“Please?” Emily’s eyes were big and pleading.
Alva had a decision to make. She could use this as a means to enter society, or she could have a new friend. She looked at Emily and nodded. “This will be our secret. I won’t say a word.”
CHAPTER THREE
Society
Faint traces of sea spray waft in the air all around us. Those invisible salt crystals cover every surface of this town just like the gilding so favored by Newport’s elite, most of whom—including us—are oblivious to the slow rot underneath.
Still, there is no place like Newport in the summertime. Six weeks filled with six-course dinners, lawn parties, teas and luncheons each day and balls that last till dawn every night. Most of us have ninety or so gowns on hand just to get us through the season.
In the afternoons, while the men are off sailing their yachts or playing lawn tennis, we ladies seek our exercise and a chance to show off our best day dresses and gems by taking daily strolls down Bellevue Avenue. We keep our parasols open to block the sun, as freckles and suntans are regarded as common and must be avoided at all costs.
The Knickerbocker matrons make their own daily parade in a string of horse-drawn carriages led, of course, by Mrs. Astor. Just now as she passes by, we practically stand at attention, not that she even notices us here, in the heat of the day, our corsets and petticoats a heavy second skin, our coiffures wilting beneath our wide-brimmed hats.
Tomorrow and the next day, and the day after that, we’ll be right back here, in this very spot. All will be the same, save for our finery.
CHAPTER FOUR
Caroline
Caroline was nearing the end of her daily carriage ride down Bellevue Avenue. She was accompanied by Charlotte, which was highly unusual. Could it be that her daughter was suddenly taking an interest in society? At eighteen, Charlotte preferred sailing and hunting with her father over anything having to do with society.
Caroline glanced at her daughter’s gloved fingers curled atop the handle of her parasol, fingertips drumming impatiently as if she couldn’t wait for this to be over with. So why had she asked to come along? Why was she wearing one of her best day dresses with the open neckline trimmed in satin ruffles? And why had she pinned up her buttery blond curls, securing them beneath her favorite bonnet? Caroline focused on one strand of Charlotte’s hair that had broken ranks and was now dangling down her long neck.
Charlotte must have sensed her staring because she turned, pressed her lips together tightly and looked away again. Charlotte was so hard to catch hold of, to pin down even when she was right there beside her. Caroline wanted to say something, but the moment had passed. Now she eased into the slow, steady rhythm of the carriage while listening to the hooves striking the cobblestones, the jangle of the bridles. She turned to gaze out the open carriage, the breeze carrying the smell of the sea punctuated here and there with horse manure.
Just as their barouche was turning at the bend, Caroline felt a sharp jolt as a four-wheel trotter came charging out of nowhere. With a woman at the helm, it whooshed past them, making their horses roar violently and rear up. Caroline and Charlotte were thrown about in the back seat; their hats and parasols went flying until their coachman was able to regain control of the horses. He brought the carriage as well as the rest of the procession to a halt before jumping down from his box and coming around to the side to check on them.
With his cap in hand, his dark lank hair hanging in his eyes, he said, “My apologies. I hope neither of you was hurt.”
“We’re fine, Duncan.” Charlotte retrieved her bonnet and patted her hair in place. “Thank you.”
“Women drivers,” he muttered.
Women drivers indeed, thought Caroline, remembering the days she used to take her own coach out. Years ago, she had so enjoyed sitting up on the box, the breeze sharp against her cheeks, the leather ribbons steady in her riding gloves as she drove her four horses as fast as they could go. People would stand on the sidelines, clapping as she sped past them. Now, of course, taking the reins herself was out of the question as were so many other things, like playing croquet or lawn tennis.
“You’re sure now?” asked Duncan. “No one’s hurt?”
“Not a scratch on us,” said Charlotte. “You handled the horses so expertly.” She flashed a smile, which he returned as he bowed before replacing his cap and climbing back up to his seat.
The puzzle pieces quickly fit together—Charlotte wasn’t remotely interested in society. This was all about the coachman! Caroline’s chest tightened.
“What was that?” she asked as the carriages began moving again.
“What was what?”
“That little exchange with you and the coachman.”
“Who? You mean Duncan?” she asked, as if it could have been anyone else. “He is awfully handsome, isn’t he? Even Helen thinks so and she’s madly in love with Rosy.”
“That’s enough, Charlotte. Your behavior is most inappropriate.” She was going to say more but found herself distracted by two women walking up the sidewalk, right by the blue boxwood shrubs that lined the Astors’ cottage. They were leaning into each other, the one with red hair slightly taller than the brunette, something broken in their gait. Neither one had gloves, or hats, not even a parasol to protect them from the sun. The redhead was in a bathing costume. They looked mangy and scraggly like a couple of strays. Caroline assumed they were trespassers, locals from town who had wandered up to Bellevue, but on closer examination, something about the woman in the dress caught in her mind. She knew that dress. Her eyes moved up. She knew that woman! Her nerves started crackling, her mouth dropped open.
The look on her face made Charlotte turn. “What is—what—oh my!” Charlotte gasped. “Is that Emily? What’s wrong with her? Who’s that with her?”
Confusion gave way to alarm as Caroline realized Emily was hurt. The carriage was turning in to the long drive just as Emily and the other woman staggered up under the portico.
“Emily—” Caroline called out. She didn’t even wait for Duncan to help her down from the carriage. Her hem caught on the fold-down steps, and she heard the fabric tear as she pulled herself free, rushing to Emily’s side. “Heavens, child, are you all right? What happened?”
“She tripped,” said the redhead with a slight Southern accent. “And over her own two feet if you can believe that.” She tacked on a slight laugh, as if it were nothing.
Emily hobbled, still holding on to the redhead.
“You’re limping!” Caroline’s voice ticked up as she stepped in to take the redhead’s place. She needs her mother now, not you. “Have you broken anything?”