Chapter 17

And so to the foodie side of things, the reason we’re here.

We hurry through the Salon Russe dining room because a) Gracie already told us about “service à la russe” last night, and b) the walls are the color of uncooked meat.

They call it “rose marble” but it really does look like a mix of bloodied and browning steak.

“How very unpalatable,” Pamela shudders as we scurry on to the kitchens.

“This is where you’d be, Mum,” Ravenna smirks as we descend the staircase. “Down in the servants’ quarters.”

“I wouldn’t mind a bit,” Pamela enthuses as we step into a spacious kitchen flooded with sunlight from two sets of French windows. “Look at this place! It’s just beautiful!”

Even I have to admit, this is a very good-looking setup. There’s a row of black cast-iron ovens along one wall, a huge wooden preparation table in the middle and, hung above it, I count twenty-six gleaming copper pots and pans.

“Now that’s a lot of cookware.” I step closer. “I love how the lids have long handles too—doesn’t that make sense, so you don’t get scalded with steam when you check on the contents.”

“I can’t believe they’re letting us cook here this afternoon!” Pamela looks brimming over with wonder as she takes in all the mansion-sized details from yesteryear—the hatbox-size cake tins, the sink you could take a bath in, and what looks like a two-person rolling pin.

“Is this for real?” Ravenna, meanwhile, is in the scullery, pointing to an off-white tea set with hand-painted blue lettering spelling out the words Votes for Women.

I peer more closely at the china. It really is a very striking design. Funny to think they were into slogans and branding back in 1909, when Alva first kicked off her women’s suffrage campaign.

“It seems unfathomable that there was ever a time when women didn’t get to vote,” I note.

“Well, even the president at the time said that ‘sensible and responsible women’ don’t want to vote!”

“Are you serious?” I scoff. “Attitudes like that make me fume!”

“It was the same way for Alva,” Gracie chuckles at my flush of injustice. “Even as a child she was chasing down equality—riding her horse bareback, punching boys in Sunday school. She said, ‘The life of a boy with its excitement and adventure had my entire devotion.’”

She points to the relevant section in the guidebook. Apparently Alva wasn’t considered ladylike enough to play with the other Newport daughters, and the boys taunted her saying she couldn’t keep up with them because she was “just a girl.” This ignited such a rage in her that she determined to show them exactly what she was capable of.

“I was a law unto myself,” Alva said. “What more could one desire?”

Wow. I love that! Funny how my opinion of her has altered during the course of the tour—initially I dismissed her as an overbearing control freak, but then I hear this and I’m full of admiration for her feisty, pioneering spirit.

“And, for the record,” Gracie concludes, “Consuelo did ultimately marry for love (to a French aviator) so I guess all’s well that ends well.”

That is good to know. I wonder if mother and daughter made up in later life? Something tells me Pamela is wondering the same.

“If these walls could talk, eh?” She smiles at me.

We pause for a moment, as if we might hear an echo from the past if we listen closely enough, but instead we hear Eminem’s “The Monster.”

“It’s Eon,” Ravenna scrambles for her phone. “I’ll catch you up at the tea house!”

“Here we go again!” Pamela winces.

“She’s always particularly spiteful to her mother after she’s spoken to that idiot boy,” Gracie explains.

“Really?”

Pamela concedes a nod before turning away.

“I think he eggs her on,” Gracie opines.

“But why?” I want to know.

She shrugs. “All part of his controlling games, I suppose.”

“Will you look at these dinky china cups!” Pamela clearly wants to change the subject. “You’d need twenty to make up a Grande at Starbucks!”

I’m noticing something of a pattern here. Gracie brings things to a boil then Pamela whips the pot from the stove before anything bubbles over. I wonder if it’s necessary for Gracie to try and trigger a change in Pamela’s life—she could be on the verge of cracking up of her own accord. I mean, how much peacekeeping can one person perform? She’s been doing it with her husband for years, then her daughter, all the while trying to get her mother to pipe down.

Still, if ever you were going to rock the boat, Newport is the place to do it.

•   •   •

After perusing the cabinets of hand-painted china and elegantly fanciful teapots, including one silver genie’s lamp specifically designed for hot chocolate, it’s a massive comedown when we cross the back lawn to the Chinese Tea House and discover paper plates and polystyrene cups.

“Dear me!” Gracie tuts. “You’d think they could at least offer a basic mug.”

“So disappointing.” I share her dismay as I take in the help-yourself tea bags and hot-water dispensers.

“Let me see what I can do.”

“Mum, no!” Pamela implores. “Leave it.”

But Gracie has already latched on to that bone.

She has a point. This is such a one-of-a-kind setting: a Chinese pagoda with dusty jade roofing, red columns and a black lacquered base, set in the grounds of a Versailles-inspired mansion overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.

It’s worthy of a ten-tiered cake stand, but instead everything is prepackaged and heaped in a basket.

“Does a cookie ever look appealing when it’s coated in cling-film?” I query.

“At least the crisps are fairly local,” Pamela says, holding up a bag of Cape Cod Sea Salt & Vinegar.

I shake my head. Never mind the hungry poor at the Seaman’s Institute, the privileged classes have gone horribly awry here.

“Can you imagine if you took this over as a concession, how amazing the afternoon teas would be?”

“Oh, I’d have a field day!” Pamela’s imagination is immediately sparked. “I’d source as many recipes from the original time period, and maybe go a bit contrary—Coffee Cake for a tea room?” she ponders. “And I rather like the idea of something bright but simple like jam tarts. And lemon curd ones. Maybe add in something with a Chinese flair to reflect the surroundings?”

“You could do fortune cookies but have quotes from Consuelo!” I laugh. “Perhaps throw in an Election Day cake—you know, to represent the votes.”

Pamela chuckles. “And the centerpiece would be a mansion-sized Marble Cake!”

“Is it difficult,” I ask, “to get that swirly effect?”

“Not really, you just split the cake mixture, add cocoa powder to one half and then spoon it into the pan in alternate dollops.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, then you take a skewer and whirl it around a couple of times.”

“That’s so cool!”

“You can actually do any color combination you like. And any number of colors.”

“So you could do a cake to match every marbled room here?”

“You could indeed.”

“I’m back!” Gracie clinks through the doorway carrying three sets of cups and saucers.

“Please tell me you didn’t take these out of the cabinets,” Pamela blanches as she sees the “Votes for Women” design.

Gracie rolls her eyes. “They sell them at the gift shop.”

“Really?” I brighten.

“And you bought them just so we didn’t have to drink out of a paper cup?”

“Oh please,” she tuts at her daughter. “How many times are we going to get the chance to have tea together in the grounds of a Newport mansion?”

“They will make for a better photo,” I admit.

“And they make a lovely keepsake.”

“Oh they do!” I coo.

Gracie hands me my set. I couldn’t be happier and quickly decant my steaming beverage. (Has to be green tea in a Chinese Tea Room.)

“Why don’t we get a picture of all three of us together?” Gracie suggests.

We position ourselves on the pagoda steps, surrounded by the Chinese dragons and curly maned lions and do two poses—one ladylike with little fingers cocked, then another raising our cups with a rallying cry.

At which point Ravenna, who has tracked us down, decides to make a sharp left and pretend she doesn’t know us. Suits us fine.

“What a position!” Pamela sighs as she strays to the edge of the terrace and gazes out at the mansion-studded coastline. “Is this the Cliff Walk you were talking about?” she asks as she spies the pathway below.

Gracie and I didn’t make it this far, so I’m eager to take a look as well. It’s certainly dicier here—a jumble of big gray rocks to navigate—but oh that view when you look back across the glinting water, all the way to Easton’s Beach.

As Pamela follows the flutterings of a white butterfly, you can almost see the tension leaving her body. Gracie and I keep quiet, willing her to absorb the abundance of well-being.

“This place makes you feel so dignified somehow,” she says as she tilts her face to the sun. “Almost as if nothing bad could find you here!”

“Ready to go?” Ravenna appears on cue.

Gracie and I exchange a look, “Almost.”