The Luxe l-1

by Anna Godbersen

  — FROM THE SOCIETY PAGE OF THE NEW-YORK NEWS OF THE WORLD GAZETTE, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1899

  “THE PAPERS WERE JUST FANTASTIC,” ISAAC PHILLIPS Buck put in, extending his pinkie as he sipped from his porcelain teacup. “Most fun I’ve had since Remington Astor was caught kissing one of the kitchen boys. That was a good scandal.”

  “Oh, they were ridiculous.” Penelope drew her long, ringed fingers over the head of her Boston terrier, Robber, and smiled absently. She wore a dress of black faille with a low, square neck, tight waist, and tiered skirt and was looking especially slight next to Buck, who was sweating in the late summer heat. They were the only people in the large parlor room, with its twenty-five-foot ceilings and many pieces of French furniture upholstered in matching blue-and-white striped silk. “I don’t know why you bring them to me,” she added with a yawn. She had been resting all day, and her body still had that pleasant, lazy feeling she associated with the day’s first waking moments.

  “Oh, what’s that old adage…heart-stopping envy is the sincerest form of flattery? You should learn to view the papers as I do.”

  “I do try, Buck, but all of this God-this, God-that, God disapproves of your mansion…” Penelope tried to seem more dismissive than amused, but she couldn’t help a little giggle. There was so much bombast out there. “I mean really, the man must have something better to do with his time.”

  “He does have all eternity to use it up.” Buck laughed, and Penelope rolled her eyes. “Well, at least the papers seem to agree with you about a certain Schoonmaker. They’re predicting you and Henry will be engaged by the end of the season,” Buck told her, his eyes bulging with this news coup. “They even brought in an astrologer to confirm it.”

  Penelope felt a delirious surge of confidence in her chest, but restrained herself from actually clapping in triumph.

  “But really, they could have saved the astrologer and just asked the Misses Wetmore,” Buck went on. “They looked like they’d been slapped when they saw you on the floor with him last night. They knew instantly.”

  “Adelaide Wetmore needs to be slapped,” Penelope said quickly, before she became visibly giddy. The thought of her and Henry being linked in the papers was positively thrilling. He was so careful to always keep them a secret, but now all of New York would be obsessing over whether it was true or not. Soon even Elizabeth would have to acknowledge that the only perfect boy in New York belonged to Penelope. She forced away her smile. “All the same. It’s so pompous, all this spilled ink over a little party. Next time you shouldn’t let them come.”

  She couldn’t complain, though. Not really. Some of the coverage was Bible-thumping about exposed shoulders, but the vast majority were long and faithful renderings of the extravagant evening. And Buck was right: There was no pleasure like being envied on a mass scale. Not to mention the paper’s assistance in pushing her affair along. It had now been confirmed by the press and by the stars: Henry was going to be hers, really and truly, for all to see.

  Outside, the bells of St. Patrick’s rang three o’clock. It was time. “Buckie,” Penelope said, standing, “you have to go now.”

  Buck sighed. “But Penny, we haven’t even dished about the gowns yet….”

  “I know, Buckie, but there’s all week,” she told him firmly, walking over to the chaise that he was sitting on. She extended her arm and he took it, albeit a little sadly. The only time Buck irritated her was when he acted like a sullen puppy.

  Bernadine, the Hayeses’ head servant, stood at the front door with Buck’s hat in her hands. He thanked her and then she swept open the door to the glowing sight of Henry Schoonmaker, standing by himself on the steps. Penelope clenched her fists with delight that he was here right on time, for once. Henry was dressed in his usual fitted black coat and his face was as handsome and uncreased as ever, but there was something unusual in his features. Penelope was used to a serenely playful Henry, but right now he just looked a little bit…confused.

  “Schoonmaker,” said Buck, extending his hand. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hello, Buck.” Henry shook the other man’s pudgy hand resignedly. Penelope tried to place his strange expression, but all she could think was that he looked like he had been caught.

  “Just paying a visit here and there, wanted to drop this off with Miss Hayes,” Henry continued tightly as he reached into his pocket and brought out a folded piece of card stock sealed with wax.

  Penelope’s heart instantly constricted in anger. Leaving a card? What about their usual Sunday tryst? He could not breathe into her ear how unbelievably ravishing she looked with a card. It might be good news, she tried to tell herself, but then, Henry never took the time to write formal letters, and he was not in the least the shy sort who might put in a note what he could not say aloud.

  “Won’t you come in, and tell me what it’s about?” Penelope said slowly, taking the odious envelope out of his hand. She fixed her burning, determined eyes on him.

  “Go in,” Buck said. “I’m leaving, anyway.” He turned to kiss Penelope good-bye on either cheek. “Be good,” he told her as he kissed her right side. “But not too good,” he whispered into her left ear.

  Henry put a leather-gloved hand over his mouth, coughed, and nodded good-bye to Buck. He followed Penelope into the grand entry hallway as the door closed; she had managed to get him inside. Unlike those of the old houses, the Hayeses’ entryway was bright and shiny, with its black-and-white-checked marble floors and mirrored ceilings. Sometimes Penelope felt like a mere speck amongst the architecture, but she did like that her reflection could be found almost everywhere.

  “Bernadine, you can go back to your sewing,” Penelope told her servant.

  The older woman nodded, her weighty chin creasing several times as she did. “Mrs. Hayes wanted me to tell you that Reverend Needlehouse has decided to join the family for dinner this evening, and she insists you be ready to receive him at five o’clock.”

  Penelope rolled her eyes as Bernadine disappeared behind a door disguised by rich wall ornamentation. She could feel her temper rising. There were irritations everywhere: So Henry thought he could just slip away? So her mother wanted to curtail her afternoon? What was next? When the maid was gone, Penelope took a breath to calm herself. Then, without turning to face Henry, she said, “I get the feeling you were trying to leave me a note and skip away. You know Sunday is our day.”

  After a moment he replied in a stiff tone, “You have not even read my card, so how could you begin to guess at its intention?”

  Penelope did not ask herself what he was thinking. Instead, she turned her head and let him gaze at her striking profile and impossibly tiny waist. She could hear his soft breathing, and she waited. She heard him shift on his feet and pull at his watch chain.

  “As long as I’m here,” he said at last, “I might as well have an iced tea or a Scotch or whatever you’re serving.”

  “We have whatever you’d like, Mr. Schoonmaker.” She was still facing away from him, fully aware of what Henry thought of her figure. She wanted him to watch and wonder whether she were really angry or not. “But you see I’ve just sent my maid away, so I will have to prepare it myself.”

  “All right, then, if you can do it in a hurry,” Henry replied. “I can’t stay long.”

  Penelope shot him a crisp smile and then gave him one long, suggestive wink. She began walking down the shimmering, reflective hallways, her heels clicking against the marble, listening for Henry’s steps behind her.

  The kitchen was dark but clean, with its rows of iron pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. There was a fire going in the corner, but no sign of any of the cooks or servants. Penelope looked at Henry’s card and then back at him. “I wonder what it says?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.

  Henry pursed his lips. Penelope noted the sheen on his perfect, lightly bronzed face and the twinkle in his dark eyes as he took a step forward. “You like me, don’t you?” he asked, ignoring her
question.

  There was a touch of irony in his voice, but his tone was more serious than she had ever known it to be before. Penelope nodded. “I suppose I do.” She held her breath as she waited to see where this was going.

  “Why?” Henry’s eyes were gazing steadily at hers. If she hadn’t known better, she would have mistaken his expression for earnestness. She wondered, for a brief moment, how close to a proposal they might be.

  “Why?” she repeated, and then let out a loud, flat laugh.

  “Because in romance as in all things I choose only the best for myself. I am the best of the girls of my set, Henry, and you are the best of the men. The richest, the brightest.” She took a step toward him. “The most fun. Because I want everyone to look at us and just dry up with envy that two people so superior in every respect have found each other. That’s why.”

  Henry lifted an eyebrow and looked down at his polished shoes. “The richest, the brightest, the most fun…Sounds about right.” He nodded again at his shoes before looking up and giving Penelope one of those full, glowing smiles. “Anyway, as I was saying, I’m surprised that a house of this size and status the best, as you say would not have a kitchen staffed at all daylight hours,” he said, watching her.

  “In a house this new and grand, we have more than one kitchen, naturally. And I told the staff they wouldn’t be needing this one today.” Penelope brought his note to her face and drew it along under her nose as though smelling it might give her some indication of its contents. She pretended to consider a moment before tossing it into the fire, where she watched it flare up with a self-satisfied smile. Then she turned and surveyed the various surfaces that filled the large room. She chose a high, narrow table and arranged herself on it. Her back pressed against the wall; her legs dangled over the edge.

  “I guess you’ll have to tell me what that card said yourself,” Penelope said flirtatiously. She moved her hands over the bodice of her dress to smooth it, discreetly revealing more skin than she would have shown to the general public, and then pulled a small cigarette from the folds of her skirt. She smiled at Henry, lit her cigarette, and exhaled. She recognized that in the moment, despite being one of the richest girls in all New York, she looked rather cheap. She had known Henry a little while now, and she was well aware that he liked these contradictions.

  The right side of Henry’s mouth spread in a smile, and she knew she had his attention.

  “Did you enjoy yourself last night, Mr. Schoonmaker?” she asked. “If I remember correctly, our conversation was cut short.”

  “Why, I did enjoy myself, Miss Hayes.” His golden brown eyes darted around the room as he unbuttoned his coat and laid it across a chopping block. “I cannot imagine how a ball could possibly have been more enjoyable.”

  “We certainly tried to do everything to please our guests,” Penelope replied. “Most especially you, Mr. Schoonmaker. If there was anything amiss, I hope you will tell me now.”

  Henry paused, and then, as though an idea were slowly coming to him, he took a step in Penelope’s direction. She felt the full weight of the movement. “Now that you mention it, it seems that I saw much too little of you.”

  “You didn’t see enough of me?” she asked.

  “No.” Henry let his mouth hang just open, as though he was waiting for the punch line. “I did not.”

  Penelope smiled and pulled at her bodice so that her décolletage seemed suddenly at a very great risk of being fully on display. “Better?”

  “Much.” Henry took the remaining steps necessary to reach his hostess and put both arms around her waist.

  “You danced excellently last night,” Penelope went on as Henry began putting airy kisses on her neck. She was pleased that he did not stop to reply. “In fact, I think we danced excellently together.” Penelope paused as Henry put his lips on the small depression at the center of her clavicle and moved on to the other side of her neck. “And, since you know me to be very modest, I shall have to add that it was not my opinion alone.”

  “No?” Henry pulled away from her neck, and his eyes met hers. She saw that they were filled with some far-off amusement.

  “No. In fact, I heard from Buckie that the general opinion of the room was that we were such a good pair on the dance floor that vows should be made on it.” Penelope could not help but gasp, for Henry had somehow managed, all of a sudden, to have his hands under her skirts and on the backs of her knees. The touch sent a ticklish shudder up her legs. But Penelope was not about to let her insinuation pass unheeded; she flashed her blue eyes, creased the left corner of her mouth upward, and said, “Tell me, Mr. Schoonmaker, what do you make of that?”

  But Henry, who considered himself a true gentleman and so never made promises he could not keep, and whose hands were now somewhere around the middle backs of her thighs, stopped Penelope’s inquiry with a kiss full on the mouth.

  “Henry,” she whispered, low and smoky after the kiss, looking over his shoulder to the still-crackling fire. “What did it say?”

  “The letter?” Henry’s mouth moved on to her ear. “Nothing, Penelope. It didn’t say anything.”

  “Tell me, Henry.”

  He pulled away, just far enough to look her straight in the eyes. It was then that Penelope saw something new and profound in his gaze. Something that looked, if she was not mistaken, like the stirrings of love. “You will know soon enough,” he finally told her, before kissing her gently on her perfect pink lips.

  The kiss flushed Penelope with confidence, and then she gave herself entirely to the pleasure of having Henry Schoonmaker all to herself in the kitchen on a Sunday afternoon. She couldn’t wait to be official, and, in his words, she would know soon enough. Sweet satisfaction spread through her as she began to think just how soon that would be.

  Eight

  One young lady in particular rose above prideful pulchritude: Miss Elizabeth Holland, daughter of the late Edward Holland, was like a diadem amidst garish rubies, glowing with poise and subtle beauty in a brocade shepherdess costume made uniquely for her by a famed Paris dressmaker. We predict her impact on society will be great and good.

  — FROM THE “GAMESOME GALLANT” COLUMN IN THE NEW YORK IMPERIAL, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1899

  SUNDAY WAS ELIZABETH HOLLAND’S SORT OF DAY, which was one of the reasons that Diana had first come to despise it. She hated Sundays because they usually started with church and ended with informal visiting hours, although informal was a completely erroneous way of describing these visits, as everything was done appropriately and triple-chaperoned by their mother, their divorced aunt Edith, and a small army of help. At any rate, there had been no church this morning, because as their mother had explained on the stair as they approached the parlor they were going to have to have a very serious talk.

  They were now situated in that prison of a room that was how it seemed to Diana, anyway, when she was forced to sit there for hours and act ladylike amidst an embarrassment of riches. The floors were crowded with Persian carpets and the walls with gold-framed oil canvases of all sizes, depicting, among other things, the stern faces of their ancient relatives. Above the wainscoting, the walls were covered with embossed olive-colored leather, which ended only at the carved mahogany of the ceiling. The moldings were filigreed with gold, and the fireplace, with its marble mantel, was large enough to crawl into, as Diana and Elizabeth had often done when they were children, and which the younger Miss Holland sometimes still imagined doing during particularly boring visiting hours. Everywhere she looked, there was something delicate or silky or rare that Diana was at constant risk of staining or scuffing.

  There were plenty of places to sit, settees and chaises in a jumble of styles were arranged across the floor, but the room had never been comfortable since her father died. He had always said that there was humor in everything, and had tempered Mrs. Holland’s formal hostessing style with sotto voce sarcasms. Diana wasn’t sure if Sunday afternoons had ever been fun, but they had been at least beara
ble then. Since her coming out, Elizabeth had assumed her role with extreme seriousness, while Diana developed the habit of retreating to the Turkish corner, where dozens of striped and tasseled pillows were heaped on the floor. She was there now, curled up with the Hollands’ oversize Persian cats, Lillie Langtry and Desdemona. Diana had always known it was her father she took after, temperamentally. They were the romantics, while her mother and Elizabeth remained aloof and practical.

  “What is it, Mother?” Elizabeth asked, arranging herself on her usual settee, underneath the great portrait of their father wearing his top hat and finest black suit, a little wild about the eyebrows and looking miffed as usual by the world’s stupidity. Diana wished he were still there in person to watch over them. Then he would give Elizabeth one of his looks, and she would feel foolish for reigning over Sunday visits with such insufferable imperiousness. “What did you want to talk to us about?” Elizabeth went on, folding her hands in her lap just so.

  Diana thought she saw a streak of fear pass through her older sister’s face, but then she was composed again. Their mother stood and moved to the fireplace, her slight frame looking especially severe in her heavy black high-collared dress. Her hair was pulled back tightly under her widow’s cap. She stood looking into the fireplace, where a few unlit logs lay in wait. Aunt Edith waved Claire, who had been serving tea, out of the room.

  “First, I want to tell you how pleased I was to see your glowing reviews in the press. They were absolutely full of your beauty, Elizabeth, and that will be very…” Mrs. Holland paused ominously until Claire disappeared behind the parlor’s pocket doors. “…useful to us in a difficult time.”

  “What do you mean?” Elizabeth asked, her smile turning brittle.

  Mrs. Holland turned to look at them, her gaze piercing even from across the parlor. “It is imperative that what I am about to tell you does not become known.”