The Last Princess: A Novel

The Last Princess

A Novel

Cynthia Freeman

To Shelly, Carole, and Kimberly

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Preview: A World Full of Strangers

About the Author

Chapter 1

NOT SINCE GLORIA MORGAN’S engagement to Reginald Vanderbilt had New York society seen such a frenzy of excitement as was aroused by the announcement of the impending nuptials of Lily Goodhue and Roger Humphreys. Although few events elicited more than a yawn from New York society, as soon as the embossed, cream-colored invitations were received, the ladies of the Four Hundred promptly beat a path to their favorite couturiers. It was to be the marriage of the decade, a match—if one were inclined to embrace God—made in heaven; the coming together of two distinguished families who came as close to being aristocracy as was possible in America.

On the evening of the engagement party, the limousines lined the sweeping, tree-lined driveway to the Goodhues’ Long Island mansion. Lily stood alongside Roger and her parents in the vast marble-floored hall, greeting their guests. Even among that galaxy of bejeweled society, her beauty was dazzling. It went beyond the fact that her hair was the burnished red of an autumn sunset, or that her eyes were the color of the huge emerald she wore on her ring finger, or that the features of her heart-shaped face were sheer perfection. She had an air, an inner radiance that few who saw her that evening would ever forget. It even outshone the expensive pink Chanel dress her mother had ordered from Paris.

As they stood posing for pictures which would appear in the next day’s New York Times and Herald Tribune, there could have been no doubt as to her parents’ joy. Diminutive, southern-born Violet looked as youthful and lovely as the day when she had burst onto the New York social scene as the bride of the tall, handsome rubber magnate Charles Goodhue.

The guests moved into the house, which was decorated with extravagant urns of azaleas, roses, and lilacs arranged to exquisite perfection. Beyond the open French doors of the ballroom the terrace and grounds were softly lighted, and the fountains at the far end of the pavilion played under dim yellow lights. Blood-red rhododendrons lined the path down to Long Island Sound.

Just then the band struck up Lily of the Valley and Lily circled the room in Roger’s arms. There seemed no question that she was in love. It was evidenced by the smile on her face and the lyrical note in her voice as she greeted her friends. Roger, too, appeared delighted. Despite his unmistakably Brahmin reserve, he seemed unable to take his eyes off Lily. Yet as the evening wore on, Lily knew she had to get away for a few minutes, to escape the hundreds of eyes, so many of which were jealously hoping to find some flaw in this perfect evening. As Roger turned to ask a cousin to dance, Lily slipped quietly from the room, ran across the terrace, down the broad stone stairs, and along the path toward the conservatory. The glass doors closed behind her, leaving her in a silent world of exotic blooms.

Idly she let her gaze wander to the glass ceiling. The dazzling sight of a million stars in the midnight-blue vastness suddenly made her wonder how she had come to this moment. If she was shocked to find herself the focus of this evening’s party, she supposed, she would—literally—have to go back to the cradle to trace the roots of her sense of un-worth….

Chapter 2

LILY HAD ALWAYS FELT herself to be an outsider in her own home. She had never really belonged and it seemed that she had been paying for the sin of her birth from the moment she had first seen the light of day. Was any of it her fault? That was something she had been trying to decide for almost twenty-one years.

Violet and Charles Goodhue had been childless for ten years of their marriage and had almost abandoned hope that they would have a child, an heir to the Goodhue fortune. It had been a dynasty hard won, a dynasty which had been established three generations before by ignorant Dutch immigrants, and by dint of fraud and corruption and ruthlessness it had flourished.

With the first generation’s ill-gotten wealth, the second generation of Goodhues had bought respectability. At the same time, they saw that wealth quadrupled. Charles’s grandfather, riding the crest of the new age of industry, had transformed a modest fortune into a staggering one in the rubber trade in the Amazon. The slaves who worked those South American fields were too far removed from the States to taint the Goodhues’ ever luminous reputation.

So, by his day, Charles Goodhue felt confident that when the biographies were written, his antecedents would appear merely as swashbuckling cavaliers.

The roots of Violet’s wealth were strikingly similar. She had come from a long line of rumrunners and slave owners. Her grandfather had made a small fortune into a great one during the War Between the States selling bootleg liquor to both sides. Afterward, when other former slave owners found themselves dispossessed, Henri DuPres had emerged on the scene the triumphant master of the greatest and richest plantation in Louisiana.

Despite their combined inherited fortunes, and Charles’s sharp business acumen which continued to make those fortunes more vast, he and Violet seemed denied by heaven the very thing they so desired—a child.

The sore lack was unmitigated by any wealth or possession he could ever hope to attain. Adoption was socially unacceptable for their set, and the idea of having a child not of his blood was abhorrent to a man like Charles Goodhue. What he longed for most was his own heir. Violet had less desire than he, but she was chagrined to disappoint Charles in an area that mattered to him so. Yet her barrenness appeared to be fait accompli.

Then one morning in Baden-Baden, where they had gone to take the baths, Violet awoke with a strange nausea. Never having been ill, for all her diminutive, fragile build, Violet immediately sought the counsel of Herr Doktor Steinmetz, the resident physician at the watering place.

So when Dr. Steinmetz congratulated her with the news that she was to be a mother, she greeted it with speechless shock. Then, as the reality of it set in, she all but flew from the room. Charles! Charles! she cried out, entering their room. We’re going to have a son! The gift I’ve wanted to give you for so long.

Neither of them doubted for a moment that she would bear the son they so wanted. In early celebration, Charles treated her to a new ruby necklace and matching earrings which might have turned her neighbor, Alice Vanderbilt, ever so slightly green with envy if she had seen them.

From that moment on, Charles treated Violet with even more than his usual adoration. He catered to her every whim. She was, after all, thirty years old—well past the usual childbearing years.

He had the nursery remodeled in blue and had the vast dressing room adjacent to Violet’s boudoir equipped for her confinement.

Faster than they had anticipated, that final day of miracles was upon them. The house was still but for the frantic efforts going on in Violet’s transformed boudoir. The only sounds that could be heard were the excruciating screams emanating from Violet herself. She had never known pain before and she could scarcely tolerate it. There was nothing fragile about the sounds coming out of her just then.

When at last the baby came, she cried out with relieved joy: I gave you your son, Charles—all the while thinking, I will never, never, never go through this again.

Motherhood was a joy she could easily have dispensed with. If it had not been for her strongly felt obligation to provide Charles with an heir, she would have taken every precaution against becoming pregnant. Now that her duty was done, she’d have no more of it.

Never again would she endure the nausea, the ungainly bulk, and worst of all, the isolation. In her day it was not fitting for an expectant mother to show herself in public. Violet and her lovely gowns remained closeted for two full social seasons.

The past nine months had proved sheer agony. Violet had spent most of that time in bed, out of sheer spite, and now she vowed that she would never, never subject herself to this again.

The infant was taken from her immediately following the birth. Violet was only too glad to have the child removed from her. She lay among her satin and lace pillows waiting for Charles’s delighted praise. But it was grave eyes he turned upon her.

What’s wrong, dear? Is the child all right?

He nodded. Yes.

What then? she asked, extending her hand for him to come closer.

He could hardly form the words. We do not have a son.

What do you mean? she cried.

I mean, Violet, that you have given birth to a girl.

Impossible—impossible! How could that have happened? It had to be a son. A son was all Charles wanted.

I can’t believe it! she whispered.

Coldly he answered, Believe it. It is a girl.

For the first time since their marriage, she heard censure in his voice, and she suddenly experienced an emotion quite foreign to her: overwhelming remorse.

Charles merely shook his head. Yes, indeed, we have a girl and not even beautiful, like you, Violet. We have a redheaded, skinny little monster. I don’t know where that flaming red hair could have come from. Not from my side of the family, certainly.

When the baby was placed in Violet’s arms, she looked down at the child and began to weep. This was not the chubby precious son she had expected. The baby was scrawny and unattractive, and if Violet had dared, she would have given her away and forgotten the whole thing. Her capacity to love was very limited. Charles received what little affection she had to give and there was none left over for an infant of the wrong sex.

Both parents had been so unprepared for a girl that they had never considered any name but Charles Goodhue II. It wasn’t until the day before the baptism that Violet was willing to make a decision. Having come from a long line of southern beauties, whose names had been inspired by the beauty of roses, pansies, and violets, she was hard-pressed to come up with one for this ugly baby girl.

Lily? She thought bitterly of the Biblical verse: Remember the lilies of the field—they toil not, neither do they spin. Useless—like this child. So just before the infant lay in Violet’s arms at the baptismal font to be anointed in the faith of that famous lineage of blooms, Lily Marie Goodhue was grudgingly given an identity in the world.

Watching from his pew, Charles could not refrain from staring enviously at his friend Henry Ford, as he stood with his young son at his side. How had he, Charles, offended God so much so as not to be allowed a son of his own? He felt his ancestors looking down at him with contempt. Without an heir, the fortune they had amassed had no meaning. Violet was so frail, he dared not let her risk another pregnancy; she had barely survived the trauma of this delivery. Much as he longed for a son, he couldn’t face life without Violet. His love for her was the only thing on earth that exceeded his obsession for an heir.

Over the next few years, as Lily turned from infant to toddler to schoolgirl, she seldom saw her parents. She was enchanted by their elegance and glamour, but whenever she reached out to embrace them, they quickly withdrew, becoming remote, cold figures who never seemed to notice her existence. They spent their winters in the house on Fifth Avenue and traveled extensively through the continent while Lily was left on Long Island in the care of nursemaids and governesses, almost forgotten. In time she gave up her efforts to reach out to her parents, knowing from a very early age that any such attempts would be spurned. In spite of the incredible luxury of her Long Island home, she grew up with an overwhelming sense of deprivation.

It was impossible to mistake their indifference. She was unloved by her own parents, for which she felt a sense of shame, as if she was unworthy of their affection.

Had it not been for her cousin Randolph Goodhue, three years her senior, who was sent from Manhattan to visit from time to time, she would have had no friends at all. But even then, her sense of worthlessness increased when she was five and Violet, despite her vow never to have another child, unexpectedly became pregnant. Her memories of Lily’s birth had faded and she was almost enthusiastic about the possibility of giving Charles a son. And this time, she swore, it would be a boy. She had just returned from a trip to Europe late in her sixth month when Lily first became aware of the change in her mother’s figure.

Mamma, why is your tummy so fat? she asked that night at dinner.

Violet looked at her daughter reprovingly. Children should be seen and not heard.

That night Lily asked Michelle, her French nursemaid, "Pourquoi est-ce que Maman est si grosse maintenant?"

Parce que ta maman va te donner un frère, mon petit chou.

Lily squealed in excitement. C’est vrai? Un bébé!

She was ecstatic the day little Charles was born. He was so beautiful, like a little doll—her very own baby brother.

However, her joy was short-lived. She was chastened every time she tried to embrace him or make him smile. And as Charles began to walk and talk, she found herself standing silently by, watching, as her parents lavished love and affection on him. Seeing her mother and father play with Charles, Lily felt a sense of loss so strong, it was almost a physical pain. She decided the reason they never played with her was that she was so ugly. Everyone said so. She heard them whispering, even fat old Cook. And she would gaze into the mirror, comparing her thin childish form and unruly red hair, first with her mother’s dainty perfection, and then with Charles’s fat rosy limbs and curling dark hair, and be filled with self-loathing.

At night, she would cry into her pillow with unfulfilled longing. Michelle, fiercely loyal, would try to comfort her. "But you are beautiful, chérie—you are! And of course your parents love you."

They don’t love me! Lily would sob. I’m ugly. I wish I could die! And sometimes her thoughts were darker still. If Charles would die, she would be all they had. Surely they would love her then. She knew such dreams were wicked, but no matter how she fought them, they came back, unbidden.

As little Charles grew, the children became a little closer. The Long Island house was a lonely place and even their affection for their son did not keep Violet and Charles from their extensive travels. Lily had almost overcome her resentment by the time she was eleven. She rather liked having someone to follow her around.

Then, one Indian summer day, glorious and warm, Lily rode her dappled mare into the field at the rear of the Long Island compound. Charles was on his fat little pony. It was a lazy, lovely afternoon as the sun filtered down through the trees. While the children rode, the elderly English governess gradually nodded off.

She was awakened by Lily’s screams. What is it? she cried out, her heart pounding.

It’s Charles. He fell off the horse! Lily screamed hysterically.

The horse? You mean the pony!

No, no—I let him ride my horse for a minute, and he fell off!

Tears pouring down her cheeks, she led the governess to where Charles lay on the ground. His face was covered with blood, and as the governess came closer, she saw with growing horror that his head was turned at an unnatural angle. Falling to her knees, she pressed her ear to his small chest, listening for a heartbeat. Oh, dear Lord! He’s dead! she cried, grabbing his wrist and searching frantically for a pulse.

You evil girl, you devil, she shouted at Lily. How could you let Master Charles ride your big horse? The woman knew that she had been at fault for dozing off. She dreaded the consequences. She would never be able to find another job. And all because of this wicked little red-haired monster!

Terrified by the insane look in the governess’s eyes, Lily ran to her horse, leapt on, and galloped off into the nearby trees.

Blinded by tears, she almost didn’t see the high stone wall looming up ahead, but she reined in just in time, slid from the saddle, and flung herself down in the high grass, weeping hysterically. She had committed the most horrendous crime imaginable in allowing Charles to ride her horse. It was no excuse that he had been begging her for weeks. His voice echoed in her ears, even as she covered them now with her hands. Please let me ride Sugar, Lily. You have all the fun. It’s not fair. I have to ride around on this slow old pony. Come on, please?

No, Charles. You’re too little.

How come you get to ride Sugar? You’re mean, he pouted.

No, I’m not mean, Charles. I’m eleven and you’re only six. And just because you ask doesn’t mean you get everything you want. Maybe with Mother and Daddy, but not with me.

Charles, lip trembling, had pleaded, Please, Lily, please! I’ll love you forever. He looked so sweet she had given in. She had been planning to mount behind him when Sugar reared at a garter snake and bolted.

Shrieking, Hang on, Charles, Lily had leapt onto the small pony. She was desperately trying to catch up when the mare drew up short before the property fence, catapulting Charles over her head.

No wonder she was unworthy of love—she was unworthy even to exist. She had wished Charles would die—and now he had. Closing her eyes, she willed Charles back to life. Maybe this was only a dreadful nightmare and she would awake in the morning in Michelle’s arms. But Michelle too was gone, dismissed for some minor infraction when Lily was eight.

Gradually the shadows lengthened and night descended. It was pitch-dark when she saw lights flashing in the distance. They had come for her. Maybe they would kill her too or lock her away in the cellars. Too frightened to run, she sobbed convulsively. The last thing she remembered was a dark figure looming over her as she lost consciousness.

When she woke up she was home in her own bed. But she was hardly safe. When she tiptoed into the hall she saw all the draperies had been drawn. The servants tended her needs in silence as if she were too evil for speech. From time to time she heard Violet weeping, but neither her mother nor her father came to see her.

Then, after so much silence and her mother’s occasional weeping, came the sound of an automobile on the cobblestone driveway, the door opening, then the murmur of subdued voices. With trepidation, Lily slipped from her room and crept to the balustrade, looking out between the posts.

Below, in the vast hall, was a small black casket, and she saw Charles lying there on ruched satin. His mouth was delicately red, his cheeks pink, and his dark hair curled about his face. He looked so lifelike, she almost cried out, Charles, you’re not dead! You’re just pretending!

But he was, and the heavy scent of hundreds of white gardenias wafted upward, making her ill. She ran to the bathroom and vomited, then stood drenched in perspiration. She felt so dreadfully sick, she knew she must be dying.

But she had survived, and the next day she was ordered to dress for the funeral. She could scarcely bear it. At the gravesite, the smell of the gardenias almost made her sick again. Oh, why hadn’t she died instead of Charles? She sobbed uncontrollably until the tiny casket was lowered into the grave, when once more she was rescued by merciful oblivion.

It wasn’t until another week passed that her father spoke to her. Towering over her like the wrath of God, he spoke quietly and deliberately. Even though you may have meant no harm, you are responsible for this terrible tragedy. Your mother is totally destroyed. She will recover faster perhaps if she doesn’t have to face you. I think it would be best if we send you away to school. Then, as a fresh wave of grief washed over him, he added, Right now I too would be glad never to lay eyes on you again.

Lily willed herself not to hear those devastating words, not to remember them. But they left a scar that never healed.

Enrolled at Madame Sauvier’s, a school for girls in Lucerne, she was unable to forget the past. Although her room looked out on a vivid blue lake, surrounded by Alps, beneath which was a green pasture with yellow buttercups, she saw little of the beauty. Her eyes were always clouded by the past. There was no reprieve. Her nights were filled with anguish, and her days were spent in loneliness. She was too withdrawn to make friends. It was too painful for her to try to play with the other girls whose families loved them and cared about them. As children will, they whispered about her behind her back, and Lily shrank from them, knowing herself to be an outcast.

Her parents saw her twice a year. On her birthday, and at Christmas, but their visits were coldly formal and they never suggested she return home. Had it not been for Randolph, she would have been utterly friendless. He wrote regularly and after a year he actually came to see her. He was with his parents in France and took the train alone to come to Lucerne. It was the happiest day of her life when she met him at the station with the inevitable chaperone.

Lily, Lily, Lily—I’m so happy to see you! he said, lifting her up and twirling her around.

He tucked her hand in his as they ran to the village, the chaperone trailing behind them. Walking the narrow streets, Lily saw the real beauty of Switzerland for the first time.

As she sat across from him at the pâtisserie, sipping her hot chocolate, he observed her eyes above the rim of her cup. The brutality she had endured at her parents’ hands was scored in their expression. She had been wounded, as surely as if she’d been struck. Randolph raged silently at the waste. Couldn’t her parents see how beautiful and sensitive Lily was? He had always hated the way Uncle Charles and Aunt Violet had favored Charles, but it seemed incredible that they could blame her for the little boy’s death. He resented his own parents for not intervening.

Lily, how are you? he said, taking her hand.

Fine, Randolph, really. Fine. Lily smiled, but her eyes remained sad. She seemed so beaten.

Have you made any friends yet? he asked gently.

No, she shrugged, a little hopelessly. They don’t seem to like me much. I guess it must be my fault.

That’s not true, Lily, he said softly. You’re the most lovable girl in the world.

No one else seems to think so.

You’re wrong, Lily. Your parents do.

Lily looked at him incredulously.

Well, even if they don’t, Lily, I do. I’ve always loved you, ever since we were little.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she quickly brushed them away. Do you, Randolph? Even with these glasses, and the bands on my teeth, and my red hair?

Especially your red hair, he laughed.

Over the years, Randolph’s visits and the knowledge that he loved her slowly repaired Lily’s self-esteem. She began to do more things with the other girls and gradually made a few friends. By the time she finished Madame Sauvier’s and went to the College of the Holy Sepulchre in Bern, she had come out of her shell. She even had a best friend, Colette Valois.

The two girls were totally different. Lily was five feet six, with pale skin and flaming red hair. Colette was four feet eleven, with olive skin and dark brown curls. Her parents referred to her as their précieuse poupée. She giggled and bubbled. Life had been good to her. She was the youngest of five, her four older brothers ranging from twenty to thirty, all tall and handsome.

You are beautiful, Lily, said Colette. "When the braces come off your teeth, you will be magnifique."

Lily laughed. I don’t think that getting rid of my overbite will bring about a miracle.

"You will see, chérie—Colette has plans for you."

She was right. When the bands Lily had worn for four years were removed, her mouth was perfectly sculptured, her teeth white and even. True to her word, Colette whisked her off to Paris, where her mother spent two days transforming the awkward schoolgirl into a swan. Her hair was styled, her face made up, her nails manicured, and even her eyebrows plucked. Then Colette took her to her favorite couturier and made her buy a wardrobe that really set off her slender height. That evening as Lily dressed for dinner, she saw herself as she really was, and not through her parents’ eyes. And the girl who gazed back at her from the mirror was truly beautiful. She had a delicate heart-shaped face with provocative cheekbones, and the emerald eyes which had always been hidden behind glasses and bangs were large and luminous. Her body, which just last week had seemed gangling, was now slim and lovely in her new dress which showed just enough rounded bosom to make her desirably feminine.

When she went downstairs she flung her arms around Colette’s mother, but she knew she would never be able to thank her enough.

Chapter 3

UPON GRADUATION, LILY ASKED permission to stay abroad with cousins who lived near the Valois in Paris. It had taken little persuasion on her part for Charles and Violet to say yes. With their lack of blessings, she closed her eyes and found herself catapulted into a glamorous new world of excitement of holidays in Biarritz, skiing in Gstaad, and weekends in the country outside of Paris. She was no longer protected by the strict rules of a Catholic school, and men began to pursue her. Most were impoverished aristocracy and they weren’t seduced just by Lily’s beauty. One had to be smart to secure one’s future these days and her money was worth more than their titles. Who cared about coronets anymore, except for their value in securing a wealthy American wife? Still, her dazzling looks made the chase all the more exciting and she was soon considered one of the most desirable American women in Paris.

For the next year or two, Lily was wined and dined in almost every European capital. She had more proposals than she could count—but her answer was always no. She had yet to fall in love. Each time a man aroused her feelings, she pulled away. She found she could not give herself, emotionally or physically. Had her parents’ rejection permanently crippled her feelings? Having never been loved, was she incapable of loving? The thought frightened her. She wanted to be loved, to have a family, children of her own.

She was celebrating her twenty-first birthday at the Valois’ villa in Cannes. Corks were popping and the champagne flowed, but Lily felt somehow detached. Doubts about her ability to love and be loved continued to plague her as she wandered out onto the terrace, then into another pavilion.

The previous day she had received an unexpected letter—one from her parents, whom she hadn’t heard from in months. After all these years, at last they had written for her to come back.

It is time for you to return home, Lily. You must settle down. We have forgiven you. Your place is here, not roaming around in a foreign country….

Until she received the letter, Lily had thought of herself as being beyond shock, but her parents’ letter had stunned her. Why did they want her back? For what reason? Had she unwittingly done something to redeem herself? They had been perfectly content not to see her for long periods of time. Had they suddenly come to realize now that she had not been responsible for the death of Charles? In the next week, Lily kept asking herself over and over: Was it possible—she was almost afraid to think it—that they regretted their treatment of her?

Lily had changed from the stumbling, unsure creature who had been sent away to school. She was now full of grace and, though she little realized it, beauty. For as much as she thrived abroad, she was gradually becoming aware of a feeling that she didn’t belong there either. Europe had always somehow been a strange and foreign world—one that she never truly felt a part of. Now, with this missive from home calling her back, Lily found herself only too glad to go. She was filled with an overwhelming sense of longing to return to her home.

It made no sense, perhaps, to go back to a home where she had been so miserably unwanted and lonely, and yet, for reasons she could not articulate, Lily knew that was where she wanted to be.

She had always hungered for her parents to love and forgive her. Perhaps the time had come when it would happen—at last.

As she got up and walked back into the villa, she had made her decision—she would leave for home as soon as she could book passage.

Yet as she stood at the rail of the Ile de France and waved down to Colette standing below, the moment was bittersweet. Europe, after all, had been the only home she’d known for years and years. Tears streamed down her cheeks unchecked as she bid her dearest friend and the land of her youth adieu.

At home the reunion with her parents was strained and awkward. Years of brief visits had forged little common ground. After a couple of strained dinners with their daughter the elder Goodhues resumed their social life, leaving Lily to amuse herself as best she could at home. It seemed any hopes for a real relationship with her parents were not about to materialize.

Lily wandered through the house as though seeing it for the first time. Outside Charles’s old room she hesitated. Then, taking a deep breath, she opened the door. Her parents had kept everything exactly as it had been the day he died. They had even hung his small jodhpurs over the end of the bed. Dear Charles, she thought. I loved you too much to ever have hurt you. She walked back into the corridor and closed the door.

Two weeks later she received the first hint of what had prompted her father’s decision to bring her home. She was at a dinner party seated next to Roger Humphreys, the son of one of her father’s best friends. Glancing down the table she saw that she was finally earning her parents’ approval. Not because of her sweetness of character, but because she exuded glamour and beauty. Colette would have been proud. Lily was a beauty. The candlelight played upon the delicate bloom of her cheeks, and her faintly accented English enchanted not just Roger but the whole table. Suddenly it dawned on Lily that she had been brought home to make a good match and provide her father with an heir to the family fortune. Strangely enough, Lily found herself not resenting that. It seemed only fitting that she, as their daughter, should marry well.

After that first dinner her social success was assured. She was immediately in a whirl of activity.

Weekends were spent visiting neighbors in Southampton, playing tennis at Forest Hills, or sailing off Cape Cod. But wherever she went, Roger Humphreys seemed to be present. His all-American good looks were the antithesis of the fine, drawn Europeans who had courted her in France, his blunt manner the opposite of their suave flattery. She found him refreshing and was intrigued by his Boston accent, his Harvard degree, and his athletic prowess. He never tried to make love to her, but although she was surprised, she assumed that it was an American kind of restraint, a trait which she rather admired. So she was completely unprepared for Roger’s embrace one day when they were forced to seek shelter in the boathouse. Lily, he blurted out, I’m in love with you. I want you to be my wife.

She caught her breath. She had never thought of Roger in terms of romance. He was a pleasant companion, charming and good-looking to be sure, but she had felt no stirring of emotion when she was with him.

For a second she was shocked into silence. Then she stammered, Roger, you’ve caught me by surprise. I’ll have to think about it.

I wish you would, Lily, he said, squeezing her hand. We would make such a good team.

Team? My goodness, they could play touch football or row together to Hyannis Port. Her trepidation was almost replaced by laughter.

Of course, Lily had no way of knowing that her destiny had already been determined. Even while she was still in Paris, Charles Goodhue had invited Roger’s father, Jason, to lunch at the Harvard Club. Before Lily had even sailed for home, Charles and Jason had laid their plans for a merger between the children. Both fathers had agreed to press for an engagement—and then marriage—as soon as possible. A week later, while Lily was still on the Atlantic, Jason Humphreys invited his son to lunch with the same purpose in mind.

After ordering, Jason took a sip of his drink and began: You know, Roger, you are twenty-six years old, and it’s time you settled down. I have a lovely young girl that I’d like you to meet.

Look, Father, I’m sure that she’s a lovely girl, but I’m not ready to get married.

Now Roger, I want you to listen. You know, I had lunch with Charles Goodhue last week, and he tells me that his daughter, Lily, is returning from Europe. From everything Charles tells me, she would make a perfect wife.

But Father …

Jason held up his hand. I’m not interested in your protests, Roger. Let’s face it. This girl is the Goodhues’ only child, and you know how much the Goodhue Rubber Company is worth. Someday she’ll inherit it all.

But Father, I haven’t even met her, and you’re planning a wedding already.

That’s correct, Roger. Every young woman your mother and I have suggested you have rejected. Now it’s time to grow up.

Why don’t you just let us meet and see if we even like one another?

I’m not going to let Lily Goodhue slip through your fingers. There are going to be a hundred men after her fortune the second she reaches New York. You’re our only son and you have an obligation to the family to marry well.

Roger sat in silent rebellion. Why was he cursed with four sisters, so that the burden of carrying on the family name fell to him? I’m not ready to be tied down, he thought. I’m only twenty-six!

But as he stared across the table at his father, he realized that he no longer had any choice. People were already beginning to wonder why he never had a steady girl. He knew he would have to marry soon, like it or not, and the unknown Lily certainly had the right qualifications. Later, after he met her, he decided he was probably a very lucky man. Lily was very beautiful, and he found himself actually liking her; she was unaffected and easygoing and when he was with her she was almost like one of the boys. But seeing how the other men hovered about her, he knew he couldn’t delay and he took advantage of the time alone in the boathouse to blurt out his proposal.

Lily went home perplexed. Although she was grateful that Roger had not demonstrated any great passion for her, she thought it odd that he did no more than peck her on the cheek. Even if it was America, she didn’t think men were all that different. Despite his clear blue eyes and thick sandy hair and strong, even features, she knew she was not in love with him, and she would have no trouble deciding about his proposal.

Chapter 4

THE NEXT MORNING LILY went down to breakfast with a light heart. At last she felt she was the child her parents wanted and she was expecting to entertain them with the scene in the boathouse. She gave them a laughing account, concluding: Of course, I wouldn’t think of accepting him.

Charles brought his spoon to his lips and took a bite of soft-boiled egg. Dabbing his lips with his napkin, he said, And why not, my dear?

She wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. Did you ask me why not?

Coldly he enunciated, I did, indeed.

In less than a second, Lily was again the terrified eleven-year-old Charles had sent away. Gone entirely was the confident woman.

Because I don’t love him, she stammered.

Lily, darling, said her mother warningly, love comes with marriage and children.

Lily stared blindly at her plate. How could she have been so foolish? It was obvious her parents didn’t care about her feelings. But even so, why were they rushing her? There were plenty of young men, and she was just twenty-one….

Your mother is quite right, Lily, said Charles. There is plenty of time for you to learn to love after the wedding. The point is, he will be an excellent husband. His family is as wealthy as ours, and he would be a careful steward of the fortune you will inherit.

In a voice that brooked no argument, Violet added, Be sensible, Lily dear. You may be very pretty, but looks can fade fast. If you are to marry and have children you must do it soon, and men as eligible as Roger do not grow on trees.

But I’m not in love with him! Lily cried. Not the least bit!

Violet was becoming exasperated. You’re being ridiculous! Is there anyone else you fancy yourself in love with?

No, but perhaps that’s because Roger has been by my side ever since I’ve returned. We seem to have become an ‘item’ without my even realizing it.

Look, Lily, said Violet. Roger will be an ideal husband. You should take it as a compliment that he wishes to take you as his wife.

Devastated, Lily tried to hold back her tears. Why Roger Humphreys? Of all the men she had met, why him? He was wealthy, but there were other wealthy men. Suddenly, a startling thought came to her: Her parents had planned this all along. That was why they had called her back from Europe, to arrange this marriage. It seemed incredible, but she couldn’t shake the suspicion.

Lily went through the day feeling once again a stranger in her own home. The thought of saying yes to Roger was unthinkable but as the days passed she knew she could not live with her parents’ cold disapproval either. Charles totally ignored her, while Violet bombarded her with ceaseless arguments.

It didn’t occur to Lily to leave home. No young woman from her social circle took her own apartment, and she wasn’t trained for a career. As the weeks since Roger’s proposal became a month, she began to feel she had no choice but to marry him. He was attractive and devoted and he would be a reliable husband and a good father. In the end she couldn’t bear her parents’ anger any longer. All the time she had been in Europe she had built defenses against this lack of affection. Now at home she found their cruelty had once again reduced her to a timid child. The more she thought about it, she decided that an early marriage was the only solution. It would give her a home of her own, and above all, children. So without really analyzing her feelings, she made her commitment.

Perhaps Violet was right, she would develop a deeper affection for Roger after they were married, and perhaps love was not the integral ingredient in marriage anyway. After all, Europeans usually married for practical reasons, and their marriages appeared eminently satisfactory. But the main reason behind her decision was the deep-seated feeling that because of what had happened to little Charles, she owed it to her parents. It was with these thoughts that Lily finally accepted Roger’s proposal and, ironically, from that moment on she became happy with her decision. She began to fall in love, if not with Roger, with the idea of getting married. She became so caught up in the excitement of buying her trousseau and planning the wedding that she ignored the reality of what she was doing until the day of her engagement party. It was then that she walked out into the garden to have a few moments to herself to consider what she had done. And it was there on the bench that Roger, having missed her on the dance floor, came to find her.

Where have you been, Lily? he asked as they walked back toward the house.

She answered laughingly. Why? Did you miss me?

He hesitated before saying, Yes, yes, of course.

She took his hand and turned to him, longing for him to crush her in his arms. Winding her arms around his neck, she said, Roger, darling—kiss me.

She tilted up her face, her eyes closed. His lips pressed hers briefly, almost casually, and she was conscious of a painful disappointment. It had seemed so important that she elicit a passionate response from him and she had been sure that this was the moment.

But Roger was already signaling a waiter for another glass of champagne. You know, tomorrow I’m going to be away for the Cup races, he said. Of course, you’re more than welcome to come, if you like.

Trying to hide her frustration, she said evenly, I don’t think so. You’ll be busy and won’t need me to distract you.

Yes, it’s going to be quite a race, he said, and I’m not letting Kennedy get away with the Cup—not this year.

I hope so, for your sake, she said sadly as they went back in to dance. They didn’t have a chance to talk again until the large double doors closed on their last guest.

It was a great party, Lily, Roger said as her parents went upstairs. And you looked beautiful.

Thank you. That’s sweet of you to say, Roger.

Well, I mean it. Now what are you going to do with yourself while I’m away?

Well, Mother and Father are leaving for Paris in the morning, and I’m driving down to see them off. Then I’m staying at Aunt Margaret’s. Randolph wants me to go to the opera.

Roger kissed her good-bye, promising to call if he had time. After he left she stood alone in the echoing hall, feeling utterly deflated. Her parents were leaving, Roger was leaving, once again she felt abandoned.

Sighing, she went up to bed. At least there was tomorrow with Randolph to look forward to, she thought, and suddenly some of the sadness lifted.

Chapter 5

THE NEXT DAY AT noon, Violet and Charles’s luggage was stowed in the back of the black Duesenberg; the steamer trunks had already been sent. Having spent the morning in bed, prostrate from smiling at all her friends at the party, Violet came downstairs in good spirits. She was looking forward to ordering Lily’s trousseau from her own dressmaker in the Rue de la Paix. As they rolled along toward Manhattan, she indulged herself in a happy little daydream. It would be the most lavish wedding in the history of New York City.

St. Patrick’s would be filled with flowers—exotic orchids flown in from Brazil, roses from France, and of course lilies. The sanctuary would be filled with everybody who was anybody in society. The bridesmaids—twelve of them, just as in her own wedding—would wear peau de soie in the latest French style and the Fanchon bridal gown would be a vision in Alençon lace and seed pearls. And in the dream the bride was no longer a tall, willowy redhead, but a petite feminine Southern belle…. Violet closed her eyes and smiled.

When the whistle blew for visitors to go ashore from the Berengaria, Violet kissed her daughter with real affection. Lily had provided a way for Violet to relive her own girlhood. And Charles seemed so much happier these days. Roger would be a perfect son-in-law and, with God’s blessings, there would be many grandsons.

Lily stood beside Randolph and his mother as the huge ship pulled away from the dock. For some reason seeing her parents leave for two months made her sad.

Cheer up, cousin, Randolph said, giving her a comforting hug. This evening you and I are going to paint the town red!

As they drove through the streets of Manhattan, Lily felt the emerald weighing heavily on her finger. Impulsively, she slipped it off and put it into her handbag. Somehow, tonight, she didn’t want to be engaged. She wanted to be free, and carefree, and unencumbered. As Randolph had said, they would paint the town red.

Opening night at the Metropolitan was the gala initiation of the social season, and nothing could have been more exciting than seeing the dazzling array of New York’s privileged social set emerging from their polished limousines and chauffeur-driven Rolls.

The ladies had outdone themselves in obeisance to the latest fashion word. Slender and not-so-slender bodies were wrapped and tied and bowed in chiffons, silks, and brocades. Enormous gems sparkled on fingers and dangled from wrists. Furs were draped casually across bare arms. The men were correctly and uniformly attired in white tie and tails. They served as mere foils for the couturiered birds of paradise.

Lily peered through the window of the Rolls-Royce as the chauffeur pulled up in front of the marquee. She felt as if she were floating up the grand staircase on Randolph’s arm, so mesmerized was she by the spectacle. Although she had frequented the Opéra in Paris, the Met seemed even more opulent than that. There was a special kind of magic, as the operagoers promenaded back and forth and milled around. Lily wondered with a smile if this weren’t the real show.

That night there was a stellar cast—Pinza, Tibbett, and Müller—and the electricity in the air, the excitement engendered, permeated the crowd and the very stratosphere. As Lily mounted the staircase to Randolph’s box she glimpsed a tall, extraordinarily handsome young man, but what captured her attention even more than his startling good looks was his exasperated expression. What, she wondered, was there in this happy scene to annoy him so?

In fact, it was the lengthy absence of his date. Where in the hell was Claudia? What did women do in a powder room, aside from the obvious?

Heaving a sigh, he turned and caught Lily’s eye.