Parlor Games (29 page)

Less than a month later, Rudolph invited me to dinner at the first restaurant we had dined at in London—Wiltons. This time, however, the dining room was empty, except for one table in the middle of the room. A host of tall-stemmed candelabras graced the perimeter of the stucco-walled room, bathing it in a golden light. I hardly noticed our waiter, so unobtrusive was he. Over the next two hours, our glasses brimmed with claret, a squash soup prompted reminiscences of our first dinner in this very room, and plates of pheasant, Brussels sprouts, and slivered carrots appeared as if by magic.

After dinner, as I sipped my cream-laden coffee, Rudolph rose from his chair and stood by my side. He reached for my hands, brought them to his lips for a kiss, and formed them into a bowl. Dropping to a knee, he reached into his vest pocket and extracted a velvet pouch. He untied its drawstring and tugged it open.

Spilling pearls—thirty-five, I later counted—into my cupped palms, he said, “You are to me the most precious pearl. Never will I find one more perfect than you.”

The pearls, warm to the touch, shimmered in the candles’ halcyon glow. I lifted my eyes to Rudolph’s. They, too, sparkled, but with the dew of ardor.

He placed his hands around mine. “Marry me, my darling.”

THE TRIAL
LOANS AND CHECKS
MENOMINEE—JANUARY 26, 1917

M
y attorney began his afternoon examination of Frank by hammering away at her credibility on the matter of loans.

As Powers strolled casually toward the witness box, he asked, “Miss Shaver, did you ever try to borrow money from the Baroness?”

Frank frowned. “No, I did not.”

“Did you, on the occasion of boarding a train to Chicago in December of 1913, ask the Baroness for money in the presence of her assistant, Miss Daisy Emmett?”

“No, that can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Whenever we got on the train, Daisy headed straight for the dining car.”

At this, the ladies in the courtroom found cause for merriment. I turned and sought out Daisy, who was sitting among the onlookers. She shot me a look of consternation, which faded when I myself smiled in amusement.

Mr. Powers swished a hand over his jaw. “Miss Shaver, do you recall celebrating your birthday with the Baroness on Valentine’s Day of 1915 at the Windsor Hotel in Montreal?”

“That I do recall.”

“Did you invite Miss Emmett to this party?”

“Yes, at May’s request.”

“Did you, at one point, open your purse and exclaim that you had no money?”

“No.”

“Did you try to borrow money from Miss Emmett to pay for the party?”

“No.”

“You deny trying to borrow money from Miss Emmett in Montreal?”

“Objection,” said Sawyer. “My client answered his question.”

“Sustained,” said Flanagan.

Powers smoothed his palms together. “Did you ask the Baroness to give you the money to cover the hotel costs for the party?”

“Absolutely not.”

Such bold, outright denials! I glanced at Daisy. She looked the way I felt—as if a horse had kicked me in the belly. Both of us, with dropped jaws, shook our heads to signal to anybody who might look our way how outraged we were by Frank’s lies.

“Let me be clear, Miss Shaver. You never borrowed or attempted to borrow money from the Baroness?”

With a firm dip of her head, Frank said, “That’s correct.”

Powers again returned to the defendant’s table, grabbed an envelope, pulled several papers from it, and advanced on the witness box. “Can you identify these items, Miss Shaver?”

Frank shuffled through a half dozen or so sheets. “They’re checks made out to me from May’s account.”

“And did you endorse these checks?”

Frank flipped the checks over and examined each one. “Yes.”

“And do they total roughly three thousand dollars?”

“Are you asking me to perform arithmetic?”

The sarcasm did not escape me, or the rest of the courtroom, though my tolerance for Frank’s witticisms was wearing thin.

“Yes, Miss Shaver,” said Powers, “if you would please.”

Frank took her time thumbing through the checks. “Yes, about that.”

“Do you still contend you never borrowed money from the Baroness?”

“Yes.”

“Objection,” said Sawyer. “Counsel is badgering.”

Judge Flanagan knotted the lapel of his robe in his hand. “Mr. Powers, I will instruct you again to conduct your questioning without
being argumentative or repetitious. I will release you from your duties if you do not obey this court.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Powers took a deep breath and turned to Frank. “Miss Shaver, can you explain the meaning of these checks?”

“They’re for expenses.”

“If they’re for expenses, why are they made out to you?”

“Because I generally paid our expenses.”

“What expenses were they for?”

“Could be for almost anything.”

“You can remember every dollar the Baroness borrowed from you, every dollar you spent on her, but you cannot remember what these checks were for?”

“No.”

“If you don’t know what expenses these checks were intended to cover, how can you say they were not loans?”

“Because I did not borrow money from May. She borrowed money from me.”

“You have not answered my question, Miss Shaver. Can you prove these were not loans—yes or no?”

“No, I just know they’re not.”

After a brief recess—and before Sawyer could attempt to repair Frank’s tarnished credibility during his redirect examination—my attorney dished out another unpleasant surprise.

“Miss Shaver, do you know a Mr. Wayne Schroeder of Chicago?”

“Yes, he’s an electrician who worked on my office.”

“Did you discuss this lawsuit with him?”

“He asked about it after he read something in the newspaper.”

“Do you recall the conversation?”

“Generally.”

“Can you recount it for us?”

“He said something to the effect ‘I see you’re trying to get some money back from the Baroness,’ and I said something like ‘We’ll see how it goes; these things take time,’ and he said, ‘I hope it works out for you,’ and I thanked him for his concern.”

“Did you not tell him you could blackmail her and get certain sums of money?”

“No, that word is not in my vocabulary.”

I, for one, thought that she answered awfully fast. Despite her denial, the seed had been sown. All in all, Powers scored some damning points during his cross-examination of Frank. How could she account for all the checks written to her from my account?

Try as he might to undermine our case, Sawyer could not make the checks disappear, to say nothing of the release signed by Frank.

THE SACRIFICES OF MARRIAGE
DALFSEN AND LONDON—1892–1901

T
he Baron and I wedded in a private ceremony at his Dalfsen family property on November 20, 1892, with Rudolph in a regal, trim black suit and me, the shy bride, in a flowing white gown with layered sleeves. All his family attended—his mother and sister, as well as three sets of aunts and uncles and a smattering of cousins—as did the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk and nearly a dozen members of the Dutch royalty. As for my family, I had to content myself with sending them photographs—one of me and Rudolph, another of the complete wedding party in the airy front parlor of the estate. Daisy, who had accompanied me to Holland, spent the wedding day unpacking and arranging our personal effects. (“A maid at a wedding? It wouldn’t be fitting,” Rudolph had said. “And it would upset Mother.”)

As I accustomed myself to the company of the Baron and his mother and sister, Daisy took up a modest third-floor garret. In her position as my personal assistant, she spent many hours with me in my boudoir on the second floor, during which time she often complained about her circumstances: “It takes forever for news from Mother to reach me, and I miss New York’s newspapers,” or “I know I should be grateful for the steady pay, but, my goodness, this is a dull place.”

I could hardly argue with her about the boredom of the routine or the seclusion of the estate, but my marriage to Rudolph offered many benefits: I was a baroness, a married woman of twenty-three making a fresh start. The mistakes of my past faded into the background, eclipsed by my new status and of no consequence to those who might have wished to use them against me. Nor did my memories of
those slips any longer beget solitary moments of self-recrimination. Of course I saved a corner of my heart for Johnny, though I could do naught now but accept that terrible tragedy.

Surprisingly, Rudolph had become dear to me, and his attentiveness pleased me. Once he’d won me over, he spouted less about himself, and I realized that all the trumpeting that had annoyed me during our courtship had merely been an attempt to impress. Before we married, he consented to set me up with a sizable bank account so that I needn’t pester him about every button or bauble I desired. He loved me passionately and indulged my every whim—in mail-order books, jewels, and champagne. He came to my bed nearly every night, as eager as a youngster half his age, but as considerate and gentle as the seasoned man he was.

The family lived in a stately four-story brick home, which was rightly called De Vries Castle. Its lowest level, which housed the kitchen, storage, and work quarters, let in feeble light through narrow windows high on the walls at the ground level. The spacious entry hall on the main level led to the dining room, two parlors, a smoking room, and the library. Six roomy bedrooms, two adjoined and all with sitting areas, graced the second floor. A third level, the servants’ rooms, nestled under the roof. Daisy, plus the three lady servants and two butlers who’d served the family for many years, inhabited these steep-ceilinged rooms, all of which offered lovely views of the estate through squat dormer windows.

Before long, the Baron and I settled into a routine of strolling the grounds, weather permitting, afternoons at four. The castle sat in the middle of a grassy five-acre parcel surrounded by a majestic forest. I enjoyed the privacy and time away from the house that our survey of the grounds afforded: Although Rudolph’s mother and sister were kind enough to me, the stiff formality of our interactions—including the burden of having communications between his mother and me translated—wore on me. One early-March day, nearly four months after our wedding, Rudolph and I met in the entryway for our daily walk.

“Your mother tells me the daffodils and tulips will soon bloom,” I said, my mood brightened by the clear blue skies and sprays of wild hyacinths sprouting at the lawn’s edges.

Rudolph squinted as we turned onto the graveled lane marking
the estate’s west side. “Do you remember the flowers I had delivered to you in London? They were all from hothouses in this area.”

“I can’t wait to have fresh flowers in the house,” I said, “to cheer us all up.”

“I shall pick some for you myself.” Rudolph cupped his hand under my elbow. “My dear, I leave next week for that shooting tournament.”

“What shooting tournament?”

“Did I not tell you? It happens every year. In Gotha, Germany.”

“Is that far from here?”

“A three-day journey.”

“Can I come along?”

He chuckled. “No, it is all men. Nothing really for the ladies to do.”

“Can I take a trip, too?”

“Not now. Mother’s elderly aunt is arriving Saturday, and she will want to see you.”

What I didn’t say was that I had not the least interest in seeing her, though I had little choice but to endure this wifely burden. Over the coming years I came to dread these all-too-regular visits from relatives. There I sat, at the dinner table or in the parlor, listening to them carry on about Earl So-and-so or Uncle Such-and-such, trying my best to appear fascinated with the goings-on of people I cared not a whit about. On those rare occasions when talk turned to worldly events—why ever America should meddle with Hawaii when it already possessed nearly a whole continent, the treachery of that Jew Alfred Dreyfus, or New Zealand’s “lamentable” enactment of women’s suffrage—I enthusiastically offered my views, only to find them knocked down by their provincial proclamations. Often, especially when older guests came around, they dispensed with translating their exchanges for me and simply lapsed to Dutch. Try as I might to learn the language, Dutch proved exceedingly difficult to master. So I sat dumbly looking on, pretending amusement when they chuckled over who-knows-what. I counted the minutes until I might politely retreat to my room and the company of Jane Austen or Rudyard Kipling. By the time I managed to gracefully excuse myself, my cheek muscles had invariably seized up from the smile I’d dutifully plastered on for endless hours.