Splendor: A Luxe Novel (21 page)

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Twenty Six

Congratulations are due to Mr. Leland Bouchard and Miss Carolina Broad, whose engagement is being announced far and wide this morning. Invitations will, by all reports, go out today for a Sunday wedding at the Grace Church. While we long to be believers in love at first sight, the skeptic in us wonders if this mad dash to the altar is owing to motor car enthusiast Mr. Bouchard’s need for speed, or if it has more to do with the rather vast social difference between a girl whose connections do not go back even a year, and an august family who might, given enough time for reflection, come to think better of the match?

——FROM CITÉ CHATTER, WEDNESDAY, JULY 18, 1900

“IT SIMPLY WON’T DO,” CAROLINA SAID, STARING INTO a reflection that she had come, in a few days, to like more than she would ever have imagined. Was it possible she had grown taller in only a week’s time? Of course she was standing on the dressmaker’s box, and the six-foot triptych mirror now elongated her figure three times over. But surely her eyes were a purer shade of green. Her dark hair was pinned above her head, so that Madame Bristede—the dressmaker Longhorn had chosen for her during their short friendship—could better see to the elaborate lace-and buttonwork of the high neck, which Carolina knew to be very flattering even as she disparaged it. She and Leland had agreed, in the rush of their engagement, that they didn’t care what anybody thought, and that they had wasted too many years apart already. In less than a week they would be married.

“I am doing all I can, Miss Broad,” said Madame Bristede from her position by the pearl-encrusted hem.

The elaborate dress had already been under construction for Carolina, but it had not been intended as a wedding dress, and so in the last twenty-four hours black netting had been painstakingly removed form the full, flouncing skirt and replaced with ecru point de gaze. Two young ladies in the corner with fatigued but agile hands were busy constructing a train embellished with ostrich feathers and opal beads.

Near them sat a red-haired maid, who Carolina had insisted upon borrowing from Mrs. Carr for the week, watching the proceedings in quiet amazement and holding her temporary mistress’s street clothes folded in her lap. Ever since glimpsing her at the hotel, Carolina had been obsessed with finding a way to have her sister closer to her, and after the proposal, to see that Claire witnessed the wedding. Now she had.

“But I have less than a week to finish, and so I am very sorry to say that it will have to do.” Then the dressmaker looked up at Carolina, as though she had just remembered that she was no longer talking to a lucky nobody, but the future Mrs. Leland Bouchard. Part of Carolina wanted to rail about the monumental importance of this gown, this wedding, and, indeed, of herself; but the majority was too full of bliss at the impossible direction of her life to sustain anger. The memory of Leland’s quite public proposal rushed back for her—as it did several times an hour—causing her lungs to swell and her eyes to file://C:\Documents and Settings\nickunj\Desktop\book.html 10/28/2009

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grow pleasantly moist, and then she found it impossible to persist in being difficult with Madame Bristede. She smiled. Madame Bristede smiled, and then returned to her task. No, she would save her exacting impulse for the florist and for Isaac Phillips Buck, who she had hired to oversee everything about her last-minute wedding, and who was now looming by the wall. It was very lucky that Penelope had not needed him for anything that week, she had commented earlier, to which he had responded with a politic silence that she simply had no time to interpret.

“Delivery for Miss Broad,” said the dressmaker’s assistant, poking her head around the door. It was true that Carolina had come to possess everything a girl might want, but her ears tingled pleasantly at these words anyway. “From Mr. Bouchard. The Lord and Taylor salesman is here to deliver it.”

“We are quite busy.” Madame Bristede did not glance up from her work. “Just have him leave whatever it is.”

“He says that he has a particular message, and that it is for Miss Broad’s ears only.” The dressmaker looked up at her demanding client with weary, questioning eyes.

“It will only take a minute,” Carolina told her. She still felt nice about the idea that something was being given to her, although the phrase “Lord and Taylor” had not been a welcome one.

Sighing heavily, the dressmaker stood and motioned to the girls in the corner. Claire followed them, to her sister’s chagrin—but of course, both girls were extremely cautious of not appearing to have a special relationship. “Be very careful,” Madame Bristede said to Carolina, gesturing at the detailed skirt, after which they all left the room.

The bride-to-be stepped gingerly down from the box and walked to the worn blue velvet sofa in the corner.

“My dear Miss Broad, how enchanting you look.”

She twisted her neck to see, over her shoulder, Tristan’s familiar figure as he swaggered into the room.

The sight of him did not do kind things to her mood.

“Mr. Wrigley, I hope you are delivering something very nice, as I have already paid you quite handsomely so that I might be spared your presence.”

“You did, it’s true, and promptly.” Tristan’s smile did not waver, and his gaze burned on. “But I’m afraid the bit about the package was a ruse.”

“Then I think you’d better leave,” she replied coldly.

“Ah, but we have business.”

“I think not. We had business, but that transaction has been completed.”

“Yes. That transaction has been.” Tristan moved forward with that same easy and attentive manner that made him so successful with silly women shoppers at the department store. “But that was before you became engaged to Leland Bouchard, which I should say makes you richer by at least half, not to mention brings you into one of those families who do still care about things like breeding, and would probably be less enthusiastic about their son’s choice of bride if they knew what she really was.” Carolina’s stung lower lip fell, and a fresh dose of outrage began to course through her. “That’s robbery,” she replied indignantly.

Tristan shrugged. “Call it what you like. It doesn’t mean you don’t want me quiet and happy.” He had ambled quite close to her. Now he leaned forward, bringing his face near enough to hers that if he spit a little when he spoke, she would feel the wetness.

“You revolt me,” she hissed, pulling away.

“I find that hard to believe.”

She reached for the small purse, which she had idly placed in the corner of the sofa upon her arrival, and removed a twenty-dollar bill, which she kept there in case of emergencies. “Here,” she said, without meeting Tristan’s eyes. “It’s all I have. I charge everything these days, you know, so I’m afraid you’ll just have to consider yourself lucky.”

“Ah, but Miss Broad, don’t you think—”

“Buck!” Carolina yelled shrilly. Tristan instantly drew back. Buck, meanwhile, came hurrying through the door, as fast as he could manage, considering his rather large person.

“Yes, mademoiselle?”

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“This man is harassing me. Please see that he is not allowed near me again.” She kept her eyes averted as Buck hustled Tristan from the room. His feet shuffled against the floor, but he went without a fight. Then she took a breath, and waited for the unpleasantness of the phrase “what she really was” to fade.

Carolina remembered how, as a child going to sleep, her mother would whisper she had been made for better things, and that if only her father had lived longer, he would have seen to it that she had a different kind of life. Mrs. Broud had been a beauty, and so Carolina had harbored the belief that she herself might someday be admired for her looks, and considered rather grand. But it was no longer merely a belief. She was a Bouchard, so it was a fact everybody would have to plainly acknowledge. Or anyway, she would be in a few days, she thought as she came up to her full height and stepped onto the dress box, dividing her reflection into three perfect pictures of a bride. After that there would be no questioning what she really was.

Twenty Seven

Today William Sackhouse Schoonmaker, one of the great men of his generation, will be laid to rest in the Trinity Church Cemetery in upper Manhattan. He would seem to have been at the height of his powers, and rumors have circulated about what his son might have said to him, just before the fatal episode, that could have given such a shock.

——FROM THE SOCIETY PAGE OF THE NEW-YORK NEWS OF

THE WORLD GAZETTE, WEDNESDAY, JULY 18, 1900

“WHAT DOES SHE THINK SHE’S DOING HERE?”

There was no wind, and the sky above the cemetery at 155th Street and Riverside was truest blue. The large green leaves on the trees were motionless, like the white headstones that stood in their eternal rows, up and down the hill, from Broadway on toward the Hudson, which was visible over the black hats of the fine ladies who surrounded Diana Holland as she quietly observed the solemn occasion. She was too far from the reverend to hear what he was saying; of course the burial of a man like William Schoonmaker would be a crowded one. Motes of pollen hung in the air like gold dust. They were telling, Diana thought, and if she were writing about the funeral in a literary way, instead of from the perspective of a society gossip, she would have described them just as they were.

“They say she and Henry Schoonmaker were in India together, and that she cut her hair in a Hindu ritual…”

Diana turned her face sharply, so that her eyes met with Mrs. Olin Vreewold’s. She had been talking to file://C:\Documents and Settings\nickunj\Desktop\book.html 10/28/2009

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Jenny Livingston, the old maid, and though the look Diana gave was enough to silence them, both ladies persisted in assuming sour expressions under their black brims. The story of what Henry had said to his father was being passed around, although happily the papers were shy of printing so untoward a story during the week of the old man’s funeral. Diana couldn’t be sure if they would feel the same way next week, but by then she and Henry would be gone. In the meantime, she wanted to make as much money as possible. Her old friend Davis Barnard, who wrote the “The Gamesome Gallant” column, had long ago told her that death has a way of flushing scandal out, or else burying it forever.

“Perhaps he wanted her here,” Jenny whispered when Diana’s gaze was again averted.

Before she could decide on another way to respond, the plaintive drone of bagpipes picked up and the crowd began to disperse. As the elegant, black-clad mourners turned and walked away from the fresh grave, she saw others like Mrs. Vreewold and Jenny Livingston, who stared at her with piercing scorn.

The onset of a blush was heating Diana’s cheeks, and she lifted her chin defiantly at the silent scolds. She had always been unconventional in her way, but she had never received stares like these.

Then Henry came, wearing his black frock coat, which must have been unbearable in the heat, and a black crepe mourning band on his left arm. His handsome face was exhausted and sad, and he met Diana’s eyes for longer than he probably should have, considering the scene. It took only a moment for him to communicate to her that he would have cleared a small village to be alone with her right then, and she tried to return the sentiment with a tiny, darting smile. Penelope hovered there beside him like a loving wife, just as she had all afternoon, but her face was covered with a black veil, and so it was impossible to see if she was sincerely aggrieved or merely clinging to her position as Mrs. Henry Schoonmaker. On his other arm hung his stepmother, Isabelle, who—one could see, even through her veil—had the face of a woman struck by lightning. By then Henry was gone, moving up the hill, to where the family coach waited.

For a moment Diana stood watching the Schoonmakers’ backs stupidly, but then she reminded herself that she must not be obvious, and also that she too had lost a father, and that she ought to be patient with Henry. He was doing the best he could, and probably experiencing awful things. Anyway, she would have him to herself soon enough.

“Miss Holland?”

Diana swiveled. She hadn’t realized how alone and vulnerable she had felt in the crowd until she saw the proffered arm of Teddy Cutting, just slightly down hill from her. He was wearing his officer’s uniform, and the aristocratic forehead under his fair, slicked hair was riven with entirely new lines. If it were possible, there was even more sincerity in his gray eyes than when she’d seen him last, at the Royal Poinciana in Palm Beach, Florida. She was vaguely aware that he was in the army, but she had been away, too, and it seemed somehow fitting to her that they would both be standing there now.

“Mr. Cutting, what a happy sight you are,” she said, gratefully accepting his arm.

“And you, Miss Holland.” They began to walk up the hill, along with the others. “I’ve only been gone for five months, but it seems the whole world, or New York anyway, has been turned on its head. I can’t believe Mr. Schoonmaker expired so quickly. And your sister…is soon to be a mother?” Diana glanced at Teddy pityingly—for he had always been sentimental when it came to Liz—and tried to change the subject. “Yes, it must all seem very parochial to you now that you have been to the Philippines and seen the world and had great adventures?”

“Adventures…” Teddy emitted a strained, tired laugh. His eyes darted over the greenery, the averted faces, the hill sloping down toward the water, as though he felt guilty standing there now, in one piece, amongst so much quiet tranquility. He went on presently, in a voice deepened by his seriousness, “There is no such thing as a splendid little war. I saw things in the Pacific….” He paused, shook off a memory.

“But you are a lady, and should not think of it. Suffice it to say, I will not be going back. But tell me of yourself, and your family. Is everyone well?”

“Mother is her old self, taking tea with only the most important people and forming backroom alliances,” Diana began, attempting lightness. “I saw Elizabeth yesterday morning—she had seemed well until then, but the doctor said she should be on bed rest until…until the baby comes…and she was so exhausted, she could barely speak.”