The Wedding Veil(79)

I walked up beside Babs and started chopping the onion on the cutting board. She nodded toward a pair of filled champagne flutes sitting on the counter, and I grabbed one and handed her the other.

We clinked our glasses. “To true love, in every form it takes,” said Babs.

“To true love.” Two months ago, “true love” would have meant Hayes, wedding vows, and a happily ever after. But, right now, I realized, I couldn’t think of anyone I loved more truly than the woman standing right beside me.





CORNELIA A Rotten Egg

October 9, 1933





Rose’s sitting room was one of Cornelia’s favorite places in the world. It was cozy and homey, with dark wood and low ceilings, comfortable furniture, and today, as there was a bit of a nip in the air, a roaring fire.

“How do you do it?” Cornelia asked Rose. “How is it that you have always seemed so very content?”

Rose laughed, setting her coffee cup on the wooden end table. Her long-sleeved floral dress was simple but flattered the curves that four children had lent her five-foot-two-inch frame. Cornelia eclipsed her in height, but, she was realizing, maybe not in wisdom.

“It’s just my nature, Nelly,” she said. “I’ve never wanted much, and I’ve always felt happy.”

Cornelia was bathing in shame now. “I’m sorry, Rose. What you must think of me. Poor little girl with the largest home in America, two healthy, beautiful sons, and a doting husband.”

Rose laughed and leaned forward, her short hair, curled around her ears, staying put. “Nell, I know you better than most anyone, I’d daresay. You are a lovely person. Fun, vivacious, bright, outgoing—but you’ve never been one to feel terribly settled. You have a lot, but you haven’t found what makes you happy. And that’s okay. You’re young. There’s time. You don’t need to worry about becoming the woman you were meant to be just yet.”

Cornelia felt that Rose had hit the nail on the head. How she had tried. She had hoped marriage and children would make her happy like they had Rose. Then she had hoped that service to others would fill her cup, like it had for her mother. Or that throwing herself into the preservation of Biltmore would be the thing, like it was for Jack. Or maybe it was in big parties and good times, like it was for Bunchy. But, alas, Cornelia still hadn’t found her place.

Why couldn’t she just be happy?

Painting had helped over the last few years but maybe it wasn’t quite right. “I hope I don’t need to worry,” Cornelia said. “But I hate to tell you: thirty-three isn’t so young.” She paused. “Did I tell you I’ve started writing?”

“You have?” Rose said. “Like, a journal? Or stories? Or what?”

“A story,” Cornelia said. She didn’t add that her quest to find a publisher wasn’t going so well.

“Oh! Is that why you were in New York last week? Tell me all about it. Let me pretend I went with you.”

“I wish you had. I stayed in the newly completed Waldorf Astoria. It was glorious.” She took a sip of tea. “Did I tell you Mother had leased our house in New York?”

Rose shook her head. Telling other friends these details might feel embarrassing. But Cornelia could always be honest with Rose. “And I finally rode down the 600 block of Fifth Avenue, where the Cornelius Vanderbilt II House used to be.”

Rose’s eyes went wide. “And it’s gone? Leveled?”

Cornelia nodded. “The taxes were just too much.” She shrugged. “Maybe it’s for the best. People hate the rich so much now. Those monstrosities were simply taunting them. I think it’s slightly better here, but I hate the idea of what people think about my family and me now.”

“They don’t even know you,” Rose said. “If they don’t like you, they have never met you and experienced your kindness for themselves.”

Cornelia tried to let herself be cheered by her friend’s statement. “Well, at any rate, the house wasn’t ours. But it’s sad to think of it being gone all the same.”

“Just like all the grand estates in Britain that have been leveled to ashes—” Rose abruptly cut herself off.

Cornelia saw the flash in Rose’s eyes that meant she wished she hadn’t said that. Now they were both thinking of Biltmore.

“I’m proud of you, dear one,” Rose said, changing the subject. “You have so much talent, and I know you’ll find your happiness. Now, tell me more about all this time you’ve been spending in New York.”

Looking around Rose’s quaint and cozy home, life in New York seemed a world away. Cornelia shrugged, not wanting to seem like she preferred her life there to her life here. But did she? It was hard to tell. “I’ve been surrounding myself with the most incredible visionaries, Rose. Artists and painters, writers and sculptors, actors and playwrights. And you can’t even imagine all I’ve learned about numerology.” She paused and put her finger up. “I had a numerologist I met work up your numbers. It is a fascinating and telling report and so spot on, I think. You’ll see.”

Cornelia noticed the bewildered look on her friend’s face and stopped talking. Of course, this was all a lot to take in. It was an entirely different world. Even still, Rose was always her safe place. Like coming home. “Remember those days when we used to run down to the creamery?” she asked, changing the subject. “When our biggest worry was choosing between peach and strawberry?”