Chapter Six, part two

Violet sat beside Sadie in the rear of Floyd’s car as they zipped past gated entrances and budding rose bushes on the way to the Newport Yacht Club. It was a beautiful late May day, and the sky had the blue-green wash of a robin’s egg. Only a few clouds lingered overhead.

Their group joined with Earl’s carload on the raised sidewalk and walked to the symmetrical, shingle-styled yacht club building. Violet was gazing up, admiring the covered widow’s walk on the building’s peak, so she didn’t immediately notice the man standing near the door, cap in hand. He rested on crutches, his face brown and weathered like a fellow who sleeps outdoors. He leaned forward as Violet approached.

“Spare a coin for the war wounded, miss?” he asked softly.

She started, arrested by his bright blue eyes, and groped for the purse that she’d left at the Breakers. “I’m sorry, I—”

Earl pushed forward, stepping between her and the beggar. “See here, you’d better push on, man, or I’ll call the steward.” He caught Violet’s arm and steered her forward, through the doors and into the building. “Don’t worry,” he told her. “He won’t stick around. Not if he knows what’s good for him. I know the commodore personally. He won’t want that type of riffraff loitering around, panhandling from the club members.”

Violet looked over her shoulders. Through the glass doors, she could see the man settling his cap back on his head as the rest of their group filed past him. “But what will become of him? He said he was one of the war wounded. It must have been in the Philippines, in the war with Spain. He might be one of the Rough Riders. Goodness, he shouldn’t have to sleep on the streets!”

“It’s nothing you need to fret over, is it?” Earl, still holding her arm, escorted her out the far end of the building onto a broad deck over the water. It was a stunning scene—pale blue above, slightly deeper blue in the sea below. A slanted gangway ran down to a floating dock surrounded by green and white wooden dories.

Everything sparkled. They’d passed from the dust of the streets into a Delft teacup world.

“There’s the Delphine.” Earl jutted his chin toward an elegant two-masted yacht anchored out in a wide patch of water. “One of the stewards will take us across. I think you’re going to love it.”

Violet nodded automatically, but her mind was still on the blue eyes of the panhandler, on the worn brown weave of his cap. The next time they came, she’d put coins in her pocket. She wished she’d been able to help him. Even more, she wished Earl hadn’t run him off like that. Earl could have shown more sympathy. What did he know of the terrors of war and living with a life-long injury? Charlie was the only person she knew who really understood.

Twenty minutes later, they settled on the Delphine’s gleaming deck. Members of Earl’s crew—or staff?—were already aboard, and they began to weigh anchor as soon as the yacht club’s dories pulled away. Earl led the ladies to banquette seats near the rear hatch, then scurried away to show off his prize to the men.

“Well, this is sharp looking.” Flora flopped down beside Violet, tucked her feet up underneath her, and gazed around. “I wonder where one gets a drink?”

Sadie settled on Flora’s other side, her face bright with expectation. Before much time had passed, drinks had been passed round by the crew and they were underway, the wind blowing tendrils of hair off their necks. Violet, facing the wind, breathed in deep gulps. She fought against the impulse to look east toward Ireland, to think about black water closing over the tops of heads. She closed her eyes and listened to the water shush against the hull. Flora spoke near her ear.

“Where do you and Sadie live, anyhow? She said something about not living in the city anymore.”

“No,” Violet said. She shielded her eyes. The sails overhead were almost too bright to look at. “When our parents died last year, we went to live with our grandparents. In Cold Lake. Upstate.”

“Oh. Upstate.” Flora gave a little laugh. “Is the lake truly cold?”

“Most of the time,” Violet acknowledged.

“Let me guess. It’s one of those quaint villages full of Victorian houses and not much else. Ice in the winter, I suppose. And wait, I know—the only eligible bachelors are well over fifty and wear derby hats and high collars.”

Sadie shot a look at Violet. “You’ve described it to a tee,” she said. “Only you left out our grandparents’ antiquated ideas about how young ladies should comport themselves.” She rattled the ice in her drink. “They wouldn’t hold with this!”

Or with séances. Or Mrs. Poosey, the chaperone who was enjoying her own drink far away from the young women she was supposed to be guarding. They’d left Cold Lake days earlier, but it hadn’t struck Violet until that moment just how far they’d traveled from that stiff sitting room and its antimacassars. When she and Sadie were girls, they’d ricocheted between their parents’ chaos and the regimented life of school. Then, with news of their parents’ death, they’d flown to Cold Lake like wounded birds, hiding in that dark box until their wings were healed.

And now here we are, she thought. Not with our parents, not at school, not in the city and not at Cold Lake. We are on our own. She rubbed her hands over the goosebumps on her arms.

The sound of Flora laughing brought her back to the conversation. “Oh, but I was joking. There must be some ivy league boys, even in a town as small as that.”

“Not a one,” Sadie said.

“Is that so?” Violet asked, surprised.

“It’s completely true. How had you not noticed? Was your head that far in those letters you were always writing?”

“Handling our parents’ affairs, you mean?”

A quiet tension drew out between them.

“Well,” Flora said, straightening her skirt, “to quote my own mother, boys aren’t everything.”

“Aren’t they, though?” Sadie said with mock seriousness, followed by a laugh. Violet frowned, her mind flipping through a catalog of images from the past year: Sadie trying on ribbons in front of the mirror, Sadie suggesting they go to New York to check on the apartment, Sadie scrutinizing photos of young men in the newspaper. Sighing over Pip’s love for Estella in Great Expectations.

Violet looked up to see that Floyd had taken up a position behind her sister. He was making a game of stealing pins out of her hat and enjoying getting his wrist slapped. Should she be shocked by this? Or was it fine? Sadie certainly seemed pleased. Mrs. Poosey hadn’t noticed.

Flora turned to her. “Your sister tells me you’ve lived the quiet life for the past year. Will you keep on there, do you think?”

“I had hoped that Sadie would return to Emma Willard to get her degree.”

“And you?”

“Me? I’m not sure.” Violet gazed out at endless cupping blue water. “I’ve been presented with some choices, but they’re all rather intimidating, to be honest. I’ve never lived on my own before, or in a strange city.”

“It sounds glorious to me. Mother is always commanding me here and there, or siccing Mrs. Poosey on me. You sound quite independent. I’d give a lot to be able to make my own decisions.”

“I’m sure it seems enticing,” Violet agreed. “But it’s pretty taxing, really. Every door you open means closing others, and who knows what the right path is? If I go to New York, I’ll be missing Washington. If I stay in Cold Lake, I won’t see Minneapolis.” She sighed. “Sometimes it’s nice having someone tell you what to do. And, of course, if Sadie doesn’t go back to school, I should probably stay home with her. But what about you? You must be done with school, too. What are your plans?”

Flora stretched her feet out in front of her, pointing her toes as if admiring her purple kid-leather shoes. “I have my debut ball this August, here in Newport. I expect I’ll marry in a year or so and then find a social cause to support until I become a mother.”

“Oh—I’d assumed you were already out, in society,” Violet said, her eye landing on Flora’s champagne cocktail.

Flora shrugged. “A debut’s a good excuse for a party. It’s hardly the sharp line it was in our mothers’ time, is it? And really, only Newport and New York society cares about a debutante ball.” She turned her dark eyes and heavy brows on Violet. “Do you want to marry? I do. I’m frightfully anxious to fall in love and have a glamorous wedding. Like I said, I love a party. If you met the right boy, wouldn’t you want a wedding? Children? You’ll pardon my asking, but you never can tell with the suffrage set.”

Violet bit her lip, glad that Sadie was still preoccupied by Floyd. She didn’t like talking about love with Sadie for fear that it would egg her on. “I would. But I’m so many miles from meeting the right fellow. I’ve never met anyone that I was more than lukewarm about. And I have a terrible feeling that, when it comes down to it, I might be…particular.”

Flora nodded knowingly. “Choosy? There’s nothing wrong with that. You’ve got to see a man’s car, boat, and family tree before making any final decisions, that’s what I say.” She threw back her head and laughed.

Violet re-crossed her ankles. Maybe Flora would consider a donation to the CU? She hardly seemed passionate about suffrage, but she might want the vote all the same—most women did. And she hardly lived on a tight budget.

Still, what words should she use to ask for money? How did Alva pull this off? She was about to open her mouth to see what came out when Earl appeared, grinning widely.

“Who’d like a tour of belowdecks?”

Behind him, the men jostled about as they headed down a hatch. The other women around the banquette stood up, so Violet did as well. The full group traipsed down a steep teak stairway to a space lined with gleaming wood, lit by high windows. Earl showed them through an elegant seating area filled with built-in, glass-fronted bookcases, a leather settee, and teak coffee tables. He demonstrated the way a second settee could unfold from the wall.

“What’s through there?” asked Cora Worth, adjusting her hat in the reflection from one of the glass cases.

Earl flung open a door in the far wall to reveal a surprisingly spacious sleeping berth, all white and cream with a crisply made double bed.

“The perfect place for a honeymoon,” Cora crooned.

At Violet’s elbow, Flora snorted. “I think we all know that gentlemen don’t use their yachts to entertain their wives.” She looked to Earl for confirmation.

“Said like one in the know,” he acknowledged. “Before my father left for Europe, he kept two different mistresses aboard the Delphine.”

Violet pulled in her breath. What a shocking thing to play off so calmly! Was that really the way things were in their set?

Earl closed the berth door. “Now, who needs a fresh drink? My father sent the recipe for a Singapore Sling—apparently, it’s all the rage in London. The staff should have them ready above decks.”

This motivated the group toward the stairs. Violet, looking to avoid the crush, hung back beside Earl. He checked the latch on the settee, then turned to her, his face bright. “Sit next to me at supper tonight?”

Her mind flew to Charlie, who would be so much more interesting to talk to. But Charlie hadn’t asked for her company. “I should keep close to my sister,” she said.

“That’s no problem. You can have Sadie on one side and me on the other. Just leave it to me.” He winked at her and moved ahead, taking the steps two at a time. Earl’s back disappeared through the hatch, and Violet spotted Sadie, still below, gazing out one of the high windows. She was wearing a dusty rose waist that gave her cheeks a pretty pastel tint. Violet smiled at her, feeling lucky to have a sister, to not be alone.

Sadie sighed. “Mother and Papa would have loved a yacht like this.”

Violet shook her head. “If they’d had one, we’d all have wound up living on it. Just think how fast they’d have cashed in the apartment if they had another place to live!”

Her sister turned on her, eyes wide as pools. Something in her face made Violet’s heart pound. “Why do you always do that?” Sadie’s voice sounded tight.

“Do what?”

“Pour mud on them. On our memory of them!”

“But Sadie—”

“They’re dead, you know.” Her words had a bitter bite.

“Of course, I know.”

“Dead.” Sadie’s eyes brimmed over with tears. “So you can stop fighting with them. With her. You can stop—” she waved her hand in the air, brushing away the wrong words to free up the right ones “—proving that you’re right and they’re wrong. That their way of life was stupid. And vapid.” She threw herself up the stairs, feet pounding the steps. Halfway up, she looked back over her shoulder. “You embarrass yourself! You embarrass me!”

Violet, face burning, sank onto the bottom step and waited for her heart to finish pounding. The yacht heeled suddenly to one side, and she had to catch herself on the handrail. Clinging to it, she frowned. She was trying to be honest. To not whitewash over a stain that they both knew was there. What more did Sadie want of her? What was more important than the truth?