MY YEARS OF WANDERING
NEW YORK AND MENOMINEE—1903–1905
Thus began my years of wandering. Cut off from Alonso, thwarted by Reed Dougherty, and refused by Rudolph, I was adrift, with only a title to link me to the respectable life I’d once known. I rejected all the Baron’s settlement offers, even as he inched up the financial terms. Eventually, he resorted to an arrangement that did not require my consent: a legal separation in the Dutch courts, on the grounds of abandonment, which absolved him of any financial responsibility for me and forced me to subsist on the proceeds of the hotel sale.
The world of 1903 seemed to race by without me, and newspapers touted the many amazing inventions of our “magical era of mechanical progress.” Henry Ford founded an automobile company, the Wright brothers took to the air in Kitty Hawk, Harley and Davidson motorized a bicycle, and Marconi and King Edward exchanged two-way wireless messages. But I could finding nothing magical in my life, nor could I imagine a way to reinvent myself.
New York soon became tiresome, with its insufferably humid summers, blustery autumns, and snowstorms that brought the city to a mind-numbing standstill. The dreadful society pages reported on my and my acquaintances’ every society appearance and related the particulars of my marital predicament to the whole of New York. Men I might enjoy passing the time with looked on me as a mere toy to be fancied, a titled woman somewhere between a husband and a divorce. I was neither fish nor fowl, neither married nor marriageable. In short, my status precluded the kind of companionship any woman in my circumstances would wish for—the attentions of a well-to-do gentleman who could offer a gallant arm and spirited company.
I struggled through winter’s hardships in New York and decided that, if I must submit to the vagaries of a northern climate, I might as well do so in Menominee, where I could at least savor the comforts of hearth and kin. I released Daisy to attend to her mother’s caretaking and journeyed to Michigan in the spring of 1904.
Much as I enjoyed helping Maman around the house and joshing with my brothers, I soon became bored—with the sameness of the rooms; the tedium of tired, predictable greetings with the butcher and grocer; and the utter lack of any theater, opera, or musical entertainment of at least middling quality. The best Menominee’s brand-new Opera House could offer, a much-vaunted visit by John Philip Sousa, did little to endear me to its fare. I had obviously overrated the comforts of hearth and kin.
By November of 1904, I was back in New York, though I was none too content there, either.
“New York is getting too small for me,” I told Daisy.
She stood at my dresser, removing spruce-scented laundry from a canvas bag. Speaking with her back to me, she nestled my clothes into the drawers. “Where would you go?”
“London. Where there are plenty of people who knew me before I even met Rudolph.”
She looked over her shoulder at me. “And would I join you?”
“I’d like nothing more. Could you?”
“It would be a hardship for Mother. Unless I could move Mildred in with her.”
“If you’re asking me if I can afford to do that, I certainly can. And will.”
She straightened up and faced me. “When shall we go?”
“As soon as the air warms. So we can enjoy a springtime crossing.”
In April 1905, Daisy and I boarded the Carmania for Liverpool.
DR. ERNEST WHIDBEY
ON THE ATLANTIC—APRIL 1905
As the ship cut through choppy gray-green seas, Daisy and I buttoned up our coats and explored the promenade deck. On the starboard side we approached a gentleman who cut a sturdy figure in a white waistcoat, sleek black lounge coat, and cuffed trousers. Each of his long steps lifted with a slight bounce, lending a hint of daring to his measured strut. He’d tucked a packet of newspapers under his arm and, judging by their roughly folded sheets, had made meticulous study of them. As we converged, he tipped his pewter-gray homburg to us and I noticed how his thick, mahogany-brown mustache accentuated broad cheekbones and bushy eyebrows.
“What an interesting-looking man,” I said to Daisy.
“Shall I see what I can learn about him?”
“No, he’s probably a dull face-in-a-newspaper sort.”
We managed only a few strides before Daisy said, “You should be considering your finances.”
“My finances are quite healthy at the moment.”
“You never plan ahead.”
“At least let me enjoy the crossing.” I looped my arm in Daisy’s. “There’s something quite adventurous about being at sea, betwixt places, completely free to do as one pleases.”
Daisy sighed, “If you say so.”
“I do. And I enjoy the intrigue of all these strangers mingling, the thrill of letting events unfold as they may.” As we rounded the bow, a nippy mist buffeted my face. I inhaled deeply. “Even the chilly air is invigorating.”
I retired to my stateroom for the rest of the afternoon to read Tom Jones and luxuriate in the room’s plush carpet, satinwood paneling, and velvet curtains. When thirst and hunger got the better of me, I called on Daisy to help me dress for dinner.
“I believe I’ll go for a grand entrance this evening,” I said, pointing to my dulcet-orange gown with its fashionable pigeon breast and broad sash.
Daisy had absented herself the whole afternoon, determined to hobnob on deck. Removing my gown from its hanger, she said. “I exchanged a few words with that gentleman we passed earlier.”
I slipped out of my day dress. “Let me guess.… He’s in banking or finances.”
She chuckled. “No, no. Merely a doctor.”
“Ah, well. Life wouldn’t be nearly as exciting if I were always right.”
Upon entering the lounge, I spotted this same gentleman standing near the bar, but I paid him no mind. I breezed by a few full tables and selected a small one against the wall. No sooner had I seated myself than the gentleman approached.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, bowing. “Dr. Ernest Whidbey.”
“Dr. Whidbey,” I said, reaching out my hand. “I am Baroness May de Vries.”
He clapped both his hands around mine. “Honored to meet you, Baroness. May I buy you a cocktail, or perhaps a glass of champagne?”
“Champagne would be lovely.”
He intercepted a waiter and placed our order.
“I had a delightful time chatting with your companion earlier,” he said, seating himself.
“She’s a delight to me as well. And what are the chances we would meet again after such a fleeting encounter today?”
“Not all that bad. First-class capacity is six hundred, though I’m told all the staterooms are occupied.”
“The very reason I chose this ship. The rooms are luxurious, aren’t they?” I studied the broad structure of his handsome face. There was something both civilized and quizzical in the uneven slant of his brow and the way one eye closed to a near squint while the other remained open and alert.
“And roomy, too. They’ve made good use of the boat’s six-hundred-twenty-two-foot length.” He tugged his shirtsleeves down from under his jacket sleeves, revealing immaculately starched white cuffs. “This happens to be the first ship outfitted with a permanent radio connection to shore stations.”
“You have quite a mind for numbers and facts, Dr. Whidbey. I assume you are a physician?”
“I’m a professor of ophthalmology and otology—an eyes-and-ears man.”
“A professor,” I said, taking up my glass of champagne. “Then your capacity for retention must serve you well.”
He cocked his head in reluctant assent. “I suppose it does. In the classroom, at least.”
“Are you on holiday or business?”
“A bit of both. I’m on leave from the University of Minnesota.”
How quaint, I thought—a lowly professor—though I did wonder how he managed to dress so regally. This evening he sported a midnight-blue tailcoat, bronze-colored waistcoa
t, white silk bow tie, and wing-collared shirt. Maybe he had inherited or married well and, with monetary matters conveniently settled, found himself free to pursue his medical interests. He might well be a learned man of integrity who also chose to enjoy what was possibly a modest fortune. Daisy would probably urge me to seek a more promising match, but I found myself falling easily into the company of this educated and unassuming man of approximately my own years. With him I felt no need to posture or worry about business machinations. So when he asked, “May I escort you to the dining saloon?” I readily assented.
We made a compatible threesome—Ernest, Daisy, and I. Once or twice Daisy sought him out for her afternoon stroll; the three of us regularly lunched together; and Ernest and I took to dining in the ship’s impressive Italian-style dining saloon, relaxing under its three-story-high skylight dome in the midst of Spanish-mahogany walls carved with pilasters and inlaid with ivory. Ah, such luxury. There is nothing quite like a transatlantic crossing to help one forget the worries of the world.
Meantime, unbeknownst to me, Daisy had been gathering intelligence. Over breakfast two days from port, she informed me, “Ernest told Mr. Simon that he has an antenuptial agreement with his former wife. As long as he doesn’t remarry, he collects ten thousand dollars a year. What do you think of that?”
Daisy had yet to take up her coffee cup. “I’d say you’re quite excited about it.”
“Don’t you see? He’s not free to marry, either.”
“My word, Daisy. Who’s thinking of marriage?”
“That’s the beauty of it. No one.”
Of course I understood the ramifications of Ernest’s circumstances, which fortunately resembled mine, at least insofar as remarriage was concerned. But I wasn’t as quick as Daisy to make the leap to any liaison. After all, his steady attentions and efficient command of daily arrangements afforded me the leisure of merely drifting along and reveling in his generosity, free from any complications. If only it had stayed that way.
THE TRIAL
THE PROPER WAY TO CONDUCT A TRIAL
MENOMINEE—JANUARY 29, 1917
Monday morning found us back for week two of the trial, with me in my heather-green tweed suit—the very thing a reputable businesswoman might wear to court—and poor Judge Flanagan drumming his fingers on the table. He’d hoped to conclude the trial in a week, but as Frank’s days on the stand multiplied, he should have surmised that was out of the question.
My attorney launched the day by calling Frank back to the stand, intent on demonstrating that she had prevaricated on the matter of accepting loans from me. Mr. Powers approached the witness box, brandishing a folded paper. “Miss Shaver, earlier you explained that you gave the Baroness shares of Westinghouse stock valued at about thirty-six thousand dollars, expecting to be reimbursed.”
“That’s correct.”
“And this occurred in London, in early 1913.”
“Yes.”
Powers unfolded the paper and handed it to Frank. “Would you please review this memorandum?”
Frank’s eyes darted over the paper with the ever-increasing speed of a runaway car. She jerked her head upright and glared at me.
Powers said, “Is that your handwriting?”
“It appears to be.”
“Would you please read the document?”
“It reads, ‘As security for a loan of two thousand eight hundred pounds provided to me by May de Vries, I hereby submit two hundred shares of Westinghouse stock, to be held until such time as the loan is repaid.’ ”
“And it is signed by you, is it not?”
“Yes, but I’ve never seen this document.”
“Did you borrow two thousand eight hundred pounds from the Baroness in London?”
“No, I did not.”
“Then how do you explain this document?”
“I have no idea where it came from.”
“You did not provide two hundred shares of Westinghouse stock as loan security?”
“No, the suggestion that I borrowed money from May is absurd.”
“So you deny borrowing two thousand eight hundred pounds from the Baroness?”
“Objection, argumentative,” came the predictable complaint from Frank’s attorney, and “Sustained,” the routine refrain from Judge Flanagan.
With that, my attorney concluded his cross-examination. Frank’s attorney, Sawyer, then sought to undo the damage to her reliability via his redirect, during which time Frank parroted various versions of her contention that she had neither borrowed money from me nor signed any document naming stock as surety.
At the conclusion of the morning’s testimony, Judge Flanagan ordered a shortening of the luncheon recess, requesting everyone’s prompt return at one-fifteen: “This isn’t the only case on the docket, nor should it be taking so much of the court’s time.”
Upon my return, I found Frank and her attorney seated side by side at the plaintiff’s bench, their heads bent together in somber exchange. I detected the aura of desperation about their manner, which surprised me not at all after my attorney had chipped away at Frank’s credibility on the matter of borrowing from me.
Once the judge had called the court to order, Sawyer rose. “Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”
Judge Flanagan, no doubt sensing another obstruction to his design of moving the trial forward, intoned, “If you insist.”
A whispering campaign ensued. I only caught a tiny snippet—something about a fake document—before the judge invited my attorney to join the conference. The whispers increased to hushed barks, until the judge finally splayed his hands to quiet the rival attorneys and announced, “Gentlemen, this is not a conversation to be had in hearing of the jury. I will have the jury leave.”
Out they marched, a few of them visibly huffing with impatience, or perhaps frustration. They no doubt shared my sentiment: It was high time to put an end to this ridiculous trial. Behind me, I discerned an abrupt buzzing among the onlookers, who no doubt hoped for some saucy surprise.
“Very well, Mr. Sawyer,” said Judge Flanagan. “You may argue your request.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Sawyer kept his back to me and addressed the judge, but I could hear the pleading in his voice. “When Dr. Whidbey brought suit against the Baroness in London, she used tactics just like the ones she’s using here. That’s why it’s relevant.”
Judge Flanagan folded his hands, obviously trying to bring patience to bear. “What tactics are you referring to?”
“Deceitful ones. Such as twisting claims and producing papers no one had seen before.”
“And how is that material to this case?”
“It shows that the Baroness was willing to use deceit to fight charges against her. Just as she’s doing here.”
“And do any of the documents in that case bear directly on the specifics of this case?”
“Not directly. But the defendant’s unscrupulous actions are much the same.”
Powers stepped in. “This is prejudicial, Your Honor.”
“Just a minute here.” Flanagan waved Powers off. “Mr. Sawyer, have you explained the full rationale for your request?”
As Sawyer twisted around and glanced at Frank, I noticed his usually sallow complexion had tinted to an excited pink.
“To summarize,” he began, “the charges in the Whidbey case are quite similar to the ones brought here. They show the Baroness has repeatedly wheedled money out of her friends and … ahem … companions. But that’s not the main reason for bringing in this evidence. It’ll show she stops at nothing to dodge justice. She’ll lie. She’ll introduce false documents. She’ll produce witnesses to do her bidding. And that, Your Honor, is why I humbly request to introduce facts from the Whidbey case.”
Clutching a hand over my heart, I shot Frank an open-mouthed I-can-hardly-believe-what-I’m-hearing look. I’d told her about my troubles with Whidbey, and she had obviously divulged these confidences to her attorney. I’d not, in fact, falsified an
y documents in that case. Rather, Whidbey’s scurrilous claims required that I fight back and use any and all means to extricate myself from his vicious, unrelenting grip. It had taken years to escape him, and now my own survival strategies might be turned against me. The blood retreated from my extremities. I dropped my head and closed my eyes to still the whirring of my mind.
I heard the judge’s voice. “Mr. Powers, I imagine you have something to say?”
“I most certainly do, Your Honor. But first I’d like to consult with my client. May I have some time to do that?”
“Here we go again,” said Flanagan, rolling his eyes. “Yes, but please be brief.”
Mr. Powers seated himself beside me. I summoned the courage to carry on with my defense. I had previously mentioned the Whidbey case to him, though I certainly hadn’t anticipated its playing any role in this trial. During our ten-minute talk, Mr. Powers zeroed in on the key aspects of the case—after all, he is a fine attorney—and then he rose to approach the judge and Mr. Sawyer.
“Your Honor,” he said and, after bowing to Mr. Sawyer, “my esteemed colleague, I maintain that the Whidbey case has no bearing whatsoever on the one before us. The plaintiffs do not know each other. These are quite separate matters, full continents apart. Although there are newspaper reports of this trial, the case was settled out of court, and thus no definitive ruling was made on either the merits of the case or the nature of the evidence. We have only informal information—hearsay, if you will—to discuss here. Any allegations about my client’s attempts to defend herself are merely that—allegations—to which no respectable court would give serious consideration. My colleague is only trying to delay the proceedings by bringing up altogether irrelevant matters. We have plenty of evidence before us on which to decide this case. The plaintiff is attempting to impugn the reputation of my client. It is not an honorable way to conduct a civil case.”
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