Varinka is a character of my imagination, though the book Home Life in Russia was a tremendous help in bringing her to life with its fascinating look into superstitions, customs, and village life. Being a peasant in Russia during that time was fraught with difficulty and this helped me show that.
Julia Marlowe was a great friend to Eliza Ferriday throughout her life. A famous actress of her day, The New York Sun wrote, “There is not a woman player in America or in England that is—attractively considered—fit to unlace her shoe.” Julia and her second husband E. H. Sothern were enormously successful and served as Caroline Ferriday’s acting mentors from her teens through years of acting on Broadway and touring. I was lucky to visit Julia’s home, Wildacres, in the Catskills, and found her presence still there, the big rooms now in disrepair but still echoing Julia’s wonderful life.
The character Cook was inspired by Serge Obolensky, a former Russian general from a wealthy family and a charismatic fixture in Southampton society. The book One Man in His Time is another fascinating glimpse into a Russian aristocrat who had to start over in a new land. Though he loved Russia, he moved on and adapted well to life in his new country, unlike many other displaced émigrés who “sat on their suitcases” waiting for the Bolshevik revolution to blow over. It never did, of course. In time, the Red Army was victorious over the Whites. On November 16, 1933, President Franklin Roosevelt ended almost sixteen years of American non-recognition of the Soviet Union, a final blow to those émigrés who still held out hope.
I traveled to Russia to research the writing of this book. It brought the country alive and, as always, visiting a setting made it much easier to write about. I found Russia to be a complex, fascinating country, and I’m glad to know its history better now in order to understand its place in our world today.
Though the Russian royal family makes only cameo appearances in these pages, the letters of Olga Romanov gave me tremendous insight into the family and their tragic end. Her father, the tsar, sealed his own fate with decades of corrupt mismanagement, concentration of wealth, failure to recognize basic human values as other European monarchies had, and constant oppression including inciting and turning a blind eye to deadly pogroms against Russian Jews. But it’s hard not to pity his five children, who paid the ultimate price for their parents’ misdeeds. I grew particularly fond of Olga Romanov, and the book Journal of a Russian Grand Duchess gives a poignant look into a bright young woman’s life cut short.
Bringing the White Russian émigré experience in Paris to life was especially rewarding. Discovering Rue Daru, once the epicenter of Russian émigré culture, was incredible. The Saint Alexandre Nevsky Cathedral with its lovely, painted basement crypt, and the restaurant A la Ville de Petrograd, recently shuttered, are still there today. The brothel at Rue Chabanais still stands in Paris. Once one of the best-known and most luxurious houses of prostitution, it is now a private apartment building on a quiet side street, no sign of the thriving maison close it once was. It was closed in 1946, when brothels were outlawed in France. Paris’s oldest candy store À la Mère de Famille at 35 Rue du Faubourg, Montmartre, was an especially delicious place to explore. Just stepping in the door takes a candy lover back to 1761. The Paris planetarium Eliza and Sofya take Luba to in the prologue existed. Though it has long since been demolished, the Globe Céleste was built for the 1900 Paris World’s Fair, a massive, faux planet Earth, which delighted armchair space travelers. Patrons to the exhibit leaned back in easy chairs while “panoramas depicting the solar system rolled past.”
My grandmother was a talented seamstress and I loved watching her sew. Perhaps that’s why I enjoyed bringing Varinka’s Mamka’s sewing career to life. Lanvin and the other great couture houses of Paris employed hundreds of Russian émigrés in their workshops and the Russian skill with a needle supported the worldwide fashion trend toward Russian dress. The kokoshnik, the traditional Russian beaded headdress, became a fashion phenomenon and bridal fashion so popular Queen Mary wore a kokoshnik-like diadem on her wedding day.
I enjoyed my time in Southampton, New York, researching that lovely place and time. Hildreth’s store, established in 1842, still stands on Main Street and remains a most charming, thriving home goods store, still owned by Hildreths after thirteen generations. I based my Pink and Green society women on the “Dreadnaughts” of Southampton, the supremely confident old guard elite who hosted the town’s social teas. They set the dress code, strictly enforced social conduct, and seemed bent on making society life uncomfortable.
The Bellamy-Ferriday House & Garden, Caroline’s home that was once called The Hay, was my own epicenter when it came to this story. From the archives there I have used Eliza’s and Caroline’s letters and other personal writing to bring this story to light; and the lovely old house has a character arc of its own. Following Henry Ferriday’s death, Eliza added interior plumbing and a service wing containing a kitchen and servants’ rooms; and the former schoolhouse was relocated to the orchard as a playhouse for Caroline. The Hay was a place Caroline, Eliza, and Henry Ferriday loved since the day they saw it, and Caroline and Eliza adored the gardens they created there. Even when in her beloved Paris, Caroline wrote “I realized that I had Bethlehem under my skin. In the midst of the delights of Paris, I would stop to wonder if the rose bugs were under control, or how the new regale lilies were doing.”
Today you can tour The Hay, now the Bellamy-Ferriday House & Garden, all ninety-six acres bequeathed to Connecticut Landmarks by Caroline. The building where Merrill Brothers Store stood is now a restaurant on the village green and the boulder Eliza allowed moved from their property still stands on the green, an honor roll stone memorial to Civil War and World War I veterans.
For my next book I travel further back in time to the Civil War, to tell the story of Caroline’s great-grandmother Jane Eliza Newton Woolsey and her family, their fight against slavery, and their struggle to establish the first nursing services in America. The Woolsey women.
More staunchly fierce women I’ve already come to love.
For Katherine and Mary, bound by a silver thread
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to those who made writing Lost Roses such a pleasure:
To my husband, Michael Kelly, who happily read every draft, shared my dream of continuing to tell Caroline Ferriday’s family story, and supports everything I do with unflagging enthusiasm and love. Excited to share “yon crescent moon” forever with you, old Cary Grant.
To my daughter Katherine, for her supreme wisdom and encouragement, and to my daughter Mary Elizabeth, for her expert editorial suggestions and cheerful support. I couldn’t have asked for a better model of the two loving sisters: Sofya and Luba.
To my son, Michael, for his manuscript advice, book trailer skills, and road-trip companionship.
To my son-in-law, Chase, for his sage advice and support.
To Kara Cesare at Ballantine Bantam Dell, the most caring, talented editor a person could wish for, generous in every way, who understood and embraced Eliza’s story with such care and empathy.
To all of “Team Roses” at Ballantine Bantam Dell for their seamless collaboration and boundless enthusiasm: Debbie Aroff, Barbara Bachman, Susan Corcoran, Melanie DeNardo, Jennifer Hershey, Kim Hovey, Paolo Pepe, Kara Welsh, and Gina Centrello, to name a few.
To my amazing agent, Alexandra Machinist, who once upon a time plucked me from the slush pile, insisted these stories needed to be told, and made it happen.
To the lovely Betty Kelly Sargent for her early encouragement and expertise, and who said, “All I need is a chapter.” Without her none of this would have come close to happening.
To my sister Polly Simpkins for her wisdom, generosity, unconditional love, and inspiration for the character of Eliza. And to my sister Sally Hatcher, who first taught me how loving sisters can be.
To Alexandra Shelley, independent editor extraord
inaire, for her honesty and editorial help.
To Alexander Neave, Caroline Ferriday’s cousin, and his wife Lynne, who so generously shared their memories of her.
To Rosie Furniss, who shared her great-aunt Mary Koutousov Tolstoy’s story and wonderful book, As the Old Order Was Changing.
To Sheryl Hack, executive director, and the rest of the staff at Connecticut Landmarks, including Jamie-Lynn Fontaine Connell and Jana Colacino for taking such good care of Caroline’s beloved home.
To the brilliant and tireless Bellamy-Ferriday House & Garden tour guides: Dorothy Ambruso, Sarah Baker, Gary P. Cicognani, Mary Dulude, Tyler Huntsley, Danielle Spino, Nikkii Todaro, and Marj Vitz. Thank you for your hours of service and for making the house come alive so beautifully for visitors. Caroline and Eliza would be proud.
To Bellamy-Ferriday House & Garden Site Administrator Peg Shimer for her hard work, unending support, and loving care of Caroline’s house.
To Cathy and Doug Altenbern for rolling out the red carpet in Nashville, the definition of true Southern hospitality.
To the wonderful independent booksellers and librarians everywhere who worked so hard to get this family’s story into the hands of readers.
To my French publisher Les Editions Leduc, Karine Bailly, and Danae Tourrand for showing me a fabulous French welcome and Paris over Russian vodka and caviar.
To Susan Van Winkle Pollack for pointing me in the direction of her father, Wm. Mitchell Van Winkle’s, extensive rose book collection.
To Sophie Baker at Curtis Brown London for thirty incredible foreign editions of Lilac Girls.
To Josie Freedman at ICM Partners, Los Angeles, for helping make that incredible dream come true.
To Mollie Fitzgerald whose gorgeous red hair and incredible piano skill inspired the character of Karina.
To Yeda Zaitz Fish, for inspiring the character of Mrs. Zaitz.
To George McCleary, program planner and horticulturist, who knew “Miss Ferriday” and shared his stories. Together with his wife, Carol, he keeps Caroline’s gardens just the way Caroline and Eliza would have wanted.
To filmmaker Stacey Fitzgerald, for her friendship, upcoming documentary about the Rabbits, and for showing me the importance of mutual aid and cooperation.
To Colleen Hildreth, who so graciously showed us around her family’s store in Southampton and shared its fascinating history.
To the staff of Saint Alexandre Nevsky Cathedral on Rue Daru in Paris, who gave me access to and information about the crypt.
To Eleanor Southworth and Irina MacGuire of the Chapin School, who brought Caroline Ferriday’s school days back for me in living color.
To our fabulous Russian tour guide Ilia Kruglov at Exeter International Travel, who went above and beyond to make sure I understood Russia and helped me gather the courage to eat a bear dumpling.
To the staff of the State Museum of Political History in St. Petersburg, who patiently answered my infinite list of questions about Russian political history.
To the Southampton Historical Museum archivist Mary Cummings for her help in making that charming town come alive.
To my mother-in-law, Marian, and five sisters-in-law for their unending support and continuing to show me how important a loving, encouraging family can be.
To Gary Parkes, who keeps my social media humming.
To Natalie Picot, the best research assistant ever.
To Barbara Bradbury-Pape, former site administrator of the Bellamy-Ferriday House & Garden, for sharing her vast knowledge of the lovely old house.
To Kathy Murray, who works hard to keep me in shape, body and soul.
To The Old Bethlehem Historical Society, keeper of Bethlehem’s lovely past.
BY MARTHA HALL KELLY
Lilac Girls
Lost Roses
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MARTHA HALL KELLY is the New York Times bestselling author of Lilac Girls. She lives in Connecticut, and spends her days traveling to visit Civil War battlefields and writing her next prequel to Lilac Girls, set during the Battle of Gettysburg. Lost Roses is her second novel.
marthahallkelly.com
Facebook.com/marthahallkelly
Twitter: @marthahallkelly
From New York Times bestselling author Martha Hall Kelly
Don't miss Lilac Girls, the runaway New York Times bestselling novel, set a generation later during WWII, and inspired by the life of Caroline Ferriday.
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SEPTEMBER 1939
If I’d known I was about to meet the man who’d shatter me like bone china on terra-cotta, I would have slept in. Instead, I roused our florist, Mr. Sitwell, from his bed to make a boutonnière. My first consulate gala was no time to stand on ceremony.
I joined the riptide of the great unwashed moving up Fifth Avenue. Men in gray-felted fedoras pushed by me, the morning papers in their attachés bearing the last benign headlines of the decade. There was no storm gathering in the east that day, no portent of things to come. The only ominous sign from the direction of Europe was the scent of slack water wafting off the East River.
As I neared our building at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-ninth Street, I felt Roger watching from the window above. He’d fired people for a lot less than being twenty minutes late, but the one time of year the New York elite opened their wallets and pretended they cared about France was no time for skimpy boutonnières.
I turned at the corner, the morning sun alive in the gold-leaf letters chiseled in the cornerstone: LA MAISON FRANÇAISE. The French Building, home to the French Consulate, stood side by side with the British Empire Building, facing Fifth Avenue, part of Rockefeller Center, Junior Rockefeller’s new complex of granite and limestone. Many foreign consulates kept offices there then, resulting in a great stew of international diplomacy.
“All the way to the back and face the front,” said Cuddy, our elevator operator.
Mr. Rockefeller handpicked the elevator boys, screening for manners and good looks. Cuddy was heavy on the looks, though his hair was already salt-and-peppered, his body in a hurry to age.
Cuddy fixed his gaze on the illuminated numbers above the doors. “You got a crowd up there today, Miss Ferriday. Pia said there’s two new boats in.”
“Delightful,” I said.
Cuddy brushed something off the sleeve of his navy-blue uniform jacket. “Another late one tonight?”
For the fastest elevators in the world, ours still took forever. “I’ll be gone by five. Gala tonight.”
I loved my job. Grandmother Woolsey had started the work tradition in our family, nursing soldiers on the battlefield at Gettysburg. But my volunteer post as head of family assistance for the French Consulate wasn’t work really. Loving all things French was simply genetic for me. My father may have been half-Irish, but his heart belonged to France. Plus, Mother had inherited an apartment in Paris, where we spent every August, so I felt at home there.
The elevator stopped. Even through the closed doors, we could hear a terrific din of raised voices. A shiver ran through me.
“Third floor,” Cuddy called out. “French Consulate. Watch your—”
Once the doors parted, the noise overpowered all polite speech. The hallway outside our reception area was packed so tightly with people one could scarcely step through. Both the Normandie and the Ile de France, two of France’s premier ocean liners, had landed that morning in New York Harbor, packed with wealthy passengers fleeing the uncertainty in France. Once the all-clear horn signaled and they were free to disembark, the ships’ elite streamed to the consulate to iron out visa problems and other sticky issues.
I squeezed into the smoky reception area, past ladies in Paris’s newest day dresses who stood gossiping in a lovely cloud of Arp�
�ge, the sea spray still in their hair. The people in this group were accustomed to being shadowed by a butler with a crystal ashtray and a champagne flute. Bellboys in scarlet jackets from the Normandie went toe-to-toe with their black-jacketed counterparts from the Ile de France. I wedged one shoulder through the crowd, toward our secretary’s desk at the back of the room, and my chiffon scarf snagged on the clasp of one ravishing creature’s pearls. As I worked to extract it, the intercom buzzed unanswered.
Roger.
I pressed on through, felt a pat on my behind, and turned to see a midshipman flash a plaquey smile.
“Gardons nos mains pour nous-mêmes,” I said. Let’s keep our hands to ourselves.
The boy raised his arm above the crowd and dangled his Normandie stateroom key. At least he wasn’t the over-sixty type I usually attracted.
I made it to our secretary’s desk, where she sat, head down, typing.
“Bonjour, Pia.”
Roger’s cousin, a sloe-eyed boy of eighteen, was sitting on Pia’s desk, legs crossed. He held his cigarette in the air as he picked through a box of chocolates, Pia’s favorite breakfast. My inbox on her desk was already stacked with case folders.
“Vraiment? What is so good about it?” she said, not lifting her head.
Pia was much more than a secretary. We all wore many hats, and hers included signing in new clients and establishing a folder for each, typing up Roger’s considerable correspondence, and deciphering the massive flood of daily Morse-code pulses that was the lifeblood of our office.
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