Chapter 23

April18, 1963

Washington, D.C.

"It had taken us so long to get started, now we were terribly anxious to have it finished.

"With the designs agreed on, Elsie left early that spring for one final buying trip before taking her usual summer vacation

at Trianon. She'd long ago overspent her budget. But we were feeling generous and excited and spared her no expense. And from

the renderings we'd seen, I knew it was going to be exactly what she had envisioned.

"By the time I left for Newport that summer, the construction was pretty much completed. The windows had been installed as

well as the doors. The floors were laid in the late spring and covered with heavy canvas tarps until the finishing touches

were applied and it was time to move in the furniture.

"We had engaged a housekeeper from London and she was due to arrive in the fall to take charge of housekeeping and hiring

additional staff. Mr.Wheatland, from the University Club, had agreed to be our superintendent.

"Bessie designed the club's coat of arms and Elsie sent back a score of blue-and-buff staff uniforms to reflect its colors.

"We had cupboards filled with monogrammed linens ready for the restaurant and guest rooms, and with Nora overseeing the delivery and storage of decor, I had no qualms about the club being able to open its doors in late fall. A dream would finally be realized, a club for women to nourish great ideas, embrace educational advances, and support social movements. It would be grand.

"And then in June, the unthinkable happened."

June1906

"Murder!" Nora heard the newsboy's strident cry as she hurried down the street to work. The morning sun was already hot and

she was perspiring, but she couldn't slow down. She was running late. The newsboy's cries grew louder. It must be something

important to raise such an outcry.

It wasn't until she neared the corner that she began to make out the rest of the words. "Famous architect dead! Thaw kills

White at the theater. Get your papers here! Stanford White murdered!"

Nora jolted to a stop. That wasn't right. It couldn't be. She began to run toward the young boy and his stack of papers, blindly

groping in her pockets for a nickel. Managed to come up with a coin of some kind; thrust it at the newsboy and yanked a copy

of the New-York Tribune from him. Then hurried over to prop herself against the wall to read words she refused to believe.

Shoots Him at Madison Square Roof Garden Opening—Architect Dies Instantly. Slayer's Wife Sees the Tragedy.

The words blurred before her. Nora wiped her sleeve across her eyes. "Stanford White, the well known architect, a member of

the firm McKim, Mead she stepped off the curb, a horse neighed in her ear, the carter yelled obscenities at her. She didn't

stop, didn't even look, just crossed the street, at first walking, then running all the way to McKim, Mead, and White. Only,

now White was gone.

Gone.

Nora arrived at the building with her hair flying and a stitch in her side. Then she saw the horde of people surrounding the

entrance to the McKim, Mead, and White building.

The crowd was so thick she couldn't see the entrance. She took several deep breaths, then threw herself into the swarm of

bodies, fighting her way to the front door. The doorman on the other side of the glass recognized her and opened the door

just enough to let her slip through. The crowd of reporters immediately pressed back toward the door.

"There's hardly anyone up there, miss. The bank can't even open its doors. McKim called in this morning, said the firm was

closed until further notice and to send everyone home."

"Is that all? Did he say when they were going to reopen? Isn't anyone here?"

"Mr. McKim said not to let anyone up. I sent the secretaries home, but some of the draftsmen had already arrived and they're still up there. But you'd best go home, miss. You don't want to get involved in that rowdy crowd out there. They're hungry for smut. And they'll do anything to get it. Go on home now."

How could she explain to him—this was home. "I have to—I'll only be a minute."

Nora ran to the elevator, past several bank employees who had collected in the foyer and were peering out at the crowd.

The ride to the fifth floor seemed interminable. When at last the door opened, she rushed out into an empty reception area.

She stopped to listen but hearing no sound, she hurried to the drafting room and pushed the doors open.

A group of about ten men stood huddled together, talking in low voices. The first one to look up was Collin Nast. He was frowning.

When he glanced her way, the frown turned to a scowl.

"What are you doing here?"

"I work here, remember?" Nora snapped back, her shock and horror turning to anger. She'd thought she would find answers here.

How could her employer, her mentor, be dead? What could he possibly have done to deserve this? Some man named Thaw. She hadn't

stopped to read the whole article she was still clutching to her chest.

She'd run here without thinking, as if her being at the office could make it all go away. She would find him sitting at his

desk all rumpled from a night out on the town, his brilliant ideas just waiting to find their way through his still-drunken

stupor to make the beautiful buildings he was famous for.

But looking at Nast's contorted face, she knew even if she went back to his office, he wouldn't be there. Stanford White was

dead. He would never amaze them with a new design. The world would be a bleaker place.

And what were they to do without him? What would Nora do? The realization made her stagger back.

"Don't you dare faint," snarled Nast.

"I never faint." Skirting the group, she made her way back to her drafting table. Her drafting table. Without him, would they keep her on? She had just started several details for the Madison Square church apse

for George. Surely they would need to be finished. And there was the Colony Club.

She barely glanced at the men. They had gone back to their mutterings like she'd never been there. And maybe to them, she

never had.

The group broke up. One of the other men called out to her, "We're leaving—if you don't want to be locked in, you'd better

come now." Several others were already walking toward the door. Nora quickly filled her pockets with the few things she hadn't

moved to the Colony Club and, still clutching her newspaper, hurried after them. For a second she considered running to George's

office to salvage his work, but surely he had a key and could get in later, when the curiosity seekers had dispersed.

Her skirts had barely cleared the doorway before Nast slammed the door shut and locked it, and Nora wondered vaguely why it

was he who had the key. No one even liked him, certainly not George. She didn't know about the bosses.

She was rushed into the elevator and the first group rode down, where they waited in the lobby for the second group so they

could all get out together. The bank employees had cleared out or gone into the bank. Only the architects were left.

Then the doorman unlocked the door and they pushed their way out.

Shouts for information rose up around them, the reporters pushing and shoving to get closer to the group. "Is it true that...?

What about Nesbit? Did White ever bring her here?"

Four of the draftsmen managed to break through the group, but they were pursued down the street by the reporters who hadn't

managed to get a prime spot.

Their escape left an open view to several cameras set on tripods. Another few hand-held cameras hid the faces of the men who wielded them.

Nora was buffeted between two draftsmen. Behind her, Nast pushed them forward.

"What about White's private upstairs office? Is it true that he used it for clandestine activities? Did he bring Nesbit there?

Any other women?"

"Why don't you ask her?" Nast's voice broke past Nora's ear and sliced into the crowd.

All eyes turned on Nora. Cameras went off as she stared in surprise.

"I work here!" she cried, but her voice was lost in the swell of questions and pushing and shoving.

"She's his ‘personal' assistant!" Nast yelled.

"I am not." She got no further; the reporters surged forward and several more draftsmen took the opportunity to get away.

Nora tried to follow, but she was pushed back as questions and insinuations were pelted at her.

"I just work here! I'm a draftsman just like the others," Nora cried. If they bothered to look at her, they would realize

she was not the kind of woman who might interest any rich man. She was a lowly employee. But they were carried along on their

own excitement.

And from somewhere, a distant police whistle shrilled through the pandemonium. The reporters ignored it as long as they could;

Nora ducked her head and butted through the remaining newspapermen.

Then a hand clamped around her arm and snatched her from the crowd. Her feet flew out from under her and she fell forward.

They were going to trample her or tear her limb from limb, and all she could do was clutch at her newspaper as her world spun

out of control.

She was being held on her feet, guided down the sidewalk away from the noise.

She tried to wrench free but her head was spinning. The heat, the murder—Mr.White was dead. A sob escaped from deep inside

her.

"It's all right. You're okay. Stop fighting me."

She stopped as his words made their way to her understanding. "George?"

"Yes, who did you think? Open your eyes."

She blinked against the sun. He was just a black shadow, then slowly he came into focus. "George!"

The sound of pounding feet behind them. A shrill whistle, this time not a policeman but a human whistle, and she was being

trundled into a... taxi. One of the new motorcars. Before she could remonstrate, they were headed uptown, and she started

to shake.

George pulled her closer. "What the hell happened out there?"

"Didn't you hear? Mr.White is—"

"Yes. I've been in a conference with the two partners since dawn. All they're interested in is avoiding a scandal. A little

late for that."

George's voice sounded so bitter, so unlike him, that a chill ran down her spine.

"I didn't—It isn't true. The things Nast said—I have to get to work."

"I have to get to breakfast and so do you." A few minutes later, he hustled her into Mrs.Tova's café. It was crowded; George

didn't stop but trundled her through the dining room and into the kitchen.

Mrs.Tova glanced up in surprise, took one look at them, and hurried them into a back room with a long rectangular table and

two benches. "Where we workers eat. But it's quiet." And she disappeared.

George sat Nora down, wrestled the newspaper she still held in a death grip out of her hand, and placed it on the table.

"I don't understand." She touched the crumpled newspaper. Tried to smooth it so she could read, but the words swam before

her eyes. "What's going to happen?" And she started to cry.

George sat down beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. "Nora. You have to stay strong. There are rough times ahead

and it will take everything we have to get through it."

"Because Mr.White is dead?"

He sighed, his chest heaving against her shoulder. "Yes, but also because of what will come out because of it. It's complicated,"

he said before she could ask him more.

Mrs.Tova returned with a platter of eggs and toast and ham.

George scooted away from Nora.

Nora tried to smile her thanks, but the smell of the food was making her feel sick.

Mrs.Tova just nodded and left them to it.

George filled her plate.

"I can't."

"You don't have a choice. We'll all need all our strength in the days to come."

She picked up her fork. "Why?"

But even though she pressed him to explain, he refused to say more.

Elsie carried the telegram out to the villa's terrace where Bessie was reading the script of her latest acquisition.

"Stanny's dead."

Bessie looked up, frowned against the sunlight. "What on earth are you saying?"

"Stanny's dead. Murdered." Elsie waved the telegram at Bessie. "That awful Harry Thaw shot him at the roof garden theater."

Bessie held out her hand; Elsie swept down the steps and across the paving stones to drop the telegram in her hand, before

lowering herself onto a chaise. Like Sarah Bernhardt , she thought, and sat up. This was serious. It was real. Stanny was dead.

"Good God," said Bessie. "Accused of ruining Harry's wife? Thaw taken into custody." She lowered the telegram until it rested

across her stomach. "This is madness."

"Sheer madness." Elsie sighed. "I mean, Evey was a pretty little thing, but certainly not worth dying for."

"Harry Thaw is off his rocker. His mother should have had him committed years ago." Bessie picked up the telegram again. Scowled

at it. "Poor Stanny. I suppose I should send one of the servants down to the tobacconist's to get a copy of the international

paper. Find out the full story." She shook her head. "Stanny, dead. And in such an ignominious fashion."

"It will be the talk of the town."

"Scandal of the season, at least. And if there's a trial..."

Daisy's knees simply gave out beneath her when Bordie brought the paper from the city on Tuesday afternoon. She'd just returned

home from watching a tennis match at the Newport Tennis Club and he was waiting for her in the parlor. She was surprised.

"You're here on a weekday and so soon," she said. "I'm delighted. I'd told the cook that I would be dining at the Belmonts'.

Shall I—"

"Daisy, my dear. You haven't heard?"

"Heard what? Has something happened?"

"Stanford White was shot last night."

"Shot? I didn't know he hunted."

"Not a hunting accident. At the Madison Square Garden roof theater."

"I don't understand."

"Harry Thaw accused him of wrecking his marriage and shot him."

"That reprobate! Is he badly injured?"

"I'm afraid he's dead."

That was when her knees gave out. Fortunately there was a chair nearby.

Her first thought was for Stanford's wife. Her second was to ask what exactly had happened.

Bordie read directly from the paper he'd been holding. It was a horrible story; an unhinged Harry Thaw had approached Stanford's

table during the intermission of Mam'zelle Champagne . "If it's any consolation, they say he died instantly. But, Daisy... there's bound to be a scandal."

Daisy nodded slightly. "Stanford wasn't known for his discretion, it's true."

"What I mean is..."

He didn't have to finish; the implications came to her in one fell swoop. "Oh, dear. Do you think I should go back to town?

The clubhouse was near completion when we left, but there is still much to be done. Who is in charge now? Young George Douglas?

Heaven only knows what has been dumped on his shoulders, poor man. And with Elsie in France. I wonder if she knows."

"If she doesn't, I'm sure she will soon," Bordie said. "You said the girl who is assisting her is a gem, so I wouldn't worry

there, and I wouldn't rush back to the city. There's absolutely nothing you can do. Besides..." He hesitated, then added,

"It might be best to let things blow over before jumping into the fray."

"Yes, of course. You're absolutely right. I'll telephone Nora tomorrow. There's a telephone at the assembly room office. Bessie insisted we install one. I'll tell Nora to carry on and let her know that the club will make sure that she's continued to be paid, since I'm not certain exactly where her paycheck has been coming from. If it's been directly from Stanford, well, things might be tied up for a while."

Bordie leaned over, took her hand, and kissed it. "My dear, you are the mistress of understatement."