SEVEN
BEATRICE
New York City
January 1915
“Mrs. Chanler! Mrs. Chanler!” cried the gaggle of reporters when I stepped out of the motor in front of the Vanderbilt Hotel. “What do you say to critics who accuse you of defying the president’s policy of American neutrality?”
In the three cold winter months since returning from France, where men drowned in the mud of the Marne to halt the German advance, I’d caused a bit of a stir. And today I was armed with a plan and a new hat. No more drooping plumes of cowardly ostrich for me. No, the times called for mink—a clever little scrapper.
Festooned with a French tricolor cockade, my mink hat would make for a glamorous photo. I still knew how to take a picture, thankfully. Thus, I waited for the cameras to start snapping. Then, in wordless satisfaction, I sashayed right past the reporters into the hotel, where buttoned-up bellhops closed ranks behind me. This was my hotel, after all. Well, my husband was half owner of the place anyway. Still, I was the one who chose the fan windows, the stone for the vaulted ceilings, and just a touch of Italian Renaissance on the facade for posh whimsy.
I considered stopping by Mr. Vanderbilt’s office to apologize for the ruckus outside, but intent upon the leaflet I clutched in gloved hand, I marched directly to Suite 123—the offices of the Lafayette Fund, the new war relief charity where I now served as directress. And with each step, the vile words of the leaflet’s accusation poisoned my every thought:
Do you realize what you’re doing, you vociferous criers-out in the cause of humanity, you members of the Lafayette League and other mushy beldames who make themselves party to the murder of mothers and infants?
The outrage of it! I found Miss Sloane already seated at the typewriter, brow furrowed as she clicked away in angry strikes. She was, no doubt, already composing a measured response for the newspaper, but I was in no mood to be measured.
“Oh, dear,” said Emily, glancing up in alarm. “A new hat—”
“Beldames?” I waved the leaflet under her nose. “They’re calling us ugly old witches!”
I wouldn’t let them get away with it. I was, after all, only thirty years old. Or at least close enough to thirty that no reasonable person should quibble over an extra year or four. Thanks to the magic of corsets, rouge, and other hat tricks, men still stumbled over themselves in my presence. I was no beldame. While I seethed, Miss Sloane raised a pointed elfin eyebrow. “I should rather have thought the accusation that we’re a party to murder would offend you.”
I waved a gloved hand. “Well, that goes without saying.”
Since Miss Sloane and I had returned from war-torn France, our charity work had forged us in a true friendship; this despite the fact we had very little in common other than a determination that we must do something about this disastrous war. And the audacity to believe that we could.
Our charity had packaged and shipped more than ten thousand kits filled with underwear, socks, and letters of encouragement for French soldiers in the trenches. Soldiers like my nephew Victor. Soldiers who were defending the children I’d seen at the train station in Amiens.
Together Miss Sloane and I had marshaled New York high society such that our offices were overrun most days with Astor ladies in fine lace gloves and Vanderbilt wives in prim shirtwaists, all eager to assemble care packages. We collected donations nationwide, and for our pains, we now stood accused of “equipping” foreign soldiers with dangerous shipments of socks and underpants.
This latest leaflet was the boldest accusation yet. We’d received dire warnings, even from friends, that we must cease, but this was the most like myself I’d felt in years.
Emily pulled the page from her typewriter to show me.
In answer to the criticism that our Lafayette Fund violates neutrality, our purpose is purely humanitarian: We are trying to relieve the intense suffering at the front. We send comfort kits to France because of the debt we, and all other Americans, owe to that country for her assistance, without which we might never have won our independence.
“Very good,” I said, flicking the page aside and leaving her to catch it out of the air. “But this attack merits more than another politely worded editorial in the New York Times.”
She eyed me—and my hat. “I fear to ask . . .”
“They’re trying to intimidate us because we’re ladies.” Just that morning, women’s suffrage had been voted down in the House of Representatives for the second time, and as I peeked out the window in the direction of the Woolworth Building—the tallest building in the world at sixty stories—I felt in a foul enough mood to knock it down. “Do you think they’d fling insults like that at gentlemen? They wouldn’t dare. It might provoke a duel, even in these modern times. It’s because we’re women that they think we’re soft.”
“Mushy,” Emily corrected, which incensed me all over again.
“They think we’ll scurry off and hide our heads.”
Emily clutched her typewritten words. “Writing an editorial for the New York Times is scarcely hiding!”
“No, but some will take your justification for an apology. And we’re not sorry, are we, Miss Sloane?”
“Certainly not,” she said stoutly.
She was a very stouthearted girl.
With renewed determination, I pulled off my gloves, readying for a fight. “We’re going to redouble our efforts. We’re going to be brazen, doing what New Yorkers do best. We’re going to put on a show!”
“What an engaging idea,” she said.
She did not sound engaged.
Because she’d been struggling with the logistical nightmare of how to ship seven thousand more comfort kits to France over an increasingly perilous sea, I forgave her obvious assumption that I was up to something frivolous. I knew what people said about me—what they’d been saying since the first time I had the nerve to take an interest in political matters. She’s just an empty-headed comedic actress who married above herself and should stick to what she knows.
Well, I was going to take their advice. I was going to entertain . . .
“It’ll be a patriotic play about Lafayette,” I explained, wedging myself between two stacks of boxes near her desk. “A pageant, in fact, showing harrowing scenes of Valley Forge to remind the public how the French saved us in the darkest hours of the American Revolution. It should remind them that our positions are now reversed and our allies need our help. Ticket sales will fund our work.”
Emily’s pointed eyebrows inched higher. “If no one comes, we shall be held up to public ridicule.”
“Oh, they’ll come,” I insisted. “There isn’t a member of the Social Register who would dare miss it. Do you know why?”
“I feel certain you’ll tell me.”
“Because I am Mrs. William Astor Chanler.” Whatever the troubles in our marriage, and even if we were an ocean apart, I still had Willie’s name, and that meant something. Once the old Knickerbocker aristocracy of New York lined up behind my play, everyone else would follow suit, fearing to be left out.
Emily pursed her lips. “Who would headline the play?”
As president of the New York Stage Society, I might recruit any number of celebrities. Douglas Fairbanks. Charlie Chaplin. Lionel and John Barrymore. Still, thinking back to the railway station at Amiens, I remembered seeing a flash of Minnie. Poor little skinny Minnie, who sang and danced for her supper . . . and a better idea came to me. “I want little girls and boys for the lead roles. No one can resist tiny tots in costumes. And we’ll call it”—I made a dramatic sweeping motion—“The Children’s Revolution.”
Miss Sloane blinked, blinded by my brilliance. Or perhaps she thought me mad. In truth, the line between brilliance and madness is very thin, so I felt compelled to add, “You forget how easily I succeed in inspiring others to work. Indeed, this is my real genius; people refuse me nothing and enter with zest into all my plans and games!”
I said it to make her laugh, but Emily shook her head in complete exasperation. “We’re being attacked for defying the president of the United States, and you’re proposing a pageant for schoolchildren! Am I wrong to think that what we need most is to be taken seriously by powerful men?”
I tilted my head, imperious beneath my mink hat. “My dear, no one is better at getting the attention of powerful men than I am.”
“And you think powerful men want to attend a children’s play?”
“Heavens no! Their wives will drag them to see it. After all, the only thing society wives love better than showing off their little darlings is boasting of their blue-blooded pedigrees.” While Emily gawped, I explained, “By way of example, Mrs. Daiziel takes enormous pride in her familial connection to George Washington. I’ll be glad to cast her daughter in the prize role of Martha Washington if Mr. Daiziel makes a large donation and joins our committee.”
Emily’s eyes widened halfway between shock and admiration. “Why, there’s something quite wicked about you.”
“Oh, I’m really not such a bad creature if humored!”
Emily picked up a pencil and nibbled at the end. Preparing to be vexed, I said, “You think it can’t be done.” She continued to nibble. “You think it’s too outrageous an idea,” I accused. “Too whimsical a scheme?”
“I think we’re going to need a seamstress,” Emily finally said. “The costumes should be authentic.”
Oh, I could’ve kissed her—and not merely for going along with my plans, but for being a true partner in them. For I hadn’t felt as if I had a partner in quite some time. “Let’s take some notes, shall we?”
I’d long been wary of reporters, but one simply can’t do without them, so at long last, I agreed to an interview. In the airy two-tiered dining room of the Vanderbilt Hotel with its iconic potted palms, I greeted Mitzi Miller, a talented writer and prominent suffragette. None of her cigar-chomping male colleagues took her seriously, which is why she’d been shunted off to edit the society column. But I admired her work and knew, at the very least, she’d spell the name right. (Chanler, not Chandler. Once a reporter slipped a d into the name, the family never forgot or forgave.)
“Thank you for agreeing to this interview, Mrs. Chanler. I am ever so grateful for a reason to write about something other than winter balls and stylish spring weddings.”
Well, this was starting off smashingly! “I’m so glad we finally have the chance to talk.”
Taking in the hotel’s ambience, she gestured toward the frieze. “Is it true you sculpted that?”
“Ah, yes.” Playfully, I added, “After years as an actress being blinded by the footlights, I thought I might also ruin my posture with sculpture.”
It had been backbreaking work, but I was quite proud of it, so it deflated me a little when Miss Miller laughed and said, “The things society wives do to keep from dying of boredom!”
Hoping she didn’t think of me as a mere society wife, I invited her to sit for tea. Francophile though I might be, only the British did tea properly, so a silver tray of scones and sweets awaited us in the English style, but like an ascetic monk, Miss Miller declined both milk and sugar, which put me on my guard. What honest woman doesn’t like sugar?
Leather-bound notebook in hand, she said, “Now, tell me all about your little patriotic play.”
I reviewed the program, which was to include a reenactment of Washington’s inaugural ball. I explained the children would march under a genuine Revolutionary-era flag that I’d procured on loan. I’d also invited children from a nearby Indian reservation to participate, and the play itself would be written by my brother-in-law, John Jay Chapman—a celebrated writer, if a bit mad at times. Do it for Victor, I’d said, because my nephew was never far from my mind. Even if America hasn’t chosen a side, your son has, and he deserves our support.
But the loyalty of a loving father wasn’t what impressed Mitzi Miller—it was that Jack Chapman was a direct descendant of Founding Father John Jay. I watched her survey the blue-blooded cast list of nearly two hundred children, and then she declared, “Well, doesn’t this promise to be the season’s spectacle of high society! The stage mothers will have a veritable reunion of the Daughters of the American Revolution. Speaking of, why aren’t you a member? Surely you’re eligible . . .”
Had she been digging into my past? I gave a carefully noncommittal shrug. “I understand there’s quite a bit of paperwork involved to join the DAR.”
“Well, that’s true. To qualify, you’d have to submit birth, marriage, and death records for your ancestry, as well as proof of your patriot ancestor’s Revolutionary War service.” All things I did not have. “I’d be happy to help you get the paperwork together. Where do your people come from again?”
So Mitzi Miller had been digging. Fortunately, she wasn’t likely to find anything—my husband had seen to that—but I realized my mistake in choosing a female reporter, because I couldn’t simply distract her with flirtation. “I’m from Charlottesville.”
A lie I’d been telling for quite some time.
“Ah,” she said. “Hometown of Thomas Jefferson and some of America’s finest families. No wonder you’re so knowledgeable about Lafayette.”
As if any ordinary person couldn’t simply read a book about the French hero! I’m certain that public libraries saved my life when I was a child, but now I changed the subject. “Did I mention we’ve sold out of our first performance?”
Miss Miller took a long sip from her teacup. “How wonderful. What does Mr. Chanler think about all this?”
Willie had not replied to my letters since we parted in autumn. The harsh reality was that my marriage was still in pieces—half of them on the other side of the ocean—and I didn’t know when or how to put them together again. Maybe that was the point of a marriage contract. Like a signed-and-sealed alliance of nations, only a contract held things together when all that remained was financial entanglements and mutual interest.
But of course, one must keep up appearances, so I said, “My husband very much approves of the Lafayette Fund. In fact, he’s on the committee.”
Or at least he would be on the committee once I wrote his name down, which would serve him right. If he’d wished to be consulted, then he should have answered my letters.
Miss Miller closed her notebook. “Mrs. Chanler, may I be frank?” She didn’t wait for my answer before adding, “You’re ever so good at these little fundraising things. Truly, you have a talent for it!”
The word little was starting to grate. “You’re so kind to say so.”
“I just hate to see a woman with your potential fritter away her time.”
What a vulnerable place she stabbed! “Oh, but the children’s play is a means to an important end. We’ve just sent seven thousand Lafayette kits to French soldiers, and with ticket proceeds, we’ll bring the total number up to an even twenty thousand next shipment.”
She leaned back. “Aren’t you worried that Germany is threatening to sink neutral ships? All your hard work could sink to the seafloor.”
What a miserable lot of people these Germans are! That’s what I wanted to say. Discretion being the better part of valor, I said, “Yes, but we can’t cower. Kaiser Wilhelm has no right to prevent us from sending humanitarian aid.”
“Aid for French soldiers, you mean. You’ve picked a side.”
The right side, I thought. “The side of humanity,” I said, wondering how this conversation was going wrong when I should’ve had her eating out of my palm. Perhaps I’d worn the wrong hat . . .
Miss Miller smiled. “Surely you worry for your nephew in the trenches.”
“Yes. Of course.” Victor’s letters were months out of date, but he wrote of the privations, the lack of ambulances, and the seemingly random ways in which his comrades were blown to bits. We were quite sure that wasn’t even the half of it. “But we’re very proud of him too.”
“Wouldn’t you like to bring him home?” she asked. “I must confess, it wasn’t only an interview I came for today. By now, you must have heard of the Woman’s Peace Party.”
I’d read only a little something of it in the papers. Enough to know it had been started by suffragettes I admired. “I’m curious to know more.”
“It’s all in the name. It’s a political party for women and for peace. As we like to say, men brought about this slaughter in Europe. Only women can stop it. We put higher value on human life because we give life. And once women have the vote, there will never be another war.”
She’s obviously never seen a herd of actresses willing to gore each other over a starring role.
“Well, I’d certainly like to see that theory put to the test . . .”
“We should very much like for you to join us. We’d put you in charge of a fundraising committee to produce literature promoting peace.”
How flattered I was, although the details sounded vague. “What do you mean by literature promoting peace?”
“Pamphlets. Propaganda. Recruitment to the peace movement. You see, in April, distinguished women from all over the world will meet at The Hague for an international conference to demonstrate solidarity! We want our pamphlets to say our feminine bond cannot be divided by the trenches men have dug between us.”
I stirred my teacup faster, trying to digest this, then tilted my head, hoping her words would make more sense viewed from a different angle. “A lovely sentiment, but how will this bring an end to the war?”
“Perhaps we women must go, arm in arm, to the trenches and demand the soldiers stop fighting.”
I dropped my spoon. “While I love a dramatic gesture, you should know the Germans paid no mind to the demands, nay, even the heartbreaking pleas, of the women and children they attacked.”
She gave a tragic sigh. “Of course we’d insist the protection of women and children must be made the first tenet of civilized warfare.”
“The kaiser doesn’t give a fig for the rules of war and—”
“You sound like a partisan.”
Remembering bleeding, orphaned, homeless children, I asked, “Tell me, did Germany accidentally trip and fall into neutral Belgium? I teach my boys that might doesn’t make right, and that there’s nothing more American than standing up to a bully.”
It was more than I had intended to say, but what a relief to say it even as the reporter’s eyes narrowed. “The American public supports neutrality.”
“For now.” Public opinion could be shaped, and I was no bad sculptor. Out of more than 120 countries in the world, only 7 were democracies, and like Willie, I believed we should stand by them. America should be in this fight. “I fear your peace convention will be futile at best, damaging at worst. I cannot be part of it.”
“You’re making a mistake. I’m sure your heart is in the right place, but you don’t seem to understand the complexities of this war.”
“Don’t I? With all due respect, you weren’t in France at the outbreak of the war. I was.”
“You didn’t stay, though, did you? You fled. Which would be all well and good if you weren’t now flouting the president’s policies and trading on your husband’s name in a self-aggrandizing endeavor to put America’s sons in harm’s way.” She stuffed her notebook back into her handbag, then added a parting shot. “At least we’re willing to risk our own lives for our beliefs.”
“And that would be admirable,” I shot back, “were you not also risking the political rights of all women by representing us as a bunch of nincompoops incapable of understanding world affairs.”
Sputtering, she rose and took her leave. I lingered, stinging from her rebuke. So she thought me an attention-seeking coward. Perhaps it was hubris to think the Lafayette Fund could make a difference, I thought. Perhaps a society wife—and an abandoned one at that—was all I could ever be . . . I had, after all, already risen higher than someone like me had any right to.
While I brooded, slathering my scones with jam and clotted cream with no consideration for my waistline, my eldest moped up to the table and perched on the edge of a chair. “Whatever is the matter, darling?”
Billy stared down glumly, swinging his legs. “I c-can’t be Lafayette in the p-play.”
“Why not?”
“The other kids don’t want to f-f-f—” I waited for him to get the word out. It only made him more self-conscious to have his sentences finished for him—children too have their pride. “F-follow me onstage,” he finally managed to say. “They p-poke fun at me.”
I bristled like a mother bear. “Which children poke fun at you?”
Billy jutted his chin in a way that reminded me of his stubborn father, and I knew he’d never tattle. Finally, he said, “Lafayette was a h-hero. I’m just a boy.”
A shy, awkward boy, he meant, and it hurt to see his confidence shaken. Especially when my own was shaken too. What a sad pair of mopers we were. What would Minnie say?
Nobody gets anywhere being a wet blanket. Even if you’ve got to dig your nails into your palms, just put on the mask and smile.
I’d given my sons every advantage in life, but maybe I needed to remind them—and myself—that what mattered was a stout heart and a resolution never to bow to low expectations. If only to be a good example, I couldn’t let myself sink into the role society set for me and wallow in loneliness and despair. With my work at the Lafayette Fund—however silly it might seem to reporters like Mitzi Miller—I’d found a new sense of purpose that I intended to embrace, with or without a husband. After all, if I’d learned anything as an actress, it was that you can become the role you take on.
I took my son’s chin. “Darling, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. No one is born a hero; it’s something you have to find inside yourself. Once upon a time, even Lafayette was just a boy like you.”