by Tom Murphy
She thought of Jack Wallingford then, and his bitterness, how he’d laughed at his parents and their world, how he’d laughed at them and taken from them and taken from Lily, and taken from her own dear Brooks the thing Brooks had loved most in all the world.
Jack Wallingford!
Well, the past was the past. She’d never see Jack again, and she’d be the better for that. Lily thought of Kate and how fine a girl Kate had become, and how little Jack cared or knew. How little he deserves a daughter like my Katie. Jack Wallingford, indeed. Lily had wondered more than once: had she never laid eyes on Brooks Chaffee in those days, would she have tolerated the advances of young Master Jack?
Like all the most disturbing questions, this one had no proper answer.
When it came time to move into the new house, which Brooks faithfully promised would be only a seasonal thing, October until May, so that the boys could have the advantage of proper schooling instead of the makeshift one-room establishment that was Lily’s pride at the ranch, Lily found that there was little to move, since everything in the San Francisco establishment had been acquired anew. Even their clothing and linens were fresh from the tailors and department stores and dressmakers. So there was no element of rush or flurry about the moving, no question of deadlines.
Lily and Brooks walked through the empty rooms on the week before they moved in. All of the essentials were in place: waxed floors gleamed, old mirrors reflected a sense of mystery along with the beholder’s image, and hundreds of windows danced with light and framed gardens that bloomed more with promise than with flowers.
She felt the pressure of his hand increase with his pleasure. “You have done just what I expected, my darling,” he said softly. “You’ve made a miracle. It’s delightful, Lily. It looks just like you.”
“Then,” she said laughing, “it must look tired, for if I see one dealer’s catalog ever again, ’twill be one too many.”
“The colors are enchanting—light yet subtle.”
“I stole them out of picture books of old, old places in Italy.”
“And the furniture! It’s fine, but not…not competitive, if you know what I mean.”
“You mean it doesn’t scream to all the world how rich you are. Well, don’t be fooled, my dear, for it cost a very pretty penny all the same.”
“What I like most about it—aside from its mistress—is the views, and the way you’ve let us all see them.”
Lily turned and walked to a small fruitwood console and moved a vase four inches to the right.
“I’m very pleased with the house, Brooks. More than pleased: if we must be grand, then this is a most pleasant way to do it. But the house itself was never a problem for me. The life that goes with such a house, as you know, is another matter altogether.”
“You are afraid I’ll become a social butterfly, my Lily, my love? Fill the place with drunks and bores at all hours? Come, darling, surely you know me better than that.”
“Why did you want it, then?”
“Because,” he said softly, kissing her cheek, “a rare jewel deserves a rare setting. And because I want certain things for our children, things that may seem superficial but that will serve them well—I believe—in their future life. I want to see our Katie married in this garden, I want to be an old man dozing in his easy chair at that window, and wake to hear the grandchildren playing around that fountain. I want to look out our bedroom window at the city we have helped to build, and the ocean that brought us here, that brought us together.”
They stood in the window and looked out over the terraced gardens and down onto the rooftops of the city. San Francisco Bay was a splash of melted silver far below. And somewhere, somewhere near, although she could not actually make it out, was the building—now a bank—that had once held all the glitter and shame of the Fleur de Lis.
Lily sighed. “I hope,” she whispered as though all the world was listening, “that it makes you happy.”
And as she stood there in the big and beautifully proportioned room, looking out upon one of the most glorious views in all of the world and standing warm in the arms of the man she had loved nearly all her life, Lily could feel the happiness draining out of her like blood from a wound.
44
The party would be the talk of San Francisco.
Fergy assured his sister of that fact, confirming her very worst fears.
For it was not possible, it seemed, to simply move in. One must open the place officially, as if it were some gambling casino or whorehouse. One must have a big glittering party. One must certify one’s arrival on the scene, and it must be writ large like a stage direction in a play: ENTER THE CHAFFEES, ARMED FOR BEAR.
So now it would begin—or end.
How she had wished to take up life in San Francisco slowly, by small degrees, a few little dinners for close friends, possibly—just possibly—a few ladies in for tea. If they’d come. If they’d sully their fine reputations by mingling with a “soiled dove.”
But no. It would be a party, a reception, a soiree, and a big one. Music, lights, champagne: a major event in the social arena.
It had been Brooks, of course, who suggested the thing. “A small party, my darling, just a few of my business friends, and anyone you’d like.”
“Small” meant some hundred and fifty names, three hundred people if all the men brought lady guests. I’ll get sick. I’ll leave town. I’ll burn the damned place down! But Lily knew she would do none of these things, that she would make the party as fine and as beautiful as she could, simply because Brooks wanted it done. And is it such a great thing for a man to ask, for his wife to serve as a hostess for his friends? Lily caught her reflection in one of the old mirrors, a bluish, rippling image, more like a reflection in a pond than in glass. And she thought: But I am not like other men’s wives, and this is not like other towns, and it is a great thing he’s asking of me, greater far than he knows, or will let himself know.
Lily had long ceased to read the San Francisco papers, but she knew their tone all too well, their love of scandal and sensation, their old maid’s devotion to local gossip, their irresistible thirst for stirring up the social caldrons of the town, making mischief out of thin air when none fell ready-made to their hand.
Lily remembered her farewell from the Fleur de Lis and regretted it now, for it had only built the legend of Lily Cigar. She felt her old notoriety waiting in ambush now, like a bandit army.
Brooks smiled and told her not to worry, that she was thinking too much on it. And maybe, she told herself grimly, he’s right. Lily smiled and wrote the cards of invitation herself and sent them round by the coachman, sure in her heart that they were tickets to her own funeral. But she had promised herself that if she must preside over the extinction of her husband’s dream of a fuller social life in town, she would do it in style, and smiling, whatever the smiles might cost her. Riding for a fall, that’s what we are, she thought, writing in her boudoir at the little pearwood escritoire. She looked up at him and spoke gently. “You know, my darling, that there are only two possibilities in this: they won’t come, or they’ll come only to sneer, and never invite us back.”
He came to the desk and put his arms around her neck. “I’ve never known my Lily to think the worst of anyone, or to expect the worst. It will be a huge success, dearest, for all the town is perishing to see what glories you’ve wrought here.”
“All the town is perishing to see me fall on my face, more likely.”
“Nonsense. Why, Stanford Dickinson was saying just yesterday—”
“Brooks, dear, you don’t understand. You are too good to be able to even contemplate the way some of their minds work. If Mamie Dickinson ever sets foot in my house, it would be a miracle on the level of the loaves and the fishes. To women like that, I am worse than a leper. They must see me punished, humbled, put in my place. And for them, my proper place is in the gutter.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“That’s because you a
re a kind and generous man, and you have no fears about your position in the world. But to women like Mamie, position is everything, it is like the Chinese gaining or losing ‘face,’ as they call it. The ultimate disgrace. If a scarlet woman like me can lead a life of wickedness and then triumph and be happy, why, that undermines the very fabric of their existence. It means that all their stiff and hypocritical rules of decorum might not matter a damn. So they must strike out at me if God won’t do it for them. I understand that thoroughly, Brooks, and I even forgive them for it, for they cannot help being what they are.”
“Well, my love, I hear you clearly, and I can only pray you are wrong about that, and the party will confirm me.”
“Three weeks will tell, my darling,” said Lily in a voice so low it was barely audible. “Then we shall see.”
She busied herself with the preparations and determined to stop worrying about what was beyond her control in any case. Lily began feeling more like a general than a housewife: extra butlers and maids would be hired for the occasion, and an orchestra, plus strolling violinists, and special tables must be built for the buffet on the terrace, and extra tables too, in case of bad weather, and a wooden dancing floor too, cunningly made in sections so it could be the more easily stored and expanded and used on the other terraces for other parties. If there were other parties.
Lily sometimes found herself smiling at the irony of how very well her time served at the Wallingford mansion and at the Fleur de Lis worked for her now, for the similarities were greater in many respects than the differences: all huge establishments must have them. Lily insisted on interviewing all of the servants herself, and she learned why rich women seem so obsessed by “the servant problem,” for indeed, it was a problem.
“Tell me,” Lily said to the trembling sixteen-year-old girl who stood awkwardly before her in a dress so worn it aroused Lily’s sympathy at once, “tell me, Mary, what do you want most in the world?”
It was a question Lily asked every girl she interviewed, and most of the men, too, for the answers were revealing. Mary’s large blue eyes raced about the luxurious drawing room and finally alighted, meeting Lily’s kindly gaze.
“Oh, madame,” she said very softly, “it would be to eat regular.”
Lily stood up then, and went to the girl and embraced her gently, feeling the child’s shudder, her fear, the tremor of a trapped animal.
“There’s no better reason, Mary, for wanting work than that one. And we will find work for you, my dear, never doubt it.”
To Lily’s astonishment, the responses to their invitations came back promptly, and for the most part, positively.
“My mother always figures that two-thirds is about normal, unless there’s an epidemic, or it’s the wrong season. And she—”
“Is Mrs. Chaffee of Washington Square. I am Mrs. Chaffee formerly of the Fleur de Lis.”
Lily put down a small pile of acceptances that had come with the morning’s mail.
“Still,” she went on, “’tis better than their refusing outright.”
His laugh surprised her. “And I,” he said, laughing still, “thought I’d married an optimist!”
Lily stood and went to him and kissed him. “You did,” she said, smiling, “or by now I’d be in China and still running.”
Saturday, June 28, 1876, dawned with the perfect blue clarity common to summer in northern California. At least, Lily thought, looking out from her bedroom window, the weather did not fail me.
The last few days had been mayhem, but now all was in order. The new parlormaid, Mary, proved a wonder; she seemed to have magical powers that enabled her to be in three places at once.
All that remained to be done was to drape the lace cloths on the terrace buffets and to arrange the flowers that would arrive this morning from San Francisco’s three best florists and from the ranch, supplemented by a few roses already in bloom here on the hill. The food would be laid out at the last minute, and the chafing dishes filled and ignited after the guests had arrived.
Lily could not but look on these rooms, these terraces, with pleasure, nor miss the anticipation that hung in the air, for the household fairly quivered with it.
Yet mixed with the beauty that no one’s eyes could deny was something else, a nameless fear, and no matter how gently Brooks might soothe her doubts, no matter how she might chide herself for being a ninny, Lily walked through the grand rooms and thought that they might have been fixed up for a funeral instead of a gala supper dance.
One thousand tall white candles stood expectantly at attention in one thousand polished candleholders throughout the house, and the five main terraces were strung, in addition, with pastel-colored Chinese paper lanterns. The five-piece string orchestra would be heard, but not seen, being concealed behind a hedge of white roses.
Twenty-five cases of Clicquot champagne were on ice in the cellar, and ten silver tubs big enough to bathe in had been rented to display the wine on the terraces and in the main reception rooms of the house. It was rose season, and there were roses everywhere, white and pale pink and a rare shade that was nearly apricot. The Occidental Hotel had lent two chefs and five waiters to supplement the Chaffees’ own staff, and the buffet would be startling in its variety and richness. There would be immense lobster salads, and hams and turkeys sliced thin as paper, hot curried dishes, French pâtés thick with truffles and aspics; an entire sturgeon poached and stuffed and glazed with sauce duglère seemed to swim on a vast silver tray in the center. There were sorbets and petits fours and nine varieties of chilled mousse, and cookies and coffee laced with rare cognac.
The guests had been invited for eight-thirty.
Lily was dressed by seven, and making the rounds of the great house, checking on the last-minute details. It was impressive, if she did say so herself. But Brooks was still dressing, and there was no one but the servants to hear, so Lily kept her counsel and moved smiling through the huge rooms, approving, making small suggestions, rearranging a flower here, straightening a fork there.
Squeaks and groans issued from the far end of the terrace, where the orchestra was tuning up.
At eight Lily ordered half of the thousand candles lit. The other half would be lighted at ten-thirty. The afterglow had faded now, and the candles flickered defiantly in the falling night.
Lily stood in the main drawing room looking out through the open French doors across her terrace and down onto the pinpoint lights of San Francisco. It was so clear and still that she could even detect a faint sparkle of diamond dust across the bay—the lights of Tiburon.
And behind Tiburon, unseen but deeply felt, the welcoming hills of San Rafael, the ranch!
What would she not have given to be there now, in gingham by the kitchen fire, reading to Neddy and little Jon?
Lily sighed softly, and turned, and touched her upswept hair to make sure it was in place.
Brooks walked into the room, dramatic in his finely cut black evening clothes, smiling. He was carrying something, she couldn’t quite see what.
“You are,” he said, kissing her, “the loveliest sight in a city of lovely sights.”
“I am a tired old woman and you are a shameless flatterer.”
But she was pleased because she pleased him.
“Let me show you where everything is,” she said with a little laugh, “seeing as how you’ll be getting the bills.”
He took her hand in his. “First, a small token of admiration.”
Lily looked first at her husband and then at the thing he was carrying. Of course. A black leather jeweler’s box. She had more jewels now than she ever cared to wear. Tonight, for example, she wore only the lovely strand of pearls he had given her for a wedding present, just the pearls, no ornament in her hair, no rings or bracelets or fancy buttons on her simply cut dull-satin gown of dark amethyst, its neckline an unadorned oval scoop, its sleeves slightly puffed at the shoulder and tapering sleekly past her elbows, where they met the ivory kidskin gloves. It was a startling go
wn, having nothing to do with the current vogue, with a full skirt to the floor but no hoops or bustles, a slender but uncorseted waist, and a slightly medieval look about it all, which was only natural, since the style had been adapted from something Lily had found in a picture book of tapestries.
“Really, Brooks…”
“Open it.” His voice was just like Neddy’s when Neddy had captured some especially spectacular and frightening frog or turtle—eight years old and eager.
She took the little box: from the foursquare shape of it, a ring box. Lily slowly opened the lid. Green fires leaped up at her from a huge square of perfectly faceted emerald flanked by a small regiment of baguette diamonds. The stone was clear as air, deep and alive. She turned it in the candlelight and it seemed to flash blue among the sparkling green and pure white refractions.
Lily slipped it on her finger, on the third finger of her left hand next to the simple wedding band.
“My darling,” she whispered, “this is…”
“If I could scoop up the moon, Lily, and put it on your finger, I would do it.”
Lily kissed him slowly, softly. “I would love you no less if you were a beggarman, Brooks Chaffee, but since you seem to be quite the opposite, I thank you for a lovely ring.”
“There is no way I can ever thank you, my darling, for the gifts you have given me every day since first I saw you: the gift of love, of hope, of our children, but most of all the gift of yourself.”
They stood close, entwined thus, the youngest lovers in all the world, until the sound of a carriage in the driveway called them back to the real world, to this great haughty house perched so high above the booming town, to their aspirations and their duties. The first carriage was quickly followed by others, and the sound of wheels on gravel and clopping hooves became a low counterpoint to the distant waltzing strings and the scent of roses everywhere, corks popping, and laughter.
Lily, being primed for what happened next, was less surprised than her husband.
