A Sense of Entitlement (6 page)

I
was up before dawn. Mrs. Mayhew’s garden party was today. I’d spent the past few days following the same routine, starting with breakfast in my sitting room while reading through
Who’s Who
or poring over the map of Newport. Then I’d spend an hour or two with Mrs. Mayhew and her cat, Bonaparte, short for
Napoléon Bonaparte,
going through her mail and rearranging the seating arrangements for the party yet again. The rest of the morning was spent responding to her mail, writing out checks, and writing out guest names on place cards. Each afternoon, I would walk to Morton Park, the southern terminus for the streetcar, ride the streetcar to Franklin Street (to save time, Mrs. Mayhew said), and proceed down the bustling thoroughfare of Thames Street, making last-minute preparations for the party: ordering tents from G.H. Wilmarth & Son, confirming the arrival time of the Steinway piano rented from M. Steinert & Sons Co., checking the progress of Mr. Arend Brandt, the florist, in finding the vast number of hollyhocks Madam ordered; it would be close. And of course, as Newport had three times more millinery shops than restaurants, I’d visit a different one each day, including Mrs. Mayhew’s favorite, Schreier’s Queen Anne Millinery Establishment, planning how to spend my first month’s wages. I’d seen Mrs. Mayhew’s bills. A new hat there, like the plum velvet hat with pansies, feathers, and stiff satin bow I wanted, would indeed cost me almost a whole month’s wages.

I’d spent my evenings reading and then typing up Sir Arthur’s manuscript. I had settled into a routine. I spent my days less solitary than I was accustomed to, interacting with Mrs. Mayhew every morning, Britta, the parlormaid, at every meal, the shopkeepers of Thames Street, valets and housekeepers of other grand “cottages”; even Bonaparte the cat came by every night looking for the scraps from my dinner plate. I had little time to myself to hike or explore beyond the streetcar route and the homes Mrs. Mayhew had me hand-delivering calling cards, invitations, or notes to. Yet despite all this, I had found the past few days and my new tasks quite satisfying. The only exception and my least favorite task to date had been to ask Mrs. Crankshaw, at Mrs. Mayhew’s insistence, if the best linen, the tablecloths, the napkins, and the doilies with the lace and family crest embroidered with gold and silver silk thread, would be pressed and ready for the party.

“What?” Mrs. Crankshaw had yelled at me when I asked. “I don’t take well to those that question my efficiency. What does Madam think I’m doing down here, sitting around with my feet up eating macaroons all day? Of course the linen is ready.”

Luckily, Mrs. Mayhew hadn’t changed her mind about the menus. I wouldn’t want to have to question Monsieur Valbois as well.

But today would be anything but routine. I’d never assisted in a garden party and I had no idea what was in store for me. All I knew for certain was that I was to be present at all times, as Madam put it, “just in case.” In case of what, I could only imagine. So I took advantage of the only time I knew would be my own today and was out the door at first light, my hand lens around my neck and specimen jars in my carryall bag. I made my way across the lawn to the gravel path that followed the cliff and, having a choice, hiked southward. Again I paused as the sun rose over the ocean. I don’t think I could ever tire of the sight. I hiked less than a mile, at different times passing through a stile, down a series of steps, by a rose garden that rivaled Mrs. Mayhew’s, by a boathouse and through several stone archways, all the while following the path as it wound along, passing other great “cottages” on the right and sheer cliff drops on the left. And all the while I couldn’t keep a smile from my face.

I collected new specimen after new specimen, some right along the path, some requiring a scramble through the brush, one I had to lie on my stomach and, cautiously leaning over, pull from the cliff face itself.

I might need a larger plant press,
I thought to my delight.

With the exception of when I started my collection, I’d never added so many new species at one time, and I’d barely gone a mile from the house. I was reluctant to return, as I hadn’t found a way down the cliffs to the plethora of algae and other sea plants that clung to the rocks below, but I had to get back. When I entered, Britta, the parlormaid, was descending the stairs.

“What have you been doing, Hattie?” she asked, laughing and pointing at my dress.

I glanced down. I thought I had thoroughly brushed the gravel from my bodice but instead saw hundreds of tiny seeds and burrs clinging to my skirt. I hadn’t noticed them before but couldn’t wait to determine if they belonged to plants new to my collection. “I took the path along the cliffs,” I said.

“It looks like you missed the path and found the bushes instead,” she said, smiling. “Remind me not to go walking with you! Now go change before Mrs. Crankshaw sees you.” She scrunched up her nose and pushed out her lips, mimicking Mrs. Crankshaw’s most sour expression. “I don’t take to girls bringing home bushes on their skirts!” Britta was still laughing as I raced up the back stairs to change.

“No, Jane, Caroline Astor hasn’t called on me. I don’t know what it will take, but mark my words, that woman is going to acknowledge me yet! But that’s not why I called. It’s about Gideon. I think he’s cheating on me again,” I overheard Mrs. Mayhew say as I was about to enter the drawing room. Silence followed. “He spends every morning in his gymnasium.” Silence. “I know he’s always done that, but now he spends even more time. And”—she hesitated for dramatic effect—“he’s staying in New York.” More silence. “I know he’s supposed to be here for the party. That’s why I think there’s something going on. And now who am I going to get to stand in for Gideon?” Another hesitation. “You’re right. It isn’t the first time; it won’t be the last. I have enough to worry about without this!”

I hadn’t seen Mr. Mayhew since the day I delivered the letter to the Casino. He had returned to New York late that night. It was typical for the men of Newport to return to New York after the weekend had ended, but Gideon Mayhew had left a day early. So with the matter of the trunk unresolved, I couldn’t shake the unease I felt whenever his name was mentioned. Although it caused Mrs. Mayhew distress, I wasn’t disappointed to hear he wasn’t going to be here today. I knocked.

“Hold on a minute, Jane,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “Come in.” I entered the room and found Mrs. Mayhew cradling a telephone to her ear. Unlike the majority of the houses I’d worked in that had a telephone, Mrs. Mayhew didn’t have only one in the hall on the first floor. So far, I’d counted three. “Oh, Davish! Good, you’re here. Sit over there.” I sat in the nearest chair and pulled out my notebook. “I’m certain because he wired me from New York,” Mrs. Mayhew said into the telephone. A slight hesitation. “Yes, I know there’s a strike going on. He wired it through Providence.” Silence filled the room while Mrs. Mayhew sat listening into the telephone.

“What?” she exclaimed. “Who told you that? Your maids can’t strike. Harland would dismiss them all. Oh, Jane, what would you do?” Mrs. Mayhew glanced up from stroking her cat on her lap and started when she saw me. Had she forgotten I was there? I wondered.

“Jane, my secretary’s here. I’ll talk to you at the party.” She put the receiver down. “You won’t need that,” she said, pointing to my notebook. I placed the notebook on my lap but didn’t close it or put my pencil away. Mrs. Mayhew said this to me every day. She had a tendency to believe her words should be memorable enough not to warrant writing anything down. I didn’t disillusion her. I simply wrote everything down as she lounged with her eyes closed, which was often enough.

She handed me a copy of the afternoon’s guest list with several names crossed off and replacement names scribbled in. “Take care of this, will you?”

Oh, no,
I thought.
She’s changed the guest list again.

“Of course, ma’am.” I waited as Mrs. Mayhew sat staring at a life-size marble statue of the Roman goddess Minerva, slowly petting Bonaparte. Was this it? I was about to stand, assuming I was excused, when she spoke again.

“As you know, throwing any party demands full cooperation from everyone,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.” I knew that the party was demanding the staff to work on what would be for many their half days off.

“You are new to this house, Miss Davish, but I wonder if you’ve heard anything?”

If she was talking about the grumbling this morning at breakfast over the lost half day off, yes, I’d heard plenty. Britta had told me all about it, as we were wont to chat a few minutes when she brought my meals. As a new employee I hadn’t expected time off yet, but I could see why they complained. Their half day was all the time they got, and if they didn’t get that time off they didn’t get any time. Britta even insinuated that Mrs. Mayhew purposely scheduled parties at a time she knew would keep the servants at home. I wondered whether the accusation was true or whether she simply forgot, as she had forgotten to send the carriage for me, overwhelmed with trying to run such an enormous household while keeping up with her active social calendar. Knowing the disarrayed state of her affairs between secretaries, I tended to believe the latter.

But was that what Mrs. Mayhew was asking about? Could she be referring to rumors of an affair? “I rely on you to tell me such things,” she said.

“I’m not sure what you mean, ma’am,” I said.

“My dear friend Jane was just now telling me that her girls aren’t happy, that there’s rumors going around about maids asking for more time off. Have you heard of the telegraph operators’ strike? It’s disrupting everything. You must’ve heard about it.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ve heard about it.” I was beginning to understand what Mrs. Mayhew was asking. It had nothing to do with her husband.

“Well, Miss Davish? Have you heard any such rumors in this house?” I was chagrined that she would ask me to inform on the other staff. Luckily, I had nothing to tell.

“No, ma’am. I haven’t heard any rumors of a strike among the staff.”

“Of course not, who wouldn’t want to work at Rose Mont? It’s a privilege and they know it.” Mrs. Mayhew sat back in her chair and sighed. “I won’t be requiring your services until the party. After you’ve written the new invitations, have the coachman deliver them. That way you’ll be free until the party”—my heart leaped at the words and then sank as she finished her sentence—“to help Mrs. Crankshaw in any way that she deems appropriate. This party must be a success! You know you are my eyes and ears downstairs today.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. I knew I could rely on you.” And with that I was dismissed.

U
nder a brilliant blue sky and with the ocean as a backdrop, the scene of the party was a riot of texture, color, and fragrance. I had never seen anything like it and, if Mrs. Mayhew’s vision was realized, nor had anyone else. On the green expanse of sloping lawn, two dozen white canopy tents, vines curling about their posts, fluttered gently in the breeze. Under their shade, tables and chairs had been brought from inside and decorated as if they too were part of the garden, vines curled around chair and table legs while long stems of multicolored hollyhocks had been interwoven into the backs of the chairs and graced the tables in a variety of centerpieces. Enormous white wooden planters containing towering topiaries in whimsical shapes of deer, rabbits, and birds, including a peacock with real feathers, dotted the lawn. Six actual peacocks strutted about where they pleased, as did Bonaparte the cat. The last time I saw Bonaparte, he was stalking one of the unsuspecting birds under table number twelve. A wooden platform equipped with a grand piano, surrounded on three sides by white wooden trellises overflowing with violet wisteria, marked the stage where the music recital would take place. And everywhere were white rose petals, from Mrs. Mayhew’s prize rose garden, strewn about so liberally that every step released their subtle scent.

Mrs. Crankshaw, when I had offered my services, had been at a loss to find something for me to do. And then Mr. Brandt, the florist, arrived. I spent most of the morning, to my delight, assisting Mr. Brandt in weaving the vines and arranging centerpieces. With the soothing sound of the ocean, the warm sun, and the fragrant flowers I couldn’t have asked for a more pleasant way to spend a summer morning. And to think I’d been worrying Mrs. Crankshaw would’ve had me folding napkins in the Servants’ Hall or doing some such dreary work. When Mr. Brandt was satisfied that all was done to his specifications, I set out to finish my own work. With the silverware, all engraved with an elaborate
M,
glinting in the sun, I set a place card above each china dessert plate, painted with climbing vines of wisteria, purchased exclusively for this party. I was almost finished when I read the name on the card again,
Mrs. Julia Grice
.

Could it be?

I had wondered from the moment I deciphered the new guest names Mrs. Mayhew had given me. Along with Mrs. Grice I’d been pleasantly surprised to read the names of Mrs. Oliver Fry and Miss Elizabeth Shaw, known to me as Miss Lucy and Miss Lizzie, the lovely elderly sisters I’d met in Eureka Springs last fall. I didn’t doubt for a moment that I knew these two ladies. They were two of a kind. Besides, they only wintered in Eureka Springs and called New Haven, Connecticut, home. Yet Miss Lizzie, in our continued correspondence, had never mentioned that she and her sister would be in Newport. I couldn’t wait to see them.

I finished setting out the place cards. As I began to double-check my work with the names on the seating map in my hand, Mrs. Mayhew arrived outside to survey the progress. Maids and footmen alike had been pressed into service decorating and setting up the tables under the direction of Mr. Davies. Ignoring Mrs. Mayhew, I rechecked Miss Lizzie’s and Miss Lucy’s place cards. The name that came next was Mrs. Julia Grice. As with every time I’d seen the name, it brought Walter to mind. Could it be a relation? But here I was seating Mrs. Grice next to Miss Lizzie. The coincidence struck me as extraordinary, but before I had time to think of it further Mrs. Mayhew, clenching down on her bottom lip, left Davies and headed straight for me. Her expression told me I had done something wrong, but as I glanced at the place markers I was satisfied that she wouldn’t find fault with my effort. Mrs. Mayhew stopped short of me and went to the center table, right in front of the stage, and ripped one of the place markers in half. I glanced at the name on the seating chart I held and read
Gideon Mayhew
.

“Davish! Davies!” Mrs. Mayhew yelled. The butler and I rushed to her side, exchanging glances. “Mr. Mayhew will not be attending this afternoon’s recital.” I had wondered when she would make the news public. Suddenly the woman turned to me. “Davish, what am I to do?”

“I believe Mr. James Gordon Bennett has arrived from New York,” I said, as if I’d done this my whole life. Part of my new tasks was to scan the “Cottage Arrivals for the Week” column listed daily in the
Mercury
newspaper.

“Really? Wonderful, Davish! Do invite him in Gideon’s stead. I knew I could rely on you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“By the way, what was in that envelope you delivered to Mr. Mayhew the other day, Davish?”

“I have no idea, ma’am,” I said, trying to keep my indignity out of my voice. The suggestion that I would ever open anything I was not instructed to was an affront I had difficulty ignoring, even from Mrs. Charlotte Mayhew.

“Of course you don’t,” Mrs. Mayhew said, sighing. “Well, whatever it was prompted my husband to go back to New York early. And now he’s planning to stay there!”

Why would she think the letter had anything to do with it? The letter appeared to me to have been addressed in a man’s hand, not a woman’s. Maybe she was simply using it as an excuse.

“He’s known about this for weeks and he promised that he would attend. I even invited Maestro Jacobi because he favors him. Is it too much to ask?” Davies and I remained silent, both knowing a rhetorical question when we heard one. Without another word, she walked away.

“She’s quite disappointed,” I said as Mr. Davies straightened some nearby silverware.

“Yes, she does seem rather”—the butler hesitated, obviously searching for the most appropriate word—“put out.”

“Mr. Mayhew’s snub of his wife’s party definitely qualifies as a reason to feel put out,” I said.

“I’m sure the master had his reasons,” Davies said, defending his employer while shaking his head.

“She’s put out by more than her husband snubbing the party, if you ask me,” the footman James said as he walked past carrying a tray of crystal goblets. “Where’s Mrs. Astor? We’re still not good enough for that great lady?”

“James!” Mr. Davies scolded. “Yours is not the place to comment. Now put the goblets over there.”

“Isn’t the music delightful?” Britta said, standing next to me. With our duties temporarily at a lull, several of the maids and I crowded at the end of the third-floor hallway. With the window cracked open, we listened to the music and peered down at the party scene below. The musicians had begun only a few minutes ago. Earlier, people had mingled on the lawn, sipping champagne and eating the picnic fare: salmon croquettes, lobster mayonnaise sandwiches cut into leaf shapes, minced ham roll sandwiches in purple silk ribbons, a variety of custards, cakes, fruits, ices, and cheese. Lady Phillippa was there, as were the two girls I’d met in the hall yesterday, Cora Mayhew and her friend Eugenie Whitwell. I had spied Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy almost immediately. Except for the fact that Miss Lucy was thinner and Miss Lizzie was more plump, the two elderly sisters looked exactly the same as I remembered them.

Now that everyone was seated I could get a good look at the woman named Mrs. Grice seated with them. Dressed in an expensive but simple gray and white lawn dress and wide-brimmed straw hat with white egret feathers, she sat ramrod straight, barely moving except her head and thin neck a bit from side to side when the necessity arose. She appeared to be in her early sixties, and her well-coiffed hair was silver, her skin pale and surprisingly smooth but for deep wrinkles at the corners of her mouth—a permanent scowl on her face.
Not an easily approachable woman,
I thought. And then she smiled at something Miss Lizzie said. It transformed the woman’s proud, haughty demeanor and I couldn’t deny the resemblance to Walter. Could one of his relatives be in Newport? Wasn’t his family from St. Louis? Maybe he had an aunt or distant cousin from out east. But why was she sitting with Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy?

Crash!

Something below us, a tray of glassware from the sound of it, had smashed to the ground. The music stopped. Britta and the other housemaids bolted down the stairs, knowing they were responsible for cleaning up what was now lying in pieces on the floor. I stayed where I was and watched Mrs. Mayhew signal for the music to continue as Nick Whitwell, a glass of champagne in his hand, staggered into view. He threw the glass, sending it shattering to the ground, and then grabbed someone else’s glass at the nearest table. Crossing the lawn, he continued drinking from or tipping over every glass within his reach, creating havoc and general disapproval as he went. Cora and Eugenie, as one, leaped up and confronted Nick. He tossed his straw hat at them. It sailed past the girls and landed in the custard on a young gentleman’s plate. The man laughed, but the girls, both glaring at Nick, grabbed him, each taking an arm. As they steered him to his seat at Mrs. Mayhew’s table, I could see the front of him for the first time. His tie was undone and a streak of spilt red wine darkened the front of his white shirt and tan waistcoat. I shivered. It looked like blood.

Eugenie and Cora pushed Nick into his seat next to a middle-aged couple. If I hadn’t remembered their names from the seating chart, their furious expressions and resemblance to the drunken man would’ve told me they were Mr. and Mrs. Harland Whitwell, Nick’s parents. I’d recognized Mr. Whitwell from the Newport Casino a few days ago; he’d arrived with five of his gold-banded Cuban cigars and now only had two. I hadn’t known until now that he was related to the rude young man who had accosted me in the hallway. I was beginning to realize that Newport’s high society consisted of a small but elite inner circle. I looked again at Mrs. Julia Grice.
Could it be—?

“Hattie,” Britta called from the stairwell. “Mrs. Crankshaw is looking for you.” I immediately descended the stairs and found the housekeeper in her office off the Servants’ Hall.

“Right!” she said when she saw me. “This urgent telegram arrived a few minutes ago for one of the guests, but all of the footmen are serving. I want you to give it to Mr. Davies. I’d do it, but I found the maids loitering and I have to keep an eye on them. I don’t take well to loitering.”

“Of course,” I said, glancing at the name on the envelope,
Harland Whitwell
. “But isn’t there a telegraph operators’ strike going on?”

“You ask too many questions, Miss Davish, but yes, that’s why this can’t wait until after the party. It was wired to Providence and then delivered by post. It’s two days old already. Now go!”

I ran upstairs and found Mr. Davies coordinating the serving of the second dessert course, fruit ices served on a bed of frozen calendula petals, and gave him the telegraph. I watched from the buffet table as the butler found Mr. Whitwell and stood by waiting to deliver the note. Mr. Whitwell was arguing with his son. I couldn’t hear the words, but the father’s face was red and tiny beads of spittle clung to the corners of his mouth. He was furious. His wife, Mrs. Jane Whitwell, a plain, round-faced woman in her mid-fifties, who looked slightly ridiculous in her very expensive but very youthful pink and white lawn dress of puffy sleeves, flouncing lace, rosebuds, and wide silk bows, placed her hand on his arm, gently restraining him. Suddenly Nick leaped up.

“To hell with you then!” he shouted.

He pushed his way through the tables, knocking over a serving table, and staggered across the lawn toward the ocean. He kicked at one of the peacocks, sending the bird skittering away. I was glad that Bonaparte was nowhere to be seen. Cora and Eugenie stood to follow. Mrs. Mayhew caught Cora’s eye and shook her head. Cora and then Eugenie sat down again, both following Nick’s progress with their eyes. Mrs. Mayhew turned back to face the music. Mr. Davies, as if nothing had happened, leaned over and offered Mr. Whitwell the telegram. After reading the telegram, Mr. Whitwell shook his head, said something to his wife, and threw his napkin onto the table. He took his leave of Mrs. Mayhew, who, quite put out by yet another disruption, ripped the skin from her bottom lip with her teeth as she took his hand. Mr. Whitwell whispered something in her ear, patting her gently on the back. She nodded and smiled as they parted. He dashed by me, as fast as a man needing the use of a cane can dash, as he left.

Not having to guess the nature of the argument between father and son, I wondered what was in the telegram. First Sir Arthur, then Mr. Mayhew, and now Mr. Whitwell. They had all received news that prompted immediate departures. Sir Arthur had urgent family business in England. From what Lady Phillippa had said, Sir Arthur’s father, the Viscount, was gravely ill. But what about Mr. Mayhew and Mr. Whitwell? As they were self-made men of industry and banking, respectively, I could assume business had called them away. Or was there something to Mrs. Mayhew’s suspicions? Mr. Mayhew had arrived a day earlier than she knew and then left a day earlier than she’d planned. And I hadn’t forgotten about the incident with the trunk. I shook my head, annoyed with myself. Obviously my mind was too idle as I stood here waiting for Mrs. Mayhew’s word. I needed to find something more constructive to do than speculate about the lives of the people I worked for and their friends. If only I could go work on Sir Arthur’s manuscript. A few hours of typing would straighten me out.

“Miss Davish.” Mr. Davies saying my name pulled me out of my own thoughts.

“Yes,” I said.

“Mrs. Mayhew would like to see you when the music is done.”

“Yes, of course.” Mr. Davies went back to his duties while I waited where I was. Biding my time, I tapped my foot to the beat of the jaunty waltz the musicians began to play. Instantly I was taken back to my early childhood, before my mother’s death, when she would play Irish jigs on the old fiddle she brought with her on the boat. My father would dance, or at least attempt to, making us both laugh by his uncoordinated, flailing moves. Looking back, I realized that after her death my father never allowed music in our house. Thus I never learned to play piano like other girls. I’d used my dexterous fingers to learn to type instead.
What happened to her fiddle?
I wondered.