The Luxe (11 page)

P
ENELOPE HAYES SMILED TIGHTLY AT THE LITTLE
English maid who was waiting in the Hayes vestibule to help her with her black mink wrap. The wrap was new, like her dress, which was ivory satin overlaid with black velvet in an art nouveau design—
very
modern. She had never seen this girl before, with her small eager eyes and not altogether neat hair, and concluded that she must be one of the new hires. There were so many new servants these days, what with the size of the new house, it made one fear for the sanctity of one’s correspondence. Penelope tried to express this in the irritated way she removed the thick cream card from the shiny silver tray that the maid held aloft for her.

“Mr. Isaac Phillips Buck has arrived to escort you,” the girl said with exaggerated formality. Penelope and Buck were intimate enough friends that he hardly needed to present his card anymore, but he could never resist little flourishes like that.

“Thank you,” Penelope replied, hurrying down the grand
white marble steps of her family home. She looked back once and realized her mistake. The girl was nearly foaming with joy after the kind words from her mistress. Penelope tried to put her annoyance away—it wasn’t good for her complexion, and she was going to a dinner party at Henry Schoonmaker’s, where she always wanted to look her best—and turned to see Buck waiting. He was facing the avenue, cigarette smoke wafting back over his shiny top hat.

“What were you looking at?” she asked, and he turned to take her hand. She leaned forward to kiss him on either cheek.

“Oh, you know, just the notables.” Buck gave a little sniff and began walking his favorite socialite down the steps. The evening was warm and a little hazy, and indeed the best carriages were passing one another at a spectator’s pace on the street. “None of them looked half so good as you.”

The Hayeses’ driver was waiting with one of the family’s four black polished phaetons. Buck helped her up, and then he followed and gave the driver a nod. A girl more mindful of decorum would never have taken an open carriage to an evening dinner party, but Penelope could not at that moment have felt more delighted with herself just as she was. She settled herself into the plush red velvet seat and unclasped her fur wrap so that it fell behind her. She wanted to feel the night air, even though moral minds would doubtless criticize her for such a public display of bare shoulders.

As the horses began their relaxed trot south, Buck reached into his jacket and removed a piece of newspaper.

“I thought this might be of interest,” he said casually, though he could not stop his moist lips from curling up in a very pleased sort of smile.

“Oh?” Penelope said as she unfolded it. Her eyes darted across the article, becoming wide and bright as her gaze settled on the words
Tiffany & Co., diamond,
and
one thousand dollars
. She batted her eyelashes, heavy with mascara, and gave a modest little shrug of her shoulders, though modesty was a characteristic she had never really practiced or admired. She turned her face to the east so that oncoming traffic would see her face from the best angle, and enjoyed the short ride down the broad avenue. Henry had said she would know soon enough, and for once he had used the phrase accurately. This felt soon even for an impatient girl like Penelope.

The horses trotted along as the Schoonmaker residence came into view. It took up half a block of Fifth Avenue at Thirty-eighth Street, and though the building was younger than Henry, it was beginning to look dated, with its mansard roof and steep front steps. She and Henry would have a new mansion, of course; perhaps Daddy would build them one as a wedding present. The phaeton came to a stop, and Buck climbed—almost delicately for a man of his size—down to the
street so that he could assist Penelope. She saw the carriages of several other guests loitering at the curb, the coachmen leaning against them and smoking as they began their long wait. She recognized the Hollands’ coachman among them, leaning against their old brougham with a folded paper—he had big, brutish shoulders, and his name was something Penelope could not recall. Elizabeth had once mentioned in passing that they had been friends as children, and Penelope couldn’t help but smirk to herself at how quaint it was down in Gramercy Park, with all their old traditions and their curious penchant for getting muddy with the staff. Here on Fifth, the ladies and gentlemen ascended the limestone steps in pairs, toward the brightly lit doorway, and did not pay the coachmen any mind.

“I may be very late, Thom,” she said without meeting her driver’s eyes. She focused instead on her elbow-length white gloves, taking care to smooth out any possible wrinkles. She already looked perfect, however, and she knew it.

“I will be here for you when you are ready, Miss Hayes,” Thom replied.

She rested on Buck’s arm as they ascended to the entryway. One of the Schoonmakers’ butlers took her wrap and ushered her into the receiving line, where she found young Isabelle Schoonmaker already red-cheeked from the exertion of so many greetings. She was wearing a shimmering turquoise Worth gown that fanned behind her and cinched her up at
the middle so that she tilted forward like the eager, bosomy figurehead of a ship’s prow.

“Oh,
Penelope
,” she gushed, teetering forward to kiss the younger girl on each cheek. “I am sorry your parents and brother couldn’t be here.”

“Isabelle,” Penelope replied, returning the double kisses. Her parents were dining with the Astors, which was not something one turned down, and her older brother, Grayson, was abroad, overseeing the family’s interests in London. “Don’t worry about me. I do very well with Buck here.”

“I know you do.” Isabelle took her hand and pumped it, just as the Richard Amorys, who had been married three years and had remained just as dull together as they had been singly, were coming in. “We’ll have to save fun for later,” Isabelle whispered under her breath, and then one of the Schoonmaker servants—whose velvet livery was emblazoned with the Schoonmaker crest—appeared and guided her through the halls, to a reception room of deep red walls and fizzing champagne flutes.

“I am going to go see if they need any pointers in the kitchen.” The warm light played on the soft skin of Buck’s face. “Go do what you do best,” he told her with a quick wink.

She paused in the doorway for maximum effect, letting the intricately detailed yards of her ivory-and-black dress spill
across the oak floor. As usual, she could feel the muted, almost covetous approval of the people around her, but tried to maintain an aloof turn of the chin. The only person she really wanted to see was Henry, but instead of feeling his large warm hand on her waist, she felt the petite grip of a cold palm on her arm. She turned and saw Elizabeth, who was wearing a washed-out shade again, looking very much like a stiff mixture of milk and water.

“Penelope,” Elizabeth breathed, smiling in her moderate way. Her blond bangs curled neatly at the top of her round forehead, and around her throat was nothing more than a simple gold cross. “I have been meaning to call all week. I was so sorry we didn’t get to talk more at your ball, but it’s been incredibly busy, and—”

“Don’t worry about me,” Penelope said, for the second time that evening, lacing her arm through Elizabeth’s. Elizabeth let her hand rest over Penelope’s and smiled warmly. They glided through the low-lit room of ghostly statues and overflowing, potted ferns at a pace ideal for any admiring eyes. As they moved, Penelope noted with a proprietary interest the coffered ceilings and the fine woodwork of the wainscoting.

“I’ve been so busy myself, I hardly noticed. But I
am
glad to see you now.” She looked at Elizabeth and cocked a carefully painted brow. “There’s news.”

“The crush,” Elizabeth replied excitedly. Her eyes wid
ened in anticipation. “I have been thinking of you and your crush all week.”

“Always thinking of others,” Penelope said, sounding only slightly sharper than she’d meant to. “But before I tell you anything, we must properly toast you.” She noticed Elizabeth start but went on. “It feels like you were away forever. My news and your return certainly call for champagne,” she said, feeling generous enough to include Elizabeth’s homecoming in her celebratory moment.

“Oh, yes.” Elizabeth made a subtle gesture at one of the Schoonmaker servants, and soon they were both holding wide-mouthed, gilt-edged glasses of bubbly liquid. They clinked them and sipped. Penelope felt the warm fizzing in her head and a deep satisfaction that Elizabeth was on the verge of being very impressed by her. The elder Holland sister could be a goody-goody sometimes, but Penelope had known her to be fun as well, and of course she had exquisite taste in friends.

“So,” Penelope began, threading an arm around Elizabeth’s petite, satiny waist. Before she could begin the story of Henry, however, she noticed a handsome man, all in white sporting clothes, who didn’t look remotely like any boy she had ever met. He had almond-shaped eyes and skin the color of café crème. “Who is that?” she whispered to Elizabeth.

“Oh!” Elizabeth leaned in to Penelope’s ear. “That’s
Prince Ranjitsinhji, from India. He’s the captain of a team of cricketers, they say, and he’s here to play with the younger men in the Union Club.”

“Is he really a prince?” Penelope asked.

“Nobody knows for sure,” Isabelle Schoonmaker whispered in her girlish tone as she arrived unexpectedly at Penelope’s side.

“His father was the Fadi of Nawanagar, who, so they say, experimented somewhat extravagantly in matrimony….”

Penelope and Elizabeth giggled into their gloved hands, as Isabelle gave them a merry wink. Penelope was about to ask more questions about the prince, when she noticed the curious figure of Diana Holland, in a pale peach and Belgian lace concoction that was topped off with enormous gigot sleeves. It was very clearly a dress that had been chosen for her, either by her sister or her mother. She was standing by herself and fidgeting, looking resentful and careless and quite possibly like an escapee from an insane asylum. Penelope leaned in close to the blond wisps at Elizabeth’s ear, and said, “What is your sister doing?”

Elizabeth’s whole body flinched, but she ignored the comment. “Isabelle,” she said nervously instead, leaning forward to address Henry’s stepmother. “Everything is just
so
lovely. Such a high quality of people. But I do hope we’re not causing you to be a poor hostess.”

Penelope nodded in agreement, as though to her that would be the worst thing in the world.

“No, no…but I should be good and talk to everyone. I’ll be back,” she said, her eyes already darting about the room.

“Thank you, my doves, for being so understanding.”

When Isabelle was gone—she landed with the cricket-playing prince, where she began giggling at a high pitch—Penelope turned to Elizabeth and raised an eyebrow. “Well? Does your sister have a nervous disorder, or what?”

“Oh, no, no, no.
You
know Diana. She’ll do anything to appear eccentric. But more important…” This time it was Elizabeth guiding Penelope through the roomful of trilling guests and into the adjacent picture gallery, where there were only two people, a man and a woman of their parents’ age, thoroughly engrossed in a portrait of Mamie Stuyvesant Fish in her box at the opera. Elizabeth turned so that they walked away from the couple. “You must stop stalling and tell me the news. I have been waiting
all week
to hear about your mystery fellow.”

“Well,” Penelope went on conspiratorially, “he is very tall and handsome.”

“Of course.”

“He belongs to all the clubs, and he goes to all the parties.”

“Yes…” Elizabeth smiled at her with bright, inquisitive eyes. The girls had stopped their slow little walk about the room and gazed through the embellished arch separating the gallery from the reception room, to where thirty or so guests
appeared to have had a few too many drinks before the dinner.

“He’s been making eyes at me for quite some time.” Penelope tried to rid her voice of pride, but failed. “And at our little party last week we danced, and then this morning, there was an item about him in one of the papers. Oh, Elizabeth, he was seen purchasing a
ring
.”

There was a peal of laughter, and then Penelope saw Henry, on the far wall, with a golden drink in his hand and his mouth curled sardonically. He was wearing black tails and his hair was slicked back to perfection. He was telling some kind of joke to a group of handsome but lesser young men.

“Yes…” Elizabeth urged her on, excitedly.

Without taking her eyes off him, Penelope announced with not a little delight: “Henry Schoonmaker.”

Elizabeth’s arm went slack, and Penelope wondered if she were simply dying of jealousy. Well, good. That was the idea. From the other room she heard the loud tapping of a knife against crystal. Through the arch of the doorway the big elder Schoonmaker was calling attention to himself.

“Penelope, I have to—” Elizabeth whispered.

“Shhh, I’ll tell you everything later,” she replied in a low tone as she took Elizabeth’s arm back warmly and pulled her friend closer toward the reception room. She couldn’t help but notice how stiff Elizabeth was, and was a touch surprised that she wasn’t able
to hide her competitive side better. Isabelle, who was smiling almost giddily, moved through the clutch of dinner guests and took her husband’s side. She looked small beside him, especially with his chest puffed up so much. “I have been told that dinner is ready to be served,” he began in a booming voice. “But before we go in, I have some news that I particularly want to share with you.”

The room murmured at this and leaned in toward the great man. Penelope tried to catch Henry’s eye across the room, but his gaze was fixed determinedly on his drink.

“As you all know, I have long been dedicated to this city, to making it great and good, to making it a lasting haven for the kings of our time. I have done so through industry and enterprise, growing this great city as the hub of a great nation. But I am no longer satisfied by what I can do in private business. I have decided to join the selfless ranks of men who have given their names, their hours, their very lives, to the people. I have decided to run for the office of mayor of New York City….”