THE WILLIAM S. SCHOONMAKER FAMILY
REQUESTS YOUR PRESENCE
AT A DINNER TO BE GIVEN IN HONOR
OF THE RETURNED HERO
PRIVATE FIRST CLASS HENRY SCHOONMAKER
MONDAY THE SIXTEENTH OF JULY
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK
AT THE SCHOONMAKER RESIDENCE
FOUR HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN FIFTH AVENUE
THE TWO MRS. SCHOONMAKERS STRODE ARM IN arm across the polished floor of the main hall of their family mansion. That afternoon, as they dressed for the dinner party, it had occurred to Penelope that her mother-in-law was in a particularly good mood, and they had over the course of a few hours grown sisterly again. The house was full of the smell of hyacinth and tuberose, and from the labyrinth of small galleries and parlors the sounds of polite social discourse could be heard. They were robed like goddesses, the elder woman in a column of pale purple crepe de chine, with a deep oval neckline, her fluffy blond hair descending diagonally on either side of her doll-like face; the younger, in an empire waist dress of gauzy white with a black velvet bodice and beadwork of shimmering gold. The sleeves billowed, but her phosphorescent shoulders were entirely bare, and her dark hair rose up from her unblemished forehead and was gathered in an elaborate bun festooned with ostrich plumes. Pink gold and diamond earrings twinkled against her jaw.
“I like your prince,” the elder Mrs. Schoonmaker whispered as they approached the first floor parlor, where already their guests were sipping aperitifs and waiting to be greeted.
“Oh, he’s hardly mine,” Penelope protested, but faintly. She was feeling terribly regal after the attention he had paid her during his afternoon visit. Each of her gestures since then had been theatrically self-confident. “Anyway, the papers say he is soon to be engaged to the Comte de Langlois’s daughter.”
“All the better, my dear.” Isabelle giggled, and then continued in a self-indulgent rush: “I myself am quite sick of Bradley. I have been for a year now, but I always go back to him when I have nothing better to do. I thought artists would be more interesting than gentlemen, but they make love with the same words other men do, and when it comes to giving tokens of affection, they have less money at their disposal. You are very clever to be flirting with Europeans, and noble ones at that.”
Then they entered the oak-paneled room, where men in black jackets and women in tulle and ribbons and jeweled chokers burbled admiringly at the vision of their hostesses. String music played in the next room, and bushes of cherry blossoms emerged from gilt inlaid vases, erupting above the heads of the guests.
Penelope cast her bold blue gaze across the room, meeting the eyes of the newlywed Reginald Newbolds and of Is abelle’s handsome brother, James de Ford, along with a few others, although she did not bestow the compliment of a wink on any of them. Her father-in-law was several drinks in already, she guessed from his ruddy aspect, although it would be a while before dinner was served — the cooks were working on rather short notice, she believed. He exited by the adjoining gallery along with a small fleet of similarly dark-clad gentleman, who looked as though their waistcoats had been puffed out with wind. They were off to do what men did alone, she supposed — smoke cigars and talk of entertainments they didn’t let ladies in on.
“And where is your handsome husband?” Penelope turned disdainfully to Agnes Jones, who was a good deal shorter than she. Penelope would not have thought the guest list would be so inclusive.
“It is something of a battle to make him presentable, now that he is a soldier,” Penelope answered curtly, before striding forward into the room.
She and her mother-in-law moved in opposite directions, working their way slowly through the assembled guests standing on the camel hair carpet. There were about thirty people in the room — all of the men with distinguished names, and all of the ladies with heirloom necklaces. The younger Mrs. Schoonmaker managed a semicircle, cooing in delight at the faces of old friends, delicately extending her bracelet- clad wrist so that gentleman guests could place kisses there, offering carefully phrased compliments to gowns that fit less well than her own. She still had half a room to cover when she saw Mr. Schoonmaker — the younger one, who was supposed to be her husband — entering from the main hall. Her mouth dropped open at the sight of him, for he wasn’t wearing a jacket, and not even one of the buttons of his vest was done. From across the room, Isabelle flashed her a look of alarm.
Everyone else noticed too, it seemed, as the din subtly descended a notch or two. Henry, impervious, refusing to meet her eyes or anybody else’s, crossed toward the gallery on the east side of the room. It was the direction his father had gone, toward the smoking room. Penelope smiled demurely, or as demurely as she could manage, at Nicholas Livingston, with whom she had been discussing an upcoming weekend party to Long Island, and hurried through the burgundy club chairs and clustered bodies in pursuit of her wayward spouse.
“You smell like beer,” she observed in a quietly heated tone when she caught up with him, just on the threshold of the adjoining gallery. The brownness that he had achieved while abroad had begun to fade to a respectable tawny shade, but she could see now that his nose had been turned red by the sun over the course of the afternoon. “And you are late.”
Henry stopped, hesitated, staring at the shining parquet before him, and it was only after several seconds that his eyes rolled back in Penelope’s direction. “I’m afraid I cannot play the part of Henry Schoonmaker, war hero, this evening,” he said eventually, and though the sarcasm was somewhat buried, it did not escape Penelope.
“Your father won’t like that.” She took a step toward him, so that they would appear more like a loving couple to the curious spectators who were, no doubt, stealing glances. The words, however, were spoken as sharp warning. She could hear them behind her, chatting at normal levels about the latest boat races, whispering in more subdued tones about how peculiar their hosts were acting.
“No,” Henry returned. “But there’s no need for you to concern yourself about that, as I’m on my way to tell him myself now.”
For a moment it was as though she’d breathed in ice crystals. When Henry took a few steps deeper into the gallery, she matched them exactly.
“On your way to tell him what?” she demanded. Henry’s shirt was unbuttoned to midsternum, and she could see the dark marks of sweat around his armpits. Wherever he had just been was still all over him. He was awfully handsome, she couldn’t help but think, and then hated both of them equally for allowing this line of thinking to begin again in her mind.
Henry sighed and his head swayed back and forth. The impatience he’d expressed in the previous moments evaporated, and when he spoke again it was in a flat, almost broken tone. “That I’m leaving you.”
“No. No you’re not.”
“Yes…” Henry nodded. His gaze, when he met hers, was unflinching. “I am.”
Penelope’s mouth constricted and she tried to force back hot, angry tears. But the fearful rage this information at first elicited simmered down quickly, until, in a matter of seconds, she found it a more manageable sort of challenge. “Henry,” she whispered through a tight smile, “all those people think you’re a war hero, but I know the truth. I doubt very much you have the courage.”
“That’s all right, Penny,” Henry said wearily. “You’ll see in a minute or two, anyway. I don’t love you, and you know that, so it’s rather ridiculous to go back and forth like this. I love Diana, and I’m going to be with her — really this time. I’m not even sure why you care, as I doubt very much that you’re still in love with me. I saw you, today, with that prince, you know….”
If Penelope hadn’t been so bent on her task of persuasion, she might have wondered if there wasn’t a faint quality in Henry’s tone suggesting that she might have inspired some territorial instinct in him. Her words were rapid-fire now, however, and she went on with a dismissive wave of her gloved hand. “Oh, Henry, that was nothing. Of course I love you, and anyway we made those promises in front of too many well-regarded people. This is what marriage is Henry, for people rich and good-looking as you and I. So you imagined yourself in love with little Diana Holland, so I accept pretty tokens from Prince Frederick…they’re all just diversions, Mr. Schoonmaker.” Her elegant nostrils exhaled authoritatively. “This is what we do.”
Henry’s expression was a mystery. He was staring into her eyes, and might have been confused, although that didn’t seem quite right. “That is what you do,” he said eventually, and turned on his heel. “Not me.”
Penelope’s first thought, in the next moment, was to rush after him and throw one of her scenes, anything to get him back before he stormed into his father’s presence and started talking stupidly. But some impulse made her turn around just then, and she saw, in the warm light of the drawing room, through the visual clutter of ornate coiffures and erupting cherry blossoms, the figure of the prince. His chestnut hair was polished and thick over his regal brow, his blue eyes glittered with amusement, and his mouth was just slightly crooked on one side, suggesting a smile that only a girl like Penelope would notice. The prince was wearing a smart navy blue jacket with gold tasseled epaulets and a red sash across the chest, for as he had told Penelope that afternoon he was a commissioned officer of the Prussian Army. Henry’s footsteps were fading across the hardwood floor, but she was no longer worried. Either his resolve would fail, or the old man would put him in his place — it didn’t matter particularly to her.
The younger Mrs. Schoonmaker felt entirely confident that the threats her husband had just made were exactly like all the rest of his threats — hollow, and with no greater objective than to cause her pain. He could stalk about the house and make noise all he wanted; she was no longer going to allow his moods to interfere with her fun. Across the room, the prince’s eyes found hers, and she lengthened her fine white neck, lifting her chin up slightly to the left. Then she let the heavily blackened lashes of her right eye lower in a slow and smoldering wink.