Prologue
“Through this atmosphere of torrid splendor moved wan beings as richly upholstered as the furniture, beings without definite pursuits or permanent relations, who drifted on a languid tide of curiosity…
Somewhere behind them, in the background of their lives, there was doubtless a real past, yet they had no more real existence than the poet’s shades in limbo.”
Edith Wharton, from The House of Mirth
Kilberry Manor
Newport, Rhode Island
June 1886
The wedding ball of Katherine Preston to Mr. Frederick Hayes of Boston was the first social event to be held at Kilberry Manor, the newest of the Newport summer ‘cottages’, since its completion just three months before. The guests for the ball numbered five hundred and seventy-two, nearly a hundred more than originally invited, making it by far the grandest single social event in the history of the social register. It was most certainly guaranteed to be the highlight of the social season, outshining even Mrs. Astor’s famed Summer Ball.
All the oldest and wealthiest New York families passing the summer at their Newport cottages were present, as were so many others who had come by train from New York and Boston, some from as far away as Philadelphia. Every member of the Knickerbocker set vied for an invitation to see and be seen by families with the names Vanderbilt, Goelet and Oelrich and for a chance to see the inside of the magnificent manor. Indeed, it was more immense than rumors had indicated. To the eyes of those seeing it for the very first time and entering into its halls, the overall effect was awe-inspiring.
Lelan Preston, the father of the bride, was widely considered one of the wealthiest men in America and most certainly in New York City. Bellevue Avenue was the most fashionable address for the elite to build their homes, as evidenced by mansions like Astor’s Beechwood, Jones’ Kingscote and the fabulous Chateau-Sur-Mer, and where the future summer cottages of Ogden, Goelet and William K Vanderbilt were being built. A non-conformist most of his life, Preston had chosen instead to build his glorious mansion high on the cliffs at the southern end of Ochre Point Road, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Or rather, as the Irishman claimed, looking home.
The four-story mansion’s immense proportions had been designed by Richard Morris Hunt, an architect of growing popularity among the wealthy of New York. Though its exterior was modeled after a sixteenth century Venetian palace at Mrs. Preston’s insistence, Mr. Preston had named it Kilberry Manor, after his childhood home in Ireland near the Hill of Tara. It was rumored to have more than fifty rooms lavishly displaying antiques and art collected from around the world, all modern conveniences including contemporary plumbing and electric lights, and luxuries, it was whispered, such as solid silver knobs on every door. The cost of the palace was debatable, given an incredible – and inconceivable – number of closed mouths, but speculation estimated a cost of more than seven million dollars for construction. Five million more to furnish it.
As the guests arrived for the ball that warm June evening and stared up in awe at the structure looming over them, it was easy to believe all the tattle. Exclamations rose from around the foyer of Kilberry Manor as guests entered the wide double doors of the grand Newport mansion. And they knew, one and all, when entering that there would never again be a night filled with such excitement and enchantment as this. Beyond its imposing edifice, the Grand Hall into which they entered was a full four stories tall, forty feet long and topped by an arched ceiling of colorful, elaborately detailed stained glass. There were hundreds of butterflies flitting through the hall, fountains cast their pleasing music while liveried footmen roamed the rooms with trays overflowing with champagne. Five orchestras played throughout the reception rooms luring guests through them into the ballroom, a cavernous yet stunning sixty-five foot room of white and gold. There, another orchestra played, calling the masses to the dance.
Once the eyes of the enthralled guests had consumed all they could of their surroundings, it was to the center of the dance floor their eyes turned as they watched the new Mrs. Frederick Hayes waltz gracefully about the large polished floor in the arms of her husband.
This evening marked the end of an engagement that had lasted almost two years. A short engagement period to some, but since the bride was already twenty years old it seemed the quicker she and her fortune approached the altar, the better off her family would be. The older sister, Evelyn, had married the previous summer after an engagement of just one short year. But since that marriage had taken place at a lavish ceremony at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and she had wed no less than an English earl, such a brief engagement had been easily overlooked.
It was generally assumed by those in attendance that evening, unlike the sister’s fairy tale-like romance, that this marriage was an arranged one – most were, among their acquaintance. Matrimony to Katherine Preston would mean an extremely secure financial future and a connection to one of the oldest families in New York through the Preston girl’s mother, a cousin of the Astors. Evelyn and Katherine were the sole heirs to their father’s outrageous fortune. This, of course, meant their husbands would gain all upon his death. Nonetheless, when the groom was young and handsome with elegant blond looks – the mere sight of him in his evening clothes enough to make many a young debutante in New York swoon with delight – and the bride so lovely, her fair beauty a perfect match with his, it was easy to get carried away by the assumption of a love-match.
Indeed, the groom had eyes for no one except his lovely bride.
Passing his new wife into the arms of her father, Freddie Hayes watched her closely as the older man swung his daughter around the floor in big, sweeping movements more appropriate to a playroom than a ballroom. Katherine clung to her father and squealed with delight as he swung her into the air. A tolerant smile lifted Hayes’ lips, for her joy only amplified his triumph. He had wed the most beauteous and wealthy heiress in the land. But a frown replaced his contented smirk when another young gentleman about the same age as his bride cut in on the dance, such as it was.
The man bowed with exaggerated flourish and Katherine returned it with a deep curtsy as Preston turned to his daughter making a comment that had the younger couple laughing. The younger man must be John Jacob Astor the Fourth, Hayes thought. Jack, as family and friends knew him, was a cousin to the Preston girls, but he’d heard that hadn’t stopped the matchmakers from pairing him with one of the two since infancy. It would have been a powerful alliance, he admitted, as both were heirs to large fortunes. The pairing of old money and new.
Of course, Hayes was a much better match for Katherine, he thought with a frown as she batted her eyelashes flirtatiously at the other man. His family was old Boston, money in banking. Combined with the shipping interests that Preston developed, they would be able to finance any new developments in the coming years. His father had approached Preston several years before to contract a marriage with one of the girls. He had been put off several times as Mrs. Preston wanted a title for her daughters, but after a Season in London, only Evelyn had gained a titled husband, leaving Katherine to him. He preferred it thus, though his father had insisted either sister would do. But Hayes had long fancied the younger sister. It was not because of her looks, since the sisters looked enough alike to be twins. Rather her demeanor had drawn him. She was sweet and reserved as well as beautiful.
Never had he doubted that his proposal would be accepted for he knew himself to be a much sought after bachelor. Preston seemed happy enough to give his consent to the match and had agreed to inform Katherine of their engagement. He never heard for himself Katherine’s reaction but was certain she had been as overjoyed as he with the engagement. How could she not be when he adored her so?
He watched he
r dancing with Astor. Noted their closeness. Katherine did not know Hayes very well yet of course, or she would never have paid such marked and flirtatious attention to another gentleman. Hayes was a jealous man by nature, he had long ago admitted that to himself. He kept what was his. Katherine was now his.
It occurred to him perhaps he should make sure she knew that as soon as possible.
Unaware that she was being scrutinized so closely, Katherine, or Kitty as she liked to be called, tried to enjoy what was supposed to be the most exciting night of her life, as the bold strains of the waltz carried her as much as the arms of her partner, Jack Astor. Her cheeks flushed, her green eyes dancing as well. Perhaps not so much from excitement as from the three – or was it four? – glasses of champagne she had drunk so far. Her mind was very far from her upcoming wedding night.
Kitty was not unhappy to be wed. She had longed for the day when she might come into her own. Nor did she feel a serious aversion to her father’s choice of a husband. She had known Freddie Hayes many years since their families both summered here in Newport. He was handsome enough, to be sure, and could be very charming. But he was only a year or two older than she and still had a childish tendency to be a bit temperamental and to anger easily when he felt she didn’t pay him enough attention. Marriage to him was certainly going to be a test in patience. Love, her mother assured her, would come in time.
In the meantime, she generally considered him a sometimes charismatic, occasionally knowledgeable young man. He could be somewhat dashing when he made the effort. He had shown himself to be a charming and reasonably intelligent conversationalist in company. It would be easy to develop a bit of an infatuation with him if she allowed herself, and she supposed she would. She cared not at all that he was rich, there were few families as rich as hers. But he had always been rich where the Prestons had not. It was a vital difference in their way of thinking. Money born from money had expectations that those who had once done without did not.
Despite those reservations, she tried to enjoy the evening. She was the center of attention – well, after a fashion of course, as the mansion was attracting quite a bit of speculation as well. Her gown was absolutely lovely and had been commented upon many times. It was a wedding gown designed by the renowned Charles Worth of Paris.
It was no small matter to be introduced to Monsieur Bonhomme himself, as Worth was known. When Evelyn and Katherine made their visit to Europe, they were taken first to Paris to be presented to Charles Worth before going to London to be presented to the Queen. Each event was as important to their social standing as the other. In ceremonial fashion, she would accompany her mother and Eve to Worth’s studio at 7 Rue de la Paix in Paris twice a year to acquire her wardrobe for the next season. Although such extravagance seemed outrageous to many, even with the prices inflated for Americans in Paris, the gowns they acquired there were more stylish and with a better fit at nearly half the cost of what could be found in New York, and the Prestons always appreciated a bargain.
The gown she wore that evening was an original designed by the great man himself for Kitty. Worth had seemed very impressed by her and Eve in their initial meeting two years before. He had admired their tall forms, slim but full in all the right places, and had exclaimed that they were perfect models for the very best of his work. Tonight, a gown of ivory velvet gathered at her shoulders, leaving her arms bare, and cinched tightly at her small waist. The skirt front draped to her knees and was swept up in the back over the tournure, trailing into a long train. The underskirt panel was of ivory eighteenth century point d’Angleterre lace trimmed with white ostrich feathers. Her white gloves reached to her upper arm and were encircled at the wrist by a magnificent diamond bracelet, a gift from her husband.
As Jack waltzed her about the room, her train lifted off the floor. He grinned at her as she wavered a bit.
“Too much champagne, cousin? Tsk, tsk.”
Kitty laughed at his efforts to appear stern, as he was barely taller than she was. “Never! One can never have too much champagne!” Her attempt at haughty grandeur was greatly stunted by a stumble as she fell against him.
Laughing as well, he set her back on her feet and continued to spin her about. “You should have agreed to marry me, dear Kitty. I would have bathed you in champagne.”
“Why, Jack, how shocking!” She giggled a bit as she tapped her fan on his shoulder. “Oh, you know I could never have wed you, Jack.”
“And why is that, may I ask?” He appeared slightly offended.
“Well, you could hardly expect me to marry you after you stole my favorite doll and flushed it down the–”
Jack put a hand over her mouth to cut her off. “Kitty, I was but ten years old at the time and merely trying to get your attention! Surely you haven’t held that against me all these years?”
“Of course not,” she said, deciding that one small lie might be forgiven. “And you’re right. I should have married you long ago. We would have been the most marvelous couple in all of New York.” Kitty had never felt more than sisterly affection for her childhood friend, though he might occasionally think differently. Although he was very handsome, he was in her eyes still the little boy who stole her doll, and probably always would be.
“Why on earth did you wed yourself to a man who lives so far away?” he asked with some seriousness. “I shall be close to you for a while whilst I finish at Harvard, but after that!”
Kitty’s eyes turned soft. “Not that I had a great deal of choice in the matter! Oh, Jack! I truly do not want to live in Boston!”
Jack considered her for a moment. “It is not so bad. I can show you about if you like. But when I graduate next spring, I plan on leaving the country altogether to travel abroad and see the world.”
Kitty laughed as he spun her around once more, her long train rising again off the floor. “I would adore it if you would introduce me to Boston, Jack. And after that, don’t forget Evelyn is in England now and I have other friends you might visit there as well. After all, I did go to boarding school in England for quite some time.”
“Hmm,” he considered thoughtfully, “are they married?”
“Oh, Jack! You are impossible! Do you never give up?” She rapped his shoulder again with her fan. “For your information, my friends Abby and Moira are both unwed.”
“Moira? Doesn’t sound terribly English.”
“She’s a Scot.”
“Scot? Gads, my father would have convulsions over that!”
“I would say so, since I believe I heard rumor he has Miss Ava Willing selected for your bride,” Kitty teased him.
“So he does,” Jack sighed in defeat, “but first I shall travel abroad and see the entire world for myself before I settle down.”
“I’m sure that will be terribly thrilling for you, Jack. While I don’t have the yearning for such excitement as you or Evie do, I am confident at least that my marriage will bring me what I’ve always longed for,” she confided.
Jack laughed because he knew what she wanted. “That’s why Mother always thought you’d make a perfect bride, Kitty. You want nothing more than to be the premiere hostess in Society and you are well equipped to do it. I hope this Hayes can lay all that you desire at your perfect feet.”
“One can only hope,” Kitty quipped, hoping for the same. Her sister might have longed for adventure after adventure, but all Kitty had ever wanted was to have a home and family of her own. She could finally run her own household, do things her way and make her own rules. “Come, Jack, find me more champagne!”
“Steady on, Kit, or you’ll fall asleep before your husband can make you his wife,” Jack joked, taking her arm.
“Would that be so bad?” she asked innocently, but Jack only laughed at her.
Chapter 1
“The only way to not think about money
is to have a great deal of it.”
“You might as well say that the only way not
to think about air
is to have enough to breathe.”
Edith Wharton, from The House of Mirth
Glen Sannox House
Haddington, Scotland
February 1892
Looking about the great hall of his ancestral family home, the newly conferred Earl of Haddington’s heart was saddened. Glen Sannox House was merely a dim reminder of the grandeur that had once been present in the stately residence. The black walnut paneled walls were but dismal remnants of their former rich glow. Years of harsh sunlight had faded the exposed wood to a pale brown that contrasted sharply to the dark outlined reminders of the once glorious decor of the room. Hundreds of arms and weapons had once lined the paneling. English-made brown Bess muskets with their bayonets had marched sharply about the perimeter, interrupted only by contrasting displays of crossed sabers and horse pistols, which circled shining medallions emblazoned with the coat of arms of the powerful Merrill clan. More muskets, encircling a gilded medallion, had radiated from the center of the towering ceilings. The colors of Scotland and the Merrill clan had draped across the splendid archway that led visitors into the connecting receiving room.
All of it was gone.
Now only the Merrill plaid remained, draped mournfully over the intricately carved remains of an imposing marble fireplace on one wall of the octagonal hall.
The old lassie has surely lost her shine, the new owner of the manor thought, taking in the devastated walls with a heavy heart as he followed the ghostly trail of silhouetted weaponry through the lower passage into the ballroom. Here and there along the way other scars marked the paneling where exquisite works of art had once graced the periphery. The vast ballroom itself was even more daunting. The nineteen-foot high ceilings were bare of the four glorious hand-blown glass lusteres that had illuminated many exalted affairs for over a hundred years. On the walls, tooled and gilded leather wall-coverings were cracked and peeling, and, like the periphery of the passage, bare of their artwork. Even the two life-size portraits of King James VI and his Queen Anne that had flanked the doors for hundreds of years were dishearteningly absent.
A Question of Trust Page 1