking uncertain. Mrs. Wharton rose and retrieved her manuscript, hugging it to her. “I’ll leave you two alone. I’m sure you have quite a number of matters you’d like to discuss.”
    I continued inspecting myself in the mirror. I wore the one and only evening dress I had brought, consisting of tiers of beaded lace topped with an embroidered silk jacket cinched tight at the waist, both of the same champagne color.
    â€œThat’s lovely.” Mother moved farther into the room, as if she had needed Mrs. Wharton to vacate the space before being able to stake her own claim. As she took in my