April 5, 1930
Tish stood in the kitchen doorway and peered into the huge dining room of the Dorn residence, fighting back tears. She hadn't expected this to hurt so much.
The massive mahogany table groaned under the enormous spread she and Mother had laid out—cakes and pies and petits fours, little sandwiches of watercress and cucumber and chicken salad, homemade sweetbreads and her mother's famous tomato aspic. Fresh flowers overflowed from silver urns on the sideboard, and a hundred candles, at least, shed their wavering, romantic light over the scene.
It had taken Philip Dorn exactly one month and four days to find himself a new fiancee, and this was their engagement party. But instead of being the center of the festivities, as she should have been—decked out in a golden dress and smiling with happy promise—Letitia Cameron had been relegated to a gray maid's uniform and stationed in the kitchen.
In the parlor beyond the dining room, the sounds of music and laughter drifted to her ears. She recognized Adora Archer's high-pitched giggle and the low, rumbling voice of Pastor Archer. A champagne cork popped, and everyone applauded. "A toast!" someone shouted. "To the happy couple!"
Tish couldn't see Philip, but she could imagine him, tall and handsome in his tuxedo, grinning broadly and showing his dimples while Marcella Covington hung on his arm and gushed with pride. Marcella? How could he! Marcella was just a homely little wallflower with pallid skin and huge dark eyes—the girl who couldn't get a date to save her soul. She wore her mouse-colored hair pulled back like a skullcap, and she was so painfully thin that on her, even custom-designed dresses looked like charity castoffs.
But her family had money and connections. Her grandfather, people said, had been some crony of George Washington Vanderbilt's and had been a frequent guest at that ostentatious monstrosity, the Biltmore House. Old Mr. Covington apparently liked the mountains and decided to take up residence here, and Vanderbilt sold him a plot of land that made him a bundle as the city expanded. The rumor now circulating was that Cornelia Vanderbilt Cecil, current resident of Biltmore, had been approached by the city fathers about opening the house for public tours. But before that happened, there would be a wedding to end all weddings in the atrium—the nuptials of Philip Dorn and Marcella Covington.
It was just the kind of thing, Tish figured, that Philip would go for. Lots of glitz and glamor. High-profile guests, in the country's largest and most elaborate private home. Never mind that Marcella had the looks of a ferret and all the charm and personality of a slab of Swiss cheese. She had social acceptability, and that was enough for Philip.
Through the doorway Tish caught a glimpse of a skeletal form swallowed up in a blue satin gown. That would be Marcella. The dress looked as if it were still hanging on the rack.
Tish tried to drum up some ill will toward her—if not outright hatred, at least a little rancor. But all she could feel was pity The girl might have money and prestige and a permanent place on the social register, but she also had Philip. And that was bound to cause her no end of heartache.
"Are you all right, honey?"
Tish turned to see her mother slicing cake at the kitchen counter. "I guess so."
"Feeling left out?"
"A little. At first it hurt, being here and seeing Philip's engagement party. As if I should be the one being the center of attention—even though I wouldn't want to marry him, you know?"
"I know."
"I wanted to hate Marcella, Mother. I'm ashamed to admit it, but it's true. But now, seeing her with him, I just—well, I just feel sorry for her."
"No regrets?"
Tish shrugged. "Well, I wouldn't mind having my wedding at the Biltmore. Is it true, that they're going to have the ceremony in the atrium?"
"That's what I've heard," her mother said. "Cornelia Cecil is here, you know. She's fawning over Marcella as if the girl was a long-lost niece."
Tish sighed. "What really hurts, I think, is seeing Adora out there with the guests while I'm stuck in the kitchen."
"Adora is still your friend, Letitia," her mother countered. "Did you expect her to turn down the invitation?"
"As much as Adora loves parties?" Tish laughed. "I don't think so. But did you notice who's not here?"
Mother nodded. "Eleanor James and her daughter."
Tish backed into the kitchen and began helping her mother arrange cake slices on a crystal platter. "I didn't expect Mary Love to be invited, even though she and Marcella are in the same class. But Ellie has known Philip nearly as long as I have, and Big Eleanor has been a pillar of Asheville society—and a friend of the Dorns—forever."
"Times change, honey Mrs. James is having a difficult time adjusting, I understand."
"So Ellie says. The loss of their money was bad enough. But to be snubbed like this—"
"She blames your father, doesn't she?"
Tish averted her eyes. "Maybe just a little. But it's worse than that, Mother. Ellie says she's just—well, not right."
What Ellie had actually said was that Big Eleanor had gone over the edge. She had stopped eating and almost never slept. She wandered the house at all hours of the day and night and once Ellie found her in her nightgown out in the street at three in the morning. Maybe it was for her own good, Tish mused, that Big Eleanor had ceased receiving invitations to society functions.
The kitchen door swung open and Alice Dorn entered under full sail. "Everything is wonderful, Maris! Our guests are absolutely ecstatic over those petits fours!"
Mother blushed. "Thank you, Alice," she murmured. "We worked very hard on them."
"Mrs. Dorn," Alice corrected.
Tish looked at her mother and saw the flush fade. Mother's face had gone stark white. "Excuse me?"
Alice gave a high, tittering laugh. "Well, even though we've known each other for a long time, I don't think it's quite proper for you to call me by my given name, do you? All the servants call me 'Mrs. Dorn'—what would Cornelia Vanderbilt say if she heard me being overly familiar with the help?"
"Cecil," Mother corrected tersely "Her married name is Cecil."
Alice's eyes narrowed, and when she spoke again, her voice was like ice crystals. "A Vanderbilt is always a Vanderbilt," she said haughtily. "You may serve coffee now And do keep your daughter out of sight; we wouldn't want her presence upsetting Philip and Marcella."
Tish could tell that her mother was beginning a slow burn, but Mother didn't say a word. She simply poured coffee into the silver serving urn and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
"And make sure you clean up thoroughly. The parlor rug will need sweeping."
With that, she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her.
"Can you believe that?" Tish fumed when Alice was gone. "The way she treated you, Mother—how could you just stand there and take it?"
"Times change," Mother repeated quietly. "And we have to change with them."
Times had changed, all right.
At noon on Sunday, the day after the engagement party, Tish and her mother stood in the fellowship hall after church, sipping punch and nibbling on the leftover petits fours Alice Dorn had brought. Everyone was milling around, as usual—chatting and smiling and being friendly.
Except, Tish suddenly realized, to them. She saw it as if she had been lifted bodily into the rafters and could survey the whole room at a glance. Over there, against the far wall, the women's circle that normally met at their house clustered with their backs to the room, and every now and then one of them would turn and look in Mother's direction. Pastor Archer, who usually made a point of speaking to every single one of his parishioners, steadfastly avoided the corner where she and her mother stood. Twice she saw people point at the two of them and whisper behind their hands.
Only Adora actually came over and spoke to them—and even then it wasn't the kind of natural interaction born of long friendship. Tish couldn't remember what she had said, only that her voice was high and tense. Defiant, Tish decided finally. As if she were deliberately flaunting their friendship for the benefit of someone looking on.
She didn't understand it. The Camerons had been members of Downtown Presbyterian for years. Mother was head of the social committee and hosted one of the women's circles in their home. When the church had purchased the Catholic cathedral, Daddy had supported the renovations with generous financial gifts and a good deal of time and effort. These people were, well, family of a sort—the folks they depended on, socialized with. Nearly every person the Camerons had ever called "friend" was in this very room—with the exception of Ellie and her mother, who hadn't been to church in weeks.
Now it seemed as if they were standing on the outside of a clear glass bubble, able to see in but unable to get past the barrier that separated them from the goings-on inside.
Tish caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to see Alice Dorn bearing down on them. The expression on her face, halfway between a smile and a grimace, showed all her teeth and half her gums. Funny how Tish had never noticed what a terrible underbite the woman had.
"Maris, dear!" Alice fastened a hand on Mother's elbow and steered her farther into the corner.
"Mrs. Dorn." With an arch of one eyebrow Mother extracted her arm from Alice's grasp.
"The girls and I have been talking, dear. They're all aware of how hard you've been working and"— her eyes darted to the group across the room— "how difficult it must be for you to keep up. We've decided that you shouldn't bear the burden of heading up the social committee any longer. Roberta Weston is going to take that job over. Now, I'm sure that little house of yours is very sweet," she went on in a rush before Mother had time to interrupt, "but of course you no longer have room to host the women's circle properly." She let out a piercing little giggle. "No, now, don't thank me, dear—we're just trying to be considerate of your busy schedule. Don't worry your little head about it."
Alice began to move away before Mother could respond. "Oh, by the way," she called over her shoulder, "we'll be changing the day of the circle meeting too, but I don't know just when or where at the moment. I'll let you know, all right? All right, then. Bye-bye."
Letitia moved closer and put an arm around her mother's shoulders. "She'll never call you about that circle, will she?"
"No." Mother sighed. Tish followed her gaze toward the door, where Pastor Archer stood with his wife at his side, shaking hands with people as they left. He looked up, and for a moment his gaze fixed on them and froze, as if time had stood still. Then he lowered his eyes and turned a brilliant smile on Philip Dorn and Marcella Covington, clapping Philip on the shoulder and giving Marcella a kiss on the cheek.
Mother looked around. The fellowship hall had begun to empty out, leaving behind a litter of punch cups and napkins and crumbs from the petit fours. "Someone else can clean this mess up," she muttered under her breath. Then she took Tish by the elbow and headed for the side door.
"Where are we going?" Tish whispered. In all the years they had been attending Downtown Presbyterian, her mother had never left the fellowship hall until the last plate had been washed and the last crumb swept away. "The fellowship hour isn't over yet."
"It's over for us," her mother hissed through gritted teeth. "It was over the minute your father died. Now come on—we're going home."