The Life She Wanted: A Novel(34)
“Wolfgang and I are making a list of poets to give readings.” She ticked off names on her fingers. “Nella Larsen promised to read from her new poems. And Jessie Fauset, who’s the literary editor of The Crisis and a friend of Langston Hughes. And Gwendolyn Bennett—I met her in Harlem. She’s as beautiful as an artist’s model, and a talented poet too.”
Pandora hadn’t heard of any of them. But she loved seeing Virginia so excited.
“What did I miss?” Archie appeared. He dropped his bag in the seat next to Pandora and hopped into the driver’s seat.
Virginia glanced quickly at Pandora. Archie was terrible at keeping secrets; he didn’t know anything about Virginia’s salons.
“We were talking about you and Lucy Vanderbilt,” Virginia said airily. “If you marry her, you’ll inherit the Vanderbilt estate someday. A hundred and sixty acres of parkland and another five hundred acres of the farm.” Her eyes twinkled. “You’ll have your own sheep and pigs.”
“I’d rather dip my feet in cement than own pigs.” Archie shuddered. “I don’t need an estate. I’m happy with my room at Princeton.”
“What about Lucy?” Virginia wondered. “You’ve been seeing her all summer; she’s in love with you.”
“With Lucy it’s all about herself, her own entrance at a party.” Archie sighed. “She wouldn’t notice if I sent someone else in my top hat and tails.”
Just as Archie knew nothing about Virginia’s salons, Virginia knew nothing about Archie’s dream to be a professor. Pandora felt slightly guilty that Archie confided in her rather than his sister, but Virginia loved to tease Archie; she’d never take him seriously.
Pandora had seen the Vanderbilt estate from the river, but she’d never been inside the gates. The parkland stretched on forever with bridges and stone benches and a mill attached to a pond. When the mansion appeared on the hill, Pandora’s mouth dropped open.
The house was grander than Riverview and almost twice as large. Pandora had read an article in the New York Times declaring it “the finest place between New York and Albany.” Frederick Vanderbilt loved to entertain, and he often rented a private train to bring guests to the estate from New York. The house had fifty-four rooms designed in the Beaux-Arts style. The exterior had perfect symmetry and Greek columns that were so tall Pandora had to crane her neck. It was four stories with a flat roof and featured a circular portico and pedimented doors decorated with stone gargoyles. Smaller buildings surrounded it: stables, living quarters for the gardeners, and even a separate sports pavilion.
“It’s quite nice; you could enjoy living here,” Virginia said offhandedly to Archie when they pulled into the driveway.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Archie grumbled, turning off the engine. “Lucy isn’t happy unless she gets her way about everything.” He jiggled his blazer pocket. “I brought my own flask. It’s the only way to cope with her and still enjoy myself.”
For the first time, Pandora felt sorry for Archie. He was only dating Lucy to make his mother happy. The Vanderbilts were the most important family in New York, even Pandora noticed how often Maude Van Luyen dropped their name into conversation at every opportunity.
Archie wasn’t like Pandora who had to use every scrap of drive and ambition to rise above her station. Or even like Virginia who had to tell her mother little white lies to achieve her goals. Young men like Archie were handed everything in life from an early age. Private tutors and athletic coaches so they got the best grades and excelled at sports. When they graduated from college, they had careers waiting for them, and when they got married, they were given a townhouse on Park Avenue and trust funds for their children.
If the Van Luyens wanted Archie to marry Lucy Vanderbilt and join the family real estate firm, that’s what he would likely do. Perhaps she’d talk about it with Archie later. Make him see that if he wanted to lead his own life, he had to fight for it.
Pandora followed Archie and Virginia inside.
A butler led them into a crescent-shaped vestibule. Pandora admired the animal-skin rugs and potted palms and long, low sofas upholstered in velvets and rich satins. A stone fireplace took up one wall, and another wall was lined with marble statues.
“I heard the entry has sofas because the dinner parties go so late guests fall asleep while they wait for their cars,” Virginia whispered to Pandora.
Pandora’s eyes widened in awe. She’d heard that many of the furnishings—the floor-to-ceiling mirrors in the dining room, the eighteenth-century rolltop desk in the library, the Italian marble in the bathrooms—had been taken from the grand historic houses of Europe: Versailles in France, Villa Carlotta in Lake Como, Inverness Castle in Scotland. The green marble pilasters in the entry were a thousand years old. And the annular clock was crafted in France in the nineteenth century.
She was reminded how much she enjoyed house parties. She loved the beauty of the mansions themselves and the feeling of fun and frivolity when everyone arrived. The thrill of descending the staircase in her evening gown, and the pleasure the next morning of a delicious breakfast served in brilliant sunshine.
A maid in a black uniform led her upstairs to her guest room. Orange silk drapes hung at the windows, and the four-post bed was surrounded by orange curtains. An orange-and-white chaise lounge stood next to the fireplace, and towels were folded neatly and stacked at the washstand. A dart of hope, as delicate as the lace thread on her dress, shot through her. Perhaps today Harley would declare his feelings. Then, not only would she have the man she loved, but the lifestyle she loved so much would be hers too.