The Wedding Veil(61)
Cornelia had never had much interest in numbers until that night.
Now, as she scrubbed the paint from underneath her fingernails, she realized something: Maybe it was her father’s proclamation that the numbers would never lead her astray that had so thoroughly enmeshed her in her fascination with numerology. The art she was creating wasn’t fixed or unchanging. But the numbers were. And twenty-five—her age now—was the number of introspection. So perhaps that was the reason why she had felt so contemplative and restless lately. But Cornelia knew that introspection often led to transformation. Was she ready for that? She had hoped that being in this place connected her to her father would help her find the answers she was looking for. But, instead, Cornelia felt she had only found more questions.
As the sun continued to rise, she made her way through the house, down the main house stairs, and up the bachelors’ wing steps to her room. She didn’t need to get dressed for this post-birthday ritual, but she did comb her hair at least. Then she opened the newspaper on top of the stack that was left for Jack each morning.
She didn’t have to read long before she felt the anger rising in her. She made her way downstairs to the banquet hall, still seething even when she saw her mother and husband already seated at the table, waiting for her. Cornelia slammed the newspaper down on the breakfast table.
“Cornelia Vanderbilt Gets $15,000,000,” the Evening News blared up at them.
She watched Edith and Jack share a glance.
“It’s very déclassé,” Edith said.
“It’s like when they printed that you didn’t get your fortune if we didn’t live at Biltmore,” Jack agreed. “Untrue and absurd.”
“Nelly,” Edith said. “Sit down, please. You love your birthday breakfast. Let’s not ruin it.”
Cornelia, remembering again that it was indeed her special weekend—not to mention that she would receive her fortune, even if it wasn’t all of $15,000,000—softened.
“Why is this a tradition again?” Jack asked.
“Ah, well,” Edith started, “the morning after Cornelia’s birthday party when she was growing up, breakfast would be served right here in the banquet hall even though the big table was usually reserved for large fetes and important guests.” She smiled. “At the request of the birthday girl, of course.”
Cornelia smiled as she sat down. “My legs didn’t even touch the floor when we started these breakfasts,” she said, laughing, remembering swinging her feet as her pancakes were served. “It was the only day of the year that all of us—Daddy included—dined in our nightclothes.”
Jack pointed to his robe, as though making a statement about how he was following protocol.
“We would talk about the birthday party we’d had the day before, who was there, what they’d worn. Even Daddy would joke about who had the prettiest bow or party dress.”
The year George died, Cornelia figured the tradition would die too. But she had woken up the morning of her fourteenth birthday and, for old times’ sake, ventured down into the banquet hall just to stand there, to feel small in the massive room with its lofty ceilings, grand organ pipes, intricate hanging tapestries and game mounts. She wanted to, like when she was little, tiptoe on the herringbone floor to see if she could cross the room without stepping on a single crack. She wanted to stand there for just a few moments and think about her father. She had been surprised—and truly delighted—to see her mother sitting at the set table, in her usual spot, waiting for her. Her father’s place was set, too, though it was empty, of course. Her mother gestured to the place setting. “In case he wants to come,” she’d said. Cornelia had smiled.
Cornelia grew contemplative now as she looked over at the set but conspicuously empty spot at the head of the table. Cornelia had had moments since George’s death where she was sure he was there with her. She knew her mother had too.
Jack squeezed Cornelia’s hand. “Well, according to tradition, let’s talk about your birthday party.”
“Everyone else is,” Mr. Noble said, as he entered the dining room, handing Cornelia the Asheville newspaper.
She rolled her eyes. “Not again.”
When she was younger, the prying eyes of the press had felt normal, ordinary. Lately, however, it had begun to drive her crazy. Perhaps it had started when she and Jack were courting, and more than one argument had begun because of some false speculation presented by one of the papers. It had created a life where, everywhere she went, she was convinced someone was talking about her. And now that she was the official mistress of Biltmore, she knew it was only going to get worse.
“I can’t even have a simple birthday party without it making headlines?” she asked.
“Well, my love, at the risk of further angering you, ‘simple’ might be a bit of an understatement,” Jack said.
Edith hid her laugh behind her hand.
Cornelia, even in her annoyed state, had to smile. Perhaps her pair of birthday parties weren’t simple exactly.
Two days before, Edith had stood behind Cornelia, draping a strand of pearls around her daughter’s elegant neck to help her get ready for perhaps the most important birthday of her life. Because this birthday, she was becoming mistress of Biltmore. It would all be hers. She loved that her father had left the house to her, even though she wasn’t a son. She thought of her own tiny son, who was sleeping in the nursery, having this same honor one day.