Splendor

  Splendor

  A Luxe Novel

  Anna Godbersen

  For Sara

  Contents

  Prologue

  FIFTY YEARS AGO, EVERY AMERICAN GIRL WANTED to be a…

  One

  IN THE MORNINGS, SHE LIKED TO WALK ALONG THE seawall.

  Two

  THE BRANCHES OF THE TREES WERE SO THICK AND verdant…

  Three

  “THEY SAY THEY’LL BE CALLING TROOPS HOME SOON,” Colonel Copper…

  Four

  THE HEAT WAS STIFLING, AND EVERY CONCEIVABLE inch of floor—from…

  Five

  “THEY’VE ALL GROWN SO SMALL,” PENELOPE SCHOONMAKER announced, several hours…

  Six

  “DRINK UP NOW, BOYS!” CRIED DIANA HOLLAND, IN a brassy…

  Seven

  BY FOUR O’CLOCK ELIZABETH WAS FEELING RATHER fatigued, for she…

  Eight

  ELITE NEW YORK WAS SITUATED IN A HIERARCHY of boxes,…

  Nine

  “HOW LUCKY I FOUND YOU JUST WHEN I DID, because…

  Ten

  MONDAY AFTERNOON WAS THE TIME WHEN elegant people dropped by…

  Eleven

  DIANA WATCHED THE SKYLINE OF HAVANA DRAW away from her…

  Twelve

  IN THE CAIRNS BROWNSTONE, ON AN EMINENTLY respectable stretch of…

  Thirteen

  CAROLINA STEPPED INTO THE FIFTH AVENUE HOTEL in a cloud…

  Fourteen

  “OH, NUMBER SEVENTEEN!” DIANA REQUIRED A DAINTY twirl to fully…

  Fifteen

  A HAZE OF CIGAR SMOKE HUNG OVER THE GILDED ballroom…

  Sixteen

  DINNER HAD BEEN CLEARED AND PORT WAS being served in…

  Seventeen

  THE NOTE SLID INTO CAROLINA’S FIELD OF VISION with such…

  Eighteen

  PENELOPE ENTERED THE LARGE SECOND-FLOOR drawing room Monday afternoon, and…

  Nineteen

  THE YOUNG COUPLE DESCENDED THE HIGH TRAIN platform and joined…

  Twenty

  THE TWO MRS. SCHOONMAKERS STRODE ARM IN arm across the polished…

  Twenty One

  BUT WHY HAD HE NOT COME TO MEET HER?

  Twenty Two

  HENRY STARED INTO THE ALABASTER OVAL OF A face that…

  Twenty Three

  “SO WHICH ONE OF THESE FELLOWS IS MY RIVAL?” the…

  Twenty Four

  THE GHOSTLY GASOLIER LIGHT FELL ON MR. AND Mrs. Cairns, as the…

  Twenty Five

  ON TUESDAY THE HEAT BROKE, AND FOR DIANA ALL OF…

  Twenty Six

  “IT SIMPLY WON’T DO,” CAROLINA SAID, STARING INTO a reflection…

  Twenty Seven

  “WHAT DOES SHE THINK SHE’S DOING HERE?”

  Twenty Eight

  THE REVEREND’S DRONING HAD CEASED AND THE bagpipes had picked…

  Twenty Nine

  THE RIDE BACK TO THE SCHOONMAKER MANSION on Fifth was…

  Thirty

  “THE PUBLIC DOES LIKE THIS SORT OF THING,” Davis Barnard…

  Thirty One

  THE WALLS WERE DEEP RED. A LACY WHITE CANOPY obscured…

  Thirty Two

  “THANK YOU, GENTLEMEN.”

  Thirty Three

  THE BELLS HAD RUNG ONE O’CLOCK, BUT ALL OF the…

  Thirty Four

  MRS. HENRY SCHOONMAKER WAS PERFECTLY content to step outside the gothic…

  Thirty Five

  HENRY HAD WAITED ON THE STOOP OF NO. 17 Gramercy…

  Thirty Six

  DIANA UNDID HER HAT AND DROPPED IT ON THE piece…

  Thirty Seven

  BY THREE O’CLOCK CAROLINA HAD REMOVED THE veil, although she…

  Thirty Eight

  THERE WERE NO MORE ANGELS FOR ELIZABETH, not even in…

  Thirty Nine

  HENRY HAD STAYED UP ALL MONDAY NIGHT GOING over documents…

  Forty

  DAYLIGHT HAD BECOME SHIMMERINGLY VISIBLE IN the fanlight over the…

  Forty One

  “I DO HOPE IT WON’T BE A BOTHER,” MRS. HENRY Schoonmaker…

  Forty Two

  “MISS BROAD, IS THERE ANYTHING I COULD GET for you,…

  Forty Three

  “I DON’T KNOW THAT I AM READY TO GO IN…

  Forty Four

  THERE HAD BEEN DAYS, AND MAYBE EVEN WHOLE years, when…

  Forty Five

  TO HER HORROR, PENELOPE WOKE TO THE VIEW of her…

  Epilogue

  “I AM ALWAYS RELIEVED TO SEE IT SHRINK.”

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Anna Godbersen

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  FIFTY YEARS AGO, EVERY AMERICAN GIRL WANTED to be a European princess. One could detect it in her gowns and gestures, for they all tried to dress as European ladies did and to imitate the manners of Parisian salons. But now they come from the old world to see how we behave and decorate ourselves here in the United States. They stand on the decks of steamers, gloved hands gripping the guardrail as they catch their first glimpse of Manhattan, that island of towering buildings and smothering secrets, brimming with its millions of lives celebrated or forgotten in almost equal measure. What a narrow strip of land, those sea voyagers inevitably remark in surprise as they begin to take in the new world, for so very much to happen upon.

  Of course, roughly as many ships go out of the harbor as come into it. Even those whose names are regularly cast in the smudgy glory of gossip columns, and followed in every detail by an eager public, must sometimes leave. How many top-drawer souls were entrusted to the hands of the Cunard Company, whose twelve o’clock steamer was already drawing resolutely away from land, en route from New York to France? The crowd on the worn wood planks of the dock was growing smaller, as was the city that cropped up behind it. A gentleman or lady leaning against the rail could not even make out the handkerchiefs waving at them anymore, although they knew that fine examples of embroidery were still being held aloft in the thick summer air. Did they regard their hometown with love or nostalgia or resentment? Were they glad to see it slip by, block by block, or did they already miss its drawing rooms and shady clubs, the verdant park at its center, and the blocks of mansions lining its borders?

  There, those fine New Yorkers looking back at their city might think, if I followed that street I would arrive at Mamie Fish’s house. Or I could take that one to where the William Schoonmakers live, or to the Buck mansion, or to any number of Astor holdings. They might reflect, thinking of those landmarks, that it has always been a world that holds its children tight to its breast, or else sends them away to wander like exiles. What slights and embarrassments, what suffocating marriages and unforgivable deeds, what grand social missteps might the voyagers under that cloudless July sky be trying to escape?

  For any bright sets of eyes gazing a last time at the island of their birth, there will be a certain glow of longing for what was left behind. But the anguish of leaving will dim with every passing second as the excitement of what they are yet to see grows. Especially for a girl who, say, has only recently come to understand what hearts are capable of, or where love and a healthy sense of curiosity can take her; or a fellow who has just experienced the thrill of truly cutting ties for the first time, and of stepping out as his own man. After all, it takes only a few seasons to learn how everything changes, and how quickly; to realize that the glorious and grotesque lives lived at the currently fashionable addresses will soon seem quaint and outdated. New York will always be there, but it grows stranger every day, and staying put will not make it stay the same.

  And in the end it doesn’t matter, because the
se eyes had to go, and the distance from shore has rapidly become too great to swim. There is no going back now.

  One

  With the younger Miss Holland, Diana, away in Paris for a finishing season, it is a most lonely social era, and we have all had to content ourselves with lesser beauties. There are those of us who remember those chocolate eyes and glossy curls and sulk in the corners at gatherings awaiting her return.

  ——FROM THE “GAMESOME GALLANT” COLUMN IN THE

  NEW YORK IMPERIAL, FRIDAY, JULY 6, 1900

  IN THE MORNINGS, SHE LIKED TO WALK ALONG THE seawall. She went by herself and usually only passed one or two gentlemen, canes ticking against the stone, for the locals preferred to stroll later in the day, after siesta. Lately the weather had grown extreme, and there were occasions when the ocean would sweep over her path; at first this frightened her, but by a humid Friday in early July, she had come to view it as a kind of baptism. The force of the sea—as she had written in her notebook the night before, just before falling asleep—stirred her, and soothed her, and made her feel reborn.

  Once she had crossed the Paseo del Prado, she turned and headed into the old town, with its shadowy arcades and glimpses of tiled and verdant patios just beyond the crooked streets. There were more people there, lingering in arched doorways or around tables in the squares. She wore a wide, drooping straw hat, and her short brown curls were pinned up at the nape to disguise the peculiar length. Not that it mattered—she was a foreigner, and all of her peculiarities were obscured by that one vast difference. No one recognized her here; it did not matter to any of the Habaneros passing in the street that she was Diana Holland.

  That was in fact her name, and in other parts of the world it carried certain implications. For instance, that she had been taught from a young age never to show the naked skin of her hands outside of her family home, nor to walk on the streets of her own city unchaperoned. And although she had routinely flaunted these restrictions, she had never known what it was to be so thoroughly free of the rules of her hometown until she had arrived in Cuba. In her light-colored, loose-fitting dress, on the streets of a very foreign capital, she was both quite noticeable and, in a manner, invisible. She was anonymous, and, like the sea, this state of being made her feel all new and clear-eyed.

  The ocean was behind her now, as well as the slate gray clouds that were massing over the bay and beginning to crowd out the blue sky. The green of the palm trees appeared extreme in contrast. The air was thick and moody with the possibility of rain, and the weather looked bad, but for her there was something satisfying in such a landscape. The shades of dark, the looming quality, all seemed to her a kind of expression of what was in her soul. Sooner or later the downpour would begin, first in big drops, then in heavy sheets that would soak the striped awnings and flood the gutters. It was not long ago—a matter of weeks, although sometimes it felt like forever—that she had arrived in Havana, but she was a quick study of atmospheric disturbances. This one had the color of suffering, and she would know.

  She was alone and thousands of miles from home, but of course it wasn’t all suffering. If Diana had been pressed, she would have had to admit that there was only one thing she really wanted for. Even the loss of her curly mane of hair had not been truly bitter. She had cut it because of Henry Schoonmaker—she’d foolishly tried to enlist in the army to follow him, even though he was her sister Elizabeth’s former fiancé, and currently married to a rather terrifying girl, who as a maiden had gone by the name Penelope Hayes. A thing Diana wouldn’t do in pursuit of Henry had yet to present itself. Before this she had been a barmaid on a luxury liner, and before that she had hustled her way to Chicago on trains. That was when she still believed that Henry was in a regiment headed for the Pacific by way of San Francisco.

  She had gotten used to the short hair, which had been a self-inflicted wound in the first place, and anyway there was nothing chopped tresses could do to contradict the rosy femininity of Diana’s petite body. In the previous months she had found herself capable in ways she could not possibly have imagined back in the cozy rooms of the townhouses of old New York. She had never, during her adventures, gone without food or slept out of doors. But, oh, the lack of Henry—how that wrung her delicate heart.

  Diana had been all manner of places since her boy-short hair had failed to convince the United States Army that she was ready for basic training back in March, but none of them had looked remotely like this. As she walked, she couldn’t shake the sensation of being in a very old city—New York wasn’t so much younger, she knew, but somehow it effaced its history more effectively. She liked the idea that the cathedrals she passed, the façades with their wrought iron detailing and the red roofs above them, might still shelter aging conquistadors.

  Officially she was in Paris. That was what the papers were reporting, with a little help from her friend Davis Barnard, who wrote the “Gamesome Gallant” column in the New York Imperial. He was also the reason she knew Henry wasn’t where he was supposed to be, either—apparently old William Schoonmaker held such sway that he had not only secured a safer post for his son in Cuba, but had managed to bully all the New York newspapermen into keeping mum about the transfer. Diana liked the idea that neither of them was where they were supposed to be. They each had a decoy self, out there in the world, and meanwhile their real selves were moving stealthily, ever closer to one another.

  Presently she passed through a square where dogs lay languidly in the shadows and men lingered over their coffees in outdoor cafés. She had never been to Europe and so she couldn’t say for sure, but it seemed to her there was something Continental about the city, with its long memory and crumbling buildings, the ghosts in its alleys and the warbling of its Catholic bells, its slow and pleasant traditions. There was that smell in the air that always comes just before it rains, when the dry dirtiness of a city rises up a final time before it is washed away, and Diana began to hurry a little in anticipation of an onslaught. She wanted to arrive home, to her little rented rooms, and hopefully avoid being drenched.

  She had reached the edge of the square, and was moving quickly enough that she found it prudent to put her hand up to better secure her hat. Ahead of her were two American soldiers wearing fitted dark blue jackets and stone-colored slacks, and Diana’s eye was inexorably drawn to the easy gait of the taller one with the jauntily cocked hat. It was magnetic, his stride, and familiar, and for a moment she swore the sun must have broken through the clouds to cast the skin at the back of his neck a golden shade she knew well.

  “Henry!” she gasped out loud. It was characteristic of Diana that she spoke before she thought.

  The tall soldier turned first, slowly. For a moment her lungs had ceased to function; her feet felt like unwieldy hooves and wouldn’t move forward, no matter what urging she gave them. She forced oxygen in through her nostrils, but by then the man’s face was disappointingly visible, and she saw that the features were too soft and boyish, the chin too covered by reddish beard, to belong to Henry. His face was confused, devoid of recognition, but he went on staring at her. His mouth hung open a few seconds before breaking into a grin.

  “My name ain’t Henry,” he drawled. “But you, little lady, you can call me by whatever name you like.”

  His eyes went on gazing at her until they seemed a little fevered, and she couldn’t help but return his smile faintly. She liked being appreciated, but she did not want to be stalled. She had made the mistake of straying from Henry when he had not seemed to be hers before, and the recollection still horrified her. There were American troops all over the city, and someday soon she would run into the right one. She was as sure of it, as of something fated.

  In the meantime, she gave the tall soldier a wink—though not a very special one—and then hurried on, toward the Calle Obrapia, where she would ready herself for evening. The day was young, and everything in the city was bright, and Henry was out there somewhere, and she wanted to prepare for the day when the stars arr
anged themselves auspiciously, and long-lost lovers came face-to-face.

  Two

  …Of course no one has seen Miss Diana’s older sister, the former Miss Elizabeth Holland, as of late, either. She has happily wed her late father’s business partner, Snowden Trapp Cairns, and if rumors are to be believed, there will be a new member of the family by fall. We congratulate the Cairnses; the lovely Mrs. deserves nothing less after her harrowing experience of last winter, when she was kidnapped by a love-crazed former Holland family employee and barely escaped with her life after a violent scene in Grand Central Station….

  ——FROM THE “GAMESOME GALLANT” COLUMN IN THE

  NEW YORK IMPERIAL, FRIDAY, JULY 6, 1900

  THE BRANCHES OF THE TREES WERE SO THICK AND verdant over the pathways of Central Park that Elizabeth Holland Cairns—perched on the velvet seat of a phaeton, under the partially opened black leather roof—felt almost as though she had entered into the shade of a grotto. It was summer and the air was dense with moisture, and no one could blame the horses for moving slowly. She had not been out much since the day in late winter that had quietly changed her surname; a lady in her condition was not supposed to be seen. But the heat was so severe that even the walls of her apartment had seemed to sweat, and eventually her husband had convinced her that a drive in the park would do her good. She stared at the dappled light on the dusty path ahead and let her hand rest on the round belly that protruded from her petite frame.