Is it true that one of those sons of top-drawer Manhattan, who went very publicly to enlist, was not in the Philippines at all, as had been reported? If so, what was he doing, and is his wife now wondering what kind of man she really married?
— FROM CITÉ CHATTER, WEDNESDAY, JULY 18, 1900
THE RIDE BACK TO THE SCHOONMAKER MANSION on Fifth was interminable, and nobody spoke except Isabelle, whose words were almost indecipherable through her sobbing. It was a rather maudlin and over the top display, in her stepdaughter-in-law’s opinion, and had entirely to do with the fact that the young widow had spent the afternoon of her husband’s demise flirting with that letch of a painter Lispenard Bradley. But she had nothing to worry about — for dead husbands could not, after all, seek divorces. Henry could, as Penelope was painfully aware, and he no longer had the rather forceful disapproval of his father to dissuade him from such a scandalous course. William Schoonmaker would have kept Henry in line, but now Henry was the head of the household, and could be as improper as he liked. Already his intention of leaving his wife, which he had apparently stated quite plainly just before the old man croaked, had become a story and made the rounds. If Penelope had known her father-in-law was in such poor health, she certainly would have thought twice about lingering in the hall so long with the prince of Bavaria pushing amorously against her.
As there was no longer any way of correcting that, she had tried today to play the good wife. This was not a coveted role for her. Even when she had been in love with Henry, the idea of seeing that his suits were pressed and that the maids were bringing him fresh coffee and that someone was seeing to his correspondence bored her. It was a little insulting now, and made her feel menial, second rate, which she absolutely was not. But what would she be if she was stripped of the title Mrs. Henry Schoonmaker, when she had not even been married a year, when there were no children to tie her to the family? Her dearly won position in the social firmament would evaporate as surely as William Schoonmaker’s last breath.
All of genteel New York had seen her that afternoon, patiently and humbly keeping to her grieving husband’s side. She did have that. They would remember, later, if Henry persisted in making his affair with the Holland girl public. But if Penelope was to seal a sympathetic impression of herself in their minds, she was going to have to keep up the act. How difficult this might prove to be did not fully occur to her until they had stepped down from the coach, and she heard her name being called out.
“Yes,” she turned. The day was fading, and it was difficult to determine who had spoken.
“Mrs. Schoonmaker, over here.” By then she recognized the voice, and in the following moment she saw Prince Frederick, waiting inside a fashionable black phaeton with the cover raised up. There was no driver, and he held the reins idly in his large, gloved hand as though he might, at any second, take off. She glanced behind her, hoping nobody had yet noticed the visitor, but Henry had already traveled some distance up the steep limestone steps of his grand family home, with his stepmother leaning heavily against him.
She kept her eyes on the ground as she approached. “You should not have come today,” she said, and then flicked back her lashes suddenly, so that despite her shy posture, her blue eyes would be revealed with sudden drama.
“No…” He was smiling at her, again, in that impossibly subtle, urbane manner he had. “But I couldn’t help myself. Anyway, you are the Mrs. Schoonmaker now, and I expect you need a drink.”
“I do,” she replied, letting him see what an effort it was for her not to return his smile. “How very clever.”
“Why don’t I escort you to dinner then? Take it from me, your husband will be busy with paperwork this evening, and I think he would appreciate my showing you a good time.”
Penelope raised an eyebrow and pretended to mull his offer. The tangerine light of an advanced day was especially lovely on the defined jaw of her royal friend. His eyes darted up toward the Schoonmaker house, where the windows had been draped in black, and then back at her. The tactical matron in her knew she should stay inside and tally condolence letters, but then Henry had not said two words to her over the entire day, and the part of her that was an angry, snubbed girl of eighteen overwhelmed the rest.
“All right — if you insist. But know it is against my better judgment, and only because you are here in our country for such a devastatingly short time. Only, wait a little, will you? I hate these black clothes.”
The prince rested his elbow on the polished side of the coach and leaned forward to reply, in a serious voice she had never previously known him to employ, “I would wait for you forever.”
She winked and turned to follow her husband. She was already inside by the time she realized how completely this last comment had lifted her mood.
In the late afternoon, Penelope had hoped Henry wouldn’t notice as she slipped out of the house dressed in elaborately draped carnelian organdy and a pearl-encrusted aigrette. By the time she was being swept across the dance floor of Sherry’s by a certain strapping royal, however, this was no longer among her concerns. Because, as her companion had pointed out a few times already, only a fool would ignore so incandescent a wife, and she wouldn’t at all have minded if Henry had had to watch, for a few moments anyway, the appreciative glances Frederick kept bestowing on her bare shoulders and lean form.
Indeed, everyone was staring at her, and as Frederick rested his hand on the small of her back, she felt the thrill of a low murmur circling the room and the sensation of being talked of once again. He was wearing black tails and his hair was slicked — he looked like Henry, like any very handsome gentleman of the upper class, except that there seemed to be more of him than her husband, and he was focused on her with such delightful intensity. She knew they made a very pretty picture. Long before she had played the ingénue in order to marry into one of the oldest and best families in New York, she had created minor stirs like this one for sport. It felt good to do it again, good to be moved about on the floor by such a nicely put-together gentleman. But then, when the music stopped, she saw that even the divorcée Lucy Carr did not bother to hide her disgust.
“I have been very bad,” she said, not as defiantly as she had intended, as he escorted her back to their table, where nearly eight courses had passed with the young Mrs. Schoonmaker taking nearly as many bites.
“I hope your countrymen will not judge you too harshly.” The prince pushed her chair in as she sat, before taking the cushioned seat beside her. He drew the bottle of champagne from the silver ice bucket, which was sweating at the center of the table, and refilled their glasses. He cast his blue eyes across the vast room, which was filled with round tables and the busy skirts that overflowed from underneath them, the chandelier light falling in flattering gold speckles across the merry diners. Prince Frederick very nearly glittered.
“Of course they will.” Penelope adjusted the white gloves that reached several inches beyond her elbows, and then rested her chin on her fist. She had had more champagne than usual, and it was causing her to wallow, which was terrible for her complexion, and not otherwise an activity she liked to be noted for. Still she spun her glass about, melancholically, before sipping.
“My poor Mrs. Schoonmaker,” the prince lamented. “She is so impossibly sad.”
“I am not sad,” she returned. “Only a little tired. It has been a very long day.”
This was true. It had been sad and lonely, and had required a great deal of poise. Meanwhile, she had stood for much too long, and she had been wearing her new black shoes, leather with grosgrain trim, and they had pinched her toes. Though the fatigue did not bother her half as much as the idea that the prince might pity her; she was not a girl to be pitied.
But in the next moment she stopped caring about that, for he placed the back of his hand on her shoulder and drew it down her arm, his nails gliding along her skin, and then the silk glove, so that little tremors spread over the rest of her frame. She hadn’t been touched like that in a long time. Her eyes closed, almost involuntarily, and she found that she wanted to be kissed by him again very badly. This desire, she realized with a slight chill, had not a thing to do with making any husband jealous, or causing any diverting scandal.
Then she felt his warm breath by the dark strands of hair, which were brushed over her ear. “You would not look so sad if you were a princess,” he said.
There was no collection of words that could possibly have been more delicious. Though spoken with purpose, they created a giddy, girlish sensation, of a variety that Penelope had not experienced in a year or more. It was wonderful, and she kept her eyes closed for another few moments, as the room began to spin with an emotion not entirely unlike love. For the first time in some years, she wondered if the title Mrs. Henry Schoonmaker wasn’t the highest she might attain.