Rumors (25 page)

“I
F ANYONE KNOWS ANY REASON WHY THIS MAN AND
woman should not be wed, let them speak now or forever hold their peace….”

There was a slight murmur of approval and amusement across the room, and then it became very evident that no one was going to object. The floor had been covered in white petals; the windows had been draped in lace. The lesser parlor, on the east side of the Holland town house, was still lacking in furniture, but it made a perfect place for a wedding. They had moved in a small settee on which sat Elizabeth’s mother—much recovered from her illness, but still somewhat feverish and weak—and her aunt Edith, who had not stopped crying or smiling all morning. Behind them stood four of Snowden’s men, in their worn leather waistcoats and thick, off-white collared shirts. Near the covered windows stood Snowden, holding a Bible and his duties seriously, and to Elizabeth’s back were Diana and behind her Claire, both of them in white, both clutching the little bouquets of lilies of the valley and
white roses that the three girls had put together that morning and tied with lavender ribbons.

In the center of all this was Elizabeth, wearing a new white dress of lined cotton eyelet that fit her perfectly despite not having been made just for her. There was lace tight against her skin at the neck and below the elbows, and it was cinched to show the little waist she used to be so proud of, but there was a certain bridal volume to the sleeves of the upper arms and to the skirt. The buttons at her wrists and the nape of her neck were covered in cream-colored silk, and very ladylike. Will had picked it out, since her mother had forbidden her from even so much as looking out the windows. Her hands were now extended, holding Will’s. He could hardly meet her eyes and he was very still; she realized that he was nervous. She hadn’t seen him nervous in a long time, and the realization made her heart swell up. He was wearing a new, dark brown suit with a waistcoat and white collar. She had had no idea what it would do to her, seeing him in a suit.

“Elizabeth Adora Holland, do you take William Thomas Keller to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

“I do,” she whispered. Her eyes were damp, and she couldn’t stop looking at Will, with his broad shoulders and his big blue eyes rimmed in their dark lashes. It was an irony, she thought, that it was her engagement ring that had paid
for flowers and a new dress and the suit, but she was glad that Will had been a part of selling it, and not just because he had bargained with the pawnbroker and gotten the best price. Years later, when Will had proven himself and they had watched each other change in time, they could tell their children that story. How an object that had once seemed like it might pull them apart had in fact bought the clothes they were wed in.

“Do you, William Thomas Keller, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

Now a smile began to creep onto his face. Once he said, “I do,” the smile was there, and permanent. He had been holding their rings in his pocket, and he reached for them now. They were simple yellow gold bands that her mother had found amongst the family heirlooms, and they placed them on each other’s fingers now without pomp.

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride,” Snowden said.

Elizabeth had thought of this moment with trepidation all through the morning. Her physical closeness to Will had been so long a secret, it seemed strange and a little frightening that she would have to kiss him in front of her mother and aunt. But in the moment there was nothing more natural. She wasn’t even sure how he reached her, or how the kiss began.
But then their lips were together, soft and fervent, and she knew that for all the things she regretted leaving behind, there was a rich, bright future right ahead of her, full of everything she wanted and much that she hadn’t even imagined yet.

When she heard clapping, she knew that the moment was over. She stepped back and Diana embraced her. Poor Diana—it seemed as though all the strength had gone out of her arms, even as she used them to hold on to her sister. Her shiny brown curls spilled all over Elizabeth’s shoulder. Although Elizabeth had listened to several hours of tearful confession about Henry’s betrayal, and though she had coaxed and reassured her and sworn that she was positive Penelope had played some trick or other, she could not help but be a little relieved that her sister would not be sneaking around with him anymore. She had told Diana, truthfully, that she believed Henry was in love with her. But she could not help but feel a little scandalized by what Diana had done with him, despite her years of slipping down to Will’s carriage house bed, and she knew that she would sleep a little easier in California knowing that Diana was not always at risk of being found out.

Her mother had come, a little unsteadily, to her feet. Edith, still sitting on the mahogany and burgundy velvet settee, watched her to see that she could stand on her own. She could, and proceeded forward to kiss Elizabeth’s cheek. Then she turned to Will.

“I have known you a long time and I have always liked you,” she said simply. The skin above her upper lip was set and stern. All around them, in that sparse room with its sea green walls and carved wood ceiling, with its vases so recently filled with fresh flowers, the witnesses shifted and waited to see what Mrs. Holland would say. “And my late husband liked you more than I did. I would not have let this happen otherwise. I won’t pretend that this was my first choice for how my child would marry, but I know that she’ll be happy with you, and safe.”

Will’s face was at its most serious, and he nodded thankfully. This was the loudest endorsement he was likely to get from Elizabeth’s mother, and he knew it. “Thank you, Mrs. Holland,” he answered, and then extended his hand for her to shake.

Elizabeth watched as her mother gave him a curt smile and a faint nod. She knew that it was difficult for her mother to do even this much—it had been Edith’s cajoling that had allowed as much ceremony and acknowledgment as this—and Elizabeth was very grateful for it. Later, on the train, she thought, she would tell Will how much they had Edith to thank, and they would plan some gesture of gratitude that they could extend toward her when their oil money really started coming in.

“Mr. Cairns, how lovely that was,” her mother was now
saying. The obsequiousness of which she was sometimes capable had crept back into her voice. “How fortunate we have again been made by your presence. It seems you will surprise us with some new, secret ability on every new day of our acquaintance.”

“I am honored to do it. But now you must excuse me—I have some small business to attend to, and I’m sure your family wants a few moments of privacy together.” Snowden took Will’s hand and shook it and then turned to Elizabeth, where his small eyes briefly lingered. She couldn’t help but marvel at how lucky they were to have met Snowden, and at how naturally kind he was. She felt as warmly toward him at that moment as though he were part of the family. “My congratulations to both of you, Mr. and Mrs. Keller.”

When he left the room, his men followed him, and then the Hollands were alone again, illuminated by the dappled light that was filtered by the lace curtains. Most of the original paintings were gone, but there were still a few grand depictions of roiled seas on the wall. The parlor retained the aura, which Elizabeth remembered it having when she was a little girl, of being the place where obscure, grown-up things occurred. Claire went to prepare tea and cake, and Elizabeth sat down beside her mother on the small settee.

“When Snowden returns to Boston, he will have the certificate drawn up and sent to you in California. It is less likely
to be noticed if he does it there. Oh, Elizabeth,” she whispered, placing her hands on her older daughter’s cheeks, “I will miss you, I will miss you. But you must go soon. The longer you stay, the more likely it is that you will be discovered. And you know it will be the end of this family if you are.”

Elizabeth nodded and held her tears. She might have told her mother how much it meant to her that she had been married before the family, but in the end she decided it was unnecessary. There were a few days left of the year, and she would spend them in the company of those she loved most. They would eat meals together and get used to the idea that she was Mrs. Keller. Then, on New Year’s Eve, which Snowden had advised would be a slow travel day and the time when they were least likely to be noticed, she and Will would collect all their things in two small suitcases and say good-bye to Gramercy a second time, and to New York forever.

T
HE HALLS OF THE HAYES MANSION ECHOED AS
Penelope ran through them, her small dog pressed to her chest. She was so close to everything she wanted, and yet she could sense all the insidious forces poised to take them away from her. Her long shadow fell across the black-and-white-tiled floor as she moved, under the impossibly high mirrored ceilings of the first floor of No. 670 Fifth Avenue, that redbrick-and-limestone colossus that few would feign call a home, and which was capable of spooking even a girl as self-possessed as Penelope on her rare vulnerable days. The rumors about Elizabeth’s return had ruined her sleep, and the image of Henry and Diana together had destroyed what should have been perfectly lovely waking hours. When she saw the English butler in the front vestibule, she paused and went breathlessly to him.

“Rathmill,” she said. She was aware that veins had emerged on her white neck, but she couldn’t help it. The beady black eyes of Robber, her Boston terrier, went all around the room in a kind of terror. “Where are my parents?”

“Mademoiselle Penelope, I believe they are in the drawing room having their tea. Would you like me to—”

“No, no,” Penelope interrupted. She deposited the wiggling body of her dog into Rathmill’s not-quite-ready arms. “
I’ll
do it.”

She walked away from him, toward that epic curve of marble stairs that would bring her to the second-story drawing room where her parents took their private tea. On the first step she paused and rested her hand on the cool balustrade. “You can tell my mother’s social secretary that she will be needed very shortly, however.”

No one had helped Penelope in achieving her not unreasonable desires, except perhaps Isabelle Schoonmaker, and so Penelope felt no compunction about directing her wrath in all directions. Mr. Rathmill, the butler, had been of especially no use. He had served several titled British families before he came to the Hayeses, and he knew, as the young lady of the house knew, that they were the kind of family that needed an English butler to teach them class. He was always giving them snide little looks, which her mother was too dense to notice, but Penelope saw them and understood.

Isabelle, for her part, could not have been more delighted with the announcement of the engagement, but every little gift she gave her future stepdaughter-in-law, every time she squealed in joy and winked with knowing excitement, seemed
a mockery of Penelope. She had what she wanted, but she had bullied her way in, and didn’t even have a ring yet to show for all her trouble. She had been so clever and so conniving for Henry’s sake and for her own, and he couldn’t even appreciate it. There had been no romantic gestures from Henry, no illicit glances. Penelope felt as lonely as she’d ever felt, and might have even wondered if there was any point to it anymore if it weren’t for her pride.

But her pride was considerable. It was pride that kept her moving up the stairs, drawing back the gunmetal gray silk skirt that she wore with the black organza puff-sleeved blouse. She strode into the small, second-story parlor, which faced the avenue, like all the rooms they used frequently, without trying to disguise her distemper. Her parents were sitting by the fire, with its majolica-tiled mantel, and her brother stood not far off, by one of the two life-size cloisonné peacocks, smoking a cigarette. All three turned stupidly to look at her.

“Ahh!” she cried out in frustration.

The room, with its heavy purple and cold brocade, was a dark place, and this should have flattered Mrs. Hayes, but did not. That lady’s corpulence was bedecked in green and white tarlatan, trimmed with black lace, and her dark hair was restrained with green ribbons. It was hardly seemly for someone her age, as the Hayes siblings might have amused themselves by noting in lighter times.

“What is it?” Evelyn Hayes said, setting down her teacup with a rattle. “Don’t make that face—it will leave permanent lines.”

“We thought you would be so happy now that you’re engaged to the Schoonmaker boy.” Richmond Hayes’s voice was not without a touch of recrimination, and he switched the cross of his legs after he spoke. He couldn’t be called tall, when you considered the height of his two children, and his features were framed by a dark beard and mustache, over which peered small eyes that never lost sight of their owner’s self-interest.

Penelope fell back into the cream-colored sofa with the kilim pillows and slumped, her ears falling to her shoulders and her chin almost reaching her chest. Grayson turned slowly and rested his hand on a polished cherrywood screen before exhaling smoke.

“What does Penny want?” His words were heavy with sarcasm, and he looked at her the way he might have when they were children and Penelope was throwing one of her not infrequent tantrums.

“I don’t want to live in this awful house anymore,” Penelope spat out—cruelly, considering the money they all knew Mr. Hayes had sunk into the place. “I hate everybody.”

“Why?” her brother asked, the same amused smile on his face. He took a last drag and flicked his cigarette into the fire. “When we all want the best for you.”

“We are all so proud of you, Penelope, making such a brilliant engagement.” Her mother winked at her daughter and tried to look encouraging. “Before your brother has even proposed once. We were all hoping he would come back lord of some manor or other, but this has not proved the case.”

Grayson rolled his eyes and let his arm fall limp off the screen. He sighed audibly and moved, at a slow, urbane gait, to the sofa where Penelope slouched. He crossed his legs, dressed in pin-striped suit pants, and rested his elbow on his knee. His waistcoat had been made in London, and was of pearl gray silk. “Come now, dear sister,” he implored in the same tone. “Tell us what will make you feel better.”

Penelope looked at her brother, whose hair was pomaded and parted down the center so that it rose stiffly, back from his forehead on either side. She herself had not had the patience to let her maid treat her hair that morning, and so it was frizzier than usual. She paused to vainly brush it back from her face. Then she looked at her father, whose face had assumed that resigned expression it always did just before he wrote a very big check. Penelope felt calm all of sudden—or at least, calmer than she had all day.

“I want to have the wedding now.”

“Now?” her mother sputtered.

Ever since Grayson had told her about seeing Elizabeth on the train, she had known that she had to do something,
fast. It hardly mattered that Henry didn’t love his previous fiancée—if she came back to New York, they would all wonder whether he should marry her still, and it wouldn’t matter at all that Penelope was engaged to him now. Their wedding would be postponed indefinitely, and public opinion would turn against her. Penelope pushed herself up straight and placed her hands in a neat cross on her lap. She looked at each member of her immediate family, and tried to seem a little modest. All of the mad fury she had recently experienced had been replaced by a pure focus on making everyone awed and jealous of her. “Well, before the end of the year.”

“Penelope,” her father put in sternly, “we haven’t a place reserved, or a minister. We haven’t asked anyone to save the date.”

“But you’re Richmond Hayes! You can get a minister, and everyone will want to come to
my
wedding. And anyway, Mrs. Schoonmaker already said that we could use their place at Tuxedo to have a party to
really
celebrate the engagement. Why not just make it the wedding? We’ll have the invitations handwritten tonight and sent out tomorrow! Oh, please, Daddy!”

Her parents appeared too stunned to deny or affirm her request. They looked at each other a little nervously across the gold tea service. It was Grayson who spoke first, and he now spoke in a reasonable tone devoid of irony. “Why not? It will
be such a surprise, and that will create envy and excitement, and everyone will be falling all over themselves to make sure they are invited. It will remind all society what this family has become, and what sort of displays we’re now capable of. I think old Schoonmaker will like the idea too. Did you see that bit on him in the paper today? Seems he passed out some bad turkeys at that parade of his, and a few slum girls have fallen ill.” Grayson chuckled and lit another cigarette. “That’s the kind of tragedy that begs for a distraction,” he declared in his father’s direction.

“But what will you wear?” Mrs. Hayes asked, her round face still open with confusion.

“I’ve always wanted to wear your dress,” Penelope lied sweetly. “We can have it made over so that it fits me in a few days.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Hayes smiled a little at this. “Well, why not? Don’t you think, Mr. Hayes, that this might be the best thing?”

“If it’s a surprise, and out of town,” Penelope went on, assuming correctly that if she kept talking, her father would lose the conviction behind any of his objections and grow bored with the whole back-and-forth, “then there won’t be all those unpleasant crowds and police barricades. There won’t be endless newspaper articles for months before, about all the bridesmaids and what shade they’re wearing. It will be much more elegant, don’t you think?”

Her father examined his daughter for a moment and then shrugged. “If that’s what you want, and you think the Schoonmakers will agree.”

“Oh, yes. It’s just perfect! And I
know
they’ll agree.” Penelope stood now and clasped her hands. The excitement had come into her mother’s face now—she had several new jewels that she had not yet gotten to show off, as her daughter knew well enough. Grayson gave his sister a look of tickled admiration. “You’ll go tonight, won’t you? We all will, to tell the Schoonmakers the plan. And then tomorrow Henry and I, and his family, and all of you, can go up to Tuxedo and begin preparations. That way, we won’t be bothered by all the hubbub!”

By
hubbub,
Penelope meant to imply the columnists who so exhaustively documented any wedding of remote social importance. Her parents were sensitive to how things were done, of course, and they could be persuaded to do anything that might avoid ridicule and social censure. But the hubbub Penelope was in fact thinking of was the kind caused by the Holland sisters. Once she got herself and her fiancé out of the city, then she would be able to sleep a little better. She would be that much closer to what was rightfully hers being hers—according to society and the public and, soon enough, God, too.