The Transatlantic Conspiracy (12 page)

The color drained from his face. “This is a joke.”

She shook her head and swallowed. “It is no joke. Alix and I found her. That is why we vanished last night.”

“Cecily dead
. . .
” Erich put his hand over his mouth and leaned back against the bench, shaking his head. “My God, my God. And the maid?”

Rosalind raised an eyebrow. “Her maid was murdered as well, yes
. . .
”

“Murdered?” Erich exclaimed. “I meant has someone told her. Both of them were murdered? Oh my God. That poor girl.” He lunged forward and grabbed Rosalind's hand, holding it firmly. Looking into her eyes, he said, “Rosalind, I do not know what to say. But I am so very sorry for your loss. If there were any way I could undo this for you, I would make it happen.”

Rosalind tried to answer, but her face twisted and she felt the tears coming again. Erich let go and drew a handkerchief from his pocket. He pressed it into her palm. Rosalind nodded, grateful, and dabbed at her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Erich stood. “I simply cannot believe it. Cecily was killed by that
. . .
that ruffian?” He looked at her again, his jaw tight. “But they caught the man. At least there is that. At least there will be justice.”

Rosalind looked into Erich's eyes. She fought the urge to tell him everything: about her suspicions, about the absurdity of the whole situation, that she felt certain they had the wrong man, certain that there was something more than robbery behind it all. But there was no point in drawing him into a nightmare about which she herself knew nothing. Instead, she forced a weak smile and passed the handkerchief back to him.

“Rosalind,” Erich said.

“Yes?”

“Tomorrow we stop for the day at Neptune Station. I wonder
. . .
”

“Yes?”

Erich hesitated. “There is to be another ball. Now, of course, under the circumstances, I do not expect you feel much like dancing.”

“No, not really,” Rosalind said, smiling through her tears.

“No, of course not,” he murmured. “However, should you decide that a dance might cheer you up, I would be honored if it would be with me.” He held up a hand. “But that is not what I want to ask. I wondered if
. . .
before lunch tomorrow, if you might
. . .
”

“Yes
. . .
?”

“Would you perhaps care to take a walk with me, when we reach Neptune Station tomorrow?” Erich asked. “Just the two of us, or perhaps with Jacob and Lady von Hessen? Just for an hour or two. I confess that I enjoy your company, what little of it I have been privileged to, and I would like to think that I might help ease your pain.”

Rosalind closed her eyes. After a little while, she nodded. “I think that would be most agreeable, Herr
. . .
Erich. Thank you for your kindness. Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to be alone for a little while.”

Erich bowed to her as she stood. “Yes, of course,” he said. “But if you have need of me, please do not hesitate to seek me out.”

“I am grateful of that,” Rosalind said. Then she hurried to the edge of the clearing, back toward the path to the exit.

“Rosalind,” Erich called after her.

She turned back to look at him. His eyes were glistening, as if her tears had become contagious.

“I am
. . .
I am very sorry for what has happened to you,” he said. “You have all of my sympathy.”

“Thank you,” she said. Before she could start crying again, she ran.

Chapter Thirteen

R
osalind requested that Alix join her for dinner in her compartment rather than in the dining carriages. She couldn't bear the thought of eating amid the crowd, especially when the other passengers knew nothing of her sorrow, when her presence would reduce what little was known to grotesque innuendo. Imagine, the murdered girl traveling in the company of the railway owner's daughter! Surely that could not be a coincidence, the gossips would reason. Cecily deserved better than idle talk or cold disinterest, her own penchant for gossip aside. Rosalind did not care to be around people who had no respect for the victims of crimes.

In the dark silence of the meal, however, Rosalind realized that she had not really appreciated how Cecily's fondness for prattle and nonsense had kept conversation flowing. Whenever there was a pause, Cecily was there to fill it. No longer.

Over the main course of lamb, Rosalind decided to do what Cecily would have wanted, to carry on in her absence. And that meant talking, not merely drowning in the clattering of silverware.

“So you're related to the Grand Duke of Hesse?” Rosalind asked.

Alix looked up from her food, startled. But then she laughed a little and nodded, seemingly pleased as well. “Yes,” she said. “We are cousins somewhere along the line. I forget how many places removed and that sort of thing. But we visit often. It is rather nice.” She took another nibble of her lamb. “You know, the empress of Russia is another cousin of mine.”

“Really?” Rosalind asked, though she was not surprised. The aristocracy of Europe was so interconnected that she'd grown accustomed to such coincidences.

Alix nodded. “People think that I am named for her, but I'm not.”

“Who are you named for, then?”

“I don't know, actually,” Alix said. She shrugged. “Hmm. I never asked. Isn't that silly of me?”

“Not at all,” Rosalind answered. “I've never asked why I'm called Rosalind.”

“Because it is a pretty name,” Alix said. “I like it.”

“Thank you,” Rosalind said, blushing a little at the compliment. “Evidently my mother liked it as well. And Cecily liked it most of all.”

Alix put her silverware down. “Cecily liked your name very much. She repeated it often. ‘Rose this' and ‘Rose that.' She was very fond of you. At school she would go on and on about Rose, her dear friend Rose. Like you were her big sister.”

Rosalind's throat tightened. Her eyes began to sting. She drew in a quivering breath, staring at her plate, and then dropped her own silver. “I can't imagine why,” she managed. “We had only seen each other half a dozen times then. It wasn't until this year that we spent any proper time together
. . .
”

Alix reached out and took Rosalind's hand. “I think, perhaps, she needed someone to look up to. Someone
like
a sister.” She let go and settled back into her chair. “How did you and Cecily come to know each other? It seems so strange, being friends across the ocean like that. I mean, if you aren't related.”

“It was our fathers,” Rosalind said. “Back
. . .
um
. . .
ten years ago, I think
. . .
My father had just partnered with the German government to build the railway. That had been a dreadful year. He'd dragged us all across Europe trying to sell the idea. And no one wanted to buy it. They always would say, ‘We have ships, why do we need a train?' ”

“How unprogressive of them,” Alix said, digging back into her food.

Rosalind nodded, relieved to have a sympathetic ear about such matters, which she'd never discussed—not even with Cecily. “After the Germans came round, Lord Exham wrote a letter to my father congratulating him on the whole enterprise. He was shocked that the British hadn't taken him up on it, and he was very keen to become an investor and all that.”

Alix looked up. “Goodness,” she said.

“Oh, yes, it was quite unexpected,” Rosalind said. “Like a bolt from the blue. But it was also rather wonderful. Lord Exham invited my father to join him in building railways in Canada, and then Ireland, and then India, and it just went on from there. Our families became friends, so Cecily and I were expected to become friends. Fortunately, we did.”

“It is difficult not to become friends with Cecily,” Alix said, her voice catching. “It
was
difficult not to,” she corrected herself.

This time, Rosalind reached out. She placed a hand on Alix's arm. She knew exactly how the girl felt. It was so horrid, swinging back and forth from grief to futile attempts at forgetting, and then back to grief. “She will be well remembered,” Rosalind said. Her voice hardened. “And avenged, if I have anything to say about it.”

Alix nodded. “My thoughts precisely.” She shook herself and lifted her fork again. “But enough of such talk. Let us remain happy.”

“Yes,” Rosalind agreed. “It's what Cecily would have wanted.”

“So tell me, Rosalind
. . .
” Alix said. “I understand that you are a very scandalous person who harbors all manner of unacceptable opinions regarding the world. Would you care to rebut some of these accusations, or are you immensely proud of them?”

Rosalind had to laugh. “Of each and every one of them,” she said.

“List them all, if you please,” Alix said wryly. “In order categorical.”

“I don't even know how one would do that,” Rosalind replied.

“Alphabetical?” Alix ventured.

It almost hurt to smile, but it also felt very good. “Well, aside from driving motorcars,” Rosalind began, “I speak without being spoken to—”

“How horrible of you,” Alix interjected.

“I believe in giving women the vote—”

“Scandalous.”

“Home rule for all people everywhere—”

“Even the Alsatians?”

“Especially the Alsatians,” Rosalind confirmed. “I am a pacifist, I ride bicycles, and I am a proud member of the Anti-Imperialist League.”

“I did not know there was such a thing,” Alix said.

Rosalind laughed. “It's true. Mister Carnegie is a member. We are committed to the defense of the American ideal from the corrupting influences of empire.” She raised a finger into the air. “We cannot have democracy for some and not for all!”

Across the table, Alix dropped her silver and clapped her hands.

Rosalind's face felt hot. Suddenly she was embarrassed at her own enthusiasm. “You're not making fun of me, are you?” she asked. “I know that I can get carried away at times—”

“Not at all.” Alix shook her head. “No, I am very pleased by it.” She leaned forward. “So you believe that America should not aspire to be an empire?”

“It would be the death of our ideals,” Rosalind answered.

“What about the European empires?” Alix asked.

“They ought to be abolished,” Rosalind said. “Nobody should be ruled by a king or emperor half a world away in Europe.”

Alix's eyes sparkled, as if she was growing more excited with each word. She leaned forward, on the verge of falling from the edge of her chair. “What do you think about class barriers?”

“I
. . .
” All at once, Rosalind felt very odd. Alix did seem genuinely interested in her opinions and delighted at her responses, but this made no sense at all. Alix was an aristocrat. Her entire world was built upon privilege and empire. Why would she be happy to hear that Rosalind despised everything her world represented? But even as she posed the question to herself, she could guess the reason: Alix was just desperate for any distraction, any way to avoid dwelling on the death of their friend.

No matter. Honesty above all.

“I despise class barriers and class privilege,” Rosalind finished. “And I'm not ashamed to say it. People ought to be judged on their accomplishments, on their conduct and strength of character, not whether their daddy is the third marquis of Such-and-such. And I grow so very tired of Society pooh-poohing self-made men, like there's something wrong with having earned your money.”

Alix nodded. “Yes?”

Rosalind hesitated a little bit, again unnerved by Alix's attentiveness. The girl appeared positively riveted, more so now than at any time since they'd met. But she continued: “My grandfather was a self-made man. My father more so, obviously. But my grandfather came over from Scotland with nothing, literally nothing, and he worked hard and built himself up until he was
. . .
well, not rich, I suppose, but wealthy enough. The fact that he did it on his own should be cause for celebration, not a family secret to be hidden away in a cupboard.”

“Your family is ashamed of your grandfather?” Alix pressed.

Yes
,
Rosalind nearly blurted out. But she caught herself. It was true: no one spoke of her grandfather in public. It was as if they pretended that her father had sprung full-grown from the American soil—without parentage, but with enough respectability (or rather, money) to wed her mother.

“Let's just say we don't speak about him,” Rosalind said. “But it turns out all the respectability in the world can't buy food or pay off one's gambling debts.” She paused for breath. What was she confessing? And why? The Wallace family secrets weren't Alix's business. No, they were meant to be kept hidden at all times, whatever the cost. Because the family's reputation was so very important. Because Society people were such wonderful company. Because here she was, across from a von Hessen
. . .

“Gambling debts?” Alix looked confused.

“My mother's uncle
. . .
” Rosalind answered hesitantly. “He has a passion for slow horses.” She quickly waved her hands to dismiss the topic. “It's not important.”

“No,” Alix agreed, “what is important is that you are born to privilege, yet you are angry that your privilege is not shared by all people.”

“I suppose so, yes,” Rosalind said. She folded her arms and looked away. Then, despite herself, she jumped to her feet and began pacing back and forth. Surely she was making a terrible display and leaving Alix with a horrid impression of her. The girl would likely never speak to her again after that night, and of course Mother and Father would be furious once they inevitably found out what she had been saying.

But dash them, what difference did it make? Cecily was dead, Inspector Bauer's men were following her, and she was tired of it all. Tired of holding her tongue. Tired of worrying about what people might think.

“Think about last night,” she said to Alix. “We here in First Class enjoyed lunch and dinner in opulent surroundings, and then we had a ball beneath the sea.”

“It was all rather lovely, until
. . .
until
it
happened,” Alix said softly.

“But what about the Second Class passengers?” Rosalind asked. “They'd been cooped up on the train as long as we had, and in much smaller accommodations. Did they enjoy what we enjoyed?”

“No,” Alix answered.

Rosalind kept pacing. “That's right, they did not. They took their meals indoors, on the train, just as they did the day before and just as they will for the entire journey. And were they allowed to go to the ball?” She paused. “I suppose you'll tell me these are ghastly things to say.”

Alix rose from her chair and folded her hands in front of her chest. “Hardly,” she said. “They're not ghastly; they're true. Rosalind, you may not believe me, you certainly won't understand me, but I feel just as you do.”

Rosalind raised an eyebrow. “Truly?” she asked.

“As God is my witness,” Alix said. “I despise class privilege. I despise empire. They are corruption, Rosalind, and they will be the downfall of us all, just like Rome before us.”

“But
. . .
but
. . .
” Rosalind stammered.

This was absurd. Cecily's friend from boarding school: a radical? An anti-imperialist? Alix was
nobility
. Rosalind at least could look back to her grandfather's humble origins and find in them a source for her beliefs—however confused those beliefs might be. But a von Hessen?

“You're an aristocrat,” she protested. “I don't understand. Why would you oppose everything that your position gives you?”

Alix sniffed. “This asked by the daughter of a rich industrialist and a lady of New York Society?” she mused. “I despise my class for the same reason that you despise yours, Rose. What use is the aristocracy now? We do nothing. We dare not contribute to intellectual discourse, so fearful are we that someone might use it against us to threaten our stature. If you think that your life is stifling, Rosalind, you must try mine.” She paused. “Though perhaps our experiences are not all that different.”