The Gilded Years (31 page)

Anita thought of the many times she had walked in the snow with Elizabeth. They hadn’t left Roxbury, but still, how could she have been so callow as to think she could go wherever she wanted, even there, as if the city had gates separating the color lines? The rest of the world lacked the safety she took for granted at Vassar. White men were often in Roxbury. She had walked past many of them when she was home; she could easily have walked past Marchmont Rhinelander and never known.

“I spent most of my time indoors this holiday,” said
Anita. “I am not one for the cold. But when I did get outside, it was only around the Back Bay.”

“Not a fan of winter,” said Marchmont, ignoring her last claim. “Then you must love this.” He kicked the tall grass as the two moved farther from the stone house.

“I more than love this,” said Anita, praying he had dropped the subject of Boston. “Every spring is like walking into a world you’ve never seen. Because it is, isn’t it? Everything changes, takes on new forms, new growth, new air.”

“Yes, I’ve always liked change, too,” said Marchmont. “I often think about change when I make my trips to Boston. You see, I make them quite frequently.”

“Why is that?” asked Anita, crouching down to pick one perfectly formed spring daisy.

“My father has a child there,” said Marchmont abruptly. He bent down to help her uproot the flower without crushing the stem. Anita looked up at him, her face a picture of shock, and appeared about to lose her balance. Marchmont took her arm and helped her stand up.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to seem so shaken,” said Anita.

“It’s perfectly fine,” he said, letting go of her arm. “I would expect you to be. Come, let’s walk a little way, it’s good for nerves.”

He offered her his arm as he led her over a patch of high grass and fallen branches. “His daughter—my father’s daughter—is illegitimate, as I am sure you assumed. Her name is Carrie, and she lives with her still very young mother in Boston. I look after them financially. I visit her when I feel it’s appropriate. She’s young herself, just eleven years old.”

“Was her mother a servant? Or—”

“No,” said Marchmont, cutting Anita off before she had to say something uncomfortable. “She was employed
in a less fortunate way in New York’s Tenderloin district. I know now that my father has had a penchant for such women for decades.”

“And your mother?” asked Anita, thinking of what she might do if she were in her place.

“She is aware of his bad habit, she stays, and she ignores. And she prays, of course, but it doesn’t do much good.”

“Does she know about his daughter?” asked Anita, lifting her skirts higher than she should have as she walked, as the girls did at Vassar.

“She does know there is a child in Boston,” said Marchmont, his eyes drifting to Anita’s slender ankles encased in her small leather boots. “But she doesn’t know that she lives in the Negro area of town. She doesn’t know that her mother is a Negro.”

“A Negro!” Anita said loudly. If Marchmont had not steadied her, she would have fallen in the grass. “The mother of this poor child is colored?” asked Anita, not realizing how hard she was gripping her escort’s arm.

“She is,” said Marchmont calmly. “She is from New York originally, but she went to Boston after she learned she was with child. She has a forgiving aunt living there who took her in. She and Carrie still live with her.”

Anita was stunned into silence. If Marchmont had been in Boston after Christmas visiting this Negro child, he was most likely in Roxbury. He certainly could have seen her. She looked up at him and prayed that if he
had
glimpsed her with her sister, he would have the decency not to say a word about it to anyone but her. She bent to pick another flower and said, “That’s very surprising.”

“It is surprising,” said Marchmont, his voice still flat. “But it’s a fact. And though it surprised me at first, and I disapproved of my father’s behavior, I’ve become very fond of Carrie. I don’t
plan to abandon my support of her, either financially or emotionally.”

“Does your father know her?” asked Anita, focusing on the mossy ground rather than her host.

“No. He’s never met her, or even seen her mother again after she announced she was with child. He didn’t believe it was his and sent her back to the brothel house. In her state, it was unforgivable. I only learned about Carrie six years ago when he confessed everything to me on my thirty-fifth birthday. He figured me man enough to know then. It was a lecture given so I would not make the same mistakes he had, but instead it brought me to Carrie. My father has always thought of me as a man just like him, but I will never be that sort of man.”

“What is the area of town called?” asked Anita, finally looking up at him. As soon as she said it she knew, and he knew, that she should know the name. “Where she lives. Which neighborhood is she in?”

“Roxbury,” he said, looking at her intently, reaching for her face again, but stopping short. “It’s called Roxbury.”

“Is this why you called off your engagement with Estelle Schotenhorn?” Anita asked quietly.

“That’s partly the reason. Estelle is a lovely girl, despite her mother’s steel will pushing her this way and that. She doesn’t deserve to be mixed up in a scandal, if it ever broke. I’ve made many mistakes in my life, but scandalizing a young woman has never been one of them.”

“Why did you tell me this?” Anita said, wishing that he touched her face again. There was something about Marchmont that she liked tremendously, not in a romantic way, but in every other way. “I assume this is something almost no one knows?”

“Very few people outside my family know,” he said. This time he did put his hand on Anita’s cheek, and left it there longer than was proper. “
But there is something about you.” He let his hand slide down her face and placed it on her shoulder, and looked at her respectfully. “I know you’ll keep my secret.”

When they finally returned to the house, everyone was sitting in the drawing room, cooling off after their sporting endeavors.

“These are for you,” said Anita, handing Belle the little bouquet of wildflowers she and Marchmont had picked. “From Marchmont,” she added.

“Oh!” said Belle, clutching them in surprise.

Anita watched Marchmont as he bowed, and her heart swelled with relief. Yes, he had guessed her secret, but in exchange for knowing hers, he had confessed his.
See,
Anita wanted to shout at Bessie and Frederick. There are men like this in the world. There are people who think this way, who act this way.
Look at me at Clavedon Hall, allowed to stay here even though he knows the truth. Look at me!

“Belle, I do hope I can call on you in Fredonia once you have graduated,” said Marchmont when he accompanied them to the train station in Pittsfield two days later. “That is, if you’re not off to Italy straightaway.”

“Of course,” said Belle, blushing to the roots of her hair. “You would be most welcome.”

The porters carried the girls’ suitcases onto the train and they settled into a wagon with strong gaslights and a tea tray already set up. Within an hour, Lottie and Caroline, who were seated in front of Belle and Anita, had their heads resting on each other in deep repose.

Belle pressed her face to the window, watching Massachusetts become New York, and said, “Do you like Marchmont, Anita? Do you think I should allow him to write to me? To call after graduation?”

“I do,” said Anita. “And you should. I like him very much.”

B
ack at school after their surprising trip to the Berkshires, Anita made it one of her first tasks to collect the mail. She separated her letters from Lottie’s, which were all from Porter Hamilton, and hurried up to their shared parlor room.

She tossed Lottie’s mail onto her disorganized desk and closed the door loudly behind her, heading to Caroline’s room. Opening the door, she found Caroline with her head on her table, her writing papers scattered around her and all over the floor.

“You’re just in time to keep me from checking myself into the infirmary for mania,” she said, not lifting her head.

“Why would you do that?” asked Anita, coming in and starting to straighten Caroline’s things. “Sane as you are.”

“Because of Founder’s!” said Caroline, handing Anita an opened letter. “Raymond DeGroot can’t leave Yale so close to finals; he’s too nervous about them. He says if he comes to Founder’s, he’ll fail. Have you ever heard anything more absurd?”

If Phil Day had possessed the minds of the Vassar students for weeks, Founder’s Day riveted them for months. It was a favorite day on campus, featuring not only celebrations
for the birthday of school founder Matthew Vassar, but also the other large annual dance. And because Founder’s fell so close to the end of the school year, and the end of the Vassar experience for the seniors, it was a day full of nostalgia.

“We can find you another date for Founder’s,” said Anita, patting her friend’s bent head. Caroline’s hair was unfashionably down, as it often was when she was in her room alone. “It’s not for three weeks. I don’t yet have an escort myself.”

“Of course you don’t, because Lottie Taylor and Porter Hamilton broke your heart,” said Caroline, sitting up. “Poor Anita. If I were braver, I would tell Lottie exactly how I feel about what she did to you. And Founder’s is not three weeks away, it’s but two and a half.”

“That is still ample time for us to find escorts,” said Anita. “As for Lottie, she’s not entirely to blame for my current state. I’m the one who broke off my engagement with Porter, so he was technically Lottie’s for the taking.”

“Any true friend would not have taken,” said Caroline. “I don’t mean to say that she’s not fond of you. She is. She prefers your company to that of every other girl at school. She was never close to Dora the way she is to you, and they roomed together for two years. The problem with Lottie is that above all else, she loves herself.”

When Lottie and Anita were together in their parlor that evening, the wide-open window letting in the buzz of talk and laughter from outside, Anita told Lottie about Caroline’s plight, and how upset she was to still be dateless. Lottie put down the flowers she was arranging and looked at Anita.

“Poor Caroline, she shouldn’t fret yet.” Then, appearing as uncomfortable as she was capable, she added, “Do
you
have an escort for Founder’s? I’ve invited Porter, but if you find that inappropriate, as he said you might, I am happy to attend alone.”

“No, Lottie,” said Anita, her mouth rigid. “I expected you would invite Porter. And if you do not mind, I would like to invite Joseph Southworth.”

“You intend to invite Joseph!” said Lottie, dropping backward into the rocking chair, her flowers falling to the floor. She swept them up, placed them in a wastebasket, and picked up fresh ones. “Do you really? Even after that scandal?”

“I don’t mind,” said Anita. “I would be more comfortable with someone I already know, and you have to admit, he is very amusing.”

“Indeed he is. Such a pity about his mother.” Lottie picked up a shawl and arranged it over the light shirtwaist she was wearing. “And you’re sure you are not upset about Porter attending? Will you promise me? It’s your last Founder’s, and I want you to enjoy it to its fullest.”

“I promise,” said Anita, finding she was able to lie with a smile on her face. “If you don’t mind about Joseph, then I am fine with Porter attending.”

Joseph Southworth accepted Anita’s late invitation with alacrity and notified her that he would be taking the train down with Porter Hamilton, as he had done for Phil. For the next two weeks, Lottie asked Anita repeatedly whether she approved of her attending the dance with Porter, and Anita continued to reassure her that she did, though she finally added one caveat.

“I have no ill will toward you about bringing Porter,” she said, three days before the dance, “but I imagine we would both feel less awkward if we were not in the same group.”

“Do you think so?” said Lottie, practicing her hat face in
her mirror. “I detest the way this hat cuts so low on my forehead.” She placed it on her head and sucked in her cheeks to make them look thinner. “Absolutely not this one. I look like a hippopotamus wearing a bonnet. Would you like it?” she asked Anita, holding it out to her.

“Founder’s?” Anita reminded her.

“Oh, yes, Founder’s,” Lottie repeated. “Though I have held my tongue this time around, I have been thinking the very same thing. I doubt Old Southpaw is dreaming of a place on my dance card, and he might still feel some animus toward me. Perhaps you should group with Belle, as you are performing together with the Glee Club before the lecture, and I will group with Caroline. We can request boxes at opposite ends of the parlor.”

“But surely Belle and Caroline will want to be together on their last Founder’s,” said Anita. “They’re as close as you and I.”

“I think they’ll understand,” said Lottie, throwing the hat in the wastebasket, too.

On the afternoon of the event, Anita was already dressed in the simple rose-colored satin gown she had purchased from a dressmaker on Noxon Street when she looked out the window of her shared parlor to watch the carriages come through the gatehouse. Japanese paper lanterns had been strung from the Lodge to Main, and she felt a twinge of distress as the first few visitors were brought down the long, illuminated road.

Anita hated having to prepare for the dance alone, but she had agreed to meet Joseph earlier than usual so they would have plenty of time to make their way to the chapel without encountering Porter and Lottie.

When her hair was curled and arranged at the nape of her neck and she had smoothed her dress just so, she walked
down the hall to Belle’s room for reassurance about her plain costume.

“Anita, you would be breathtaking in a gown made of cleaning rags,” said Belle, who was just starting to dress for the evening. “There is nothing that could diminish the beauty of your face. And the dress is very smart. Its simplicity brings one’s eye up to your neck, which is without comparison on campus.”

“Thank you, Belle,” said Anita, looking down at her unembellished dress with embarrassment. She knew she could have borrowed one of Lottie’s expensive Parisian gowns, as she had done for important occasions all year, but in this instance it did not seem right. Porter wanted Lottie, Anita thought to herself. He did not want her impersonating Lottie in her clothes.