“Five dollars?” But that was nothing.
Unblinking, he said, “Five cents.”
Five cents? I sat back in my chair, mute. My mouth fell open. Surely he was teasing? But no, his face remained hard. “What is five cents?” I asked. A nickel! Why, I’d reach into my purse that very minute and gladly donate a nickel if that could set things to right. Only off by a measly five cents—wasn’t my work pretty well done?
But Papa’s lips were tight as he went on. “Marjorie,” he said, his voice quiet. “Five cents is the difference between eating supper or going hungry to many a family.” He sighed, then went on: “It’s a question of having your affairs in hand. The greater the wealth, the greater the need for careful oversight. And you’ve got quite a bit of wealth. Why, if anyone in your employ were to note that you accepted unbalanced books…that you let money slip through, unclaimed…even just five cents…then the opening is there. Negligence, or worse, apathy, sets in by stages. You accept a missing nickel today, then what? Next month you’ll accept a missing dollar? And then five? Go back into your columns. Review every transaction. And return to me when your business is in order.”
* * *
—
Papa wasn’t the only one who seemed to disapprove of my management of the estate. Eddie’s small, measured quips of gentle disapproval were becoming ever more common. Such as when I decided to decorate my bedroom suite—Eddie and I each had our own rooms, as was the custom in our set—in bright silks and satins, much like the French style of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI. I covered the walls with whimsical paintings of flowers and birds. My ceiling was frescoed with swirling rose-colored clouds. “I like pink,” I said, admiring my pale rosewood end-tables brightened with figures of chubby cherubim, elaborate pieces that looked as though they could have belonged in the halls of Versailles.
“But isn’t it all…I don’t know, a bit much?” My husband grinned to soften the remark, but I heard the disdain nonetheless. Eddie favored a more traditional decorative aesthetic—rich mahogany paneling, heavy damasks of deep burgundy and hunter green. He wanted nothing that could be considered gaudy or flashy, and he certainly did not opt for winged angels frolicking on his furniture, or wispy pink clouds brightening his ceiling.
Eddie’s favorite feature of the property was our golf course, and he often had friends over to enjoy it. When not golfing, he went to the club to play tennis, or he’d go riding with fellow members of the Greenwich sporting set. He also kept a law office in the city with several friends from Columbia, and so he spent many of his weeknights in Manhattan, when late hours of work and socializing demanded it.
On weekend days he was usually gone with friends: tennis with the fellows at the club often turned into cocktails, which then rolled right into dinner, and then more cocktails, which meant that Eddie often did not return home until well after midnight, at which point he’d collapse into his bed smelling of gin or scotch. I was seldom invited to join him on these outings, and so I was home on my own more often than not.
When I mentioned to Eddie that I would have liked to join him, to get to know some of his friends better, spend more time with him, he shrugged, joking, “But you can’t stand firewater.” I swallowed, taken aback by his casual but quick rebuttal. True, I had said that to him; too much wine made me woozy, and too much liquor left me with a headache. Papa had told me my entire life how important a healthy diet was, and the only thing worse in his mind than caffeine was alcohol. Eddie and his friends did not agree.
* * *
—
Eddie often stayed out late on Saturday nights, but on that summer evening, he came home even later than usual, and I was furious by the time I heard his unsteady footsteps out front. I had wanted to know exactly what time it was when he stumbled in, so I had dismissed the servants and locked the front door before retiring to bed; this would force my husband to knock in order to be let in.
Ed let loose a slur of profanity when he realized that our front door was bolted. I rose from bed at the sound of his knocking and looked at my clock. Fifteen minutes shy of three in the morning. I glowered, slipping a silk wrapper over my pajamas and descending the staircase to open the door for my husband.
“Is it the lady of the house herself?” Ed leaned across the doorway, bow tie undone, blond hair stringy around his face.
“Come in,” I said, shutting the door quietly behind him so as not to rouse the entire household. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”