Envy.

A Luxe Novel.

Anna G.o.dbersen.

For Edna and Marge.

Prologue.

F OR A CERTAIN KIND OF NEW YORK GIRL, EVERYTHING must be always in its place. She keeps her jewels in her jewelry box and her laces in her lace drawer. If she walks, she wears her walking costume; if she goes to the theater, she wears her theater bonnet. In the afternoon, when she visits that friend she especially wants to see, she will know at what precise hour to find her alone and most receptive to confessions. And afterward, when she makes the obligatory stop at the home of the friend she has no real desire to call upon, she will of course arrive at a moment when that lady is known to be out. Such a girl would not be seen on the street without a hat or in mixed company without gloves. So it might have come as a surprise to any little sparrow, fluttering around in the clear air on the first springlike day of 1900, to see that none of these ladies were quite where they were supposed to be.

It was the beginning of March, and though snow had clung to the sidewalk as recently as yesterday, the evening held the far-off promise of a warm season to come. As our little bird settled on the Italianate stone ledge of a certain Fifth Avenue matron, his tiny heart began to flutter beneath his white-feathered chest. For that lady-recently married into one of New York's great families-was unhooking her corset in the company of a man who looked nothing like her husband. Her cheeks were flushed from the champagne she had drunk at dinner, and because she was unused to removing her clothing without the help of her maid, she found herself repeatedly subsiding into giggles and fits of hilarity. Eventually her companion crossed toward her and began to slowly undo the ribbons himself.

But by then the little bird was off, his mottled wings spreading to catch the night breeze as he coasted south high above the avenue. He soared past the brightly lit doorways of millionaires and over the heads of their coachmen on the curb in their perpetual pose of waiting. When his talons next set down, it was on the iron rail outside the leaded panes of one of those new, stylish apartment houses for the wealthy. The light from the street reflected in the gla.s.s, but the figures within were clear enough.

The girl was known for her family's reputation and for her family's address and for one very grand engagement. The apartment house was farther north on the little island of Manhattan than her people had ever lived before; the man calling her away from her place by the fire was not at all like the one whose ring she'd once worn. But the sparrow's dark eyes were already roving, and before anything more could be glimpsed, the bird had swooped down and away.

From there he looped southeast, his round tufted head twisting at the pictures framed by the windows of polite people. There was the heiress whose new wealth did nothing to prevent her from unrolling her stockings in the company of a man whom no one had ever heard of. There was the favored son of upper-cla.s.s New York, who not long ago surprised everyone by ending his bachelorhood, gazing at the city's receding reflection in the Hudson River. There was his wife, whose spring wardrobe had not yet arrived from Paris and was still dressed in heavy winter velvet, without a dance partner in a very good room.

Who could blame our little bird, then, for alighting eventually on the sill of one of those old-fashioned families to whom decorum still meant something. But when he chose the sill of No. 17 Gramercy Park, well, that was still no guarantee of staid lives within. And yet, on this particular evening, Diana Holland might well have been the only girl of her set who was in fact where she was supposed to be. For there she sat in her own room, alone, her shiny and unruly curls brushed and falling down around her neck. The rosy skin of her cheeks had been carefully scrubbed, and she looked into the elaborately carved and dark-stained vanity mirror where she had so often prepared for gay evenings out.

There was nothing gay about her appearance now. Her usually dewy, deep brown eyes had cried themselves dry and her small round mouth was twisted in despair. She blinked and blinked at her reflection, but she could not bring herself to like what she saw. She no longer approved of the girl who stared back at her, and she knew that despite the many tragedies her short life had hurled at her, she'd never been so low as this. She ached with what she had done, and the longer she sat alone, the worse the hurt became. Then she relaxed her shoulders and raised her small, defined chin. She blinked again, and resolution settled on her features.

Her gaze did not waver from the mirror as her hand felt across the table for a pair of gold-plated scissors. Once her fingers curled around the handle there was not even a second of hesitation. She brought them to her curls and began to cut. There was such volume to her hair that she needed several breathless minutes to shear it all off. It was only after it was done, when shiny brown heaps were ama.s.sed at her feet, that she pushed back her chair and broke away from her own reflection. All that was left were the dark brown roots wisping over her ears and at the nape of her neck.

Later, when the first pale touches of morning were only a promise at the edges of the sky, our sparrow, still resting on the eaves of the Holland home, watched as its youngest inhabitant exited by the front door. Her old coat was drawn tight to shield her from the cold, and her hat was pulled over her ears. It was too late, or too early, for any human being to note the absolute determination in her stride, but the little sparrow's black eyes followed her as she disappeared into the brand-new day.

One.

MR. LELAND BOUCHARD.

REQUESTS THE PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY.

AT A BALL TO BE GIVEN IN HONOR OF.

THE MEMBERS OF.

THE NEW YORK AUTOMOBILIST CLUB.

ON THURSDAY EVENING.

FEBRUARY 8, 1900, AT NINE O'CLOCK.

18 EAST 63RD STREET.

"S URELY A GIRL AS LOVELY AS YOU, A GIRL WHO PERSONIFIES loveliness itself, should not be hidden away on a night like this, on a night when everyone wants to see a fine figure and starry eyes, and where yours are the starriest of all."

Diana Holland looked up innocently from the comb-crested silk sofa in the library and met the eyes of her friend, who leaned against the polished mahogany doorframe, having characteristically used twice as many words as were strictly necessary. His name was Davis Barnard, and though he wrote his gossip column under a pseudonym, he was the only famous writer Diana knew.

Diana glanced to her left, where the eyelashes of her chaperone, Aunt Edith, were just touching down on that lady's high cheekbones. In Edith's face Diana could see the future of her own features, for the small, rounded mouth, the subtle nose, and the dark eyes perfectly s.p.a.ced under a generous forehead were very like hers, albeit with the thinning and etching of age. Edith exhaled a sleepy, contented breath, and then Diana looked back at Barnard. Over his black tuxedocovered shoulder were the trilling sounds and electric lights of the Bouchard ball.

"You flatter me too much," she said as she stood, adding a knowing wink for emphasis. She was terribly knowing these days.

The long black chiffon skirt of her gown trailed behind her as she approached the entrance, and she batted her fan open to modestly cover her face. She always did this when Barnard escorted her, because they discussed everyone in detail, and so it was prudent to obscure the view of her mouth from any chance lip-readers. Her hair was drawn into a bun in the back, and her curls descended diagonally on either side of her forehead toward her ears. A black leather belt marked the narrowness of her waist, and at the middle point of her princess neckline was a flower made of ivory lace petals. The gown was new, and she had paid for it herself. She glanced back once, to be sure that no one had noticed her slipping away from her chaperone, and allowed herself to be drawn across the creamy marble floor of the second-story mezzanine.

"Quite a showing," Barnard remarked as they crossed onto the richly gleaming parquet floor of Leland Bouchard's music room. It had been constructed with acoustics in mind, although the music room was rarely used for its t.i.tular purpose. Music rooms were for people who held musicales, and Leland Bouchard, who had built the house for himself at twenty, from money that he had earned off his own investments, was known for never sitting still. The walls were paneled with murals, and a gigantic Kentia palm festooned with tiny lights sc.r.a.ped the twenty-five-foot ceiling.

Her vision swept the rectangular room with its high, vaulted ceiling and met the gaze of Isaac Phillips Buck, who quickly looked away, as though he had been watching her. He was large in every way one might imagine, and the soft fleshiness of his face made his age impossible to determine. He was Penelope Hayes's lackey, Diana knew that much, but she couldn't imagine why he would have any interest in her. Next, Diana's gaze fell on her sister's old friend Agnes Jones, who was resting on the arm of a well-kempt gentleman. She tried to make her eyes widen in a cordial manner, though she still had trouble appearing to like people she did not, which Barnard had admonished as an unfortunate characteristic in both a lady of society and a peddler of secrets.

"Everyone is here," Barnard went on as they watched Teddy Cutting cross the room with Gemma Newbold, who wore a diamond tiara nestled in her reddish curls and was well known to be Mrs. Cutting's choice for her only son. There was a time when everyone had thought Teddy would marry Elizabeth Holland, but that was before she became rather publicly engaged to his best friend, and then very privately married to her true love. Like their mother, she had been widowed; both those ladies were home together tonight. That was among the reasons her younger sister tried to be seen in her place as much as possible, though it was hardly cause for Buck to spy on her.

"n.o.body doesn't love Leland," she replied, shaking off the feeling of Buck's swinelike eyes on her.

"It would be difficult not to." Barnard paused to accept a gla.s.s of champagne from a pa.s.sing waiter. "Although I must confess to getting a mystery headache whenever I am in his company too long. He talks too fast, and he is always excited about everything. Me, I am never excited about anything between the hour when I wake up and five o'clock."

Diana smiled subtly at this, for she knew what five o'clock signified to her friend; of course, she had also known him to take whiskey in his coffee at decidedly earlier hours.

"That is a very gaudy gown on Eleanor Wetmore," Diana observed, fixing her sight on the array of custom-made dresses and painted faces before them.

Barnard paused and looked. "Indeed."

"I would imagine she is on quite the search for a husband, now that her younger sister is engaged to Reginald Newbold. That will sting for her, to be twenty-six and a maid instead of a matron of honor at the wedding. I suppose she needs the attention any way she can get it."

"That would make a nice item." Barnard finished his champagne and left the gla.s.s on the magnificent carved wood mantel, which had been transported from a grand Florentine house, as Barnard himself had reported in his "Gamesome Gallant" column.

"Why don't you write it?"

This casual offer flooded Diana with nervous antic.i.p.ation; she smiled behind her fan. "All right," she said after a moment, so as to not seem too eager.

"Don't try to hide your smiles from me, Miss Diana Holland." Barnard turned slightly away from her as he spoke, and motioned to a waiter for another drink. "I hope, for my own sake, that the day you realize that you were made for better things is later rather than sooner."

They had reached the huge, cla.s.sically proportioned windows that faced northward onto the street, and Diana dropped her friend's arm for a moment to gaze down at the fallen snow reflecting the warm light from above. Behind them the voice of Leland Bouchard could be heard going into raptures about his recent purchase of a horseless carriage, an Exley, which was displayed in the first-floor vestibule so that guests could, upon their arrival, stare at its shiny modernity with covetous curiosity.

Their host was tall, with a uniquely broad forehead and wheat-colored hair that always seemed a little overgrown. "It can cover twenty-four miles in an hour, without undue racing effort," he was saying to Mr. Gore.

"He is an investor in the Exley Motor Carriage Company," Barnard remarked, sotto voce, to his protege.

Though Diana should have listened for more information, she found her attention already wandering to the street below. The lace flower on her gown rose and fell with her breath, and a delicate sensation settled across her chest. The crowd behind her, which was full of stories that the protagonists would rather not have told, and also of small deceptions certain to amuse the reading public, dimmed for her. Just a moment ago she had felt the cleverest player in a game that obsessed the whole room, but she was overcome now by the strong impulse to hide herself and the bra.s.sy sound of her famous laugh.

Down below, Henry Schoonmaker had stepped out of his coach and was lighting a cigarette as he paused by the iron gate that encircled Leland Bouchard's mansion. He was the man who had drawn out Diana's affections last season, and then pounded on them. There was much history between them, but as Diana watched him, posing there with the elbow of his smoking arm rested on his wrist, in a wide, pensive stance, she reminded herself that she felt no emotion for him. And when Henry's wife, Penelope-of the so newly grand Hayes family-arrived at her husband's side, with her fierce blue eyes cast directly in front of her, Diana reminded herself that Henry had chosen to marry mere weeks after taking Diana's virginity.

"I'd like to know what goes on in their bedroom." Barnard smirked.

"The Schoonmakers are the envy of every young couple in the city," Diana answered mechanically, as though repeating some lesson learned by rote.

Barnard took two champagne gla.s.ses from a pa.s.sing tray and handed one to Diana. She closed her eyes and took a long sip that did nothing to settle her insurgent nerves. In a moment, Henry Schoonmaker would be coming through the door.

He must not see her.

Even as Diana tried to fill her sister's role, acting the part of the good Holland daughter in the wider world, she had scrupulously avoided letting Henry catch even a glimpse of her. In the same manner, she had been careful to burn his letters-which had arrived daily since his New Year's Eve wedding to Penelope-unopened, and to smooth away any feelings the sight of his face might have lit up in her. She had thought once, not long ago, that they were destined to share a storybook romance. But she was an entirely different kind of girl now-she had had her heart broken and all of her naivete worn off. Nothing Henry said could change her back to the way she had been then, and certainly not if it came in so cold-blooded a form as a letter.

"Are you all right?" Barnard asked, twisting the pale gold flute in his large hand.

"Only a little tired." Diana smiled weakly as she handed him back her nearly full gla.s.s. "I ought to be going, but I promise I will learn everything there is to know about Eleanor Wetmore's matrimonial ambitions by Sunday at the very latest."

Her voice rose courageously on that final word. She extended her hand for her friend to kiss, and then she moved carefully through the crowd, always keeping the central palm between her and the entryway. But she must have hesitated too long, for just as she ventured forward, the Henry Schoonmakers appeared and filled the doorframe. Diana let out a little gasp and drew backward, so that the great green leaves covered her figure. She could still see enough, though. For Penelope was wearing a slash of red that might have brought to mind the butcher, were it not made of quite so precious a material.

The new Mrs. Schoonmaker made a friendly gesture across the room at the older Mrs. Schoonmaker, Henry's stepmother, who was only twenty-six and wearing a rather daring dress herself. Then Adelaide Wetmore overtook Henry and his wife, and distracted them long enough for Diana to make her move. She pulled back her skirt and hurried through the throng toward the library, where she would rouse her aunt and collect their wraps. It was cold outside, and they were more than forty blocks from their own, somewhat out-of-fashion address. A chill, which Diana would have liked to believe was numbness, was settling around her chest. Still, it took everything she had not to turn and look back as she left the party behind.

Two.

Society is always particularly receptive to new blood in the winter. It has ever been thus; it is so now; and Mrs. Carolina Broad is only the latest to benefit from this fact of nature. Her climb has been precipitous, for in November n.o.body had ever heard of her, and by the end of December, her name was in all the papers as one of Mrs. Penelope Schoonmaker's bridesmaids. We hear she lives in the New Netherland hotel, under the chaste wing of Mr. Carey Lewis Longhorn, and she is without question or doubt one to watch..

-FROM THE "GAMESOME GALLANT" COLUMN IN THE NEW YORK IMPERIAL, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1900.

T HE GIDDY PIANO MUSIC FROM THE MAIN FLOOR of Sherry's Restaurant, on Fifth Avenue and Forty-fifth Street, could be heard even in the ladies' lounge, and perhaps might even be said to have infected the women there. For they were clambering forward, in that rosy-hued s.p.a.ce, toward the mirror, which was etched with metallic curlicues and shrouded in white netting from above, as though by celestial clouds. It was large, but not large enough for all those pink-cheeked beauties in their silks and laces, as they leaned in to blacken their lashes and perfume their decolletages. They had supped on English pheasant and hothouse asparagus, and they had grown drowsy until the coffee arrived. Now they were eager for the next chapter of their evenings, and perhaps none of them so much so as Carolina Broad, who stood in the center pinching her freckled cheeks to bring some warm color there, in a dress of pale but unmistakable gold.

The dress was the gift of Carey Lewis Longhorn, the man often referred to in the papers as the elder statesman of New York bachelors. It brought out the length and slimness of her middle, while disguising her big, bony shoulders with bursts of gold-edged lace, and her almost unladylike clavicles with five choker-length strands of gleaming pearls. Her dark hair was festooned with strands of smaller pearls, and her lichen-colored eyes were set under recently shaped brows. The pride of her face, her bee-stung lips, were painted glossy red. Any of the women surrounding her would have been shocked to hear that she'd once been a maid in service to the kind of girl she now purported to be, or that she had until recently been known by the plain-sounding name Lina Broud.

This was an inconvenient fact of which Longhorn was perfectly aware, and that his young friend did her best to forget. It was easy to forget now, as she swept her skirt, its lacy underskirts foaming upward like a cresting wave, back from the vanity table and moved toward the central dining room. She walked very well, in a manner almost indistinguishable from the way she had walked only a few months ago, and it was at this ladylike gait that she came through the series of small, dimly lit antechambers and stepped into the margins of Sherry's main dining room. Her figure was shadowed by a second-floor balcony, but she had an excellent view of the vast room, with its columns and posts, its white tablecloths and elaborate flower arrangements, its hustling waiters and pampered debutantes.

Longhorn sat at a prominent table in the middle of the room where the dappled light of the central chandelier shone brightest. When he had dined by himself he had preferred the corners, but once Carolina began accompanying him she had insisted that it was her time to be seen, and he had acquiesced with an easy laugh. He was wearing his customary red velvet smoking jacket and an old-fashioned collar that turned down at its high, white corners and was fastened below the chin with a conspicuous b.u.t.ton. His hair had gone gray, though he still had much of it, and despite the wear of a drinking life, which was evidenced in a swollen nose, you could see the good features that had made him so desired as a young man. At his shoulder stood his man, Robert-a constantly hovering, bearded presence-with their capes. Carolina felt a surge of airy antic.i.p.ation when she realized this, for she knew what those capes signified. It was time to go.

It was not that she did not appreciate the fine china or the champagne c.o.c.ktails or the elaborate service of her patron's favorite restaurant. She had enjoyed her many courses (perhaps with a little too much relish, she had realized when she caught Robert looking at her from his post), and being observed by all the other diners, who had lately grown as curious about her as she once was about them. But her whole evening thus far had been building to its second act, in which Longhorn took her to a party at the home of Leland Bouchard, whose name now held a place in her thoughts once reserved for that of Will Keller.

Will had been her first love, but she had known him when she was a child, and it seemed a very childish attachment now. Anyway, Will was dead, and while that was a starkly horrible fact, one had to move on, and when one did one discovered ever more new and wonderful things. For had there ever been a name with a nicer ring than "Leland Bouchard"? It sounded like it was made of money and charm, which it almost surely was. She had met him at a ball around Christmas, and he had asked her to dance again and again. His hands on her waist and wrist had been neither polite nor lecherous. He had gripped her earnestly as they talked of many things. She had never felt so lovely or light before or after that evening, and she often filled her mind with memories of it when she rested her head on her pillow at night. For though she had done her utmost to be near him again, she had not managed to see him. Or rather, she had seen him-once, from Longhorn's carriage, as he hurried along the street, her heart rattling at the thought that he might turn at just the right moment, and a second time from behind at a ball where she had been too pathetic to go up to him-but he had not seen her. Tonight he was the host, and she was looking her very best; it would be impossible for him not to ask her to dance. Her friend Penelope had promised to introduce them again if he did not-and then he would lead her into a waltz that would draw her across the floor and into his heart forever.

It was with this winsome fantasy that she stepped forward into Sherry's main room, ready for an evening that she was convinced would come to herald so many new beginnings. She would have crossed straight to Longhorn, and gone on to the front entrance without any need for discussion, but she was stalled by the whisper of fingers on her back. She half turned, with an indifferent semi-smile on her face; when she recognized the person who had touched her, all her pleasant thoughts faded.

"Miss Broad!"

The voice was jocular, but when she returned its owner's greeting, she found she could not match his tone.

"Oh." Her gaze shifted over the full tables to Longhorn, who had not yet noticed her there in the shadows. "h.e.l.lo, Tristan."

Tristan Wrigley was tall, with wispy light hair and hazel eyes the color of a sunset reflected in muddy waters. Although their acquaintance was still new, he had already hurt and helped her in many ways. He was a department store salesman and a con artist, and he was the first and only man who had ever kissed her. She had been avoiding him, but if this rankled him he did not show it. He was smiling, and a bosomy woman, who wore a garish amount of rouge and foot-high feathers in her hair, was hanging off his arm and grinning entirely too much for the setting.

"This is Mrs. Portia Tilt," he went on, fixing a steady and intense gaze on Carolina. "She and her husband have just moved from out west. Carolina is from out west, too. She is the heir to a copper-smelting fortune, you know, and she-"

"I'm sure your friend doesn't require my entire autobiography," Carolina interrupted coldly. In a moment, she had surmised the whole situation. Mrs. Tilt, having more money than cla.s.s, had believed Tristan's implication that he might a.s.sist her with getting into society, and he, thus a.s.sured of her gullibility, had pressed on for money and trinkets and free meals of all kinds. Mrs. Tilt would learn in time-though she did not look particularly swift at the moment-that one does not get into society by walking arm in arm with a Lord & Taylor salesman around one of the best restaurants in Manhattan; Carolina was not such a fool, and she did not intend to make the same mistake. "Goodbye," she concluded, with a bright smile but without explanation.

"Goodbye," Mrs. Tilt answered gaily, too thick-witted to realize she had been cut, and then pushed forward. Tristan-still attached to her by the crook of his arm-was pulled along, but he had time to look back and fix Carolina with such a concentrated look that she felt it down into her toes. It was lucky that Mrs. Tilt began guffawing loudly after that, and all eyes turned in the direction she was heading, which allowed Carolina to return to her seat without anybody taking notice.

"Ah, there you are, my dear." Longhorn smiled at her appreciatively, the way one smiles at a favorite grandchild who has eaten all of the candy one has given her and shortly thereafter requested more. Then she felt the weight of her wrap on her shoulders and allowed herself to be escorted through the many rooms to the front entrance.

Out in the deep purple night it was still, and the lamplight fell in yellowy pools. It was cold, too cold to move, and the coachmen who loitered at the curb were bent, immobile, over their cups of hot cider. The horses were covered in thick blankets, and the breath streaming from their nostrils was visible in the frigid air. Carolina had regained herself after her encounter with Tristan, and she turned to Longhorn now with a look of grat.i.tude. Longhorn knew what she was, but he didn't know about her shameful involvement with the salesman, or that it had been Tristan's idea for her to get close to the old bachelor for both their gain. He thought of her as more guileless than all that, and had given her no opportunity to correct the impression. It was a kindness that she felt acutely at that moment.

Since Tristan's initial suggestion, she had grown truly fond of the older man. She enjoyed his saltiness and carefully observed the confidence and indifference to others' opinion with which he approached the wider world. And he liked what he termed her "candidness"-in truth, this was nothing more than a lack of knowledge and a dumb willingness to admit that she had much to learn. But they made a good pair, and their time together was always of a high quality.

"What a lovely evening this is turning out to be," she said sweetly, tucking her bottom lip under her teeth. Her heavy cape was lined with white fur, which framed her face, and embroidered with gold threads along its full sweeping length.

Longhorn smiled at her, and a twinkle-or maybe the light from the restaurant behind them-pa.s.sed in his eye. Then Robert reappeared, leading the horses that pulled the coach along behind him. He opened the door to the coach and helped Carolina up. He paused to spread a wool blanket over her lap, and then stepped down to the street. He and Longhorn exchanged a few words, and then Longhorn came inside and took the seat beside her, the small door closing with a click behind him.

"It has been a lovely evening." The horses jerked into motion, and Carolina felt her body drawn forward as Longhorn's words evaporated into the air. There was something about his tone that she disliked. "Lovely. But I am afraid I had a bit too much of that heavy sauce, and that I have been staying out too late too often with you, my dear. You won't mind just this once if we go home early? We can have a gla.s.s of Madeira in my suite...."

Carolina's heart puttered and began to sink. Suddenly Leland Bouchard's house on East Sixty-third-she had pa.s.sed the address several times, claiming that she wanted to admire the architecture on that block-seemed the only place in the whole city that contained life. Her friend Penelope Schoonmaker was there, no doubt being admired by all the young men, even as she had eyes only for her dashing husband, the bubbles rising in the champagne, the witty phrases too frequent for the laughter ever to cease for very long.

Carolina felt desperate, and wanted to grasp at any possibility, but she couldn't muster the will to say anything contrary. The coachman had already been given his instructions, and he was pulling them inexorably to the same hotel where, it suddenly seemed to her, they would spend all their nights in an uninterrupted cycle of Madeira and monotony. Her bottom lip trembled with regret, but her companion, whose eyes had already drifted shut, was too fatigued to mark it.

Three.

A young woman, newly wed, may find herself in the delightful position of wanting to do nothing without the company of her darling husband. She may indeed discover that she spends all her waking hours with her fellow to the exclusion of every other friend or family member. This is understandable, but wholly unacceptable, to society.

-MRS. HAMILTON W. BREEDFELT, COLLECTED COLUMNS ON RAISING YOUNG LADIES OF CHARACTER, 1899 M RS. HENRY SCHOONMAKER, NeE PENELOPE Hayes, had come far in her eighteen years. As she swept past Leland Bouchard's vestibule, where a gleaming black motorcar was displayed, she couldn't help but muse how she, like the horseless carriage, was a waxy emblem of the future. Ever since she was a little girl she had told herself that she wouldn't meet the other side of twenty without a deeply gaudy wedding band on her finger, and here she had beat her own goal by two years and in the process joined one of New York's most well-regarded families. There were those who still remembered how her maiden name had been hastily salvaged from the odious surname Hazmat several decades ago, but neither appeared on her card these days. Now, moving up the glistening curve of marble stairs toward the sound of a party already in full swing, she could not help but antic.i.p.ate the joy of entering a room on the arm of her very handsome husband.

It was one of the great pleasures of her life, for Henry was tall and lean and possessed of a chieftain's cheekbones and a rakish mien that made all eyes turn to him. As a debutante, Penelope had grown accustomed to being looked at, but the envious intensity of the stares she encountered upon entering the second-floor music room, which was full of old money and good connections on that Thursday evening, was superior even to what she was used to. She wore a haughty smile, her plush lips twisted up to the right no more than was necessary, and a dress of cardinal-colored silk that a thousand elegant darts brought in close to her lean frame. Her dark hair was collected in an elaborate bun, and a line of short bangs divided her high, proud forehead.