Anna Godbersen - Envy
“Why don’t you write it?”
This casual offer flooded Diana with nervous anticipation; she smiled behind her fan. “All right,” she said after a moment, so as to not seem too eager.
“Don’t try to hide your smiles from me, Miss Diana Holland.” Barnard turned slightly away from her as he spoke, and motioned to a waiter for another drink. “I hope, for my own sake, that the day you realize that you were made for better things is later rather than sooner.”
They had reached the huge, classically proportioned windows that faced northward onto the street, and Diana dropped her friend’s arm for a moment to gaze down at the fallen snow reflecting the warm light from above. Behind them the voice of Leland Bouchard could be heard going into raptures about his recent purchase of a horseless carriage, an Exley, which was displayed in the first-floor vestibule so that guests could, upon their arrival, stare at its shiny modernity with covetous curiosity.
Their host was tall, with a uniquely broad forehead and wheat-colored hair that always seemed a little overgrown. “It can cover twenty-four miles in an hour, without undue racing effort,” he was saying to Mr. Gore.
“He is an investor in the Exley Motor Carriage Company,” Barnard remarked, sotto voce, to his protégé.
Though Diana should have listened for more information, she found her attention already wandering to the street below. The lace flower on her gown rose and fell with her breath, and a delicate sensation settled across her chest. The crowd behind her, which was full of stories that the protagonists would rather not have told, and also of small deceptions certain to amuse the reading public, dimmed for her. Just a moment ago she had felt the cleverest player in a game that obsessed the whole room, but she was overcome now by the strong impulse to hide herself and the brassy sound of her famous laugh.
Down below, Henry Schoonmaker had stepped out of his coach and was lighting a cigarette as he paused by the iron gate that encircled Leland Bouchard’s mansion. He was the man who had drawn out Diana’s affections last season, and then pounded on them. There was much history between them, but as Diana watched him, posing there with the elbow of his smoking arm rested on his wrist, in a wide, pensive stance, she reminded herself that she felt no emotion for him. And when Henry’s wife, Penelope — of the so newly grand Hayes family — arrived at her husband’s side, with her fierce blue eyes cast directly in front of her, Diana reminded herself that Henry had chosen to marry mere weeks after taking Diana’s virginity.
“I’d like to know what goes on in their bedroom.” Barnard smirked.
“The Schoonmakers are the envy of every young couple in the city,” Diana answered mechanically, as though repeating some lesson learned by rote.
Barnard took two champagne glasses from a passing tray and handed one to Diana. She closed her eyes and took a long sip that did nothing to settle her insurgent nerves. In a moment, Henry Schoonmaker would be coming through the door.
He must not see her.
Even as Diana tried to fill her sister’s role, acting the part of the good Holland daughter in the wider world, she had scrupulously avoided letting Henry catch even a glimpse of her. In the same manner, she had been careful to burn his letters — which had arrived daily since his New Year’s Eve wedding to Penelope — unopened, and to smooth away any feelings the sight of his face might have lit up in her. She had thought once, not long ago, that they were destined to share a storybook romance. But she was an entirely different kind of girl now — she had had her heart broken and all of her naïveté worn off. Nothing Henry said could change her back to the way she had been then, and certainly not if it came in so cold-blooded a form as a letter.
“Are you all right?” Barnard asked, twisting the pale gold flute in his large hand.
“Only a little tired.” Diana smiled weakly as she handed him back her nearly full glass. “I ought to be going, but I promise I will learn everything there is to know about Eleanor Wetmore’s matrimonial ambitions by Sunday at the very latest.”
Her voice rose courageously on that final word. She extended her hand for her friend to kiss, and then she moved carefully through the crowd, always keeping the central palm between her and the entryway. But she must have hesitated too long, for just as she ventured forward, the Henry Schoonmakers appeared and filled the doorframe. Diana let out a little gasp and drew backward, so that the great green leaves covered her figure. She could still see enough, though. For Penelope was wearing a slash of red that might have brought to mind the butcher, were it not made of quite so precious a material.
The new Mrs. Schoonmaker made a friendly gesture across the room at the older Mrs. Schoonmaker, Henry’s stepmother, who was only twenty-six and wearing a rather daring dress herself. Then Adelaide Wetmore overtook Henry and his wife, and distracted them long enough for Diana to make her move. She pulled back her skirt and hurried through the throng toward the library, where she would rouse her aunt and collect their wraps. It was cold outside, and they were more than forty blocks from their own, somewhat out-of-fashion address. A chill, which Diana would have liked to believe was numbness, was settling around her chest. Still, it took everything she had not to turn and look back as she left the party behind.
Two
Society is always particularly receptive to new blood in the winter. It has ever been thus; it is so now; and Mrs. Carolina Broad is only the latest to benefit from this fact of nature. Her climb has been precipitous, for in November nobody had ever heard of her, and by the end of December, her name was in all the papers as one of Mrs. Penelope Schoonmaker’s bridesmaids. We hear she lives in the New Netherland hotel, under the chaste wing of Mr. Carey Lewis Longhorn, and she is without question or doubt one to watch..
— FROM THE “GAMESOME GALLANT” COLUMN IN THE NEW YORK IMPERIAL, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1900
THE GIDDY PIANO MUSIC FROM THE MAIN FLOOR of Sherry’s Restaurant, on Fifth Avenue and Forty-fifth Street, could be heard even in the ladies’ lounge, and perhaps might even be said to have infected the women there. For they were clambering forward, in that rosy-hued space, toward the mirror, which was etched with metallic curlicues and shrouded in white netting from above, as though by celestial clouds. It was large, but not large enough for all those pink-cheeked beauties in their silks and laces, as they leaned in to blacken their lashes and perfume their décolletages. They had supped on English pheasant and hothouse asparagus, and they had grown drowsy until the coffee arrived. Now they were eager for the next chapter of their evenings, and perhaps none of them so much so as Carolina Broad, who stood in the center pinching her freckled cheeks to bring some warm color there, in a dress of pale but unmistakable gold.
The dress was the gift of Carey Lewis Longhorn, the man often referred to in the papers as the elder statesman of New York bachelors. It brought out the length and slimness of her middle, while disguising her big, bony shoulders with bursts of gold-edged lace, and her almost unladylike clavicles with five choker-length strands of gleaming pearls. Her dark hair was festooned with strands of smaller pearls, and her lichen-colored eyes were set under recently shaped brows. The pride of her face, her bee-stung lips, were painted glossy red. Any of the women surrounding her would have been shocked to hear that she’d once been a maid in service to the kind of girl she now purported to be, or that she had until recently been known by the plain-sounding name Lina Broud.
This was an inconvenient fact of which Longhorn was perfectly aware, and that his young friend did her best to forget. It was easy to forget now, as she swept her skirt, its lacy underskirts foaming upward like a cresting wave, back from the vanity table and moved toward the central dining room. She walked very well, in a manner almost indistinguishable from the way she had walked only a few months ago, and it was at this ladylike gait that she came through the series of small, dimly lit antechambers and stepped into the margins of Sherry’s main dining room. Her figure was shadowed by a second-floor balcony, but she had an excellent view of the vast room, with its columns and posts, its white tablecloths and elaborate flower arrangements, its hustling waiters and pampered debutantes.
Longhorn sat at a prominent table in the middle of the room where the dappled light of the central chandelier shone brightest. When he had dined by himself he had preferred the corners, but once Carolina began accompanying him she had insisted that it was her time to be seen, and he had acquiesced with an easy laugh. He was wearing his customary red velvet smoking jacket and an old-fashioned collar that turned down at its high, white corners and was fastened below the chin with a conspicuous button. His hair had gone gray, though he still had much of it, and despite the wear of a drinking life, which was evidenced in a swollen nose, you could see the good features that had made him so desired as a young man. At his shoulder stood his man, Robert — a constantly hovering, bearded presence — with their capes. Carolina felt a surge of airy anticipation when she realized this, for she knew what those capes signified. It was time to go.
It was not that she did not appreciate the fine china or the champagne cocktails or the elaborate service of her patron’s favorite restaurant. She had enjoyed her many courses (perhaps with a little too much relish, she had realized when she caught Robert looking at her from his post), and being observed by all the other diners, who had lately grown as curious about her as she once was about them. But her whole evening thus far had been building to its second act, in which Longhorn took her to a party at the home of Leland Bouchard, whose name now held a place in her thoughts once reserved for that of Will Keller.
Will had been her first love, but she had known him when she was a child, and it seemed a very childish attachment now. Anyway, Will was dead, and while that was a starkly horrible fact, one had to move on, and when one did one discovered ever more new and wonderful things. For had there ever been a name with a nicer ring than “Leland Bouchard”? It sounded like it was made of money and charm, which it almost surely was. She had met him at a ball around Christmas, and he had asked her to dance again and again. His hands on her waist and wrist had been neither polite nor lecherous. He had gripped her earnestly as they talked of many things. She had never felt so lovely or light before or after that evening, and she often filled her mind with memories of it when she rested her head on her pillow at night. For though she had done her utmost to be near him again, she had not managed to see him. Or rather, she had seen him — once, from Longhorn’s carriage, as he hurried along the street, her heart rattling at the thought that he might turn at just the right moment, and a second time from behind at a ball where she had been too pathetic to go up to him — but he had not seen her. Tonight he was the host, and she was looking her very best; it would be impossible for him not to ask her to dance. Her friend Penelope had promised to introduce them again if he did not — and then he would lead her into a waltz that would draw her across the floor and into his heart forever.
