Chapter Sixteen, part one

Alva’s home of Belcourt was a parade of beautiful hats that morning, and Violet immediately regretted her modest choice, a black sailor-brimmed velvet trimmed with pale pink rosettes. The older ladies staying with Alva favored broad brims, ostrich feathers, fur trim, and bold presentations. One woman wore a modern velvet turban, wrapped in feathers that probably cost as much as Sadie’s gambling bill.

Ah, well. These were clearly Alva’s set. Most of the women of the movement didn’t have the incomes to be doyennes of style. It was this wealthier group that funded the CU and paid for its staff, and Alva’s gatherings made it all happen.

When Violet arrived, Alva was busy chatting with women on the lawn, directing those that needed shade to the second-floor loggia. She spotted Violet and waved a white-capped maid over. “Take Miss Van Waters to the drawing room,” she instructed the maid. Then, to Violet, “Just let me get these ladies settled, and I’ll be in to join you.”

Violet followed the maid through the glass doors to a world of French-inspired finery. Belcourt was full of repeating elements—rows of arched windows, arrays of doors, matching gables, a patterned ceiling—that Violet found soothing. The music room might have belonged to Louis XVI. High arched windows were set in gleaming wood, divided by pale green walls illustrated with a golden monogram that shone where the light picked it out.

Three newspapers, the New York Times, the Washington Evening Star, and the New-York Tribune, sat on the coffee table. Violet picked up one and scanned the headlines, looking, she realized, for something that might interest Charlie.

Glory, she thought, looking up, wasn’t she more than a friend? She certainly saw him as more than a friend. He was the young man she wanted to dance with, to sit next to, to talk with. His was the hand she wanted at her waist; his was the mouth she hoped would… She looked back at the newspaper, trying to refocus her thoughts, but they kept running on the same track. Maybe he, like her, didn’t have a word for what they were becoming to one another. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it was much as she did.

Only—what if he didn’t?

What if she was a dalliance? A convenient companion for this two-week stay? He’d told her so much of what he thought and felt, and yet she seemed to know nothing at all. Did he want to marry one day? Did he want a settled life with a home and children?

Did she?

Yes, whispered a quiet voice from under her ribs. Yes. You do want that. It just never felt so attractive before she met Charlie. Would that get in the way of her work with the movement?

A peal of laughter from the garden shook her out of her thoughts. She opened the newspaper to photos of white-veiled French nurses beside ambulances (was Charlie’s like that?), members of the provisional Greek government, and Russian horses dragging heavy guns up the Carpathian foothills. She paused on a short article about Red Cross dogs that were helping recover wounded from the battlefield. Then she spotted a piece that made her freeze.

ENGLAND CREATES BLINDED SOLDIERS’ AND SAILORS’ HOSTEL
Teaches veterans how to live blind
—Regent’s Park, United Kingdom

Men who have been blinded in battle are flocking to St. Dunstan’s Lodge, a grand estate owned by American financier Otto H. Kahn and run by England’s Royal National Institute for the Blind. The organization, led by Arthur Pearson (himself blinded by glaucoma at age 47), seeks to teach newly blinded men how to function in a home.
The men are trained not only in self-care and skills for daily living but are also trained for work. Men are taught to be masseurs, typists, and telephone operators. Others learn crafts like basketry, shoe-repair, and woodworking. The men can be taught the Braille system, commonly used in England, that allows the blind to read.
The support of these wounded men does not end with training. Mr. Pearson has pledged that the Royal National Institute for the Blind will see to the care of every war-blinded man for the remainder of his life. 16 men already reside at St Dunstan’s, and with blindness increasing as a casualty of this modern war, that number is expected to climb dramatically in the coming weeks and months.

Violet had stopped breathing. A home for wounded blind men! What was this Braille system? Reading, typing, woodworking? She clutched the paper to her chest, and that was how Alva found her when she entered the room.

“Don’t go getting newsprint ink on your lovely voile waist,” she said. “Did you read something good? Sometimes I think the papers are nothing more than a vehicle for advertisements.”

“I did—a friend will be very interested in this piece I’ve just read. You know him. It’s Charlie Tremblay, who just came back from serving as an ambulance driver in France. Do you think anyone would miss this page if I took it to him?”

Alva waved her hand. “Take it.” She folded her hands over her crossed knee. “Now, before we dive into business, tell me how things have been at the Breakers. Is everyone behaving themselves?”

Violet sighed. “Everyone but Sadie.” As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. Sadie wouldn’t appreciate having her errors shared with anyone, even someone she knew as tangentially as Alva. “I’m joking,” she said quickly. “Sadie’s having a ball. We all are.”

“Too much of a ball?” Alva asked, eyebrows raised.

Violet hesitated, then nodded. “She lost quite a bit at cards last night.”

Alva threw up her hands. “Oh! That. With Reggie in the house, she practically had no choice. Do you know that scoundrel once lost four hundred thousand dollars in one gambling spree?”

The air stuck in Violet’s chest. That was an incomprehensible number.

“Can you believe it?” Alva went on. “He causes his mother no end of grief. I tell her not to keep bailing him out, but she can’t help herself. She’s had to make adjustments, you know. Because of him. When we were younger, Alice always kept both the Breakers and the New York house open. Now she alternates, one in one year, the other in the other. It’s shameful, but what can you do? She can’t—or won’t—stop supporting Reggie. Once the children grow up, they won’t be told how to behave anymore. They do what they do. We parents just have to decide how far we’re going to go in picking up the pieces.”

Violet pressed her thumbs together. “I don’t think I’ve done a very good job of parenting Sadie this past year. She seems…reckless. If she had her way, I think she’d drift from one party to another.”

“Well, that was true of your mother. And there’s nothing evil in it. Not everyone is as lucky as you are to have found work you’re passionate about. Maybe Sadie will find hers in time. And in the meantime, ma fille, don’t forget you’re only a young thing yourself! You can’t expect to be able to parent a teenage girl.” She gave a small laugh. “I remember your mother once saying she dreaded the day you got married.”

“Me? Why?”

“She thought you’d turn your back on them all and never come home again.” Alva looked at her with soft eyes. “She wasn’t blind to how different you two were. I know there were clashes—there always are in families. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t love you.”

Violet’s throat clenched. As her eyes burned with impending tears, she dug in her pocket for a handkerchief and came out with Charlie’s. She’d had it cleaned but hadn’t yet returned it to him. It was powerful to have a piece of him here, in her hand, drying her tears.

“There, chérie, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Alva went on. “But there’s no question that your mother thought she had more time with you both.”

Violet’s throat squeezed tight. “I have—” She stopped, then tried again. “After the funeral, some of her friends sent me letters she’d written to them, thinking I’d want things written by her own hand, in her own style. I’ve been….well, I’ve been afraid to read them.”

Alva leaned forward. “What are you afraid they’ll say?”

“Maybe that she wished she’d never had children. You know how she liked to be free. I suppose I’m afraid she might say something about me. About how much trouble I was. And…Papa.”

“You’re afraid she might talk about her marriage?”

“Yes.” Violet’s voice was a whisper.

Alva nodded slowly. “Women do tend to confess things to their friends that they would never tell anyone else. There may be very private things in those letters. But your mother will also be in them. They may be your only chance to claw back a bit of the time you lost for getting to know her better. You’re a year older now than when it happened. But,” she put her hand on top of Violet’s, “your soul has matured far beyond your years. You’ll see her now with different eyes. I think you can be forgiving. Don’t you?”

Violet was not at all sure. “I think so,” she said, aware that it might be a lie. “I’ll try.” She opened her notebook to show Alva one of Charlie’s typed agendas. Pen ready, she turned her thoughts to the work.

An hour later, they had their plans settled for the all-important Monday meeting. Violet had shared the initial draft of her piece on Mrs. Blackston, and Alva had added her thoughts. Then Alva stood, signaling that the meeting was over.

“How is that Earl Tibbens, by the way? Are you two getting acquainted?”

“Sure. Earl’s very kind. He took me for a drive around Newport the other day.”

Inez Miholland Boissevain appeared at the doorway. “I thought I heard your voice,” she said to Violet. “Did I catch you in a conversation about men?”

“You did,” Alva said. “I was just about to point out that Earl Tibbens is from a very good family. Steady. Old money.”

“Ah, but is he the fellow Violet has her eyes on, that’s the question.”

They both looked at Violet expectantly.

“Will you be disappointed if I confess that he isn’t? It’s a friend of his who has my attention, to be honest.”

Inez perched on the edge of the divan. “Name please?”

“It’s Charlie, Charlie Tremblay. The one I mentioned earlier,” she said with a nod to Alva “He’s at the Breakers, as I am.”

“No doubt thanks to our good Mrs. Belmont.” Inez made a little bow in their hostess’s direction. “Have you already shared your feelings with Mr. Tremblay?”

“Now, Inez,” Alva put in, “bear in mind that most girls don’t charge in the way you do. Violet may not want to seem forward.”

“Oh, tut, tut,” Inez said. “A girl today doesn’t need to be so old fashioned.” She turned to Violet. “I’ve propositioned every man I’ve ever been with. I even proposed to my husband. Why waste time waiting for him to speak the magic words? If you want more from him, you should express yourself. You’re always free to change your mind.”

“The men aren’t offended by you speaking first?” Violet asked.

“Well, they may be. But if they are, they aren’t suited for me, are they?” Inez rose. “I have to run. Good luck with Mr. Tremblay! He’s a fortunate fellow.”

Alva walked Violet out, shaking her head with a smile. “Inez is a rara avis. It’s true, though—at the end of the day, she can say she chartered her own course. If I were you, I wouldn’t discount Earl Tibbens so quickly. There may be more to him than you realize. Family history probably doesn’t mean much to you now, but it becomes important as you grow older.”

Violet kissed her on the cheek, but Alva’s words tumbled off her and scattered on Belcourt’s gleaming floors. Who cared about Earl and his family fortune? Treasure, in the form of newsprint and paper, sat folded in her pocket. She felt ready to run the whole way back.