EDITH All Men Are Ghosts
April 11, 1914
The first night back at Biltmore after George’s death felt impossible. Every creak in the stairwell, every plant in the winter garden, every work of art in the tapestry gallery was George. Every inch of it was a reminder of the man Edith had loved wholeheartedly. The man who was not coming back to save her. In these weeks after his death, the blows had kept coming when Edith, swamped by her grief, had learned that the money—at least the money she had access to—had all but run out. There was a large trust for Cornelia, which she would receive when she became the rightful owner of Biltmore on her twenty-fifth birthday, but, until that day, there wasn’t even enough left to cover the bequests George had made in his will—and he had taken out a mortgage, unbeknownst to Edith, on their K Street house in Washington. There was so much to do, to save, to figure. But, for now, there was so much to mourn she couldn’t face it, not yet.
Edith curled up in bed beside her frazzled, exhausted daughter underneath the thick, heavy linens that George had procured before he had even met Edith, and held Cornelia’s tired hand. “I feel him here, Mother. Don’t you?” Cornelia asked hopefully.
“I do, Nelly. Of course I do.” Edith paused. “I feel him everywhere.”
But it was a lie. That was what hurt her heart the very most. Biltmore reminded her of George, sure. But she couldn’t hear George; she couldn’t feel him. She didn’t know what existed on the other side of this life, but over the past few years, her fate had become so intertwined with her husband’s that she thought for sure he would be with her even now that he was gone. But he had just vanished, suddenly and fiercely. He had left her when she needed him most.
Cedric, their giant St. Bernard, jumped into bed with his two mistresses—something that was normally strictly forbidden. Edith laughed. “Did I ever tell you that your father’s friend Henry James described the hair left behind by Cedric and Snow as something akin to piles of polar bear fluff?”
Cornelia laughed too. A welcome sound. Edith usually found dog fur highly unsuitable for bedrooms. But now, tonight, the women of Biltmore needed another warm body.
When Cornelia and Cedric were breathing heavily, taken away by their dreams to somewhere kinder than here, Edith made her way down the grand staircase and buzzed for a cup of tea in the library. George’s library exemplified a dark, heavy rococo style with deep red furnishings, a stunning ceiling painting of The Chariot of Aurora, and Karl Bitter’s “Venus and Vulcan” andirons, chiseled of gilt bronze. Noble, George’s favorite footman, delivered the tea as Edith sank into George’s chair, close to the roaring fire. It occurred to Edith how very young Noble looked. He had been in service at this house since he was fifteen years old and was now maybe in his midtwenties. He was bright and calm, and the other servants had an undeniable respect for him.
“It’s different without him, isn’t it, Noble?”
He nodded slowly. “But we’ll get through it together, Mrs. Vanderbilt. We are here for you, for whatever you need.” He cleared his throat, trying to hide his emotions. “Mr. Vanderbilt will be sorely missed.”
“Noble?” Edith wondered if she was oversharing, but, then again, Noble was practically family. “My only real qualm about interring George in New York was that so many of you who have been faithfully by his side for even longer than I have weren’t able to pay your final respects.”
“It’s okay, ma’am. The service here will do well to put our hearts to rest.”
But Edith was barely listening now, her eyes scanning the rows and rows of George’s books, which, to her, all contained a small part of her husband. Or, perhaps, more aptly, he contained a small part of them.
“Noble,” Edith said, not wanting to talk but also not quite ready to be alone. “Did you know that George was considered one of the best-read men in the country?”
She took a sip of her tea, the thin bone china warming her chilled hands.
“Yes ma’am. I had heard that. And he was generous with his books, too, always sharing them.”
Edith nodded, setting the cup back on the end table and gesturing to the carving of the oil lamp above the tapestry hanging over the fireplace. “Do you know what the oil lamp in the carvings and in George’s bookplates symbolizes?”
“I don’t believe I do, ma’am,” he said.
And that was what made Noble the best of the best in the service industry. Noble knew every inch of Biltmore far better than Edith. But he knew she needed a listening ear and so he lent it.
“The eternal quest for knowledge,” she said. “That’s why each book plate is engraved Quaero ex libris Biltmoris. Inquire in the books of Biltmore.”
“Mr. Vanderbilt certainly knew how to do that,” Noble said, smiling.
Edith finally looked up at him, taking in his sandy hair and expressive eyes, the way his fitted waistcoat—one brass button, one silver, as was the custom here at Biltmore—was so neat and orderly even at this late hour. It struck her how tired he must be after a day not only full of work but also emotion.
“Thank you, Noble,” Edith said quietly, releasing him, leaning back and closing her eyes. As she heard his footsteps reach the door, the full weight, peace, and comfort of home washed over her. Something cold on her hand jolted her eyes back open. But it was only Cedric’s nose. She fluffed the fur on his head. “Hello, dear boy. You miss him too, don’t you?” He lay down beside her, faithful as ever.
Edith sighed, soaking in the feeling. She was finally back in George’s library, where she could rest, where she could grieve. Not only was her husband gone but she couldn’t even visit his grave. At least, not practically. Going to New York to sit with him wouldn’t happen often. But surely he was here, among his most prized possessions: his books. This was, after all, where the ghosts lived, wasn’t it? Honoré de Balzac, Charles Dickens, Sir Walter Scott. Their cherished friend Paul Leicester Ford would forever remain here, his devotion to George and Biltmore immortalized in the dedication of his novel Janice Meredith. Edith wished that George had written a book in his life, that she had something in his voice. In lieu of his memoirs, she picked up what he had left behind: one of three leather-bound volumes of the darkest green embossed in gold. Books I Have Read, G.W.V.
“A man is created by stories,” George had told Edith once. Was that true? And, if so, could she find him in the pages of the books he loved so much? Could they bring him back?
What had George been reading before he died? Edith turned to the very last page, to the very last entry, running her finger over her husband’s distinctive, scrawling cursive. It was so distinguished, she always thought. Especially now, when it was all she had left of him. The last entry: 3159 History of the U.S. by Henry Adams Vol 3rd.
Her astonishing, studious husband had read 3,159 books in his too-short life. And those were only the ones he had recorded. What a feat. But still, Edith thought that she would probably not want something so dry to be the last book she ever read. It struck her that she should choose more wisely from now on, treat every book as though it could be her grand reading finale. The previous entry: 3158 History of the U.S. by Henry Adams Vol 2nd.