by Renee Yancy
“Oh.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “I am so sorry to hear that. I will pray for her.”
“Thank you. I’m not ashamed to say I covet every prayer for her healing I can get.”
She glanced at the book in his hand, thinking to change the conversation to a happier tonic. His shoulders had slumped when he spoke of his mother. “Pascal’s Pensées.”
“Yes. Do you know it?”
“I do.”
He nodded approvingly. “And what were your thoughts when you finished it?”
When has anyone besides Miss Kendall asked my thoughts on anything? “It’s wonderful. He writes so beautifully.”
“The book was published posthumously.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yes. Pascal was passionate about his Christianity and defending the faith. He died before he could finish the book. A close friend put his notes together. Apparently, Pascal suffered from ill-health all his life, and died at the age of thirty-nine.”
“His thoughts on the vacuum inside of us—what was it exactly?”
“I love that too. Here, let me find it.” He paged through the slim volume. “Page seventy-five.” He cleared his throat. “‘What else does this craving, and this helplessness, proclaim but that there was once in man a true happiness, of which all that now remains is the empty print and trace? This he tries in vain to fill with everything around him, seeking in things that are not there the help he cannot find in those that are, though none can help, since this infinite abyss can be filled only with an infinite and immutable object; in other words by God himself.’”
He let the book slip to his lap. “Compelling words.”
She nodded. “I think I know what he means by man trying to fill that void with things. Riches, houses, jewels. I see it everywhere around me here in New York. In the society my family is a part of. Each ball, each mansion, must be more magnificent than the one before. And my mother—” She broke off. It wouldn’t be polite to burden Mr. Winthrop with her doubts and questions, and in any case, the last subject she could discuss with him would be her mother.
“You were saying?”
Her cheeks turned hot. “I’m sorry... you must excuse me... I don’t know why I’m dithering on like this.”
“My dear Miss Lindenmayer, you’re not dithering. You’re sharing your heart with a friend. At least, I hope you count me your friend.”
She did, she realized. Perhaps the only one who might understand. She nodded slowly. “It’s only—I ponder these things and have no one to discuss them with. My father is always busy with his horses. My best friend, Madeleine, doesn’t have thoughts like mine. All she’s concerned about is beaus and ball gowns.”
“What about your mother?”
She snorted and then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Excuse me! But that’s too funny, really. She’d laugh at me.”
His brown eyes grew serious. “I give you my word. I will never laugh at you.”
All his attention centered on her as if she were the most important person in the world. As if her thoughts truly interested him. “My mother spent most of her adult life craving something she didn’t have. Entrance into high society. After she married my father, she set about procuring that entrance, by beating the grande dame of society at her own game.”
Mr. Winthrop crossed one long leg over the other. “Hmm. And how did she accomplish that?”
“She arranged a ball. The most magnificent masquerade ball anyone had ever seen. Mrs. Astor hadn’t received my mother, but Mrs. Astor’s daughter, Carrie, had a part in one of the quadrilles. But when no invitation came from my mother, Caroline Astor had to send her calling card and meet my mother, so her daughter could attend the ball. Mrs. Astor came too. The city talked of it for months, according to my mother. She’s been in her element ever since.”
“Do I detect an undercurrent of disapproval?”
She twisted her hands in her lap. “There’s only one thing left Mama craves. Ever since I was a little girl, my mother’s dream has been for me to marry into the aristocracy, preferably of England. A duke or an earl, at the least.”
“A duke?” Mr. Winthrop frowned and leaned forward. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s the final thing she covets. Don’t you see? A title! She wants a title in the family. And I’m the one who must consummate her desire.”
Mr. Winthrop’s eyebrows rose.
She’d said too much. Confided too much. He would think her insolent and ill-bred to speak so of her family. She jumped up out of her chair. “Have you explored the rest of the library, Mr. Winthrop?”
He blinked at her sudden change of conversation but rose gamely to his feet. “Why, no, I haven’t.”
“Let me show you how we organized it. In the event you ever need to look up anything outside your current studies.”
Without waiting for his answer, she walked to the closest wall of books. “Let’s see. This entire section is Greek and Roman histories. American history. British military campaigns.”
She moved on to the next wall of books, talking too fast. “Works of fiction and poetry. I know we have some early first editions. Swift and Byron, to name two.”
What on earth was the matter with her? Blathering like an idiot. But she couldn’t seem to stop. The tour ended at the west wall, filled with science tomes from astronomy to zoology. She had run out of words. Now what should she do?
“It’s quite spacious, isn’t it?”
She stole a glance at him. He waved a hand. “It takes years to acquire a library like this. Or did he inherit them?”
Lindy’s shoulders relaxed. “Surely, you’ve heard the term nouveau riche, Mr. Winthrop? My father has only acquired his wealth in the last thirty years, the opposite of patrician bluebloods like the Astors and the Stuyvesants. When my mother built this house, she had the architect fill the library with all the books a proper gentleman should have.”
“Oh...” Mr. Winthrop stammered. “I beg your pardon.”
“Don’t allow that to disconcert you. Both you and I benefit from this library, inherited or not.”
“That’s true.” He walked to a gilded display case set in a corner and pointed to the objects nestled inside on black velvet cloth. “And whose are these?”
She joined him at the case. “This is my curiosity collection.” She turned the tiny key in the lock and opened the glass door. “My Uncle Henry’s home, Wasahana, is in Hyde Park, and I used to hunt for fossils in the river bed and the bluffs above.” She plucked a pale gray rock out of the case. “This is a trilobite.” A small, segmented body lay embedded in the stone.
“I spent summers with my uncle when I was a little girl. My interest grew from there. Most girls want trinkets for their birthdays, but I always wanted these old historical things. My father would surprise me every year with something new for my collection, like these Roman bronzes from Pompeii for my ninth birthday. He gave me this piece of amber when I turned twelve.” She picked up a golden lump. “There’s a fossilized insect inside.”
Mr. Winthrop peered into its clear depths. “Ah! I see it. A dragonfly. Remarkable. And what in tarnation is this creature?”
He pointed to a peculiar stuffed animal on the bottom shelf, with overlapping scales, a triangular head, and tiny clawed feet.
Lindy laughed. “That is queer, isn’t it? It’s an armadillo, an animal found only in the western United States. That’s not a birthday present.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.” Mr. Winthrop smiled at her, and that curious flutter went through her breastbone again. “I’ve heard of a ‘cabinet of curiosities,’ but I’d never seen one. I don’t suppose you hunt for fossils anymore?”
She sighed. “I certainly won’t find any in New York City. But I’d love to go on a dig sometime.”
“A dig?” His eyes widened.
“An archaeological excavation. Like the one Mr. Schliemann worked on in Greece. I’d love to go to Egypt. Or Rome.”
He
grinned. “Miss Lindenmayer, I know what a dig is. We’re kindred spirits, for I plan to go on a dig myself. It’s part of the curriculum at Columbia. But it’s difficult for me to picture you spending all day in the hot sun, getting your hands dirty, and living in a tent!”
She laughed. “I know it sounds odd, but that’s my idea of heaven.”
“You’ve become quite animated speaking about archaeology, Miss Lindenmayer. Feeling better now?” This time he didn’t apologize for remarking on her health.
She observed his open, honest face and smiled back. “I do now.”
Chapter 6
May 1897
Jack glanced at the empty dining chair across the table. For the last fortnight, his mother hadn’t been strong enough to come downstairs for supper and grew steadily weaker.
The windows of the dining room were open to the spring air, and the fresh scent of newly-turned flower beds drifted through. Children played on the street outside as the days grew longer. But in this room with his uncle, silence lay heavy like a tomb. Only the clink of silverware against the china gave any evidence of life.
Jack’s thoughts went to the library in the Lindenmayer mansion, where earlier this afternoon, Miss Lindenmayer had shared some details of her life with him. Funny, he’d never thought about what life might be like for the high society young women in the church. That they would marry a man of their parent’s choosing. But what about love? His parents had married for love. And then his father had died young, leaving his mother in a precarious position with no means of support. If it weren’t for his uncle...
“Have you no conversation this evening?” His uncle glowered at him, his lower lip thrust out in a most unpleasant way. His surliness had increased in direct proportion to his mother’s worsening condition.
Startled, Jack tore his thoughts back to the present. “I’m sorry, Uncle.”
“What are you thinking about?”
Do I dare answer honestly? He laid his fork down. “My parents actually. Their marriage.”
His uncle’s face screwed up into a frown. “A mistake from the start.”
Jack blinked, not expecting such a blatant statement of disapproval.
“Pardon me, sir? A mistake?”
“They were never suited.” His uncle chomped viciously on a piece of beef, swallowed it, and speared another piece. “Never should have been allowed.”
“Never should have been allowed?” Jack choked out.
“Stop repeating everything I say. You heard me.”
“My mother would never say that. She loved him. And he her.”
His uncle glared at him. “She was too young to see how shallow he was. My brother swept her away with his smooth charm and pretty words. And then what does he do? Goes out and gets himself killed.”
“He could hardly have planned that,” cried Jack, fury rising in him.
“Stop shouting.” His uncle helped himself to another serving of beef. “It’s fortunate for you and your mother I took you in.”
Jack swallowed hard. Calm down. Don’t rise to the bait. His uncle would never have voiced these thoughts if Mother had been at the table. Until now, he’d never realized how much of a buffer she’d always been between them. And as her illness worsened, the crotchetier his uncle became.
“Yes, Uncle, it was.” He swallowed the bitterness and forced himself to say the next words. “Thank you.”
“Humph.”
For the next few moments, they ate in silence.
“Why the deuce don’t you get a haircut?” Across the table, once again, his uncle glared at him.
Jack took a deep breath. His uncle required a monthly accounting of the stipend he gave Jack, a paltry amount out of which Jack paid for his clothes and shoes, and all the other assorted items a young man needed. His uncle knew right well what Jack did with the money. Rarely did he have even a penny left over.
An old Bible verse popped into Jack’s head. “A gentle answer turns away wrath.” He smiled wryly. “I’ll get one this week, sir.”
His uncle pushed his plate away so sharply the fork slid onto the tablecloth. His fingers trembled when he plucked it from the cloth and threw it onto the dish.
“Uncle Joseph,” said Jack gently. He laid his hand over his uncle’s. “I’m worried about her too.”
The anguish in his uncle’s eyes made Jack wince.
His uncle groaned. “I don’t know what I’ll do without her,” he whispered.
“I know.” Jack swallowed. “I can barely stand to think about it. But Uncle, we’ll go through it together.”
“Yes. We must support each other.” He started to say something and then hesitated. “I haven’t been kind to you, Jack. I took you into my home, but it was all for Anna. But in these last few weeks, I’ve realized you and Anna are the only family I have.”
Jenny entered the dining room to clear away the plates. His uncle rose. “Come into the parlor. There’s a matter I want to discuss with you.”
Jack followed his uncle to the little-used room with horsehair sofas and heavy portiere curtains. A baby grand piano stood in the corner. His mother used to play after dinner when she had been well, everything from the lyrical notes of Debussy to the rousing chorus of Daisy Bell and her bicycle built for two.
His uncle went over to the piano and trailed a finger across the cover’s shining wood. “Your mother is not improving.” He turned, his jaw clenched. “There’s a sanitarium in the Adirondack mountains at Saranac Lake. I’d like to take her there this week.” He sat abruptly, as if his legs couldn’t hold him. “If you agree with my plan, that is. Your mother sets a great store by you, Jack,” he said gruffly.
“Of course, Uncle. If there’s anything to be done, we must try.”
His uncle’s shoulders sagged. “Thank you. There’s a theory fresh mountain air can be curative for consumption. After her last coughing spell, I’ve been beside myself with worry.”
Jack nodded, studying his uncle’s face. There were deep lines around his mouth he hadn’t noticed before, and more gray in his hair. A sudden thought dawned on Jack. “You love her, don’t you?”
His uncle smiled faintly. “Since the day I first laid eyes on her.” He stared into the distance over Jack’s shoulder. “But she never saw me. Your father was the charming one.”
He sighed. “I suppose that’s why I’ve been so hard on you. You’re so like him.” He looked directly at Jack. “And then in other ways, you’re nothing like him. You’re a hard worker, Jack, and a good student.”
Jack blinked, unaccustomed to hearing praise from him. “Thank you.”
His uncle stood and squared his shoulders. “The arrangements will be made tomorrow. I’ll take good care of her.”
Chapter 7
Paris, France
Lindy took a wistful breath of the lilac-scented air and wondered what Mr. Winthrop might be doing at the moment in New York City. Would he like Paris? It was heavenly to be here in spring, the breeze soft and sweet enough to use an open carriage. The chestnut trees had burst into full bloom along the Avenue de l’Opéra, and sunlight filtered through their newly-minted leaves, dappling the street with muted light.
“Do stop fidgeting, Evangeline. A lady must always be calm and collected.”
“But it’s so lovely, Mama, isn’t it? The trees are breathtaking.”
Her mother glanced up from the leather-covered notebook in her lap and waved a gold pencil at her. “I haven’t time to notice the trees, Missy. I’m busy thinking about all the dresses and ball gowns you require for the season.”
Lindy bit her lip. How unfortunate to miss such a glorious morning.
The landau turned off the Avenue de l’Opéra and onto the Rue de la Paix, stopping before number seven. The coachmen handed them down. Two dapper young men in frock coats greeted them and opened the double glass doors. A grand marble staircase swept up to the second floor, carpeted in a rich crimson red, and lined with exotic palms.
A vendeuse clad in blac
k satin met them at the top of the stairs. “Bonjour, madame et mademoiselle.” She ushered them through several drawing rooms. Black and white silks in glass cabinets filled the first room, with silks in a rainbow of colors in the second. The third contained velvets and plush of all types and opened into the airy and spacious salon, where the natural light reflected off the mirrored walls.
Live mannequins strolled about the room in the latest designs. The vendeuse sat next to Mama, pointing out the particular charms of a piece of lace or a striped brocade bustle on the models gliding by.
Lindy squirmed on the upholstered bench next to her mother, trying to find a position that would allow her to take a deep breath. The corset encased her from ribcage to her hips, tightly boned and laced up the back.
“Bring that girl closer.” Her mother nodded at a slim blond mannequin in a vision of white tulle and embroidered white rosebuds. Mama stood up to examine the gown more closely, fingering the rosebuds.
“The skirt is watered silk, madame. You see how elegantly it drapes.” With a deft hand, the vendeuse turned the girl to indicate the small train. “Simple, but bewitching.”
“That might do.” Mama turned to Lindy. “Stand up, Evangeline.” When Lindy did so, her mother tipped her head to one side, considering. “Yes. That’s the one.” The vendeuse glanced at Lindy, who shrugged.
A maid brought a silver tray of tea and sweetmeats for the ladies’ refreshment while the mannequins disappeared to change into the ball gowns. A debutante’s gown must be white, but ball gowns were different. Here there was a myriad of colors to choose from. This would be Lindy’s first ball gown.
One by one, the slender mannequins glided into the salon. Lindy eyed a gown of ice-blue damask trimmed in embroidered lace and pearls, with rows of crystal pendants on the sleeves. Next, a model twirled through the salon in a gown of deep cherry-pink satin hemmed in black fur, with beaded iris designs on the skirt. Short, puffy sleeves of mousseline de soie were tucked under ruffles of beaded satin.