The First World War. Is that what we’re calling it now, like there’s going to be a series of them? Beyond the fact that it orphaned me, I’ve never given that war a lot of thought. It’s hard enough trying to cope with this one. But now, here in this room, in the trappings of Madame Beatrice’s outsized life, I feel a little hope that if people like her survived and thrived, we can too. I just wish she were here to tell us how.
FOUR
BEATRICE
Paris
July 1914
When going to war, one should begin with a new hat.
For gentlemen, a helmet is best. For ladies, something more magnificent is required. Thus, I had donned a glorious ostrich feather–plumed cartwheel, attracting stares when I swept into the lobby of the American Hospital in Neuilly. There hadn’t been time to meet with my personal vendeuse, of course, but a stop at the milliner’s had been a necessity. I couldn’t very well fight for my marriage wearing last season’s draped silk toque!
My husband’s telegram had said very little. Only that after having hurt his leg in France, he’d require surgery. The newspapers were no help either. Each told a different story about my husband’s injury. Fiery automotive crash. Trampled by racehorses. A duel gone horribly wrong. With a man as famously reckless as William Astor Chanler—millionaire soldier-adventurer—nothing beggared belief. And, of course, Willie liked to keep the world guessing, me along with it.
For my part, I took the telegram about his impending surgery as the sign I’d been waiting for to do something about the state of my marriage, so I’d boarded the first steamship for France. Unfortunately, much of New York high society did the same every summer, which is why I was recognized at the hospital reception desk. A rather awestruck American gentleman with a walrus mustache doffed his cap. “Hello, my dear! Why, I haven’t seen you since your days on Broadway . . .”
I didn’t remember him, but I had many admirers in those days, so I batted my eyelashes in the way that used to make men quiver, and twirled my lace parasol in satisfaction when it had the desired effect. “You were wonderfully funny,” the old gent continued. “What was that song? Rhoda and Her Pagoda . . . Marvelous musical comedy. You were brilliant in that role.”
“Yes, I was, wasn’t I?” I leaned in to confide, “But now I’m playing the part of Mrs. William Astor Chanler. My most challenging role to date!”
The gentleman guffawed.
I’d said it only partly in jest. After all, I’d married an Astor. As everyone knew, the Astors’ grand ballroom had a capacity of four hundred people, and if you weren’t one of those four hundred, then you weren’t anyone. Thus, transforming myself from ambitious actress into high-society maven fit for a descendant of America’s first multimillionaire was my greatest theatrical achievement. And now it was time for a second act. “I’m here to visit my husband in the hospital, you see . . .”
“How is the old chap?” asked the gentleman, his mustache twitching with curiosity. “We’ve all heard about the accident. Damnable thing. Boxing match, was it?”
I had no choice but to smile mysteriously. “Something like that.”
“Well, I wish your mister a speedy recovery.” He reached inside his coat pocket for a notebook. “I say, though, would you mind—my granddaughter collects autographs.”
I’ve always found the lure of appreciation irresistible, but then the old gent put a dent in my pride. “I’ve heard you’re dabbling in sculpture these days . . .”
Dabbling. That’s what everyone thought women did. Not wishing to make the usual self-deprecating remark, I signed with a flourish, then extricated myself quickly. “So sorry to rush off!”
Truthfully, I was in a rush, because I didn’t want to give myself time to think better of my decision. I was going to tell Willie that after five years of living separate lives, I missed him. I still loved him. And I meant to take care of him after his surgery until he was well again. After that, well, I’d give up my respectable life in New York and live with him as a vagabond if that’s what he wished. From now on, if the boys and I must follow him into the desert sands of Libya or up the snowy summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, well, then that’s what we’d do. Because a family ought to be together.
I rehearsed this speech as I marched to my husband’s private hospital room, my high-heeled lace-up boots tapping on the tile floor. And my heartbeat quickened in anticipation of how surprised Willie would be by my unexpected visit. I didn’t expect him to apologize for his long absence and neglect. William Astor Chanler was not the sort of man to smite his brow and cry, Forgive me everything, my darling. Let’s devote ourselves to marriage and try, this time, for a little girl to add to our growing brood.