Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hudson River Valley
When Daddy told me the tale of Rapunzel, I’d often wonder: What’s that girl got to complain about anyway? She’s in a beautiful tower with enough to eat and a doting Mamma who loves her so much that she just wants to keep her safe. Isn’t that what every girl would want?
But now I understand. Now that I’m Rapunzel. Locked up with Mamma, not by Mamma—but by a man who wants to keep me for himself, even though he’s made it clear that he’s not mine alone, nor will he ever be.
Stan left for Europe at the start of the summer. I’m not certain whether he took the charred remains of that leather book with him, but something tells me he won’t have too much difficulty finding ladies to spend time with as he travels for the next few months.
And after our quarrel—our first ever, and big enough to end with me writing him a one-sentence note: I never wish to look at you again—Stan arranged a private meeting with Mamma.
I didn’t know he’d asked for it, nor do I know precisely all that they discussed, though I have a very good guess at a few of the topics Stanny did not raise.
So much for his claims at their first introduction: How can I be your champion if we aren’t honest with one another?
All hogwash, everything that man told us from the start.
Who knows what yarn he spun for Mamma this time?
All I know is that Mamma came out of that closeted meeting insisting I needed a break for the summer.
“We are going away,” she declared. “Let’s leave the close-packed heat of Manhattan and take our leisure with some good, healthful country air. ” Parroting Stan, from the sound of it.
He is paying, after all. He’s rented us a sprawling castle on a leafy hilltop overlooking the Hudson River, forty miles north of Manhattan and yet far enough away to feel like a different world.
Members of a prominent New York family Stan knows, the Harmonds, are abroad for the summer, touring England’s Lake District, so they have allowed Stanny to rent their place along with their staff for July and August.
“She deserves a break,” I overheard Stan telling Mamma as I eavesdropped on them huddled together in our hotel sitting room, the day before he set sail. “She looks tired to me. And pale. And her behavior has been a bit…concerning, of late.”
“Oh?” I heard the alarm rise in Mamma’s voice. “It has?”
“Nothing to worry about. Just an isolated episode here and there. But her line of work is grueling. It’s crucial to give Evelyn rest, both her body and her spirit, so she doesn’t become like all of those other used-up chorus girls who age ahead of their time, weary from exhaustion and overwork.
You hear about it all the time, sadly. But we won’t let that happen to our Evelyn. ”
How rich! How my stomach curdled to hear Stanny’s exaggerated fears for my body and spirit. And since when has Mamma ever cared about my exhaustion or overwork?
True, I have been working nonstop for years. But all this time, Mamma has never once batted an eye over the punishing load I’ve been carrying.
Now though, hearing that I might compromise my looks or my energy—and thus my profitability—or that my behavior hasn’t been entirely pleasing to Stanny?
She took his bait like a fish before the hook.
And so here we are, tucked away in the country while Stanny sweeps through London, Paris, and beyond.
I groan just thinking about it. Work, he told us. I know what sort of work.
We barely spoke before he left. After I sent him that letter, he dealt almost entirely with Mamma before bundling us off to the country in his chauffeured auto.
But Mamma sensed the tension between us.
She asked me about it, this “episode” to which Stanny had fleetingly alluded, but the daggers I threw with my eyes hit their mark, and so miraculously, mercifully, she did not press me.
Stan seemed concerned for my health and was all too willing to pay for a castle for the pair of us for the summer, so I suppose, for the moment, that was good enough for her.
—
Now, tucked away in our stone aerie overlooking the Hudson Valley, with an attentive staff to see to all our needs and the most beautiful natural scenery one could hope for, I should be perfectly happy this summer.
It’s the first time in years that grueling physical work hasn’t dictated my hours both sleeping and awake.
I couldn’t possibly conjure a world less like Broadway with its lights and its call times and its constant noise and chaos.
There’s a quiet and a peace to this landscape, picturesque panoramic views of a wide river and the granite hills that cradle it.
And yet—I’m miserable. As I sit by myself on the terrace on a warm July morning, taking nothing for breakfast but a cup of coffee, I know that all of the peace and pastoral beauty and, yes, boredom, are not helping.
Jumping from a life of work to a life of leisure is making my melancholy all too apparent and ever present.
I miss New York City. I miss being busy.
I miss the girls. I miss…No. I won’t allow myself to miss him.
I’m glad he’s gone, I remind myself. I certainly don’t want to carry on as number eighteen on his list.
The sun is getting stronger as it climbs up from its morning perch; the birds are quieting down. I look down at the coffee cup trembling in my grip and frown. My hands have boils on them because I keep scratching at my skin.
That’s when I decide: I need to find some way to fill my time.
Walks along the trails of this mountain yield swell views, sure.
And there’s a small pond filled with fish, where the staff have offered to set up a picnic luncheon, and the coachman has offered to take me on a carriage ride down the hill so I can stroll along the river.
But I need to see some other people, some company other than just Mamma.
Mercifully, today promises a slight reprieve from the boredom, as we’ve received an invitation from the neighbor. I gather from Mamma that it’s a cousin of the family who built this castle, a lady who lives just down the hill, where she’s invited us for a luncheon in her home.
Mamma and I arrive shortly before noon, the Harmonds’ coach bearing us past two stone pillars that boast the name of the neighbor’s estate: Water’s Edge. Up ahead I see a gracious white Victorian house, three stories high, with two wings that open like arms around a spacious forecourt.
“Not too shabby for the cousin who lives down the hill,” Mamma remarks under her breath as our coach rolls to a halt.
Our hostess, Mrs. Hollis, stands ready to greet us.
In her written invitation, Mrs. Hollis explained that she is a widow who lives alone in the sprawling mansion, though she referred to it as her “tidy little cottage at the base of the mountain.”
We step out of the carriage, and Mrs. Hollis rushes toward us, embracing us like we ourselves are long-lost kin.
“Mrs. Talbot, welcome! Miss Talbot. It’s so good of you to come.
” The words come gushing out. “In just a few moments I shall introduce you to my dear nephew, Arthur. Though I suppose he likes to go by Art nowadays. Oh, he is a very polite fellow, and he does his best to entertain me, but I can see he longs for some young blood! We’ve been craving company, you see.
So when I heard there was a mother and daughter pair staying up at Stonetop, I simply had to meet you.
Oh, but where are my manners? I’m Alice Hollis.
The neighbor—guilty, that’s me. And family, too.
My grandfather built that castle, you know, as a gift to my grandmother. Romantic gesture, isn’t it?”
I offer a curtsy to my hostess, and then I turn to Mamma, slightly flustered by this rush of information, and not quite sure which point to respond to first. But a response proves entirely unnecessary, for our hostess chatters on: “But my dear Mrs. and Miss Talbot, you have caused quite a stir in our sleepy little river town, don’t you know?
Why, a Broadway star! The Gibson Girl, right here in the neighborhood!
Miss Talbot, we’ve all washed our hands with soap bearing your image.
To see you now, in the flesh, it’s as though one of Botticelli’s goddesses has appeared before me. ”
My face burns at such an onslaught of praise, and I manage a modest dip of my eyes.
Mrs. Hollis strikes me as someone who has so many words bubbling up inside her, and such a need to speak them to someone, that they cannot help but come spilling out.
“Oh, but you are even lovelier than your pictures,” Mrs. Hollis prattles on.
I breathe out a puff of laughter at this.
I’m turned out very simply today, in a cream-colored silk day dress with pale blue frogging down the front, a large-brimmed hat tipped across my brow.
Mamma is similarly attired, both of us doing our best imitation of what we presumed to be the wardrobe of country ladies of leisure.
It’s nothing like how I might dress to frolic at night on Broadway, and certainly not in the style of a Botticelli goddess.
Of course Mamma saw to an entire new summer wardrobe for both herself and me before we quit the city, and of course Stanny paid for the entire thing.
But I’ve had so little verve or vigor lately; what is the point of a huge effort to just sit tucked away in my country exile?
Though, to hear our hostess now, today might in fact turn out to be the first bit of fun I’ve had all summer.
“I sent out many invitations, Mrs. Talbot, assuming that most of our friends would be gone, but they’ve all accepted.
I think they all wanted to catch a glimpse of you, Miss Talbot! ”