“You know, my dearest, I think the entire time I was building Biltmore, I was creating it for you. I was thinking of you, and maybe even our Cornelia too. I didn’t even know you yet, but I wanted you to have everything.”
Edith controlled her sigh. Biltmore had, over the last few years, become more and more of an albatross. They had nearly lost it on more than one occasion. She was certainly made of strong stuff, but the stress of its upkeep had taken its toll. But when she closed her eyes, when she imagined their daughter playing in the fresh mountain air, the beauty of the cool limestone walls, and the sprawling sitting rooms—and, maybe most of all, George’s beloved library—she knew it was a place worth fighting for.
“And I think if we continue its full transformation into a working estate—”
Edith looked at George’s pale, tired face and decided this was a conversation that could wait. Instead, she finished, “When I think of Biltmore, I think of you. Biltmore is the essence of you, the essence of Cornelia, the representation of all I love most in this life.” In rare moments like these, Edith could put away the worry and simply feel grateful for her family, both her biological one and the one she had made in Asheville, the people from all walks of life and every station.
George smiled at Edith and took her hand. “Second only to our daughter, Biltmore is my life’s greatest work. It makes me so happy to know that no matter what happens, I have created a legacy that future generations of Vanderbilts can look on with pride.”
A warmth crept over Edith, thinking of her part in that legacy. She knew, in fact, that it might not continue without her. George was a kind, caring man, but perhaps he hadn’t known enough strife and hard work in his life. They could agree on what would make Biltmore sustainable—the dairy, Biltmore Industries, selling some of the forest land, among other things—but Edith had learned quickly that when it came to matters of their business, she couldn’t wait for him to lead her. George had a bit of a tendency toward distraction and wanderlust and could hardly be pinned down long enough to transform an idea into action. It was how he was raised, the precious baby of the family, the apple of his doting mother’s eye until the day she died.
In contrast, Edith already had Cornelia out on the land, learning how the dairy operated, the ins and outs of Biltmore Industries—the thriving weaving and woodworking business they had created—committing to memory the names of every family member that lived on the vast estate, learning their specific role in the running of America’s largest home. No, George wasn’t one for hard work. But Edith was, and Cornelia would be. Edith would see to that.
“Edi, could you fetch me the papers please?” George asked. “They should be here by now. And where is that lovely daughter of ours? I’d like to talk to her.”
Edith smiled warmly, putting aside her worries about the estate. “I will find her. The newspapers too. But please, for me, close your eyes and rest for just a moment.”
George sighed. “I’m so tired of resting. Resting, as you know, doesn’t come easily.”
She leaned over and kissed her husband lightly on the lips. “I know, George. I know.”
She stood up and he grabbed her hand. “I love you, Edith,” he said. “I truly do. You and Cornelia are the best thing I’ve ever done with my life.”
“And Biltmore,” she joked. “Now quit procrastinating on that nap.”
He smiled.
As Edith walked down the steps, she touched her lips. When she was younger, she used to worry that marriage devolved over the years, that the person she was when she married George would barely resemble who she became inside her marriage. It was true—Edith had changed. But she had become a woman she was proud to be.
She grabbed George’s papers from the kitchen and fixed him a glass of water. She could have asked one of the servants, but she liked taking care of him. When Cornelia entered the room, Edith looked up. “Oh, good. You’re here. Make sure you say goodbye to Daddy before you go out with Bunchy.” Rachel Strong—or “Bunchy,” as everyone called her—and Cornelia had become fast friends at Miss Madeira’s, where they went to school. Both American heiresses—Bunchy because of a string of Cleveland department stores; Cornelia because of the railroad—they had quite a lot in common.
Cornelia smiled. “He seems almost like his old self, doesn’t he?”
Edith nodded, a tremendous weight lifted off her shoulders. He was going to be okay. Her George was going to be fine.
It struck Edith in moments like this, when her daughter was relaxed and casual, bathed in morning light, how lovely she truly was. And the days Cornelia would be Edith’s were fleeting. She would find a proper man. She would marry. It would happen before Edith could turn around, she knew. While she had friends who were endlessly fascinated already with making the perfect match for their daughters, Edith was most interested in keeping Cornelia young as long as she could. “When Daddy gets well, you should take him for a swim in the fountain. He always gets a kick out of that.”
Cornelia smiled brightly. “Or maybe the swimming pool.” After all these years, Cornelia had never given up the idea that her father would learn to swim. But she didn’t know that George had nearly drowned in Rhode Island as a child and, had a teenage girl not come to his rescue, neither of them would be standing in this kitchen right now. Edith found the fountain, where he could comfortably stand, more of a realistic prospect.
Edith looped her arm around her daughter’s as they made their way back up the stairs. Cornelia was George’s greatest work. Well her, and Biltmore, she thought, chuckling to herself. George loved Biltmore and she loved him. And that was why she was working so hard—had already worked so hard—to save his dream.
JULIA Getaway Car
After being blown out, airbrushed, and Spanxed into my fitted lace wedding gown, even I had to admit that I looked amazing. I didn’t really look like me per se. But the woman in front of the mirror looked like she belonged on Hayes’s arm.
Last night, at our rehearsal dinner, I had been that woman. I had laughed at our friends’ toasts, cried at my father’s, and sobbed as Hayes made a speech in my honor so beautiful that I felt as though he didn’t even need to say his wedding vows. I knew he loved me. I was sure of it. And wasn’t that what really mattered?
Now, Sarah, in her maid of honor dress, caught my eye in the mirror. “You look too good in that,” I said. “You aren’t letting me shine.”
She rolled her eyes. “You are practically the cover of Marie Claire Weddings.”
I bit my lip.
“What?” she whispered.
“Do you think he’s telling the truth?”
She held up her phone again and, for what had to have been the fiftieth time, we played that grainy video. I’d watched it so many times I could now pinpoint the exact moment Hayes would lean down to the girl he was dancing with—a girl who wasn’t me—and start making out with her like she was his last meal. Oh my God, I thought. She was his last meal.
I started to feel nauseous, the horror of the day before washing over me again. In the mauve and green back room of the church I whispered to Sarah, “Am I an idiot? Do you think he’s lying to me?”