Adele’s gaze turned to framed photographs arranged on the desk. There was a photo of four children wearing tennis whites and holding racquets. The older two boys had Adele’s light brown hair, and the girl had pretty blond curls and round cheeks. The youngest boy looked awkward and gangly, like a puppy that hadn’t grown into its paws.
“Are these your children?” Pandora asked.
Adele moved to the desk.
“The oldest is Alistair. He never stopped exploring when he was a child, he got in all sorts of trouble. When he was four, he climbed into his sister’s dollhouse and got stuck. When he was eleven, he decided to take the car for a drive. He thought driving would be as simple as turning on the engine.” She laughed. She pointed to the boy next to him. “That’s Frank. He was born sixteen months after Alistair. He could never sit still long enough to finish his homework. But he was wonderful at sports.”
Adele turned away from the photograph. She walked to the window.
“Alistair and Frank were killed in the war. Alistair died at the Battle of Cantigny and Frank was killed four months later in the Somme Offensive,” she said slowly. “When they were young, I never thought any harm would come to them. Milton was so proud when they shipped off, shiny as new coins in their khakis and smart caps. Somehow, I knew differently. I suppose it was mother’s intuition. All those months of praying to keep them safe didn’t help.”
Pandora’s father had been badly injured in the war. Willie spent months recuperating at a hospital in the South of France. His wounded shoulder still bothered him, and the arthritis only made it worse. But at least he’d made it home.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Pandora said.
Adele moved back to the photograph.
“The girl is Annie. She’s five years older than Harley, and she always behaved like a mother to him. She loved to bathe Harley when he was a baby, and she insisted on feeding him. Our poor maid was always washing food stains from her clothes. Annie, her husband, George, and their two children live in San Francisco. I miss her, I hardly see them.
“The youngest is Harley. He’s at Princeton with Archie and Owen. He was the kindest child, always bringing in stray dogs and giving fruit from our trees to neighbors. The cook would go to make an apple pie, and all the apples would be gone from the pantry.” She touched the photo. “He’s still the same. He goes with me to deliver food at the shelters in New York.”
“It must have been great fun when they were children.” Pandora reflected on her own childhood. “I never had brothers and sisters. Someday, I want my own family.”
Adele turned to Pandora. She seemed to make an effort to put away the past.
“You will. There’s no reason why you can’t have a family and study fashion and open a boutique. I was married at nineteen, I didn’t know what I wanted. It’s different these days. Young women can attend college or go abroad. They have time to figure out what’s important to them. So many things are changing, but there’s still a long way to go.” Adele changed the subject. “I don’t believe in class distinctions. Young men or women shouldn’t be limited by their birth station, only by their aspirations. I feel the same way about marriage. Marriage shouldn’t be about merging dynasties. The only reason two people should get married is because they love and respect each other.”
Pandora listened to Adele with interest. She had never heard anyone in the Van Luyens’ social circle talk this way. At Maude Van Luyen’s afternoon teas, the discussion was often about who was getting engaged to whom and whether their names were in the New York Social Register.
But Pandora didn’t believe that a society woman like Adele could really be so open minded. She thought about how her mother had been treated. After Willie lost Wimbledon, and then was injured in the war, she received no more invitations to cocktail parties at the Astors’ mansion in Newport. And now Pandora was seeing the same pattern play out in her own life.
She had to figure out how to make it on her own. Perhaps Pandora didn’t need to attend fashion school. Instead, she could keep teaching herself from books and magazines. But if she went to secretarial school like her father wanted, she’d have no time to work on her designs—and she still needed to earn back the tuition money she’d spent on fabric.
And even if she did fall in love and get married, her husband probably wouldn’t be able to afford a maid or nanny. In the evenings, she’d be at home, supervising the children, cleaning the house, cooking the meals.
Marrying Owen would have solved all her problems and given her everything she wanted: love, marriage, a family, and the means to pursue her fashion-design dreams. She didn’t know what she would do now.
It was easy for women like Virginia and Lillian Clarkson. They could throw money at their problems. It was different for Pandora. Her dreams would fade away. She’d be left with a few pretty dresses stored in a closet, like her mother’s rack of dresses.
“I’m being the worst hostess,” Adele said. “I’ve talked on and on when you’re just looking for the powder room.” She led Pandora to the door. “I’ll show you where it is, and then you should go out to the pool for refreshments.”
After Pandora brushed her hair and reapplied the lipstick that Virginia insisted she wear, she walked back down the hallway. She heard voices from a room at the end. The door was half open, and two young men stood close to each other. Their expressions were serious, and the taller man crossed his arms, as if they were having an argument.
They moved apart when they saw her.
“I’m sorry,” she said from the doorway. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
The door opened wider. The taller man waved her inside.
“You’re not interrupting, we’re glad you’re here,” he said. “We need someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” she repeated.
“A woman. We’re rehearsing a play, and we don’t have anyone to read the female lines,” he explained. “You can do it for us.”
Both of the men were about her age. The taller one looked familiar. He was very fair, with blond hair that flopped over his forehead, and he had a smattering of golden hair on his arms. He wore white trousers and a white V-necked vest with a blue bow tie, and two-tone Oxford shoes.
Perhaps she had seen him at the Winthrops’ party.
“I’m not good at acting,” Pandora said.
“You just have to read from the script.” He held out a thin book. “It’s for the Triangle Club. That’s the theater troupe at Princeton.” He pointed to the other man. “This is Preston Stevens, the playwright, and I’m Harley Enright.”
Pandora realized why Harley looked familiar. He was the youngest child in the photograph. He must have inherited his blond hair and lean build from his father, but his green eyes and high cheekbones were from Adele.
“Pandora Carmichael.” She introduced herself. “Are you sure you don’t want someone else? Some of the girls here must have taken drama classes.”
Harley handed her the book.
“You’ll do perfectly,” he said with a smile. His teeth were very white. Pandora noticed how handsome he was, and a warm spark shot through her body. “Don’t overdo the love scene.” He waved at Preston. “Preston tends to use flowery language.”