A Gilded Grave by Shelley Freydont Page B

something to say to that.”
    “And you wouldn’t give this up for her?”
    Joe looked around. “This particular workshop?” He shrugged. “But my work? No.”
    “Not even for Deanna? I thought you and she—”
    “She wouldn’t respect me if I did.”
    Will shrugged. “Most men would jump at the chance.”
    “You?”
    “If you think her mother doesn’t approve of you, just imagine me showing up at the door.”
    “Well, it’s academic. The families decided our marriage would be a good business move in the fight against the sugar monopoly. Neither one of us was ready.”
    “You might have missed your chance.”
    “Maybe. I don’t think we’re destined for each other.”
    “Oh, brother.” Will adjusted his cap. “You’ll have to break the news to Orrin about Daisy, I guess. Tell him I’ll be back to speak with him. Make sure he doesn’t run away. And Joe . . .”
    “Yes?”
    “The same goes for you.”

    B reakfast in the Randolph household the next morning was a somber affair. Her father sat at one end of the breakfast room table reading his morning newspaper, the plate of eggs and ham growing cold before him. Her mother, dressed in a dark rose silk morning dress with alternating green and indigo ribbon-weave satin stripes, sat at the other end.
    The chair opposite Deanna was empty. Adelaide was still down with her headache.
    “Well,” Deanna’s mother said, “talk about a disastrous night. Poor Eleanor. The Woodruffs will be lucky if they’re not social outcasts for the season. Maybe longer. Not that I’m at all surprised.”
    Mr. Randolph’s paper lowered two inches, and he looked over the top of it at his wife. “Nonsense. The invitations will pour in; they’ll dine all season on that poor girl’s death.”
    Deanna looked at her plate. It was a cold thing to say, but it was true. People loved to wallow in scandal, even when it had a tragic outcome. They dwelled on the gory details, commiserated, accused, and gloated that it wasn’t one of their own.
    Jeannette Randolph lifted her finger and Dickerson, the Randolphs’ butler, appeared at her shoulder with a fresh cup of coffee. He removed the old one and carried it away. “Perhaps we should distance ourselves a bit from the family.”
    Deanna glanced quickly at her mother, then away.
    “And how to you propose to do that, dear?” Mr. Randolph neatly folded his paper and placed it on the table. “After all, Francis and I are business partners. And our daughter is engaged to be married to their son.”
    “Well, of course I don’t expect you men to follow any sense of decorum. But you’re gone all week and we aren’t, although . . .” She trailed off, a quirk of conversation that never failed to get everyone’s notice. As it did this morning with her husband and daughter.
    “I’m considering taking Adelaide to Boston,” Mrs. Randolph continued when she had their attention.
    “Boston?”
    “I was talking to Tessie Oehlrich last night, and she swearsthat this doctor in Boston, Dr. Meerschaum, has worked wonders for her niece’s migraines. These latest powders that Dr. Lester prescribed are not helping with Adelaide’s headaches, so I see no point in taking her all the way to Manhattan for more of the same. This is no time for her to be indisposed.”
    “By all means, take her and get to the bottom of these headaches.” Mr. Randolph said. “This is as good a time as any, I suppose. After all, it’s just the beginning of the summer season, and she’s already engaged to Charles.”
    “One can never be sanguine about these things. She can’t take to her bed after every ball or soiree. She’s in bed now, with the drapes drawn. Something must be done.”
    Her father frowned, but Deanna understood. Her mother needed Adelaide to be alert and vivacious. She hadn’t missed the attention Charles had paid to Lady Madeline. Deanna doubted if any other woman in the room had, either.
    “So, you will have Elspeth pack your