Chapter 2
As the name implied, Ochre Court occupied several acres on Ochre Point Avenue overlooking the Cliff Walk and the sea. Being only a few minutes’ walk north of The Breakers, I left Barney and my carriage with my relatives’ gatekeeper and walked up to the Goelets’ home. I was to cover an afternoon ladies’ tea in honor of Miss Cleo Cooper-Smith, whose coming-out ball would be later that night.
Wrought-iron gates stood open to a tree-lined drive that bisected the property perfectly in half and led, without a curve or wobble, to a circular drive in front of the entryway. The house, in the style of a French château of the Loire Valley, boasted deep, mansard rooflines and elaborate carvings crowning the dormer windows. A pleasing asymmetry of the house somehow presented an aspect of perfect balance that revealed the brilliance of the architect, Richard Morris Hunt.
The house stood regally against a gently clouded afternoon sky, its creamy stonework golden in the afternoon sun, its only shadows huddled beneath the porte cochere. An oppressive heat closed in around me, for I’d dressed, not in the latest daytime summer fashion, but in the female journalist’s traditional garb of shirtwaist over a plain, dark skirt, with a matching jacket. My blue serge that once belonged to Aunt Sadie, but which had been updated numerous times by Nanny, served me well. Mrs. Goelet had made it clear I would attend today’s functions in a professional capacity, pencil and notebook at the ready, and not as a guest. It didn’t matter that her sister, Grace, and I enjoyed a close friendship or that we were all cousins by marriage. Mrs. Goelet considered me a mere step or so above a servant, and so while Ochre Court’s open gates beckoned, it was to the side entrance that I traipsed.
I didn’t much mind. In this, Mrs. Goelet behaved no differently than most other society matrons. After all, despite my relatives, I wasn’t a member of the Four Hundred, that magical number of wealthy individuals who could comfortably fit inside Mrs. Astor’s New York ballroom. Compounding my faults, I also earned my keep by describing their exploits in painstaking detail for the less fortunate to enjoy. While they welcomed the renown and the admiration of the masses, they viewed me as a necessary evil.
The housekeeper admitted me with an economy of words and warmth, and led me up the service staircase to the ground floor. She bade me to wait in a sitting area off the Great Hall, though she omitted to invite me to sit in any of the four wing chairs grouped there. I waited, standing, near the fireplace, carved of Caen stone, listening to the light, feminine voices echoing in the soaring openness of the Great Hall. From another direction came a hum, a creaking, and the mechanical workings of Ochre Court’s elevator. The sound unnerved me. Even after a year in New York, I hadn’t grown used to or fond of those claustrophobic boxes that conveyed humans up and down buildings with little more than a few cables between them and a fast plummet to the ground. Yes, I knew all about the safety brake invented by Elisha Otis, but knowing and trusting were two different things. My stomach dropped simply thinking about it.
The clacking of heels alerted me to the imminent arrival of Mrs. Goelet. She swept around the corner of the hall in black with deep violet trimmings, a sign of mourning her husband who passed away nearly a year ago. Her willingness to sponsor Miss Cooper-Smith in this way, before her official grieving period ended, attested to the sincere affection she must have for the young woman and her family.
Like the housekeeper, she, too, greeted me in a brisk manner. “There you are. Tea has started, but you aren’t needed in there. Not now. I want you to view the drawing room in daylight and write down what you’ll need to remember about the details.” Her lips twitched in the faintest of smiles. “I intend to dazzle my guests tonight, Miss Cross, and I want you able to pick apart the minutiae in order to dazzle your readers.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate that.”
“I’m not doing it for you, girl,” she said, not unpleasantly, but as a matter of course. One would never suspect the relation between this woman and her sister, Grace. On the surface, they could not have been more different. Some fifteen years separated them in age, and while Grace presently courted society’s favor with her beauty, charm, and high spirits, Mary had settled squarely into middle age and all that that encompassed. Yet, when people referred to Mrs. Ogden Goelet in her youth, it was with a wistful admiration that evoked the poise and style of one of society’s one-time legendary beauties.
She continued in a confidential tone. “I am launching Miss Cooper-Smith into society, and I wish to be certain there isn’t a soul in this country who doesn’t know her name after tonight.”
“The Herald will make sure of that, ma’am.”
“Indeed. Her mother was my dearest friend, and I promised her I’d do the best for her girls, and spare no expense.” Emotion made her voice husky. I knew the story. Mrs. Cooper-Smith had succumbed to the Russian flu that took so many lives in Europe and this country, even here in Newport, early in the decade. Mrs. Goelet’s eyes grew unfocused, and I guessed that for several moments she saw, not me, but the ashen face of her friend in her final moments of coherence.
Just as suddenly, her brusqueness returned. “Come with me.”
I followed her, nearly trotting to keep up, across the Great Hall. I wondered about her last statement, that she would spare no expense. I understood her stepping in to perform a mother’s role in launching a young woman into society, even opening her home for such a purpose, but must she pay for the event as well? Shouldn’t that be Mr. Cooper-Smith’s responsibility?
I knew better than to ask. There was no surer or faster way to find myself out on the sidewalk.
Those voices I’d heard continued emanating, I surmised, from the dining room. Our footsteps raised a clattering echo until we reached the rug beneath the seating arrangement in the center of the room, near the shallow, stone fireplace that had never seen a flame. I hadn’t been in the house since the Goelets opened it several years ago and I had come on behalf of the Observer, but many of its features had ingrained themselves in my memory. Out of over fifty fireplaces in the house, only three worked, one of them being in the sitting area where I’d waited for Mrs. Goelet to greet me; the rest were ornamental only. In a house that saw use only in the summer months, why go through all the fuss of equipping fireplaces with flues? The chimneys visible along the roofline ventilated the coal furnaces far below us, which generated the house’s electrical system.
I glanced up at the biblical mural far above our heads. Like The Breakers’ Great Hall, this one rose three stories, surrounded by the open galleries of the second and third floors. Each story was distinct, with the first entirely lined in carved Caen stone, the second of rich, dark-stained teak, while the third-floor arches glimmered with gilding. Everywhere I looked, carved faces gazed back at me from their heights, like angels, or perhaps guardians to make sure I didn’t deviate a step from where Mrs. Goelet wished me to go. I didn’t dare defy them.
We stopped at the wide double doorway of a room facing the rear of the property and beyond, thick blue bands of sea and sky. A footman stood at attention beside the closed doors, and before she opened them, Mrs. Goelet turned to regard me. “I’m going to unlock the doors and let you in. No one else is to enter this room, and you are not to breathe a word of what you see to anyone before this evening’s ball. Is that understood?”
My curiosity spiked, but I held my expression steady. “Yes, ma’am.”
“When you are finished taking your notes, come out, close the door, and come find me in the dining room. Oh, and you are not to touch anything. Not a thing, Miss Cross.”
“Understood, ma’am. Um . . . do you wish me to view the ballroom as well?”
“Mmm . . . A good idea, that. You can pass into the ballroom from the drawing room. Those doors are not locked. But you’ll need to exit through the drawing room again.”
After unlocking the doors, she left me to return to her guests. I glanced at the footman, who deigned to make eye contact. I turned the knob and stepped inside . . .
Into another time and place. The first thing I noticed was the springy crunch beneath my feet, and looked down to discover, to my bafflement, not the herringbone floor I remembered but a lawn of bright green clover. But no, that couldn’t be right. I bent down and felt with my fingertips. This clover had been woven from silk.
No longer a drawing room, the furniture had been removed, and a garden planted in its stead. Potted trees, flowers by the hundreds, vines stretched across latticework surrounded me, and where walls and ceiling had once been, now were tapestries and silks in such an array of colors and patterns I felt vaguely dizzy. Heavy curtains festooned with garlands covered the rear-facing windows, extending into a canopy over a dais some six steps high. A throne occupied the center of the dais, surrounded by low stools, pillows, and small, cushioned chairs. Two pairs of columns covered in hieroglyphic designs held up the canopy in a setting for an elaborate, Egyptian-themed tableau vivant.
Good heavens, all this for a young woman’s coming-out ball? Certainly Mrs. Goelet intended to launch her young ingenue in a manner that would not soon be forgotten.
I retrieved my pencil and notepad from my handbag and began to take notes. I wondered about the wisdom of climbing the dais, but Mrs. Goelet hadn’t specifically told me not to. The steps appeared to be stone, though closer inspection revealed them to be cleverly painted wood. Up I went to inspect the throne, which turned out to be gilt over another metal, perhaps bronze, and covered in silken cushions. Though the side windows were uncovered, the curtains over the windows behind the dais darkened the room considerably. I longed to sample the surprise Mrs. Goelet had in store for her guests, but I didn’t dare. Instead, I gingerly moved the draped sides of the canopy to reveal the wires artfully strung from the chandelier and electric sconces, cleverly concealed within the decorations, and connected to Edison bulbs hidden among the flowers and foliage.
Though once again I would be writing about a society event, my pulse sped in anticipation. This was new; this was why the Herald had agreed to send me home, that I might report on something that had never been done before, not to this extent. Few homes were fully electrified; here in Newport, I knew of only one other—The Breakers. So far.
I spent a while longer poking around, examining the wiring, the lights, and the decorations. Mrs. Goelet wished to dazzle her guests, and they would not be disappointed.
I had just about finished in the room when a crash drew my attention to the ballroom next door. I’d assumed no one else was supposed to be in these rooms at this time. The adjoining doors were closed but not locked, and as I passed through, I heard the light whoosh of fabric brushing against fabric.
I stood very still in the Rococo ballroom and looked about me. Flowers and garlands festooned this room, too, but without the theatrics of the drawing room. Fresh roses, water, and porcelain shards littered the floor at the foot of a pedestal, set beside the tied-back curtain on the side of a doorway. Beyond the doorway was a sitting room, but from what I could see of it, it appeared empty. Was someone crouching in a corner? I moved to peer inside when I noticed the toes of a pair of embroidered satin house shoes peeking out from beneath the velvet curtain. I nearly chuckled aloud as I tiptoed over and swept the curtain aside. My quarry gasped and raised her hands to her lips.
“Caught you! Don’t you know Mrs. Goelet has given strict orders that no one is to be in these rooms?”
As soon as the words left my lips, I wished to recall them. The young woman before me, about my age or perhaps a bit younger, cowered as if I might strike her. Petite in figure, she stood crookedly as if crippled by some malformation of the spine or legs, or perhaps both, with one shoulder higher than the other and an awkward angle to her hips. She stared back at me with large, almond-shaped brown eyes, generously lashed, above a pert nose framed by high cheekbones. She would have been exceedingly pretty, if not for the expression of fear and alarm that furrowed her brow and tightened her mouth.
Instantly remorseful, I reached out to gently touch her forearm. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I heard the crash and thought someone was up to some mischief in here.”
“I shouldn’t really be here, I suppose.” She whispered so low, I had to strain to hear her. “It’s just that the ball is for my sister, and I wished to make certain everything was ready. That it was perfect for her. And then I heard Mrs. Goelet outside the door, so I ran and hid in here.” She pointed down at the broken vase. “I only meant to come into the sitting room, but I stumbled . . . I . . .”
To spare her having to explain her faltering step, I hurriedly said, “It could happen to anyone.” But then a pertinent detail occurred to me. “Wait a moment. How did you get in? Mrs.Goelet has a footman standing guard outside the drawing room.”
A cunning little smile spread across her lips, which she raised a hand to shield. But in the moment I glimpsed it, I saw that she was indeed quite pretty. “I nicked an extra key and he agreed to look the other way.”
“Did he now?” I couldn’t help grinning. Yes, I’d find it hard to deny this waif anything, either.
“Cleo is my sister. Can you blame me for wanting to see firsthand that tonight will be a great triumph for her?”
“I suppose one can’t blame you a bit. But perhaps we should start over. You must be Miss Ilsa Cooper-Smith.” She nodded solemnly. “I am Emma Cross, and I’ll be covering your sister’s event for the New York Herald.”
Her eyes became large again. “Your name is well known to me, Miss Cross. What is it like, being a journalist, being a lady who works? Is it terribly hard?”
“No, it’s wonderful.” Or would be, if I were taken seriously. “Perhaps we should go. Mrs. Goelet will begin to wonder what’s keeping me so long and come looking for me.” I gazed down at the shattered porcelain and sad, sodden roses. “What’s to be done about this?”
“Never mind. Let’s be off. Someone else can worry about it.” With that, she hurried as best she could with her halting, uneven gait, into the drawing room. I followed her and as we let ourselves back into the hall, she smiled up at the footman.
She preceded me across the Great Hall, following the voices of the women still enjoying their afternoon tea. I watched her go, noting, not her twisted torso, but her creamy silk tea gown with its bows and flounces and lace insets. Did she realize, I wondered, that the person held to blame for the shattered vase would more than likely be me?
* * *
Mrs. Goelet took me aside when I returned to Ochre Court that evening before the ball began. She made no mention of the broken vase. I could only assume it hadn’t been a treasure, or perhaps Miss Ilsa had confessed to the accident to prevent a servant from being blamed.
“However things go tonight, Miss Cross, I want nothing short of a glorious write-up from you. You have the exclusive, and whatever you write in the Herald will be picked up by newspapers all across the country. Of course, things will go gloriously tonight. I simply wish to be sure you understand.”
She spoke, of course, of the innovative use of electric lighting for the tableau vivant. “Yes, ma’am.”
She looked past me as she mused aloud, “I promised her poor mother, God rest her, that I would see to Cleo’s happiness, and much of that depends on tonight’s success. I expect that child to be engaged before the month is out.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I hoped she wouldn’t hold me responsible if her plans didn’t come to pass. I also wondered if Mrs. Goelet had promised to see to Ilsa’s happiness as well, but I kept that thought to myself. “Is there anything I should know ahead of time, ma’am?”
“Yes. Pay particular attention to Silas Griggson. He’s highly eligible and he’s interested. Should he have any hesitation, a mention in your article could give him the prod he needs. But I doubt he’ll need any persuasion.”
My stomach tightened at the name. “Silas Griggson will be here tonight?” I asked stupidly, as Mrs. Goelet had just stated as much.
“New money, to be sure, and rather coarse around the edges, but considering . . . well, he would be a good catch. Not that we’ll rule out others at this point, but I’ve got my eye on Mr. Griggson for Cleo.”
Even as I wondered what she had obviously omitted from her remarks, I clamped my teeth on the inside of my lower lip to prevent myself from voicing my objections. It was none of my business whom Cleo Cooper-Smith married. I thought of her sister. If Mrs. Goelet had intended shackling Ilsa to Silas Griggson, I might not have been able to hold my peace. But I’d been introduced to Cleo after my sojourn in the drawing and ball rooms earlier, and whereas Ilsa had captured my sympathies, Cleo, the younger of the two, inspired pure confidence that she could take care of herself.
“Now, you’ll stand discreetly behind the receiving line, out of view of the arriving guests but where you can observe who is who.”
“I’m sure I’m familiar with most of your guests, ma’am, but thank you, that will be helpful.”
“Good.” She surveyed my attire, her discerning gaze starting at my simple coif and slowly descending to my hems. Once again, I’d dressed simply, this time in a gray silk skirt and bodice with black satin trimming. “Good,” she repeated. “You may wait in the office until it is time.”
She left me to find my own way, which I did, passing numerous servants bustling back and forth between the butler’s pantry and the dining room. I danced a bit of a jig to avoid collisions but reached the office at the front of the house without mishap. A giggle stopped me before I turned into the room. I turned and grinned at the sight of an auburn-haired beauty who beamed back at me.
“Darling Emma.” Grace Wilson Vanderbilt, my cousin Neily’s wife and Mary Goelet’s youngest sibling, approached me with open arms. We embraced heartily, and then held each other at arm’s length.
“You look wonderful, Grace,” I said. “Motherhood certainly agrees with you.” Grace had given birth to her and Neily’s first child, a boy, back in April. “How is little Corneil? Is he here?”
“He’s in Newport, yes, staying with Mama tonight. We’ll certainly make time for you and he to become acquainted. Oh, he’ll adore you, I simply know it.”
“And I’ll adore him. Nanny has knitted a lovely blanket for him.”
“How darling of her. I’m sorry I wasn’t here this afternoon to greet you, Emma. Has May been horrible?”
She referred to her sister by her family pet name. “No, she’s been lovely.”
“May, lovely? Now I know you’re lying.” Like her sister had done, Grace scanned my outfit, but without her sister’s approval. “I see she has put you in your place. I’m terribly sorry.”
“There is no need to be. I am here as a journalist for the Herald. There is no shame in that, and this is how I typically dress when I cover evening events in New York.”
She looked unconvinced. “If you say so. But . . .” She leaned closer to whisper. “Word has it you might not be returning to New York. Is that true?”
“Brady.” I sighed. “He shouldn’t have said anything yet. Honestly, Grace, I didn’t know myself how intent I was on moving back home until the ferry ride over here yesterday. Before that, it had been a wistful yearning, but not a plan.”
“I’d miss having you in New York most of the year,” she said with a little pout.
“Grace, need I remind you that you and Neily spend most of the year in Europe?”
She shrugged that observation aside. “Come upstairs with me while I change for the ball. We can catch up.”
“You sister wants me to wait in the office.”
“Bother May. Come with me. I have questions for you.”
My feet dragged, for I had a good idea what those questions might entail. I proved correct.
“Does that delicious Derrick Andrews know you’re home yet?” she asked minutes later as her maid unhooked the back of her afternoon gown.
“Grace, surely you’ve already learned from Brady that I have not spoken to Derrick since I came home for Easter.”
“But you’ll see him soon, yes?”
I held up my hands. “I don’t know. Perhaps he’s busy. Perhaps he’s in Providence.” I knew the latter to be unlikely. Derrick and his father had had a falling-out, resulting in Derrick’s being disinherited. I didn’t believe it would last forever, but his father wished to make a point and assert his position as head of the family. Equally stubborn, Derrick had taken up permanent residence in Newport—in my former childhood home, no less—and purchased a floundering local newspaper with the notion of making it a success. So far, it didn’t come close to rivaling his family’s Providence Sun, but in only a year’s time Derrick had managed to increase his subscription rate and double the Messenger’s number of pages.
“I believe I shall have to host a small dinner party very soon. Are you free on Tuesday night?” She went to sit at her dressing table to allow her maid to rearrange her hair.
I pursed my lips at her through the mirror. “Will Derrick Andrews be there?”
“Perhaps. I don’t quite know yet. . . .”
Dearest, scheming Grace. I gave her a tentative yes and we left it at that.
An hour and a half later, she and I were back downstairs, she mingling with the guests, and I moving slowly through the Great Hall, ballroom, and the library, taking notes on those in attendance, what they wore, and, when I could detain them for a minute or two, where their recent travels had taken them. My role as a society reporter had taught me how much people enjoyed talking about themselves, even those who claimed to value their privacy. I spent several more minutes in the dining room. A buffet of French delicacies beckoned from the table, from saucissons de Lyon to brochettes de foie de volaille to sole gratinéau vin blanc, and so much more. It could never all be consumed, not even later, by the servants. So much waste. Yet my job was not to judge, but merely record.
On my way out of the dining room, I passed the great double fireplace rendered in pink marble, its twin hearths flanking a gilded head of the god Bacchus. A small line had formed, and one by one each guest rubbed the image’s nose and made a silent wish. It was a tradition at all events here at Ochre Court.
Feeling rather foolish, I nonetheless waited patiently in line. When my turn came, I reached out, brushed the smooth, gilded nose, and made a quick wish that remaining in Newport would prove to be the right decision. Then I moved on, shaking my head ruefully at my folly.
Familiar faces filled the rooms. I greeted my Vanderbilt relatives, siblings Neily and Alfred and Gertrude, along with her new husband, Harry Whitney. My aunt Alva and her new husband, Oliver Belmont, had come with my cousin, Willy Vanderbilt, who had recently turned twenty. I wondered if he was among the hopefuls vying for Cleo Cooper-Smith’s hand. If so, he could be in for a battle with his formidable mother, who had triumphed when her daughter, Consuelo, married an English duke. Did she have a princess in mind for her son?
Grace’s brother, Orme Wilson, and his wife, Carrie, were there as well, along with Senator and Mrs. Wetmore. The latter pair greeted me warmly, Mrs. Wetmore even embracing me. I had done them a service last summer, and they once more expressed their gratitude. Along with the Wetmores, I noticed another full-time Newport resident, Max Brentworth, owner of the Newport Gas Light Company. Though certainly not old money, Mr. Brentworth’s millions allowed him entrée into affairs such as this.
It wasn’t long before my instincts for unearthing newsworthy gossip, reluctantly honed during the past year of working for the Herald, led me to my first puzzling encounter of the evening. In a corner of the ballroom, Colonel John Jacob Astor, in U.S. Army dress blues, stood woodenly by his beautiful wife, Ava, while she apparently spoke words that pleased him not at all. I watched the tension bead across his jaw as her lips moved rapidly, close to his ear. The tendons in her neck stood out, tense and strained, in her effort not to raise her voice. That in itself didn’t fascinate me. Theirs had never been a happy marriage and this was not the first time I’d witnessed contention between them. No, what struck me as odd was the woman standing not far away from them, dressed all in black—not fashionable black silk but the crepe of deep and recent mourning. Here, at a ball?
Equally incongruous was that she didn’t merely stand near them, she stood facing them, as if waiting for the right moment to approach. For what, I wondered. To make small talk? Surely not. She hadn’t passed through the receiving line earlier, nor was she a Newport summer resident, but I knew her previously from my time in New York. She was Mrs. Lorraine Kipp, widowed five years ago. Only a couple of weeks prior, she had lost her only son to the Battle of Santiago in Cuba. I particularly remembered the obituary running in the Herald because her son, Oliver, had died so young.
Mrs. Astor left her husband after a sharp, parting word. He might have been completely deaf for all the reaction he showed. Only after she had put several paces between them did he release a breath and relax his stance. In that moment, Lorraine Kipp clasped her hands primly at her waist and swept to him.
He looked no happier than he had during his wife’s quiet tirade. His gaze darted here and there, anywhere but at Mrs. Kipp’s sallow complexion framed by an abundance of silver curls. I felt half inclined to go to his rescue. As it was, I moved a few feet closer in my attempt to eavesdrop. Oh, yes, my year at the Herald had taught me well.
“You must do this for me, Colonel Astor. For Oliver. Please,” Mrs. Kipp whispered as fiercely as had Ava Astor moments ago. Her lips were pinched, the skin around her eyes as crinkled as old parchment.
The colonel reacted no less uncomfortably to this latest onslaught. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Kipp.”
“Then say it.”
“I just did, ma’am.”
“No. You know what I mean.” She grasped his coat sleeve with long, bony fingers. “Say it. Proclaim it.”
“I cannot, Mrs. Kipp.” He pulled away without warning, dislodging her hand from his arm. “Please excuse me.”
“Colonel Astor, do not walk away from me, sir—”
Her voice had begun to rise before cutting off short. With a hand pressed to his brow as if to contain its throbbing, Colonel Astor made his way through the knotted throng of guests until he became enveloped in a group of officers and their wives. Mrs. Kipp blinked, moisture clinging to her gray lashes and darkening them. I understood the reason for her grief; her son had died in the war, but what could Colonel Astor do about it now? What could be changed? I couldn’t bring myself to ask her. She had seen me—had skimmed a watery gaze over me—and knew what I did for a living. If she wished to speak with me, I certainly wouldn’t walk away, but neither would I intrude on her privacy any more than I already had. She drifted away aimlessly, or so I thought at first, until I saw her once more hovering at the periphery of Colonel Astor’s group.
I turned my attention away. I don’t know why I felt responsible for her well-being, but I made a point of seeking out Ilsa Cooper-Smith. She stood alone near the wall, her crooked figure made less conspicuous by the draping of her gown. She’d pasted a carefully pleasant expression on her face as she observed the dancing I doubted she would enjoy tonight. I understood that look. It was one all young ladies learned, long before they ever arrived at their first social occasion. All is well, that look said. I am perfectly content. A true lady never allowed unhappy sentiments to intrude upon an evening’s gaiety—no matter how miserable she might be feeling.
I wanted to go to her, to stand beside her in a show of camaraderie. After all, no one would be asking me to dance tonight either. But I had a job to perform, and another member of the Cooper-Smith family beckoned, though he had yet to realize it.
“Mr. Cooper-Smith, I’m Emma Cross with the New York Herald.” I held up my notepad and pencil as he turned from the circle of acquaintances with whom he had been speaking.
He eyed me warily. “Yes?”
“I’m here covering your daughter’s ball, sir.” I drew breath in preparation of asking him whether he and Mr. Griggson would be doing business here in Newport. While Richard Morris Hunt designed Ochre Court and many of the other mansions lining Bellevue Avenue, other architects had left their mark on Newport as well. My question for him was innocent enough, and indeed I had nothing against Randall Cooper-Smith. It was Silas Griggson I despised for his unconscionable actions. “If I may, sir, I’d like to ask you whether you are considering undertaking any projects in Newport—”
“That is hardly society news, Miss Cross. If you are here to cover my daughter’s coming-out, then please do so. Excuse me.”
“Mr. Cooper-Smith, another moment, please. My next question does pertain to your daughter. Word has it Silas Griggson is among her most favored suitors. Is that true, sir?”
He had already begun moving away. Now he slowly turned pinched features toward me, his eyes blazing. “Do not spread rumors, Miss Cross. It is a risky endeavor, especially in your line of business.”
He didn’t excuse himself this time, but turned on his heel and strode away, rather more rudely than Colonel Astor had been in escaping Mrs. Kipp.
Had he threatened me? Did he oppose his daughter’s potential marriage to Silas Griggson? Why would he, if the two men were business associates? It set me wondering if Randall Cooper-Smith willingly took part in Mr. Griggson’s projects. Did he, too, suspect Griggson had caused the collapse of a tenement on New York’s Lower East Side? Or, worse, did he fear being discovered as blameworthy in the tragedy?
If he thought his evasiveness would put me off, he would soon learn differently. But I hoped Randall Cooper-Smith had played no role in Mr. Griggson’s perfidy, for Ilsa’s sake if nothing else.
I spotted her again, and felt inexplicably relieved to see her smiling up at a dark-haired man of about thirty. His features were patrician, his nose long and slightly aquiline, his chin square and firm. He was unknown to me personally, but on the receiving line I had learned his name was Patrick Floyd. I noticed his smile made only rare appearances as Ilsa chatted away, and when his lips did curl in amusement, there seemed something almost painful in the gesture, though I didn’t believe he wished to be away from her. On the contrary, he seemed quite settled at her side; one might even say protective in his stance beside her.
Knowing full well Ilsa was not my assignment tonight, I nonetheless drifted closer while continuing to take notes on those present and what they wore.
“If you would like to dance, Patrick, really, I wouldn’t mind,” I heard Ilsa saying. “Ask Cleo. I’d enjoy watching you.”
He was a friend of the Cooper-Smith family, I surmised, or Ilsa would not have used his given name. My heart clenched at her encouraging him to dance with someone else, a clear reference to her own inability to do so.
“Nonsense, Ilsa. I have no desire to dance tonight. I’m barely out of mourning, after all.”
Perhaps that explained those pained looks of his; a ball could only be a grim reminder of a lost loved one.
“You’re very kind to remain here with me,” she replied. “It’s been more than a year since your wife left us, and while I understand you miss Matilda very much, no one would think the less of you for rejoining society in all its many facets. Including dancing. Really, Patrick, you needn’t play the gallant for me. I am quite used to not dancing.”
I wondered if his throat tightened the way mine did. Perhaps so. With a somber expression he turned his face to hers. “I play at nothing, Ilsa. I am perfectly content where I am.”
She beamed up at him, and in that moment I perceived the unfortunate imbalance of their regard for each other. Did he realize her feelings approached love, were no less, certainly, than adoration, while his appeared those of a kindly uncle or older brother?
Assured, at least, that she would be well looked after for the time being, I moved away. My compassion dissipated as I did so, for Silas Griggson moved within my sights. His attire once again fit him like a second skin, his evening clothes of the finest materials and tailoring. Apparently, he countenanced only the best when it came to his own creature comforts.
I pulled up short. He stood with two other men, both much younger than himself and in military uniform. One of them was Sam Caldwell, whom I had met coming off the ferry yesterday. The other was Dorian Norris, whom I did not know personally, but by reputation only. He and Sam hailed from two of New York’s oldest, if not wealthiest, families. I hoped they were only trading the usual pleasantries with Griggson. The Four Hundred tolerated men like him only because they found him useful. As a real estate developer, he had influence on the course of their investments, and that allowed him entrée into their drawing rooms and ballrooms.
But there were no drawing rooms or ballrooms in the tenement that collapsed last month. A half-dozen residents killed, dozens more injured, and the man held responsible—the construction foreman—dead.
Like every other New York newspaper, the Herald reported that the project foreman had ordered shoddy materials and pocketed the cash he saved. He denied it, vehemently. Griggson himself had posted the bail. Only days before his first court hearing, a tugboat captain found the foreman floating in the East River.
And yet here was Griggson, laughing with a pair of officers home from the war. . . .
My attention sharpened as the music ended and Mr. Griggson broke away from his young companions. He walked purposefully onto the dance floor, his target obviously Cleo Cooper-Smith. His cool smile exuded the hope—no, the knowledge—that he would partner her for the next dance. When he was within several feet of her he extended his hand. Another man had moved to Miss Cooper-Smith’s side, his name undoubtedly written on her dance card, but at Griggson’s approach he backed away. It would appear Silas Griggson wielded the same influence at balls as he did in Tammany Hall. Or did he? For as he came within reach of Miss Cooper-Smith, her expression showed distaste. She raised her hems and scrambled in the opposite direction.