my room and Julia flung open the door. “Voilà.”
I followed her into a most charming guest room hung with Delft Blue wallpaper. The scent of anthracite, which lingered from the coal fires, lent a pleasant fireworks scent to the room. An enormous canopy bed stood against the far wall, but my favorite part was the wide porch, which I shared with the bedroom next door, accessed from my room by a handsome pair of wide French doors.
Julia took me by the hand out onto the porch.
“Oh, the view, Julia.” I took in the long slope of lawn and the sweep of gentle mountains beyond, the upper elevations splashed with tangerine and vermillion. “It’s like being in Switzerland.”
Birds of all kinds sang in the trees and sailed and dipped in the sky above us. I turned my attention to the room next door, the draperies drawn back, a fire glowing in the fireplace. Which one of Julia’s guests was my neighbor?
“I do love the fall up here.” Julia linked an arm through mine. “Like my birds?”
“They’re exquisite.” Tears threatened and I felt for my handkerchief, my constant companion those days.
“Is the sadness any better, dear?”
“Some days. It helps to breathe mountain air, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be normal again.”
“I know you’re still in deep mourning, dear, so don’t hate me for bringing it up, but you might want to start thinking about when you’ll stop wearing your wedding ring. Might help you move on.”
“So soon?” I clasped my right hand over my left. “It’s all I have left of him.”
Julia pointed to a brown bird circling above the treetops between the mountains and us. “That’s an osprey, off to catch a fish in the river soon, no doubt. I could watch her all day.”
I stemmed a wave of envy watching that bird. How good it must be to fly wherever one chose.
“See how she flies, and after the downward wing stroke, her wings pull up? That’s called the recovery stroke. Isn’t it lovely? That’s all you need, Eliza. Time to take your recovery stroke.”
Tears flooded my view, turning the trees on the mountain beyond to an orange blur.
Julia pulled me close and kissed my cheek. “Be patient, my darling. You really will feel better someday.”
* * *
—
JULIA HURRIED OFF AND I dressed for dinner, changing from my traveling dress of black bombazine and crape to another, almost identical. How tired I was of black. Early Christians in the second century wore white in mourning. What misguided soul had turned society toward black?
I unpacked the room decorations I traveled with. Strung my length of tiny Tibetan prayer flags across the vanity mirror and flipped open the silver travel frame Father had given me so I could keep my loved ones close. Henry, Father, Mother, Caroline, Sofya, and little Max.
At least I wouldn’t need the veil at dinner. I opened my locket and pressed my lips to Henry’s picture. I caught my reflection in the window, lit by the fire, my skin so white against the black.
A widow.
The word pulled on me like a brick roped around my neck.
I stood taller, brushed lint from my skirt, and wrapped my Orenburg shawl about my shoulders. At least I was making headway placing the Russian women.
I stepped down the stairs and through the dining room, past Julia’s massive birch Adirondack table set for five. In the center sat a silver bowl filled with autumn branches, the bowl large enough to bathe a baby. The table wore Julia’s best silver brought up from their mansion at 377 Riverside Drive in Manhattan.
I followed voices out onto Julia’s newly built, columned veranda, which ran along the front of the house to exploit the view. I stopped in the doorway and took in the group as Julia struck a theatrical pose and E.H. helped himself and a blond gentleman to drinks at a mirrored bar.
E.H. turned to me. “Oh, Eliza, you’re here. Do come out. May I present Gareth Hapgood, direct from the stage in Philadelphia?”
Gareth stepped toward me at the doorway, chin held high, a frowsy, yellow chrysanthemum at his lapel. “Enchanté, Eliza,” he said with a deep bow.
I extended my hand. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Hapgood.”
He took my hand and kissed it. “May I call you Eliza?”
Had he marinated himself in cologne?
“Julia’s been telling us about your impressive family. To think you are descended from those fine Woolsey women.”
“That’s enough, Gareth,” Julia said, handing him a glass of Moët.
“My deepest condolences about your