Cleopatra’s Dagger, page 3
“I have no interest in being envied or admired—”
“Ah, that is where you are mistaken. Flattery is the currency of society, and envy its greedy cousin. When people envy you, they pretend to admire you to save face—which gives you power over them.”
“I do not wish to have power over other people.”
Catharina van den Broek stroked her daughter’s face. “Oh, my dear, you are too young to know what you want.”
Elizabeth backed away, angered by her mother’s condescension. “I know one thing that I want.”
“And what is that?”
“For my sister to be cured.”
Her mother’s face lost its color, and her lips compressed tightly. “That is in the hands of God,” she said quietly.
“Why do you never talk of Laura?”
“Your father finds it too painful a topic.”
“Do you ever visit her?”
“What time does your party begin?” her mother asked, flitting across the room to fuss with the tea service. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Nora can bring an extra cup. It’s no trouble,” she said, avoiding looking at Elizabeth.
Seeing her mother’s discomfort, Elizabeth regretted bringing up the topic of her sister’s illness. Growing up, the two had been nearly inseparable. Just two years older, Laura had mothered Elizabeth, protecting her from Catharina’s sharp edges, and Elizabeth had coaxed her quieter sister out of the house to join her in the many adventures two young girls could have on horseback in Central Park, or riding ponies in the pine woods near their summer house in Kinderhook.
Laura first began hearing voices when Elizabeth was away at college. Paranoid imaginings soon followed. She believed people were sprinkling glass on the floor of her bedroom while she slept. She refused to eat food unless she could watch it being prepared, convinced someone was trying to poison her. When Elizabeth returned for the Christmas holidays during her second year at school, her mother tried to hide her sister’s affliction and, when she failed, minimized and finally denied it altogether.
Catharina—whose arsenal included icy glares, stony silence, and when all else failed, fleeing the room in tears—firmly rebuffed Elizabeth’s father’s attempts to bring up the subject. Hendrik was helpless in the face of his wife’s emotional volatility. He had an old-fashioned view of women as fragile creatures who should be protected and indulged—an opinion that amazed Elizabeth, since Catharina was so obviously iron-willed and domineering. But her father adored his beautiful, clever wife with a desperate passion that reminded Elizabeth of Charles Bovary, Emma’s tragic, lovesick husband in Madame Bovary. The book had been a staple of her French literature class at college, and though Elizabeth had struggled with the French, the story had captivated her.
After observing her sister’s distressing symptoms, Elizabeth returned to Vassar troubled and puzzled, but somehow managed to lose herself in her studies. When she came home after finishing her sophomore year, there was no denying the change in her sister. Thin and pale, Laura was at the mercy of voices only she could hear. Sometimes they made her laugh, but more often they terrified her, and Elizabeth could only watch as her beloved sister retreated deeper into a world where no one could reach her. There had been talk of art school once, but that ceased as Laura’s illness worsened.
By the end of Elizabeth’s junior year, their parents had placed Laura in the recently completed pavilion for the insane at Bellevue Hospital. When Elizabeth returned to the city after graduation, she visited once a week, but frequently returned home in a state of nervous exhaustion at seeing her sister receding from reality.
“I saw her two days ago,” Elizabeth told her mother, who was still fidgeting with the tea.
“Did she recognize you?” Catharina asked without turning around.
“Yes,” Elizabeth declared, though in truth she could not be sure. “They moved her to a private room.”
“Your father arranged that,” her mother said. “He’s on the hospital board.”
“We might visit together sometime,” she said, just as her mother dropped her teacup, which shattered, sending shards of bone china scattering across the parquet floor.
Catharina stared down at the mess for a moment, then her face crumpled like a Chinese fan. “I really am so clumsy. Whatever will become of me?” Bursting into sobs, she ran from the room.
A daughter in a normal family might have gone to comfort her, but Elizabeth was only too aware they were not normal. Catharina van den Broek hated to be seen crying, even by her own daughter. Fleeing the room was the equivalent of a Roman centurion drawing his cloak across his face to hide his suffering. Elizabeth knew better than to follow after her mother.
She picked up the parasol, silk purse, and gloves Catharina had lent her, tucked them under her arm, and slipped quietly out of the house.
CHAPTER FOUR
A light rain was falling when Elizabeth stepped out onto Fifth Avenue. Not wishing to soil her fancy shoes, she took a hansom cab to the soiree, arriving to see a line of carriages stretching four blocks in both directions. Most of the guests at a party given by Caroline Astor owned their own carriage, and were intent on showing it.
Compared to the French château–style building across the street, the Astors’ brownstone was surprisingly unimposing from the outside. After paying the driver, Elizabeth alighted from the cab and climbed the heavy stone staircase to enter the four-story building. The butler was a husk of a man with skin the texture of dried field corn. After studying her at some length through his bifocals, he reluctantly accepted her calling card, raising one frosty eyebrow when he saw the heading New York Herald over her name.
“You are a journalist, then?” he said, pronouncing “journalist” in the same tone of voice one might use to describe an unsavory bodily function.
Weary of his attitude, Elizabeth nodded curtly and was silently escorted into a lavish ballroom, located in its own wing of the house. Plush Oriental rugs coated nearly every inch of the gleaming parquet floor; the walls were covered with massive paintings, mostly landscapes, so closely hung that many of the heavy frames touched each other. Marble statues, potted plants, and elaborate light fixtures graced the corners of the room; settees, armchairs, and hassocks lined the walls. Elizabeth even spotted Mrs. Astor’s famous divan, a plump little armchair with a colorful striped armrest, suitable for a Turkish prince.
Having seen only rather idealized portraits of Caroline Astor as a young woman, Elizabeth was not prepared for the heavily built middle-aged woman with thick facial features perched on a red circular ottoman in the center of the ballroom. She presided majestically over a roomful of guests, all expensively and elaborately dressed. The hostess herself wore a rich purple velvet gown, so dark it was nearly black, with creamy French lace at the neck and elbows. The abundance of dark hair piled atop her head made Elizabeth suspect it was a wig, if what her mother said was true.
The room glowed softly in the light from the dozens of candles on the enormous chandelier hanging over the ottoman. The chandelier itself was another ostentatious display of wealth—apart from the exquisite cut crystal, it required the use of dozens of candles, so much messier and more time consuming than the room’s multiple gaslight sconces. Only someone of great wealth could afford the staff necessary to clean the chandelier and replace the scores of spent candles.
As Elizabeth stepped somewhat hesitantly into the room, the hubbub died abruptly, and Mrs. Astor swung her rather large head in her direction. Eyes narrowed, her lips compressed, she tilted her head to the side, as if appraising Elizabeth, then her face broke into a wide smile.
“Come here, child,” the great lady said, beckoning her over.
Elizabeth took a step in her direction.
Mrs. Astor stretched out a bejeweled hand. “Do not worry—I shan’t bite, in spite of what you may have heard.”
A few of the ladies tittered, the gentlemen smiled, and Elizabeth realized at that moment that her mother was right: Mrs. Caroline Astor was indeed queen of all she surveyed.
Mrs. Astor regarded Elizabeth with her pince-nez. “Why do I not know you? Who are your parents?”
“My father is Hendrik van den Broek, and my mother is—”
“Catharina van den Broek, née van Dooren. Her father was a man of some distinction.” She smiled at Elizabeth’s puzzled expression. “And your father is a well-respected judge, a member of the Knickerbocker Club, I believe.” The Knickerbocker was New York’s oldest and most exclusive men’s club, accepting members only from wealthy, long-established families.
Elizabeth felt herself blush. “You are indeed correct.”
Mrs. Astor smiled. “No doubt I know a deal more than is good for me. But my position requires that I keep track of everyone who matters—or who might matter—in New York society.”
Elizabeth was amused to think that Mrs. Astor considered her mother someone who “might matter.”
“And your name, my child?”
“Elizabeth van den Broek.”
“Where do you reside?”
“The Stuyvesant, on East Eighteenth Street.”
“A very respectable address,” she said, with a glance at her acolytes, who nodded, the ladies fluttering their fans as they inspected Elizabeth over the French-lace rims. She felt like a lone gazelle being studied by a group of hungry lionesses. Mrs. Astor turned back to her. “Calvert Vaux resides at the Stuyvesant, and General Custer’s widow lives on the first floor.”
“You astonish me, madame,” Elizabeth replied. “It is said you know everyone, but your reputation does not do you justice.”
“Tu es très agréable, ma petite,” said Mrs. Astor, peering at Elizabeth through her pince-nez. “Très belle.”
“Merci, madame,” Elizabeth replied, noting her use of the informal “tu,” a subtle reminder of the older woman’s superior social standing. “J’espère que vous aurez quelque chose à dire pour le Herald.”
“Ah, tu es journaliste. Admirable.”
Elizabeth was surprised to feel a shiver of pleasure at Mrs. Astor’s words. She had long believed that social status was essentially trivial nonsense. And yet standing here now, in the inner sanctum of the most powerful figure in New York society, surrounded by the soft glow of a hundred candles, her skin tingled. Stroked by the feather of affluence and approval, she felt that, somehow, she had arrived.
At Mrs. Astor’s insistence, Elizabeth helped herself to tea from one of the flowered china pots on the sideboard. Having rid herself of the extra weight she had gained while at college, she refused the lady’s offers of sweets except for a small slice of lemon chiffon cake, which looked too good to refuse.
“Come meet some of my guests,” Mrs. Astor said, escorting Elizabeth to a pair of expensively dressed ladies standing next to a cut-crystal punch bowl. “Allow me to introduce Mrs. Lillian Abernathy,” she said, indicating the older of the two, “and her niece, Miss Eloise Pratt.”
“How do you do?” said Miss Pratt, offering her hand. She wore creamy yellow kid gloves that matched the lace on her dress. She was young and comely, with lustrous black hair and lively dark eyes.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Elizabeth said, shaking her hand.
Her aunt was scarcely less attractive than her niece—tall and slim, with a long white neck and small, well-formed head. She seemed somewhat less pleased to meet Elizabeth than her niece did, but was civil enough, inquiring politely about Elizabeth’s life.
“My word,” she said, upon learning Elizabeth was a journalist. “That is very enterprising of you.”
“Are you not afraid?” asked her niece, her large brown eyes wide with anticipation.
“Of what?” said Elizabeth.
“Why, of wicked people, of course.”
“I do not meet a great many of them, as I write for the society column.”
“Oh,” said Miss Pratt, who could not help sounding disappointed. She pursed her pretty lips and fluttered her fan as her aunt leaned in toward Elizabeth.
“There are so many unsavory types about these days,” Mrs. Abernathy remarked, her tone conspiratorial. “Especially downtown, it would seem, wickedness abounds.”
Elizabeth frowned. “If that is true, no doubt it is the product of poverty and disease.”
“Lack of character, I rather think,” said Mrs. Abernathy.
“And breeding,” her niece added. “Papa always says breeding will out.”
“I should think bad behavior exists even among the upper classes,” Elizabeth remarked drily.
“Surely not in the same degree,” said Mrs. Abernathy. “I mean, those people—some of them live like animals.”
“If so, it is because they are forced to,” Elizabeth replied tightly, not bothering to hide her irritation.
Mrs. Abernathy’s eyes widened, and Miss Pratt fluttered her fan furiously.
“Well!” said the older woman. “I never—”
“No, madame,” Elizabeth replied coolly. “You never did, and that is precisely the problem.”
“And who is this enchanting creature?” said a male voice behind her.
Elizabeth turned to see a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman with swept-back silver hair, a broad forehead, and intense, deep-set gray eyes.
At his side was Mrs. Astor, her arm linked around his. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Charles Abernathy, renowned Egyptologist.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Elizabeth.
“The pleasure is mine, I assure you,” he said, bowing and kissing her hand, his lips lingering a shade longer than necessary.
She pulled away with a nervous little jerk, looking apprehensively at Mrs. Abernathy. His wife’s dour but stoic expression indicated she had seen this behavior a hundred times, and had long since given up trying to change it.
“Mr. Abernathy is on the staff of the Metropolitan Museum,” Mrs. Astor said.
“That must be very gratifying work,” Elizabeth remarked, and thought she saw Mrs. Abernathy roll her eyes behind her fan.
“I have endeavored rather unsuccessfully to convince them to establish an Egyptian wing,” he said with a modest shrug.
“Have you heard of the ancient obelisk known as Cleopatra’s Needle?” asked the excitable Miss Pratt. It was hard to dislike her, even with her unenlightened views; she was like a young spaniel, all wriggles and curls. Elizabeth felt there was hope for her yet.
“It is in London, I believe,” said Mrs. Astor. “Please excuse me for a moment—I must greet my guests,” she added, indicating a middle-aged couple entering the room.
“There is also one in Paris—and we are about to get our own, in New York!” Miss Pratt said. She seemed very enthusiastic about it.
“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “The Herald did a story about it earlier this year. It is Egyptian, but has no actual connection to Cleopatra.”
“I see you are as well informed as you are attractive,” Mr. Abernathy remarked.
His wife pursed her lips and frowned. Turning to the punch bowl, she helped herself to a large glass. Fanning herself, she moved to join a group of people across the room. It was impolite, to say the least, but Elizabeth could not blame her. Her husband ignored her behavior, and her niece hardly seemed to notice. She gazed rapturously at her uncle as he spoke of his involvement in procuring the obelisk. Elizabeth waited patiently for him to finish before excusing herself. There was something unsavory about the man, and she did not like Miss Pratt’s obvious reverence, which, she feared, hinted at something darker.
Using thirst as an excuse, Elizabeth crossed the room toward the tea service. As she passed Mrs. Astor, who was seated on her ottoman, the lady beckoned to her.
“Alas, I fear the rain drove our party indoors,” she said, setting down her teacup. Elizabeth calculated that the ruby ring on her right hand could fund several years of decent lodging for a family of four. “But if it is not raining too hard, perhaps you would like to see my garden?”
“I do not wish to monopolize your attention,” Elizabeth said, putting down her own cup on an intricately carved, marble-topped table, as her hostess rose from the plush velvet ottoman. Several elegantly dressed ladies poked their male companions, who leaned forward to offer their assistance.
“I am perfectly capable of maneuvering myself, thank you,” Mrs. Astor said. “I hope I am not yet that decrepit. Come along, child.” The faint aroma of orchid blossoms wafted from her as she took Elizabeth’s arm. “Let us promenade the garden, where we may converse in private. Stokes,” she called to the cadaverous butler, who had positioned himself near the entrance to the ballroom.
“Yes, madame?” he said, stepping forward.
“Has the rain stopped?”
“It has, madame, though the ground is still quite damp.”
“Thank you, Stokes.”
“Would madame like me to—”
“I shall inform you should I require further assistance, thank you.”
Mrs. Astor led Elizabeth through a narrow corridor to a long, bountiful garden bordered by azaleas on two sides and a copse of willow trees in the rear. The damp air was heavy with the scent of blossoms and the sweet aroma of loamy soil. They walked down a stone path, past rows of lilies, chrysanthemums, and carnations, until they reached the centerpiece of the garden, a large bed of roses. Drooping in the late-August light, well past their peak, the blossoms cast off a heady, overripe fragrance.
“Rosa gallica officinals,” Mrs. Astor said, surveying her roses. “My favorite variety—old and sturdy, rather like me.”
“Surely you are not old.”
“Do not flatter me, my dear. It does not become you.”
“They are lovely roses,” Elizabeth replied, reddening.
