Splendor: A Luxe Novel (16 page)

The afternoon was young, and for a while they were giddy. They rode the Steeplechase—Henry holding her securely in front of him as the mechanical horses lurched forward—and took in low entertainments.

Diana had been all over the country by now, but still her stomach fluttered and her eyes popped at what she encountered there. They saw moving pictures and a bearded lady and a tattooed man and a dwarf and a giant, and afterward they rested under a striped awning and drank beer and ate fried clams. They looked at each other with happy, sun-washed eyes and soaked each other in over happy silences.

“I’d like to do this every day,” Henry said after a while.

Women in flouncing bathing suits revealed naked calves as though it were all very regular, taking in the catcalls and lazy, appreciative smiles of gentlemen with handlebar mustaches, not a one of them appearing scandalized. Diana reached over and let her fingertips graze Henry’s jaw, which had always been for her a favorite part of him. Since they were last together he’d shaved, and the skin was smooth as girl’s now, which contradicted the taut pensiveness in his brow.

“But why shouldn’t we?” she replied, affecting lightness.

“Because you have the strictest mother in all New York…,” Henry began, lifting his bottle of beer to clink it against Diana’s.

“…to whom I pay absolutely no attention…,” interjected his paramour, giggling as she brought her bottle up to touch his, before taking a long sip.

“…and I am married to the most fearsomely controlling socialite this town has ever seen.”

“Oh,” Diana replied insouciantly. “Her.”

“Yes, her. God, why didn’t we elope when we had the chance?” Henry’s voice was dark, although the blinding seaside light struck him with such loving force that his skin appeared all golden, and Diana could almost see through the thin weave of his white collared shirt. He was leaning back in his folding wooden chair, ankle rested against knee, and he would have appeared, to any casual observer, like a man in a perfect state of repose. But Diana had been at his side a great many hours by now, and she heard the file://C:\Documents and Settings\nickunj\Desktop\book.html 10/28/2009

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worry in his tone. “We should never have let either of those harpies see us. We should never have come back to New York.”

“That’s just what Elizabeth says,” she remarked, almost as an afterthought, as she gazed out to sea. “She says it’s no place for us.”

The wooden folding chair made a noise against the weather-beaten boards as Henry pushed it back. “You told Elizabeth about us?”

“Of course—she’s my sister!” Diana laughed and put her hand, gently, on Henry’s shoulder. “Anyway, don’t make that face, she approves.”

“She does?” Henry shook his head in bemusement. He paused, considering. “What do you suppose she meant, ‘no place for us’?”

“New York, Manhattan, parlors and ballrooms, racetracks, Long Island estates…,” Diana sighed, and shrugged happily, pausing to look out at all the merry passers-by. “She says we’ll never be allowed to be together here,” she added, and though she intended this explanation lightly, she heard her voice become low and portentous against her will. “That to be happy, we must leave.” Henry stared at her intently and brought his trousered ankle back to his opposite knee. He removed a cigarette from his shirt pocket and placed it between his lips, only looking away from her to strike a match. He shook it out and dropped it between the boards, and as he exhaled he met Diana’s eyes again.

“Let’s go,” he said. The slow, summertime manner was gone, and she stared as his throat worked.

Meanwhile the rest of him remained still and poised. Diana reached over and took a cigarette from his shirt pocket for herself. They held each other’s gaze as he leaned across the small round table and lit it for her.

“Go where?” she replied in time.

His black eyes ranged to the waves, the activity on the sand, and back to her. “Where else do Americans go when they are sick of their own country? Paris.”

“Paris?” Diana inhaled and exhaled quickly. Smoking reminded her of the silver streaking rain in Havana. Since running away she had become a more natural smoker, and she found she was glad of the habit now, for her heart was beating fast and the tobacco calmed her. She didn’t know quite why his suggestion made her nervous; chasing after him all by herself had come to her so naturally. But she’d left, that time, with the hard knot in her belly of having committed a terrible act. She had been seeking something quite specific. What Henry suggested would mean giving up everything she had known for a place she had never seen, and a future she could not begin to picture. “But what would we live on?”

“I have a little money of my own, money my mother left me….” Henry exhaled a cloud of smoke that briefly blurred his fine, tanned features, and then flicked the rest of his cigarette away. “I can’t stand pretending, I can’t stand playing children’s games with Penelope. I can’t stand thinking about you all the time and not being able to have you. Please, let’s go; the rest will fall into place.” Diana closed her eyes and let her assumptions about the rest of her life, and all the days that would fill it, slip away. She nodded to herself, as though to summon courage, and then she felt across the wooden table for Henry’s hand.

“You want to go to Paris with me?”

Both his hands covered hers. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything. I’d go tonight, if you said yes.”

“Then yes. Let’s go tonight.”

A slightly nervous practicality now entered Henry’s voice: “The Cunard line transatlantic sails on Tuesdays. So we can’t actually go until tomorrow.” When she opened her eyes, the rays of sunlight were too white, too extreme to see anything for several seconds, but she smiled through it, and soon enough Henry’s face came into focus. For a long time neither said anything, while the blood pumped in and out of their chests at wild speeds. The afternoon had begun to fade by the time they left the little wooden table and walked back toward the train, moving more slowly than they had before but with greater purpose. This time they didn’t bother finding seats on opposite ends of the car, and Henry extended his arm over her shoulder when they sat down beside each other. As the train lurched into motion, carrying them back toward their homes, where they would pack a few things and say good-bye to the people that mattered, Diana glanced out the window at the Ferris file://C:\Documents and Settings\nickunj\Desktop\book.html 10/28/2009

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wheel rising like a full moon above the park. The rest of her life lay out below her, as though she were staring at it from an extreme height, from one of those trembling cages that the Ferris wheel brought up and around. The idea of everything that was yet to be made her feel dizzy, and alive, and terrified, and she was glad Henry was coming with her, wherever it was she was going.

Twenty

THE WILLIAM S. SCHOONMAKER FAMILY

REQUESTS YOUR PRESENCE

AT A DINNER TO BE GIVEN IN HONOR

OF THE RETURNED HERO

PRIVATE FIRST CLASS HENRY SCHOONMAKER

MONDAY THE SIXTEENTH OF JULY

AT EIGHT O’CLOCK

AT THE SCHOONMAKER RESIDENCE

FOUR HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN FIFTH AVENUE

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THE TWO MRS. SCHOONMAKERS STRODE ARM IN arm across the polished floor of the main hall of their family mansion. That afternoon, as they dressed for the dinner party, it had occurred to Penelope that her mother-in-law was in a particularly good mood, and they had over the course of a few hours grown sisterly again. The house was full of the smell of hyacinth and tuberose, and from the labyrinth of small galleries and parlors the sounds of polite social discourse could be heard. They were robed like goddesses, the elder woman in a column of pale purple crepe de chine, with a deep oval neckline, her fluffy blond hair descending diagonally on either side of her doll-like face; the younger, in an empire waist dress of gauzy white with a black velvet bodice and beadwork of shimmering gold. The sleeves billowed, but her phosphorescent shoulders were entirely bare, and her dark hair rose up from her unblemished forehead and was gathered in an elaborate bun festooned with ostrich plumes. Pink gold and diamond earrings twinkled against her jaw.

“I like your prince,” the elder Mrs. Schoonmaker whispered as they approached the first floor parlor, where already their guests were sipping aperitifs and waiting to be greeted.

“Oh, he’s hardly mine,” Penelope protested, but faintly. She was feeling terribly regal after the attention he had paid her during his afternoon visit. Each of her gestures since then had been theatrically self-confident. “Anyway, the papers say he is soon to be engaged to the Comte de Langlois’s daughter.”

“All the better, my dear.” Isabelle giggled, and then continued in a self-indulgent rush: “I myself am quite sick of Bradley. I have been for a year now, but I always go back to him when I have nothing better to do.

I thought artists would be more interesting than gentlemen, but they make love with the same words other men do, and when it comes to giving tokens of affection, they have less money at their disposal. You are very clever to be flirting with Europeans, and noble ones at that.” Then they entered the oak-paneled room, where men in black jackets and women in tulle and ribbons and jeweled chokers burbled admiringly at the vision of their hostesses. String music played in the next room, and bushes of cherry blossoms emerged from gilt inlaid vases, erupting above the heads of the guests.

Penelope cast her bold blue gaze across the room, meeting the eyes of the newlywed Reginald Newbolds and of Is abelle’s handsome brother, James de Ford, along with a few others, although she did not bestow the compliment of a wink on any of them. Her father-in-law was several drinks in already, she guessed from his ruddy aspect, although it would be a while before dinner was served—the cooks were working on rather short notice, she believed. He exited by the adjoining gallery along with a small fleet of similarly dark-clad gentleman, who looked as though their waistcoats had been puffed out with wind.

They were off to do what men did alone, she supposed—smoke cigars and talk of entertainments they didn’t let ladies in on.

“And where is your handsome husband?” Penelope turned disdainfully to Agnes Jones, who was a good deal shorter than she. Penelope would not have thought the guest list would be so inclusive.

“It is something of a battle to make him presentable, now that he is a soldier,” Penelope answered curtly, before striding forward into the room.

She and her mother-in-law moved in opposite directions, working their way slowly through the assembled guests standing on the camel hair carpet. There were about thirty people in the room—all of the men with distinguished names, and all of the ladies with heirloom necklaces. The younger Mrs.

Schoonmaker managed a semicircle, cooing in delight at the faces of old friends, delicately extending her bracelet- clad wrist so that gentleman guests could place kisses there, offering carefully phrased compliments to gowns that fit less well than her own. She still had half a room to cover when she saw Mr. Schoonmaker—the younger one, who was supposed to be her husband—entering from the main hall.

Her mouth dropped open at the sight of him, for he wasn’t wearing a jacket, and not even one of the buttons of his vest was done. From across the room, Isabelle flashed her a look of alarm.

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Everyone else noticed too, it seemed, as the din subtly descended a notch or two. Henry, impervious, refusing to meet her eyes or anybody else’s, crossed toward the gallery on the east side of the room. It was the direction his father had gone, toward the smoking room. Penelope smiled demurely, or as demurely as she could manage, at Nicholas Livingston, with whom she had been discussing an upcoming weekend party to Long Island, and hurried through the burgundy club chairs and clustered bodies in pursuit of her wayward spouse.

“You smell like beer,” she observed in a quietly heated tone when she caught up with him, just on the threshold of the adjoining gallery. The brownness that he had achieved while abroad had begun to fade to a respectable tawny shade, but she could see now that his nose had been turned red by the sun over the course of the afternoon. “And you are late.”

Henry stopped, hesitated, staring at the shining parquet before him, and it was only after several seconds that his eyes rolled back in Penelope’s direction. “I’m afraid I cannot play the part of Henry Schoonmaker, war hero, this evening,” he said eventually, and though the sarcasm was somewhat buried, it did not escape Penelope.

“Your father won’t like that.” She took a step toward him, so that they would appear more like a loving couple to the curious spectators who were, no doubt, stealing glances. The words, however, were spoken as sharp warning. She could hear them behind her, chatting at normal levels about the latest boat races, whispering in more subdued tones about how peculiar their hosts were acting.

“No,” Henry returned. “But there’s no need for you to concern yourself about that, as I’m on my way to tell him myself now.”

For a moment it was as though she’d breathed in ice crystals. When Henry took a few steps deeper into the gallery, she matched them exactly.

“On your way to tell him what?” she demanded. Henry’s shirt was unbuttoned to midsternum, and she could see the dark marks of sweat around his armpits. Wherever he had just been was still all over him.

He was awfully handsome, she couldn’t help but think, and then hated both of them equally for allowing this line of thinking to begin again in her mind.

Henry sighed and his head swayed back and forth. The impatience he’d expressed in the previous moments evaporated, and when he spoke again it was in a flat, almost broken tone. “That I’m leaving you.”

“No. No you’re not.”

“Yes…” Henry nodded. His gaze, when he met hers, was unflinching. “I am.” Penelope’s mouth constricted and she tried to force back hot, angry tears. But the fearful rage this information at first elicited simmered down quickly, until, in a matter of seconds, she found it a more manageable sort of challenge. “Henry,” she whispered through a tight smile, “all those people think you’re a war hero, but I know the truth. I doubt very much you have the courage.”