The Wedding Veil(94)
“You want me to hold this for you or something?” Gladys asked.
“No, no. I want you to have it. I want you to put it on and see if it resonates with you. Put it on and see if you feel the way you’re supposed to feel about this man you might want to marry.”
“Right now?” Gladys whispered, looking around.
Cornelia laughed heartily. “No, not right now,” she whispered back. “Or right now if you want. It’s your life. You should live it.”
She was losing Gladys again. She could tell from her confused expression. “It’s a gift, dear friend,” she clarified. “From me to you, the stranger you met on a train. Our paths crossed for a reason, and maybe one day we will know what that reason was. If not, I’m still happy we met.” She paused, and, knowing she was lying, continued. “This veil is a symbol of good luck in my family. Now, it will be good luck in yours. May all who wear it have long, happy lives and marriages.”
Gladys was speechless but managed a small “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Now, I am very tired and I think I’ll take a nap.”
Gladys nodded, her eyes wide.
When Cornelia woke, Gladys was gone. The veil was gone. And, instead of feeling a sense of loss, she felt like she had shed a heavy second skin that she had been wearing for far too long. Without her name, her appearance, and her house, Cornelia was free. She was her own woman. And she was ready to take on the world.
EDITH Between Two Worlds
March 30, 1934
Edith had defended Cornelia through everything. Through her obsession with numerology. Through her fascination with her aura and Edith’s aura and Jack’s aura and the children’s auras. She would have loved her through anything and everything because she was her daughter. She was her remaining connection to her dear George. She was half of herself. She was the bright light of her life that would never go out.
Here, now, in the library at Biltmore, only days after her last conversation with her daughter, the house suddenly felt indescribably quiet. Empty. Lonely. The house, like Edith, was bereft. Cornelia was gone. The children were gone. George was gone.
Jack entered the room. “Well,” he said softly, “they’re really gone.”
Edith was supposed to be on the campaign trail with Peter right now, was supposed to be making a speech to a group of Portuguese immigrants. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave Biltmore. Not yet.
Instead, she nodded. “The irony that I am supposed to be speaking to America’s newest, poorest, most downtrodden citizens—inspiring hope in them—when instead I am here, attempting yet again to save this impractical and maybe even unconscionable home, is not lost on me.”
Jack sat down in the red chair across from Edith. Edith and Jack had become partners in crime these past few years, bonding over the dairy, the land, the creation of Biltmore Forest. Edith had counted on Jack for a great deal, but she believed that not only was he a man who could be counted on, he was a man who enjoyed being counted on. Both Edith and Jack had hoped that Cornelia would change her mind, that she would stay. But she did not. Edith’s stomach dropped at the realization that everything was different now.
“She isn’t coming back,” Jack said. There they were, two people at a loss, drowning in their grief. How could you miss a person so fiercely who was still living? George was truly gone. Cornelia would simply be across the ocean.
“Did she say that?” Edith asked, her heart racing with an alarm that surprised her. They’d all known this was coming, hadn’t they? Edith had wanted to fix this for her, this restlessness, the way that mothers always want to. But she didn’t know exactly what needed fixing. Cornelia simply wanted a different life. If her two beautiful, bright sons couldn’t keep her tethered to Biltmore, her mother certainly couldn’t. Edith knew Cornelia would never abandon her children. But she hadn’t predicted that she would simply take them with her when she decided to leave everything else behind. Edith took a deep breath.
“She never said it, Edith,” Jack said, “but I think we both know that was what she meant at that meeting.”
“Well, that isn’t what I heard. I heard she was thirty-four and it was 1934 and some nonsense about her path. It won’t be 1934 forever, you know.”
Edith wished, in this moment, that she still smoked—or, at the very least, that it was the appropriate hour for a cocktail. Neither was the case. So, instead, she allowed her heart to break into a million pieces as she thought of her little girl, happy and free at Biltmore, the way she would practically run to school in the village, cheeks pink, smile wide. Would her grandsons learn more about art history and Parliament at a school in London? Perhaps. But what could be a happier childhood than roaming free on acres of your own against an inspiring mountain backdrop?
“George’s dream is here, Jack—it was never Cornelia’s,” she said sadly. “This was George’s dream and, in the end, it didn’t make his daughter happy. And now here we are.”
Jack looked down at his hands and laughed ironically. “She felt trapped in the largest home in America.”
Edith couldn’t imagine how terrible it must be to feel trapped in a life that had been predetermined for you. Because, yes, Edith’s life had been difficult, but it had also been filled with bright, blazing moments of glory. It had been unpredictable, but she had become her own woman, a woman strong and fiercely independent, capable and wise. Now, her daughter was at that crossroads, and Edith had tried to fix it. But it wasn’t up to her. It was up to her daughter.