"Glitz, glamour, and mystery in gorgeous NEWPORT"
Reviewed by Patricia (Pat) Pascale
Posted August 7, 2015
Historical
Adrian de la Noye, a handsome, brilliant, mysterious
attorney, is heading to NEWPORT with his associate and good
friend, Jim Reid. His task is to revise the will of one of
his most powerful and wealthy clients, Bennett Chapman.
Chapman is planning to wed momentarily and wants his will
changed according to the wishes of his deceased wife,
Elizabeth, who he claims visits him regularly and instructs
him as to her wishes. He also maintains that Elizabeth
selected Catharine Walsh to be his wife, even though she is
two decades younger than Chapman. Arriving at
Liriodendron, Adrian is shocked to meet Catharine. More
than just old friends in Newport decades ago, they were
lovers. Surprise, surprise!
Also at the mansion are his children, Chloe and Nicholas
Bennett. They are livid about his impending marriage and
are there to protest it and any changes to his will.
Present, too, is Amy Walsh, niece of Catharine who has the
ability to speak to the dead. There are many touches of
mystical flavor, including several seances with Amy leading
them while following the dictates of Elizabeth Chapman.
Mysteries involving money, bittersweet love, secrets long
buried but now brought out front and center from the voice
from beyond. Or is it the voice from above? Lots of
intrigue, lots of questions, but in the end, all are
solved. I enjoyed the opulence that was NEWPORT in the Roaring
Twenties along with the dazzling descriptions of the clothes
and food of that era. The name of the mansion,
Liriodendron, so appealed to me that I researched it. It
means Tulip Trees and there is a mansion by that name in Bel
Air, MD, the site of many romantic weddings.
This plot takes many curves and presents many tangled
secrets. The characters are interesting and colorful except for
Nicholas Bennett, who you will love to hate. You will,
however fall in love with Adrian and his wife, Constance.
I know I did, and loved every romantic minute with them.
NEWPORT is truly a sweet summer read that will delight you.
Praise for Jill Morrow.
Learn more about Newport
SUMMARY
Spring 1921. The Great War is over, Prohibition is in
full
swing, the Depression still years away, and Newport,
Rhode
Island's glittering “summer cottages” are inhabited by
the
gloriously rich families who built them. Attorney Adrian De la Noye is no stranger to Newport,
having sheltered there during his misspent youth. Though
he’d prefer to forget the place, he returns to revise the
will of a well-heeled client. Bennett Chapman's offspring
have the usual concerns about their father's much-younger
fiancée. But when they learn of the old widower’s firm
belief that his first late wife, who “communicates” via
séance, has chosen the beautiful Catherine Walsh for him,
they’re shocked. And for Adrian, encountering Catherine
in
the last place he saw her decades ago proves to be a far
greater surprise. Still, De la Noye is here to handle a will, and he fully
intends to do so—just as soon as he unearths every last
secret, otherworldly or not, about the Chapmans,
Catherine
Walsh . . . and his own very fraught history. A skillful alchemy of social satire, dark humor, and
finely
drawn characters, Newport vividly brings to life the
glitzy
era of the 1920s.
ExcerptThe lighthouse on the shore flashed its beacon in time
with each rolling heave of Jim Reid’s stomach. His
knuckles whitened around the metal railing of the boat as
he leaned forward, willing the wicked water to swallow
him up whole and end his misery now. “Holy Mother of
God,” he groaned.“Good grief, Mr. Reid. We’re crossing Narragansett Bay,
not the high seas.” Adrian de la Noye’s words cut through
the nighttime dimness of the ferry deck. Disembodied in
the shadows, his silken tone carried the same authority
it did when summing up a complicated case before a Boston
jury. For at least the tenth time since they’d boarded Adrian’s
Pierce-Arrow Town Car earlier that day, Jim swore beneath
his breath at his own weakness—soft Irish words that he
remembered from childhood but could no longer translate. “Sorry to be such a wet blanket,” he said. “I’m doing the
best I can.” There was a pause as Adrian considered. “Of course you
are,” he said. “You always do, my boy. You always do.” The smell of phosphorus hung on the air as a match arced
through the darkness toward the cigarette in Adrian’s
mouth. Illuminated briefly by the flame, his chiseled
features appeared almost otherworldly, his dark hair and
eyes conjuring images more akin to pirates and gypsies
than to prosperous middle age. Jim would have traded even
his fresh new Harvard Law School sheepskin for some of
that smooth coolness. It wasn’t likely he’d ever attain
it without some sort of miracle. He was tall and lanky,
with fair skin that blushed at the slightest provocation
and a sandy-colored cowlick that doomed him to be viewed
as more boyish than manly by nearly every female who
crossed his path. “Here.” Adrian handed him a cigarette. “It will settle
your stomach.” Grateful, Jim pulled in a deep drag. Even he could manage
some degree of cleverness with a cigarette resting
lightly between his fingers. Sometimes smoking felt like
the most valuable lesson he’d learned in school. The god-
awful queasiness began to subside. Adrian lit a cigarette for himself and leaned his elbows
casually against the ferry’s railing. The lighthouse
receded off to the left, leaving the gentle glow of the
stars to wash across the deck. Jim pushed his wire-rimmed
glasses farther up his nose and let out a long, relieved
sigh. The smoldering tip of Adrian’s cigarette picked up glints
in his gold tie pin, making the fine amethyst stone at
its center glitter. Jim winced as he remembered one more
thing he had to do: search the floor of the Town Car for
his own tie pin, which he’d flung there in annoyance
after stabbing himself one time too many that day. “We’ve almost reached Aquidneck Island,” Adrian said.
“Newport is a short drive from the quay. I’ll need only a
moment to send Constance a telegram. She’ll want to know
we’ve arrived safely.” “Do you think we’ll find any place open?” Adrian shrugged. “We’ll manage something.” For as long as Jim had known Adrian de la Noye—and that
was practically all of his twenty-five years—the man had
never seemed ruffled or out of place. Such ease was to be
expected in the sanctified halls of Andover and Harvard,
which Jim had attended on Adrian’s dime. Adrian had been
born to fit into places like that, and he called both
institutions alma mater. As far as Jim was concerned,
each school could consider itself darn lucky. What
surprised him more was that Adrian was equally at home in
the Reid family’s noisy South Boston row house, where a
seemingly endless number of Jim’s siblings, nieces, and
nephews had tumbled across Mr. de la Noye’s well-dressed
knees throughout the years. For all his accomplishments,
Adrian seemed to require little more than the comfortable
life he shared with his wife, Constance, and their two
children back in Brookline. Jim glumly flicked his ashes into the bay. He himself
never quite fit anywhere. Overeducated in his boyhood
neighborhood, but not of the usual social class found at
Harvard, he was a perennial fish out of water, getting by
through the sheer power of his mind. “Ah.” A husky female voice behind Jim’s shoulder startled
him. “Real men smoking real ciggies. Please, darlings,
tell me those are Fatimas.” Adrian reached into his coat pocket as both men turned to
face the woman behind them. “They are. May I offer you
one?” “I thought you’d never ask.” The woman was of average height, dressed in a light frock
well suited to a sweet young thing. She needn’t have
bothered. The way she stroked Adrian’s hand as he lit her
cigarette marked her as anything but sweet, and it was
obvious that she hadn’t been young in years. The stylish
dropped waist of her dress could not conceal a matronly
thickening about her middle, and beneath her gay cloche
and bobbed fair hair, her jawline had begun to sag. She plucked the match from Adrian’s fingers and tossed it
into the water. Then, insinuating herself snugly between
the two men, she leaned back against the ferry’s rail and
dragged nicotine deep into her lungs. The exhaled smoke
wafted into the air, borne on vapors of alcohol. The
woman swayed, evidence more of her own intoxication than
of the ferry’s movement. Adrian steadied her before she
could tumble into his arms and then took a discreet step
to his left. Jim didn’t bother to move at all. It didn’t
matter that the woman’s arm had just brushed his wrist.
He could drop his trousers and jump up and down on the
deck were he so inclined; he was sure she’d never notice. “I can’t resist Fatimas…or the men who smoke them,” the
woman said. “Virginia tobacco can’t hold a candle to the
…virility…of a Turkish blend.” Adrian flashed a polite smile. “Indeed,” he said. It was the same everywhere they went. Whether the female
was a doll or a chunk of lead, she always chose Adrian.
Jim sighed, wondering what it would be like to leave
every woman in your wake weak-kneed with desire. Granted,
this one wasn’t worth it. But how was it that Adrian was
never even tempted to slip? Given the opportunity, Jim
would have been delighted to slip nearly every time. “The name is Chloe,” the woman said. “Lady Chloe Chapman
Dinwoodie to the rest of the world, but you may now
consider yourself my friends. Excuse me.” She bent down,
lifted the hem of her dress, and withdrew a contraband
flask from the garter tied around her pudgy leg.
“Drinkie?” “No, thank you,” Adrian said. Recognition hit Jim like a smack to the side of the head.
“Say, you’re…” Adrian corked his flowing words with one veiled glance.
“Mr. Reid has perhaps heard of your father,” he said.
“Bennett Chapman’s contributions to the textiles industry
are very well known.” Chloe’s expression soured. “Damn the old coot. I’m
missing a weekend of parties in New York to ossify in
Newport because of him.” She threw her head back and took
a long swig from the flask. Adrian met Jim’s gaze over the swallowing motion of her
throat. “Yes, sir,” Chloe Dinwoodie said, coming up for air.
“Let’s drink to good old Pop and his contributions to the
textiles industry.” “His success is admirable,” Adrian said mildly. “Then let’s drink to good old Pop and his contributions
to Chloe’s lifestyle.” She again extended the flask in a
silent invitation. Adrian shook his head. “Let’s drink to
the family manses in Boston, New York, London, and
Newport,” she continued. “And let’s not forget how that
money bought me a titled husband, too. A shame the fool’s
a fairy, but he does come with benefits.” She tossed her half-smoked Fatima over the ferry railing.
Adrian wordlessly extended another. “You’re a dear man.” Chloe waited as he lit a match, then
pulled his hand closer to guide the flame toward the
cigarette now clamped between her bright red lips. Adrian did not move away this time. Instead he bathed her
in one of those intimate gazes Jim recognized from his
mentor’s arsenal of cross-examination techniques. “Of course you’d rather be elsewhere,” Adrian said.
“Newport certainly isn’t the jewel she used to be. What
coaxed you away from the glitter of New York?” Chloe’s fingers tightened around his wrist. “Oh, only
dire circumstances could do that, I assure you. My father
wants to change his will.” Jim’s face burned with the flood of a hot red flush.
Words bubbled to his lips. Adrian intercepted them with the graceful stealth of a
panther. “I assume the change is not to your advantage,”
he murmured. Chloe’s round-eyed stare resembled a mesmerized trance.
“Advantage? It’s a disaster! Nicholas and I—Nicky’s my
brother—will be flat out of luck if he goes through with
it. Right now we stand to get everything when my father
kicks the bucket…meets his Maker…you know. But now Pop
wants to marry this…this gold digger.” “Ah. There’s a woman involved.” “Isn’t there always? Anyway, that’s why Pop wants to
change his will. And if he goes through with it, Nicky
and I get a yearly stipend apiece and that’s it.” “I see your difficulty,” Adrian said. “But how can you
stop him?” Chloe dropped her voice to a confidential whisper. “Pop’s
got his Boston prig of a lawyer coming up to draft the
new will tomorrow. Nicky says that if we can prove our
father is nuts, the will must legally stand as is.
Nicky’s a dull stick, but he’s smart about things like
this.” Adrian’s voice dropped as well. “Can you prove that your
father is incompetent?” “Oh, yes.” Chloe stepped forward until only an inch
separated the lace of her collar from Adrian de la Noye’s
well-tailored vest. “With what’s been going on around his
place lately? Oh, absolutely yes. You know, I don’t
believe you’ve told me your name.” Jim could almost see the noxious alcohol fumes snaking
their way up Adrian’s nostrils. Adrian abhorred
inebriation, deemed it sloppy and unnecessary. It
probably required a supreme act of will for him to stand
still, smiling blandly as Lady Chloe Chapman Dinwoodie
walked her fingernails up his chest. A snicker worked its way through Jim’s nose. He quickly
turned away, disguising his laughter with an unconvincing
sneeze. This tendency to lose his composure at the mere
thought of the absurd was yet another bad habit he needed
to conquer. A sudden movement on the deck stopped his sniggering
flat. Farther down the rail, a figure crouched, half
hidden by a weathered box of life preservers. Startled,
Jim leaned forward. The figure jumped under his scrutiny
and flattened itself against the box as if trying to
disappear. It was too late; Jim had seen plenty. He
identified the cap and knickers of a young boy, noted
that the figure was small and slight. But, most
important, he knew without a doubt that for some reason,
this boy had been listening intently to every word. “Hey!” Jim lunged toward the life preservers, but the boy
was faster. The small figure skittered across the deck
and out of sight. “May I offer assistance, Mr. Reid?” Adrian appeared
instantly at his side. Jim’s shoulders sagged as he blinked at the empty space
before him. “I’ll tell you later, when there’s no fear of
ears. It’s probably nothing; I’m just a little jumpy.” “Any particular reason?” Adrian threw a glance toward
Lady Dinwoodie, who now slumped against the ferry rail
like a deflated balloon, lost in an inebriated haze. Jim shook his head, hard. “This whole trip reeks, that’s
all.” “In what way?’ “I don’t know. It just feels…off. Taking this trip to the
old man’s summer cottage in the first place—” “Mr. Chapman has been a valued client of our firm for
many years.” “—then running across his daughter like this…” “An admittedly awkward coincidence, although I found her
comments most enlightening.” “You had no idea that Bennett Chapman’s will might be
contested?” “Not an inkling. Naturally, we’ll readjust our plans
accordingly. We’ll stay in town tonight and visit
Liriodendron tomorrow. That will give Lady Dinwoodie an
opportunity to compose herself.” Jim removed his spectacles to massage the crease in his
brow. “You don’t think she’ll remember us the second we
knock on Liriodendron’s door?” They turned as one toward Chloe Chapman Dinwoodie, but
she had tottered away, presumably in search of new prey. A corner of Adrian’s mouth turned up. “Given the amount
of bootleg she’s consumed, Chloe Dinwoodie will be
fortunate if she remembers how she arrived at
Liriodendron in the first place. I suspect we’ll register
a nothing more than a bad dream. Suppose we wait in the
car. That will save us from meeting the charming lady
again.” With a resigned sigh, Jim followed his mentor to the
auto. He was no longer particularly connected to his
Irish past, no more so than any other first-generation
American born and raised in South Boston. Why was it,
then, that he could now hear the lilting voice of his
departed Granny Cullen, who’d always claimed that the
blood of ancient Celtic soothsayers warmed her veins?
He’d grown up with her predictions and warnings, and this
one trumpeted as loudly as any of them: “Little good ever
coms of mixing where you aren’t wanted.” Despite Bennett
Chapman’s invitation, it was clear that most of
Liriodendron’s occupants would be more than happy to slam
the front door in Adrian de la Noye’s face. “Adrian…” Jim stopped still on the deck. Adrian turned toward him, one eyebrow raised in inquiry. Jim hesitated. He was indebted to Adrian’s kindness,
could never have come this far without his patronage. But
it was more than that: dashing, sure-footed Adrian de la
Noye was everything he wanted to be. Summoning
superstitions from the old country would only further
emphasize the differences between them. “Never mind,” Jim said slowly. “I’m tired, that’s all.” “All the more reason for a good night’s sleep before we
visit Liriodendron. I’ll need that sharp mind of yours,
Mr. Reid. I’ve grown to depend upon it.” Jim followed along in silence, trying to forget that his
granny’s predictions had seldom been wrong.
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