Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [85]
It was in an ivory envelope embossed with a scallop shell. On the front, there was no stamp, but it was addressed in perfect calligraphy. I don’t think I had ever seen my name so beautifully inscribed. Each of the Ks stood an inch tall, their legs sweeping elegantly under the other letters, curling at the end like the toe of an Arabian shoe.
Inside, there was a card edged in gold. It was so thick I had to rip the envelope to set it free. At the top was the same image of the scallop, while below were the time and date and the requesting of the honor of my company. It was an invitation to the Hollingsworths’ sprawling Labor Day affair. From a few hundred miles at sea, another act of grace by the right fine Wallace Wolcott.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Fortunes of War
This time when I arrived at Whileaway, I didn’t have to take a detour through the garden—I got to go right through the front door with the rest of the invited guests. But having let Fran convince me to buy a dress from the Macy’s bargain bin that looked better on her figure than mine, I couldn’t shake that nagging feeling that I should have been pushing my way through the hedge. As if to make the point, two college boys brushed past me at the door. They sloughed off their coats into the hands of a footman and took glasses of champagne from a waiter—making eye contact with neither. With no achievements behind them, they already looked as self-assured as the flyboys would at the end of the Second World War.
At the entrance to the great room, exactly where you couldn’t avoid them, representatives of the Hollingsworth family had formed an impromptu receiving line: Mr. & Mrs., two of the boys, one of the wives. When I gave my name, Mr. Hollingsworth welcomed me with the polite smile of one who has long since quit keeping track of his children’s acquaintances. But one of the older sons leaned over.
—She’s Wallace’s friend, Pop.
—The young lady he called about? Why of course, he said—adding quasi-confidentially: That call caused quite a stir, young lady.
—Devlin, chastened Mrs. Hollingsworth.
—Yes, yes. Well, I’ve known Wallace since the day he was born. So if there’s anything you’d like to know about him that he wouldn’t tell you himself, come and find me. In the meantime, make yourself at home.
Outside on the terrace, the breeze was temperate and wild. Though the sun had yet to set, the house was lit from stem to stern as if to assure arriving guests that should the weather take a turn for the worst, we could all stay the night. Men in black tie conversed casually with the rubied and the sapphired and the sautoir de perles-ed. It was the same sort of familiar elegance that I had seen in July, only now it spanned three generations: Alongside the silver-haired titans kissing the cheeks of glamorous goddaughters were young rakes scandalizing aunts with wry remarks sotto voce. A few stragglers from the beach with towels on their shoulders were making their way toward the house looking fit and friendly and not the least ill at ease for running late. Their shadows stretched across the grass in long, attenuated stripes.
A table at the edge of the terrace supported one of those pyramids where overflowing champagne from the uppermost glass cascades down the stems until all of the glasses are filled. So as not to spoil the effect, the engineer of this thousand-dollar parlor trick produced a fresh glass from under the table and filled it for me.
Whatever Mr. Hollingsworth’s encouragements, there wasn’t going to be much chance of my feeling at home. But Wallace had made such an effort, I was just going to have to splash some water on my face, trade up to gin, and throw myself into the mix.
Inquiring for a powder room, I was directed up the main staircase, past a portrait of a horse, down a wainscoted hall to the end of the east wing. The ladies’ dressing room was a pale yellow parlor overlooking a rose garden. It had pale yellow wallpaper, pale yellow chairs, a pale yellow chaise.