Chapter Two, part one
Sadie was asleep, head burrowed under her pillow, when Violet woke the next morning. Not wanting to wake her sister with the noise of doing her hair, Violet tucked her braid up into her gray tam-o-shanter and congratulated herself on having put the buttonhook where she could find it in the dark. Shod and clothed, she slipped into the hall and was shocked, once again, by the opulence of the Breakers’ decor. Across from their door, a long balustrade overlooked the great hall. This two-story space was flanked by marble columns, draped with crystal chandeliers, and crowned with golden filagree and a ceiling painted to match an April sky. No opportunity for adornment had been missed.
What’s the use of this space? she wondered, looking over the rail at the great hall below. Perhaps it was used for balls. Or simply for impressing people. Their family’s New York building had a grand entrance, and Mother used to say it was there just to make the residents feel a cut above.
“Stunning, isn’t it?”
She turned, surprised to see a young man coming up the stairs. His shoes made no sound in the deep red carpet. “My sister compared it to Grand Central Station,” she said. “But really, it’s far finer than that. It’s like living inside a music box.”
“They say it has seventy rooms.” He extended his hand. His blond hair was neatly parted down the middle, and a cleft chin squared off his jaw. “How do you do? I’m Earl Tibbens.” He was well turned out in a brown Norfolk knickerbocker suit and brown-and-white Oxfords.
“Violet Van Waters. How do you do?”
“I believe we may be the only people up at this hour. Have you had breakfast?”
“No—I was going to challenge myself to find the breakfast room.”
“Allow me to lead you to it. I smell coffee already.”
Ten minutes later, they sat down opposite one another, the only two people at a table for twenty. A white-capped maid stood silently at the coffee urn. The breakfast room, like everything at the Breakers, was immense. Elaborate white casing, molding, and wainscotting frosted the mint-green walls. Violet leaned forward, taking a piece of toast from the silver rack.
“How big do you think this room is?” she asked in a low voice.
Earl looked around. “700 square feet? More or less? It’s a bit smaller than the billiards room across the way.” He attacked his eggs Benedict. “So, what brings you here?”
“My sister and I are cousins of Alva’s through her Alabama family. We’re here for the house party. And I’ll be working with Alva on the suffrage event that’s coming up in two weeks.”
“Oh. That.”
“Yes.” She smiled at her toast. “That.”
He raised his eyebrows as he chewed. “You don’t sound like you’re from Alabama.”
“No. New York. My sister and I are living with our grandparents in Cold Lake, upstate. And you?”
“Baltimore. My grandfather founded the Tru-United Insurance Company.”
“Oh. Does your father run it now?”
“My uncle. Father’s living in Paris—has been for years. Absinthe’s legal there,” he said with a wink.
In time, other guests straggled down, and Earl introduced them as they entered. Jack Hollister of New York (Madison Avenue, banking). The Wainwrights, George and Pearl, brother and sister of Boston (meatpacking). Floyd MacAlister of Providence (banking). Floyd was followed by Cora, Blanche, and Monty Worth, siblings, of New York (Fifth Avenue, manufacturing). Mrs. Martha Poosey, Flora Vanderbilt’s chaperone, was one of the last to arrive.
“Miss Van Waters lives in upstate New York,” Earl announced to the group. He turned to her. “What line is your father in?”
A hot chill ran across Violet’s arms. She placed her coffee cup on its saucer with particular care. “He is no longer living.” Could they tell she was breathing fast? “But when he was, his primary interests were sailboats and automobiles.”
“Ah,” Earl said with approval. “A man of leisure, eh? The exploits of a gentleman.”
Violet cringed. Man of leisure was a taunt Mother used when she railed against Papa for not having more money. To her right and left, talk turned to automobiles, and Violet listened, eager for a distraction from her own memories. Monty Worth had wanted to purchase a Rolls Royce but was out of luck. “You can’t even get a European-made auto now, with the war on there. We’re completely shut out. It’s a bother.”
“Yes,” Violet put in, “I believe Rolls Royce is making airplane engines.”
Earl laughed softly. “How do you come by an odd fact like that?”
She felt her cheeks growing hot. “I like to read the papers. Especially with the war in Europe.”
“Of course, how could I have forgotten. Miss Van Waters is a suffragette!”
Across the table, Pearl Wainwright smirked. Mrs. Poosey, the chaperone, looked horrified, and Monty Worth snorted as he speared a forkful of eggs. Violet opened her mouth, wishing a strong statement of passion, commitment, or persuasion would come pouring out. Instead, she said nothing. Pearl Wainwright sipped her coffee. Earl mentioned his family yacht for the third time. Chatter resumed, and Violet mentally kicked herself.
A moment later, a sound at the door made everyone turn to see the young man who’d given her directions last night. The rude one. The handsome one. The one who sat alone in the dark. He was staring in, immobile. Earl hopped up and drew him away, down the hall.
Goodness, he was just as handsome in the morning with his hair in place. But how aloof. He hadn’t made eye contact with a single person in the room. Violet added cream to her coffee, determined to forget about him.