The American Heiress (3 page)

‘You’d better get my costume ready, Bertha. Mother will be here in a minute, checking that I have followed her instructions
à la lettre
. I can’t believe I have to wear something so perfectly hideous. Still, Martha Van Der Leyden told me that her mother is making her dress like a Puritan maid so I suppose it could be worse.’

Cora’s dress had been copied from a Velázquez painting of a Spanish infanta that Mrs Cash had bought because she had heard Mrs Astor admire it.

As Bertha took the elaborate hooped skirt from the closet, she wondered if the Madam had chosen her daughter’s costume as much for the way it restricted the wearer’s movement as for any artistic considerations. No gentleman would be able to get within three feet of Miss Cora. The kissing lesson would have been in vain.

She helped Cora out of her tea gown and into the farthingale. Cora had to step into it and Bertha had to fasten the harness like shutting a gate. The silk brocade of the skirt and bodice had been specially woven in Lyons; the fabric was heavy and dense. Cora swayed slightly as the weight of it settled on the frame. It would only take the slightest pressure to make her lose her balance entirely. The dress was three feet wide so Cora would have to go through all doorways sideways. Waltzing in such a dress would be impossible.

Bertha knelt and helped Cora into the brocade shoes with Louis heels and upturned toes. Cora began to wobble.

‘I can’t wear these, Bertha, I will fall over. Get the bronze slippers instead.’

‘If you’re sure, Miss Cora…’ Bertha said cautiously.

‘My mother is expecting eight hundred people tonight,’ Cora said. ‘I doubt she will have time to inspect my feet. Get the slippers.’

But Cora’s words were braver than she felt; both girls knew that the Madam never missed anything.

Mrs Cash was making one last survey of her costume. Her neck and ears were still bare, not through austerity on her part but because she knew that any minute her husband would come in with a ‘little something’ which would have to be put on and admired. Winthrop had been spending a lot of time in the city lately, which meant that a ‘little something’ was due. Some of her contemporaries had used their husband’s infidelities as a way of purchasing their freedom, but Mrs Cash, having spent the last five years shaking Cash’s Finest Flour from her skirts, had no desire to tarnish her hard-won reputation as the most elegant hostess in Newport and Fifth Avenue by something as shabby as divorce. So long as Winthrop was discreet, she was prepared to pretend that she knew nothing of his passion for the opera.

There had been a time once, though, when she had not been so sanguine. In the early days of their marriage she could not bear to let him out of her sight, for fear that he would bestow that same confiding smile on someone else. In those days she would have thought jewels no substitute for Winthrop’s unclouded gaze. But now she had her daughter, her houses and she was
the
Mrs Cash. She hoped that Winthrop would bring her diamonds this time. They would go well with her costume.

There was a tap at the door and Winthrop Rutherford II came in wearing the satin breeches, brocade waistcoat and powdered wig of Louis XV; the father might have started life as a stable boy but the son was a convincing Bourbon king. Mrs Cash thought with satisfaction that he looked quite distinguished in his costume, not many men could carry off silk stockings; they would be a handsome couple.

Her husband cleared his throat a little nervously. ‘You look quite magnificent tonight, my dear, no one would think this was the last ball of the season. May I be permitted to add a little something to perfection?’

Mrs Cash moved her head forward as if readying herself for the axe. Winthrop pulled the diamond collar from his pocket and fastened it round her neck.

‘You anticipate me, as always. It is indeed a necklace,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Winthrop. Always such taste. I shall wear the earrings you gave me last summer; I think they will make a perfect match.’ She reached without a moment’s hesitation for one of the morocco leather boxes on the dressing table, leaving Winthrop to wonder, not for the first time, if his wife could read his mind.

The opening bars of the Radetsky March floated up from the terrace. Mrs Cash stood and took her husband’s proffered arm.

‘You know, Winthrop, I would like this evening to be remembered.’

Cash knew better than to ask what she wanted the evening to be remembered for. She was only interested in one thing: perfection.

Chapter 2

A Spirit of Electricity

T
HERE WAS A MOMENT AS THE VAN DER LEYDEN
family stood at the top of Sans Souci’s famous double staircase, waiting to be announced, when Teddy Van Der Leyden thought his mother might have regretted her choice of costume. To be wearing plain dimity and fustian in a room full of satin, velvet and diamonds took an effort of will. But Mrs Van Der Leyden had wished to make a point and it was a point worthy of sacrifice. The family’s sober dress was a silent reminder to the assembled guests and particularly their hosts that the Van Der Leydens could trace their lineage all the way back to the
Mayflower
. Their lineage did not peter out in a floury dead end. The sombre black and white was a sign that even here in Newport, some things could not be bought.

Teddy Van Der Leyden knew his mother’s purpose and was amused by it. He was quite happy to wear a starched white neckband and black cloak, although he would have preferred to be one of the founding fathers, Jefferson perhaps. He understood her need to distinguish herself from all this unvariegated opulence. Every corner of the mirrored ballroom glittered, each jewel reflected into infinity.

He had been coming to the resort every summer for as long as he could remember and had been happy enough, but this year was different. Now that he had decided to go to Paris, he felt impatient with the observances of the Newport day. Every hour was accounted for – tennis at the club in the morning, carriage drives in the afternoon, and every night there were balls that started at midnight and did not end till dawn. Day after day he met the same hundred or so people. Only the costumes changed.

There was Eli Montagu and his wife dressed as Christopher Columbus and what Teddy took to be Madame de Pompadour. He had already met them that morning at the Casino, and yesterday on the bicycle excursion which had ended so precipitously. He would meet them again tomorrow at the breakfast given at the Belmonts and then at the Schooner picnic. He didn’t wince as his mother did when he heard Eli’s vowels or shudder at the brassy tint of Mrs Montagu’s hair; he rather liked the fact that when she smiled she showed her teeth. But he didn’t want to talk to them nor did he want to make a point by not talking to them. He looked around for Cora. She was the only person he wanted to see. She was always surprising. He remembered the way she had blown the hair out of her eyes when she was cycling yesterday, the way the offending tendril had fluttered and then rested on her cheek.

He moved out of the receiving line and over to one of the champagne fountains. A footman in full Bourbon livery offered him a glass. He drank it quickly, watching the arrivals flooding in through the great double doors. Most of the guests had chosen to come as
ancien régime
French aristocrats – he had seen three Marie Antoinettes and innumerable Louis already. Perhaps it was a compliment to the Versailles-inspired surroundings; perhaps it was the only period of history that matched the opulence of the present. Now he felt glad of his Puritan clothes. There was something uneasy about railway barons and steel magnates dressing up in the silk hose and embroidered tailcoats of another gilded age.

And then he saw Cora and his discontents were forgotten. Her dress was ridiculous; her skirts stuck out so far on either side of her that she would clear a path through the ballroom like an oar through water when she danced, but even in the absurd costume she was radiant. Her red-brown hair hung in ringlets against her white neck and shoulders. He thought of the small beauty spot he had noticed yesterday at the hollow of her throat.

She was standing just below her parents who were installed on a velvet-draped dais. She was surrounded by young men and Teddy realised that he must ask Cora for a dance or he would never get a chance to talk to her. He walked towards her, passing a Cardinal Richelieu and a Marquise de Montespan. He waited for an opening among the young men and then he caught her eye. She squinted a little to make sure it was really him and then went back to her dance card, but Teddy knew she was waiting for him to approach. He walked round the scaffolding of her skirt and stood behind her.

‘Am I too late?’ he asked her softly.

She turned her head in his direction and smiled.

‘Much too late for a dance. They all went ages ago. But I guess I might need to catch my breath after a while. Maybe around here?’ She pointed to a waltz on her dance card with her little ivory pencil. ‘We could meet on the terrace.’ Her eyes flickered towards where her mother was standing in majesty. Teddy understood the look – Cora did not want her mother to see them together.

Did Mrs Cash think he was a fortune-hunter then? He shuddered to think how horrified
his
mother would be if she imagined that he was making advances to Cora Cash. Mrs Van Der Leyden might attend a ball given by Mrs Cash but that did not mean she saw Cora as a suitable wife for her son, no matter how rich she was. They had never spoken about it but Teddy sensed that his mother thought that his desire to go to Europe and paint was the lesser of two evils.

In the winter garden, Simmons the butler was inspecting the supper tables. Down the length of each one ran a stream contained in a silver channel, agitated by tiny pumps so that it sparkled with an effervescent current. At the bottom of the stream was pure white sand and Bertha was pushing stones into the sand to look like submerged boulders. Each of these boulders was in fact an uncut gem – diamonds, rubies, emeralds and topazes. Beside each place setting was a miniature silver shovel so that the guests could ‘prospect’ for these treasures. Bertha had been told by the butler to make sure that the ‘boulders’ were distributed evenly. Despite the enormous wealth of many of the guests, there would be fierce competition among the ‘prospectors’ to amass the most rocks. There had been an unseemly scramble for the Fabergé bonbons at the Astor ball the week before.

Bertha pushed sand artfully around a ‘boulder’ so that a crystalline spar just punctured the surface. Simmons had told her not to make them too easy to find. He was meant to do this task himself but Bertha knew he felt it beneath him. He hadn’t told her what the rocks were but Bertha well understood their value. She would wait until they got to the end of the last table before taking one. Supper was to start at midnight when Mrs Cash would go on to the terrace to light up her costume and lead her guests into the winter garden like a star. At the same time the hummingbirds would be released to create the illusion that the guests were entering the tropics. Bertha reckoned that Simmons would be so involved in ministering to this procession that he would hardly notice a missing gem.