Chapter One, part two

Violet sat on the bed, eyes closed. When had she become such a chicken? She’d been outgoing enough with school friends, both at Emma Willard and at Smith, always ready to play badminton or stroll through the gardens. She’d made good friends. But this past year…. This year had squeezed her from all sides until she felt much older than her twenty-one years.

Her eyes popped open. It wouldn’t be so difficult to go down. Alva might be there, or other women she knew. With a solid exhale, she rose off the bed and found clean stockings, a clean chemise, and her trusty navy gown. This dress had been good enough for Princeton and Yale dances—it would have to be good enough for a Vanderbilt grand salon. Sure, it might not have all the beading and lace of the finest European fashions, but it was silk, and Paris cut, with the short lace sleeves that were still in vogue.

She re-did her hair and wrapped a white ribbon over her crown, pinning it at the back of her neck. Violet’s hair was dark, and the white ribbon always added a touch of drama. She checked herself one last time in the mirror, summoned her courage, and left the room.

The grand salon was easy to find. A band played “Pretty Baby,” and a group of black-gowned, white-capped servants filed in and out of the doorway. Violet went to the entrance and peeked in. Inside was a red and gold Fabergé egg of a room with a massive sparkling chandelier and the most ornate ceiling Violet had ever seen. It was a swirl of people—mostly young, all well-dressed. Many of the women had full sheaths of lace. The men were in evening dress—tails or tuxedo coats with black or gray ties and matching waistcoats. The band switched to belting Alabama Jubilee into air that smelled of gin, roasted ham, and perfume.

Violet watched the revelers in awe. Women tossed their heads back with laughter. Men lolled against the furniture. Everyone held a glass of something bubbling or fizzing. They danced and shouted at one another over the noise of the band. They took delicious morsels from the trays of staff in evening dress.

The very idea, Violet thought, that I would belong in a crush like this is ridiculous. She watched a young woman about her own age snatch a glass off a passing tray and lean in to whisper in a young man’s ear. They fell against each other, giggling.

“Excuse me, miss,” said a maid as she struggled past Violet, balancing her tray. Another maid followed behind the first one. Egads, I’m right in the way, she realized. More servants had lined up behind her, waiting to enter. Taking a breath, she slid out of their way and into the room. She skirted along the blue-and-golden-gilt wall until she nearly clashed elbows with a young man who was leaning there.

“Oh, heavens, I’m sorry.”

“What?” He seemed startled—maybe he hadn’t heard her over the noise of the band. Violet, comforted by the knowledge that she wasn’t the only one hiding on the wall, raised her voice.

“I nearly bumped into you. I do apologize.”

“No matter.” He looked toward her, but not truly at her. He seemed more interested in the people moving in and out of the doorway, somewhere over her right shoulder.

One of her mother’s sayings popped into her head: the handsome and the wealthy are only interested in themselves. This fellow must be one of those. He was certainly handsome. Tall, with a well-cut face and dark hair that must have begun the evening slicked back with hair tonic but was now dropping over one eye. And if he was at this party at the Breakers, odds were good that he was wealthy. Well, she would ask one last thing and then leave him to enjoy his wealth and good looks.
“I wonder if you’ve seen my sister? She’s wearing pink—pale pink.”

A look of scorn flooded his face. “No.” The pinch in his voice stung her ears. “No, I haven’t seen anything.” He took a swig of his drink and glared at the floor.
Singed, Violet fled into the crowd. She seemed to be moving against the tide, nearly bumping into maids and dancing ladies and waiters with full trays. She made it to the far side of the room and paused near an open window to breathe. There, to her relief, she spotted someone she knew. Cousin Alva.

Though this was not her house, Alva Belmont was Violet and Sadie’s host for this two-week stay. Alva’s own Newport house was Belcourt Castle, a châteauesque stunner just down the coast from the Breakers. It had been built by her second (now deceased) husband, Oliver Belmont. But Alva owned another Newport house as well, Marble House, a mansion gifted to her by her first—and ex—husband, Willie Vanderbilt, whom she had divorced after too many dalliances. Fashionable Newport wasn’t large, and all of these mansions—or “cottages,” as the millionaires called them—were within a few miles of one another.

Alva was surrounded by a small group of older women in jewel-toned taffeta, so Violet hesitated outside her orbit, waiting to be noticed. In a crowd of elegantly dressed women, Alva was the queen of them all in white peplumed lace, girded at the waist and topped by a magnificent purple velvet hat covered in tiny rosebuds. Alva had a rather blocky face, dyed dark hair, and an ordinary figure, but she shimmered with the power of a sharp, witty, sixty-three-year-old with more money than Croesus. She was a removed cousin of Violet and Sadie’s mother and had always taken an interest in their family. Recently, Violet and Alva had begun corresponding as they worked on Alva’s passion project, woman suffrage. Though they hadn’t seen one another in years, Violet had a distinct sense that Alva was mentoring her.

Alva lifted her eyes, noticed Violet, and broke apart from her group, arms outstretched.

“Darling girl,” she said, catching Violet by the shoulders. “This is the first time I’ve seen you in person since your great loss. It simply breaks my heart. Are you managing? You and your sister?”

Violet nodded and kissed Alva’s cheek. “It’s wonderful to see you. Thank you so much for inviting us. We’ve hardly gone anywhere this past year, and I feared Sadie was about to throw herself down a well.”

“Are they taking good care of you here?” Alva didn’t wait for an answer to her clearly rhetorical question. “The Breakers is my sister-in-law’s cottage, you know. Alice was going to be here, as hostess, but she isn’t feeling well. We used to do this so often—open both the Breakers and Marble House for a grand, two-week fête. It’s the only way to have a pleasure party.”

The Vanderbilts were a complicated family, but the one bit of learning Mother had insisted on was understanding their lineage since the two families were loosely connected. Old Commodore Vanderbilt had made his fortune after the Civil War, mostly in railroads. His son, Billy, doubled what he had inherited from his father, leaving an estate of $200 million—or more. Two of Billy’s sons, the inheritors of this vast fortune, had married Alva and Alice. Alice’s husband had died, and Alva had divorced hers, so now these two women owned the most prime real estate in exclusive Newport.

“Alice is sending my grand-niece Flora in her place, and Reggie promised to pop over from Sandy Point.” Alice’s son Reggie, who, they said, never missed a party, had his own estate near Providence. “He gets lonely there, all on his own. Flora’s your age—she’ll set up some fun. I believe she arrives tomorrow. Ah, there’s Reggie now, the one with the cigar.” Alva pointed out a heavyset, mustached man in a cloud of blue smoke. “Have you met him before? No? When you do, mind you tell him about our work. He doesn’t hold with the movement at present. It’ll do him good to see a pretty young thing like you is involved.”

Violet smiled. “Will you and I have time to meet soon? I’d hoped we could finalize the list of speakers to invite for the Seneca Falls anniversary. And I have a fresh draft of remarks for you for the Votes Parade.”

“Anything for my finest speech writer.” Alva squeezed Violet’s arm. “But to be honest, those projects may have to wait. I know you weren’t part of the movement when we had our first conference at Marble House two years ago, but you would have loved it.” Alva raised an arm theatrically. “I dubbed it the Conference of Great Women. A catchy title, don’t you think?”

“Very!”

“Well. This year I have a special surprise for us.” Alva paused dramatically. “Both Alice Paul and Lucy Burns—and most of the Congressional Union leadership—will be here Monday after next. You and I have a great deal to prepare before they come. We have big decisions to make about the Union’s next steps.”

Violet pulled in her breath. Alice Paul and Lucy Burns! She’d been thrilled when she received Alva’s invitation, knowing she would have a chance to push their work forward, but she never expected to see the leaders of the CU in person. “Perhaps I could write this meeting up for The Suffragist? Since I’m here?”

“Très bien! Je l’adore.” Alva caught Violet’s arm. “But keep in mind—I want you to have fun these two weeks. No burying yourself in work. You and Sadie are to enjoy yourselves. I’ve placed all of the young people here at the Breakers so you won’t be bogged down with old bores. Make friends! Be young!”

Violet allowed Alva to push a glass of champagne into her hand. She rarely drank, and the dry snap of it was a surprise. Still, standing here with Alva, glass in hand, she felt for the first time like she belonged at this party, despite the ordinariness of her navy dress and her quiet string of pearls.

There was movement at her elbow, and Alva’s face brightened. “Ah. Violet, allow me to introduce Mrs. Helena Voldore.” Violet turned to shake hands with a tall woman with large, languid blue eyes.

“How do you do?” Mrs. Voldore’s voice was low and somber, contrasting with her bright, periwinkle silk gown. Its plunging neckline put her freckled decolletage right at Violet’s eyeline.

“Very well, thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Alva tipped her head toward Mrs. Voldore’s shoulder. “Helena,” she said with emphasis, “is a medium. She has graciously offered to bridge the two worlds—of the living and the spirit—for us during her stay.” Alva locked her dark eyes on Violet’s. “I was hoping you and Sadie would attend our gatherings, alongside me. I realize your wounds may still feel raw. But I promise you, the sessions I have had with Helena have done me a world of good, and I think they will do the same for you. Perhaps we can find some balm to soothe our spirits after these sorrowful losses of the past year. Will you join us?”

Violet licked her lips. Clearly, there was no saying no to this invitation. “Of course,” she stammered. “We’d be honored.”

Alva straightened. “I thought you would. You know, your mother’s mother was the only one of my Alabama cousins to stand by me when I married Willie. Can you believe,” she laughed, turning to Mrs. Voldore, “that they called him an upstart because all he had was money!” Mrs. Voldore laughed until her pale curls bounced.

“Ah,” Alva went on, “there’s Earl Tibbens. I must speak with him about his new hunter jumper.” She turned to Violet before moving on. “The first séance is tomorrow at two. In the breakfast room. Don’t let Sadie be late.”