Babs crossed her arms. “For what? For you to realize how wrong you are? Yes. Yes, I am. For heaven’s sake, Julia. My mother was gifted that veil by a Russian woman.”
“How in the world would she have gotten it from a Russian woman?” I asked as I held the door open for her and followed her inside.
“Sweetheart, do you remember Gran? I wouldn’t put anything at all past her.”
As if by instinct, we both walked straight to the display of the reproduction of Cornelia’s wedding outfit, ensconced in glass. We walked around the side of the case to get as good a look at the veil as we could.
“It’s the Juliet cap that really gets me,” I whispered. “The two rows of pearls at the bottom, one at the top, that intricate lace in the middle.” Spotlights shone on the delicate piece of tulle and lace that spread behind the Cornelia mannequin. Just seeing it made me feel nervous, like I was in the presence of greatness.
“And the embroidery around the trim of the veil,” I said. “I’ve never seen it anywhere else. Except—”
“Yes, but I would imagine it was a popular style at the time,” Babs said.
“Aha!” I whisper-exclaimed. “So you agree they look similar!”
Babs said, “It’s a wedding veil, Julia. There are millions of them. The chances that two of them look the same are pretty good.”
“Yes. Because I’m certain Cornelia and Edith just grabbed any old thing off the rack.” I crossed my arms and gave her my serious, police-interrogator look. “Don’t you remember anything else about how Gran got the wedding veil?”
She just shrugged. “Julia, I am nearly eighty-one years old. I’m grateful I remember my own name.”
And that’s how I knew that Babs remembered more of the story than she was letting on.
CORNELIA A Place for Strangers
November 30, 1929
Cornelia had put off this difficult conversation for as long as she could, but as much as she didn’t want to have it, she knew she needed to. Four years ago, her twenty-fifth birthday had felt like an answered prayer. Her fortune was finally hers. The house—and their family—would be saved. But then, a month ago, the unthinkable happened: the stock market crashed. Of course, it went without saying that Cornelia’s family found itself in a vastly better position than most. But, after years of fun and freedom, they found themselves needing to tighten their belts once again to keep Biltmore afloat.
As she walked in the direction of the back stairs, determined to go down to the butler’s pantry before she lost her nerve, she stopped in the doorway of the oak-paneled drawing room when she saw the man she was in search of: Mr. Noble. She paused to watch him, empty sleeve dangling as he methodically dusted the etchings over the fireplace, one after the other.
“That really isn’t your job, you know,” she said, causing him to turn abruptly and smile. “These days everything is my job, ma’am. We must all work together.”
His proclamation made what she was about to do all the more difficult. Cornelia sat down on the off-white settee perpendicular to the fireplace and motioned for Mr. Noble to sit in the chair flanking it.
“I really shouldn’t, ma’am,” he said.
“Please,” she practically whispered.
Her friend and most faithful servant acquiesced.
“I wish I were here to tell you that the tide has turned, that our troubles are behind us and we can rehire those we have let go.”
“I presume that is not the news,” Mr. Noble said gently.
Cornelia noticed how his jacket, which had once been thick and new, was starting to show signs of wear. The brass and silver buttons, however, still gleamed due to his precise daily polishing.
Cornelia shook her head and was embarrassed to find that tears sprung to her eyes. “We are either going to need to let another member of the staff go or dock everyone’s wages accordingly.” She looked down as she said, hoarsely, “Even yours.”
Shame washed over her as she thought about the great lengths Mr. Noble had gone to keep Biltmore in as good a shape as possible. She looked up at him again. “I do understand if you need to go elsewhere, Mr. Noble. I truly do. It is unfair of me to ask you to continue to do the massive amount of work you do here for even less—”
Mr. Noble cut her off. “With all due respect, ma’am, I am aware of the world and my current lot in it. I know the service industry is dying. I know that men and women have no food, no coal, no work. So please accept my great gratitude. Room, board, and reduced wages are far superior to no room, no board, and no wages at all.”
Cornelia was embarrassed by the tears now running down her face and, wiping them away, said hastily, “It would break my heart if you left.”
“Leave you?” he said, smiling. “After all your family has done for me? I would never.”
Cornelia sniffed. “I will make it right one day. I promise you.” She paused. “It is dying, though, isn’t it? Our way of life?”
He nodded. “I’m afraid so, ma’am.”
She bit her lip to hold back more tears. “When did it change, Mr. Noble? Our customs and traditions, parties and trappings used to dazzle the outside world. Now they only despise us.”
He shook his head and smiled at her kindly. “People don’t know you, Mrs. Cecil. They don’t understand how truly good your heart is. They are only hungry. That is all.” He paused. “They can’t understand that, in your own way, you have lost quite a bit too.”
It seemed so silly now, how much Cornelia felt that she had lost. When had she ever gone hungry or slept without a roof over her head? “Thank you, Mr. Noble. Truly. I cannot express what you mean to my family, what you mean to me.”
Clearing his throat, Mr. Noble said, “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I’ll get back to work now.”
She nodded. With that unpleasantness behind her, Cornelia walked out to the loggia to tackle the next part of her day. She sat down in a wicker chair, pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders to hold off the chill, and opened the notebook she had left here earlier. It made her smile—but it also made her head swim. For years, she had watched her mother take on this very task, planning Christmas gifts for each man, woman, and child who played a part in Biltmore House, organizing a grand celebration for all of them, and, of course, ensuring that Biltmore was decorated to the nines for the holidays. Even with the reduction in staff, even with the toll of the stock market crash, she was determined to make this a merry Christmas for everyone on the estate. Her family’s personal celebrations would take a hit, but that was okay. Yes, in spite of their troubles, this would be a Christmas to remember.
She heard the door open and turned to see Jack, tall, handsome Jack, dressed in his riding clothes, striding across the loggia toward her.
“Oh, lovely,” she sighed. “Have you come to whisk me away for a ride? My head is already spinning, and I haven’t even begun to plan the Christmas celebrations.”
“Well, you know I plan to dress as Santa again,” Jack said. “That is for certain.”
Cornelia couldn’t help but laugh. Jack was the best Santa of all Santas. One of the most glorious parts of Biltmore was that the giant fireplaces inside its banquet hall were complete with interior ledges—which, as it turns out, were perfect for standing on. “Darling, when you jumped off that shelf and onto the hearth last year, I thought all the children would die of happiness.”