The Wedding Veil(85)
I set my phone in the cup holder and looked at the man who just kept surprising me. “I feel like walking. Do you?” I asked.
Miles wordlessly stepped out of the cart, and as we made our way down the gentle, winding sidewalk of Summer Acres, my legs stretching and my heart full, I wondered if, after all the life I had lived, love was even possible. But, for the first time since Reid had died, I felt like I was ready to find out.
EDITH The Helm
March 21, 1934
As Edith waited in the grand banquet hall for her daughter—and their meeting about Biltmore—it was the first time she noticed it: “The proportions of this table are absurd.”
Jack laughed. “You think so?”
Of course, the room itself was ridiculous, and the table only matched its ludicrousness.
Judge Adams chimed in. “For a dinner party of sixty-seven, it feels right, cozy even.”
They all laughed. For this small party of four, it felt mad. The space across the table was so large, the room so cavernous with its seventy-foot-high barrel ceiling, that even the giant tapestries and rugs were dwarfed by its enormous size. Even still, the acoustics were perfect. One of Bunchy and Cornelia’s favorite activities as girls was to sit at either end of the mammoth table and hold a conversation in their normal voices. They could hear each other as well as if they were sitting side by side.
“We’re glad you’re here today,” Judge Adams said warmly. Cornelia often complained of his chilliness to the staff, but Edith didn’t see it.
For years, it had been Jack, Edith, and Judge Adams at the helm of this ship. Then Cornelia, when her time came, had taken charge, and, Edith, who had become president of the Women’s Congressional Club, and who continued her vast volunteer and greater-good efforts—in addition to the entertaining that befit a senator’s wife, of course—had stepped away from Biltmore. Truth be told, for years after that fateful night in the library, when she told George of her plans to remarry—the night she quit hearing his voice—returning to Biltmore had pained her. It had become easier over the years. If time didn’t heal all wounds, it at least dulled them. But even when Edith most wanted to walk away from the estate, she didn’t. She persevered for George’s memory. For her daughter. For her grandsons’ futures.
For the past several months, after what Edith gathered was a dreadful and slightly embarrassing meeting with a publisher in New York, Cornelia had been in a phase where she had thrust herself into Biltmore and its success, its care and keeping. She had gone so far as to personally help the maids and Mr. Noble repair upholstery, polish furniture, and procure replacement fabrics so that more rooms could be opened, more money made on tour tickets. She had accompanied Judge Adams on his rounds to the tenant farmers—something he’d hated so clearly that Edith had to hide her chuckles when he pretended to be delighted by it—and given them tips she had read about how to increase their yields and, thus, their profits. From any other lady of the house, this might have been met with eye rolls and sighs. But the farmers trusted Cornelia. They had grown up with her, counted on her, believed in her. They knew she had their best interests at heart.
Edith admired Cornelia’s attention to the estate and all she was doing. “I’m very happy to be here,” Edith said, glancing down at her watch. Where was her daughter? Edith still attended these meetings when she happened to be in Asheville, but Cornelia had asked them to gather today for some sort of announcement, she presumed about Biltmore. “So what do we think the lady of the manor has in store for us today?” Edith asked Jack, somewhat warily. He gave Edith a tight smile and shook his head.
“I haven’t wanted to worry you…” he started, trailing off. That is perhaps the single phrase that makes a mother worry most. Edith’s heart began to race. She hadn’t seen her daughter in several months, but she had assumed that all was well. Or, at least, better.
“She might be in need of some psychiatric attendance.” Judge Adams cleared his throat ominously.
Jack cut his eyes at the judge. “You could attempt to be less harsh. This is my wife we’re talking about.”
“And my daughter,” Edith chimed in. “I thought she was doing so well!”
Edith had had a talk with her daughter three months ago over Christmas in which Cornelia had asked, “Mother, haven’t you ever just wanted something more for yourself? Haven’t you ever dreamed a bigger dream?”
Edith had been taken aback. “Well, yes, of course.” She felt herself bristle. “In case you haven’t noticed, I have dedicated my life to the service of others and raised a daughter to do much the same. Haven’t I?”
Cornelia had sighed. “Sure, sure, Mother. And someone has to be the best dressed lady in Washington.”
Edith had been proud of that nickname, but now the comment—in which Cornelia was clearly demeaning her mother’s purpose—stung. Cornelia must have seen it in Edith’s face. “I’m sorry, Mother. Yes. Yes, of course you have dedicated your life to service. It’s just that Biltmore is Daddy’s. You have your political life and all your causes. I want something to call my own.”
Edith had wanted to protest that Cornelia had two of the most charming children she had ever met, that she had a husband who adored her, a mother who worshipped her, the grandest home in America. She had founded the first female polo league; she was a world-class sportswoman. She was admired locally for her art. What else did she need? It wasn’t like Edith to back away from speaking the truth. But something told her that her words would be falling on deaf ears. How devastated poor George would be to know that his legacy felt like such a burden to his daughter.