Their first mark. The Vandemeers.
Chapter 12
Fine Gems
February 8, 1884
Vandemeer
Angle: Vainglory
Olivia Vandemeer feels another headache coming on. If they expect her to host graciously, beautifully, impeccably—and they do, for everything in her husband and daughter’s life seems to rest heavily upon her own slim shoulders—then perhaps they could take care in the moments before a dinner party to maintain some level of quiet.
“I don’t see why I can’t take dinner in my room.” Mimi trails her mother relentlessly through the house, barking like a Pomeranian. “It’s not as if there’s any purpose in my being there, given that you’ve not invited any young men who might possibly show any interest inme.”
Olivia glides past the parlor, hoping James might intercepttheir daughter in conversation, appeal to her himself, so she can see to the last-minute arrangements with the servants.
No such luck.
“I hope to hell you haven’t put McAllister near the head of the table,” James Vandemeer shouts into his brandy glass. He steadies himself against the marble fireplace. “He likely expects it. Don’t know why we had to invite him in the first place. We’re the ones honoring the duchess and that niece of hers.”
“Cousin,” Olivia puts in quietly.
“We deserve every bit of the credit.” He slams the crystal lowball glass against the mantel.
Olivia closes her eyes. “It will be through Mr. McAllister that we receive credit for being the first to host a dinner party in their honor. No one is a bigger gossip, I assure you.”
That assuages him a little. The level of red in her husband’s old Dutch face has at least receded a shade. “And you’re quite sure we are the first? This late in the season?”
“Apart from Mr. McAllister, only the Ames family have enjoyed the company of the grand duchess in any intimate capacity. Tea, I believe, if Mrs. Witt is to be trusted.”
“Mrs. Witt? Trusted? That blasted woman is the very last person...” James launches straight into a vitriolic rant, and Olivia curses herself for even mentioning the name.
“That’s another thing!” Mimi stomps her foot, rattling the beading in her gown—and the teeth inside her mother’s head. “I’d thought surely the Witts would be invited tonight. Not that I’d ever entertain Beau’s affections, but at least there would be the appearance of someone courting me. Mother? Mother! You don’t seem to take any of this to heart.”
Mimi’s voice raises to the pitch of a buzzard cry.
“Three seasons stand between me and spinsterhood and...”
As she continues her tirade, Olivia studies her daughter afresh. Pretty enough, certainly, but the sourness emanating from the girl’s every pore is a powerful repellent. She’ll never be as beautiful as her mother and she knows it, siphoning attention instead through sheer force of noxious personality.
“All will be well,” Olivia announces, as much to herself as to her family. “You will attend dinner, Mimi. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise. And James, you’ll be at the head of the table, as you always are, and by noon tomorrow, every family on Madison Avenue will know that we are the favored first to host a duchess at our table.”
Then she slides down the hall, away from their droning voices.
Whether it’s the spate of strategizing she’s just undertaken or the predictability of her daughter’s and husband’s responses, she feels abruptly and utterly drained. James has always been like this.Everythingis a competition, a race to the top. She suspects it ultimately has to do with him being hungry to prove himself better than his forebears with their Knickerbocker pedigrees. She may be a second wife, but fast upon their wedding—thefirstof that season—James insisted upon becoming thefirstnew family to build a manse along Fifth, just as he longed to be thefirstto garner a central box at both the Academy and the Met, thefirstof the old families to invest heavily in railroad, and thefirstto break ground with a vacation cottage in Newport. She suspects these feelings of inferiority also drove him into that messy Manifest Rails debacle, now that she thinks on it, which she tries not to do unless absolutely necessary. Thinking about matters of money, apart from spending it, aggravates her nerves almost as much as her husband.
Olivia cannot wait to be rid of the man. Him and Mimiboth. But one step at a time. Marry off the girl, encourage James’s insatiable appetite for brandy in the hopes it brings about an expedited death, and then... freedom.
Freedom and exorbitant wealth. Thirty-five isn’t so old to begin a new chapter, after all. She’ll just have to drift along in the meantime.
And to that end...
She finds she’s drifted into her own, blessedly dark bedroom, a small glass bottle of laudanum now in her hand. Final preparations, indeed.
“What would I do without you, my darling?” Olivia coos to the bottle, uncorks it, and drinks.
Alice and Cora are already dressed, powdered, and coiffed when the messenger boy arrives with a note written in Mr. McAllister’s hand. The message inside precipitates a few adjustments.
