Anna Godbersen - Envy

The tones in which men speak of life and death were heavy in the air around them. More cards were dealt and more money tossed into the center of the table. Teddy, who was already out of the game, was watching the soldiers intensely, but Henry could hardly look up from his hand. He was aware, in a vaguely embarrassed way, not only of his waistcoat but also the fine linen of his shirt, soft against his well-protected skin, and the elegant cut of his trousers and of the series of railcars ahead of them with their elaborate trappings, some of which he owned, or his family did, anyway. And when he thought of his railcar, it was impossible not to dwell on who sat within it. His head was still full of Diana, and the way her nose turned pink and eyes grew shiny in the cold.

Henry folded, followed shortly by the beardless man. Then the final two players turned over their hands. When Grayson saw that he had lost, he shoved the money at the center of the table toward Perkins in frustration.

“Again!” he cried, almost fiendishly, and began to collect the cards to deal another hand. Henry and Teddy acquiesced, though with less enthusiasm this time. One of them had become quiet and serious, and the other was too absorbed by the idea of a certain young lady’s presence somewhere down along the train as it moved ever southward, ever closer to the sun, to care very much how he spent his hours.

Thirteen

G—

I have a special task for you, one

you will enjoy. Come to my seat

as soon as possible, won’t you?

— P

PENELOPE RECLINED AGAINST THE EMERALD GREEN seat in her little section of the Schoonmaker railcar, her heavy ivory skirt fishtailing to the polished wood paneling of the floor. They had traveled many miles already and had arrived at that slow hour before dinner. Her guests were enjoying aperitifs in their seats; she could observe them, down the aisle, only partially obscured by the sliding doors that separated each section. Her arms, which were covered to the wrist in billowing rose-colored chiffon, were crossed over her chest, and she kept a dark brow arched as she gazed down the aisle. Miss Broad was in the next section and situated across the aisle, still sporting the camel-colored traveling suit that she had worn when they boarded in the late morning.

She was looking about her, at the hooped and fringed surroundings, at the ferns and cut flowers, as though she had never seen such finery before. It was quite possible she had not. Every time a man walked down the aisle she glanced up expectantly as though it might be Leland Bouchard; her heavy lids drooped down over her sage green irises each time she realized it was not. She had a crush on him — this was perfectly clear to Penelope from the way she always asked if he would be present at events they attended — but she didn’t have to be so pathetic about it.

Beyond Miss Broad and on the same side of the aisle were the Misses Holland. They sat together on the seat, the russet tones in Diana’s hair brought out by the green velvet upholstery. The older sister’s eyes had closed, and she rested her head on the younger’s shoulder, which looked to Penelope like an over-the-top and probably insincere display of affection. The brunette sister, meanwhile, read a book. She was lovely — Penelope knew it, even while the knowledge burned her. The girl’s curls shone, her eyes were bright, and her features were gorgeously composed. Although Penelope had used the news of her defilement in order to secure her own marriage, her husband’s former paramour maintained an aura of purity that Penelope would have liked to slap off her tart face.

Meanwhile, Penelope’s impatience grew. She had sent the messenger half an hour ago, and still nothing. She tilted her head back against the full cushions and looked at the beveled mirror above. The lips she saw in the reflection on the ceiling were generous and scarlet, the hair dark in contrast with her incandescent skin. Her hair was done up elaborately, with curls and braids and the little bangs dividing her unblemished forehead. She would not have thought that Henry’s affections would have lasted this long, or that Diana would be quite such competition for her. But Penelope had to grudgingly acknowledge how much space the younger Holland still occupied in Henry’s heart, for whenever he was remotely near her his whole bearing changed.

It was not that Penelope felt weakened, or even particularly unhappy. She was at that very moment utterly comfortable — it was her policy to always be comfortable unless beauty demanded otherwise — and she was enjoying hosting a bevy of guests in the grand cars that everyone knew were owned by her family-in-law. Henry’s indifference was irritating, but it could not detract from the pride she felt at being so publicly known to be his consort, or to be seen as the equal owner of his many treasures. And though she did feel Isabelle’s absence a little — that lady always knew how to enjoy fine things — she was exceedingly pleased to be the only Mrs. Schoonmaker onboard.

“And what does my favorite sister want?”

Penelope twisted around to see, at last, the figure of her brother approaching from the rear of the train. He moved quickly to kiss her cheek, and then fell into the velvet-covered seat opposite her. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his cuffs had come undone. She considered but decided against pointing out that she was his only sister, and that there were no others to play favorites with.

“I have an assignment for you,” she answered eventually. “An assignment?” Grayson’s mouth went crooked at the corner and he watched his younger sibling attentively with his matching blue eyes.

“Yes.” Penelope paused, and let her gaze wander back down to where Diana was. The girl looked up from her book and let her rich brown eyes stare back at Penelope for a long moment. She and her sister had both dressed for dinner, although Diana’s pale blue dress with the deep and lacy décolletage and the puffed sleeves was clearly not a new one. “I don’t think you’ll object, after you’ve heard it.”

“You’re little schemes are always amusing, Penny.”

The younger Hayes sibling felt another stab of irritation at the sound of her childhood nickname, especially after she had done him the compliment of waiting for him. “Please don’t call me that.”

He grinned, and the chandelier light that beamed down from the car’s ceiling reflected on his white teeth. Darkness was falling on the country passing by in their windows, and shadows emerged to dramatize the architecture of their faces, neither of which was built for kindly expressions. “My apologies, Mrs. Schoonmaker.”

She returned his smile broadly. “Thank you, brother.”

“Anything for you, dear sister.”

“I am glad to hear that,” she went on, lowering her voice confidentially, “because your assignment will require special delicacy.”

“And that is because?”

Penelope tilted her head to the left and let all of her long fingers rest against her slender neck. “I would like you to be a little nice — a little affectionate — with the younger Miss Holland.”

Grayson paused and looked down the aisle of the train; Penelope extended herself so that she could see what he saw. Diana didn’t raise her eyes this time, but adjusted her position so that the fading light from outside cast pretty shadows on her peach chest.

“A little nice?” Grayson asked as he pressed back into his seat.

Penelope’s eyes rolled coyly to the mirror above her head. She straightened her bangs and considered her words. “Yes, but not too nice. Get her to like you, but then hold back. You understand, don’t you? Keep her busy, but see if you can’t toss her heart around a little. She’s so young, and she could afford to be played a few times yet.” She wrinkled her nose and winked at her brother. She wasn’t sure if he was going to ask why, and not wanting to dwell on the rationale, she added: “Just for fun. We have such a long train ride, and one needs to entertain oneself and one’s guests during a seaside stay.”

Grayson looked at the Hollands one last time, and then turned back to his sister with a vaguely amused expression. He ran his fingers through his slick, dark hair and then shrugged, as though it were all the same to him. “Well, why not? She’s pretty enough.”

“I told you you’d like it!” Penelope laughed, although Diana Holland’s physical qualities were not the least bit funny to her when, in the next moment, her husband entered the car, looked down the aisle at the girl, and immediately assumed the expression of a man struck by Cupid’s arrow. If Grayson — whose gaze wavered momentarily between both Schoonmakers — made any connections, he gave no sign of it. Then Mrs. Schoonmaker stood, extended her rose chiffon — covered arms to her husband’s shoulders, and blocked his view. A few seconds passed before Henry’s black eyes met hers, but there was scarcely any recognition in them at all.

Fourteen

Travel can be time-consuming, dusty, over-heated, and odious, even for the wealthiest tourist. A lady never shows her discomfort, however, which is why she must approach any steamer or railcar prepared to play make-believe.

— DRESS MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 1900

THE TRAIN SHOOK A LITTLE AS IT RUMBLED toward its destination, but Diana moved down its length with determination, heading north while the iron beast went south, pulling the pale blue skirt clear of her long strides as she did. Her chin jutted forward and her left arm swayed. Her hair, which her sister had so neatly arranged for dinner, was now loosening about the ears; in a less distractable mood she might have acknowledged that that moment when her curls took on a life of their own was also often the peak of her loveliness. But just now her emotions had overruled rational thought and she was so overcome by something — though she hardly knew what it was — that she had found she was occasionally mouthing words to herself and had to rein herself in before she began babbling like a fool.

She was on her way to nowhere in particular, although she was in too featherbrained and selfish a mood to be with her sister any longer. Dinner had exhausted Elizabeth, who was now sleeping in their berth. Most of the other travelers were asleep too — the lights were low in the corridors, which were filled with a stern hush. Back in the Aries, Penelope and Carolina were playing cards; the men had retreated to their own single-sex, post-dinner world.

She might have gone to bed too, she knew, but her mind was all lit up. Travel always excited her — the strong and unfamiliar smells, the movement, the anxiety of arrival and departure times, the shouting of conductors, the idea of her tired old self changed by ever new surroundings. The train fascinated her too — it was made up of all the rooms and apparatuses of everyday human existence, except rendered slightly smaller, as though it were some kind of display case for mannequins, and then strung together on a very long necklace.

More than anything, though, her thoughts marched relentlessly back to Henry, and how she had been near him again after so many months. He had worn a tuxedo to dinner and given her only fleeting looks. But he had said that he still wanted only her, and that was enough kindling for her imagination. Now every time he touched his wife she saw his scorn; each time he so much as turned his dark eyes in Diana’s direction she felt the brush of lips against her throat. There was no sleeping after that. She was like a heroine in a novel that she herself was writing; the character kept protesting that she was too strong for love, and yet the narrator went on describing her desire.