The Luxe (26 page)

T
HAT NIGHT ELIZABETH DREAMED SHE WAS IN
a faraway part of the country with Will, where there were hills between houses and no one had a favorite Paris dressmaker. Then she dreamed that she was done up in white, with an elaborate and ridiculous point de gaze collar, and Penelope was laughing at her sadistically and throwing poisoned rice in her direction. But mostly she stared at the ceiling and wished that she were not so constantly awake. She had barely slept on Monday night, and now it looked like Tuesday night wasn’t going to give her any rest either.

There wasn’t even much to think about, because her options were so few and unattractive. She had been raised to please others—please them with her looks, her comportment, and her deeds—but now she could do nothing but be selfish. If she pleased her mother, she would be exposed as a wanton who had betrayed her class. And if she pleased Penelope—who had revealed herself to be the most duplicitous sort of friend, anyway—then she would be cast out from the only
home and way of life she had ever known. And if she pleased herself…well, it was too late for that.

When she had finally had enough of staring at the ceiling, she pushed herself up and went to her closet. She took out her white kimono and tied it around her small body. The whole day had been spent at the dressmaker’s. There was the wedding gown to be made, and the dress for the reception afterward, and so many little things for her trousseau. She had stood up straight and erect all day and listened to herself talked about as though she wasn’t in the room.

The worst of it was, she had been alone. She had often imagined herself as a bride when she was young, and in all kinds of settings. As a bride in a simple wedding, with gerbera daisies in her hands; as a bride in a lavish event that got written up in the papers, where she would wear a long train decorated with tiny silk roses that flowed behind her all down the church steps. But she had always imagined that the part about the dress would be fun. In reality, she had spent the whole day playing mannequin for a small fleet of seamstresses petrified of her disapproval. She was left feeling nothing but sore and isolated, and was driven home by Mr. Faber instead of Will, who once upon a time would have been waiting for her with the carriage when she finished such an errand. Of course Penelope hadn’t been there. But Diana—there was no reason for Diana not to have come and help her determine whether
she looked beautiful or ridiculous—but she had shrugged off the task as well, preferring instead to remain in her room, reading and moping about who knew what.

Elizabeth walked across her bedroom, growing almost angry as she thought about Diana’s absence. After all, Elizabeth was sacrificing her own happiness for the sake of her family. She was renouncing her own wishes, so that the Holland women would not fall. And Diana could not even be bothered to take her nose out of her book for one day.

Elizabeth threw open her door and marched down the hall. She raised her fist to knock on Diana’s door, but then admonished herself. It wasn’t Diana’s fault that her older sister had fallen in love with the wrong person, and continued to love him even when she knew it would only lead to trouble. It wasn’t her fault that their family was so badly off financially. Elizabeth rested her hand against the door and took a breath. Then she knocked in a gentle, sisterly way.

“Di?” she called. She looked down the hall to where their mother slept, and hoped that she wouldn’t come to see what the matter was. Since yesterday morning, Elizabeth had felt a great distance open up between her mother and herself. She had nothing left to say to the old woman. “Di?” Elizabeth called again. When she didn’t answer a second time, Elizabeth pushed into the room.

It took her a few moments to realize that the room was
empty. Of Diana, anyway. There were dresses thrown across the bed and floor, and shoes turned at all varieties of angles. Lillie Langtry gave her a hazy look and crossed her paws.

Elizabeth began distractedly looking through the closet and behind the chairs. She checked the high windows onto the balcony—they were jammed closed but unlocked. She was about to go downstairs to see if Diana had gone there to search for a book or a glass of milk, when she noticed a hatbox protruding from under the bed. The gold lid was askew, and Elizabeth saw from across the room a dark brown bowler. It was just like any bowler, but it brought her back instantly to a day two weeks ago when her world began to disintegrate.

She remained transfixed by the hat as she walked across the room. Lillie Langtry gave a little meow, and trotted along beside Elizabeth before walking in a quick circle around the box and flopping down next to it. When Elizabeth picked up the hat the first thing she noticed was the gold embroidery on the pale blue ribbon that ran around the inside of the brim:
HWS
.

She sat down heavily on the chenille bedspread, looking into the hatbox as she did. There were two scraps of paper lying there, against the charcoal velvet. She had to force herself to pick them up and read each of the notes that Henry had written to her sister. They were signed simply
HS
, but she had no doubt to whom the initials referred. She couldn’t be sure when he had sent Diana the missive telling her to keep his
hat, or the one that indicated he couldn’t stop thinking about her. But his intentions were clear, and Diana’s absence from her room at that hour spoke well enough for hers.

A cold shock was settling into the muscles of Elizabeth’s face. She lay back and brought her knees to her chest, and twirled the bowler on her finger distractedly. Lillie Langtry stood, stretched, walked around Elizabeth, and then settled on the pillow beside her head. Elizabeth put down the hat and sighed. She might have laughed if she had been the kind of girl to find humor in perversity, but this horrible evidence of her sister’s corruption was not in the least funny to her.

Elizabeth’s mind was seized by a cool fury, as she realized something else: that her predicament with Penelope was at least half Henry’s fault. Whatever his involvement with Penelope, it had surely inspired some of her vengeful actions. Now he was no doubt out somewhere in the city seducing naïve little Diana. And after all of that, on a day not so far in the future, he still expected Elizabeth to be his wife.

She got up from the bed as though she had some purpose, but there was nothing to do but gather the clothes strewn about Diana’s room. The angry, desperate feeling grew inside her with every passing moment as she put away all the many dresses that her younger sister had considered wearing to her misbegotten tryst.

“W
HAT DOES THAT MEAN?” DIANA SAID, GLOWING
with joy as she turned the lapis-encrusted cross with the inscription on the back. She ran her fingers along the letters, longing for a way to be his real bride instead. But she already knew that could not be. Since they had left the greenhouse, every moment with Henry felt imbued with its own rare luster. The sounds of the city on its way to work were just outside their carriage, but they might as well have been coming from across the river.

“My father gave it to my mother before they were married. I’ve never understood what it meant. I suppose he might have given it to the seventeen-year-old girl he married in the hope that she would always be seventeen.” Henry gave a muted, ironic laugh. “But that’s not why I’m giving it to you.”

“I know,” Diana said as she tucked the cross into her bodice.

“It’s more understated than all the things he gave her
later; maybe that’s why I like it. I don’t remember her very well; I was only four when she died. But I think she was that old-fashioned, natural kind of beautiful that doesn’t benefit from all the ornament.”

Diana took this in. She had learned so much about Henry over the last evening that he practically constituted an entirely new person, and everything he said now seemed a wink to her special knowledge. She leaned forward from her seat in the plain buggy, the one vehicle Henry could possibly have managed to borrow unnoticed from the Schoonmaker carriage house, and around the black folding top. They were paused on Broadway, waiting for the right moment for Diana to slip into the morning crowd and make her way home. She turned her sleepy, adoring eyes back on him and tried to smile as best she could. “It’ll be hard watching you marry Liz, Henry….” She had intended something more finalizing and profound, but her throat was constricting so painfully now that she knew she wouldn’t be able to say any more.

Henry kissed her below her right eye. Diana took a final look at him before pulling her hood firmly over her face and slipping down to the street. Once her feet touched the ground, she found it easy to move forward and join the hordes on their morning route. All around her, men in bowlers and cheap three-piece suits walked at a swift gait that didn’t allow for time to wonder at the darting girl with the hood.

Before long she had found the alley off Nineteenth Street, which led into the Van Dorans’ property and then into her own family’s. She had risked the trellis the night before, which had been nearly as dangerous as venturing out by herself into the New York night, but today she took the easier route of the hatch door into the basement washing room. From there it was a breathless dash up the servants’ stairs and she was on the second floor and very close to the door to her own safe bedroom.

There was nobody there, which was some kind of relief, but the room was altered from when she had left it. All the dresses that she’d pulled out to consider wearing for her evening with Henry had been put away. All her high-heeled slippers, too. And sitting on top of her neatly made bed was the hat that Henry had worn on the day they met. Anxiety began to grip at Diana as she went to the bowler and picked it up. She was frozen in place, immobile with the sad, awful thought of who had been there the night before.

I
T WAS NINE THIRTY ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, AND
Elizabeth found herself stopped on Broadway, in the middle of all the morning bustle, her limbs paralyzed by hopelessness. All the chaos—the horse-drawn delivery carts, the trolleys, the yelling of drivers, the sounds of carriage wheels against the battered pavement, the throngs of pedestrians—ceased to exist in her mind. The scene she had just witnessed was not, after the evidence she’d seen the night before, a surprise, but the emotion it awoke in her was startling.

The hooded figure of her younger sister had already disappeared down Twenty-first Street. The sight of Diana, on a Manhattan corner so early in the morning, had confirmed all of Elizabeth’s suspicions. But she remained strangely stuck to her spot, watching the person who had been left behind. He had stepped down from his buggy, and was just standing there on the curb. She couldn’t be sure, because she had always been the one doing the running away, but she was nearly certain the forlorn way Henry was looking down Twenty-first Street
wasn’t so different from the way that Will must have looked every morning when she turned her back on him and went into the house.

Elizabeth had barely managed to sleep the night before, and still she had risen from bed without the slightest idea how she could subdue Penelope, how she could save Diana, or how she could possibly resign herself to marrying the loathsome Henry Schoonmaker. She had tried to dress herself with some determination, in the same dress of blue-and-white seersucker she had worn the day he had proposed, and because she sensed the weather was about to change, a camel wrap with a hood and flannel lining. Once she was dressed she still hadn’t known what to do, and so she had decided to walk, all the way up Fifth Avenue to face Penelope. Every member of the household was employed in some wedding-related task or other, and in the few moments when her opinion was not required she had managed to slip out the door.

Last night she had come to the conclusion that her fiancé was the most licentious man she had ever met. But his appearance now dispelled that belief. She stood there watching him a moment longer, in his simple black suit, with his face overcome by loss, and felt sure that he was not trying to take advantage of Diana. He actually did love her sister, and though she couldn’t totally explain it, she had the growing
conviction that her sister loved him in return. Elizabeth had been wrong. Her anger had dissolved in seconds.

A high, black coach, with men in work clothes standing up on the back, paused between Henry and Elizabeth, considering how it should enter the fray on the wide thoroughfare. When it had passed and her view opened up again, Henry had turned and was looking in her direction.

Henry lowered his head, but kept his eyes, full of remorse and resignation, looking directly into her own. She could see now that he was not so unlike her—that he was willing to marry for some reason having more to do with family and duty and class than love, but that his heart lay elsewhere. He took off his hat and tipped it gently in her direction. She bent her head slowly in reply, to let him know they understood each other, and then turned away and moved northward into the crowd. She had an appointment for which she could not be late.

Everything was different now, but still as impossible as it had been before. Elizabeth realized with sadness how easy everything would be if she simply did not exist. She no longer needed the forty-block walk to the Hayes mansion to figure out what to do. In an instant she had realized what that single devastating thing was.