Chapter 1
"IT'S THE PARTY of the year, and it's a funeral."
Charlotte Delacorte overheard the comment outside Saint
Thomas Church on Fifth Avenue. She didn't recognize the
woman who made the callous remark and could only assume she
was one of the new breed of vile gossip columnists who had
descended upon New York like locusts.
"The world is going to hell in a handbasket," her newly
deceased mother-in-law had often said.
Now, all of New York had turned out to pay its respects to
the late Geraldine Delacorte. The line of people waiting to
get inside stretched from the corner of Fifty-third Street
to as far as Charlotte could see, and the avenue was a
virtual parking lot filled with the finest Packards and
Pierce-Arrow roadsters. The dark cars were like matching
accessories to the crowd dressed in black, navy, and gray.
Charlotte herself wore a black crepe mourning dress by Jean
Patou. The French designer had offered to send over a
matching chiffon veil, but Charlotte decided the veil would
be more appropriately worn by blood relatives. Instead, she
wore her long, glossy brown hair up in an elaborate chignon.
She wished she'd had time to sneak on a bit of
rouge—her fair skin was paler than usual, her wide
gray eyes pinched with fatigue.
"Mrs. Delacorte, we really must expedite moving guests
inside. Perhaps if you and your husband stepped inside and
weren't greeting everyone..." Mr. Smyth, the director of the
service, sweating in his heavy suit, was clearly
overwhelmed. Charlotte was a little anxious herself but had
learned that as a Delacorte, she could never let that sort
of thing show. She tried to imagine what her late
mother-in-law would want them to do with the bottleneck of
guests.
"I think ... it's important that we acknowledge each of the
guests as they arrive. It's the proper thing to do,"
Charlotte said.
It was a comfort to Charlotte that the most important people
in New York had turned out in tribute: The Vanderbilts, the
Goulds, the Carnegies, Fricks, Astors, and Rockefellers were
all represented on that gray Saturday morning. Charlotte's
mother-in-law would not be impressed so much as she would
have been satisfied.
The social clout of the family into which she had married
was something Charlotte had almost come to take for granted.
Certainly, she had not seen it exhibited in such a public
way since her lavish wedding four years earlier—an
almost overwhelming affair, planned and executed with
near-military precision at the strong hand of William's
mother. Charlotte had been so caught up in the excitement of
William's whirlwind courtship, she had willingly gone along
for the ride.
"Charlotte, my dear, you look lovely even on such a sorry
occasion," said Mayor Hylan's wife. She took one of
Charlotte's gloved hands into her own. "Such a loss. The
city won't be the same without Geraldine."
This was true. Manhattan would not be the same without
Geraldine Delacorte's endless petitioning against everything
from the women's suffragist movement to the motor cars
"ruining" New York City, to the "bad element" taking over
Midtown.
"It's those nightclubs," Geraldine had said.
"Oh, people just need to have a little fun sometimes,"
Charlotte had replied.
"People? What people? Loose women and bootleggers!"
Charlotte couldn't help but think that Geraldine Delacorte's
sudden death from heart failure had something to do with her
constant meddling into what other people were doing.
Charlotte fanned herself with a scarf, beginning to sweat
inside her dress. Her nerves were getting the best of her.
Perhaps Mr. Smyth was right. It was time to get things moving.
She tried to catch William's eye, but he was oblivious,
engrossed in conversation with the mayor.
"This crowd is simply overwhelming," said Amelia Astor,
appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Charlotte had seen her
arriving at the church, dressed all in black, her eyes
red-rimmed and brimming with tears. Any casual observer
would think that Amelia was a grieving daughter, not a mere
school friend of the grieving son. "Do you need help
ushering people indoors?" she asked Charlotte, a little too
sweetly.
Amelia was one of William's oldest friends—part of the
smart set that had all gone to the same private schools from
the time they were in their first walking shoes. Charlotte
had attended the best schools in Philadelphia—even
after her father had lost most of their money they still
managed to keep Charlotte afloat. But none of that mattered
in New York. If you weren't a member of the Four
Hundred—social arbiter Ward McCallister's list of the
true members of New York society—you might as
well be fresh off the boat. It was her mother-in-law who
told her about the list—perhaps to remind her of her
place. Charlotte asked, why the number four hundred? And her
mother-in-law said breezily, "No more than that can fit
comfortably in the Astors' ballroom."
"Thank you, Amelia. But I've got it under control," said
Charlotte. "Perhaps the best thing you can do is go inside
yourself. People always
do seem to follow your lead."
It was just enough of a compliment to make the dismissal
acceptable.
Charlotte crossed the stone entranceway to speak to her
husband, who was now in a heated conversation with an
underdressed, rather scruffy-looking man.
"William," she said, reaching for his arm.
"Not now, Charlotte." He shook off her hand. The strange man
glanced at her, then quickly walked away.
"Who was that?" she asked.
But before William could answer her, a car came skidding to
a stop at the corner, a garishly painted Model T. The
vehicle was a shade of green Charlotte had never before seen
on an automobile. The car was filled in both the front and
back with passengers.
The horn bleated rudely, eliciting loud laughter from the
backseat.
Charlotte turned back to William and found that he was
staring at the car. It only took her a few seconds to
realize he wasn't just distracted by the noise; he was
entirely focused on the passenger disembarking from the
backseat.
She was a stunning brunette, with a perfectly chic, slim
figure, the short, boyish haircut that was all the rage, and
wearing a sleeveless pink sheath dress that fell just below
her knees. Her face was concealed by her pink cloche hat.
Charlotte was alarmed to see William cut through the throng
of guests and make his way to the curb, where he immediately
took the woman roughly, but intimately, by the arm.
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