Anna Godbersen: Rumors

She could not stop the heat that was coming into her cheeks and didn’t try to mask her irritation. It was true that the Hollands, one of Manhattan’s oldest and most genteel families, were at the moment poorly off financially, and while Diana did not think of herself as bound by materialism, she disliked being pitied.

“Speculating about what?” she asked hotly.

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Barnard rested his chin on his sizable palm and appraised her. “The point is, you come from not one but two of the old lines, and even if some columnists write baseless things about you, the Hollands are still placed amongst the best people. That is why I am very happy to have made your acquaintance. And why I would like to tell you that, if you ever hear any interesting stories, any stories that might be of interest to moi, it would be my pleasure to…pay…you a visit.” He paused for effect while holding her gaze. “You should know that I am very discreet.”

As the carriage pulled out of the park, Diana could feel her lips curling back in amusement. Soon they would be traveling down Fifth. Barnard was returning her smile, and she could not help but toss her head back, in the special way that she had, and laugh. “I hardly think I know anything of interest, Mr. Barnard, though it is very nice of you to have offered me the ride anyway. I will be depending on you to ask me to dance the next time we are in attendance at the same ball,” she concluded, which was a nice way of indicating that she had every intention of telling him nothing. This despite the fact that her mind was currently so occupied by secrets of the wild and romantic variety that she had to marvel at herself a little for keeping them this long.

“All right, Miss Diana,” he replied with the same mysterious smile. “And I am glad to say that, having seen you so very close up, you are just as lovely as your sister.”

They parted cordially in front of the Hollands’ home at No. 17 Gramercy Park South; Mr. Barnard helped Diana to the street, kissed her hand, and told her not to forget his offer. He insisted that she take his card, and before leaving he reminded her again of his discretion. As she turned and walked up the stone steps to the enclosed filigreed-iron porch, she couldn’t help but smile to herself at the thought that she might need to sell gossip for money. For while it was true that her family’s fortune had been reduced to a pittance, there was another secret that Diana was holding close to her chest.

In a letter Elizabeth had written just after her disappearance she had told Diana that she knew about her feelings for Henry. She knew about the night they had spent together in the Schoonmaker greenhouse, and about the flurry of notes that they had sent to each other during Elizabeth and Henry’s ill-fated engagement. She had even approved.

And so Diana knew that as soon as it was appropriate — as soon as Henry’s mourning period for Elizabeth had ended — she would see him everywhere. At the opera and at the subscription balls and at all the little Christmas parties New York could hold. Soon enough, Henry would propose to her, and she already had permission to accept from the only person who mattered.

Then she would be forever free from those sympathetic frowns, as well as from the coarse implication that she should care about something like money. From these prearranged afternoons with the Percival Coddingtons of the world and the depressing eventuality of a long marriage to one of them. For it was a lovely auxiliary fact that Henry Schoonmaker was not only very handsome and wickedly fun but also quite rich, and that meant that he could make all of this go away. Although she had to suppose that when she was with Henry her life would be so bright and exciting that she wouldn’t find much time for worries or troubles anyway.

There was a time when this state was full of miners panning for gold, but it’s nearly a new century, and California is a different place than it was in ’49. The new hordes are looking for black gold. The one word on every man’s mind is: Oil!

— BAKERSFIELD SUN, FRIDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1899

THE GOLDEN GRASSY FIELD LAY AHEAD, PLAYING tricks on the eye so that in one moment Elizabeth Holland thought she was nearly there and in the next knew herself to be miles away. She paused and gazed out from under the brim of her hat, which had done little to protect the alabaster complexion she was once known for. The skin of her heart-shaped face, with its subtle features and small round mouth, had turned a shade of brown she had never before seen on a woman, and her ash-blond hair had been streaked almost white by the sun. She looked behind her, in the direction of the little railroad town of San Pedro from whence she had come. It was impossible for her to tell how long she had been walking, or how close she was to home.

Though home was not the word for it. Home, for the entirety of her eighteen years, had been a stately town house on Gramercy Park. Three generations of Hollands had lived there, filling its wood-paneled rooms with all variety of knickknacks and objets d’art, with the soft sounds of polite social intercourse, with the aroma of tea. It was the house where her father had lived all of his too-short life. Through the high bay windows of their parlor, one could see the enclosed and leafy park populated exclusively with well-dressed people of leisure. Home was very far away now.

But Elizabeth had been brought up a Holland, and she carried some of that with her, even in the wide-open expanse of California. She was wearing the same blue-and-white seersucker dress she’d worn the day she left New York, with its narrow waist and three-quarter sleeves and square collar. The white wasn’t pure white anymore, but even in this far-off place she did her best to keep it clean. She still walked with her spine straight and her shoulders back, and she clasped her hands girlishly as she moved. Elizabeth had followed her heart, and no one ever regrets that. But still she thought of her mother and sister and her aunt Edith, back on Gramercy Park, abandoned to their poverty. For Elizabeth was the one who was supposed to have saved them, by marrying wealthy Henry Schoonmaker, and instead she had simply slipped away.

But not simply — she knew it could not have been simple. She knew very little else about her family’s situation, because her sister, Diana, was a terrible correspondent, and it was much too dangerous for Elizabeth to be nudging her all the time. She had in fact allowed herself only two exchanges with her younger sister, to assure her that she was alive and to give her the address of the Western Union office in San Pedro. Diana had mentioned, in one of her rare and cryptic letters, that their mother’s health had suffered. Ever mindful of this, Elizabeth walked all the way into town any day she could, although today there had again been no news from New York. Elizabeth had bought the Bakersfield paper instead, just in case there was a reference or two to doings back east, and begun her long walk back.

Before she arrived in California she had heard of only two cities in the far-off state, Los Angeles and San Francisco, both of which Will had spoken of. She had arrived in San Francisco, unsure of herself or how exactly she would find Will, but determined to do so. And then, there he was — waiting for the train as if he’d known she’d be on it. In truth, he told her later, he’d gone to the station every day, hoping that one afternoon he’d see his Lizzy emerging from a black railcar and stepping toward him through the arriving luggage. Soon after, they rode down through the Central Valley. They had passed towns with names like Merced and Modesto and San Joaquin, which looked as dusty as they sounded, with their sad little clapboard main streets and wooden sidewalks. They hadn’t yet gotten as far as Los Angeles.