The Pages of Time

Gilded Summers-10

I turned a serious gaze upon her. Could I trust her with my thoughts, even the darkest of them? I stared at that lost girl I had found in the cubby who had shared her fear. Yes, I could trust that girl.

“They are like children, I think. If one has a toy, the other must have a bigger, better toy, and the next, and the next.” She watched my mouth as I spoke. “Do you understand?”

“Si, yes, I think, yes,” she said, her words hesitant, but not her tone.

Si,I didn"t know, or perhaps I didn"t want to tell her, the full truth of things. At least the way I saw them. These powerful men, some of “old” money, some of new, who had made their riches after the War of Secession, had made their fortunes in coal mines and the spread of the railroad across the country. They made so much they didn"t know what else to do with all their riches. They gave their over-bearing wives—women who were the true power of this small, remarkably privileged community—carte blanche. It became a hobby, in truth a convoluted competition of sorts, the creation of these miniature palaces. Those who lived in them became the chess pieces upon the checkered board of a highly structured way of life.

“The men spend millions of dollars—”

“M…millions?” Ginevra gasped, almost slipping from our branch.

I grabbed her, steadied her, and huffed a laugh cynical to my own ears. “Yes, millions, to build these cottages. And they give even more millions to their wives, to decorate, to entertain.”

I looked off to the west. From this high up, I could see the lowering sun glinting off the harbor away down the hill. “I know this world is run by men, Ginevra, but this place, Newport? Here women rule. You will see.”

She looked away, a furrow on her brow, a frown upon her lips. “I do not think I want…to see.”

I laid a hand softly upon her shoulder. “I do not think you have a choice.”

Ginevra turned sad eyes on me. There was something in them so familiar I could have been looking in a mirror. She simply shook her head.

“It is entertaining, I will tell you that,” I said lightly, as lightly as I could. “Especially thanks to Mr. McAllister—Ward McAllister. He"s a snooty little man who has deemed himself the king of good manners. He hisses in the women"s ear, and they listen.” I plucked a feathery leaf off the tree, released it, and watched it float to the ground below us. “Oh, yes, thanks to him life is all very scheduled, very coordinated.” I no longer knew if I spoke to Ginevra, if she understood. I only knew I said thoughts I had longed to say for so long, with no one to say them to.

I had many acquaintances but far fewer true friends. Among them, there was not a one who was not enraptured with our privilege, our opulent life. None who questioned it. They danced merrily to the tune forever played, marionettes on their strings. They would not understand the things I said to Ginevra. They would, in truth, shun me for them as the girls in school shunned me. Except perhaps Consuelo Vanderbilt, but she had far too much to deal with herself. I couldn"t burden her with my confused and contrary thoughts. Here, with Ginevra, the lock upon them was broken.

“There is so much to do, but every day they are the same things to do. In the mornings, everyone gathers at the Casino to show off their latest fineries. Then we go to the beach, then luncheon, which can often be with fifty people or more. Then for me, there are still lessons with the governess, though I am the smartest in my classes during school term.”

Ginevra brightened, poking her chest with her own finger. “Me, too. Smartest of all.” She grimaced at her own words, at how far from smart they sounded.

“I can tell, Ginevra, do not worry, I can.” I could. It was there, plain to see, as though someone had painted intelligence upon her face.

The creases upon her skin smoothed, a churning sea coming once more to rest.

“And then we go coaching, a grand coaching parade.” I continued.

“A p…parade? Whata is parade?”

“We all dress up—very fancy—get in our coaches and all drive up and down the streets, Bellevue Avenue and Ocean Drive, and then we drive back.”

“Up and back,” she repeated, but not because she couldn"t understand the words.

“We do it every day. Everybody does,” I giggled. “I don"t know why they started it or why they keep doing it. Don"t tell anyone, will you? You will see. We do many things for no reason at all. No good reason.” These last words slipped from my mouth before I could close it.

Ginevra"s hard stare burned my face. My hands twitched to cover it, but it was far too late for that.

“And we leave our calling cards. Well, we don"t deliver them. We drive to each other"s house and send our coachman to deliver them to each other"s door.” I blathered on as if I was not unmasked. “There"s teatime in the afternoons. The women call on each other, taking turns at each other"s cottages, and then return home for a rest. Then dinner. For my parents and Clarence, it is often at someone else"s house, sometimes with over a hundred people in attendance.”

“No? Hundreds?” With each response, each question, Ginevra"s voice pitched higher and higher.

“Oh yes, sometimes hundreds,” I said, and then muttered, “The Four Hundred.”

“Eh?”

I put my hand on hers. “That, I will explain another time.” I did not want to speak of it now. “It is all rather gay and fun and light. Two months of play before we go back home.”

Ginevra pulled back her chin. “Back home? This not home?”

I shook my head; not only at her question, but at the answer I must give.

“No, Ginevra, we only stay here during the summer. We arrive a little earlier than most, so we can celebrate my birthday. It"s only a few days away.”

Her eyes lit up and with them her face. “Mine too is soon.”

“When?” I cried.

“The third of Luglio. Ju…Ju…,”

Luglio.“July?” I blurt, incredulous. “Mine is the second. How old will you be?”

“Eh…sedici…eh.” She held up one finger, then six.

sedici“Sixteen?! Me too!”

We smiled together then.

My smile stayed with me as I finished telling her of my living arrangements.

“We have another home in New York City. Do you know where that is?”

“Si, we came,” she closed her eyes, looking for the English words she needed as if they were written in her mind, “our ship came there.”

Si“Oh, yes, of course it would,” I said quickly. “We live there most of the year.”

I could feel the frown form on my face. I didn"t like to think of New York. Our house there was not nearly as grand as The Beeches, but then again, every house on the upper east side of Manhattan was grand, just of a different sort. I shook New York away. The summer was just beginning.

“But here is where we come to play. And you will play with me.”

Ginevra grinned through her head shook. “No, I not play. I must work.”

I sighed. “Yes, I suppose you must.”

It was my turn to look at her, peer into her. I had been talking of myself, of this privileged way of life far too long. It was not well done of me; it was not in keeping with the manners drilled into me. I cared not for propriety, but I did for how I treated Ginevra. Did I seek this girl out only as an outlet for words I could not say elsewhere? Was my intent only to use her so? To shatter my bored monotony?

“Enough about us. What about you? Where in Italy did you come from? Why are you here, Ginevra? Your father, you? Where is your mother?”

I had gone too far. I saw it immediately. I wanted to know all about her, but like so many people in my life, they didn"t want me to know. I thought she would leave. Instead, she began to talk. She told me her story.

Pearl shared so much with me, it was as if she had taken off all the layers of her clothing. It was a simple act and yet not. How strange the only gestures of kindness should come from one I was to serve. She was of a rank so far above me in a country where rank meant everything, I knew in truth I shouldn"t even be there with her, talking with her. Ours was a smudged line from the start.

When she asked me, “Tell me about you, Ginevra. Where in Italy did you come from? Where is your mother?” I had to answer her; I wanted to, wanted someone in this place to know, to care enough to want to know. Those we live with are more than companions or colleagues or even those we serve; they are a witness to our lives. Until that moment, I walked invisible with not a witness in sight.

1886My aunts had always come and gone as they pleased, barging into our home, entering without a knock, barging into conversations between Papa and Mama, never a thought to what was and wasn"t their business. It was the way of us, of life there. Until they started coming more often. Until my mother"s stomach started to expand. The innocent child I was watched it grow gleefully, a child hoping for a brother or sister.

Mama started changing, eyes sunk, skin turned grey. She seemed to be losing weight, arms and legs becoming spindly sticks, even as her stomach enlarged.

As the doctors started coming, as my mother"s beautiful young face grew old, forever pained, I knew there would be no baby.

She took to her bed and still they told me nothing. They passed me as they did the small oil lamp and table in the corner by the door.

They came to our house day after day. The women brought food by the armfuls. The men sat beside my father, all as silent as he. They filled our small home, but it still felt empty. I sat on the floor beside my mother"s bedroom door, watching the doctor come and go, my aunts as well. They looked down on me, offering me forced smiles, light pats on the head. Their touch turned me cold. They wouldn"t let me in to see her. Until that day.

“Ginevra.” The voice of my Zia Domenica, my mother"s sister, woke me as I dozed, though such sleep had crept up on me unnoticed. When I opened my eyes, I found her knelt down before me. Her red-rimmed eyes told me. “Come, Ginevra, come see your mama.”

I had been longing for such words for days. It was the last thing I wanted to do. I knew what it meant. My cowardice was a shameful thing.