“Your turn,” she said, discarding a three of diamonds.
“Thank you, madam.” He nodded and practically bowed. “I’m afraid I haven’t any use for that,” he said in his ever-deep voice, picking the top card off the deck, enabling him to place down a sequence and a set before discarding the six of clubs.
The first hand ended in a tie, and after Hade won the second hand, he started to rise from his chair. “I’m afraid I’ve kept you later than expected. I shall let you retire—”
“Two out of three,” she said with an arched eyebrow.
He sat back down. “I believe it’s my deal.”
He cracked a minor smile.
At some point during the third hand—she wasn’t sure when the switch happened—Hade relaxed, dropped all the formalities and stopped thinking of her as his employer and more as his competitor. He would lay down a card with great zeal. “Ha-ha!” or “Aaah!” She in kind played her hand with equal passion: “Take that!” Or if a turn went the wrong way: “You devil, you!” By then she was so absorbed in the game that she’d all but forgotten she was sitting there in her dressing gown and slippers.
When she discarded the five of diamonds, he snapped up the card with a resounding “Yes! Precisely what I needed.” He laid out one melded set after another, finishing it off with a winning sequence that made him full-on smile. “One more hand,” he said, sliding the cards to her for shuffling.
“This is for all the money,” she said.
“All the money!” Hade roared with laughter. “I’m afraid you have much more to lose than do I.” He twitched his mustache and laughed some more. It was the first time she’d ever heard him laugh. It struck her again how very little she knew about this man and how one-sided their relationship was.
They continued playing cards until all the biscuits were gone and the pot of steamed milk was empty. When the grandfather clock struck six, they both looked at each other, somewhat astonished.
“My goodness,” she said. The sun was on the verge of rising.
“Forgive me,” he said, a slight blush coming up on his cheeks. “I’m afraid I lost complete track of time.” He was on his feet, clearing the empty biscuit dishes and napkins, the cups and saucers. Whatever parts of Hade had slipped out during their card game were now buttoned up and put back into place as he bowed and lifted the serving tray, carrying it off to the kitchen.
It wasn’t until after he left the room, presumably to get the house ready for the day, that Caroline felt something cold and terrifying zeroing in on her, something she knew she wasn’t going to be able to escape. There, in the quiet of the hour with dawn breaking through the parting of the curtains, her mother’s death pummeled her. Caroline broke down in gasping sobs that came on like a thundercloud—violent and short-lived.
After she’d finished weeping, Caroline felt she had shed more than just tears. Something had cracked open inside. There was an unexpected lightness that came over her as if a great burden had been lifted. Caroline had always known she could never take the place of her mother’s lost daughters and sons, and yet that was what she’d tried to do her entire life. There hadn’t been a single decision, or a move made, without considering what her mother would think. How many sacrifices had Caroline made, how many compromises for her mother’s sake? She had loved her mother and would miss her, but now that she was gone, Caroline was free.
Immediately that thought flooded her with guilt. Caroline had never felt more conflicted, moving through her days with her emotions seesawing. It took another few weeks of this back-and-forth before she found that the lightness had returned. Returned for good, she thought.
Suddenly she was presented with a world of possibilities. Now, six weeks later, she stood in her dressing room, before her closets filled with gowns and tea dresses in dark blues, grays, browns and black velvet. She had no bright colors—not a single one—and it dawned on her that as a child, she’d only ever seen her mother in black for mourning. Caroline’s tastes in dark colors had been her attempt at a show of unity.
In the past Caroline had subscribed to the notion that a true lady didn’t call attention to herself with flashy fashions. That had been her mother’s belief and thereby Caroline’s as well. But nowadays, even the most dignified society ladies favored more beading and ornamentation, and as her daughters often told her, “Styles change, Mother.”
She decided they were right. She would change, but within limits. She wasn’t about to have opals and pearls sewn into her gowns like Mamie Fish and Alva Vanderbilt, but Caroline decided, after she was out of mourning, on her next trip to Paris, she would consult with Charles Worth for her wardrobe. Her one weakness, however, was diamonds. He could include as many diamonds in her gowns as he saw fit, which would complement her ample collection of diamond stomachers, tiaras, necklaces, bracelets and rings—she did adore her diamond rings.
Even before her mother died, when she couldn’t decide which ring to wear, she’d wear several—sometimes three or four at a time. And why not? No one—other than her mother—would have dared to say she couldn’t, and soon enough others were following her lead. Mrs. August Belmont wore rings on every finger over her gloves; so did Mrs. Bradley Martin. Now she would wear rings and bright colors and spangled gowns. When she was out of mourning, she would emerge as a new woman.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Caroline
Caroline felt a burst of energy and excitement she rarely showed outwardly as she raced up the long staircase. Two months after her mother’s passing, Emily had gone into labor. It was rebirth, renewal, a declaration that life goes on. Caroline couldn’t get to Emily’s room fast enough.
Helen was already in with her sister, sitting at her bedside. Emily’s dark hair had been braided in two neat plaits, hanging down past her shoulders, just as she’d worn them when she was a little girl. Emily’s maid came in, moving stealthily about the bedroom so as not to disturb them. She had drawn the drapes and turned down the lamps before stoking the fire, sparking a surge of orange embers.
“Shouldn’t be too much longer now, Mrs. Astor,” the midwife reported, standing off to the side, folding towels and linens. She was a stout redheaded woman who had delivered all of Caroline’s grandchildren. She suddenly remembered how much the midwife liked to chatter while waiting for the deliveries. Perhaps she thought it was a welcome distraction.
“. . . Now I’ve already bathed her and helped her empty her bowels. Voided her bladder, too . . . ,” the midwife said, mixing up the bichloride solution. Caroline observed the bottle of Lysol on the bureau, next to a tub of lard and the straight razor she’d used. “I’ve already got the bed ready . . . ,” she said, pulling back the covers to show where she’d placed a rubber mat, fastened to the mattress with safety pins. “The bedsheets were heated in the oven. It’s the best way to sterilize them,” she said. The midwife took two sheets and tied them to the bedposts closest to the headboard. “Gives her something to tug on when the contractions get too strong.”