Authors: Forever Wild
And there was talk there would be more indictments to follow. The Tammany Hall cronies of “Boss” Tweed were quaking in their boots, according to
The New York Times
, and corruption would be rooted out from high places and low. Willough leaned forward and tapped the coachman on the shoulder with her parasol.
“Is Mr. Gray expected for tea this afternoon?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Miss Bradford,” he said, turning his head to speak to her. “We’ve not seen much of him this month. He’s been out of town. Albany, I think.”
It was hardly surprising news. Willough nodded at the coachman and settled back again in her seat. Arthur Bartlett Gray. Man-about-town. Charming. Quite obviously wealthy, though he never seemed to do much except travel back and forth to Albany when the legislature was in session at the state capital. He carried himself like a man of breeding and birth, but he was always closemouthed in the matter of his antecedents. He was a lawyer who had never bothered to hang out his shingle. And a member of the Tammany Society and a friend of that selfsame William M. Tweed who was daily being pilloried in the newspapers. No wonder Arthur had arranged to be out of town for the last month or so!
The carriage turned up the avenue toward Gramercy Park. Willough closed her parasol and tucked in a stray curl at her temple. It must be five or six years now since she’d seen Arthur. She had been home so seldom, and he had spent a great deal of time in Albany. They had always missed each other.
Besides, she’d been unwilling to truly accept him or his visits to the house since the day she’d seen him kissing her mother.
“I don’t know why you can’t call me Uncle Arthur as your brother does, Willough,” he’d said. All warm and friendly. Uncle Arthur. And then he’d gone off like a thief in another man’s house and kissed her mother. Was that why her father had bought the house in Saratoga?
Still, it might be interesting to see Arthur again. There was a certain rakish charm to the man. He didn’t try to charm her often, but when he did, he could always make her laugh. Joking about her name, her awkwardness as she shot up in her teens, all gawky arms and legs.
“Willough,” he’d say, laughing. “Willough. Are you sure they didn’t mean Will
ow
? If you grow any taller, you must never wear a bonnet with leaves on it, or the birds will be tempted to nest.”
“Oh, Mr. Gray,” she’d say, blushing.
“And when you cry—which I fervently hope you do not—will they call you Weeping Willough?”
She’d giggled. “Don’t be silly. They called me Willough for Daddy’s Grandfather Willoughby. I was supposed to be a son, not a daughter.”
Willough sighed as the carriage pulled up to the curb in front of the elegant town house that faced Gramercy Park. She hadn’t thought about it much in those days, her name. But this last year, watching her father grow older, seeing the loneliness of his life, she felt a pang that was equal parts pity and guilt. Poor Daddy. A wife who cared for another. A daughter who should have been a son.
Give me a chance, Daddy, she thought. I’ll make you proud of me.
After alighting from the carriage, she mounted the stairs and passed through the hastily opened door to the cool vestibule. “Thank you, Brigid,” she said to the parlor maid who had opened the door for her. “I’ll go to my room until tea is served. I’ve some letters to write.”
“Oh, Miss Willough…” Brigid said in her soft Irish brogue, “’tis Mrs. Bradford. She’s feelin’ very peevish today. Said she wanted to have tea straightaway as soon as someone came in. She can’t wait. She’s that impatient for her cup o’ tea.”
“Why can’t she drink her tea alone?” muttered Willough.
“Miss?”
“Never mind. Is Mr. Drewry expected for tea?”
“Your brother went out after lunch to the Academy of Design. He
said
he’ll be back. But you know what will happen if he gets to paintin’…”
Willough sighed in resignation. “Very well. Tell Cook to put up the kettle.” She pulled off her gloves and laid them on a marble console along with her parasol and purse. She pulled out the hatpins that anchored the small, forward-pitched arrangement of horsehair and feathers and ruched ribbons that her father had bought for her in Paris last year. It was a very fetching hat, and still the height of fashion here in New York.
She studied her reflection in the mirror. She was not displeased with what she saw: a serious face, strong and angular, with a straight nose and wide-set eyes. Her lips were thin—or perhaps it was just the way she held her mouth, firm and prim. Her skin was very pale and creamy, a striking contrast to the ebony curls swept back from her temples. She turned her profile to the mirror and patted the neat roll at the nape of her neck. The back hair had been twisted in a thick coil, then doubled back on itself in a vertical figure eight and pinned snugly to her head. She rather liked the new style—it made her look purposeful. More so than a cascade of ringlets.
I look like a woman capable of running a business, she thought with satisfaction. And I know I can. I’m not like other women. Not dependent and dishonest, like my mother, who has to wheedle every penny out of Daddy and pretend to the world that they’re not estranged.
She frowned, searching her face in the glass. She was a little less pleased with her eyes. Blue-violet. Soft. Velvety. They made her seem weak and helpless. She would have much preferred to have eyes like her brother Drewry—ice-blue, and as cold as he wanted them to be when he was angry.
Her figure was another matter; she viewed it with a certain ambivalence. She was tall, and still as willowy as she had been when Arthur had made fun of her, but her bosom had developed at an alarming rate since those days. From the point of view of fashion, she knew her figure was perfect, with the voluptuous curves necessary to wear the severe-cut bodice they called
en princesse
, after Princess Alexandra of England.
On the other hand, it was the kind of figure that made her look almost too feminine, attracting unwelcome stares from men. And hardly designed to persuade her father that she could be as useful to him as a son, the proper heir to his vast enterprises.
Steeling herself, Willough crossed the vestibule toward the parlor, where her mother waited. Isobel Bradford was reclining on an overstuffed chaise; she looked up as her daughter entered. Willough had to admit she was beautiful, in a frail way, though she was beginning to show her years in her thickening waist, slight puffiness around the chin, gray streaks in her glossy black hair. She was wearing a tea gown, a frilly garment of ruffles, tiers, and swags, extravagantly trimmed with lace. And loose enough, Willough knew, so she could discard her corsets.
Isobel smiled sourly at her daughter and sighed. A martyr’s sigh. “You might have given a thought to me, Willough, while you were gadding about on your errands. But never mind.”
“I’ve sent for tea already, Mother. Have you had your tonic?” It was a foolish question. Willough could see from the brightness of her mother’s eyes, the way her hands fluttered and fussed at the small lace cap perched on her hair, that the daily dose had not been forgotten.
“It did nothing but give me a headache! I know I shall never sleep without a bit of laudanum tonight. Not that your father would care,” she said bitterly. “When you’re in Saratoga with him, you might mention that I could use a larger bank draft next month. Mrs. Astor has recommended a wonderful doctor, but his fees are extremely high.”
“What’s the matter with Dr. Page?”
Isobel Bradford sniffed in disdain. “They say when Mrs. Lenox suffered her sick headaches last month, Dr. Page could do nothing for her.”
“Mrs. Lenox drinks too much,” said Willough dryly. “But of course Mrs.
Astor’s
recommendation goes without question!” Or Mrs. Belmont, or Mrs. Goelet, thought Willough with disgust. Anyone whose name was better than theirs.
Her mother looked shocked. “The Astors are among the finest families in the city!”
“I daresay.”
“Don’t you take that tone with me, Willough! I shan’t forget I’m a Carruth, though you might!”
Willough felt her insides churning, as they always did when her mother began her genealogy lecture. “Let’s have it again, Mother,” Willough said tightly. “The Carruth name goes back over two centuries, while the Bradford name…”
“The Bradford name didn’t exist thirty years ago.”
Willough crossed to the window and pulled back the lace curtains. She felt suffocated, wishing herself out-of-doors with the children who played in the street, laughing and romping in the park across the way. “Whatever possessed Daddy to change his name for you?”
Whatever possessed him to marry you? she thought in anguish. An insufferable snob.
Her mother laughed. “I was a Carruth! I could never have married a man whose name was MacCurdy! Mrs. Brian
MacCurdy
! It’s absurd.”
“But you didn’t mind the MacCurdy money.”
“If I had thought for a minute it was to be doled out in niggardly fashion, the way it is to me—and to you and Drewry too!—I should certainly have thought twice about marrying him!” It seemed to Willough that her mother’s very tone revealed the endless hours she had spent collecting and nursing her grievances. “Ah, at last. Tea!” Isobel said as the door opened and Brigid struggled in, carrying a large tray. “Not near me, Brigid,” she snapped. “Can’t you see I’m not well today? Over on that table, where Miss Willough can pour.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The maid turned clumsily with her burden and just managed to set it down in front of Willough’s chair. The sudden jolt of the tray on the table set the teacups rattling, earning for Brigid a scowl from Isobel. She curtsied hastily and fled the room.
Isobel struggled to pull herself upright on the chaise as Willough poured the tea and handed her a cup. “These girls will be the death of me,” she said, casting her eyes to heaven. “They come off the boat with no manners, not a lick of training…”
“Really, Mother. She’s very pleasant. And she knows her place.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Isobel sipped daintily at her tea. “Heaven knows, it could have been worse. She could have been a Hebrew.”
Willough’s stomach was now actively protesting. She took a small swallow of tea, wondering how she could even manage to keep it down.
“Have a teacake, Willough.”
“No, thank you.”
“A small sandwich, then.”
“I’m not hungry, Mother.”
“If you didn’t lace your corsets so tightly, perhaps you could manage to eat a bit more.”
“They’re not too tight, Mother. My waist has always been small.”
“But eighteen inches, dear…” Isobel’s voice was heavy with criticism. “Vanity, Willough. Vanity. Your grandmother Carruth used to say,
The upright life is free from Vanity
.”
“Grandmother Carruth must have done nothing but spout aphorisms from morning until night,” muttered Willough.
“Don’t be impertinent! God knows, you’re your father’s child. Your manners have always been a trial to me. You’re entirely too independent and brazen in your ways. And do sit up straight!”
Willough flinched inwardly as the waves of her mother’s disapproval and dislike washed over her in a bilious tide. She put down her cup and pressed her lips tightly together.
She thought, What’s the matter with me? I’m a grown woman. Why should my mother still have the power to hurt me with her cruel attacks?
“Are my two favorite girls at it again?”
“Drewry! Dearest boy!” Isobel held out her arms to her son, watching from the doorway. “You’re in time for tea. I feel better already.”
Drewry Bradford laughed, an easy, comfortable laugh, and sauntered into the room. Look at him, thought Willough. She felt a surge of love for her brother, then a twinge of envy. He moved with the assurance of a man who was used to being pampered, admired, loved.
He tossed his hat onto a sofa, bent over to kiss his mother, then plopped his lean form into a deep chair, draping one long leg over the arm. Isobel beamed.
Why don’t you tell
him
to sit up? thought Willough, then frowned at her own mean thoughts.
Drewry smiled at his sister. “Pour me a cup, Willough, honey. Mum, you’d feel a lot better if you could manage to toss out that tonic!” He nodded his thanks as Willough handed him his tea. “I see you so seldom anymore, little sister, that it would be nice to find a smile on your face. Life can’t be
that
difficult.” He winked good-naturedly at her.
Willough managed a small smile, then bent her head, concentrating on the patterned carpet, reluctant to look Drewry full in the eyes. She had never managed to return the open affection that he gave to her. It was not that she didn’t love him; it was just that he had always been neutral when war had raged between her mother and her. She felt so alone, so abandoned in this house since her father had moved out, and she needed total loyalty from Drewry. His careful neutrality had created a gulf she could not cross. “Brigid said you were at the Academy of Design this afternoon,” she said. Small talk. Safe and impersonal.
Drewry laughed. “Yes. That homage to Venice on Twenty-Third Street! What a monstrous building.”
“I like it,” said Isobel. “It reminds me of the trip the two of us took to Italy. Do you remember, Drew?”
He wolfed down a teacake in two bites and smiled at her, his blue eyes twinkling. “Indeed I do, Mum. I remember how you flirted with Signore Fornaio that day on the piazza.”