The American Heiress Read Free Page B

moment’s hesitation for one of the morocco leather boxes on the dressing table, leaving Winthrop to wonder, not for the first time, if his wife could read his mind.
    The opening bars of the Radetsky March floated up from the terrace. Mrs Cash stood and took her husband’s proffered arm.
    ‘You know, Winthrop, I would like this evening to be remembered.’
    Cash knew better than to ask what she wanted the evening to be remembered for. She was only interested in one thing: perfection.

Chapter 2

A Spirit of Electricity

    T HERE WAS A MOMENT AS THE VAN DER LEYDEN family stood at the top of Sans Souci’s famous double staircase, waiting to be announced, when Teddy Van Der Leyden thought his mother might have regretted her choice of costume. To be wearing plain dimity and fustian in a room full of satin, velvet and diamonds took an effort of will. But Mrs Van Der Leyden had wished to make a point and it was a point worthy of sacrifice. The family’s sober dress was a silent reminder to the assembled guests and particularly their hosts that the Van Der Leydens could trace their lineage all the way back to the Mayflower . Their lineage did not peter out in a floury dead end. The sombre black and white was a sign that even here in Newport, some things could not be bought.
    Teddy Van Der Leyden knew his mother’s purpose and was amused by it. He was quite happy to wear a starched white neckband and black cloak, although he would have preferred to be one of the founding fathers, Jefferson perhaps. He understood her need to distinguish herself from all this unvariegated opulence. Every corner of the mirrored ballroom glittered, each jewel reflected into infinity.
    He had been coming to the resort every summer for as long as he could remember and had been happy enough, but this year was different. Now that he had decided to go to Paris, he felt impatient with the observances of the Newport day. Every hour was accounted for – tennis at the club in the morning, carriage drives in the afternoon, and every night there were balls that started at midnight and did not end till dawn. Day after day he met the same hundred or so people. Only the costumes changed.
    There was Eli Montagu and his wife dressed as Christopher Columbus and what Teddy took to be Madame de Pompadour. He had already met them that morning at the Casino, and yesterday on the bicycle excursion which had ended so precipitously. He would meet them again tomorrow at the breakfast given at the Belmonts and then at the Schooner picnic. He didn’t wince as his mother did when he heard Eli’s vowels or shudder at the brassy tint of Mrs Montagu’s hair; he rather liked the fact that when she smiled she showed her teeth. But he didn’t want to talk to them nor did he want to make a point by not talking to them. He looked around for Cora. She was the only person he wanted to see. She was always surprising. He remembered the way she had blown the hair out of her eyes when she was cycling yesterday, the way the offending tendril had fluttered and then rested on her cheek.
    He moved out of the receiving line and over to one of the champagne fountains. A footman in full Bourbon livery offered him a glass. He drank it quickly, watching the arrivals flooding in through the great double doors. Most of the guests had chosen to come as ancien régime French aristocrats – he had seen three Marie Antoinettes and innumerable Louis already. Perhaps it was a compliment to the Versailles-inspired surroundings; perhaps it was the only period of history that matched the opulence of the present. Now he felt glad of his Puritan clothes. There was something uneasy about railway barons and steel magnates dressing up in the silk hose and embroidered tailcoats of another gilded age.
    And then he saw Cora and his discontents were forgotten. Her dress was ridiculous; her skirts stuck out so far on either side of her that she would clear a path through the ballroom like an oar through water when