The Wedding Veil(9)
“Yes, the magical inner workings of fate,” George said, contentedly.
Fate. Edith had to control her laugh at her husband’s mention of the word. But she had to ask, “Do you mean in regard to us?”
“Why, yes, of course.” He took his wife’s hand. “To think we both happened to board the St. Paul and had our paths cross in such a way that we knew we were meant for each other.”
Edith laughed. “I think everyone we’ve ever known was aboard the St. Paul,” she teased.
“Well, you were the one my meddling sisters set their sights on for me, so that has to mean something,” he teased back.
She laughed. George’s sisters had, she had later learned, known Edith would be aboard the ship and enticed George’s friend William B. Osgood Field to play matchmaker. If George wanted to call “fate” Field putting so much effort into the union that the papers had pronounced them engaged—well, then, yes, fate was wonderful indeed.
“Darling,” she said, “I do have to ask…”
His face lit up, and she sensed that he was expecting a question about Biltmore, which he would not be receiving. “Were my Christmas gifts to you unforgivably forward?”
The pair burst into laughter. After many intertwinements on the St. Paul—a few where Edith had to will herself not to be terribly seasick—and much time spent together in Paris, Edith had brazenly declared that if George Vanderbilt were the one for her, he had best decide quickly. As such, she had gifted him a copy of Quo Vadis, a love story in which George, a discerning reader, wouldn’t be able to help but see vestiges of his own love story—or potential love story, as it were—with Edith. Tucked beside it? A small book on patience. Even Susan, who was less than thrilled about her sister taking up with a Vanderbilt, had found the gesture terribly funny.
“I think they were appropriately forward, daughter of the Gods.”
“A genuine daughter of the Gods” was one of the many, many titles—some flattering, some less so—that the papers and magazines had pronounced her. George had found this particular proclamation from the Washington Times so appropriate that he had taken it for Edith’s nickname. It was, Edith had to admit, quite a bit more flattering than, say, the publication that mentioned she had America’s bluest blood but no actual money. After months of the papers talking perhaps as much about the Vanderbilt wedding plans as the Spanish-American War, Edith had had quite enough of everyone’s comments about her personal attributes, including but not limited to her height, proportions, facial features, hair, breeding, and intelligence.
It had reached the point that, one day, George had exclaimed to Edith, “You are my fiancée, not livestock!”
The papers had been slightly kinder to George—but only slightly. Speculation as to why he had never married ran wild and it seemed that all were in disbelief that the thirty-five-year-old confirmed bachelor was settling down.
“Particularly swarthy,” Edith replied, using her favorite nickname the papers had given her new husband, “I’m just glad I was able to catch your eye.”
“You caught it and it is yours.” George smiled warmly as the train car pulled into the station.
Edith’s nerves returned.
There was no doubt, as she exited the car, smile pinned to her face, that all eyes were on the new Mrs. Vanderbilt. She couldn’t blame people, really. For years, George—and Biltmore, for that matter—had been theirs. And now, at least in part, they were hers. She would simply have to convince the people of Asheville that she was worthy of their love. Her warm smile would be a better start than she could have ever imagined.
For three glorious, breathtaking miles, Edith tried to keep her mounting anticipation at bay as George explained that Mr. Frederick Law Olmsted, the famed landscape architect who had also created Central Park, had designed the approach to create that anticipation in all who traveled it. George had fretted about his bride not being introduced to Biltmore in the summer. But this October day seemed, to her, just right.
“Aren’t the leaves spectacular?” her husband asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“How could you not fall in love?” she asked, truly spellbound by the burnt orange, vibrant yellow, and deep amber hues that surrounded her; the fall burst into a firestorm of color as though it was as happy to welcome Mrs. Vanderbilt as the staff who lined the road to greet them.
Looking at her pointedly, George replied, “How could I not?”
Edith looked away to avoid the blush creeping up her cheeks. Roses and carnations filled the air along with cheers from the seemingly endless estate workers they passed. She waved and smiled at all of them, gasping with delight at the sight of the adorable Jersey calves brought in by dairy workers to greet their new mistress. “I will learn each of the estate workers’ names,” she said confidently.
George raised his eyebrows. “There are three hundred of them, Edi. I think simply learning the names of the dozens of house staff members will be task enough.”
She shook her head and smiled at him. “I am a part of Biltmore now. We’re in this together. I want them to know that they are important to us.”
George squeezed her knee and kept his eyes fixed on her face, as if waiting for something.
Edith gasped as they reached their destination. She had never seen anything like it, the way that, suddenly and without warning, Biltmore House sprang into view in all its glory. Just like that, something she had all but forgotten—her mother’s voice—flooded her mind: You will live in a castle with many acres to roam. Edith could practically feel that veil atop her head, smell her mother’s flowery scent. Perhaps Edith had become a princess after all.