“Primogeniture. The Hennings kept it at one child per generation. One reason why the camp was never carved up between fighting siblings. Direct inheritance. No fuss. Sachem über alles. That’s the ticket.”
“Hold on,” said Charlotte. “They limited the number of kids they had so they could keep the camp in one piece?”
“Yes. Rather clever. Of course, Souse, who owns the camp now, didn’t hew to that, did she? At least she had two girls, not two boys. Less of a fuss. Do you sail, child?” Mr. Van Borgh said.
Charlotte looked taken aback by this turn in conversation. “Not really. I mean, I can, but—”
“The Fruit Stripe, that’s the Hennings’ legacy as well. Souse runs the thing. You ought to race in it Sunday.”
“Fruit Stripe? Like the gum?” Charlotte said.
“It’s a Beech-Nut gum,” Mr. Hacking said. “The company gave a chunk of money for the race years ago, when Souse threatened that either she was going to run for a board seat or the company had to fund this race.”
Something snapped into place, and Evelyn turned to Mr. Van Borgh. “Beech-Nut,” she said quietly. “Are they related to Camilla Rutherford?”
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Van Borgh said, wheezing away. “That’s one of the daughters. Camilla is the elder, Phoebe the younger.”
Evelyn licked her lips, surprised at the whirr of excitement she was feeling. Camilla had been her top target for the weekend, and here, with barely any work, Evelyn already had an in to meet her. If she could land Camilla Rutherford as a member, she could make Arun and Jin-ho certain they’d hired the right person. “So the Fruit Stripe, that’s their thing? The Rutherfords’?” she said.
“Yes, it’s always been Souse’s event, and she chooses what manner of race it will be each year. Participants have to have a boathouse full of all manner of boats; one year she chose Adirondack guide boats and only a handful of the camps had them at all and could participate. Indeed, Souse even changes what weekend it will be held every summer. When it’s a May race, as it is this year, it’s dreadful for the poor racers. So very cold. I prefer an August Fruit Stripe, myself,” Mr. Van Borgh said.
“Understandably,” said Evelyn. Of course the inhabitants of this world, she thought, would constantly change the rules of their race.
CHAPTER FOUR
Camp Sachem
On Saturday, Evelyn roused herself at eight. No one else was up, or rather, those who were up were already gone, pursuing some character-building goal; Charlotte was on a run, and Mrs. Hacking had left a “Help yourself!” note in the kitchen, next to a big bowl of fruit, a thermos of coffee, and a good-looking walnut bread. Evelyn chewed on a piece as she rifled through the Journal, which was also sitting there, trying to position herself as an interesting conversationalist tonight; she wasn’t sure what Camilla and her ilk would want to talk about. She marched through a story on the teetering housing market and the exurban housing developments that were now in danger, particularly in Arizona and California. Next was a personal-finance story about why adjustable-rate mortgages made sense for middle-income consumers. Finally, the Marketplace section, and a story that Walmart, encouraged by the economy, was trying to go upscale with more expensive milk, neater aisles, and designer clothes. She repeated the tenets of each story back to herself, like she’d done when memorizing Marlowe at Sheffield, then neatly folded the paper so it looked untouched and tucked it back where she had found it.
After a slow round of golf that took up almost the entire day, Evelyn was starving by the time the group was supposed to leave for the party at Camp Sachem. Or the dinner at Camp Sachem—she couldn’t figure out precisely what tonight’s event was. Invitations at Lake James were always vaguely presented and executed. Sometimes “drinks” meant a glass of wine, and sometimes it meant a formal five-hour dinner crammed with toasts and stories of boarding-school exploits. She wondered if the hostesses of Lake James made their decisions on the spot, evaluating the hardiness of the various houseguests before they promoted them to a full-fledged meal.
Charlotte, who’d fit in a quick dip in the lake after golf, had dashed into the shower, leaving her sweaty golf clothes and wet bathing suit on the floor between the beds. Evelyn nudged them beneath Charlotte’s bed with her toe and took a final look at herself in the mirror. She took off her headband, then, last minute, shimmied into the lime Lilly Pulitzer dress she’d brought.
From the laundry room across the hall, she heard Mrs. Hacking taking things out of the dryer. Evelyn walked to the laundry-room door, announcing her presence with a tap on the doorframe.
“Oh, hello, Evelyn!” Mrs. Hacking said, her arms full of sheets. “We were just getting ready to leave. I’m running behind.” She wore a double-breasted blazer with brass buttons and white pants, a confidence-inspiring ship’s captain.
“What can I do? Do you need me to take those sheets somewhere?” Evelyn said. The day so far had been expensive. Someone had to pay for the dinners and the outings and the drinks, and Evelyn worried it was becoming obvious that that someone was never Evelyn. Preston had paid for the greens fees, Char had covered the golf-club rentals, Scot lunch at the club, and Nick a round of drinks. Chrissie got a pass, as she was Bing’s girlfriend. The bottle of Veuve Evelyn had brought up, which cost her $90, had been rendered pitiful when she saw the two cases of it in the Hackings’ pantry. She reached for a sheet and began to fold it before Mrs. Hacking could protest. Evelyn would need to offer payment in work if she wasn’t going to cover other costs. Evelyn knew her place: she would volunteer for the bad rooms and she would help with the laundry and she would wash the dishes, as she had last night.
When she’d finished the folding, she laid out a box of Parmesan straws from the pantry on a tray, at Mrs. Hacking’s direction, and took them down to the dock. Several yards ahead of her, Nick and Preston, in sockless loafers and sunglasses, and Scot, in what appeared to be Tevas, were strolling down to the water over the shallow stone stairs. After the rest of the group gathered on the dock, the smell of gasoline strong, Mr. Hacking, following directions from Mrs. Hacking, shoved the Chris-Craft from the dock and sprang in. Bing was off with some friends of his from Tuck, and Pip had lobbied to stay at home, though she looked like she regretted this decision when Chrissie announced that she would babysit and they could play Scrabble.
Scot sat on the floor of the boat, his long legs jammed up against the motor covering in front of him, and Charlotte sat precariously on the gunwale. As Mrs. Hacking slowly backed out of the boathouse, and Mr. Hacking began to fill plastic tumblers with wine, Evelyn balanced herself next to Charlotte.
“So I’m totally on-plan, Char,” Evelyn said.
“With PLU? What, have you signed up Mrs. Hacking?”
“Nope, but the camp we’re going to, Sachem? It’s Camilla Rutherford’s camp and she’s, like, target number one for PLU.”
“She summahs in Lake James, how mahvelous,” Charlotte said. “Who is she?”
“Camilla? Well, she has a bit of a complicated history. She went to St. Paul’s—”
“Of course,” Charlotte said, biting into her cheese straw. St. Paul’s was as preppy as schools came, and Charlotte had become fascinated with it at Sheffield after she swam against them and noted the whole girls’ swim team carried monogrammed towels.
“Your favorite. Then Trinity for college, but in her senior year her parents got divorced. You have to have heard of them. It was on Page Six basically constantly. Susan, Souse, is the mother. And her father is Fritz Rutherford.”
“Wait, sorry, Rutherford like Rutherford Rutherford? As in, she probably owns founders’ shares in J. P. Morgan?”
“Sssshh,” said Evelyn, indicating her head toward the Hackings. “Yes.”
“And our heroine couldn’t even get through Camp Trin-Trin?”
Evelyn had dropped her voice to a whisper. “She ended up getting her degree in Hawaii or Ecuador or someplace. She fled town after the parents’ divorce. I looked up the details—app
arently it had to do with Fritz’s refusal to support the Guggenheim.”
“I can’t hear you. What was the divorce about?” Charlotte seemed to be increasing her volume on purpose.
“Fritz’s refusal to support the Guggenheim,” Evelyn hissed, again casting a look over her shoulder to see if Mrs. Hacking had heard her.
“We all think we have our problems, but thank God we don’t have husbands who don’t support the Guggenheim.”
“Charlotte, keep your voice down. She does events for Vogue. I think even the heads of PLU will be impressed if I get her.”
“I’m not quite sure what to say, Beegan, but I like your moxie,” Charlotte said.
Mrs. Hacking slowed the boat as they approached Sachem, which was on a private island in the middle of the lake. Scot and Charlotte began peppering Mr. Hacking with questions about how, exactly, provisions for a private island were supplied, but the wind carried their words past the bow of the boat and the American flag whose wake-wetted fabric slapped against Evelyn’s head.
When Mrs. Hacking downshifted again and the boat made grunting leaps toward a dock, Preston sprang out and tied up the Chris-Craft with a few quick knots. The dock was less elegant than Evelyn was expecting, just a wooden roof making a V over a platform with some benches on it, and a long, thin dock bobbing next to it where a variety of motorboats and rowboats were tied up.
Evelyn had gotten out of the boat ahead of everyone else and, trying to look like she knew where she was going, started up a path to an A-frame structure that seemed to be made of giant Lincoln Logs. She heard a whistle from behind her.
“Wrong way, Ev,” Preston said.
“Isn’t that the house?”
“That’s the teepee.”
“That’s a teepee?”
Mr. Hacking, who had overtaken Evelyn on the uphill path and was studying the house like it was a rare raptor, stepped in. “It’s called the Typee. After Melville. Where the men would carouse. Far enough away from the main lodge that they could have their liquor and smoke cigars without the women knowing. The whole hill below it is, legend has it, covered in glass. Can you guess why?”
Evelyn, feeling like she had not done the reading for third-period history, shook her head.
“Liquor bottles,” he said, enunciating. “They would throw bottles over the edge of the railing and shoot them.”
“Oh.” Evelyn looked back down toward the dock, but couldn’t see another path; she looked higher up, and saw another house, about three hundred yards above the first one, looming red and large on the hill. “That’s the main house, then? Up on the hill?”
“No,” Mr. Hacking said, now pleased with his student, “though that’s a good guess. That’s known as the chalet. The Hennings were, of course, great rivals of the Bluestadts, of the barbed-wire fortune, and the Bluestadts had a place just east of this, on East Lake. From the Bluestadts’ house, one could see the top of the hill at Sachem, which at the time held servants’ quarters—the servants were on the hilltop because it was farthest from the water, of course. Well, the Hennings were infuriated that the Bluestadt guests would have a view of the servants’ quarters, so they built a chalet façade for the servants’ quarters just so the Bluestadt guests would not think badly of them.”
Charlotte had caught up to them by now. “The egos of these guys. Jesus,” she said. “A Potemkin village. Or, I guess, a Potemkin chalet.”
“Very good,” Mr. Hacking said happily.
“So the main house?” Charlotte asked.
“We came in through the servants’ boathouse. Easier to find space there during parties. There’s a path to the main house from just off of there. Quite well hidden, really,” Mr. Hacking said.
“Yes, God forbid the servants be able to find their masters,” Charlotte said.
The rest of the group had already taken off along the path. After a short walk through the woods, the path petered out, with hostas marking the edge of what looked to Evelyn like a fancy Girl Scout camp.
On the water’s edge was a huge wooden lodgelike structure, three or four stories high, that was made out of the typical Adirondack-camp logs with bark peeling from them. Across a piece of bright green grass marked with croquet wickets was a similar building, this one smaller and squarer, with a sort of rotunda at one end looking out over the water. Behind that was a tennis court, then more structures—Evelyn counted six in all. The huge red door in the middle of the lodge was open, and there were a few dozen people streaming in and out, leaning over the porch, running down to the water. Children, adults, laughing, talking, moving with ease. She stood for a moment, her sandaled feet tickled by the grass on the side of the path. She had guessed wrong on the dress, as had her mother when Babs had pushed the Lilly. This wasn’t Vineyard tennis club; this was Adirondack sensible. One woman was in a fisherman’s sweater. Another in a skort. The women looked as rustic as the houses they had come from, in clothes that dirt and water would only ameliorate. Evelyn decided she’d need to rely on her instincts more.
Scot and Mr. Hacking had also paused, though for a different reason.
“It almost looks Swiss,” Scot said, sotto voce, to Mr. Hacking as they studied the main lodge.
“Oh, yes, at the time, really the only idea Americans had of the wilderness was what the Swiss were constructing, and from the beams to the small peaked roof, you can see that influence,” said Mr. Hacking. “You see this in our camp as well. Notice all of these rustic elements.” Evelyn looked at the porch railings, made of branches arranged in pretty crossed patterns using their natural curves, and the planters of hollowed-out tree trunks that flanked the doors, and the peeling-bark logs stacked to make up the house.
“Letting the wild in,” Scot said.
“Precisely. This was really a new idea at the time, you’ll recall; while the Astors and Belmonts and Vanderbilts were building European-style houses in Newport, these hunting lodges promised something quite different. Inside, you’ll see a real tour de force of architecture, with spruce beams made of a single tree supporting the great-room ceiling. And look at this exterior—this is white cedar. It’s more than a hundred years old and it still looks fine. It’s really expert craftsmanship.” Mr. Hacking explained that the Rutherford house had been built in 1880, though it had burned down twice, as every house worth living in on the lake had, and that this version dated from “’aught-nine.”
“Wow,” Scot intoned. “And the croquet green?”
“That’s a story. It would’ve been, let’s see, the great-grandmother, I think, Frances Henning, of course the main heiress to the Beech-Nut fortune. She was the doyenne of the place until her death in 1950—what was it, ’fifty or ’fifty-one? She insisted her guests arrive by sleigh in winter, even after the other private islands were using cars to drive across the ice. She was a serious croquet player, as you can see. Of course, it’s a terrible croquet green, but she knew all its bumps and proclivities and would handily beat anyone who dared to play against her.”
Evelyn could see all of it in front of her—the croquet games, the sleighs with fur blankets atop, the era when everyone knew who they were supposed to be. She heard a shriek of laughter as a tall girl loped up from the water with a croquet mallet in hand, and Evelyn wondered for a moment whether the ghost of Frances Henning had decided to attend. As the girl got closer, though, Evelyn saw Nick approach and kiss her cheek, and Evelyn knew that she knew that long caramel hair, and she recognized that voice, sun-soaked and deep gold.
“Camilla,” she said quietly, watching as the girl threw herself over a red Adirondack chair at the side of the croquet green.
“We have to check out this house,” Charlotte said, starting to head for the door. “This is seriously historic-preservation status.”
Evelyn’s eyes were fixed on the croquet green. The light was strange, silvery and still, and the air smelled rich and wet, of cinnamon and dirt and leaves. Camilla was now playing croquet with Nick.
“They know each other?
” Evelyn asked.
“Who? Nick? Oh, shit, that’s your girl?”
“Camilla, yeah. Do you know how Nick knows her?”
“Ev, I barely know who this girl is. I definitely don’t know how Nick knows her. I want to go to check out the inside. Mr. Hacking was saying it was awesome.”
“Great,” Evelyn said, watching Camilla lean on her mallet. It was not so much Camilla Rutherford’s looks, which were pretty, or her body, which was toned and long limbed and moved elegantly. It was that Camilla Rutherford was eminently comfortable. She had not thought twice about what to wear or what to say, Evelyn could tell, unlike her.
Evelyn heard a rattle of ice cubes behind her. Preston was surveying the croquet with amusement. “Fine romance, eh?” he said.
“You mean Nick?” Evelyn said.
“Oui. Et Mademoiselle Rutherford.”
“They’re not…”
“They’re doing the dance of love, et cetera.”
“Nick and Camilla Rutherford? Really? How did they meet?”
“At a benefit. Kidney Cares, I think. Or Liver Cares. Whichever is the popular organ that all those girls are involved in.”
“Is the liver an organ?”
“Do I look like an anatomist?”
“So they’re hooking up? Or dating?”
“Good God, woman, I don’t know. Do you think you should have The Talk with them?”
Evelyn took Preston’s drink and sipped from it; then, when he cried out in protest, handed it back. She followed Preston indoors but kept glancing back at Camilla.
Inside, Evelyn understood what the lines and logs and decor of the Hacking camp were drawn from. Sachem’s central room could legitimately be called a great room, versus the marketing-speak used to sell condos, wherein a “great room” meant a single living/dining room. It smelled of library-book pages and peaty smoke. Broad horizontal windows looked out over the lake, and all the coffee-table books and Navajo pillows and thick blankets looked so casually strewn about that Evelyn suspected they probably were, not carefully placed just before the party.
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