Chapter Twenty-two, part one

Sadie was quiet through dinner that night, and she slept late the following morning.

Floyd hadn’t shown his face since that horrific scene at his parents. Violet wrote the MacAlisters a note after breakfast, supplying their grandparents’ mailing address and asking for verification of the annulment once it was settled. They were the ones keen to have it done, she figured. She could leave that piece of the puzzle to them.

The group at the Breakers was at odds and ends that morning. Flora had decided that, since the two weeks’ stay was nearing an end, they needed to cap it off with a grand party the following evening at the yacht club, and she was up to her elbows in plans. The Worth girls were assisting, and a group of the fellows had headed off for golfing. Reggie was at Sandy Point, visiting his horses, and Earl had said something about seeing his mother.

Violet sat with a cup of tea on the lower loggia, staring at the waves, thinking of her parents. The volume of thinking space they consumed seemed to approach and recede like those very waves, rolling in intensity one moment, sinking into silence the next. While Charlie was here, she’d been able to tell him what was swirling in her mind. Now, without him, her brain had gone back to spinning an endless track.

The sound of heels made her turn. Mrs. Voldore came out, wearing white lace and a coral necklace. Violet still cringed a little every time she saw her, remembering her hunt through her room.

“Care to join me?” Violet asked, nodding to the empty seats at the table. “It’s very quiet here this morning.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Voldore took a seat at Violet’s right and settled her cup and saucer on the table. “Quiet indeed. Is your sister off with the others?”

When Violet explained that Sadie wasn’t feeling well and was still sleeping, Mrs. Voldore went on. “She’s certainly taken a pelting at the card tables here. I’ve felt for her. Young people don’t always know when to take their lumps and step away from the game, if you know what I mean. She kept her place, so determined looking! But I think the cards always fall in Mr. Vanderbilt’s favor, I really do. I hope she hasn’t been upset by it. Those jade earrings she laid down the other night were most elegant. It was more than someone in my position would wager, I promise you that.”

Violet’s stomach curled at the thought of their mother’s earrings sliding into Reggie’s pocket. She stared glumly into her tea, unsure what to say.

Mrs. Voldore went on. “Where has your lovely Mr. Tremblay gone? Not away for good, I hope.”

Violet returned her gaze to the flat line of the horizon. “Very possibly. He’s gone to an appointment, but it may be best that he not come back.” She heard the catch in her own voice and took a quick swallow of tea.

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Voldore set her cup back in its saucer, a look of genuine concern on her face. “Have you quarreled?”

Had they? Violet thought of the twenty-four hours before Charlie’s departure. His strong reaction to her falling overboard. Her embarrassment at Floyd’s parents’ house. His confusion when she told him to go. It all seemed less like a quarrel than a series of purple bruises, one on top of the other.

“You might say that.”

“Ah. Was it unequal interest?”

“Pardon?”

“Did one of you care more than the other? That’s usually the issue, isn’t it? Horrible for the person who feels more and is left bereft.”

Violet was starting to say that no, that wasn’t it, when voices made them both turn to the door. Earl exited the house, leading a lady in a tiered skirt with organdy sleeves and a wide-brimmed white straw hat. Violet popped up, glad for an excuse to stop talking about why Charlie had gone.

“Mother, this is Violet Van Waters. And Mrs. Helena Voldore. Ladies, my mother, Mrs. Tibbens.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Tibbens.” Violet extended her hand. “Will you join us? The breeze is very pleasant.”

The woman who shook her hand had bright, bird-like eyes that roved over the scene and then settled back on Violet. “Thank you, that would be nice. Earl, will you call for the tea?” When Earl ducked obediently back into the house, Mrs. Voldore entered the house behind him on a mission to ‘fix her hair.’

Mrs. Tibbens turned to Violet. “Are you both here as guests at the Breakers?”

“Of a sort. Mrs. Voldore is a medium. She’s led a series of séances during her stay. The final one is the day after tomorrow, I believe. And I’m here for the woman suffrage meeting that was held at Marble House yesterday.”

“Goodness!” Mrs. Tibbens sat up straighter. “A medium and a suffragist! I had no idea the Vanderbilts were so radical. Although one does see Alva Belmont in the papers at parades and such.”

“She’s quite devoted to the movement. She’ll be heading to Chicago later in the week for a vote on forming a National Woman’s Party.”

Mrs. Tibbens adjusted her hat. “Are you very political?”

“Enough that I feel I’ll make an informed voter. I can’t help but wonder what kind of nation we will have once women’s voices join the chorus.” Violet leaned forward, her wrists on the table. “Earl speaks a great deal about you.”

“Does he? That’s sweet of him.”

“He’s a caring son, but—I think—he may not understand how monotonous a woman’s life can become. How wearying it can be to not have a purpose.”

Mrs. Tibbens’ eyes held Violet’s for a long moment. I’ve said too much, Violet thought. I dove too quickly into her personal life when I should have stayed on the polite edges. She sat back and took up her teacup in apology. It was the success of the day before that was making her so bold. Perhaps she needed to take a step back.

Earl returned, leading Anna who brought tea and a plate of madeleines. As soon as Anna was gone, Mrs. Tibbens poured out tea for herself and her son. “Miss Van Waters is trying to persuade me toward woman suffrage,” she said to her son.

“Bosh!” Earl reached for a madeleine. “Violet, I told you it would be no use. Mother’s perfectly happy doing up the guest rooms.”

“Well, I’m not so sure I’d say that,” Mrs. Tibbens said, passing Earl his cup and saucer. “There’s only so far you can go with watered silk.” She turned to Violet. “How did you get started with this?”

“My mother is a cousin of Alva Belmont’s. She and I reconnected about a year ago, and she invited me to help her with some speech writing and articles for the newsletter. There’s a great deal one can do from home. Though a society leader, such as yourself, can have a far greater impact.”

Earl snorted. “Society leader. Mother?”

Both women gave him a hard look. “Yes,” Violet went on. “Just see how Alva has rallied her circle to provide financial support. Without her, our organization would have no paid staff, no office, no funds for renting venues and sewing banners. You probably do charity work already. This is a charity project that nearly all women will support.”

“Just because women support it doesn’t mean it’s a good idea,” Earl put in. “If women get the vote, the married ones will just vote as their husbands do. What’s the point in doubling the votes that men are already making? Besides, just think of the cost of printing twice as many ballots—when most women don’t even want to vote!”

“How do you know they don’t want to vote,” Violet asked. “Have you asked them?”

“I don’t need to ask them. It’s obvious. Women busy themselves with fashion and frippery. Men handle the serious matters.”

“Serious matters like questions of who should be allowed to vote?”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” Earl pushed his blond hair back. “Just think. If women had the vote, then in places where women outnumbered men, they’d be under the rule of mothers and debutantes. They’ll make lace free for everyone and outlaw cigars. It’ll be absurd.”

Violet smiled. “You do realize that what you’re describing would happen only if women did, indeed, care to vote. You can’t have your argument both ways.”

Mrs. Tibbens, who’d been watching their debate like it was a tennis match, laughed behind her glove. “I think you’ll have to admit, Earl, that Miss Van Waters is interested in more than fashion and frippery. And will probably make a most thoughtful voter.” She turned to Violet. “Will you be accompanying Mrs. Belmont to Chicago? You seem deeply involved—deeply committed.”

“I’m afraid I can’t go. Personal circumstances prevent it. But I will be there in spirit.”

Mrs. Tibbens rose. Earl, pink-faced, followed her lead. “I will as well,” she said. She opened her handbag and drew out a ten-dollar bill. “Will this pay the costs of adding me to your mailing list? You mentioned a newsletter. Mrs. Belmont will have my address in her files. We’re at Woodhouse.” She held out her hand, and Violet took it. “Best of luck you.” With a glance at Earl she added, “I think we’re all going to need it.”

When they’d gone, Violet looked down at the bill in her hand. Ten dollars! And she hadn’t even had to ask. She folded it in two and creased it across the middle, gazing out at the persistent waves. It was bitter, she thought, that such success with the movement was happening just when she didn’t have Charlie here to share it with.

–

Dr. Stuart’s office smelled like the field hospital near Ypres, but without the mud and lingering gas fumes. Acriflavine, chloramine, carbolic acid—some combination gave off the sharp tang that took Charlie right back to his time in the creaky metal cot when he tried to keep his mind active by counting out the seconds until a nurse might pass by.

He sat, fully clothed, atop a cold metal table while Dr. Stuart fussed with his notes.

At the side of the room, Charlie’s father cleared his throat; his mother’s shoes shuffled against the tile floor. Now that they were here, at this long-awaited appointment, he wished he’d asked his parents to stay home. Having them there—and feeling as alone as he did, with the coldness seeping through his trousers—was ten times worse than actually being alone and feeling so lonely.

Violet walked through his thoughts, as she had a thousand times already that day, and he let his mind rest in the velvet plush of her voice for a minute, just a minute, before he forced himself back to reality. Solitary reality.

A chair or stool rasped softly, and the shuffle of papers stopped.

“All right then, Mr. Tremblay,” Dr. Stuart said. He had a mild voice and a strong New England accent. Charlie pictured him with a moustache, maybe spectacles. “We’re done with the poking and prodding. Now you and I need to have a little heart to heart.”

At these words, hope leaked out of Charlie like air through a canvas sack. He’d struggled—ever since he drove away from the Breakers, knowing Violet was still in that house—to keep from pinning even a grain of hope on this appointment. And yet, somehow hope had germinated on every rib, in the whorls of his ears, and on the palms of his hands which now began to itch.

“My sight won’t be getting better.” Charlie wanted to be the one to say it, not the one to hear it.

“That’s right. I’m very sorry. The damage is just too great.” There was a slight squeak from the doctor’s chair. “We’re seeing more and more cases like this in Europe and out of Canada. Though I read an article recently from a doctor on the front who said he has fairly few blinded men because most of them are simply dead.”

“I know I’m lucky to be alive,” Charlie was quick to say. Again, he was all too aware of his mother’s presence on the side of the room. Please, God, don’t let her be crying, he thought.

“Indeed. That’s the right attitude, young man. Now, what we need to discuss is how you’ll handle your disability. Blindness puts an incredible stress on the mind. I have patients who suffer from intense nightmares. Many can’t handle life in society. They prefer to retreat into a quiet retirement. Perhaps you can find such quiet at your parents’ home?”

Charlie’s shoulders began to shiver. Quiet retirement in his parents’ house sounded like death.

“What if I don’t want to retreat? I have ideas—there are things I’d like to do.” His mind sparked back to Violet, forcing him to work the tiller of the dinghy. “I may be blind, but I’m not useless.”

“No, of course not.” What a patronizing tone this doctor had. “But not everyone has the mental fortitude to navigate the world without being able to see. Just moving about the streets can be a terror. I’ve seen many patients succumb to heavy drinking. Narcotics. And, eventually, fibrosis of the liver.”

Charlie’s cheeks boiled. The previous night’s gin glasses mocked him from the back of his mind. If he lined up all the drunken days and put them against the sober days, the drunk days hulked like clifftops. How drunk had he been the night he’d met Violet? And the nights before that? Heck, before he’d gone to the Breakers, he’d had their maid giving him drinks at ten in the morning.

His shoulders slumped. Was he really the same person who’d helped Violet through that agonizing morning at Floyd’s parents’ house? Not forty-eight hours ago he’d felt genuinely helpful—and more than that, solid. Dependable.

Now he felt as low as he had aboard the Campania, searching for a railing to throw himself off. He thought back to the strength he’d felt at the Breakers and gave one more try.

“What about the Braille writing system for the blind? Have you heard of that? If I could read and write—” He let the end of the sentence fall away. Surely a doctor would understand that reading and writing could keep a man sane. Possibly even sober.

Dr. Stuart cleared his throat. Charlie imagined the moustache quivering.

“Yes, that. They say it’s becoming common in Europe, but it hasn’t been introduced here yet. Without standardization of the writing system, it’s like using a code that no one else can crack, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps someone needs to bring it here. Get it established,” Charlie proposed. Though how could he manage such a thing? He couldn’t even travel by steamer without someone to cling to. And that was assuming the war ever came to an end.

“Perhaps someone does,” the doctor agreed in a conciliatory tone. Pretty soon, he’ll pat me on the head and tell me to run along, Charlie thought. He doesn’t think I’ll manage anything but sitting in a dark corner, drinking myself dumb.

An urge to prove the doctor wrong flooded up through him, nearly making him spring off the table. Instead, he froze. All the steps that had seemed so simple when Violet was sitting next to him felt like cliff faces now.

Don’t make Violet ashamed of you, said a growl from his guts. Prove this stupid doctor wrong. What have you got to lose?

“Chin up, young man.” The sound of fabric and the release of a chair cushion meant the doctor had stood. “Be grateful you survived your war adventure. Plenty more won’t before it’s all over.”

Charlie was up, straightening his jacket, eager to get as far away from this office as possible. His mother took his arm on the way out while his father lingered behind for a few more words with the doctor. Charlie’s shoes and hers clicked down the stairs. He pressed against the heavy doors and felt the sun on his face. The air was full of new-sprung leaves and cut grass. Each step hammered out his newfound resolve.

Prove the doctor wrong.

Make Violet proud.

Nothing to lose.

“Charlie?” His mother’s voice surprised him—he’d almost forgotten she was there. “I’ve been thinking. When you asked last night if girls in my day would ever marry a…man like you, I should have asked, were you thinking about one girl in particular? Someone from the Breakers?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! And—was she encouraging?”

He swallowed, thinking of that late-night kiss at his door. “She was.”

Her steps slowed. “Did you like her as well?”

“I do. Very much.”

She stopped walking and gripped his arm as if she was pressing her words straight into him. “Then never mind what I said. Girls in my day were avaricious. And you are so different from the boys I knew then—you always have been, even when you were small. So compassionate. So discerning. If there is a girl who sees that in you and values it, then—”

“But isn’t it unfair to ask anyone to marry me?”

“Why? Because you’ll need someone to walk with you and read to you? Because you’ll need extra help? Pshaw. Women need support, too. If she doesn’t see it as an obstacle, then it isn’t one.”

His heart began to fill, but he kept tight the lines that held him to the ground. “Are you sure? Her life would take a strange turn, living with me.”

She squeezed his arm again. He could tell from her voice that she was smiling. “Every woman’s life takes a strange turn the day she marries. Far better to live happily, in love with you, than in a cold, heartless marriage to any man with perfect vision. Aren’t I right? You wouldn’t want that for her, would you?”

“No.” The words came out more forcefully than he’d intended. But it was true.

“If you feel you can love her, then you should tell her so. I hope you will.”

Charlie bent down and kissed her cheek. It was warm, and not the least bit wet with tears. “Once we’re home, can the car take me back to the Breakers?”