The Wedding Veil(20)

Time seemed to stand still as Edith wrapped her arms around Cornelia, her own tears choking her. Minutes later, Dr. Mitchell, the family’s physician, arrived to confirm what they already knew: George was gone.

It was as if Cornelia could feel a part of herself slipping away too. Who would read to her now? Talk to her about art and music, study the globe and imagine all the places they would visit next? And, one day, when she was quite grown up, who would walk her down the aisle at her wedding? Cornelia began to feel faint. If it weren’t for her mother’s strong arms holding her up, she felt certain she would have collapsed onto the floor.

It wasn’t until days later, when Edith and Cornelia were on a train for New York to bury George, that Cornelia finally asked, “If you go too, Mother, what shall become of me?”

Edith took Cornelia’s hand sympathetically. “I’m not going anywhere, darling. It’s you and me against the world now.”

“But what if, Mother?” Cornelia could feel the heat rising in her face. Did her mother not even have a plan?

“You have Aunt Pauline, Aunt Natalie, and Aunt Susan to look after you, sweetheart. But I promise, nothing’s going to happen to me.”

Somewhat pacified by the thought that she did, indeed, have plenty of family and that they wouldn’t leave her alone on a street corner to rot if the worst happened, Cornelia then asked, “Why isn’t Daddy being buried at Biltmore? It was the place he loved most. It’s the place where we will be.”

Edith smiled sadly at her daughter. “Because the Vanderbilts are all buried in the family mausoleum at the bottom of Todt Hill.”

“Where the Commodore grew up,” Cornelia confirmed, hesitantly. She had heard so many stories about her larger-than-life great-grandfather, the railroad tycoon and purveyor of the Vanderbilt fortune. How different he seemed from her own kind and caring daddy. “But we can’t go see him there, Mother.”

“I know, Nelly. But Daddy spent so much time, money, and energy designing the mausoleum that I know it’s what he would have wanted. His family is in the mausoleum, and he should be too.”

“We are his family, Mother.”

Indeed they were. “When you get back to school—” she started.

“No!” Cornelia interrupted. “No, Mother, please don’t make me go back. I want to go to Biltmore. That’s where I can be with Daddy.” Feeling absolutely overcome with despair, she added, “It would have been better if we had all died on the Titanic.”

“Cornelia!” Edith scolded. “Don’t say such a thing. Your father would never have wanted something so awful to happen. He would be grateful that we are safe.”

Not two years earlier, in 1912, the family was slated to be aboard the maiden voyage of the unsinkable ship. At the last minute, Edith had felt such a nagging need to avoid the world’s most glamorous and exciting boat that she persuaded George that it would be more fun to go home on the Olympic with George’s niece and her husband instead; they could all dine together at night. It would be grand. George had been sulky that they wouldn’t be on the prestigious maiden voyage that everyone was talking about—until news of the Titanic broke.

“Your mother saved us,” he had told Cornelia. “You must listen to her because she always knows best.”

Cornelia leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes, picturing herself singing and laughing with her father, reading on the loggia beside him, losing herself in his vast library with him by her side, instructing her on what to read next. More than K Street, more than New York, Biltmore was home; Biltmore was him. The thought of going back to school, even with all her friends there, felt terribly lonely. At Biltmore, she could ride mules with her friend Rose, take Cedric and Snow, the giant St. Bernards who were as gentle as lambs, for walks in Biltmore Village. There were fewer parties and politics, fundraisers and teas. She could have her mother all to herself. Tears slid down her cheeks, escaping from beneath her closed lids. She wasn’t sure if that was what convinced her mother or perhaps something else, but Edith finally said, “All right. If it means that much to you, we will return to Biltmore as soon as Daddy is laid to rest.”

Laid to rest. Laid to rest. The words pinged around in Cornelia’s head for the rest of the train ride and then on the ferryboat that took her and Edith past the southern tip of the city to Todt Hill. She still couldn’t understand how her father could be buried in New York when the place he had created to rest was hundreds of miles away, in a magical forest of his own creation.





JULIA Buy a Ticket





As the morning sun streamed through the thatch-roofed dining hut where I was having my coffee and bagel, one of the resort cats tiptoed to a sliver of warmth, arched her back, stretched, and curled up in the triangle of light. I looked out over the white sand, toward the glittering sea, and smiled as a group of children tipped their kayak over, squealing with delight. Their mother, who popped up directly after them, looked less thrilled.

The sun, waves, and gently swaying palm trees had lured me into a sense of contentment so deep that I could almost forget what a complete mess I had made of my life. And it had only been two days. I glanced at the clock in the dining hut and realized it was almost ten. I would have just enough time to scurry down the crushed-shell path to my treehouse room and slip on my bikini before paddleboard yoga began. Paddleboard yoga was my new favorite thing. I had paddleboarded before, sure. And one of the aftershocks of my architecture school dropout flail was undertaking my 250-hour yoga certification. But the brilliance of combining yoga and paddleboarding had never occurred to me—until yesterday. And now I was hooked.