Chapter Sixteen, part two

When Violet swept into the dining room just as luncheon, Charlie immediately sensed her presence. As she passed behind him, he smelled the wind on her hair and the salt on her skin. Her chair scraped at the far end of the table—too far. He wanted her near. He tried to pay attention to the conversation around him (best restaurants in New York) while still listening for anything she might say, but it was impossible. Delmonico’s and Rao’s sparked such a heated debate that he couldn’t hear anything above Cora Worth’s shrill defense of the lobster Newburg.

And so, they dined on coquille St. Jacques, asparagus, tomato salad, and roulé au saumon fumé while discussing different food served in a different locale. Then came the flurry of donning the right hats and shoes for the afternoon at Sandy Point. Charlie felt the familiar squeeze in his belly at the thought of venturing out, but knowing she would be there made him push past his nervousness. He was ready early, as usual. Henry got him seated in the back of the Breakers’ Rolls-Royce, and then all he had to do was feel the sun on his cheek and wait.

The door latch clicked. He sat up straighter.

“Hello.” It was Violet’s velvet voice.

“Hi.” He couldn’t keep the smile off his face as she settled beside him. “There’s something I need to tell you. I have a doctor’s appointment—with an eye doctor, a rather famous fellow—in Boston next Tuesday. I’ll leave Sunday, meet up with my parents in Baltimore, and then we’ll all go on to Boston. I didn’t want you to be surprised. It means I’ll be away for your suffrage meeting.”

“Goodness, that’s exciting news, isn’t it? I hope it’ll go well. You will return after?”

“Of course. Directly after. I should be back by Wednesday. Did you have a good session with Alva?”

“I did. She is a true wonder. And I have news.” There was a rustle and a crinkling sound. Paper? “While I was waiting for Alva, I looked through the New York papers she gets, and you won’t believe what I found in the Times. “ENGLAND CREATES BLINDED SOLDIERS’ AND SAILOR’S HOSTEL,” she read. “TEACHES VETERANS HOW TO LIVE BLIND.”

Time stopped around Charlie as she read. Somewhere in the very far distance, he was aware of someone—Henry, presumably—opening and shutting the driver’s door, and the car’s tires on the gravel. But everything else turned rigid and still while she read what skills blind men learned at this home run by the Royal National Institute for the Blind. Sixteen men were there already. Sixteen men like me, Charlie thought. When she paused at the end of the article, he felt like his ribs would pop.

Violet was looking at him, he felt sure. Could she see that his head was exploding? Her fingers brushed the sleeve of his jacket—she was waiting for him to say something. At last, he croaked, “Would you read it again?”

She did, her voice high and light, full of excitement. Charlie’s brain fizzed with images—the facades of houses, kitchens, men weaving baskets, men sitting in classes, industry, progress, advancement. A shiver ran through him. If this could be done in England, why not here? Sure, there were no war wounded here, other than ambulance drivers and volunteers, but America was a big country. There would be many blind people who needed training like this. He needed training like this.

Violet was nearing the end of the piece for a second time when he interrupted. “What’s this Braille system?”

“I don’t know. The men can be taught the Braille system, commonly used in England, that allows the blind to read. That’s all it says.”

Charlie sat back, pressing himself against the leather seat. “This is incredible,” he murmured. “I’ve been waiting, wondering what to do with myself, and now here’s the answer. In a newspaper article.” He turned to her. “You found it. You found it and brought it to me. Thank you.”

He knew she was there, in the seat beside him, her face showing some kind of reaction that he couldn’t see. At last, she spoke. “I was happy to,” she said. “Happy to find it. Will you act on it, do you think?”

“Yes, of course! It will take time to plan, and I may need to ask one or two of their instructors to come over when the war ends—or maybe I could send someone there to learn. That seems more practical, since they may be overrun with men to train. And, of course, I’ll need to find the house, and the funds, and promote it adequately. There are a million things to plan.” Joy made his limbs feel like they were floating. What a wonderfully complex challenge to wrap his brain around. It had been languishing, thinking about nothing but Violet and his clarinet, but here was an exquisitely complex puzzle.

Already he was thinking of friends of his parents who might contribute. He would visit them himself. Make the request himself. They would see his excitement and it would translate into generous checks.

“Oh.” Violet’s voice sounded small and faraway, and the tone brought him back to the backseat of the car, to her presence, to her. “I hadn’t thought that you’d want to start your own house. That’s what you’re thinking? I’d only thought as far as your wanting to receive this training.”

“Yes, I do!” He felt his head nodding at an absurd rate and tried to hold it still. “I would like to. But we need a place like this here, an American facility. Don’t you think? I could raise the money from my parents’ set. I feel—I feel sure I can do this.”

“Well, of course you can,” she said in a hearty tone. Though there was something slanted about the way she shaped the words. What was her mind caught on? Did she think he would try and fail?

“Do you think,” he blurted, “are you concerned—”

“Here we are,” Henry said as he turned off the engine. “Sandy Point Farm. There are the stables.” Charlie assumed he was pointing something out to Violet. “The main house is back that way, but I parked here thinking you’d come to see the horses.”

“That’s perfect. Thank you, Henry,” Charlie said as he reached for the door handle. The tightness in Violet’s voice was worrisome.

Sweet smells met him as he stepped out of the car. Grass. Horses. Hay and warm saddles. The gravel crunched, and Violet took his arm. “Shall we?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Give me one second?”

Leaving her, he encircled the car, keeping two fingers on the smooth metal. When he reached the driver’s door, he stopped. A faint creak hinted that the door was being opened.

“Sir?” said Henry’s voice.

Charlie shaped his face into a smile. “I need a favor. If you happen to see a long stick, a straight one that’s not too heavy, would you mind grabbing it for me? To use, you know, as I walk around.”

“Of course, sir. Happy to. Lots of trees here—I’ll have a look.”

“Thank you, Henry. I appreciate it.”

They both knew that Charlie would tip Henry generously for looking. It was strange to think how opposed he’d been to using a stick. All these months, he’d preferred to feel his way from wall to wall, barking his shins and shuffling across carpets, rather than use something that marked him so obviously as blind. But why pretend? He was blind. Besides, if he was going to visit people in their homes, he’d have to learn to get around on his own.

Back on the far side of the car, Violet caught his arm, and he marked the moment in his mind. He wouldn’t have a velvet-voiced woman ready to walk with him forever. The thought made his heart ache around the edges, but he brushed it off. He needed to enjoy Violet’s presence while he could.

“This place is something,” she said softly. He could tell by her voice that she had tilted her head toward him, and his own head naturally leaned toward hers, like twining roses. “It’s beyond grand. Though why am I surprised? Reggie is a Vanderbilt.” She led him through a doorway into a cooler space that smelled even more strongly of horse. Charlie inhaled. “The others are heading into some kind of covered arena. What do you want to do?”

“Meet the horses.”

“Okay. Let’s try this way.”

Reggie’s voice boomed from somewhere beyond them, presumably the arena. Charlie heard footsteps and the sounds of equipment being stowed and figured there must be grooms and jockeys around.

“How will we know which horses are friendly?” Violet asked.

Ah, he thought, this is new to her. “The friendly ones will come to their doors. They’ll be curious to take a peek at us. And check the ears—a worried horse lays its ears back. A curious one has them perked up. Tails, too. If its tail is relaxed and quiet, just swishing at flies, that’s a good sign.”

Violet stopped, and he guessed she was surveying the horses. Then she set out again. “I think this one looks curious. Ears up. Out here at his door, with his head hanging over to see us. Oh, pardon me, she. The sign says this is Guinevere.”

They moved forward, Violet leading them with caution. Charlie extended his hands, and suddenly whiskers and a sateen muzzle brushed his palm. A grin spread across his face as he—slowly, slowly—slid his hand up and over the crest of Guinevere’s long nose. She pushed against his hand as he rubbed. His grin widened. She liked it.

“Gentle Guinevere,” he murmured, bringing his hand to her cheek. “She’s very sweet,” he told Violet. “Don’t be afraid of her. She likes attention.”

“Okay,” Violet whispered. And then, after a minute, “Oh, she does!”

Charlie was scratching her neck now. “What does she look like?”

“She’s a beautiful brown. Chestnut, really, with a black mane and black tail.”

“Sounds like a Morgan,” he said. “Here—she has an itchy spot here. She’s leaning hard into my hand. Good grief, can you help?”

Violet laughed. Their hands bumped and bumped again. Charlie nudged his hand closer to hers on purpose. If she’d been all right holding hands at the beach, surely she wouldn’t mind this?

She didn’t seem to. Her hand was above his, her shoulder against his chest. Her hair smelled sweet, like wheat stalks in the sun.

But in the car, she’d been troubled. There had been something.

“Earlier,” he said, lowering his hand on Guinevere’s neck, “you seemed upset. In the car.”

“Me? Oh, no. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

But her tone was overly bright, a blown-out photograph. He kept silent, stroking Guinevere’s silky head, waiting to see if something would change.

Her sigh was as light as down. “I guess—”

Voices suddenly overlapped hers: Flora. Earl. Sadie. Floyd. They crowded around, and he felt Violet being pulled away, perhaps by Sadie who said, “We’re going to have dancing tonight. Flora’s decided.”

“And I am here—” this was Earl “—to pin you down for the first two dances, Violet. What do you say?”

“I—sure.”

There was a shuffle, some playful laughter, and a light female hand caught his arm.

“It’s me, Flora.” Flora’s voice was low and intimate, close by his ear. Charlie struggled to make meaning of the fragments of sound around him—female laughter, the click of a heel, something mumbled by a man. Floyd said something about cigars, drowning out what Charlie wanted to hear most, any interaction between Violet and Earl.

Flora was near his ear again. “We thought it would be fun to shuffle the cars on the way back. You’ve drawn the short straw, I’m afraid, as you’ll have to ferry me back. Will you?”

“Of course,” he mumbled, though his mind wasn’t on his words, or hers. It was racing up and down the stable, hunting for control in an uncontrollable situation. Violet appeared to be gone. One moment they’d been deep in conversation, the next she was gone, spirited away by another man. A man who’d been promised two dances.

Flora was saying words, guiding them away toward the car, but he could barely hear her. Why had the others appeared just then? They’d stripped and separated him from Violet as accurately as a band of pick pockets. Had it been Earl’s idea? Or Sadie’s? Or maybe they all, to a man, agreed that Violet had been spending too much time with him.

Not that it mattered. They reached the car, and Henry presented him with the stick he’d found, a straight ash branch that he’d whittled the twigs off. With this between his knees, Charlie let his mind return to Violet. It didn’t matter whether the others had colluded to draw her away from him. All that mattered was that she’d gone.

“You don’t flirt much for such a handsome fellow,” Flora said when they were well underway.

Charlie pressed his toes against the car’s floorboards. His thoughts were snagged on Violet, but that didn’t mean he should be rude to Flora. He fought to make his tone match hers, bubbly with banter. “Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. “You should have seen me when I met your Aunt Alva. I flirted with her plenty.”

That earned him a laugh. “All the boys do. That’s how she came to be married twice, you know. The Vanderbilts are all terrible flirts.”

“You know I don’t believe that.”

“Nor should you. Half of flirting is boldly stating things that aren’t remotely true.”

“Why don’t I mix things up by saying something bold that I think is true?”

“Very well.”

“For all your play, you aren’t serious about any of the fellows here.”

“No? How can you tell?”

He shrugged. “I have ears. You might tease them, but none of these fellows are at the top of your list. If I had my guess, there’s someone more important waiting in the wings.”

“Well.” She dropped her voice. “I’ll confess it since you guessed. You’re right.”

“Anyone we know?”

“Perhaps. It’s Quentin Roosevelt.”

“Son of the former president?”

“Mm-hmm. He’s escorting me to my debutante ball.”

Charlie let out a low whistle.

“I know,” she said. “My daddy doesn’t approve. He says the Roosevelts are too liberal to call themselves Republicans. But I say, look how incensed Mr. Roosevelt was over the Lusitania!”

“Yes. He thinks it’s a scandal that we aren’t fighting alongside France and Britain in the war.”

“Maybe it is a scandal. Quentin certainly agrees.” She paused. “I feel I’ve been a poor hostess to you, Charlie Tremblay. What activity can I arrange that you would enjoy? How can I improve your stay at the Breakers?”

Charlie waded through the mud in his mind. “You can advise me. If a man has a rival in a lady’s affections, a man who might very well win the contest, should he quit the field? Preserve his honor and bow out gracefully? Or scrap to the bitter end, no matter how much it might wound his self-worth?”

“I think the answer to that is always a relative thing. What’s the potential for loss and gain? Is the girl so worth having that it’s worth every risk? Is she likely to reward a man who fights for her? Most women do, we’re saps that way.”

“What if the other fellow could give her a better life?”

Something—a pair of gloves?—slapped him lightly on the arm.

“For shame! You’re no judge of her best life. It’s not like marriage is mathematical. It’s more like, I don’t know, a watercolor. Full of shades and hidden light. Besides, one woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure. You won’t know her feelings until you ask her.” There was a rustle, perhaps of her shifting in her seat. “Have you asked her?”

“No. Not with words.”

“Okay. So, when you asked her without words, were you clear enough?”

“Possibly not.” If he was being honest, he hadn’t done much straightforward asking. He’d only reciprocated when she reached for his hand. That probably wouldn’t count in Flora’s book.

“Then you had better. And Charlie?”

“Yes?”

“I wouldn’t waste any time about it.”