“Art, maybe. Motherhood, perhaps?”
Jack stopped walking and pulled his future bride close, kissing her for all the world to see.
“Motherhood will suit you quite nicely,” he said. “I am sure of it.”
Looking at her reflection now, on her wedding day, Cornelia smiled, thinking about what a wonderful father Jack would be. She believed in her heart that he would be almost as good as her own father.
“He would have loved to walk you down the aisle,” Edith said, appearing behind her in the large gilt Louis XV mirror, speaking almost as if she could hear what her daughter was thinking. Edith and Cornelia had spent months renovating many of Biltmore’s spaces in preparation for the wedding, ensuring their family and more prominent guests would have places to stay. On Cornelia’s wedding day, there were certainly plenty of spaces to choose from to dress. But Edith’s lushly appointed room was large enough to hold both the bridesmaids and her aunts. Plus, Cornelia loved imagining her father having this room outfitted for her mother, George seeing Edith in every marble-topped commode, plush chaise, and the Pierre-Philippe Barat clock on the mantel. She only hoped that Jack thought of her in the same way.
Her father was so prominent and so present in her thoughts that Cornelia felt as if he could see her now. Plus, he was in all the details here. Darling Jack had proposed to her on the anniversary of her father’s death, hoping to give her a happy memory of that day to help balance the devastatingly sad one. Last night, her mother had presented her a gift, a framed photograph of her father that sat on the dressing room table now. He was wearing his dinner jacket and black tie, holding an infant Cornelia swathed in her long white christening gown. They were on the loggia at Biltmore, and her father’s ink-black hair, slightly askew, indicated a windy day.
He was looking at Cornelia in the photo like she was the only person on earth who mattered, looking at her in the way that every father—even one with everything in the world at his fingertips—should look at his baby girl.
“No man has ever loved a little girl the way that George loved you, Nell,” her aunt Pauline interjected.
“What?” Aunt Susan protested. “I believe Daddy loved us as much as George loved our Cornelia.”
Edith rolled her eyes good-naturedly at Cornelia. The Dresser girls, as they would always and forever be known, were Cornelia’s favorite relatives.
“I don’t know…” Natalie chimed in, her tone light.
“Isn’t it strange that none of us had our wonderful fathers with us on our wedding days?” Pauline asked her family.
The morning sun streamed through Edith’s bedroom window, and it was only as Cornelia caught the eye of Bunchy, her maid of honor—who was lounging on a gold-and-purple-covered chaise—that she realized she was a little tired. The pair had stayed up entirely too late the night before. Among the topics of conversation? How Cornelia should use the marabou throw her friend had given her as a wedding gift, along with a crepe de chine negligee and lace sheets and pillowcases.
“Lady Cecil,” Bunchy teased, standing now. “How do I look?”
Cornelia grinned broadly at her friend. “You know Jack is the third son. I’ll never have a silly title.” She rotated her finger, indicating that Bunchy, in her white organdy gown with full sleeves, should turn. She did so, giggling merrily. She was lovely. But not as lovely as Cornelia, in her simple straight gown of white satin and lace, her cropped hair perfectly styled. But the outfit mattered little. It would be covered by the pièce de résistance: her family wedding veil.
The door opened and Emma, Edith’s lady’s maid, entered. When she saw Cornelia, she put her hands to her mouth. “You are beautiful.” She paused. “But Mrs. Donahue is going to have a coronary if you don’t go down and have your picture made.”
They all laughed. Mrs. Donahue was the head housekeeper and in charge of, well, everything. There was no doubt she had been the one to orchestrate the unforgettable serenade that the workers had arranged for Cornelia and Jack the evening before. They had gathered on the lawn with lights and lanterns, noisemakers and whistles. Cornelia ran out the door gaily to greet the terrific noise. She couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate her impending nuptials.
As Cornelia stood to head downstairs, her mother protested, “No, darling! Not yet!”
“You are forgetting the most important thing!” Pauline added.
“Isn’t the groom the most important thing?” Bunchy quipped.
“Not when you have a wedding veil like this,” Susan said.
Cornelia was quite tall, but her mother was taller. She placed the four yards of tulle and Brussels rose point lace, adorned with Florida orange blossoms for the occasion—a nod to Edith’s own wedding—on her daughter’s hair. Cornelia smiled down at her satin wedding slippers, which were also each adorned with a single orange blossom. Her father’s close friend and trusted advisor Chauncey Beadle, who had brought so much of Biltmore to life, had gifted them to her from his own supply for the occasion.
Bunchy handed the bride her bouquet of orchids and lilies of the valley, from local Middlemount Gardens. Cornelia had insisted that everything be from Asheville, or, barring that option, as near Asheville as possible. The one point on which her mother had not conceded was the wedding cake, which was brought in from Washington, D.C. Upon seeing the layers of perfectly white, fluffy frosting, Cornelia had to admit that this was a case of mother knowing best.
“You have never been lovelier,” Edith said, adjusting the veil around her daughter’s shoulders and face.
“You have never been lovelier either,” Cornelia said. And she meant it. Her mother, in her gown of pale green and gold crepe de chine, was known as much for her kind heart, brilliance, and generosity, as for her impeccable sense of style. Her mother really could put together an outfit, choose an accessory, or place a hat in the way that was most flattering. It didn’t hurt that, with her tall and slender build, everything looked particularly spectacular on her. Cornelia was grateful to have inherited her mother’s figure, especially since she loved sweets so much.
In a bustle of tulle and silk, the bridal party made their way down the grand staircase. Bunchy held Cornelia’s arm, her mother holding the train of her dress and length of the veil behind her so as not to wrinkle them. As the party moved out of the way Cornelia paused at the bottom of the steps, veil arranged all around her, bouquet cascading nearly to her knees, for the photographer to snap and snap.
“Smile, lovely bride!” the photographer called as Cornelia leaned against the wall at the bottom of the grand limestone stairs.
“Just imagine All Souls draped in flowers and bathed in candlelight,” her mother said from where she stood behind the photographer, taking in her beautiful daughter. All Souls Church was as near to George’s heart as any project he had ever undertaken. Designed by close family friend Richard Morris Hunt out of the same red brick, pebble dash stucco, and timber trim as so many of his other buildings, it was truly a work of George’s heart, aptly named since it was his wish to bring all the souls in the Asheville community together. But if it was George who had begun that mission, it was his wife and daughter who had truly carried it out.