Ned had whispered to me, in the quiet of our bedroom as we lay blissfully spent and entwined in each other’s limbs, that he’d be happy to have another baby. I’d considered it, but I’d quickly decided that it was not what I wanted. I would rather we just enjoyed each other, I told him. Enjoy the growing children we already had, who had matured past the difficult years of infancy and constant, unpredictable needs. With Ned and the three of them, our little family was all I would ever need.
What I was interested in was a new project. A new building project, to be specific. Ned’s Gold Coast estate was lovely enough, with woods where the fellows could ride and hunt, with a gracious sweep of beachfront and a comfortable enough house. And yet, I was jealous of the fact that Blanche had been this home’s first mistress. It was she whom Ned had first carried in his arms across the threshold of what was now our bedroom. She had hosted Thanksgiving at this dining room table and Fourth of July fireworks in the backyard. She had hired this staff and decorated these rooms, and thus, even though Ned gave me no cause to feel anything but absolutely adored and desired as his new wife, I nevertheless felt her presence everywhere. I wanted Ned and me to start fresh, to build together a new home for our new family.
With the help of a New York City broker, I found a generous parcel of lush land on Long Island’s North Shore in the town of Brookville. There was not yet a house on the property—which was precisely how I wanted it. I took Ned to walk the forested land one afternoon in that late summer. “How many acres is it?” he asked.
“Just under two hundred. Plenty of woods for you to ride,” I said.
“And then some,” Ned agreed, looking around. I could see from his face that he liked the spot—the gentle hills, the thick forests, the smell of the nearby ocean, and the clean country air. “But no house,” he said, turning to me, weaving his arms around my waist, allowing me to breathe in his scent and go entirely dizzy.
“Leave the house to me,” I said.
“Oh?” He cocked an eyebrow. When I nodded, he went on: “A penny for your thoughts, Mrs. Hutton?” and then he laughed, adding, “Or in this case, I’d venture it’ll cost quite a few pennies.”
“I was thinking a brand-new mansion done in the English country style. A lovely garden, a tennis court, a pool. The beach nearby, of course. We could call it Hillwood.”
“Hillwood,” Ned said, considering the name a moment before answering: “I like that.”
“Good,” I said. “Then it’s settled.”
And just like that, I had my new project.
* * *
It was a golden morning in September, just days before Halcourt and the girls were set to return to their schools, and Ned walked with his son toward the stables. “How about we ride over to the new property?” Ned suggested. “Check on the progress?”
Halcourt agreed and Ned gave me a kiss on the cheek before they left. The girls had gone out for a swim, and I sat on the veranda, enjoying the view of gardens and grass and beyond that, the ocean, thinking that the spot really was quite lovely, even if I was excited for what would soon be our new views at Hillwood.
Sometime later, a commotion pulled my attention toward the house, where I saw one of the kitchen maids approaching. “Mrs. Hutton?” I could see panic in the young woman’s eyes, in the patchy splotches tinting her cheeks.
“What is it?” I asked.
“We’ve just had a call on the telephone. From the new estate. It was Mr. Hutton.”
My heart plunged into my belly. “Ned?” I asked, rising from the chair.
“Mr. Hutton was the one on the phone, yes. But he had news of Mr. Halcourt.”
“What news?”
“There’s been an accident while they were out riding. A terrible fall. Mr. Halcourt…well…he’s…he has been…” At that the girl broke into a sob, barely able to finish the sentence. But nevertheless, I heard the word on which she choked.
“Killed?” I gasped in disbelief, my body dropping back into my seat. I blinked a moment in mute, stunned silence, eventually managing only to say: “Halcourt…dead?”
The girl just nodded once. I could see how she fought to compose herself. Ned’s son dead. That golden boy, so full of vigor and humor and promise. That boy who had filled the house with laughter as he led the girls in sliding down the banisters. The boy whose scent still lingered in his bedroom, in the drawing room, in the front hall. The boy whose footsteps still echoed across the house; memories of his stepping jauntily into the breakfast room. His jovial raids on Cook’s sweets in the kitchen, excursions after which he’d always share his bounty with my blushing girls. Set to depart for college. Dead?