With her need to oversee every aspect of my life out of the way, she had begun to relax—just barely. And I was slowly beginning to discover some of the mutual interests we shared.
Father seemed to enjoy this ease in tension, too. As he got out of the automobile and offered me his hand, he gave me a wink.
The party was a glittering display of wealth and the height of society. It was good to be back among people I’d known most of my life. Everyone was eager to hear news of the war in England and my life as an aristocrat.
There was talk of America entering the European fray, but opinions were strongly divided. Some felt we should put America first and not worry about wars in foreign lands, while others felt that joining the war was imminent, and we should get involved now, before it escalated further.
Daily life in New York had not changed, but there was a heaviness in the air, much like I had experienced in Williamsburg leading up to the American Revolution. Fear and uncertainty tainted almost everything we did. This night at the Rockefellerhome was no different. There was a weight upon the evening, though several people tried hard to push the conversation to the wayside whenever it was brought up.
At dinner, I was seated next to Mr. Rockefeller, indicating I was the highest-ranked guest at the event. It was an honor, but one I didn’t deserve. There was nothing special about me except that I was forced to marry a marquess. In my heart, I was nothing more than Libby Conant, a public printer from a small press in Williamsburg, Virginia. I hadn’t even been important enough to be considered a suitable wife for Henry Montgomery. But here, in this time and place, I was seated at the right hand of one of the wealthiest and most influential men in America, elevated above the likes of the Vanderbilts, Roosevelts, and Astors.
“Lady Cumberland,” Mr. Rockefeller said as the meal began, “how do you like being home?”
I hadn’t spoken to him much before we sat down to eat, but I had his full attention now—and the attention of several other men present.
And why wouldn’t I? I was a wealthy widow—a wealthytitledwidow.
“I’ve enjoyed it very much,” I said. “I missed America.”
“I’m quite fond of her myself,” he said with a smile. “Though there is much we can do to help her.”
John D. Rockefeller Jr.’s philanthropic work was widely known and celebrated. He gave millions to social reform and had recently established the Bureau of Social Hygiene to research issues pertinent to the health and well-being of New York citizens. I found myself talking to him about several causes I wished to champion. The conversation was invigorating and stimulating, and he told me I must talk to his wife, Abby, who shared many of my passions.
“Your work goes beyond New York, if I’m not mistaken,” I said to him.
“Yes.” He smiled as he took a sip of his water. “I’ve recently been approached by a man named Reverend Dr. Goodwin. Have you met him?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“He’s an Episcopal priest and author. An extraordinary man. He lives here in New York but was a rector in Williamsburg, Virginia, for several years and oversaw the restoration of the Bruton Parish Church some nine or ten years ago.”
My attention was sharpened at the mention of Williamsburg and the Bruton Parish Church. I had never heard of the Reverend Dr. Goodwin, but I was very interested to learn more.
“He is passionate about Williamsburg,” Mr. Rockefeller continued. “He’s taught me so much. I was impressed to learn about Jefferson’s and Washington’s connections to the town and their involvement in the days leading up to the war.”
“I’m quite familiar with the history,” I said with a wide smile, knowing my face was glowing at the mention of my old home.
“I’m happy to hear it. Our young people must never forget our past. Dr. Goodwin and I both share a passion to preserve our history. Many of the original buildings and homes in Williamsburg are beginning to deteriorate, and several have already collapsed. It would be a travesty to lose such an important piece of our past.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. Does Dr. Goodwin have a plan?”
“He does, though it will be a long process, if it succeeds at all. He envisions creating a foundation to restore the town and one day hopes to operate it like a large museum or living memorial.”
“Truly?” My pulse sped up at the idea. “Is he looking for sponsors to help?”
“He is always looking for financiers and has spent years soliciting for help. J.P. Morgan was one of his early supporters when he was restoring Bruton Parish Church.”
“I would love to become involved.” The idea sparked a fervor in my breast that I hadn’t felt since I’d left 1775 behind.
“Splendid. We have a trip planned there next month. Dr. Goodwin would like to give Abby and me a tour, and I’ve invited some other possible investors. If you’d like to join us, I would be happy to introduce you to Dr. Goodwin.”
Excitement bubbled up in my stomach, and I found myself nodding like an enthusiastic schoolgirl. I could not wait to return to Williamsburg, though I cautioned myself that it would be much altered and perhaps difficult to accept. One hundred and forty-one years had passed since I’d lived there with Mama and the girls. Time and the elements would have done a lot of damage, but the essence of the town would still be intact, and so too would my memories.
I began to count down the days to our visit, starting to understand the reason for my return to America and the purpose my life would take in the years ahead.
29
WILLIAMSBURG, VIRGINIA
