Grace and her mother admired the wedding gifts that had already been delivered, including their own, a sterling silver coffee urn, which Nancy claimed had been ordered from a New York store the minute she heard of the impending marriage. That wasn’t true. The urn was an abominable thing, a wedding gift to Grace’s parents, which they’d never used. It had been polished and boxed up and delivered to Charlotte so that the family would not have to purchase a present.
“I am so dreadfully sorry we can’t entertain for our Charlotte,” Nancy told the bride’s mother. “But with a death in the family…well, I know it’s old-fashioned, but I just don’t think it’s proper. I hope you understand.” That would save not only Grace’s face but part of the dwindling fortune, as well.
Charlotte’s mother did understand and replied, “But you won’t let that stop Grace from being a member of the wedding party, will you? Charlotte would be heartbroken, and George, too, for she is dear to both of them. You will agree, won’t you, Grace?”
“You have to say yes,” Charlotte added. “I couldn’t get married without you.”
Because saying no not only would have been a breach of etiquette but would have caused talk in Saginaw, mother and daughter exchanged glances, and Grace accepted.
And so for the next few weeks—the couple was anxious to marry; “You know how impatient young people are today,” the bride’s mother confided to Nancy—Grace and George were thrown together at dozens of parties and outings given for the wedding couple. George was not overly friendly with Grace, but neither did he avoid her. It was as if the two of them were old friends, as if nothing more than polite conversation had ever passed between them. George never gave her a word of explanation, and, of course, Grace never asked for one.
Grace threw herself into the festivities, partly to show George—if he cared to observe it—that his marriage meant nothing to her, and partly because Grace was now desperate to find a husband. She remembered the old laundress’s curse and her frown after examining Grace’s hand and wondered if somehow, she, not her mother, had been the recipient of that curse. Or perhaps one of her poor decisions had been not following her mother’s advice and marrying before twenty, because at twenty, she found many of the young men frivolous and unappealing. But what she thought of her young swains did not matter now. She must marry before anyone found out about her financial state. She wished that she had insisted on attending a university, where she might have learned enough to find a respectable job. But that option was closed to her now. She looked over the men in the bridal party and singled out two or three as husband possibilities. She flirted with them, let one or two pet her, but she was not enthusiastic about any of them.
Two days before the wedding, Grace attended an outing held in the bridal couple’s honor at an estate in the country. There was dinner and dancing and champagne, and because the guests by now were bored with all the entertainments, they drank a great deal, and by the time the evening ended, a number of them were swacked, among them Grace’s escort, who was so besotted that he passed out. Charlotte’s mother, a bit befuddled herself, asked George to see Grace home.
George replied he’d happy to be of service, and Grace, although greatly agitated, said that she would be pleased to accept his kindness. “You’ll be safe, darling Grace,” Charlotte called as she sped down the road with her parents.
George and Grace were the last to leave, and George let the dust from Charlotte’s car settle before he helped Grace into his own motorcar and turned on the engine. “Darling Grace,” he muttered as he started slowly down the dark road. “Darling Charlotte. Darling everybody.” He seemed in a foul mood, and Grace suspected that he did not want to be alone with her any more than she did with him. He must be furious that he had been put in the position of escorting her home. Well, she would make it as easy as she could for both of them by keeping a shut mouth.
She wished George would drive faster and was surprised he didn’t, because he liked a boiling pace, but he poked along, looking straight ahead and keeping silent himself. Grace concluded that he was a little drunk. She, too, had imbibed more champagne than she should have and was light-headed.
“Gracie,” he said at last, and the name stung her.
She thought to rebuke him by pointing out that her name was Grace, but she couldn’t. She just let the old name slide over her, and in a minute, tears ran down her face. George looked over at her and touched her cheek. “Darling Gracie,” he said, this time with tenderness. He pulled off the road into a grove of weeping willow trees and turned off the engine. “Darling Gracie, don’t you know I love you?”
Grace turned to him in astonishment, thinking for a moment that the voice was in her head, fueled by the champagne. But George repeated the words. “I love you, Gracie. I’d give anything if it was you I was marrying.” He drew her to him and kissed her. “Say you love me, too.”
“I—”
“Say it.”
“I won’t.”
George stared out into the darkness. “I suppose I can’t blame you. I’ve treated you horribly. I wouldn’t be surprised if you hated me. But I think you love me at least a little.”
Instead of looking at George, Grace focused on the branches of the willow tree that draped over the car. Stars twinkled through the leaves. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s all so complicated. I can’t explain it. I just wish you were going to be my wife instead of Charlotte.”
Grace did not know what to say. His words did not make sense, but then, she had had a great deal to drink, and she could not think properly. “Then why are you marrying her?”
George sat pensively, as if searching for the words to explain himself. But instead of answering, he suddenly reached over and drew her to him. “It hurts me to see you and know I can’t hold you.” He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, but Grace turned her head aside and would not look at him. So George put a hand on either side of her face and forced her head up, and he kissed her. He held her so tightly that she couldn’t move, and he kissed her face and her neck and her shoulders. Then his lips moved down until he was kissing the cleavage between her breasts. “Oh, Gracie, Gracie,” he said, and he began to push down the top of her dress.
“George, no,” she said, making little fluttering gestures at him, wanting him to stop and not to stop. He moved his hands slowly down her body, pushing the dress with it. The gown gave easily, for Grace was slender and did not wear a corset as Charlotte did, and the dress was diaphanous and loose.
When he had pushed the dress nearly to her waist, George maneuvered Grace back on the seat and began to slide his hands over her breasts, her waist, and then Grace felt the silk fabric of her skirt as it inched up her legs and over her hips. She made little sounds of protest, which George silenced with kisses, and she felt his hands loosen her undergarments, and then his body was on top of her, and she was pinned to the seat of the car. Through the fog of champagne, Grace knew she should stop him. She knew about boys who forced themselves on girls, and she was aware of what she must do, but to her surprise, she did not want George to stop. His hands were warm and soft, and they made her body tingle. For an instant, she thought that Charlotte was a fool to dread this, and then she saw with sudden clarity that George was engaged to Charlotte, and that she must not let this happen. She tried to shove him away, but by then it was too late.
When it was over, George pushed himself off her and helped her sit up. Grace, embarrassed now, straightened her clothes, fastening the snaps and buttons that had come loose, touching a rip in the fragile fabric. She combed her hair with her fingers, then sat demurely on the seat, her hands clasped together, not able to look George in the face.
“Gracie…” George said. “He placed the tip of his index finger on the bridge of her nose and slid it down to the tip. Then he kissed her nose. “I will remember this all of my life.”
“I think we’d better go home,” she told him. “My mother will wonder where I’ve gotten to.” I
n fact, her mother never waited up for Grace, but the girl felt strange, and she had turned prim.
“Right,” George said, and he turned on the engine. They motored in silence until they reached the house. George walked her to the door, which Grace unlocked herself, because there was no servant to open it. “I’ll see you in the morning, darling. We’ll talk then.”
Grace nodded, then went inside and up the stairs to her room, where she sat in the dark in the wrinkled gown. She felt disoriented, but not from the champagne this time. And then she felt a sense of happiness creep over her. She threw the dress into the back of the closet, where it could be examined and repaired later. As she got into bed, she wondered what George would tell Charlotte. For an instant, she felt sorry for her friend, but the feeling didn’t last long. The knowledge that George would marry her now, would have to marry her after what had happened, enfolded Grace in a softness as thick and warm as a bed of feathers.
In the morning, Grace bathed and dressed in a thin summer frock, since the day was already hot, and then she went outside and sat beside the fountain, listening to the quiet sound of the water as it fell from tier to tier into the huge iron basin, then was piped up to the top of the structure to make its way down again. She ran her hand through the water and flicked the drops onto the flowers nearby. The yard was well maintained, because her mother had kept a single gardener. After all, what would people think if the gardens went to weeds? Grace dried her hand on her skirt and walked to the playhouse. It had always been a place of refuge. Whenever she’d felt lonely or her little playmates had abandoned her, she had used the playhouse as a hiding place. But she had not been inside in a long time—years, really.
She pushed open the door and saw the children’s furniture there, the table and chairs, a doll carriage, some books, all covered with a layer of dust. She would have just such a playhouse for her own child, and then she touched her stomach. Good God, she thought, could I be pregnant? They would have to marry right away, just in case. But they should marry quickly anyway, elope, and probably that very evening, because George and Charlotte’s wedding was planned for the next day. If they ran off, people would talk, of course, but that would be preferable to having a seven-months baby. She could never deal with the stigma of that.
Grace glanced at the little tin dishes on the toy table and remembered the tea parties she and Charlotte had given there, pretending to be grown-up ladies with houses and servants of their own. And then she was shaken out of her reverie by the sound of a motor. She looked across the garden and saw George getting out of his automobile. She wanted to run to him, but instead she went only as far as the fountain and waited demurely. He saw her and came over to her quickly.
George did not sweep Grace up in his arms as she had expected, but stood awkwardly in front of her. Well, of course, she thought. He did not know how she would react after last night and who might be watching. So Grace took his hand, and they sat down beside the fountain, and she whispered, “I love you.”
George wrung his hand away and stood up. “I’m sorry for that. It doesn’t make it easier for either one of us. I’ve done you a terrible wrong, and I ask you to forgive me.”
Grace was confused. “Last night—”
“Last night was a dreadful mistake. I hope you will blame it on the champagne and that you are all right.” When Grace didn’t answer, George said, “Of course you’re not. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. I had to apologize before the wedding tomorrow. You deserve that much.”
“The wedding?” Grace asked.
“I’m marrying Charlotte tomorrow. Surely you didn’t forget.” He added softly, “I wish it weren’t so.”
“But last night, I thought…”
“Thought what?”
“That you and I…” She would not be so bold as to say it.
“You thought we would get married?”
Grace was greatly embarrassed and turned away. “I thought in situations like that…”
“But we can’t, Grace. Don’t you understand?”
Grace shook her head.
“I guess you don’t, do you?” He took her hand and sat down again beside her and stared into the fountain. “The fact is, Charlotte’s family has money, and yours doesn’t.”
Grace went rigid and looked at George in shock. “All you cared about was my money, then?”
“That’s not true. I couldn’t have married you without it, but I do love you.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I’d planned to ask you to marry me. I almost did once or twice. Then while you were away, my father found out that the Schuyler fortune is gone. I should have figured it out on my own, what with all these economies your father has effected, but I merely thought he was being eccentric.” He gave a mirthless chuckle.
“Why does the lack of a fortune matter if you love me? You have money.”
“Not a cent. We’re as broke as you are. My father lost everything on a business venture, and it’s up to me to restore the family fortune.” He laughed a little at the irony of it. “Isn’t it funny that we’re a pair of penniless fortune hunters and we fell for each other?”
Grace did not find it funny at all, nor did she consider herself a fortune hunter, although maybe she was. “You could work.”
George shook his head. “And just what could I do, Gracie? My education is as useless as yours. I was brought up to fish and play golf and mix a mean cocktail. Who’d hire me?”
“But you’re clever. You could do anything you wanted. I don’t need servants, and I could learn to cook and keep house.” The idea of being alone together, just the two of them in a little cottage not much bigger than the playhouse, appealed to her.
George took a deep breath. “The truth is, I don’t want to work. And I don’t want to live in a nasty little bungalow. There it is. I like my life too much to give it up. I suppose it means I’m weak, but I’d rather live off someone else’s money than work for it.”
Grace looked out across the garden at the playhouse. She had left the door open. “Does Charlotte know—about your family, I mean?”
George shrugged. “I suppose her father does, but she wants me, so it doesn’t matter to them. They must feel I’m better than that sorry lot of young bucks sniffing around her.”
“But last night…”
“I’m sorry—for your sake, that is, but not for mine.” Without looking at her, George stood, but Grace could not. Her knees were weak. He squeezed her hand. Then he raised it to his lips. “I wish it could be different.”
He turned then and walked to his car, slowly at first, then, straightening up, faster, as if he had put his evening with Grace behind him. She watched him go, let the dust settle behind his motorcar, then got up herself and went to close the playhouse door. But she went inside instead and sat down on the dusty little chair, her knees almost to her chin. She put her arms down on the dirty table and rested her head on them. She did not sob this time; she did not have that luxury. Instead, she let the agony and then the shame and finally the horror of what she had done wash over her. She did not know much about pregnancy, but she was aware that she had taken a terrible risk, and that she must find a husband at once. She sat on the little chair for hours, and when at last she stood up, her legs cramped, she knew what she must do.
The wedding was a brilliant affair, and why not, because Charlotte’s family had spared no expense. But Grace barely noticed the flowers that covered the altar of the great cathedral or the lavish wedding supper prepared by a chef imported from New York. Tents were set up on the lawn of Charlotte’s family estate, in case it should rain on the guests, who had arrived from all over the country in private railroad cars.
Grace had grown up with such entertainments, and this one did not make an impression. She had participated in the wedding ceremony as if in a dream, a smile frozen on her face as she watched the couple exchange vows. Did she wish she was marrying George at that moment? Grace wondered. She now had a very different opinion of him. Did she still l
ove him? Grace did not know. But those were not the thoughts that occupied her mind as she moved across the lawn in search of one of the groomsmen—James Foote, a distant cousin of Charlotte’s.
She had met him at the bridal parties, danced with him, flirted a little when she thought George was watching. He had found her intriguing, she knew, had told her she might be the only person in the room who’d ever read a book. He’d seemed flattered that Grace had taken an interest in him, and he’d even tried to kiss her, although Grace had slipped from his embrace and called him a bad boy. Jim had given her an odd look at that point, as though he found the “bad boy” cliché too brittle for her to use.
Jim Foote was older and already established as a mining engineer. He did not have money beyond what he earned himself, Grace realized, but she did not care, because that meant they would live wherever his work took him, instead of in Saginaw. She did not want people there to see her disgrace. Of course, he was not handsome like George, who had thick black hair and an almost pretty face. Jim was thin, with gray eyes, protruding ears, and long arms, and was already as bald as a brass doorknob. Grace liked him the best of the bunch of unattached males who were wedding attendants and even found him somewhat appealing, not that it mattered much.
She saw him standing by himself, an empty glass in his hand, and she picked up two glasses of champagne and went over to him, handing him one. “It’s awfully hot. I brought you this to cool off,” she said, watching him gulp the wine, then handing him the second glass. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
He looked down at her, because although she was tall, he was that much taller. “Not really.”
Grace acted taken aback. “It’s such a lovely party.”
“Oh, if you like this sort of thing.” He studied her a moment. “Do you really want to know what I think?”
She nodded.
“I think spending all this money on a wedding is appalling. Do you know what that money would do in the mining town where I work?”
Whiter Than Snow Page 9
