Splendor: A Luxe Novel (7 page)

“This is a deed,” he began. “One of the ownership docu ments of a piece of land your father purchased, in California, near a little railroad town called San Pedro….”

“Yes,” Elizabeth whispered. She looked into her husband’s eyes, imploring him to explain it all for her.

“I know that land.”

“Yes.” Snowden’s eyes darted across her body to the floor and back again. Then he went on in a rapid voice. “Your mother and I discussed it, of course, when you returned from California with—your first husband. He had mentioned there was oil on the land, and as a close family friend, your mother confided file://C:\Documents and Settings\nickunj\Desktop\book.html 10/28/2009

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in me. I told her that of course oil speculation was a very complicated business, and awfully difficult to turn a profit on, but that Will seemed like a capable boy, and that if he didn’t make it there he would make it some other way….”

The sun was falling out of the sky, and shadows touched all the objects in the room. Snowden’s face, a few feet away, was growing indistinct in the waning light. Breath had escaped her, and she had to remind herself to inhale. She nodded at him that he should go on.

“After…the tragedy, after Will’s death, I began to piece together an explanation for an odd series of documents that I’d found amongst your father’s papers, when I first came to help your family, early last winter. Of course I did not then know who William Keller was.” Elizabeth’s eyes had become watery and her pale pink lips parted involuntarily. “He knew,” she whispered.

“That there was oil? He must have believed so; why else would a man like Edward Holland have been interested in land like that?”

“No…” She bit her lip and swallowed hard as she took in her father’s sanctioning of Will’s love for her, so long after both men had died. “Father knew that Will loved me. That I loved him.” Snowden looked away.

In her more gathered moments, Elizabeth would have thought to apologize, but it did not occur to her now. “Why did you not tell me?” she pursued.

“My dear Mrs. Cairns, you were in no state to receive this kind of news. But you needn’t have worried. I have been seeing to your interests. I’ve taken several trips to California to inspect the land, and it is in truth a rich oil field. Production has begun, and we’ve already seen returns on the property. How do you think I was able to secure funds for this house, my dear?” His hand swept through the air, and her eyes followed the arc it made, as though some detail in the molding would symbolize her father’s prescience.

“Of course, the natural treasure of the land will not be realized overnight, but very soon it will be paying us all—the Hollands, that is—quite handsomely.”

“Oh!” Elizabeth took a breath; she had never breathed so deeply. Her long, fine fingers fluttered over her chest and she tried valiantly not to cry again. So it was Will who was caring for them after all.

The fatigue she had been dodging all afternoon was suddenly overwhelming. She fixed her gaze on the short, blunt stubble of Snowden’s chin, which was a light color, and so caught the very last of the sun—

and she tried to smile a little in gratitude.

“Thank you.” She closed her eyes, and when she whispered it again, she was thinking of her father and the father of her unborn child, who were, perhaps, just at that moment, watching over her from heaven.

“Thank you.”

Eight

Now that Carolina Broad has shown all of society her splendid new abode, and all the wonderfully precious things she has managed to acquire for it, we suppose there will be no more doubting that she is at last one of us. Although the wardrobe that she ordered for her first summer season might have been taken as sufficient proof of this, or, for that matter, the fact that she retained her benefactor Carey Lewis Longhorn’s famed box at the opera, and is regularly seen entertaining there.

——FROM CITÉ CHATTER, SATURDAY, JULY 7, 1900

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ELITE NEW YORK WAS SITUATED IN A HIERARCHY of boxes, arranged around a grand horseshoe, high above a vibrant and melodramatic performance on a stage that few, if any, audience members were still paying attention to. The light of a giant chandelier played against their raised lorgnettes, which were adorned, like the hands that held them, with jewels of all varieties. There was plenty of drama to be witnessed, after all, by gazing through those ornamented lenses at the wearers of Doucet gowns, and at the gentlemen who had escorted them. Mrs. Henry Schoonmaker was out for the second night in a row, but nobody dared visit her box for fear of angering her father-in-law; Eleanor Wetmore, who was said to be desperate for a proposal since she had played maid of honor at her younger sister’s June wedding, was twittering again beside that known roué Amos Vreewold. It was less than a year ago that Carolina had first come, wide-eyed, to this very box. But tonight she was no longer interested in what might be glimpsed or overheard around her, for she was sitting next to her first love, or her first real one, anyway. He was one of the favorite sons of the tribe that filled the parterre boxes at the opera, and so she knew that tonight, at his side, she was the girl to surreptitiously observe.

Earlier, they had dined in Leland’s grand town house, a choice of venue that had initially disappointed her—for she was desperate to be seen out with her new beau—but which she had, in the end, found the beauty in. “It was so much more intimate that way,” she could already imagine telling her lady’s maid later, when her corset was being undone, and she would be telling the truth. For it had been much easier—sitting across from each other, the candlelight flickering in the darkened room, the prettily patterned white damask cloth between them—for Leland to stare appreciatively at her aubergine chiffon flounces and lichen-colored eyes. And he had felt comfortable enough to grow animated telling her about all the different places in Paris where he had thought her name to himself, and contemplated the qualities that set her apart from all the other girls he had ever known. His words received encores in her thoughts now, as she sat in Longhorn’s traditional box, with glazed, rosy vision and a probably dopey smile. Any attempts to change that expression would have been useless. Occasionally Leland reached out, boldly, to squeeze her gloved hand under the cover of her shawl.

Now he bent in her direction, and spoke at such low vol ume that she had to tip her head toward him. The roughness of his skin came close enough that it tickled her neck, which would have made the corners of her mouth flicker had they not been already.

“You’re far better in person,” he said.

The tingling sensation that played along Carolina’s exposed arms and shoulders told her how strenuously she was being watched from all angles, but Leland’s vigor and apparent obliviousness to the prying opera glasses all around them was something she wanted to share in. She drew back and smiled at him, straight on and adoringly. Moments had passed, or the better part of an hour, she wasn’t sure, when he spoke again. The performers onstage were all different by then.

“How lucky that we live on the same block!” he went on, disbelieving.

“Yes!” Carolina’s head bobbed in ebullient agreement. “What luck.” Stars bloomed in her eyes. Still Leland’s presence there beside her, and in her very own box, was something she could only consume in small doses. There was his height, and his solidity, and his overgrown, wheat-colored hair tucked behind his ears, and his long legs in black dress trousers, crossed and still almost too large for the small space, each of which taken alone might have caused a touch of trembling in her knees. She went on sneaking glances at him, but then he would turn and gaze at her with wide-open eyes, almost as though he were feeling the same wonderful, scarcely credible thing. It was faint-making. Looking at Leland was almost too much for her—it threatened to overwhelm. Then she file://C:\Documents and Settings\nickunj\Desktop\book.html 10/28/2009

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looked away.

Her glances fell across the capacious room: On her friend Penelope, whose blue eyes flashed in defiance; at Reginald Newbold and his new bride, Adelaide, who was wearing a diamond choker; at the Whitehall Vanderbilts, who rumor had it were not speaking to each other after their last trip to Monte Carlo, and whose postures in their box confirmed the tale. Then her gaze fixed itself on the face of Mrs. Portia Tilt and that lady’s companion, who was a far younger, far thinner man than her husband. He had fine, architectural features and eyes of a hypnotic quality, although he held no allure for Carolina. No allure, except that she felt an immediate urgency not to give any clue that she knew him.

Tristan Wrigley was a Lord & Taylor salesman, but he was many other things besides: a hustler, the first man ever to kiss Carolina, and the person who had originally suggested to her that there might be a fortune in her friendship with Longhorn. Then he stood, and she realized she’d been caught staring. The possibility that he would enter her box, that she would be seen in front of all New York society talking to someone worse than a nobody, occurred to her with a crush ing gravity. Slowly, delicately, she released Leland’s palm and rose to her feet.

Luckily for Carolina, Amos Vreewold entered the private room behind her box just then. She saw, in a second, how easy it would be to absent herself, and avoid a visit from Portia Tilt’s well-made companion.

“Why, Mr. Vreewold,” she began, gathering herself. “You must excuse me, I was just on my way to the ladies’ lounge for a freshening-up. Surely you will have much to discuss with our dear Mr. Bouchard.”

“Vreewold…,” Leland said, turning, engaging the other man in conversation, “you haven’t changed even a little!”

She put her fists into her skirt, to draw it back from her toes, and reminded herself that in this, her second social season, she already occupied the most coveted box at the opera. She had followed the lead of her friend Penelope Schoonmaker and chosen a signature color with imperial connotations; Penelope’s was red, hers was purple. She was not to be trifled with. As soon as she stepped into the curving corridor, she came face-to-face with Tristan Wrigley.

“Can I help you?” Her voice was ever so low, ever so refined.

The man met her cool stare with a smile that spread slyly across his face and twinkled with charisma. He had a fine American jaw, and cheekbones that might easily convince an inexperienced girl that he came from good people. Like the real gentlemen in attendance, he wore shining black tails and a white bow tie, which fit him with certain flair. Though she would have known him anywhere, she maintained her indifferent, unresponsive gaze. Still, below her ribbons and her bows, underneath the bones of her corset, a layer of sweat began to collect on the skin of her ribs—for after all, it would have been impossible to completely forget how he entered her life, during that wild, impressionable period when she was just a lady’s maid recently fired by the grand Holland family, making a fool of herself in all of Manhattan’s best hotels.

His muddy golden eyes swept her figure, taking in the pearls at her décolletage and the tiers of chiffon that hung about her like delicate aubergine leaves. After an inappropriately long pause, he emitted a slow, appreciative whistle. “I would say so.”

Carolina straightened. That angry, righteous feeling, which was such an inescapable piece of her personality, was seeping into her lungs. “Excuse me?” He rested his shoulder jauntily against the curved wall of the corridor. The music of the orchestra sounded muffled and far away here. No one had yet passed them, but how long could that last? “I see my Carolina has done well for herself.”

The phrase “my Carolina” came off his tongue purposefully, as though he wanted to remind her of the night he’d surprised her with a kiss on the mouth in an elevator, or of that brief period—after Mr.

Longhorn had died, but before she knew the kindness he had bestowed upon her—when she had believed herself helpless, and had depended on Tristan for shelter and other things better now forgotten. That he would lord these events over her put a match to her rage, and heated the tender edges of her ears. But then she remembered herself, and glanced back toward the box. The curtains formed a sliver, through which she could make out, with relief, silhouettes of Leland and Amos bent in conversation.

“I am not anybody’s Carolina,” she returned.

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Tristan shrugged and took a step toward her, leaning in close enough that she caught a faint whiff of onion on his breath. “I can’t pretend I made you all on my own, but you know very well you couldn’t have gotten here without me.” The tone of his voice was lined with malice now. The smile became a grimace. “Longhorn was my idea, or had you forgotten? I believe you owe me some gratitude…Miss Broud.”

Carolina’s blood quickened, and she quivered a little at the sound of her true surname, and wanted very badly for it all to be over, for none of it to be true. She stepped away from him, as though that might make their past together, and all the other ways she used to be, disappear. Her movement was quickly mimicked, and he held her gaze as she backed away.

“Who is this?”

Carolina’s heart thudded. Her eyes grew round. She turned, and saw Amos and Leland, stepping out from the box and into the corridor. Jovial expressions faded from their faces as they took in the sight of the handsome, flashily dressed fellow who was most certainly not one of their people. The boy she had been dreaming about for months was no less handsome when he wore an unhappy expression, Carolina saw.

The suggestion of a territorial instinct lent an imposing quality to his features, which she discovered that she liked. In seconds, she knew that she would do anything to keep him from discovering what she really was—she would do anything just to keep him.

“I have no idea.” The timbre of her voice was so light and sure, that she wondered for a moment if perhaps she was an actress at heart. When she turned back to Tristan, her face communicated nothing but a profound lack of recognition. “He thought he knew me, but he was wrong.”