Envy (2 page)

T
HE 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.

It was with this winsome fantasy that she stepped forward into Sherry’s main room, ready for an evening that she was convinced would come to herald so many new beginnings. She would have crossed straight to Longhorn, and gone on to the front entrance without any need for discussion, but she was stalled by the whisper of fingers on her back. She half turned, with an indifferent semi-smile on her face; when she recognized the person who had touched her, all her pleasant thoughts faded.

“Miss Broad!”

The voice was jocular, but when she returned its owner’s greeting, she found she could not match his tone.

“Oh.” Her gaze shifted over the full tables to Longhorn, who had not yet noticed her there in the shadows. “Hello, Tristan.”

Tristan Wrigley was tall, with wispy light hair and hazel eyes the color of a sunset reflected in muddy waters. Although their acquaintance was still new, he had already hurt and helped her in many ways. He was a department store salesman and a con artist, and he was the first and only man who had ever kissed her. She had been avoiding him, but if this rankled him he did not show it. He was smiling, and a bosomy woman, who wore a garish amount of rouge and foot-high
feathers in her hair, was hanging off his arm and grinning entirely too much for the setting.

“This is Mrs. Portia Tilt,” he went on, fixing a steady and intense gaze on Carolina. “She and her husband have just moved from out west. Carolina is from out west, too. She is the heir to a copper-smelting fortune, you know, and she—”

“I’m sure your friend doesn’t require my entire autobiography,” Carolina interrupted coldly. In a moment, she had surmised the whole situation. Mrs. Tilt, having more money than class, had believed Tristan’s implication that he might assist her with getting into society, and he, thus assured of her gullibility, had pressed on for money and trinkets and free meals of all kinds. Mrs. Tilt would learn in time—though she did not look particularly swift at the moment—that one does not get into society by walking arm in arm with a Lord & Taylor salesman around one of the best restaurants in Manhattan; Carolina was not such a fool, and she did not intend to make the same mistake. “Goodbye,” she concluded, with a bright smile but without explanation.

“Goodbye,” Mrs. Tilt answered gaily, too thick-witted to realize she had been cut, and then pushed forward. Tristan—still attached to her by the crook of his arm—was pulled along, but he had time to look back and fix Carolina with such a concentrated look that she felt it down into her toes. It was lucky that Mrs. Tilt began guffawing loudly after that, and all eyes
turned in the direction she was heading, which allowed Carolina to return to her seat without anybody taking notice.

“Ah, there you are, my dear.” Longhorn smiled at her appreciatively, the way one smiles at a favorite grandchild who has eaten all of the candy one has given her and shortly thereafter requested more. Then she felt the weight of her wrap on her shoulders and allowed herself to be escorted through the many rooms to the front entrance.

Out in the deep purple night it was still, and the lamplight fell in yellowy pools. It was cold, too cold to move, and the coachmen who loitered at the curb were bent, immobile, over their cups of hot cider. The horses were covered in thick blankets, and the breath streaming from their nostrils was visible in the frigid air. Carolina had regained herself after her encounter with Tristan, and she turned to Longhorn now with a look of gratitude. Longhorn knew what she was, but he didn’t know about her shameful involvement with the salesman, or that it had been Tristan’s idea for her to get close to the old bachelor for both their gain. He thought of her as more guileless than all that, and had given her no opportunity to correct the impression. It was a kindness that she felt acutely at that moment.

Since Tristan’s initial suggestion, she had grown truly fond of the older man. She enjoyed his saltiness and carefully observed the confidence and indifference to others’ opinion with which he approached the wider world. And he liked
what he termed her “candidness”—in truth, this was nothing more than a lack of knowledge and a dumb willingness to admit that she had much to learn. But they made a good pair, and their time together was always of a high quality.

“What a lovely evening this is turning out to be,” she said sweetly, tucking her bottom lip under her teeth. Her heavy cape was lined with white fur, which framed her face, and embroidered with gold threads along its full sweeping length.

Longhorn smiled at her, and a twinkle—or maybe the light from the restaurant behind them—passed in his eye. Then Robert reappeared, leading the horses that pulled the coach along behind him. He opened the door to the coach and helped Carolina up. He paused to spread a wool blanket over her lap, and then stepped down to the street. He and Longhorn exchanged a few words, and then Longhorn came inside and took the seat beside her, the small door closing with a click behind him.

“It
has
been a lovely evening.” The horses jerked into motion, and Carolina felt her body drawn forward as Longhorn’s words evaporated into the air. There was something about his tone that she disliked. “Lovely. But I am afraid I had a bit too much of that heavy sauce, and that I have been staying out too late too often with you, my dear. You won’t mind just this once if we go home early? We can have a glass of Madeira in my suite….”

Carolina’s heart puttered and began to sink. Suddenly Leland Bouchard’s house on East Sixty-third—she had passed the address several times, claiming that she wanted to admire the architecture on that block—seemed the only place in the whole city that contained life. Her friend Penelope Schoonmaker was there, no doubt being admired by all the young men, even as she had eyes only for her dashing husband, the bubbles rising in the champagne, the witty phrases too frequent for the laughter ever to cease for very long.

Carolina felt desperate, and wanted to grasp at any possibility, but she couldn’t muster the will to say anything contrary. The coachman had already been given his instructions, and he was pulling them inexorably to the same hotel where, it suddenly seemed to her, they would spend all their nights in an uninterrupted cycle of Madeira and monotony. Her bottom lip trembled with regret, but her companion, whose eyes had already drifted shut, was too fatigued to mark it.

M
RS. HENRY SCHOONMAKER, NÉE PENELOPE
Hayes, had come far in her eighteen years. As she swept past Leland Bouchard’s vestibule, where a gleaming black motorcar was displayed, she couldn’t help but muse how she, like the horseless carriage, was a waxy emblem of the future. Ever since she was a little girl she had told herself that she wouldn’t meet the other side of twenty without a deeply gaudy wedding band on her finger, and here she had beat her own goal by two years and in the process joined one of New York’s most well-regarded families. There were those who still remembered how her maiden name had been hastily salvaged from the odious surname Hazmat several decades ago, but neither appeared on her card these days. Now, moving up the glistening curve of marble stairs toward the sound of a party already in full swing, she could not help but anticipate the joy of entering a room on the arm of her very handsome husband.

It was one of the great pleasures of her life, for Henry
was tall and lean and possessed of a chieftain’s cheekbones and a rakish mien that made all eyes turn to him. As a debutante, Penelope had grown accustomed to being looked at, but the envious intensity of the stares she encountered upon entering the second-floor music room, which was full of old money and good connections on that Thursday evening, was superior even to what she was used to. She wore a haughty smile, her plush lips twisted up to the right no more than was necessary, and a dress of cardinal-colored silk that a thousand elegant darts brought in close to her lean frame. Her dark hair was collected in an elaborate bun, and a line of short bangs divided her high, proud forehead.

Penelope cast an appraising gaze at the paneled murals, done by one of the leading talents of Europe, and the polished mantel that had been transported in pieces from Florence. She knew this and much more about Leland Bouchard’s home because she wanted Henry to build a town house for them and had collected newspaper clippings on this one and others like it. He had not yet given her any indication that he would do so, but, like everything Penelope wanted, it was only a matter of time and perhaps a little of her own rough brand of persuasion before it was hers.

Above the gentle din of decorous voices and clinking glasses, Penelope heard her name being pronounced with all its most recent and glorious trappings. “Mrs. Henry
Schoonmaker!” went the beautiful sound, and Penelope turned. As she did, the fishtail of her skirt swept across the Versailles parquet. She immediately noted the approach of Adelaide Wetmore, who wore a dress of pewter faille. Her eyes were moist with self-regard, for her engagement to Reginald Newbold had only just been announced, and she was looking pleasantly weak with all the congratulations. She might have been pretty, Penelope reflected charitably, if not for her disproportionate mouth, and the way it garishly showcased her broad teeth.

“Why, Adelaide.” Penelope extended her white-gloved hand so that the diamond bracelet she wore fell down her wrist and caught the light. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” the other girl gushed. She took Penelope’s hand and made a dipping motion, almost as though she were going to curtsy. “We were all so inspired by your wedding,” she added with painful sycophancy. “What a celebration of love it was.”

Penelope communicated her gratitude with a few bats of her black eyelashes, and deduced from the way Adelaide was looking at the couple whose love she claimed to be inspired by that Henry’s gaze had wandered, and that he was exerting exactly no energy in trying to seem interested in the matrimonial doings of their peers. Penelope smiled her goodbye, and then she and her husband—who she was now realizing
smelled of musk but even more strongly of cognac—pushed farther into the room. That was when Henry stumbled almost imperceptibly, catching himself on her arm, and Penelope felt her self-assurance flag a little over the sudden fear that someone might notice Henry’s drunkenness and begin to draw their own conclusions.

As she moved through the crowd, under the high polish of the vaulted ceiling, she tried to secure her grip on Henry. It wasn’t easy—but then, of course, it never had been. She gave knowing little nods of her head in the direction of some of the younger Mrs. Vanderbilts, assembled near the vast central palm in the middle of the room, and didn’t dare look in the direction of the man she was almost forcibly pulling along with her. She had believed him to be hers, time and again, but still she could not stay the feeling that he might at any moment slip through her fingers.

It had begun between them the previous summer, when her best friend, Elizabeth Holland, had been abroad, and she and Henry had started meeting amorously in the shadowy corners of their family homes. But then Elizabeth had returned in the fall and, with precious little reason, become Henry’s fiancée. Of course, that had been according to the wishes of their parents, and Penelope had rescued both of them from an unhappy marriage by helping Elizabeth fake her death. As she felt Henry list just slightly, she considered how poorly her
efforts had been repaid, for not long after Elizabeth’s “death,” Henry had taken up with her little sister, Diana. That turn of events had not been entirely bad, since the fact of the younger Holland’s whoring about was the piece of information that Penelope had used to persuade Henry to marry her. All she had ever wanted was to be Mrs. Schoonmaker, and none of them wanted a messy scene.

Penelope possessed the mettle of a society lady ten years older, and there was forcefulness evident in her smallest movements. But even as Mrs. Schoonmaker, Penelope was unpleasantly surprised to discover that her ability to control Mr. Schoonmaker fell somewhat short. They glided amongst the guests, and when a waiter appeared carrying champagne flutes it was all she could do to keep Henry from lunging for one.

“Don’t you feel drunk enough already?” she admonished. Her smile never wavered, and she brought her upper lip back just enough to reveal the perfect whiteness of her teeth.

“I’ve had a lot,” he replied slowly, without particular venom, although the drink might possibly have been impairing his inflection. “But not enough to make me want to spend the evening with you, my dear.”

Penelope briefly shut the lids of her large eyes and stifled any feelings his comment might have aroused. Then she batted her mascara-darkened lashes and let her lake blue irises roll right and left. No one had heard, she determined with a
small release of her shoulders, except perhaps the waiter, who wouldn’t have dreamed of looking her in the eye. When she spoke again, it was with effortless ease and a glass of champagne in her hand:

“When you put it that way, I suppose I should have one too.”

Thus fortified, the most envied couple in top-drawer Manhattan moved onward through the throng. The members of the Automobilist Club were making grand pronouncements about upcoming races, and the ladies who wanted to be near them were smiling patient smiles and assuming the poses of eager listeners.

“Ah, the Schoonmakers!”

Penelope twisted the length of her white neck so that the full blaze of her smile could be fully appreciated by her host. “Mr. Bouchard,” she purred, as he bent his long torso and placed his lips on her gray, full-length glove. The warmth in her voice was studied and convincing; it was a tone she reserved for men like Leland, who was heir to the Bouchard banking fortune and besides that universally liked. He was that rare high-born New Yorker who somehow or other had managed to make more friends than enemies, and was a particular friend of her brother, Grayson. As younger men they had lived in adjoining rooms at St. Paul’s. Penelope, ever watchful, noted Grayson’s presence by the window, where he
was ensconced in conversation with her mother-in-law, the senior Mrs. Schoonmaker, whose dress of opalescent chiffon tiers did little to detract attention from her.

“I hope you’re both enjoying yourself,” Leland went on earnestly as he clasped Henry’s hand. His light blue eyes were open wide beneath his broad forehead, as though their enjoyment really was a crucial issue for him, and for all Penelope knew, it was. “Did you see the motorcar downstairs?”

“Could not have mishedut,” Henry answered enthusiastically, slurring the last two words.

Penelope elbowed him while maintaining her steady, bright gaze. “Such a beautiful object, Leland.”

“Thank you.” Leland’s eyes drifted and his chest rose, and for a moment he was someplace else. “Speaking of beauties,” he went on, his attention returning to Penelope, and this time with an added touch of sympathy, “how is your dear friend Elizabeth? It was terrible what happened, and not seeing her out has made us all worry.”

Until that moment Penelope had maintained a strong, smiling posture, and had stayed uncowed by Henry’s misbehavior or any askance glances from whichever young ladies in the room flattered themselves by imagining that they were the rival of the former Miss Hayes. But now her mouth constricted and she heard herself swallow hard. Leland went on looking at her with that same concerned expression. Henry’s
weight on her arm bobbed a moment and then grew heavier. She only hoped that her face did not betray the insecurity this inquiry brought on, for of course Elizabeth was her dear friend by reputation only. Penelope had barely seen her since her unexpected return from what was supposed to have been a long exile in a western state—for truly, what was there to say?

“She is very well.” Penelope began to regain her composure, and even as she spoke reminded herself that she really would have to make a show of seeing Elizabeth, one that the papers took note of, and soon. “But it is still early for her to be going out. After her trauma. You understand, of course.”

“Of course.” Leland bowed his head, appearing almost embarrassed for having asked after a girl who had gone unaccounted for for over two months, and who might indeed have suffered any number of grave injustices. But before he could further anyone’s discomfort, he succumbed to the calls of his fellow driving enthusiasts, and excused himself. “Please do enjoy,” he said as he slipped into the crowd.

Penelope did not look after her host as he left. She stared straight ahead and reminded herself what a lucky thing it was that he was not a gossip and that he wouldn’t be searching for signs that Mrs. Henry Schoonmaker’s marriage or friendships were not what they seemed. For a moment she reflected on how to avoid such a mistake again, and then she turned toward Henry.

His dark eyes were focused in the direction of the huge windows and the night scene they held, and they looked less glassy than before. There was something almost like clarity in his face when he turned toward his wife, and when he spoke, it was deliberately.

“Promise me,” he said, meeting her gaze, “that if someone brings up the Hollands again you’ll take me home.”

The new dressing room on the second floor of the Schoonmaker mansion, which had until recently held Henry’s collection of unread first editions, was dark. Once she had been undressed, Penelope sent her maid away, instructing the girl to shut off all but one of the lights before she left. Penelope stood, looking into her full-length triptych mirror with the polished cherrywood frame, and let her head rest back on her neck. It was only in September that her family had moved into its Fifth Avenue mansion, an event that was widely understood in the press as a declaration of the Hayeses’ presence in society, and now half a year later she was living at an even better address, with an older family, on a more established section of the avenue.

She let her head sway back and forth, and as she appraised her reflection she thought—as she had thought before—how
perfect she and Henry looked together. For they were both tall, both dark-haired. They had the same long limbs and the same haughty posture. There were times when she wondered if they didn’t look
like
each other, if God in his infinite wisdom had not created them out of the same impeccable stuff so that they could recognize each other when they met. She was not wearing any of her lingerie, which was very fine and which had been handmade in France. She was wearing stockings and a black shirtwaist and nothing else. From the next room she could hear Henry’s rising, whistling breath, and hoped that he was not snoring, that he had not fallen asleep.

She did not wear lingerie, because lingerie had already failed. What she wore now had a special significance for her—for both of them. She had answered the door wearing the same thing last June, the first time she invited Henry to the Waldorf-Astoria, where she and her family had lived while their house was being constructed. He hadn’t left until the following morning, by which time she had already imagined herself as his bride.

She put out the last light, and stepped past the aubergine damask–covered screen and into her bedroom. It had been Henry’s room originally, but she had banished the black leather club chairs and hunting trophies to the basement when she moved in. The broad, simple tables, which he had vaguely protested were from Great Britain and possessed historical
significance, had been given to the servants. The room was now all white and gold and rococo, and the edges of every piece of furniture curved voluptuously. A waterfall of white and gold brocade descended from the high canopy at the head of the bed, and under it, on the ivory bedspread, lay Henry, with his hat and shoes still on. His hat tipped slightly over his eyes, and his legs were crossed at the ankles.

“Henry.” Penelope kept her voice soft and rested a hand on her hip. He took a breath and stirred just enough to shift the hat on his head. In a moment it tumbled, softly, onto the plush white carpet.

“Henry,” she said again. “Henry!”

He sat up then, his eyes a little wild with surprise. His dark hair had been neatly pomaded to the right earlier in the evening, but it was now sticking up in various places. He pulled at his white tie, which came undone in his hand. For a moment he looked at her, and she felt the old tingling warmth.

She crossed to him, her high-heeled slippers sinking into the carpet, and sat down on the edge of the bed. She reached up and took hold of his tie, then gently pulled it off. It fell soundlessly to the floor beside his hat, as she let her fingers glide from the point of his chin down his neck and to the first button of his shirt. She had succeeded in undoing one when he pushed away from the plush bed, and rose unsteadily to his feet.