The Lady Peckington Rumor

“Samuel Sampson, Morning Gazette.”

“Oh right, Lady Peckington said you may join us. It is quite a busy morning, I don’t know why she suggested it.” 

The butler looked irritated, as if opening a door today was more stressful than any other day. Perhaps he was right. Two women in maid uniforms ran behind him with trays of silverware. A man fell down the sweeping staircase behind him in a thundering crash. The butler barely flinched, his eyes fixated on me in annoyance. 

“Yes, well, she wanted to meet before the wedding, I suppose,” I offered. “Can I come in?”

The butler relented and opened the large oak door just wide enough for me to squeeze through. My belt loop nearly caught on the door handle.  

“Let me show you to the sitting room. Ladies,” he said to the maids now holding a lamp and an bundle of throw pillows, “can you please let Lady Peckington know that her guest Mr.-”

“Sampson. Mr. Sampson.”

“Right,” he said, rolling his eyes, “Mr. Sampson is here to see her.”

The women nodded and scurried towards the stairs. We walked through the mansion, the large oil paintings looking at me with almost as much disgust as the butler. I had put on my Sunday best this morning, and thought the holes on the sleeve weren’t noticeable. Apparently I couldn’t even fool the portraits. Or maybe they were disgusted for other reasons.

Four men holding a large altar arch adorned in florals and vines cut across us in the hall. Sweat from one of their foreheads landed on my shoe, but I didn’t mind. I felt more comfortable with the laborers than with the butler. 

“Here we are,” he said, as we approached the room. Ivy colored walls with builtin bookcases housed Shakespeare scripts and Austen novels lined the exterior. An oriental rug that looked like it had never been stepped on laid across the floor. A bottle of scotch on the credenza held two glasses, one with a lipstick stain. “Can I get you anything while you wait?”

“Do you have any comment on a mysterious lover of Ms. Peckington?”

“Surely I have no idea what you mean.”

“Then a lemonade would be great.”

The butler backed away, leaving me to listen to the clanging and scuffling around the house. I checked my notes. 

Evelyn Peckington, 24. 

Born of Walter and Georgia Peckington. 

Walter made his wealth through an investment in transistors, although it’s hard to track down the exact source. 

Ties to illicit businesses? 

Evelyn to marry Peter Williams, railroad mogul, aged 35. 

Wedding set for tomorrow.

Rumors that Evelyn is having an affair, but no name has been revealed. 

“Here is your lemonade, sir,” one of the maids says, distracting me from my notes. The other is standing behind her, as if they come in pairs. 

“Thank you.” I turn the glass in my hands and look back at the credenza. 

“Did Mr. Williams visit yesterday?”

“Why no, sir. He is out of town. He is just making it back this afternoon for the wedding,” the small one in the back said. 

“Surely people have been coming in and out of the house all week given the big event.”

“Oh no. That’s why it’s been a madhouse today. Lady Peckington wouldn’t let anyone in earlier.”

“Why is that, do you think?,” I ask, sipping the lemonade. “This is absolutely delicious by the way, did you make this?”

“Why yes, thank you,” the taller one blushed. “I presume she needed some special alone time.”

“Ahem,” the smaller one said. “I think we will leave Mr. Sampson to his work.”

They waddled away to find some other absurd chore to do. More people crossed the halls, running in every which direction, carrying harps or plates or tablecloths.

I jotted some more notes down in my pad. Gossip was never the reason I went into journalism, but I can’t wait for a major crime to occur while I forgo rent. I write to eat. And I am hungry. Plus, Ms. Peckington chose me to write this story.

“Mr. Sampson, how kind of you to join us.”

Lady Peckington was a vision in yellow chiffon. Her dress flowed with every graceful step she took. There was not a hair out of place. Her makeup, perfection. She smelled of lavender and honeysuckle. A smell that reminded me of desire and innocence and sex.

“Lady Peckington, thank you for having me this morning.”

“I would want no one else to squash these horrible rumors about me.”

She sat on the sofa opposite me, and kicked her legs up on the cushion. Her comfortability with me was disarming, but familiar. She played with the yellow diamond pendant around her neck. 

“Oh, so you are familiar with my work.”

“Your work? You could say I have some familiarity.” 

“So, I hate to be so blunt, but given how busy you are this weekend, I will get to the point. The word around town is that you are having an affair.”

“A ghastly rumor."

“So, you are not having a dalliance, then?”

“Why would I do that? When I am to be married to Mr. Peter Williams in less than 24 hours!”

“He isn’t here, is he?”

“No, no. He’s always away, working on some deal with money grubbing men.”

“And you don’t need anyone to keep you company when he is away?”

“Sure, company is great. But I will not sink so low as to answer these questions.”

“Well, why did you ask me to be here then?”

“You know why.”

“It would be against my ethics as a journalist not to report the truth. If you are not in love with Peter, then leave him.” 

“Since when did you get on your high horse?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was when I used your front door for the first time.”

“Oh stop it, you love climbing the lattice.”

“I do not love climbing the lattice.”

“You love the reward after climbing the lattice.”

“I see you didn’t put our glasses away from last night.”

“Oh John will take care of that for me.”

“Yeah, he hates me by the way.”

“He does not hate you. He doesn’t even know who you are, no one here does.” 

“He suspects it.”

“Well, kill the rumor in the story. Then no one will suspect a thing.”

“Evelyn,” I whisper. “You don’t have to do this. Come with me.” 

She looked at me, like she’s looked at me dozens of times these past few weeks. Eyeing me up and down, contemplating her options. She shook her head and stood up.

“Mr. Sampson, it was a pleasure meeting with you. You know, I will be married tomorrow to Mr. Williams and I hope this story puts me in a good light. It would be an excellent wedding present.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Sampson.”