“OH, LUCY, where on earth have you been?” her mother exclaimed as she walked in the door. “So much has happened!”
Though heavily corseted, Marjorie Snow seemed to be almost visibly bursting at the seams of her dress. She did not even wait for Lucy to answer the question and did not seem to notice the splashes of seawater on Lucy’s dress despite Lucy’s attempts to tuck it up. Marjorie rushed toward her daughter, waving the cream-colored invitation to the Bellamy ball.
“First this — delivered by Gus at the Quoddy Club. We are all invited, of course. And then, just minutes ago, an invitation arrived from the Hawleys for a Fourth of July croquet tournament and picnic. I mean, this is really something. The picnic is an affair that the smart set always shows up for.” Smart had quickly become Marjorie Snow’s favorite word since arriving in Bar Harbor.
“There are rumors that some titled people are arriving soon and that they’ll be attending these events as well.”
“Titled people? Like counts and lords?” A note of fear crept into Lucy’s voice. She couldn’t speak to a banker without making a fool out of herself and could only imagine what would happen to her in the presence of a count.
The funny muscle near Marjorie’s eye flinched. “Of course that means counts and lords. Sometimes you can be so obtuse.” Marjorie shook her head in mild despair.
“It’s nothing to sneer at, Lucy,” continued her father. “These titled people, English lords and the like, have wonderful connections. You should really make an effort to form an acquaintance.”
“But why would an English lord want to celebrate the Fourth of July?” Lucy asked. “They lost.”
Her father chuckled. “Now, that is witty!”
“Witty!” Marjorie almost screeched the word. “Wit gets you nowhere, Stephen! We don’t need witty. Look how our dear Lucy has blossomed. Her limp is practically gone since she arrived.”
The reverend turned to his daughter. “I completely agree. Never lovelier. But ‘wit,’ as your mother calls it, will do nothing but distract from your other charms.”
Her mother inhaled sharply, and Lucy could hear the stays of her corset emit a small crack. “I’ll tell you who’s witty!” her mother said.
“Who?” Lucy asked tentatively.
“That Green girl.”
“Green girl?” Lucy was baffled.
“Remember that governess, Miss Burnham, whom we met on the steamship coming here?”
“You mean the one you thought we’d never see again?”
“Yes, I did see her in town when I went for tea with Mrs. Allen at the Abenaki Club. This Miss Burham was there with two of her charges. The two Green girls. One was just ten years old or so, but the other was around your age….”
“What did she say that was so witty?”
“Well, you know they have a rocking horse in the lobby for the youngsters? There was a rather chubby little boy riding it, and the older girl made some remark about Theodore Roosevelt and the charge up San Juan Hill. I can’t remember what, exactly, but people laughed.”
“What’s wrong with that, Mother?”
“Oh … oh …” Marjorie wiggled her fingers in the air as if again she was searching for the right words. “It was … was, you know, an intellectual type of humor. Apparently, this older Green girl attends Radcliffe!”
“The women’s college in Cambridge?”
“Indeed!” the reverend scoffed. He was now behind a newspaper. “Women wanted to breach the walls of Harvard. Never a good idea. So a college was made next door for them. The women then were a bit like Teddy Roosevelt — charging up San Juan Hill — just Harvard instead.” This time her father did not laugh but buried himself deeper in the newspaper he was reading. Marjorie gave a deep sigh and there were a few more creaks from her corset as if in protest of her daughter’s obtuseness.
“I think this Miss Green sounds very interesting. I’d like to meet her.” Lucy almost surprised herself with this forthright declaration. Never before would she have voiced something that was so distinctly contrary to her parents’ wishes, but something was changing in her. Miss Green sounded interesting, just as Phineas Heanssler was interesting in a way that Lenora Drexel or that whole lot in New York were not.
“You won’t.” The voice swirled up from behind the newspaper with the pipe smoke.
“Why not?” There she had done it again, spoken with a boldness that took her aback. It just seemed to sneak up on her.
“Stephen?” her mother said feebly.
There was the soft sound of the newspaper being folded. Stephen Snow set it down on the table beside him and removed the pipe from his mouth.
“Lucy dear.” The word dear seemed out of place, for there was a stony look in her father’s eyes. A coldness in his voice. “This is an island. It is a very small world — a microcosm, if you will, of society. Things were simpler for us in New York. I was the shepherd of a small downtown flock, and while St. Luke’s was, you can be assured, highly regarded, it was not —”
“In the thick.” Marjorie Snow lassoed these three words as deftly as a cowboy running down a stray from the herd.
“Thank you, my dear.”
“Now we are — to use your mother’s words — in the thick. Believe me, I have never worked so hard on my sermons. We’re in a different league now. Yesterday, I looked out into the congregation and I saw titans there — three of them in the first two pews — Van Wyck, the steel magnate from Pennsylvania, old Astor, and a Rockefeller.” He leaned forward. “So you ask why can you not meet with this young Jewess? I’m sure she is a perfectly fine girl. Maybe even a lovely girl.” Marjorie frowned. “Certainly an intelligent girl — most Jews are very intelligent. But they are Jews. Not our kind.”
Not our kind. The words rang in Lucy’s head like dolorous chimes. What is my kind? she thought as she recalled the swirling iridescence that had radiated from her feet. She slipped her hand into the pocket of the dress where she had tucked the glittering crystals she had rubbed from her skin.
There was one thing of which Lucy was certain. She was not their kind.
AN ARBOR ENCRUSTED with trailing ivy and studded with gardenias had been erected in the arched entrance to the ballroom, and an orchestra brought up from Boston struck up the first notes of a waltz. The walls were painted with murals celebrating the unmatched rugged beauty of coastal Maine — sweeping vistas of seascapes and rockbound shores.
“Now, dear boy, give me the players list.” A young gentleman with slicked-back hair and wearing an elegantly tailored frock coat stood next to another man, who was slightly older and less elaborately dressed.
“Well, first of all, Your Grace, you must understand that this is not Newport, despite all this,” the older man said as he waved a hand at the elaborate floral archway they were standing beneath. “Although it is rumored that a student of Audubon’s painted the murals.”
“I agree, it is hardly Newport,” the Duke of Crompton replied, looking about. “Not a touch of marble, and all these cottages mostly shingled on the outside and wood inside.”
“You are, I imagine, referring to the Vanderbilts’ marble cottage, the Breakers, in Newport?”
“Yes, I was there a week ago for the Rose Ball. That’s why I was late arriving in Bar Harbor. But shingles. Aren’t they fearful of fire?”
“Possibly, but you know it’s a different crowd here. Make no mistake, the Bellamys most likely can match the Vanderbilts dime for dime. The Forbes certainly can.”
“Yes, but she’s engaged.” He sighed somewhat mournfully. “What’s her name? Melinda?”
“Matilda. She’s engaged to the Earl of Lyford. But you see the difference here is, as they say, ‘high thinking and plain living.’”
“It is all rather plain, isn’t it?” The duke cast his eyes about. “But not her.” His voice betrayed the first hint of enthusiasm he’d shown all evening.
“Who?” the older gentleman asked.
“That tall redheaded girl over ther
e. She just came in with her parents.”
“Ah, yes, the preacher’s daughter.”
“Preacher’s daughter? Oh, dear,” he replied, barely concealing a shudder.
“Don’t be too dismissive, Your Grace. It’s rumored that the Reverend Snow is slated to become the next bishop of New York, and his wife has deep connections in Baltimore.”
“Really?” The duke sighed. “Well, there is no one else who can compare with her in the room.” He swiveled his head about. “I mean, really, most of them are quite plain and many are a tad chubby. Oh, except that one — absolute scarecrow!” He scanned the room again for the auburn-haired beauty.
What would Mama say to a preacher’s daughter — but possibly a wealthy one? He would have to find out. Though the duke loathed leaving Newport, the best girls had been picked off already. The problem here was, well, exactly what had already been said. High thinking and plain living. It was impossible to see who was worth the effort. It was all just too plain, so very plain. It was a far cry from the London crushes last season with all those lovely, well-bred girls in their Parisian gowns. But, sadly, all their dresses were bought on credit, and their dainty evening purses were empty. If he was to have any chance of saving the Crompton estate, he’d have to look on this side of the pond.
“They call this a cottage, Mother?” Lucy asked, tipping her head up to scan the grand ballroom of Bellemere, the Bellamy estate. “These murals are so beautiful. Look how that painter captured the sea. Imagine living in the midst of this art.”
“Yes, dear, they do call it a cottage. It’s quite understated here compared to Newport. Much older money.”
Lucy had never been to Newport, Rhode Island, another summer enclave, but it was true that there was not the gilt-encrusted opulence of some of the New York Fifth Avenue mansions. But why anyone would call this a cottage defied imagination.
“In Newport,” her mother whispered, “the men servants are often bewigged in the style of the English footmen.” She paused. “I am told — not that I have ever attended such an affair.” She spoke with a slightly simpering humility.
There was a rustle behind them, and they turned to see people parting as the hostess cut through the throngs of men and women, nodding and uttering clipped greetings.
In her bright blue moiré silk dress, Adelaide Bellamy appeared like a fine yacht as she tacked across the ballroom.
“Ah, just the people I wanted to see. The dear Snows!” she exclaimed. Lucy could almost feel her mother swelling with pride. “And, Lucy, don’t you look glorious in that sea-green silk faille and lace. My goodness, it becomes you. And your hair! Did you go to Harriet Beatty in the village?”
“No, my mother did it.” Lucy paused slightly. “She’s very good with hair.”
Lucy saw the color drain from her mother’s face and realized she had said the wrong thing. Adelaide Bellamy leaned forward.
“My dear, I am sure this is the least of your mother’s talents.” Her nose, which Lucy realized was quite monumental, seemed to close the space between them. “Now I want to introduce you since simply everyone has arrived for the season. Can’t guarantee the reverend that they all show up in church every Sunday. But come along.”
She slipped her arm through Marjorie Snow’s and began to pilot her across the room with Lucy and her father in their wake. Elaborate epergnes spilled with orchids from the Bellamy greenhouses, the band struck up a mazurka, and several young couples took to the floor in the first dance of the evening. Some worn beauties coerced their husbands onto the floor. On the side of the great room was a row of gilt chairs where a dozen decidedly ancient people sat. Two old ladies were in wheelchairs and gave the appearance of withered babies tucked in with mohair blankets.
“My twin aunties,” Mrs. Bellamy said. “Big Adelaide and Auntie Barbara.”
“You can call me Bobby,” a voice creaked from the bloodless lips that seemed stitched like a short seam. She took Marjorie’s hand in her own puffy one, which had a filigree of blue veins.
“Lovely to meet you.” Marjorie turned slightly and began to extend her hand to Big Adelaide.
“She can’t speak! Not a blessed word!” Bobby said with surprising vigor, then emitted a high cackling noise.
Lucy suddenly felt a hand on her elbow.
“Hello, Lucy.” It was Gus Bellamy.
“There you are, Gus,” his mother said. “I was just making the rounds with the Snows.”
“Yes, I can see, but I think now that she has met the aunties, Lucy can perhaps move on to … the younger generation.”
Marjorie was beaming. “Oh, yes. I’m sure Lucy would be interested in meeting some of the other young folk. She has met several at the Quoddy Club, but more have arrived now … for …” — she hesitated — “the season.” She spoke the last words with a shadow of uncertainty as if perhaps she did not have the right to use the word season, that it was something reserved only for people like the Bellamys, the Van Wycks, the Astors, and the other old-money families who had come to this island for generations.
Lucy looked about as Gus guided her to the other side of the room.
“You’ve been coming here for a long time?” Lucy asked.
“All my life. And my father has been coming all his life. My mother met my father here. She’s a Van Wyck by birth and came here from the time she was a little girl. That is how it is.” There was a weariness in his voice. “And always has been. There are the Van Wycks with their rather prominent noses and an athleticism to match. My mother is a terrific tennis player. Then my father’s family, the Bellamys, known for their exuberance for real estate.”
“And what about the other families — what are their distinguishing traits?” Lucy asked. She felt at ease with Gus and his straightforward speech.
“Well, take the Benedicts. They’re into mining — quite lucrative, needless to say, but” — he lowered his voice and leaned closer to Lucy — “streaks of insanity have afflicted them in alternating generations. And of course there’s the Hawleys from Boston, over there across the room. Made their fortunes in the China trade and also have a tincture of madness, especially in the eldest daughter, Lila. They say she’s visiting abroad or something, but rumor has it she’s in a loony bin.” He sighed. “I am not as familiar with the hallmarks of the other Boston families, the Peabodys, the Forbeses, and the Cabots. But we’re all the same — coming together, mingling bloodlines, converging fortunes.” His ennui was so thick as to be almost palpable.
“You don’t like it?”
“It really isn’t a question of like. It’s all I know and ever have known.” He shook his head and smiled. “I’m sure I’m boring you with my genealogy lesson.”
“Not at all,” Lucy replied. “It’s all new to me.”
“So what are your initial observations?”
They had wandered out onto a veranda. There were just a few people, mostly young, in the long blue twilight of the summer evening. It was almost ten but not quite dark enough for the stars to sparkle.
She stopped and looked about. She saw another prominent nose — a Van Wyck, no doubt — and recalled the words of Dr. Forsythe at the Museum of Natural History: “I don’t think of them so much as families but tribes.”
“Tribes?” Gus said, as if trying the word for the first time. “How curious. But, yes, I see what you mean — it is quite tribal.” He looked at her quizzically. “You’re a rather deep thinker, I believe.”
“Is that bad?” Lucy stepped back slightly and looked at him with a level gaze.
“Hardly. It’s wonderfully refreshing.” He took a deep breath. “Let me warn you, however.”
“Have I transgressed?” She smiled, despite her sudden nervousness.
“Not at all. But I think you are wise enough to understand when I say that you could become — well, how should I put it? A project for my mother.”
“A project?”
“Let me speak plainly. My mother senses you are bright. She knows your mothe
r has ambitions.”
Lucy felt herself redden. “Is my mother that transparent?”
“Now don’t worry!” He touched her shoulder lightly in a brotherly manner. “Mother is afflicted with a bad case of the Lady Bountifuls. She and her friends are constantly organizing benefits for orphanages and homeless young women, dragging the hems of their skirts through the swill and ditchwater of the poorest sections of New York.”
“But I am not an orphan, nor do I live in swill,” Lucy said, unable to suppress the twinge of irritation in her voice. “I am not in need of salvation. After all, my father is an Episcopal minister.”
“Ah, but that is just the point. My mother does not restrict herself to the obviously afflicted.”
“In what way am I afflicted?” Lucy asked.
“You’re bright. You’re very pretty, but you have no money.”
Lucy paled. “That’s rather coarse, Mr. Bellamy.”
He shrugged. “It’s the truth and there are rumors that your father might be the next bishop of New York.”
“Mr. Bellamy!” Lucy had never heard anyone at such a gathering speak so forthrightly. There was none of that glibness that she had found so detestable in New York, and yet this, too, set her at a loss for words.
“Don’t be shocked. We might be the only two people in this room capable of speaking the truth. Without money, the possibilities of a match are limited. So they must find someone for you — good stock and with some money but not too much money.” He stopped and cocked his head a bit. “Like me. I have too much money. Because then you might be considered a fortune hunter.”
“I am not!” Lucy fumed. How could she ever be considered a fortune hunter? Had she unwittingly done something, said something, to hint at such base instincts? Or — a dreadful thought coursed through her. Had her parents done something?
“Of course you’re not.”
“And I would never — I mean — I wouldn’t.” She had begun to stammer.
“Lucy, my dear. You need not explain. You are not attracted to me. No need for apology. And, while I think you’re quite lovely, I have another sweetheart.”