1
Whispers followed her around like the wind.
Miss Cordelia Jones was used to people staring at her. She was aJones, after all. Her clothes were made in Paris by the house of Worth, and her five-strand pearl necklace cost half a million dollars at Tiffany’s. She was a member of one of the richest families in America, and until last month, one of the most sought-after social connections.
She slowly walked out of church behind her mother, who seemed impervious to the insolent looks. Gentlemen turned their backs to them. Matrons whispered behind their hands. And young ladies whom she had once called friends greeted her with cold stares instead of smiles. Miss Eva Astor, niece oftheMrs. Astor,the head of New York society, openly sneered at her. Alida and Julia Wilson both had tears in their eyes as she passed them, but they did not wave or acknowledge their long friendship in any way. Even Lucy Miller, who was illegitimate, glanced down as they approached.
Lucy’s betrayal stung the deepest, like a barbed fishhook caught underneath her skin. Cordelia had never once held Lucy’s parentage againsther.
Cordelia’s younger sister, Edith, tugged on the sleeve of her dress. She glanced back at her. Edith was only twelve, six years younger than she, and her sister’s head barely reached her shoulder.
“What?”
Edith leaned closer. “Why aren’t my friends talking to me?”
“It’s church, you’re supposed to be silent,” Cordelia whispered.
Edith squeezed Cordelia’s hand, which was already being pinched by her too-tight gloves.
“I’ll tell you when we get home.”
This answer finally satisfied her sister, for Edith released her viselike grip. Cordelia saw Stuyvesant, her best friend and the man that she loved. The pressure moved from her hand to her heart, squeezing it tightly. He was standing in the back of the church. Stuyvesant was no longer the scruffy boy next door, with dirt on his nose and messy brown hair. He was all man—tall, broad, and handsome, with his recently grown sideburns and new gray suit. He had changed so much in the last year at college. Cordelia’s throat felt dry, her pulse quickened, and she felt a bead of sweat slide down the back of her neck.
Surely he would not cut her.
Every step closer to the door, Cordelia’s corset seemed to tighten. She felt as breathless as she had that morning, when the maid tightened the contraption to make an eighteen-inch waist—the number her mother insisted upon. She clutched her reticule with one hand and pulled the double veil down from her hat to cover her face.
To hide.
She felt ashamed. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, look at Stuyvesant. Instead, Cordelia followed her mother’s footsteps out of the church and into their carriage.
The ride to their home was uncommonly quiet. It was as if the very architecture of New York City looked upon them in silent condemnation.
Cordelia felt relieved when the carriage finally pulled up in front of their home on Fifth Avenue called the “Château.” The architecture was styled after a French castle, with spires, balconies, and impressive stone steps. Her room was called the “tower” because it was circular and the roof pointed. The footmen opened the door to the carriage and helped both Edith and Cordelia down and then their mother, who walked into the house without acknowledging either of her daughters.
Edith squeezed Cordelia’s gloved hand once more.
“Come to my room,” Cordelia said.
They gave their wraps and hats to the butler and climbed the stairs to the third floor. It wasn’t until they were safely inside, with the door closed tightly, that Cordelia talked. “You know how Father hasn’t come and seen us for a few weeks?”
Her little sister shrugged her shoulders. “He’s sailing on his yacht.”
Cordelia yanked off her gloves and set them on the bureau. “Yes, darling, but it’s a bit more than that,” she tried to explain gently. “You know how Mother and Father used to argue?”
“Even the servants know about that.”
“Yes,” Cordelia said with a sigh. “Well, they decided not to be married to each other anymore… They got divorced.”
“Why?” Edith said, folding her arms and giving her elder sister a wide-eyed look. Edith resembled their mother, who was still considered to be one of the most beautiful women in New York society. Edith’s hair was golden, her large eyes bright blue, and her expression precious. She had not yet bloomed into womanhood, but she was still lovely enough to make strangers stop and stare.
Unlike Cordelia, who did not resemble her mother very much at all. Her hair was a nondescript shade between dark blonde and light brown, which her mother called “mousy.” Cordelia’s eyes were ordinary and such a dark blue that they almost looked black. Worst of all, she’d gone sailing with her father frequently as a child and not worn a hat. Her face was covered in freckles, and no matter how many products her mother purchased to eradicate them, Cordelia’s freckles stayed obstinately on her face. She folded her own arms across her ample chest—the only part of Cordelia’s body that her mother did not find fault with.
She swallowed, wondering how much she should tell her little sister about a certain actress named Suzy Velvet (if that really was her name). Her father’s previous “indiscretions” had at least been discreet, but he was so enamored with Suzy Velvet that he had entertained her openly in the city. Mother not only decided to divorce him (a major social taboo) but to sue him for infidelity. Something that no one from their elite social circle, theFour Hundred, had done before. Women usually lost everything when they divorced their husbands: their home, their fortunes, and their children. But Mother hadn’t. Because she sued Father and won, she’d kept it all. Unfortunately, fashionable society did not condone liberated and financially powerful women.
“They decided that they would be happier apart,” Cordelia said at last.
Edith shrugged again. “Father was rarely here anyway. That doesn’t explain why my friends wouldn’t talk to me.”
