Death of a New American--A Novel

by Mariah Fredericks

  Now William said, “I know my uncle sounds rough in the newspapers, but that’s just show. He’ll do anything for his family.”

  Here William broke off, no doubt remembering his own father, who had come to a tragic end when William was young, falling prey to two ailments that strike many an old distinguished family: gambling and drink. When he died, he left his children very little beyond a resourceful mother and society connections that guaranteed they wouldn’t starve. I had heard the story in whispered bits and pieces when I was at the Armslow house. Charles Tyler had tried to save his older brother, scolding him through letters, sending him to sanitariums, getting him the semblance of a job at a law firm, and paying off his debts on more than one occasion. When the poor man made his unfortunate exit out of his office window—it was always referred to as a fall—Charles Tyler took charge of his family. It was he who made sure William and his sisters were remembered by those who mattered, enrolling William in the right schools and writing to him at least three times a week, dispensing the kind of hearty, fatherly advice that would have otherwise been lacking in his life.

  “But his career must make his poor wife very nervous,” said Mrs. Benchley. “Those criminals he’s fighting, they want to kill him, don’t they?”

  Here Mrs. Benchley was not entirely wrong. Last year, a car that was to take Charles Tyler to the mayor’s office had been blown to pieces with him just twenty feet away; he had suffered a nasty wound to his arm from flying shrapnel, but was otherwise fine. “Thank God,” he told the papers an hour later, “that I am never on time. Always running late. Drives my wife mad.”

  William laughed. “Most wives would probably be nervous. But my aunt Alva’s very different from most wives.”

  As a young man, Charles Tyler had rarely been in one part of the world for long, and such a busy life did not lend itself to domesticity. Therefore, it was some time before he found a mate. But he had succeeded in this as he had succeeded in everything else—in a manner both triumphant and unorthodox. Alva Tyler, formerly Alva Van Ness, might better be described as handsome rather than beautiful, but at the time of their marriage, people spoke with envy of Charles Tyler’s luck in marrying a woman who was “rich and a beauty besides.” Her brown hair had a lovely red tint when it caught the light. She was not tall, slightly short in the waist, which made elegance a challenge, but elegance was not what she aspired to. Her reputation for looks rested almost entirely on her eyes, which were indeed spectacular: large and luminous blue-green. At one point, she had managed to sit still long enough to have her portrait done by Mr. Sargent; he captured her as the vibrant “New Woman,” dressed in sports clothing, her overlarge mouth laughing, her glorious eyes alive with curiosity.

  Having married one of the chief adventurers of the day, Alva joined him in exploring the world. The Charles Tylers shot in Africa with Frederick Russell Burnham, sailed on the Ganges with Lord and Lady Dumfries, and took a spin in a motorized airship soon after their debut at the 1904 World’s Fair. I could remember the photo of her grinning and windblown next to the vast dirigible. She did appear in the newspapers more than was considered ideal. But she was that sort of singular personality who was allowed to break the rules—people felt she was so singular, few would be daring enough to emulate her.

  Even the birth of their first two sons hadn’t slowed her down much. But when she miscarried a third, the doctors recommended she adopt a quieter lifestyle. It was at that time that the Tylers took up residence in Pleasant Meadows and were rewarded with more children, a daughter and a son. Sadly, last year, the son had died just after his first birthday, and for a while, the newspapers had only pictures of a subdued Charles Tyler to show and none at all of Alva, whose grief was said to be great. But four months ago, the couple had welcomed a new baby boy and joy returned to the household. Mr. Tyler still worked in the city, staying at their house there during the week, but Alva Tyler stayed at Pleasant Meadows year-round, saying it was better for the children. I had glimpsed Alva Tyler a few times when I worked for Mrs. Armslow. I admired her enormously and was looking forward to seeing her again.

  The rest of the train journey proceeded without incident; Louise clutched William’s hand and Mrs. Benchley clutched mine as we went through the tunnel. We stepped off the train and into the fresh sea air of the North Shore—or as others were calling it, the Gold Coast.

  Sometime around the end of the last century, New York’s wealthiest families had become frustrated with the limitations of the square city block. Space, they needed space! And fresh air. So they decamped forty miles east to Long Island, where the likes of the Vanderbilts, Guggenheims, and Fricks could be free to build chateaux, cottages, and castles as sprawling as their hearts desired. Also to play. Long Island’s great lawns and windy bays were the site of endless contests such as only warriors with great wealth and leisure time can afford. Ponies charged down the polo grounds of the Meadow Brook Club, horses leapt hedges in pursuit of fox, yachts vied for supremacy on the waves at Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club, and motorcars thundered down the raceway at the Vanderbilt Cup. (Ostrich races had been tried, but in the words of a local paper, “the birds seem unreliable and not exactly fitted for track work.”) Some found diversion at the newly open aeroplane schools or by tending their model farm or competing fiercely at cards. At the heart of all these battles of course was the ultimate fight: who could spend the most and most stylishly.

  We were met at the station by a gentle breeze tanged with salt and the Tylers’ charabanc. The chauffeur was a rotund little man, visibly harassed, and mopping sweat from his neck. He had a beaky nose, liverish lips, and the start of a double chin. But he brightened when he saw “Mr. William,” and pumped his hand with enthusiasm. When he spoke, I was startled to hear a strong Italian accent.

  Bringing Louise forward, William said, “Louise, Mrs. Benchley, this is my uncle’s new chauffeur, Aldo. Aldo, this is my fiancée, Miss Louise Benchley.”

  Aldo intensified his performance of the earthy Mediterranean, throwing up his hand with an extravagant cry of welcome and dubbing Louise “Mrs. William.” Round-eyed with shock, Mrs. Benchley flinched when Aldo raised his cap to her. Then, pulling William to one side, she whispered, “But he’s Italian.” William whispered back, “Yes, Mrs. Benchley.”

  I watched as Aldo loaded the luggage onto the charabanc. With the family out of earshot, he was less ebullient, raising his eyebrows in displeasure as he squatted to lift the first trunk. Shoving it with a grunt, he muttered to me, “She’s rich, huh? Better be rich.”

  It was a few miles’ drive from the station. The city’s wealthiest families had made their presence known, but this was still farmland. Horses cantered behind split-rail fences. Cows lowed from the field. I lifted my face to the sun, breathed in the smell of freshly cut grass, and listened to the birds chitter overhead. We hit a small bump and I opened my eyes to see the dull pewter gleam of the ocean. As we approached the house, I was struck by the inadequacy of its name: Pleasant Meadows. The grounds were lovely, with wide swaths of grass and towering old trees. But the house, set atop a hill, had far too much wayward individuality for such a bland title. I had visited several estates and none of them had the ramshackle, boisterous design of the Tyler home. Fittingly, given its owner, it resembled a boy’s paradise. A generous porch circled the front of the house; the second floor boasted an enclosed porch on its right side. A third, smaller floor had a row of windows overlooking the front lawn. A thirty-foot hall or gallery connected the main house to a small addition about the size of a guest cottage. The topmost floor was almost a tower; a flag fluttered from its roof, and I wondered if it were a skull and crossbones. One could imagine Charles Tyler barking at the builder, “Yes, let’s put a balcony there, a picture window there, and a secret passageway in the library. Over there, I want a swing. Overlooking the pond. What do you mean, no pond? Put one in!” I could see why William loved it here.

  But it was also hard not to notice the anonymous men who nodd
ed politely as we passed through the gate. Or a sandy-haired man strolling the grounds in a coat far too heavy for the warm weather, hand fixed at his waistband. Charles Tyler might tell the papers he was unconcerned by the Black Hand’s threats, but he was not unaware of them.

  Charles and Alva Tyler were waiting for us on the lawn. Standing behind them was William’s mother, Florence Tyler, looking as settled and imperious as an abbess. A little behind the official welcoming party stood a young dark-haired woman who held a sleeping baby in one arm and a little girl by the hand. The little girl kept rising on tiptoes, twisting her head to see around the adults.

  I had seen Charles Tyler in person on a few occasions and many times in the papers, but even I was struck at how much he was himself, vivid, full of life, arms outstretched to embrace anything in his path—in this case Louise, who was knocked breathless when he wrapped her up in a massive hug. Mrs. Benchley all but swooned when he took her hand and intoned, “Welcome to Pleasant Meadows, my dear Mrs. Benchley. This is a happy house!” Alva Tyler observed her husband’s performance with good-natured restraint; she had seen it all before, but could appreciate its effect on a new audience.

  Aldo was taking his time with the luggage, so I had begun to take down some of the smaller pieces when I heard a booming, “Jane! Little Jane Prescott. I want to have a look at you.”

  Startled, I turned to see the great man himself standing next to me. Grasping both my hands, he lifted them and crowed, “Why, you’re splendid! Do you remember, Alva, my old aunt’s little thing of a maid? All eyes—saw everything. Figured out it was my rotten cousin Dicky filching Aunt Laura’s earbobs. And now look at you!” He grinned, a happy beam that had no condescension in it, only genuine pleasure, as if my maturation were proof of a prosperous America where all things were done right.

  “Alva,” he said, “look at her!”

  “I can’t, dearest,” said his wife. “You’re hiding her behind the charabanc.”

  Mr. Tyler gave a shout of laughter and led me out. Alva Tyler advanced, hands outstretched, and said in her lovely, deep voice, “It’s very nice to see you again, Jane.”

  I smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Tyler. It’s very good to see you.”

  If Alva Tyler wasn’t quite the woman I had remembered, it was to be expected that age and motherhood would stake their claims. She had grown thicker through the waist, and her vivid hair was leached of brightness. There were sharp lines around her mouth and bruised shadows under her eyes. The hands that held mine were sharply boned, almost brittle. But the miraculous blue-green eyes were still luminous.

  There was a brief shuffling sound and Mrs. Tyler looked over her shoulder. “And this is my daughter—”

  A girl of about six stepped forward with broad steps and swinging arms. She had inherited her father’s looks, which did not sit so well on a female child, but I couldn’t help thinking here was the energy that had deserted her mother.

  She forthrightly held out her hand. “Mabel Tyler.”

  I shook it. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Tyler.”

  “And how are the fair Sofia and the magnificent Frederick?” William approached the nanny, who offered him a shy smile.

  “Very well, Mr. William.” She was, by her accent, also Italian, and quite lovely, with sloping dark eyes, and olive skin that, although mildly pockmarked, glowed with youth and health. William spoke nonsense to Frederick, but his eyes stayed on Sofia. Seeing Louise fuss unhappily with her reticule, I decided I would have to tell William that it would be better if he did not notice other women existed for the foreseeable future.

  Alva Tyler said, “Jane, I’ll take you to Mrs. Briggs, our housekeeper. She can help you get settled. Sofia—”

  The dark-haired girl broke her gaze with William, eyes apprehensive. I sensed she had not had this job long.

  “I think you should take the children inside. I feel rain coming.” I glanced at the sky. It was clear blue.

  Sofia said doubtfully, “They have been inside all morning…”

  “I think it’s better,” said Alva Tyler.

  The party began to move indoors, Sofia gently herding Mabel to the door. Aldo had taken the bags inside. This gave Mrs. Benchley the opportunity to say what she had been dying to since we got off the train.

  “I am surprised, Mr. Tyler, given your work, that you see fit to hire people of Italian extraction.”

  “Nothing wrong with Italians,” said Mr. Tyler firmly. “They’re a fine people. It’s the criminality I despise, not the race.”

  “And I suppose you know who all the bad ones are,” said Mrs. Benchley.

  Mr. Tyler decided to take this foolishness in good humor. “Indeed I do, Mrs. Benchley, indeed I do.”

  3

  Mrs. Briggs was a small, bustling woman in her early fifties. Her dark brown hair was touched with gray like whorls of ice on a frozen pond. Her face was appealing, with an upturned nose, short upper lip, and prominent front teeth; she put one in mind of a pig—but of all the very best qualities of that animal. She was efficient but welcoming, sweeping me into the house with instructions on how to find my way around alternating with instructions to herself: have the day girl fold the sheets, put up the spring curtains, bring up the Bordeaux, logs in the fireplace, it was warm now, but could turn cold …

  “I’m sorry, Miss Prescott,” she explained as we reached the third floor. “But if I don’t run through the day’s list every hour, it goes out of my head.”

  “Now, this house”—she set her fists on her hips as she launched into a speech I sensed she had given many times before—“is an unusual house. Twenty rooms. Easy to get lost. The tower at the top is for the younger children and their nanny, but I don’t suppose you need to know that. Third floor, servants’ quarters at one end for those of us who live in, which is only myself and visiting staff. Mr. Grimaldi the chauffeur sleeps above the garage. Mr. Tyler’s study at the other end.”

  Seeing my surprise at the proximity between servant and employer, she said, “Mr. Tyler’s not fussy about those things. As he says, ‘I’m just a man, Mrs. Briggs, not a duchess.’ The boys’ bedrooms are on the second floor. The master bedrooms are through the gallery at the far end of the house.”

  The guest cottage I had noticed when we arrived. The parenting style in vogue at the time dictated a certain amount of distance between parent and child. The nursery was, if possible, far from the parents’ bedroom, and the children’s rearing left chiefly to professionals.

  “Mr. William is in one of the boys’ rooms. Your Miss Louise and her mother will be in the second-floor guest quarters on the right.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Briggs.”

  “Now, one thing you need to remember—doors are closed and locked at ten o’clock. Mr. and Mrs. Tyler have keys, I have keys. Other than that, no one has a key.” She smiled. “So, if you’re the type that likes to wander at night, all I can say is I’m not a nice woman after ten.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Also, Mrs. Tyler prefers the windows closed. All windows.”

  The house felt quite warm. But then I remembered the guards at the gate and said, “Of course.”

  Louise’s room was lovely, with windows overlooking a garden of carnations and snapdragons on the right side of the house. As I unpacked, I heard singing. Something about the tune was familiar; I could recall hearing it as a child. It brought up memories of women sitting on front steps, soothing fretful infants. Fa la ninna, fa la nanna …

  Going to the window, I saw Sofia walking in her white dress, Frederick content in her arms as she sang. They made a pretty picture, her dark head bent, her cheek gently nuzzling his hair, as she made her way slowly toward the woods that surrounded the property.

  “Sofia.” At the sound of her name, the girl stopped. I watched as Alva Tyler came into view. “Where are you taking Freddy?”

  “I … I am not taking…” Her voice was fearful, but with a thin note of defiance.

  “I told you the chil
dren should be inside.”

  “Yes, I know, but—”

  “And so they should be inside.”

  Waving at the clear sky, Sofia said, “It’s nice, it’s … fine…”

  “It is not nice.” Alva Tyler advanced on the younger woman. “It is not fine. It is not safe. As I have told you many times and yet you do not listen. I wonder why you do not listen. Why do you not listen, Sofia?”

  Unnerved by her employer’s anger, Sofia opened her mouth, but made no answer.

  “Take the baby inside,” said Alva Tyler. Then she turned and went back to the house. For a moment, Sofia stood where she was. Distressed, she put her hand to her forehead and breathed deeply the way one does when trying not to cry. She glanced once at the woods, as if still yearning to walk. Silently, I urged her back.

  Rubbing the baby’s back, she seemed to collect herself. She began to walk.