Splendor

by Anna Godbersen

  Perhaps the emotions of an entire staggering week showed in Henry’s finely chiseled features then, for Lawrence quickly changed his expression.

  “I mean, of course, you should have a drink, young man. With your friends, or your Mrs….”

  Henry’s eyes drifted as Diana entered his thoughts. They had exchanged a flurry of notes but had not seen one another since gazing from a distance after his father’s burial. Frequently he found himself picturing those shining eyes and that twisted little smile, and yet he felt a kind of quiet orderliness settling within him and all around. To his surprise, these days of responsibility, the answering to people and finding that they listened to him, had a rigid rightness to them. He didn’t want to disturb this feeling, which was a new one for him; he did not, just then, relish any thrills.

  “You would be as good a companion as any,” Henry returned, after a pause. They had begun to walk slowly across the marble floor of the main hallway, which was washed with golden light from the chandeliers hanging above. Behind them, a footman sealed the door. “It’s only that I don’t feel much like celebrating.”

  “No, sir. Of course. I’ll just put things away in the office so that we can pick up again tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Lawrence.” Henry bowed his head appreciatively, and took the lawyer’s hand, shook it firmly. When the older man had disappeared, he began to slowly walk the halls and stairwells of the house, not knowing quite what he should do. He could be anywhere, he knew, and yet these were his walls, his roof. As he ambled past the grand parlor, where Mrs. William Schoonmaker had long been known to welcome her visitors on Mondays, he heard the quiet sobbing of his father’s young widow.

  “Isabelle…,” he said, crossing to the settee where she curled, under layers of black crepe, her face hidden in cushions. He knelt by her side and rested a hand against her shoulder and thought, not for the first time that week, how she seemed to have grown smaller over a very short period.

  “Oh, Henry.” He could only see half her face, for she covered her mouth as she turned frightened eyes upon him. Her gloves were stained dark by her tears and running nose, and her eyes were swollen and red with sorrow and self-pity. “What will become of me?”

  The blond hair that she always kept so elaborately curled was pulled back severely under a black widow’s cap. He realized, seeing her in mourning garb in the place where she had collected clever people and amusing anecdotes, that she had been diminished, perhaps forever; that she feared a permanent loss of status. Remembering how repeatedly he had pushed his father, how continually he had infuriated him until the end, he felt a pang of guilt. He had never coveted responsibility of the Schoonmaker fortune, but, for better or worse, he had it now.

  “It is an awful period,” he began slowly. Reassuring was not his most natural mode, but he felt that he must say something. “But you will see, in time, you’ll hold your Mondays again, you will wear fine dresses in colors other than black. You are Mrs. William Schoonmaker, and you must carry on, just as I must.”

  Her pupils moved rapidly back and forth. She sniffled, and tried to dry her cheek with the back of her hand. “I can stay here?”

  “Of course.”

  “You will maintain the house?”

  “I think father would have wanted that.” She nodded emphatically. “I certainly do,” he added softly.

  Her face crumpled, and she pulled her gloves off, yanking each finger with a touch of aggression, and cast them aside. Then she rested her little palm against Henry’s cheek.

  “He was right about you, you know, Henry,” she said when the risk of a fresh cry had passed. “Now, will you be a darling and help me to bed?”

  Once Henry had seen his stepmother to her suite, and called for her maid to undress her, he went to the room that used to be his study, where his own monogrammed stationery was kept. It was next to the room that he used to sleep in, but which now belonged to Penelope, and so was naturally done up in white and gold as though Marie Antoinette had outfitted it for her children. There was no light from under her door, as there had not been for some days. The servants told him, in their most circumspect tones, that since Tuesday his wife had been coming in late, sleeping through the morning, dressing and then going out again. They made concerned and loyal faces at him, but for Henry this was only another sign that his life was adhering to some perfect, as yet invisible design. He turned on a lamp and searched out a monogrammed piece of card stock. Then he wrote a quick note—My Diana, when can we meet?—and went to find someone to deliver it.

  Thirty Three

  THE EVERETT BOUCHARD FAMILY

  REQUESTS THE PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY

  AT THE WEDDING OF

  MISS CAROLINA BROAD

  TO THEIR SON

  MR. LELAND BOUCHARD

  AT THE GRACE CHURCH

  THE TWENTY-SECOND OF JULY,

  NINETEEN HUNDRED

  ONE O’CLOCK

  THE BELLS HAD RUNG ONE O’CLOCK, BUT ALL OF the notable, elegant, very rich people occupying the pews of Grace Church sat quietly waiting, in their heavily ornamented hats, for the union of one of their own and a rather new heiress. In the small room on the side of the church, which Isaac Phillips Buck had arranged like the dressing room of a visiting princess with soft chairs and flowers everywhere, the flutters had arrived. It was as though Carolina’s physical body might disintegrate at any moment and go floating away on the wind. This feeling was in no way trepidation about marrying Leland—that part could not come soon enough, especially after the separation of a few days, which his old-fashioned family had insisted upon, and which had been unbearable for both bride and groom. The fear was entirely to do with her having possibly misstepped in some way, now, when she was about to take her grandest stage yet, and when it was too late to fix anything.

  “Miss Broad, are you ready?”

  Over her shoulder, in the gold framed mirror’s reflection—it was full length and had been so heavy that it required three men to carry it in and position it—hovered Buck. Her eyes, paler green than usual, flashed in his direction, and then back toward herself. The antique lace fit tightly around her torso, to her chin and down to her wrists. A belt of white satin embroidered with pearls marked her waist; below that swept a vast and complex skirt with a train worthy of a coronation. Because of that train and that skirt, she had not sat down for some hours, and her legs felt just a little weak. Her dark hair was parted at the center and swept down over her ears and into a low bun. Sprays of white flowers and tiny diamonds decorated the headband that secured a gauzy veil in place.

  “Your groom,” he went on gently, “is waiting.”

  “But do I look all right?”

  She knew she did. It seemed to her that in the last few days some final rough edges had been scrubbed from her features, so that what was truly lovely and original about them was now allowed to shine. The dark freckles that lay across an otherwise pale complexion no longer seemed a liability, but rather like a seal of authenticity. Buck, who surely knew a thing or two about status anxiety, came forward to her side and rested a hand upon his shoulder.

  “You are the loveliest bride I have ever seen,” he said. “And you know I have assisted not a few in the hours before they walked the aisle.”

  For the first time that day, she managed a smile at the thought that Buck was comparing her favorably to Penelope Schoonmaker. But she owed much to that other lady, who was no doubt waiting among her and Leland’s guests, and she knew it would be indecorous to press further, to try and extract more pleasure from the compliment. Especially not on a day as important as this one. She tucked her lower lip under her top teeth and declared in a voice barely above a whisper, “I think I am ready.”

  Everything had come together, she reminded herself. Madame Bristede had completed her dress and the bridesmaids’ peach-colored confections—for Katy and Beatrice and Eleanor Wetmore and Georgina Vreewold—in just the right amount of time. The papers had all reported extensively on the b
right and shining couple. Even God seemed to have done his part, granting her one of those perfectly temperate summer days when the sun is a golden disk against a backdrop of eternal blue. She had succeeded in having her sister there, even though it had meant inviting Mrs. Carr; Claire had assisted her regular lady’s maid in dressing her, and stood in the shadows now, watching these final moments before the ceremony with quiet reverence. Soon the pomp and circumstance would be over, and Carolina would officially be Mrs. Leland Bouchard. She and her husband would walk down the church steps, smiling at their own, gorgeous weather. All of those fancy New Yorkers she so wanted to impress would judge her or not judge her—it wouldn’t matter much anymore, she suddenly realized, because in days she would be on a steamship, sailing for Europe and her honeymoon.

  Buck turned his smooth, larded face at an angle. “Shall I get Mr. Bouchard?”

  As soon as she nodded, Buck summoned the two lady’s maids with a flick of his hand. Claire did not meet the bride’s eyes on her way out the narrow, arched doorframe. The sisters had barely been able to speak, as there were always so many attendants about that week, but Carolina could see in her older sister’s glances that she was happy for this fairy-tale ending, even if she herself was still wearing a dress of plain black. She had done her red hair up in a braided and more ornate arrangement than usual; that was something. What was important, the younger sister told herself, was that Claire was on the premises, that she would be present in a secret way, when her last remaining family member was married.

  Since there was no father figure in Carolina’s life, her fiancé’s father had kindly offered to play that part in the ceremony. She thought, sadly, of Mr. Longhorn, and how he would have enjoyed doing her that service, and of her own father, who she could scarcely remember, and who surely would have been shocked by the news that his younger daughter would ever be wed on such a grand scale. All of a sudden she found she was in a hurry to begin the processional, and she felt that every moment separating her from that first kiss with her husband would be a kind of torture. The little smile she had given Buck now suffused her entire face.

  “My, Miss Broad, you do make a lovely bride.”

  Carolina’s smile fell when she realized it was not her future father-in-law who had appeared in the far corner of the reflection, but rather the unfortunately familiar figure of Tristan Wrigley. He was dressed in black tails and slacks, a gray waistcoat, and a dress shirt with an arrow collar, just like a guest at a very fine wedding. He wore the costume well, and with the handsome modeling of his face he probably did look to the ushers standing sentry on the church steps like the product of an august lineage and extensive breeding.

  “How did you get here?” she whispered.

  “Oh, Miss Broad,” he replied in the same cozy tone. “Everybody in New York knows that you and Leland Bouchard are getting married at the Grace Church today. I just walked in, along with the rest of your fancy friends. Or did you think you were really going to get rid of me with a twenty-dollar handout, as though I had just been some fellow you let hold your wrap one evening long ago?”

  His knowing, congratulatory smile did not fade once during this speech, but Carolina could hear the threat in his words. “You’re going to have to leave now,” she began a little shakily. “My father-in-law will be coming. It would be most improper if you were here when he arrived.”

  “Indeed it would be. Although—he is not your father-in-law yet.”

  “He will be shortly,” she snapped back, hoping he hadn’t noticed the unsteadiness in her voice.

  “Well, all right. But I thought you deserved fair warning that I was here, and that if the reverend should ask whether or not any of the assembled knew any reason why the man and woman in question should not be wed, that I may feel compelled to speak….”

  “No.” Carolina’s gaze broke with the reflection in the mirror now, and she turned to stare at Tristan. “You can’t. Don’t.”

  “Don’t?” Tristan’s fair eyebrows rose delicately. “But why would I do you the favor of not telling what, you must acknowledge, are the facts of the situation—that you are a former maid and an impostor and that your current wealth was derived from a most improper relationship—when you have been so very cold to me?”

  “It was not improper,” she returned, heat rising to the skin of her cheeks. For there was one fact of her personal history that made her an ideal bride and also happened to be true, and that was that she would come to the altar a virgin. Some angry instinct reared at the thought that Tristan might somehow rob her of this.

  “That is not for me to judge,” her tormentor replied with an easy shrug.

  “What do you want?” All of her was ticking, and she tried to remind herself of the self-possession and resolve she had acquired along with those other jewels and paintings and stocks and bonds. He may have been hustling longer, but he was stupider than she was, and she knew that if she kept her head she could handle him.

  “I am not greedy,” Tristan answered evenly. “I just want to be compensated for my part in making you a very rich lady.”

  Carolina took a sharp breath in through her nostrils, and willed the color in her cheeks to fade. She spoke slowly and seriously, looking into those glittering eyes. “I swear, I will make it worth your while. Only, leave now, please—”

  In the moment before the door to Carolina’s dressing room burst open again, she saw in his face that she had persuaded him. That he was ready to go peaceably and let her have her wedding. But before they could shake hands, loud voices closed in on them from the antechamber. Both froze in anticipation.

  “He is probably nobody, Leland, I will take care of it.” Her heart dropped when she recognized the older Bouchard’s voice. “Only, you must not see your bride!”

  “Father, all due respect, she is my bride, and if I suspect she is being chased by some old beau…”

  Carolina’s lips parted. Perhaps, if she thought quickly, she could conjure a convincing story. But before anything came, Leland had charged into the room and grabbed Tristan by both lapels, pushing him backward, beyond her, against the huge mirror. It shuddered with the impact, throwing beams of light across the stone walls. Leland’s father and Buck hovered, silent and concerned, just outside the room.

  “You bastard!” Leland shouted. His broad face had turned a shade of red not unlike his fiancée’s a few moments before. Carolina realized he had harbored a jealousy toward the handsome man at the opera all this time, that the idea of his girl belonging to another angered him. The drama in the capillaries of his face made his eyes appear especially blue. His dress and hair were more smoothed than usual, and she couldn’t stop herself from thinking, in the middle of it all, that he looked awfully handsome in his groom’s finery. “How dare you come here today—on our wedding day! How dare you harass my fiancée at all, much less in God’s house!”

  Tristan’s face fell, unpleasantly, into confusion and fear. He glanced toward Carolina. Leland loomed over him—he was by far the larger of the two. She was distracted for a moment by the idea that the first man she’d ever kissed and the man she was about to marry were on the verge of coming to blows, and couldn’t help but feel a little exhilarated by the chest beating. Not bad for a girl who a year ago nobody paid any attention to, she couldn’t help but think.

  “What are you looking at?” Leland was yelling at the Lord & Taylor salesman. Carolina glanced at Buck and old Bouchard, hoping they would intervene, but neither would meet her eye. Meanwhile, Leland struck Tristan across the face with the back of his hand, using enough force to split his lip. “Tell me why you’re here!”

  “Miss Broad?” Tristan said, helplessly.

  But she was distracted by the blood that had been knocked from Tristan’s lip and onto the perfect white front of her skirt.

  “Don’t speak to her!”

  Tristan had begun to struggle now, but Leland was too strong for him. They pushed back and forth against one another, but had soon toppled over, f
alling to the ground at Carolina’s feet. She watched, with horror, as more blood was smeared against white silk, and feathers and pearls began to come dislodged from the fabric.

  “Please, Lina…,” Tristan said again. He had been fully overpowered, and his adversary was holding his head down against the stone floor; there was a truly helpless quality in his voice now, and something familiar, something that suggested how well they had known each other. Leland was shaking him, banging his head against the hard gray surface of the floor. If he kept it up, she realized, Tristan would soon be knocked out cold.

  “Stop!” She wailed, her hands rising to her cheeks.

  Very slowly, Leland turned his blue eyes on his bride. All three parties were panting a little. It was not only her gown, but Leland’s white dress shirt that was now rumpled and bloody. They were no longer going to be married that afternoon, not with their wedding finery undone like this. For several seconds, he stared at her before quietly saying: “Why, my love?” When his question was met with silence, the softness left him, and he asked in the voice of dawning realization: “What is he to you?”

  Her hands crept over her eyes, but that did nothing to prevent the reality of what was going to happen, what had already happened, from settling into her consciousness like a winter chill. She asked her tears to hold awhile, and found that they obeyed.

  “Mr. Bouchard, Mr. Buck, will you leave us?” she said, bringing her hands from her face to her corseted waist. Now, with the truth brimming in her throat, a strange calm overcame her. “Tristan, go—you have done your worst.”

  Leland stumbled, slowly, to his feet. The man he had struggled so roughly with crawled in the direction of the door, and then pushed himself up and began to run. Leland’s father and Buck nodded to each other, and absented themselves from the room. All this time, Leland had maintained an intense and wary gaze in Carolina’s direction. She could not bear to go on meeting it.