Chapter 3
“What on earth just happened?” Miss Cooper-Smith might as well have shot Silas Griggson point-blank, for the look of horror that crossed Mrs. Goelet’s face. She came up behind me, her voice so sharp I flinched. “Do something, quickly.”
Startled, I whirled to regard her. “Me, ma’am? What can I do?”
Her gaze slid past my shoulder, and then she brushed by me to where Grace and my cousin, Cornelius Vanderbilt III, stood ready for the next dance. Mrs. Goelet rudely stepped between them. “Grace, I need you to speak with Cleo. She just openly snubbed Mr. Griggson. What can she be thinking?”
Grace was no more keen on intervening than I. “I barely know the child, May. She won’t listen to me. You should speak with her. You’re her patroness.”
“She has grown weary of hearing my advice, Grace. She needs a fresh perspective to convince her of her best opportunities. Young girls can be so headstrong. . . .”
As they debated the issue, Mrs. Goelet on the verge of panic and Grace firmly uncooperative, I sidled over to my cousin. Poor Neily looked uncertain and thoroughly out of his element, caught as he was in the machinations of women. Relief flooded his face as he caught sight of me.
“Can I get you anything, Emmaline? Punch? A bite to eat?”
I couldn’t help smiling at his eager tone. “I don’t think Grace would thank me for taking you away from her. Especially not now, with her sister attempting to enlist her help with Miss Cooper-Smith.” Despite my words, I slipped my arm through his and drew him a few feet off the dance floor. “Tell me, what do you know about her? Does she wish to marry?”
“Doesn’t every young woman wish to marry?”
I’d been studying Grace and her sister, and alternately, Cleo Cooper-Smith, who had joined her sister across the room. At Neily’s observation, my gaze darted to his face. His question was a sincere one, as I could see by his bemused expression. “Most, Neily, but not all. And many of those who do wish a husband and children only do so because they’ve been told all their lives they should want such things.”
“Not every woman is like you, Emmaline. Most can’t take care of themselves the way you can.”
My sights once more landed on the Misses Cooper-Smith, and I noted how very differently each young woman carried herself—not just physically but with a quality that spoke of confidence, or the lack of it. To Neily I said, “You’d be surprised what women are capable of when they make up their minds. I’m going to go talk to her.”
“To whom? Cleo?” Neily asked to my back, but I continued walking, my notebook and pencil once more primed for note-taking.
“Miss Cooper-Smith, may I ask you another few questions?” I had interviewed her earlier during the afternoon tea. The young woman couldn’t hold a candle to her sister Ilsa in terms of attractiveness. Despite her affliction, Ilsa’s natural, effortless beauty had immediately struck me when I met her. There seemed nothing effortless about Cleo; on the contrary, every tilt of her head suggested she had spent time in front a mirror practicing to her best advantage. Yet it was an artificial brand of confidence that would fool many people, and I guessed most men, if asked, would have considered Cleo far more beautiful than her sister.
She offered me a just such a head tilt designed to impress. “What would you like to know now, Miss . . . uh?”
“Cross.” I found it difficult to believe she had forgotten my name in the ensuing hours. Another affectation? “First, I see you are wearing Worth tonight, yes?” I hadn’t really needed to ask. The pale, frothy confection of chiffon, tulle, and lace could have come from no other designer.
She inclined her head. “Of course.”
“Then I assume you spent at least part of the spring in France, choosing gowns and being fitted?”
“Oh . . . uh . . . no.” She colored slightly. I had inadvertently hit a bit of a nerve and she couldn’t lie. Whether or not she had been in Paris this spring would be too easy to verify. “I was able to place my orders from New York.”
“I see.” What I saw, in actuality, was her discomfiture. Her answer struck me as odd, for nearly every debutante visited the Paris fashion salons for her coming-out wardrobe. But I changed the subject. Earlier she had told me she had been to Newport only once before, several years ago before her mother died. “What do you think of our city? Will you come back to visit?”
“I should like to.” Her smile appeared genuine. “New York is so stuffy and dreary in the summer. Perhaps, if Mrs. Goelet is kind enough to invite me, I shall spend my summers here in the future.”
Odd that a young woman on the marriage mart would assume dependence on a family friend for future visits. It made me wonder if Miss Cooper-Smith wished to marry at all. “It’s wonderful of Mrs. Goelet to serve in your mother’s stead tonight. You must be very grateful.”
“Aunt May promised Mama she’d see me married.” She gave a little head toss that made her glossy curls bounce. But she hadn’t answered my question about gratitude. Perhaps she felt none, or considered tonight’s festivities a matter of course.
Once again, the dissimilarities between the Cooper-Smith sisters struck me, for even with what little I knew of Ilsa, I felt assured she would have expressed her appreciation for Mrs. Goelet’s kindness in no uncertain terms, and to all who would listen.
I turned to include Ilsa and the man beside her in the conversation. Before I could speak, however, an elegant blonde approached us, her smile haughty as she raised an eyebrow to Cleo. “Such a spectacular fuss over you tonight, Miss Cooper-Smith. You must be terribly flattered by it all.” The young wife of a banker, Lucinda Russell didn’t sound as if she approved of Mrs. Goelet’s efforts, though I suspected envy colored her sentiments. Before Miss Cleo could respond, Mrs. Russell’s attention shifted to her sister. She swept Ilsa with an appraising glance. “One would imagine your turn is next, my dear. Though, you really should have been first, shouldn’t you? I do believe you’re older than your sister, no?”
Ilsa blushed fiercely and stammered out an unintelligible reply, making me squirm on Mrs. Russell’s behalf. Surely she knew of Ilsa’s infirmity—the evidence of it was plain enough. And while I certainly hoped the young woman would someday marry if she wished, I could easily surmise that hers would be a quiet, private courtship free of the conjecture of others as to whether she could manage the running of a household, bear children, and take her place in society. Mrs. Russell’s comments seemed deliberately engineered to wound, to point out Ilsa’s physical and social shortcomings. Why such cruelty? Was there a history there I didn’t know about? A feud, perhaps, between the families?
In a protective gesture, Patrick Floyd lifted a hand to cover Ilsa’s where it rested in the crook of his arm. Her complexion began to cool.
But Mrs. Russell persisted. “Oh, but then a ball such as this wouldn’t be quite the thing for you, would it?” She tsked, giving a sad shake of her head that renewed the fire in Ilsa’s cheeks. My own blood turned hot, and I longed to utter a bitter reprimand.
The sight of Cleo’s scowl made me brace for a swift chastisement, the thorough tongue lashing Mrs. Russell deserved. She delivered one, but not to Mrs. Russell. “Oh, Ilsa, don’t be so tragic. You’ll marry someday and we’ll have a great to-do, so you needn’t play the martyr. Isn’t she wearisome, Patrick?”
The breath left me, and Mr. Floyd as well, for his chest heaved and his eyes flashed with ire. Mrs. Russell merely tittered in amusement, blind or perhaps indifferent to the tears that gathered in Ilsa’s eyes and turned them to deep wells of sadness. She slipped her arm from Mr. Floyd’s and limped away from us, and became lost within the crush. Another few strained seconds passed, and then Mr. Floyd tersely excused himself and strode off after her.
“Goodness, what did I say?” Mrs. Russell absently fingered the diamond bracelet encircling her gloved wrist. “Why, I certainly didn’t mean to . . . Ah, well.” To my utter astonishment, she drifted away without another word.
“Oh, Miss Cooper-Smith,” I whispered, “do you think your sister is all right? I do hope—”
“Never mind,” Cleo cut me off. “No one expects my sister to marry, but Mrs. Russell can’t have realized it.”
I rather doubted that, for the amusement in Mrs. Russell’s voice during the encounter suggested she knew exactly what she was saying, and that she had purposely baited the hapless Ilsa. Why, I could not begin to imagine.
“You see,” Miss Cooper-Smith went on, oblivious to my suspicions, “Ilsa suffers from extreme curvature of the spine and nothing the doctors could do, not even the braces they made her wear, made a difference.” She lowered her voice. “It’s so bad she’ll never be able to have children, I’m afraid. So you see, there really is no point in her marrying.”
“Yes, I . . . I see.” But I didn’t. I didn’t see why she should never marry, or why she should be made to suffer insults without anyone coming to her defense. Waves of misery on Ilsa’s behalf poured through me.
“It’s grand of Patrick to keep her company, isn’t it?” Something in Miss Cooper-Smith’s voice suggested she wasn’t as pleased as her words implied.
“Very gentlemanly of him,” I agreed for want of something better to say. I shouldn’t have asked my next question, but I couldn’t help myself. “Is there some ill will between Mrs. Russell and your sister?”
Miss Cleo shrugged. “None that I know of. Lucinda Russell is a busybody and a shrew, and everyone knows it. Ilsa certainly knows it, which is why it vexed me to see her take the woman’s teasing to heart. Now then, have you any other questions for me?” She spoke so brightly, so enthusiastically, I could only surmise she’d dismissed her sister from her mind.
I entertained no qualms, then, in posing my next query. “I understand your father and Mr. Silas Griggson often do business together, with your father designing many of the edifices Mr. Griggson’s company builds.”
“That’s true, but what has that got to do with me?” She pushed out her plump lower lip. “You are here tonight because of me, aren’t you?”
“Indeed, I am, Miss Cooper-Smith.” I steeled myself to play the role of gossip columnist to the fullest. “But seeing the business relationship between your father and Mr. Griggson, would it not be an exceedingly advantageous match for you, Miss Cooper-Smith? Would not the union of your families create something of a construction dynasty in New York? And Mr. Griggson is here tonight, after all. One can only assume that he is among your many suitors.”
“No—I—that is, you misunderstand . . .”
As if I had called across the room to the man, Silas Griggson came up from behind me. “You might certainly say that. Miss Cooper-Smith, I must insist the next dance be mine. And I am a man who is used to getting what he wants.” As if to soften the claim, his lips pulled back from his teeth, yet his smile produced the opposite effect by revealing a pair of long, pointy incisors and reminding me of the mongrels that prowled the wharves in town. His very presence raised wary goose bumps across my shoulders, just as those half-wild dogs did.
Miss Cooper-Smith silently appealed to me for an assistance I was in no position to render. With little recourse, she placed her hand in his offered one, and then heaved a sigh of relief when Mrs. Goelet came striding through the crush.
Miss Cooper-Smith broke away from Mr. Griggson and trotted to her patroness. “It’s time to prepare for the surprise, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Goelet took in the scene before her, noticing Mr. Griggson still holding out the hand recently vacated by Miss Cooper-Smith’s smaller one. Her smile was entirely for him, though she spoke to her charge. “My dear, I believe there is time for one more turn on the dance floor.”
“No, no, I wouldn’t want to keep our guests waiting. Everyone is bursting to know what awaits them in the drawing room. Do forgive me, Mr. Griggson.” She could not have appeared happier or more relieved. So much for Mrs. Goelet’s hopes of a match between her protégée and Silas Griggson; it was obvious the young woman had no interest in that direction.
As the two of them walked away, Mr. Griggson made a sound like a growl deep in his throat. His smile had vanished, a grimace in its stead. Some little imp in me pretended not to understand. I held my pencil to my notepad. “I’m sorry, did you say something, Mr. Griggson? May I quote you on your opinion of the ball?”
* * *
The ball continued another hour, minus several faces. Miss Cleo Cooper-Smith’s was among them, along with Sam Caldwell and the other army officer with whom he had been speaking to Mr. Griggson earlier. Mr. Griggson appeared to have left the ball as well. Good riddance. I continued taking my usual notes while making the rounds of the various public rooms, stopping to sample delicacies off the dining room buffets, until a gong summoned everyone to the drawing room.
Mrs. Goelet stood in the doorway, waving everyone inside. “Move all the way in. We must make room for everyone.”
Exclamations of surprise filled the air as the guests took in the trees and flowers and lush fabrics that transformed the ordinary drawing room into an Egyptian garden. The artificial clover once more felt springy beneath my feet as Mrs. Goelet gestured for me to move closer to the front, where I would have a good view of the proceedings. Candlelight threw a sunsetlike glow over the room. Curtains had been pulled across the dais, hiding the scene I’d viewed that afternoon.
The connecting doors to the ballroom had been opened to add a bit of space, and once the last guest had squeezed inside, Mrs. Goelet made her way to the dais. She held up her hands for silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, on this very special night, in honor of our very special Miss Cooper-Smith, we have a most enchanting treat for you, something I am quite sure you have never seen before, not like this. Settle in, and behold. Maestro, if you please.”
From beyond the room’s open windows, music flowed from a chamber orchestra seated on the terrace. Mrs. Goelet moved away from the dais, coming to stand on my side of the room. At a nod from her, two footmen moved into place, each taking hold of a tasseled pull cord. At another signal from Mrs. Goelet, accompanied by an upswell in the music, the footmen tugged the cords and the curtains swooped open to reveal a nocturnal scene from the distant past.
Cleo Cooper-Smith stood front and center in a sleeveless white sheath embellished with cloth of gold trim and tiny seed pearls. A cape of similar, shimmering cloth of gold cascaded to a train behind her, while a jet black wig, winking with crystals—or were they diamonds?—and cut into blunt bangs fell sharply to her bared shoulders. Encircling her slender neck was a wide jeweled collar, while gold bracelets in the shape of asps, their emerald eyes glittering with cunning, curled around her forearms. Gold sandals laced around her ankles completed her guise of Cleopatra.
Around her, standing or lounging on the colorful cushions I’d seen earlier, were the individuals who had gone missing from the ball. Young ladies wore shoulder-baring sheaths similar to Miss Cooper-Smith’s. The men, Sam Caldwell and his friend among them, wielded ornamental swords and looked fierce in their tunics and headdresses.
The guests behind me stirred with appreciation. The music continued. From the ballroom doorway entered a charming little girl dressed in a flowing gown of white silk organza and tulle. A wreath of white flowers encircled her golden curls, and her tiny hands clutched a posy of lilies and baby’s breath—and a single red rose, still closed up tight. Like a drop of blood, the bud stood out in its cottony field. The child’s blue eyes sparkled with excitement and the importance of her task, and a delicate blush suffused her porcelain-like skin. I knew this lovely child to be Mrs. Goelet’s niece, Beatrice, the daughter of her deceased husband’s brother.
Mrs. Goelet’s own teenage son, Robert, followed Beatrice, proceeding at a dignified pace from the ballroom to the dais. He held a gold circlet studded with gems that shimmered like liquid in the flickering candlelight. When the pair reached the dais they solemnly climbed each step, Beatrice tottering slightly and Robert reaching out with one hand to steady her, until they stood directly in front of Cleo Cooper-Smith. Beatrice bobbed a wobbly curtsy and handed Miss Cooper-Smith the posy. Robert bowed to her. She lowered her head in return, and young Robert Goelet set the circlet upon it.
Out on the terrace, a single trumpet sang out a triumphant call. Robert took Beatrice’s hand and moved off to the side, while shivering notes from the violins fueled the anticipation in the drawing room to a fevered pitch. My own stomach clenched in excitement, so caught up was I in the moment. The two footmen moved along the sides of the room, extinguishing the candles until all lay in darkness. Again, the throng stirred. I heard murmurs of expectation, even apprehension, behind me.
At a crescendo from the orchestra, broad daylight flooded the room as the Edison bulbs hidden within the foliage surged to life. A collective gasp burst from the guests. Ladies cried out, first in alarm, then delight. The scene on the dais glowed with a vibrancy that hurt the eyes, and, startled, I blinked. As I did so, Miss Cooper-Smith, duly crowned Queen of the Nile, backed toward the gilded throne, which glowed as if struck with the full force of a noonday sun. I knew that once Miss Cooper-Smith took her place, all movement on the dais would cease, allowing the audience to view the scene down to the minutest detail. She slowly lowered herself to sit on the sumptuous cushions and then reached with both hands to grasp the throne’s arms.
Cracks like rapid gunshots echoed through the room. Sparks flew. Profound and utter darkness fell. Ladies screamed, then laughed, then cried out again. Mrs. Goelet called for quiet.
“It’s all right, everyone, no need for alarm. All of you on the dais, stay where you are. We’ll simply relight the candles . . . Good heavens, where is that electrician? He was to remain on hand. . . .”
Despite her reassurances, her dismay was obvious. All her meticulous planning, not to mention the expense of wiring the Edison bulbs to the room’s existing electrical system, wasted. Even I felt an acute sense of letdown. They might continue with the tableau vivant, but the drama had been lost, the life of the event extinguished. My editor at the Herald wouldn’t be happy, especially after paying my way home specifically for this event.
The footmen rapidly began relighting the candles. Suddenly, a young lady on the dais called out. “I think something is wrong with Cleo.”
Mrs. Goelet whirled back toward the scene. “Cleo, are you all right? Poor dear, it was quite a shock, wasn’t it? Cleo?” She raised her hems and hurried up the steps. “Cleo . . .”
Another of the sheath-clad young ladies, Mrs. Goelet’s twenty-year-old daughter, named May for her mother, came to her feet and approached the throne, walking gingerly on the toes of her laced-up sandals. My own breath hung suspended in my lungs as a cold dread seeped through me.
Adding to the sense of dread, the room had gone as still as a sepulcher at midnight. Those on the dais remained where they were, craning their necks to watch, but, true to the form of a tableau vivant, no one budged from their assigned place until Sam Caldwell abandoned his post beside one of the columns. His sword at his side, he strode to the center of the dais looking the part of a sentry on patrol. The three of them—Captain Caldwell, Mrs. Goelet, and her daughter—converged around the prone Queen of the Nile. The captain leaned down and whispered Miss Cooper-Smith’s name.
Mrs. Goelet reached out to touch her, one finger extended as if to nudge her from sleep. Until that moment, I’d been held in a daze like the rest of the guests behind me, but now a realization struck me.
“Don’t!” I shouted, and scurried up the steps. “Don’t touch her!”
With a look of alarm, Mrs. Goelet’s hand fell to her side, and then she tilted her head, hearing, perhaps, the same sound that reached my ears. Despite the electric lights having been extinguished, an ominous humming arose from the throne, so low and deep I doubted anyone in the room behind me could hear it. Like a physical entity, the sound rippled beneath my skin and grazed my nerve endings. “The circuits must be shut off. We mustn’t touch her before that.”
“What are you saying?” Mrs. Goelet demanded. She reached for her daughter and wrapped her arms around her.
“Is Cleo all right?” came a small voice like the chirp of a frightened baby bird. Only then did I remember about Beatrice. Mrs. Goelet’s gaze fell, horrified, upon the little girl.
“Beatrice, it’s all right, dearest. Cleo’s only fallen asleep. Silly Cleo.” A woman in green taffeta pushed through the crowd and hurried to the dais. Without ascending the steps, she reached her arms out, beckoning to the child. Beatrice ran into them, whereupon her mama gathered her close and carried her from the ballroom. “You did splendidly, darling, just like a real princess. . . .”
With a mix of relief and trepidation, I stared at Miss Cooper-Smith’s prone form. Her eyes were open, fixed on some point above her. She didn’t move—not so much as a rise or fall of her chest. A reek of burned flesh sent me lurching back a step. “She is quite beyond our help,” I said.
Mrs. Goelet fainted dead away. Somewhere in the room a woman screamed, and all hell broke loose.