“Having to wait two years doesn’t seem very fair,” Bunchy said.
Cornelia considered that for a moment. It didn’t when you got right down to it.
“But anyway,” her friend added, “who would want to go to college when all the men are off at war?”
Cornelia laughed. Her friend did have a point. Plus, there had just been that awful business about university president Edward Graham dying of the Spanish flu. Her stomach gripped. What a senseless loss. The UNC campus had been quarantined for months and, from what her mother had gleaned, had essentially turned into a military training camp and research facility. She shuddered at the idea of being trapped on campus, of being one of the dozens of students hospitalized. Or, perhaps, being one of the five who would never go home again.
It was certainly very different when she and Edith took a tour of the campus—it was hard to believe that had been more than a year ago now, right before the US had entered the war—and Cornelia had been one of the many people enchanted by its huge, lazy oak trees. President Graham himself had led their tour, and he’d regaled them with stories about Old East, the oldest building on campus.
As they stood in front of it, President Graham explained its history. “The plaque on the original cornerstone of Old East,” he said in an authoritative tone—one Cornelia assumed he had earned—“was lost during renovations.” He turned and smiled at Cornelia. “It just recently turned up in a Tennessee metalsmith shop of all places. The owner just happens to be a UNC graduate and, knowing the significance of the piece to the university, returned it.”
Cornelia smiled politely as her mother exclaimed, “Well, imagine that!”
There was no doubt that Edith could charm any person, any time, a product of her upbringing where a young lady’s communication skills were key. Being pretty is fine, being smart is nice, but being gracious will get you everywhere, she always told Cornelia. Watching her mother now, Cornelia had to admit that it seemed true. Boring but true.
A girl who looked to be a little older than her walked past and, catching Cornelia’s eye, motioned with her head for her to come toward her. “And what are your plans for the future of the campus, President Graham?” Edith was asking. As the president launched into another story, Cornelia, seeing her chance, snuck away.
“Hi,” the girl said as Cornelia joined her on the campus path, reaching out her hand. “I’m Ruth McKendrick.”
“I’m Cornelia.”
Ruth eyed her. “Have you ever noticed how women introduce themselves with just their first name or, worse, as Mrs. So-and-So? A man would never do that.”
Cornelia laughed, liking this Ruth right away. “All right, then. I’m Cornelia Vanderbilt.”
A wave of recognition washed over Ruth’s face. “Ah. I see. First name is just fine then.”
The pair laughed, and Cornelia was surprised that this stranger, without an explanation, seemed to understand her need for anonymity. Noticing the perfect stitching of the pin tucks on Ruth’s blouse and the smart pleating on her skirt, Cornelia had to assume that Ruth was from a family with means—that perhaps, in some small way, she was here to escape her family name as well.
“Are you thinking of enrolling here?”
“Yes, one day,” Cornelia said. “I’m graduating high school next year and then, of course, I have to attend two years elsewhere. But I hope so. Are the classes very hard?”
Ruth nodded. “They are challenging. And with only twenty-five girls here we have to prove ourselves. But we’re certainly never without a date on a Saturday night.” They both laughed again, and Cornelia found herself wishing that she could start college right now, that this Ruth could be the one to walk her through her first days and weeks on campus, show her the ropes. “But I think working harder only serves us in the future, right?” Ruth paused, taking Cornelia in. “Although, I suppose a Vanderbilt doesn’t have to do much work…”
Cornelia shook her head. She’d never made her own bed or cooked her own breakfast. That was true. But she had spent her whole life helping around Biltmore Village and copious amounts of time making bandages for the war effort overseas. After the flood, especially, Edith and Cornelia had put every ounce of time and energy into rebuilding and revitalizing, re-creating what George had envisioned while also giving back to those families whose husbands and sons had gone off to fight. It was exhausting, but Cornelia had learned that serving the greater good was perhaps the most rewarding experience of her life. She was no stranger to hard work.
Now, in her bedroom with Bunchy, thinking of that day, Cornelia realized that if she hadn’t known what hard work was then, she certainly knew it now. With so many of the men off at war, the women had picked up considerable slack around the house and on the farm. And everything else had changed too. Edith and Cornelia had stood side by side with the cooks and kitchen maids, canning tomatoes and okra from the farm, preserving peaches and making applesauce. Their ten-course meals with decadent desserts had turned to salads so the meat, sugar, and fats could be sent overseas to the soldiers.
“Maybe you’ll meet a very eligible bachelor on our rounds today,” Cornelia joked.
“Just what I’ve always wanted,” Bunchy said, placing her hand over her heart—and her Red Cross patch. “A man with a fatal fever—or perhaps on the verge of consumption.”
Cornelia groaned at the macabre joke. The girls were planning to head into Biltmore Village on horseback that morning to deliver soup to ill estate workers. Cornelia was the tiniest bit fearful about going out in the midst of a flu outbreak, but at their young age and in such good health, she and Bunchy had a good chance of recovery if they did—God forbid—contract the vile illness that had taken so many lives. They made their way down the vast flight of stairs and into the banquet hall where dozens of women, all dressed like them, were drinking tea and eating breakfast before embarking on their morning duties.
Cornelia stopped as she did every morning to look at the Service flag, where it hung right in front of the Latin carving that translated to Grant us peace, O Lord, in our day. The flag honored Biltmore men—including her mother’s dear Noble—who had been called to serve. Some of the men had even been excited to go off to war. But Cornelia had to think that, when they arrived on those battlefields, it must have felt decidedly less thrilling.
As they studied the flag, she noticed it had thirty-five blue stars now—symbolizing the men who had returned home safely—and three for those who had lost their lives. That meant the fate of twelve souls was still in God’s hands. Bunchy asked suddenly, “What would you give your life for?”
“What?” Cornelia asked.
“Well, I just mean, all these men went overseas to fight a war to protect our country—the world’s freedom, really. They went knowing they were risking their lives.”
“Yes, but many didn’t have a choice. They were called up. They had to make the best of it.”
Before they could continue their conversation, Edith appeared, putting an arm around each of them. Hordes of women were bustling around the house, making preparations for the day.