New York

  By chance, a house had become vacant on the side street a few doors down from Sean’s mansion on Fifth Avenue, and Sean had bought it. “I don’t want to rent it out,” he told her, “so you’d be doing me a favor if you’d live in it for me.” Compared with his own place, the house was quite modest, but it was still far bigger than she needed. When his children and grandchildren had begged her to live there, however, she had taken the hint. Apart from her own bedroom, which was very simply furnished with some things she liked, she had let them decorate the house as they wished. Hardly a week went by without one of the younger generation calling in there with friends, to have tea with their Aunt Mary. And she’d entertain them in just the style they would have encountered in the Masters’ house in Gramercy Park. That wasn’t difficult; after all, she’d been watching Hetty do it for forty years. In this way, she was able to complete the picture of the family’s new wealth and respectability to everyone’s satisfaction. She didn’t mind doing so, if it made them happy.

  But this evening was different. His Lordship might ask probing questions. Like: What had she been doing for the last forty years of her life?

  If the truth were told, when she first came to live in her grand house, she’d rather missed her little room at the Masters’. But then events had brought about a new arrangement.

  She’d been in her house a year when Frank Master had fallen sick and died. Hetty Master had only been widowed a couple of months when she asked Mary to call, and told her: “I get a little lonely, Mary. There’s always a room for you here, any time you’d like to stay and keep me company.” And when Mary had proposed spending two or three nights a week in Gramercy Park, Hetty had suggested: “I thought you might like to use the blue bedroom.”

  Her old room had been up on the servants’ floor. The blue bedroom was on the same floor as Hetty’s. Mary had accepted. Everyone understood. The servants called her “Miss O’Donnell” now. They knew she was rich.

  So Mary divided her time between Fifth Avenue and Gramercy Park, and she was quite happy. Her new regime left her with time on her hands, but she found many agreeable ways to fill it. She liked to draw, and she went to art classes. She and Hetty became frequenters of exhibitions and lectures. Her taste in music remained quite simple, but when the brilliant operettas of Gilbert and Sullivan came from London to New York, she always went. She’d seen The Mikado and The Yeoman of the Guard three or four times.

  She had her family and a few friends, especially Gretchen. Theodore had been married a long time now, and had children, but she still saw him from time to time. She’d asked herself many times down the years if she shouldn’t have tried harder to get married, but somehow or other she’d never met Mr. Right. The truth was, she realized, that she’d always wanted someone like Hans or Theodore, and they weren’t so easy to find. Perhaps if she’d taken up Sean’s offer long ago and stopped working for the Masters, she’d have had a chance. Well, it was no good worrying about that now. And taken all together, she considered, it wasn’t such a bad retirement for a girl who’d been raised within sight of Five Points.

  Five Points. What if His Lordship asked her where she’d been born and raised? What was she supposed to say? “Down Fourth Avenue,” Sean had told her. But the thought of those days, and the memories that came with them, had filled her with an awful, cold horror. She’d blush, she’d say something foolish, she’d expose the sordid truth about the family and let them all down. “Don’t worry,” Sean had said. “Leave it all to me.”

  It wasn’t so bad for Sean. He already knew these people. After losing his wife three years ago, he’d taken up travel, and he’d made a trip to London the previous year with his son Daniel and his family. That’s when Daniel’s daughter Clarissa had met young Gerald Rivers. She was a well-brought-up young lady, a good horsewoman, and she’d been hunting when she’d met him. He had just returned from a visit to America himself, and was soon captivated by her lively American ways. His parents must have taken note of her obvious fortune too. But Gerald and Clarissa were both young, and it had been agreed by all the parties that they should wait some months before any negotiations were entered into about an engagement.

  When Sean had first told Mary about the business, she hadn’t been that surprised. Everyone knew about the British aristocracy’s new interest in American heiresses; Sean himself had described it very well.

  “They’re just trying to get some of their money back from the place it went to,” he’d said. For since the canals and railroads had opened up the American Midwest, the cheap imports of American grain and meat to England had undercut all the local producers. The value of England’s mighty, historic harvests had plummeted, and the lordly incomes which had supported the aristocracy’s huge houses were only a fraction of what they had been. You could hardly blame them, then, if they looked across the Atlantic where there was now a plentiful supply of heiresses whose mothers were eager to trade them. And the heiresses usually had more education and were livelier company than the English country girls.

  “But what’s in it for the Americans?” Mary had asked her brother.

  He’d shrugged. “When a man’s made a fortune, and bought all the things he wants in America, he looks around for other worlds to conquer. So what’s left? He turns to Europe and sees things that can’t be had in America. Centuries of art, ancient manners, titles. So he buys them. It’s something to do. And of course, for the mothers, it becomes a social competition.”

  Mary wondered whether the girls themselves were always happy. She remembered reading about the marriage of Consuelo Vanderbilt to the Duke of Marlborough. It had been a great society event, a triumph for Consuelo’s mother. And the bridegroom had received some Vanderbilt millions, so that he could keep his great palace up. But she remembered hearing the other side of the story from Hetty Master.

  “Poor Consuelo’s entirely in love with Winthrop Rutherfurd, you know. He’s from fine old American stock, but her mother was just determined to have a title in the family—she actually locked the poor girl up, and forced her to marry the duke. Consuelo was weeping during the wedding ceremony. It was really shameful.”

  Clarissa wasn’t in love with anybody else, anyway. Indeed, she’d taken a great liking to Lord Rivers’s second son. He was a handsome young fellow, an officer in a good regiment, who liked the outdoor life. Not a bad prospect, if he had some money to go with it. Sean, who had three granddaughters, seemed to find it amusing.

  “But she’s Catholic,” Mary had pointed out, “and he’s sure to be Church of England.”

  “That’s up to Clarissa,” said Sean. “Her father says he don’t care.”

  “And her mother?”

  “Her mother,” Sean said quietly, “would like her to marry the son of a lord.”

  It had come as rather a surprise when Lord and Lady Rivers had announced their intention to visit America themselves. But Sean had quickly made arrangements that suited them admirably. A few days in New York, followed by a steamer up the Hudson, some days in Saratoga, and then across to Boston, which they had expressed a wish to see.

  While Lord Rivers was in New York, Sean intended to play his part, which was to make the O’Donnells look respectable. Of course, the British usually assumed—quite incorrectly—that all American money must be new. Nevertheless, the presence of Clarissa’s rich old grandfather and his entirely respectable sister would do much to ease Clarissa’s way into her new life.

  So when Sean had remarked the day before, “We’ll put our best foot forward here, sis, if you know what I mean,” Mary had felt a little sinking of the heart.

  “I can’t lie, Sean,” she’d said. “I’m never any good at it.”

  “Of course not,” he’d said.

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Just be yourself.”

  “And what are you going to do?”

  “Nothing much.” He smiled. “I may let them think we’ve had money a little longer than we have, if you know what I me
an.”

  “Oh, I’m sure to put my foot in it. Leave me out of it, Sean. Tell them I’m sick.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, “you’ll be fine.”

  With a sinking heart, therefore, she now went in to meet the Riverses.

  Well, they were certainly very friendly, she’d say that for them. Young Gerald Rivers was only twenty-five or so, and obviously quite determined to like his fiancée’s family. Lord and Lady Riverdale were both tall, dark-haired and elegant; and whatever their private thoughts and intentions might be, a lifetime of practiced perfect manners protected their hosts and themselves from any awkwardness. Daniel and his wife seemed quite at ease, and Clarissa was looking radiant. So after some greetings all round, it only remained for Mary to make small talk with the new arrivals, ask them about their voyage on the White Star Line, and whether their hotel was comfortable. Lady Rivers asked a question or two about the city’s museums and galleries, and was obviously quite impressed that Mary could tell her all about the best exhibitions to see.

  “We shall be glad of your guidance,” she remarked, “for my husband and I have come here, I’m quite sure, with all the ignorance of Mark Twain’s travelers in The Innocents Abroad.”

  All in all, the conversation passed very pleasantly until dinner was announced.

  Sean’s dining room was impressive. They often seated twenty in there, and his dinner service was magnificent. Mary could see that the Riverses were favorably impressed. Since they were eight, they dined at a round table. “It’s so awkward seating eight, isn’t it?” she remarked to Lady Rivers as they were about to take their seats, thanking heaven that she knew from Hetty Master the perils of correct “placemen” at dinner. Starting very properly, speaking to the person on one side of her, then switching sides with each course, she could go through all the correct motions of the dinner party to perfection. But with an intimate party like this at a round table, some general conversation might also be permitted. Lord Rivers inquired where she lived and was duly informed that she had a house just round the corner from her brother, and that perhaps, if Lady Rivers had time, she might like to come to tea there. His Lordship then remarked that he’d heard the Vanderbilts had built some huge mansions further up Fifth Avenue; and she was just wondering how to respond, when a little phrase that Hetty used about Gramercy Park suddenly came into her mind.

  “We like the fact that it’s a little quieter down here,” she said. It was the sort of thing old money said, and His Lordship inclined his head.

  “Quite, Miss O’Donnell,” he acknowledged, understandingly.

  So far so good.

  It was soon clear that the Riverses were anxious to stress every American connection that they could think of.

  “We’ve met a charming compatriot of yours, several times,” Lord Rivers remarked to Mary. “Mr. Henry James, the author. He’s been living in London for years, and is quite a fixture at dinner parties there, you know.”

  “A very distinguished man,” said Mary. “Though I’m afraid I don’t always read his books.”

  “Ah,” said His Lordship, with a smile, “nor do I.”

  Lord Rivers then spoke to her about his family a little, and in doing so, let fall some rather interesting information.

  “The Rivers family, you know, were in the navy mostly, for generations. Two admirals, I may say. It was only when a quite distant cousin died that the title and estate came across to my father. And there’s an American connection too. Our branch descends from a Captain Rivers, who had plantations in Carolina, until he lost them soon after 1776.” He smiled. “He was a Loyalist, I’m afraid.”

  “We shall have to forgive him,” said Mary. “What happened to the plantations?”

  “They were taken over by friends of his, a New York family called Master. But I don’t know anything more than that.”

  “Master?” Mary was so surprised that she let her voice rise a bit. As she said it, she saw her brother, her nephew and young Clarissa all look at her nervously.

  “I believe they’re still people of some consequence in New York,” His Lordship said. “Do you know them?”

  The abyss had opened before her, and her family were staring into it. Her decades as a servant in the Masters’ house. Mary caught her breath, then smiled a perfect smile.

  “Hetty Master is one of my closest friends,” she said firmly. “Why, I’ve known her nearly fifty years.” It was true, every word of it.

  “Well,” said Lord Rivers, quite delighted, “it’s a small world, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is,” said Mary.

  By the time the fish course arrived, she and His Lordship were getting along famously, but now it was time to give her attention to young Gerald. As she knew nothing of hunting, shooting, fishing or the army, Mary wasn’t sure what to talk to him about, but after a quick pass at the theater, she discovered that he loved Gilbert and Sullivan, and so that kept them going quite agreeably for a while. But it was clear to her from the way he glanced boyishly at Clarissa, and then round the table, that Gerald Rivers, who’d had a glass or two to drink, felt he’d like to make a bit of an impression on his future wife’s family; and Mary wondered what form this would take.

  The young man’s chance came during the main course when Lord Rivers asked her if she knew a charming New Yorker who lived in England now. “A Mr. Croker. He has an estate in Surrey,” he said. Rather astonished, she answered softly: “Everyone in New York knows Mr. Croker.”

  And now, Gerald decided to cut in.

  “When I was in America visiting the New York Yacht Club last year, Father,” he said a little too loudly, “they told me he was mixed up with Tammany Hall, and he skipped across the Atlantic to stay out of jail.”

  Though he was perhaps a little tactless, young Gerald Rivers was perfectly right. If Boss Tweed had embezzled on a huge scale, his successor Croker had continued the good work, until the complaints became so loud that he’d decided to go overseas for a while. The idea of his living in England as a respectable country gentleman was amusing indeed.

  “Is it true?” Lady Rivers asked Sean. But Sean was far too close to Tammany himself to start throwing stones in that glass house.

  “Tammany Hall is a complex affair,” he said carefully. “It’s a very important political machine, and has to be handled with caution.”

  “Ah,” said Lord Rivers knowingly. Aristocrats evidently respected politics. But young Gerald Rivers wasn’t finished yet.

  “I met a splendid fellow called Teddy Roosevelt in New York,” he said. “He has great plans for cleaning up the New York Police—they’re completely corrupt as well, I heard.”

  “They’re not perfect,” Sean allowed. He gave Lord Rivers a wise look. “Young Mr. Roosevelt has a lot of energy, but he may find the task harder than he thinks.”

  “But you wouldn’t deny that New York City is corrupt?” Gerald pursued.

  And now Sean looked across the table at the young aristocrat with an even gaze.

  “I wouldn’t deny it. And I’m afraid it has been so for two hundred and thirty years.” He paused just a moment. “Ever since the British took it over from the Dutch.”

  “Oh, well done,” cried Lord Rivers. He and his wife were obviously very pleased with this bit of repartee. And you had to admire Sean, thought Mary. He’d made his assessment of these English aristocrats, and knew exactly how to handle them.

  “Now the American I should like to have met in London,” Sean continued, looking around the table with a twinkle in his eye, “is the lovely Jennie Jerome, as she used to be. Lady Randolph Churchill, now. I remember her as a girl.”

  The two Riverdales looked at each other.

  “Beautiful,” said His Lordship, cryptically.

  “Not good?” Mary asked.

  “There’s a particular set around the Prince of Wales, Miss O’Donnell,” said Lady Rivers quietly. “We do not belong to it. They are what we call ‘fast.’ Lady Randolph Churchill is part of it.”


  “Oh,” said Mary. “In New York, men quite often have mistresses.”

  “Well,” said Lady Rivers, “the fast set believes in perfect equality between the sexes, in that regard.”

  “A remarkable woman, Jennie Churchill, all the same,” said His Lordship. He paused a moment. “Tell me, as you would know, there was a rumor that the father was”—he dropped his voice a bit—“Jewish.”

  “Sounds it, but isn’t,” Sean assured him. “The name Jerome is French. They were Huguenots.” He chuckled. “There may be some Indian blood there, but that’s on his wife’s side.”

  “Does Jennie have children?” asked Mary.

  “Two boys,” Lady Rivers answered. “We saw the eldest, Winston, not long ago.”

  “Not everybody likes him,” Gerald interrupted, and earned a bleak look from his father.

  “Why’s that?” asked Sean.

  “People say,” replied Gerald, “he’s too pushy.”

  “I’ll tell you a story, then,” said his host. And he recounted how Leonard Jerome had come to him during the Draft Riots. True, he omitted to say that he was keeping a saloon at the time—O’Donnell’s Saloon became his office—but the rest was unchanged. “So he came by my office and told me: ‘I’m off to defend my property from the mob.’ ‘How will you do that, Jerome?’ I asked him. ‘I’ve got a Gatling gun,’ he cried. How or where he got such a thing I don’t know, but that was Jerome for you. The man was a street fighter. So if young Winston Churchill’s pushy, now you know how he comes by it.” He laughed. “Young Winston Churchill sounds like a true, cigar-chomping New Yorker to me!”

  They loved it; Sean had them eating out of his hand. Mary relaxed. She’d hardly touched her wine during the meal, but now she drained her glass. Everything was all right. She gazed at them, contentedly, and only gave half her attention to the conversation until she heard Lord River-dale say:

  “When Gerald came back from New York, he brought me a photograph of the city. Taken from the harbor at sunset, I think, with the Brooklyn Bridge in the background. It really is the most beautiful thing. Made me want to get in a ship and go there at once.” He gave his son a smile. “Very good of him.”