For the past several months, after what Edith gathered was a dreadful and slightly embarrassing meeting with a publisher in New York, Cornelia had been in a phase where she had thrust herself into Biltmore and its success, its care and keeping. She had gone so far as to personally help the maids and Mr. Noble repair upholstery, polish furniture, and procure replacement fabrics so that more rooms could be opened, more money made on tour tickets. She had accompanied Judge Adams on his rounds to the tenant farmers—something he’d hated so clearly that Edith had to hide her chuckles when he pretended to be delighted by it—and given them tips she had read about how to increase their yields and, thus, their profits. From any other lady of the house, this might have been met with eye rolls and sighs. But the farmers trusted Cornelia. They had grown up with her, counted on her, believed in her. They knew she had their best interests at heart.
Edith admired Cornelia’s attention to the estate and all she was doing. “I’m very happy to be here,” Edith said, glancing down at her watch. Where was her daughter? Edith still attended these meetings when she happened to be in Asheville, but Cornelia had asked them to gather today for some sort of announcement, she presumed about Biltmore. “So what do we think the lady of the manor has in store for us today?” Edith asked Jack, somewhat warily. He gave Edith a tight smile and shook his head.
“I haven’t wanted to worry you…” he started, trailing off. That is perhaps the single phrase that makes a mother worry most. Edith’s heart began to race. She hadn’t seen her daughter in several months, but she had assumed that all was well. Or, at least, better.
“She might be in need of some psychiatric attendance.” Judge Adams cleared his throat ominously.
Jack cut his eyes at the judge. “You could attempt to be less harsh. This is my wife we’re talking about.”
“And my daughter,” Edith chimed in. “I thought she was doing so well!”
Edith had had a talk with her daughter three months ago over Christmas in which Cornelia had asked, “Mother, haven’t you ever just wanted something more for yourself? Haven’t you ever dreamed a bigger dream?”
Edith had been taken aback. “Well, yes, of course.” She felt herself bristle. “In case you haven’t noticed, I have dedicated my life to the service of others and raised a daughter to do much the same. Haven’t I?”
Cornelia had sighed. “Sure, sure, Mother. And someone has to be the best dressed lady in Washington.”
Edith had been proud of that nickname, but now the comment—in which Cornelia was clearly demeaning her mother’s purpose—stung. Cornelia must have seen it in Edith’s face. “I’m sorry, Mother. Yes. Yes, of course you have dedicated your life to service. It’s just that Biltmore is Daddy’s. You have your political life and all your causes. I want something to call my own.”
Edith had wanted to protest that Cornelia had two of the most charming children she had ever met, that she had a husband who adored her, a mother who worshipped her, the grandest home in America. She had founded the first female polo league; she was a world-class sportswoman. She was admired locally for her art. What else did she need? It wasn’t like Edith to back away from speaking the truth. But something told her that her words would be falling on deaf ears. How devastated poor George would be to know that his legacy felt like such a burden to his daughter.
“You’ve always reminded me of your father,” Edith said. “You get your creativity from him. He felt such peace here at Biltmore and hoped you would too.”
“I used to,” Cornelia said. “But it’s such a media circus now. It used to be my escape. Now it’s just one more place the papers can find me, and people can judge us for being too rich.”
Edith sighed. She couldn’t change the way that, after the stock market crashed, the rich who had once been admired were now viewed with such disdain. But she did feel somewhat responsible for the media circus caused by opening the house. She had done everything humanly possible to maintain the estate when she was in charge, to keep it from swallowing them whole. Opening it to the public wouldn’t have been her first choice. If she had known the toll it would take on Cornelia, she would take it back. She would take it all back. But then, these past few months, as Cornelia threw herself back into Biltmore, Edith felt like things had turned around.
Now, in this grand dining room that held her best memories, she waited anxiously for her daughter, her back to the doorway, Jack and Judge Adams sitting across the table. When they gasped in unison, she felt her heart stop.
She turned, hesitantly, as her daughter walked into the room. Her hair, her dark, sleek, shiny mane of glory, was now a glowing pink. Edith felt like she couldn’t breathe. Her daughter—her nearly thirty-four-year-old daughter, no less—had dyed her hair. Pink. She wanted to say something, ask something, but her throat felt closed.
Cornelia took the seat they had left for her at the head of the table. This was, after all, her announcement. “Mother, Jack, Judge Adams,” she began. “I have decided that the boys need to be in school in England, and I am going to accompany them.”
Edith’s first thought was that her grandsons were too small to be in boarding school. Jack had preached its virtues to her ad nauseum, but she felt sure that—after protests from Cornelia—Jack and Cornelia had decided to keep them home. Yes, of course, it was common for people of their set to send their children off when they were young, but it wasn’t how George and Edith had raised Cornelia, so she had always just assumed… But, looking at her daughter, she realized that it was no longer safe to assume anything. She tried to catch Jack’s eyes across the table, but they were fixed on his wife. Then again, she had to consider that perhaps this pink-haired mother of theirs was in no shape to raise them. Maybe they were better off abroad.
“Neely,” Jack whispered. “Your hair.”
“Well, I wouldn’t expect you to understand it,” she said pointedly. It caught Edith off guard. No one had been more understanding than Jack. It was an instance in which she believed Jack being quite a bit older than Cornelia helped tremendously. Everything Cornelia did, it seemed to Jack, was a youthful lark. But judging by the horrified expression on his face, it appeared the spell had been broken. Cornelia’s tone softened, and she explained, “That is the other reason I have brought you here today. I am nearly thirty-four now, which is my age of becoming pragmatic about reaching my goals.”
Now Edith had to speak up. “I’m sorry. It’s what?”
“In numerology, Mother. Thirty-four is my year for that. And 1934 is also my year for exploring my creativity, talents, and life choices.”
Jack met Edith’s eyes now, both their faces alight with terror.
“And the pink hair?” Judge Adams chimed in.
“It’s the color of my aura, of course,” Cornelia said.
“Of course,” he replied.
Edith wanted to smack him. Yes, Cornelia’s interest in numerology and spirituality and her life path had grown even stronger as of late. But she hadn’t gone to this extreme yet.
“It all makes sense now,” Cornelia said. “My life-path number is twenty-two, which means that was the age I needed a partner’s support most, the year I met Jack.”