Envy (9 page)

“M
ISS BROAD, I AM SO SORRY ABOUT THIS
morning. I will make it up to you by taking you for a drive in my motorcar when we arrive in Florida. Would you like that? Have you ever been in a motorcar? I assure you, my clumsiness only reveals itself in drawing rooms and at fancily laid dining tables. You can trust me to be your driver. In a motorcar…”

Carolina beamed and nodded enthusiastically. It was difficult to catch everything Leland said, because he spoke so fast, and she also sometimes lost track of whether she was supposed to be nodding or shaking her head, since he asked so many questions in passing and she wanted to answer them all in a way that would ensure her spending more time in his company. She felt so giddy and delicate with him and not even very much like herself. She had changed out of the water-soaked dress after breakfast, into a smart suit of navy silk with complicated darts and white ribbon detail, and ever since then he had been showing her around the train. There were little
explosions of lace at her wrists and around her throat, and she made demure flourishes with her hands whenever she got a chance to say something because she liked to see how they looked in flight. Leland had already taken her to visit with the train’s engineer and hear the brakeman’s assessment of the state of the train. (The brakeman was certain they would all reach Palm Beach in one piece.) Now he led Carolina from the observation car onto its deck, which looked back along the tracks that trailed behind them, curving so that they disappeared amongst the bare trees.

The day was cool and crisp, and the afternoon landscape lazily unpopulated under the blue sky. Carolina’s dress rippled in the wind as she stepped out behind Leland and felt the air—it was warmer than in New York, but still a little bracing. Like the parlor car behind them, which was outfitted with stuffed sofas and huge maps and velvet drapes, the observation deck was grandly constructed, with a domed and tasseled roof held aloft by gold-plated pillars over a half-circle platform. The railing was made of finely whittled wood with a high shine.

“I love the way the land just falls behind you when you travel on a train. Can you imagine what it must have been like for our great-grandfathers, who hardly knew what a train was and never would have experienced travel with such ease and comfort? What a privilege it is to live now, at just this moment, and to be able to go anywhere….”

Suddenly he paused and looked out at the trees. It was almost a shock to see Leland standing still, and Carolina’s breathing became irregular as she gazed at him and saw how truly, unbelievably, preternaturally handsome he was. There was still the rocking of the train, however—he reached out and put a hand on the gold pillar. She blinked, but could not help but continue looking at him. He was so big-boned, and yet so slender, his torso tapering away from his broad shoulders. It made her feel petite to be next to someone of such considerable physical presence. His hair was a little overgrown, and it flapped over his ears. When he turned back she realized she’d been staring again and felt a stab of shame.

“We should be in Florida by tomorrow afternoon,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft and measured.

Carolina, whose gaze had wandered bashfully to her shoes, now gave herself a little speech. Surely he would not have spent so many hours with her if he did not already find her pretty, she rationalized, and if he had not yet said anything sweet to her, perhaps it was because he didn’t want to take advantage, or because he himself was shy in that department, or for a dozen other reasons. For a moment the inevitability of her own seat and the specter of returning to it without sharing a single romantic moment with Leland rose, horribly, in her thoughts. She looked at his wide-set blue eyes and decided it was up to her to show him how she felt.

She passed her parasol into her right hand and took a step toward Leland. She knew that she should be smiling, but the nervousness had already spread through her and she had forgotten how to make even the most basic gestures. All she could think to do at the moment was complete the series of steps that she had imagined for herself: toward Leland, then a little twirl, so that she would land between him and the railing and very close indeed. Then maybe she would remember how to smile. He was watching her intently now, and she moved backward coquettishly, leaning against the rail. She never got to smile, however, because at just that moment the car hit a bump and she lost her footing and her whole weight fell against the wooden bars behind her.

There was a terrible snapping sound. The wind came rushing past her ears, and in an instant she knew she was going to die. The wheels were shrieking on their tracks and the headlines were already reverberating in her mind.
SOCIETY NEWCOMER’S GRISLY END SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF MASON-DIXON,
they would read, or
UNGRATEFUL PARVENU ABANDONS MEAL TICKET, MEETS MAKER ONE DAY LATER.
She knew that her body, which had experienced so little in its seventeen years, was going to be crushed and left behind by all the more graceful and lucky people still safely on the train.

Then she opened her eyes and realized her life wasn’t over, after all.

Leland had her by one arm, and was holding on to the gold-plated pole by the other. There was a serious steadiness about the way he was looking at her, even though the sky above and land below were falling behind them so frightfully quickly. Her heart beat with such rapidity that she wondered if the thing wasn’t going to jump out of her throat, but there was also an eerie calm settling inside her. Leland’s face was red from all the blood that had rushed there—she could tell he was engaged in a tremendous effort. Beyond him, the clouds were shot through with gold from the sun. He pulled with all his strength, and then Carolina was righted again. She glanced at the broken rail and had to close her eyes as the full realization of how close she’d been to being torn limb from limb dawned in her consciousness.

“Oh, thank you,” she whispered.

“Are you all right?”

She looked at Leland, and saw that he was just as shaken as she was.

“Yes,” she said. “Or I will be in a minute or two.”

Her fright at what might have been had not yet subsided when she began to see all the bright, shining possibilities of the moment. She was not a deft manipulator of social situations—not yet, anyway—but she knew an opportunity when she saw one. She let her lids flutter shut, let her lips part weakly, and then threw herself forward into his arms.

“Oh,
Leland
, if you hadn’t been here…” she went on. But she didn’t have to say anything more, for already his arms had folded around her, and the full spread of his palms was pressing against her silk-covered back.

H
ENRY LOVED A GOOD HOTEL, AND WAS KNOWN TO
take rooms either for a party or for a few days rest in several of the New York establishments, even when one of the clubs he and his father belonged to would have done just as well. He found very little pleasure, however, in the Royal Poinciana, a great lemon yellow wood structure with white trimming sitting between Lake Worth and the sea, on the evening of his party’s arrival there. He was by then wretchedly sober, and he had been watching the ruthlessness with which Penelope attended to their guests. It was as though she wanted them in a state of controlled awe at all times. Now that he was more clear-eyed, he wondered if there were any limits to her behavior when something she felt was hers was on the line.

“There we are, Mr. Schoonmaker,” said the concierge, who had accompanied them personally to their suite. Henry watched the flurry of bellhops and housekeepers before them, still struggling all across the room to place the luggage just so, as he reached into his pockets for tips.

“We are a very large hotel,” the concierge went on. “Our hallways cover over four miles, and our grounds are nearly thirty acres. But for you, we want it to feel like home. We want it to feel personal. Please do not hesitate to call on us at any moment, for any little thing. Do not hesitate…”

Henry stared off at the fine white net canopy of the gigantic bed—which was made of polished black walnut and stood on a raised and carpeted platform in the far corner of the palatial room—even as the concierge prattled on. The elder Mr. Schoonmaker and Henry Flagler, who owned not only the hotel but most of Palm Beach, had done railroad business together in their youth, and so Henry suspected that the sycophancy would continue apace until the last bellhop had received his reward. He had heard many speeches like this before, in all kinds of hotels, and had often entertained himself by asking impossibly arcane questions about the history of the building or by demanding specific vintages of wines that were impossible to acquire on short notice. None of those antics appealed to him now.

“The bathroom in this suite,” the concierge was saying, “is seventeen feet long, and has a sunken bathtub of imported Italian marble. Perhaps Madame would like a bath before dinner? I could have one drawn up—”

“No,” Henry interrupted sharply. He paused and let his index finger dart to the inside corner of his eye, where he
scraped after an invisible spec of dust. “No, that is really quite all right.”

He could see how abrupt he had been in the faint flitting of the concierge’s fair eyelashes. The negative ripple continued across the room, which was now littered with great pieces of patterned luggage, bound in buckles and straps, so that the housekeepers turned their faces to the floor and the young boy with the brass cart moved to exit, until it reached Penelope, who removed her hat and turned to give Henry a cold look. Her dark hair was in a high, rigid form, and the two pieces of her red costume met in an impossibly narrow waist, where she placed her hand.

“My wife loves dirty rumors, you see,” Henry heard himself say with stale jollity, “and so she has never been over-fond of bathing.”

Penelope turned away, the curve of her back catching a late-afternoon blaze of light, and then spoke in a voice he had never heard before. It intimidated precisely because it was so low and soft. “You may all go now,” she said as she handed her hat to her lady’s maid without looking at her.

The maid took the hat, which was small and plumed and had been fastened with black velvet, and stepped down from the platform onto the main Spanish-tiled floor. As she walked to the door, she gave Henry what he imagined to be a pleading look. The hotel staff began to shuffle past him toward
the door, and as they went he extended his hand to slip them coins. The concierge gave him a crooked smile that confirmed he had been rude to his wife in front of the help, followed by a deferential nod, and then left the room, closing the huge bronze door behind him.

When they were alone he noticed the warm breeze from the French doors that opened onto a terrace, where Penelope stood. Her back straightened and she kept her slender figure facing away from him, but even so he detected in her stance a kind of challenge. There was no doubt that the thoughts in her head were all about how she was going to keep him away from Diana forever, and the idea that anyone would hurt Di made his blood steam.

Henry removed his jacket, and tossed it carelessly onto a satinwood settee. He moved across the floor toward the terrace with a certain restless aggression, undoing his cuffs and then dropping his monogrammed gold cuff links onto the little decorative table by the door. They clattered against its marble top, causing a noise that startled both Schoonmakers.

“Henry?” Penelope had turned to assess the situation, and though she assumed a thoughtful, questioning tone, it carried an undercurrent of decided malice.

“What is it?” They faced each other across the great shining floor, both stiff and wary of each other. All the furniture between them had been polished that day, and it glit
tered expensively in the fading light. When Henry began to undo the top buttons of the shirt he had worn all morning on the train, his fingers moved with an almost bellicose energy. Penelope’s anger was just as clear in the fierce batting of her black lashes.

Eventually she put her hand on her hip, and then she let her whole body relax into what she said next. “You know it’s in neither of our interest to make the servants talk.”

He exhaled sharply and stepped toward her as though to contradict that notion. But she was right, and he couldn’t forget the angelic faith with which Diana had waited to be kissed in the corridor of the train. No matter how much he hated his wife in the moment, he could not be impulsive, for it was not his reputation that was most at risk.

“I’d rather not tell everyone that my husband once de-flowered one of the famous Holland girls, but I will if I have to,” she went on pointedly. Each word met the air like the whistling thrust of a rapier. “It would be unfortunate if you, in your own stupidity, let this information become known passively, to some maid or other. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how happy you are to have your former lover along on this trip.”

He grimaced, but there was no way for him to return her words. She was frightening when she was like this, and she was also right.

Penelope took another step toward him, and went on, “If I notice, someone else will too, so you had better start playing the good husband before we find ourselves in a situation that makes everyone want to cry.”

He nodded, and turned to the view. Diana was somewhere out there, amongst the breezes and the palms, and this knowledge filled him equally with happy anticipation and dread.