Cornelia smiled as she sat down. “My legs didn’t even touch the floor when we started these breakfasts,” she said, laughing, remembering swinging her feet as her pancakes were served. “It was the only day of the year that all of us—Daddy included—dined in our nightclothes.”
Jack pointed to his robe, as though making a statement about how he was following protocol.
“We would talk about the birthday party we’d had the day before, who was there, what they’d worn. Even Daddy would joke about who had the prettiest bow or party dress.”
The year George died, Cornelia figured the tradition would die too. But she had woken up the morning of her fourteenth birthday and, for old times’ sake, ventured down into the banquet hall just to stand there, to feel small in the massive room with its lofty ceilings, grand organ pipes, intricate hanging tapestries and game mounts. She wanted to, like when she was little, tiptoe on the herringbone floor to see if she could cross the room without stepping on a single crack. She wanted to stand there for just a few moments and think about her father. She had been surprised—and truly delighted—to see her mother sitting at the set table, in her usual spot, waiting for her. Her father’s place was set, too, though it was empty, of course. Her mother gestured to the place setting. “In case he wants to come,” she’d said. Cornelia had smiled.
Cornelia grew contemplative now as she looked over at the set but conspicuously empty spot at the head of the table. Cornelia had had moments since George’s death where she was sure he was there with her. She knew her mother had too.
Jack squeezed Cornelia’s hand. “Well, according to tradition, let’s talk about your birthday party.”
“Everyone else is,” Mr. Noble said, as he entered the dining room, handing Cornelia the Asheville newspaper.
She rolled her eyes. “Not again.”
When she was younger, the prying eyes of the press had felt normal, ordinary. Lately, however, it had begun to drive her crazy. Perhaps it had started when she and Jack were courting, and more than one argument had begun because of some false speculation presented by one of the papers. It had created a life where, everywhere she went, she was convinced someone was talking about her. And now that she was the official mistress of Biltmore, she knew it was only going to get worse.
“I can’t even have a simple birthday party without it making headlines?” she asked.
“Well, my love, at the risk of further angering you, ‘simple’ might be a bit of an understatement,” Jack said.
Edith hid her laugh behind her hand.
Cornelia, even in her annoyed state, had to smile. Perhaps her pair of birthday parties weren’t simple exactly.
Two days before, Edith had stood behind Cornelia, draping a strand of pearls around her daughter’s elegant neck to help her get ready for perhaps the most important birthday of her life. Because this birthday, she was becoming mistress of Biltmore. It would all be hers. She loved that her father had left the house to her, even though she wasn’t a son. She thought of her own tiny son, who was sleeping in the nursery, having this same honor one day.
Cornelia took a deep breath. “I can’t decide which party I’m more excited about. The one with the estate workers this afternoon or the ball tomorrow.”
Edith smiled. “I’m so thrilled that the Charles Freicher Orchestra will be able to join us.”
Cornelia always loved when her mother said things like that, as though the orchestra had simply taken it upon themselves to attend the party, not that they had been paid handily to be a part of the celebration.
“I think Guthrie’s Orchestra at this afternoon’s celebration will be lovely as well,” Cornelia countered. She still felt a bit strange about having one party with the employees and one with her society friends. But, with six hundred total guests, there wasn’t much choice but to spread the celebration over two affairs, and even though she felt equally comfortable in both worlds, she knew the same wasn’t true for her friends.
“I still wish we were having a fancy dress ball,” Edith said.
“That’s because you wear costumes so well, Mother,” Cornelia said, smiling.
But she didn’t want that kind of pageantry. She simply wanted to celebrate her birthday with the people she loved. Jack had asked her over and over what she might want for a gift. But she had already received the best gift this year: a son. And her true birthday gift was this magnificent estate. Asking for more seemed absurd.
The ice-cream cake the workers at Biltmore Dairy had presented her with at her first party was positively extravagant. Four feet tall and two feet wide, it took twenty-six gallons of ice cream to create the work of art, which was studded with roses, lilies, and the proclamation “May your joys be as many as the sands of the sea.”
It was a truly marvelous gift, and while the Cartier cigarette holders and carved figurines presented to her by her society friends were lovely, she had a special place in her heart for that cake.
What she did not have a special place for was it being written about, her outfits being commented on and guest lists being scrutinized. She didn’t mind so much when the Asheville Gazette did it. But then all the other papers picked it up, meaning that everyone in the country would be reading about her birthday by nightfall.
Now, at Cornelia’s birthday breakfast, Edith read the Gazette aloud. “？‘The beautiful array of summer gowns of the many dancers made a scene as beautiful as that of gay moths and fireflies in a fairy garden.’？” She paused and put the paper down. “Well, how positively lovely. I can’t think of a better description of a birthday party.”
Cornelia sighed. “It is lovely. But it still feels like an invasion of privacy.”
Edith nodded. “I understand. I very much do. But why now? This has been our whole lives, hasn’t it?”
Cornelia was glad that a pair of servers swept in then with silver trays of pastries and fruit right at that moment. She was grateful that this was a light breakfast. She felt as if she couldn’t eat another bite after the midnight buffet, but even still, she politely took a pastry and a few pieces of melon.
“I’m certain it’s one of your ‘friends’ on the estate who’s leaking these stories,” Jack said.
Mr. Noble silently refilled their coffee cups. Cornelia had grown used to the way his coat sleeve hung empty, dangling by his side—he had lost his arm in the Great War. Because of his sacrifice, the true cost of the battle was always top of mind. It made Cornelia proud that her mother, upon seeing Noble’s condition when he came home, had rehired him on the spot—and as head butler at that—without a second thought. And it astounded her that he was still, with one arm, the most talented and dedicated servant at Biltmore. He had relearned how to do everything, and maybe even do it better than he did before.
“Mr. Noble,” Jack asked. “Tell me, do you think one of the staff leaked the story to the press?” Jack and Noble had bonded instantly over their English heritage. They had a similar accent—and a similar distaste for anyone and everyone they believed had betrayed Cornelia.
Mr. Noble cleared his throat. “That is not for me to say, Mr. Cecil.” He paused, then continued, “But if I had to say…”