Gilded Summers

Gilded Summers-2

To them, our summer home must have seemed a palace, a fantasy functioning as a home, a four-story mansion designed after the chateau d'Asnieres in France, the home of the Marquis de Voyer, sitting on ten acres of land. A `house' indeed.

“Mr. Birch, please show our new guests to their quarters, if you would.” With a gestured hand and a small dip of his head, my father encouraged these `guests' up the few steps and into the grand gallery spanning the entire length of the house from north to south.

They followed slowly. Their eyes widened at the grandeur, the enormity of our `cottage,' the thirty-foot-high walls of white Caen stone, the ancient oil paintings, the length of the walls framed by gilt moldings that greeted every entrant. How pretentious such opulence must have looked. Their slight bodies cried out for good meals, not flamboyant affluence. My cheeks burned as I looked at them looking.

“And which would those be, Sir?” Birch sent a blast of cold through the warm room.

“Mr. Costa here is to have the luggage room. I've had Mr. Grayson refurbish it into a living space and a workshop. This is the man who has come to teach Clarence violin and to make us some one-of-kind furniture. Aren't you, Mr. Costa?”

The man nodded, but it was to my father's ebullience. His expression blank, hesitant; he understood little of my father's words.

“He and his lovely daughter will also be staying over in the winter as members of our off-season caretakers.” My father turned back to Mr. Costa. “And for that I say grazie.”

“T…thank you, Mr. Worthington,” the young woman said. “My papa, he is excited, to work.”

My father took her hand in both of his.

“Ah, Geenahva, so glad to have you here as well, of course.”

She smiled, and it was lovely. “It is Ginevra, Gin-eh-v-ruh,” she pronounced her name correctly, slowly, for my father's behalf, and perhaps for mine, for I had seen her gaze flash to me with the same curiosity with which I perused her. Gin, like the drink my mother would say; emphasis on eh; rush through the v, to end low with the ruh. I said it over and over in my mind. I would say it correctly when the chance came. I swore to myself the chance would come. I would banish monotony not just from this moment.

“Yes, Ginevra,” my father did a passable imitation of her name. “You will be housed with other young ladies such as yourself…” servants, he meant, of course, “…on the top floor. I'm sure we will find something productive for you to do soon.”

“Sew,” she said without hesitation. I smiled. “I sew.”

I saw my father's grin. “Wonderful. There is plenty of sewing to do in this house. Isn't that right, Mr. Birch?”

Birch nodded. It looked as if it hurt him to do so. He held out a hand, pointing toward the right, toward the back stairs, those belonging to the servants.

“Vieni, Papa,” Ginevra put a hand on her father's arm as she reached down for a battered valise. Mr. Costa nodded silently, picked up the two beside him, having never released a glossy leather violin case from beneath his arm, and followed Birch's lead.

As she brushed past, our eyes met. Did she see it in mine, or I in hers? Regardless, it was a fine beginning.

I feigned a headache to dismiss myself from the coaching parade, illness being the only acceptable excuse. We came to `summer' in Newport, but our lives were as rigid here as they were in New York.

My head did throb, but with thoughts of the newcomers. I tried to whoosh them away with my reading, but they refused to depart. I lay upon my bed until it was time to get ready for dinner.

* * *

It was a rare evening during summers at Newport where we neither entertained nor were entertained, for doing so was the sole purpose of this small colony of the very rich.

It was only the family for dinner that night, just the four of us at the vast square table for ten. The large room and all its grandeur swallowed us, or so it felt to me at the time, but my mother insisted we dine there, rather than the intimate breakfast room, whether we entertained or not.

I lost myself to the light of the chandeliers and the paintings they illuminated; the ancient figures that hovered over me, over us, ever listening. More than once, I wished they would shower their wisdom down upon us. Their presence was my panacea, or perhaps it was merely the art itself. Like my father, so much of what fed me was art. Fitting that the room where we ate should be so full of it.

I missed many a tiresome conversation in the study of these paintings. Not that evening.

“Really, Clarence, is it so very difficult for you to arrive on time?” My mother chided my brother as he rushed in, still straightening his cravat, no more than two minutes past seven.

Clarence, eighteen and dashing, fulfilled his role as my mother's pet with relish; he scudded a step at her tone, one that did not typically belong to him.

“Darling, Mother, I'm only late because I wanted to look perfect for you.” He glided to her chair beside mine with elegance. He had my father's height and my mother's thinness, my father's thick hair, tones of dark and light gold, like Mother's used to be. He leaned over and plucked a kiss upon her cheek.

The magic wand flicked; her earrings, much like the shape of the lights above her, tinkled and glittered, though far truer than she did.

“Don't be silly, dear, you always look lovely,” she twittered like a nuzzled bird. It would have been my pleasure to stick a cracker in her mouth.

My brother came around and sat opposite Mother, to my father's left.

“Pop,” he greeted my father with the stylish slang becoming so popular among the young men of his set, the young and newly on the marriage market, the athletic and always busy sparks that crowed about Bellevue Avenue like the roosters they were. Father nodded in silence, as was his way. Clarence sat, catching my eye, tossing me a sly wink. His practiced charm, so like the many other young men, had little effect on me. He should have been my hero, as he had been when we were little. I should have looked up to him with worship and adoration. Resentment was far more powerful.

He looked at the opulent façades of our homes and those like it and believed. It was more than the color of our eyes that differed. He and my mother were a matched pair. My father and I, a pair ourselves, but of a different sort.

Clarence pulled in his chair and Birch, having been standing guard at the small door leading to the pantry, gave a nod of his balding head.

The footmen entered the room, silver trays balanced perfectly on perfectly manicured hands. James, the first footman brought the soup, while Charles, the second, brought the wine. Both were amazingly handsome. I always asked for more of whatever James was serving, bringing his dazzling smile and sparkling blue eyes closer to me again and again, though I squirmed in my seat every time he did.

It was a peculiarity, of the life here in Newport, that the footmen were undeniably attractive, not only of face but of physique, for oftentimes they wore livery with breeches and stockings. They must possess, then, a `well-turned calf' as the silly saying went. And they must be tall, six feet being the minimum height.

It became a social occasion, a real cat's party, when a woman of any house had to hire a new footman. Friends were invited over, drinks were served as handsome young men walked by, displaying their features. The women spoke of them as if they spoke of jewels, of how they glittered, how they were desired. They laughed and giggled as little girls did over their dolls. As was my way then, I hid in a secret hallway to watch and listen. My mother always enjoyed the occasion in a fine mood, enjoyed it a great deal. Admitting my own enjoyment was something I denied, even to myself.

Mother was not in such a mood at this moment. She took one silent sip of her soup, dabbed the sides of her mouth with a starched serviette, and then it started.

“Orin, please explain to me these new servants you've brought into our home. It was never part of our agreement.” She put her spoon down with deliberation; she would not pick it up until he answered her to satisfaction. In truth, she had a valid point, the hiring of all the servants—as she called them, my father called them the staff, it was a telling distinction those days—was under the purview of the woman of the house.

My father didn't lower his spoon save for another helping of soup.

“I told you all about them, Millicent, when we were in Italy.”

“Tell me again. I don't remember.”

I thought she did though, from the look on her face. My mother's face always gave her truth away. Did mine? I hardly knew my own truth then, but I knew I wanted no one to see it. I wanted nothing of my mother, that truth was irrefutable.

“Felice is a violin maestro. Not only does he play like…,” my father did look up from his soup then, a bit of rapture on his rough features, “…like a virtuoso. He is also a master artisan. He makes violins, violas, as well as magnificent furniture. Don't you remember my promising he would make you furniture none of your friends would have, like nothing they could compare it to?”

He knew how to mine my mother for gold. I hid my smug smile behind my napkin.

My mother picked up her spoon. “Oh, well, yes, that part I do remember. But I thought he would make the furniture in Italy and send it to us.”

My father looked like he would throw his spoon. It was a mean notion, but it would have given me quite the chuckle if he had.

“No, that was never discussed. He is primarily here to teach Clarence how to play.”

“The violin?” I hadn't heard my brother's voice crack in many years.

“Yes, Clarence. It is a wonderful talent to have.” My father spoke to Clarence much as he did my mother, always with a sigh in his words.

“I have no interest in playing the violin,” it was my brother's turn to put down his spoon, “or any instrument for that matter.”

My mouth fell open, words needing saying hung there. How could Clarence not be thrilled at such an opportunity? How could he be so ungrateful for it?

“I'll do it, Father.” I heard the words for the first time myself; they came without thought. I heard too the squeak in my voice; it thrummed through me like the slide of a bow down taut strings. “I'd love to learn to play the violin.”

The silence appalled. I would have preferred it stayed that way rather than be assaulted by my mother's response.

She laughed.

“Oh, Pearl, don't be ridiculous,” she chuckled with cruel dismissiveness. She dismissed me often unless I served her purpose.

“Why? Why would it be ridiculous?” My hands balled into fists in my lap. The fragrance of the fresh lobster bisque suddenly smelled like rotted mushrooms.

Mother's face twisted tightly; her sneer devoured me. In that moment, I hoped my face did reveal my truth. I hoped I held up a mirror to her. “Such things are for men. Have you ever seen a woman play in the symphony?”