Today William Sackhouse Schoonmaker, one of the great men of his generation, will be laid to rest in the Trinity Church Cemetery in upper Manhattan. He would seem to have been at the height of his powers, and rumors have circulated about what his son might have said to him, just before the fatal episode, that could have given such a shock.
— FROM THE SOCIETY PAGE OF THE NEW-YORK NEWS OF THE WORLD GAZETTE, WEDNESDAY, JULY 18, 1900
“WHAT DOES SHE THINK SHE’S DOING HERE?”
There was no wind, and the sky above the cemetery at 155th Street and Riverside was truest blue. The large green leaves on the trees were motionless, like the white headstones that stood in their eternal rows, up and down the hill, from Broadway on toward the Hudson, which was visible over the black hats of the fine ladies who surrounded Diana Holland as she quietly observed the solemn occasion. She was too far from the reverend to hear what he was saying; of course the burial of a man like William Schoonmaker would be a crowded one. Motes of pollen hung in the air like gold dust. They were telling, Diana thought, and if she were writing about the funeral in a literary way, instead of from the perspective of a society gossip, she would have described them just as they were.
“They say she and Henry Schoonmaker were in India together, and that she cut her hair in a Hindu ritual…”
Diana turned her face sharply, so that her eyes met with Mrs. Olin Vreewold’s. She had been talking to Jenny Livingston, the old maid, and though the look Diana gave was enough to silence them, both ladies persisted in assuming sour expressions under their black brims. The story of what Henry had said to his father was being passed around, although happily the papers were shy of printing so untoward a story during the week of the old man’s funeral. Diana couldn’t be sure if they would feel the same way next week, but by then she and Henry would be gone. In the meantime, she wanted to make as much money as possible. Her old friend Davis Barnard, who wrote the “The Gamesome Gallant” column, had long ago told her that death has a way of flushing scandal out, or else burying it forever.
“Perhaps he wanted her here,” Jenny whispered when Diana’s gaze was again averted.
Before she could decide on another way to respond, the plaintive drone of bagpipes picked up and the crowd began to disperse. As the elegant, black-clad mourners turned and walked away from the fresh grave, she saw others like Mrs. Vreewold and Jenny Livingston, who stared at her with piercing scorn. The onset of a blush was heating Diana’s cheeks, and she lifted her chin defiantly at the silent scolds. She had always been unconventional in her way, but she had never received stares like these.
Then Henry came, wearing his black frock coat, which must have been unbearable in the heat, and a black crepe mourning band on his left arm. His handsome face was exhausted and sad, and he met Diana’s eyes for longer than he probably should have, considering the scene. It took only a moment for him to communicate to her that he would have cleared a small village to be alone with her right then, and she tried to return the sentiment with a tiny, darting smile. Penelope hovered there beside him like a loving wife, just as she had all afternoon, but her face was covered with a black veil, and so it was impossible to see if she was sincerely aggrieved or merely clinging to her position as Mrs. Henry Schoonmaker. On his other arm hung his stepmother, Isabelle, who — one could see, even through her veil — had the face of a woman struck by lightning. By then Henry was gone, moving up the hill, to where the family coach waited.
For a moment Diana stood watching the Schoonmakers’ backs stupidly, but then she reminded herself that she must not be obvious, and also that she too had lost a father, and that she ought to be patient with Henry. He was doing the best he could, and probably experiencing awful things. Anyway, she would have him to herself soon enough.
“Miss Holland?”
Diana swiveled. She hadn’t realized how alone and vulnerable she had felt in the crowd until she saw the proffered arm of Teddy Cutting, just slightly down hill from her. He was wearing his officer’s uniform, and the aristocratic forehead under his fair, slicked hair was riven with entirely new lines. If it were possible, there was even more sincerity in his gray eyes than when she’d seen him last, at the Royal Poinciana in Palm Beach, Florida. She was vaguely aware that he was in the army, but she had been away, too, and it seemed somehow fitting to her that they would both be standing there now.
“Mr. Cutting, what a happy sight you are,” she said, gratefully accepting his arm.
“And you, Miss Holland.” They began to walk up the hill, along with the others. “I’ve only been gone for five months, but it seems the whole world, or New York anyway, has been turned on its head. I can’t believe Mr. Schoonmaker expired so quickly. And your sister…is soon to be a mother?”
Diana glanced at Teddy pityingly — for he had always been sentimental when it came to Liz — and tried to change the subject. “Yes, it must all seem very parochial to you now that you have been to the Philippines and seen the world and had great adventures?”
“Adventures…” Teddy emitted a strained, tired laugh. His eyes darted over the greenery, the averted faces, the hill sloping down toward the water, as though he felt guilty standing there now, in one piece, amongst so much quiet tranquility. He went on presently, in a voice deepened by his seriousness, “There is no such thing as a splendid little war. I saw things in the Pacific….” He paused, shook off a memory. “But you are a lady, and should not think of it. Suffice it to say, I will not be going back. But tell me of yourself, and your family. Is everyone well?”
“Mother is her old self, taking tea with only the most important people and forming backroom alliances,” Diana began, attempting lightness. “I saw Elizabeth yesterday morning — she had seemed well until then, but the doctor said she should be on bed rest until…until the baby comes…and she was so exhausted, she could barely speak.”
Teddy seemed pained by this news. “I wish I could see her.”
“Oh, but you should.” They were moving away from the grave, gravel and dirt scattering underfoot, and Diana was regaining some of her exuberance, despite the sad day. “It was curious — she didn’t say a word to me the whole time I sat with her, but then when I was getting ready to leave she said your name. I thought I had misheard, but then she instructed me, as clear as day, to get her Teddy Cutting.”
“But I couldn’t, it would be so improper to visit her in her condition, and—”
“Teddy,” she interrupted. They were coming up a flight of stone steps that were rather worse for wear, and he supported Diana as she stepped ahead. All around them women were whispering about her, saying that she would be ruined by what she had done, hoping that it would come true so that they could have a little entertainment to twitter over in their identical drawing rooms, which were all decorated in the same self-important colors and littered with the same useless objects, made twice as useless for having been gilded on every surface. “Don’t be ridiculous. You are her friend, and if you are her good friend, you will visit her when she is ill, no matter what anybody thinks.”
They had come onto the street, where the carriages waited, and for a moment he fixed those sad gray eyes on Diana and considered what she had said. “Thank you for that,” he said after a while. There was something chastised and yet hopeful in his face now. “You are right, of course. Can I offer you a ride home?”
Up ahead, the Schoonmakers had already pulled away. The bagpipes wailed on by the newly placed headstone, and further off, boats made their way down the Hudson. Nobody else was going to drive her, she realized, and anyway there was solace in the polite company of Henry’s best friend, who at various points had played witting and unwitting supporting roles in their romance. In any event, he was already guiding her to his coach, much to the disdain of the hateful hens presently deriving disgust and fascination from what they imagined had occurred between Diana Holland and Henry Schoonmaker.