Envy - Anna Godbersen

— FROM THE “GAMESOME GALLANT” COLUMN IN THE NEW YORK IMPERIAL, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1900

HENRY LOVED A GOOD HOTEL, AND WAS KNOWN TO take rooms either for a party or for a few days rest in several of the New York establishments, even when one of the clubs he and his father belonged to would have done just as well. He found very little pleasure, however, in the Royal Poinciana, a great lemon yellow wood structure with white trimming sitting between Lake Worth and the sea, on the evening of his party’s arrival there. He was by then wretchedly sober, and he had been watching the ruthlessness with which Penelope attended to their guests. It was as though she wanted them in a state of controlled awe at all times. Now that he was more clear-eyed, he wondered if there were any limits to her behavior when something she felt was hers was on the line.

“There we are, Mr. Schoonmaker,” said the concierge, who had accompanied them personally to their suite. Henry watched the flurry of bellhops and housekeepers before them, still struggling all across the room to place the luggage just so, as he reached into his pockets for tips.

“We are a very large hotel,” the concierge went on. “Our hallways cover over four miles, and our grounds are nearly thirty acres. But for you, we want it to feel like home. We want it to feel personal. Please do not hesitate to call on us at any moment, for any little thing. Do not hesitate…”

Henry stared off at the fine white net canopy of the gigantic bed — which was made of polished black walnut and stood on a raised and carpeted platform in the far corner of the palatial room — even as the concierge prattled on. The elder Mr. Schoonmaker and Henry Flagler, who owned not only the hotel but most of Palm Beach, had done railroad business together in their youth, and so Henry suspected that the sycophancy would continue apace until the last bellhop had received his reward. He had heard many speeches like this before, in all kinds of hotels, and had often entertained himself by asking impossibly arcane questions about the history of the building or by demanding specific vintages of wines that were impossible to acquire on short notice. None of those antics appealed to him now.

“The bathroom in this suite,” the concierge was saying, “is seventeen feet long, and has a sunken bathtub of imported Italian marble. Perhaps Madame would like a bath before dinner? I could have one drawn up—”

“No,” Henry interrupted sharply. He paused and let his index finger dart to the inside corner of his eye, where he scraped after an invisible spec of dust. “No, that is really quite all right.”

He could see how abrupt he had been in the faint flitting of the concierge’s fair eyelashes. The negative ripple continued across the room, which was now littered with great pieces of patterned luggage, bound in buckles and straps, so that the housekeepers turned their faces to the floor and the young boy with the brass cart moved to exit, until it reached Penelope, who removed her hat and turned to give Henry a cold look. Her dark hair was in a high, rigid form, and the two pieces of her red costume met in an impossibly narrow waist, where she placed her hand.

“My wife loves dirty rumors, you see,” Henry heard himself say with stale jollity, “and so she has never been over-fond of bathing.”

Penelope turned away, the curve of her back catching a late-afternoon blaze of light, and then spoke in a voice he had never heard before. It intimidated precisely because it was so low and soft. “You may all go now,” she said as she handed her hat to her lady’s maid without looking at her.

The maid took the hat, which was small and plumed and had been fastened with black velvet, and stepped down from the platform onto the main Spanish-tiled floor. As she walked to the door, she gave Henry what he imagined to be a pleading look. The hotel staff began to shuffle past him toward the door, and as they went he extended his hand to slip them coins. The concierge gave him a crooked smile that confirmed he had been rude to his wife in front of the help, followed by a deferential nod, and then left the room, closing the huge bronze door behind him.

When they were alone he noticed the warm breeze from the French doors that opened onto a terrace, where Penelope stood. Her back straightened and she kept her slender figure facing away from him, but even so he detected in her stance a kind of challenge. There was no doubt that the thoughts in her head were all about how she was going to keep him away from Diana forever, and the idea that anyone would hurt Di made his blood steam.

Henry removed his jacket, and tossed it carelessly onto a satinwood settee. He moved across the floor toward the terrace with a certain restless aggression, undoing his cuffs and then dropping his monogrammed gold cuff links onto the little decorative table by the door. They clattered against its marble top, causing a noise that startled both Schoonmakers.

“Henry?” Penelope had turned to assess the situation, and though she assumed a thoughtful, questioning tone, it carried an undercurrent of decided malice.

“What is it?” They faced each other across the great shining floor, both stiff and wary of each other. All the furniture between them had been polished that day, and it glittered expensively in the fading light. When Henry began to undo the top buttons of the shirt he had worn all morning on the train, his fingers moved with an almost bellicose energy. Penelope’s anger was just as clear in the fierce batting of her black lashes.

Eventually she put her hand on her hip, and then she let her whole body relax into what she said next. “You know it’s in neither of our interest to make the servants talk.”

He exhaled sharply and stepped toward her as though to contradict that notion. But she was right, and he couldn’t forget the angelic faith with which Diana had waited to be kissed in the corridor of the train. No matter how much he hated his wife in the moment, he could not be impulsive, for it was not his reputation that was most at risk.

“I’d rather not tell everyone that my husband once de-flowered one of the famous Holland girls, but I will if I have to,” she went on pointedly. Each word met the air like the whistling thrust of a rapier. “It would be unfortunate if you, in your own stupidity, let this information become known passively, to some maid or other. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how happy you are to have your former lover along on this trip.”

He grimaced, but there was no way for him to return her words. She was frightening when she was like this, and she was also right.

Penelope took another step toward him, and went on, “If I notice, someone else will too, so you had better start playing the good husband before we find ourselves in a situation that makes everyone want to cry.”

He nodded, and turned to the view. Diana was somewhere out there, amongst the breezes and the palms, and this knowledge filled him equally with happy anticipation and dread.

Eighteen

Miss Diana—

I sent my valet to check,

and his word is that the water is

exceptional today. Won’t you

join me for a jaunt down to

the seashore? I will be waiting

on the veranda for you….

Expectantly,

Grayson Hayes

LIKE THE REST OF THE SCHOONMAKER PARTY, DIANA had gone to bed early and slept soundly through breakfast. She woke to the invigorating sense of a new locale and salty sea air, and decided to take the little trolley to the shore. Her sister was still too fatigued from the journey to accompany her, but when Diana stepped across the sloping sand beach, she found she didn’t mind being alone, for her surroundings were perfect company. The turquoise water stretched before her in glaring contrast to the long white strip of sand, while over her shoulder were all the same pure, bold colors, punctuated occasionally by soaring green palm fronds. It was the kind of landscape where fierce creatures lurked amongst the mangroves and a lady of certain persuasions might hunt pumas.

In New York, every inch of land was used up in some human endeavor, and below even the least haloed site were layers of brick and bone that had been buried along with so many forgotten histories. Here it was simpler and wilder, although that had not prevented all the sea-bathers from dragging civilization onto the landscape. They polka-dotted the stretch of beach and had erected all kinds of shelters for themselves, as though they could not quite accept the notion of being so far from the city and all its modern conveniences. Diana smiled a little wryly at this, but then she caught sight of another kind of savage beauty. There, amongst the crowd of bathers, and not far from her at all, was Penelope Schoonmaker, her black straw hat tipped over her flawless face as she reclined, stocking-clad feet pointed toward the breakers.

Standing beside her was Henry. He wore a black tank swimsuit, which covered his strong torso and half his thighs, and was staring out to sea. His chin had that soft, babyish quality it always did after a fresh shave, and his eyes, already long and slender in a way that frustrated easy revelation, were narrowed to slits in the bright white light. They were not looking at each other, or even talking, but they were so clearly two of a kind that she experienced a wilting effect on all her good feelings. Penelope noticed her then, and a slight smile emerged on her large lips.

“Henry, I’m going to need a sunshade,” she announced, as though the thought had spontaneously occurred to her.

“Do you want me to rent you an umbrella?” he replied. He turned to hear her answer, and when he did he was wearing the strangest smile — it was not exactly loving, and yet it was a smile nonetheless.

Up until that moment Diana had easily imagined acrimony between the Schoonmakers in every one of their interactions, but her fantasy life sputtered here and she froze, a little stunned, by this composed picture of the couple.

“Thank you,” Penelope very nearly whispered. She seemed to be waiting for a kiss, and Diana was at least relieved that she did not have to witness that. He only nodded and then hurried up the dune to the thatched shelter from which the hotel rented parasols and large standing umbrellas and folding chairs to the newly arrived city folk, whose skin had been rendered vulnerable by all those months in stuffy parlors. Those people — the best of New York and Philadelphia and Washington — populated the beach in little groups, the ladies in their black stockings (the better to disguise their naked flesh when their costumes were soaked by the ocean) and suits of dark cotton that covered their womanly forms.

Penelope herself wore stockings — Diana noticed how their blackness accentuated the slim length of her calves — and a getup that had ruffles at the arms and around the legs. Its neckline was square and low. She did not look back at Diana, and instead surveyed the women nearest her on the sand, and those bobbing out in the surf, with a look of placid confidence that seemed to suggest that she believed herself to be the handsomest woman on the beach.