Chapter 29

1963

Washington, D.C.

Daisy's eyelids fluttered. It was past her naptime surely, but she was almost at the end of her tale. Well, this leg of it,

anyway, and the young journalist Meg had been so attentive and eager for every detail.

Daisy shifted in her chair and looked at the girl across from her; she hardly seemed tired at all.

"Some years," began Daisy, "you can't wait to end. Nineteen-oh-six was that kind of year. We'd made wonderful progress with

the club, years of work and hope and believing to suddenly be brought down by the untimely death of Stanford White. We were

still mourning our friend. Despite the things that were being said about him, the things one read in the papers, he was our

friend. He'd built us a beautiful building for our club and I just couldn't bear to turn completely against him.

"We all breathed a sigh of relief as the clock struck twelve and noisemakers sounded and champagne overflowed and we said

goodbye to a year we couldn't get rid of fast enough. We may have been quit of it, but it still reared its ugly head and threatened

the very existence of our hard-earned club.

"It was a different time, not like today when scandals come and go so quickly, when indiscretions are brushed aside or ignored. Or derided, but without the accompanying paralysis you feel when you see society as you know it begin to show its underbelly. No one was ready for that.

"Stanford White, a man applauded for his immense talent, for his congeniality, for his charity, well-liked and well-respected.

Suddenly everything he'd touched was tainted. And it seemed everyone feared they would be tainted by his very existence.

"It was the final throes of the Victorian Age, an age that prided itself on piety and morality, outwardly, at least. One was

not to look too deeply beneath that fragile facade, where dark underpinnings simmered, breeding fear of change and threatening

the very foundations of society. The few times it surfaced publicly for all to see, it was impossible to ignore, made people

wonder, ask impertinent—no, dangerous questions.

"Stanford's murder brought out all those fears. Men who had known him for years, maybe even participated in some of the excesses

he was accused of, removed themselves from his sphere. Pretended not to have known him all that well or had never known him

at all.

"Husbands forbade wives to discuss him. Afraid of the stain that might attach to them merely for admitting they'd been his

friend, associate, acquaintance. I think that was the year I learned just what men, and women, would do to protect themselves.

Preachers railed against licentious behavior that they saw as running rampant in society; they increased their attacks against

the Colony Club, not even open yet, the notion of a women's club being an example of perverse behavior that should be torn

out before it was allowed to take hold. It became a kind of mass hysteria. Or a plague that might be catching.

"McKim and Mead merely left town, making infrequent appearances at the business while the drafting room practically ran itself and poor George Douglas and a few other senior architects tried to hold things together.

"Several intimates fled society completely. Some even fled the country. Business associates found themselves shunned; a school

where Evelyn Nesbit had studied as a girl had to declare bankruptcy when parents began to withdraw their daughters just for

its association. And unfortunately, being the last commission he worked on, the Colony Club received its share of the disdain.

"Harry Thaw's trial opened on January23, 1907, and we held our breaths and hoped that it wouldn't bring us down, too."

January1907

Manhattan

"Liar!" Bessie slapped the Times down on the dining table. "That little hussy, trying to look like Little MissInnocent. It makes me sick. The viper."

Elsie was looking at a very similar photo in her copy of the Tribune of Evelyn Nesbit, dressed like a schoolgirl, the plain dress and lacy white collar and childish expression. She looked absolutely

ridiculous with her hair pulled back and held with a big bow, sorrowful child eyes looking out from her beautiful, betraying

face.

"Does she expect people to believe her ‘Poor me, I didn't know what was happening' act?" asked Bessie.

Before Elsie could even swallow her mouthful of coffee, Bessie continued, "I can tell you one thing, if Evey didn't know what

was happening to begin with, her mother certainly did, and she's made a fortune off Stanny ever since."

"Well, she certainly knows what she's doing now," said Elsie, just as outraged. "I suppose that's what this meeting with the men's advisory committee is all about."

"Why else would they call a meeting? They're getting cold feet."

"They can't. We're almost ready to open." Elsie didn't know how Bessie could be so calm. Elsie's new life, her new career,

her reason for being was in danger of being extinguished. She'd thrown everything she had into this new venture. How could

she ever start again?

Bessie put the paper aside. "Don't worry, my dear, that was part of the bargain; they wouldn't interfere. We'll see this through,

but if I ever meet up with Stanny in whatever afterlife there might be, I'm going to box his ears for causing us such trouble."

Nora stood at the window of her office in the strangers room. Ever since the trial began, a group of angry protesters—mostly

outraged preachers and politicians, a few zealous members from Anthony Comstock's despised Society for the Supression of Vice,

and the occasional woman whose fervor overtook her sense of decorum—had congregated outside the Colony Club building. They

had been there every day, sometimes parading up and down the sidewalk, sometimes milling about, sometimes just staring at

the building as if they could see inside. They yelled threats of damnation at those who came to work each day. Accosted every

passerby to warn them of the devil's work being carried out inside.

"Men with too much time on their hands," George said, coming to stand beside her.

"Is it happening at McKim and Mead, too?"

"Not so much. The bosses are playing it safe. McKim is lying low. He's convinced it's the end of their firm. That the business

will never recover."

"And will it?"

"I don't know," George said pensively. "But..."

She wanted to ask him, But what? What about me? Am I out of a job? But he didn't continue, and he looked so tired she didn't want to worry him more.

"Things are up in the air, especially about White's finances. We'll get paid for what we're working on now. I insisted that

they pay you for the work you did, but after that, I don't know. Stanford had a budget for the club, though I don't think

any of us will see that. The man was bankrupt."

"What will become of the club? We've all worked so hard. Mrs.Harriman said the men's advisory committee is asking for a meeting

this morning. Do you know what they want?"

"I didn't even know there was a men's committee."

"Elsie said they put up the initial money, mainly husbands and fathers, but on the condition that once the club was up and

running it would support itself."

"Well, if it's any consolation, they're not the only ones suffering because of the trial. People are so ready to throw blame

on others. Look at those people outside. They don't know any of you, or even what the club is about. But one newspaper, one

preacher or lady moralist decides that something is bad, and everyone jumps on the bandwagon."

"The club has to survive," Nora said, surprised at the heat in her voice. "It's beautiful and they do so many good things.

I've seen that while I was here. They're needed. Their work is too important to be brought down by someone else's scandal."

George smiled. "You've certainly changed your ideas about them."

"I was ignorant before. But surely it won't come to that."

George shrugged. "Things have gone bust for less."

"Will you be okay?"

"Actually, I wanted to—"

"Oh, look, here come Elsie and Bessie." Nora laughed more out of surprise than humor. Bessie had just cracked her umbrella over the head of one pushy sign carrier.

Nora rushed to let them in.

"A pox on those busybodies," pronounced Bessie. "We came for war! Where are they meeting?"

"Mrs.Harriman and the other ladies are already in the assembly room," Nora said. "But only a handful of the committee have

braved the picket line to attend so far."

"That's not a good sign," said Bessie. "I hope we have a quorum."

"A quorum?" blurted Nora. "What are you going to vote on?"

The door opened and several other women poured inside.

"I have half a mind to call out the dogs," Alva Belmont said. "Too bad they're all in the country."

Bessie nodded at Alva and the others. "Thank heavens you came and brought our bravest and most outspoken members. I have a

feeling we're going to need to stand together."

"Don't worry about us," said Emmie Winthrop. "Not even J.P. Morgan is going to take my squash courts away. Ladies, shall

we go?"

They all tramped down the hallway.

"Fingers crossed," Elsie said, before following the others.

Nora crossed her fingers and didn't let them go for another half hour at least.

Daisy was beside herself by the time the door to the assembly room opened and Bessie and Elsie finally arrived. Anne had appeared

an hour ago, furious with her father, and on the verge of tears. "He'll try to close us down if he can. He thinks we're doomed

to fail. And there's nothing that he hates more than financial failure. And all because of this stupid trial. And when he

sees those people outside... Ugh!"

"I'm certain we can come to a mutual agreement," said Daisy calmly, masking the roiling of her stomach at the thought of losing their club. Their right to assemble, their special place to grow and learn and make a difference. And before it even opened.

Well, they would survive. Even if they had to start all over, they would continue. It was too important a service to succumb

to external circumstances. Already they had become active in several progressive movements and were just beginning to see

the fruits of their labor. There was so much more to do.

Bessie and Elsie strode across the floor, bringing an entourage of three. At least they now made a quorum if a vote was called.

"Well, we're here. Where are the men?"

"Not yet arrived."

Bessie pulled a face. "Afraid to cross the picket line, eh?"

"Oh, Bessie, don't," Anne said, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

"Hold firm, my dear. We will prevail."

"I hope you're right," Daisy said. She'd cudgeled her brains for days trying to find an argument that would sway the men's

advisory board that they could make the Colony Club a self-supporting entity. But as Bordie had pointed out, the trial of

the century, as the papers had taken to calling it, was sucking the life out of everyone.

"But I have total faith in you," he said, then ruined it by adding, "If anyone can get out of this mess, it's you."

Bessie shrugged out of her coat. Anne and Elsie both reached for it, but Elsie won out.

Bessie continued toward the front of the room where a dozen or so women were seated, all wearing worried expressions.

"Ladies, we are going to have a fight on our hands. I expect you all to stay strong. That little hussy, Evelyn Nesbit, is giving the performance of a lifetime, but if J. P. and the other men on the advisory committee think these theatrics will close us down, we'll show them a performance they won't forget."

"Bessie!" Anne pleaded.

"Don't worry, Anne, no fisticuffs or blue language."

"But the scandal!" Maud Bull sighed.

"Maud, my dear, as long as there are men on earth, there will be scandals in the newspapers. If we caved to every scandal,

we'd never get anything done."

"Maybe if we wait six months or so, it will all blow over."

"There will just be a new scandal to take its place."

"I suggest we put any notion of postponing the opening aside right now," said Daisy, her calm tone belying her dry mouth.

She'd barely finished her sentence before the double doors opened and three men entered. Delegates from the advisory board.

J. P. Morgan led the way, accompanied by Charles Barney, who immediately looked for his wife, who was sitting across the room

scowling at him like thunder. Frank Polk walked on his far side, trying to avoid his wife completely.

Daisy pulled herself together and went to greet them. She wished Bordie were here. He was quite good at reading other men,

especially when it came to finances, which Daisy surmised was the sticking point of this meeting as much as the possibility

of scandal that might be attached to the club.

J. P. took the lead and got right to the point. "Through no fault of your own, circumstances have made it difficult to further

endorse the continuance of the Colony Club." Several gasps, but before anyone could dispute his words, he continued, "As you

know, the Princeton Club has long been interested in buying this property."

"Never!" yelled Alva. Mary Dick tried to hush her, but Alva continued, undaunted. "They've made fun of us since we began.

They've just been waiting—"

"Like jackals," someone supplied. Daisy couldn't see whom.

"Like jackals," Alva continued. "To let us do all the work, then reap the spoils of our labor. I said no then, and I say no now."

"Ladies, let Mr.Morgan present his argument," Daisy said, her own fury threatening to boil over. How dare he expect them

to give in so easily. And to the Princeton Club.

J. P. drew himself up, looking even more formidable than usual. "It's just unfortunate timing that Mr.White is so closely

linked to this club, which is why—"

"Are the Payne Whitneys selling their house that isn't even finished yet?"

"We are not!" came a voice from the back. Helen Whitney must have slipped in at the last minute.

"And what about the Madison Square church? Are they closing their doors?"

"Ladies, they are in different positions than the Colony Club," J. P. argued.

"Only because they're not a women's club."

"Well, I'm sorry to say that's partially true."

"The Princeton Club isn't afraid of being stigmatized by the fact that Stanford White is the architect?" Bessie asked.

"It is different for men, MissMarbury."

"We are well aware of that!" said Alva, which earned her a disdainful look from J. P.

Daisy stood. "Then let them buy Mr.White's house on Twenty-first. I hear it's going to be for sale."

"Mrs.Harriman, Daisy," J. P. adjured. "You know we have supported the club all along, but this exceeds all bounds. We are

only concerned for your safety and reputations."

"And for your finances," Alva snapped back, before Daisy could answer.

J. P. motioned to Barney, who handed him a sheet of paper. "We have looked at the numbers. You've already exceeded costs for

the furnishing of the club."

"I believe you gave carte blanche on that item," Anne said quietly. She was not only J. P.'s daughter, she was also the club treasurer.

"And so we did, and it looks"—he cleared his throat—"lovely. However, continuing to run in the red is not an option. As you

well know."

"We do not intend to run in the red," Daisy said, cutting in. "However, we must open first to prove it."

"The advisory committee has considered and we strongly suggest—no... strongly advise you to consider the proposition from the Princeton Club."

"That hardly seems fair, to judge us before we begin," Bessie said icily.

"MissMarbury. You may know the theatrical business better than any of us, but this club is bound to falter."

"And if it does, we'll recover," said Anne, standing up next to Bessie.

Daisy closed her eyes. The last thing they needed was to turn father against daughter, or vice versa. Or worse, to set him

off, just by seeing Anne and Bessie stand against him.

But J. P. merely passed over his youngest daughter and continued, "The papers have already been drawn up; you won't get a

better offer. And you could easily end up in bankruptcy like several businesses have already just because of their association

with White. Just like White himself." He stretched out his hand and Mr.Polk placed a sheaf of papers in it.

"Here is the contract. Have your lawyer look it over; discuss it among yourselves, if you feel that is necessary. But don't

linger. If this trial lags on, the Princeton Club may reconsider and withdraw its offer."

All eyes in the room turned to Daisy.

She took a deep breath. Did she take it and pretend to be willing to compromise? She had no intention of selling the club. But she was not the only one involved. They had all worked hard; they were all depending on her. They might lose a few members. Well, if they did, she would get new members. It might be safer to cut their losses, but there were times you had to stand firm in spite of everything. This was one of those times.

J. P. still held the contract toward her. Not a woman in the room moved. They were all focused on the papers in J. P.'s hand.

The air stood completely still and so did the air in Daisy's lungs.

She collected her wits. She and Bordie might not be as rich as some of the men and women in this room, but they were determined

and honest and loyal. And they knew how to make a budget work.

"We thank you for your advice... and we'll appreciate your continued support in whatever we decide."

"I think," J. P. broke in, "that we have decided the best course of action is to sell."

"Sir, your committee promised not to interfere in the running of the club," Daisy reminded him, as calmly as her racing heart

would allow.

"I think we're a little beyond that now. You can't even open to members with that mob outside."

"Nonetheless..."

She couldn't say it. We will take your advice under consideration . She wouldn't consider it. But she took the contract from him. It was a slim sheaf of only four or five sheets. As if they

didn't even need to bother with the wherefores and wherebys, which was the attitude of most of male society. And Daisy Harriman,

the coolheaded, compromising, never-show-hysterics Daisy Harriman, took the pages in both hands and calmly tore them in half.

"You may tell the Princeton Club we will not be selling."

J. P. looked as thunderous as she'd ever seen him; the other two committee members looked just as displeased. She hoped to heaven she hadn't jeopardized Bordie's career in banking. But she'd done what she had to do.

From somewhere behind her someone clapped, and then another until the room filled with the applause of Manhattan's first-ever

women's club.

"I hope you won't live to regret this day."

"I hope we won't, and I sincerely hope you will continue to see us through whatever may come as you have seen us through so

much thus far."

"Humph," he said, and, evidently feeling there was nothing more to say, the men's delegation left the room.

Daisy turned to the other women, who sat watching her expectantly and perhaps a little apprehensively. "Thank you all for

coming. I think we're all agreed about continuing."

She was met with a resounding cheer.

But as soon as they had gone, she took Bessie and Elsie aside.

"Well," Daisy said. "That is that. I believe we need a plan."

If there was ever a time Nora missed her little hidey-hole above the rented assembly room, it was today. She and George hovered

near the closed door, but could make out little of what was said. But when applause broke out, they hightailed it back to

Nora's office, leaving the door only slightly ajar.

They heard more than saw the men's committee stride by and out the front door, where they were greeted by renewed chanting

on the street. Nora and George raced to the window in time to see the men climb into a carriage.

"Going to their club, no doubt," George said dryly.

"I wonder what happened."

They weren't to know. A few minutes later, as the other women dispersed, Bessie, Elsie, Anne, and Mrs. Harriman went into their office and closed the door. They didn't emerge for the longest time and when they did, they immediately left the building, going in their own carriages or automobiles to parts unknown by Nora or anyone else she asked.

As the reporting of the trial grew more lurid, the handful of picketers outside the door of the Colony Club grew. George took

to meeting Nora on the corner to escort her through the crowd to the door.

She told him it wasn't necessary. After her first confrontation with the photographers the day after Mr.White's death, she'd

determined not to let anything stop her from doing what she needed to do. In work or in life.

But he insisted and she accepted; and she had to admit that between George's presence and her new winter coat, she felt as

if she could face down the world.

The weather was cold but sunny, and the crowd and the signs grew, until they had to push their way unceremoniously through

the milling protesters. One day two men actually tried to bar their way. But the door opened and they slipped inside.

"This can't go on much longer," Daisy said. "The women are afraid to come."

"Just be patient," Elsie told her. "Things will change."

And then one day, things did change. Though not because of Elsie. It began to snow. A slicing, biting kind of snow. One by

one, then in groups, picketers drifted away, their ardor cooled. It snowed for several days and the crowd continued to dwindle

as the temperature dropped. Whatever snow had managed to melt during the afternoon froze over during the night, making traversing

the pavement treacherous. And just as the ice began to melt and they prepared themselves for another onslaught of angry protesters,

the temperature dropped again. And it all froze over once more.

"If this is Elsie's plan—‘wait for the snow'—I have to say, I don't think that will do the trick," George said one day as he sat on the edge of the desk, watching Nora finish the last details to a plinth he needed for another project.

He'd been spending more and more time at the Colony Club office rather than his own at McKim and Mead. But when she asked

him about it, he just changed the subject. He became such a fixture that Nora cleaned off a space at her worktable for him.

And when one day Fergus showed up with a roll of plans for him to look at, she knew things must be bad.

"What's going on?" Nora asked.

"Nothing... yet," George said, and sent Fergus on his way.

"I'm not going to be able to come back when this is over, am I?"

George shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

Nora knew that. She'd known it for a while. But hearing George say it made her stomach—and her hope—plummet.

"But don't worry, Nora."

How could she not? "Will you give me a good reference at least?"

"What? I can't give you a reference. I'm just a cog in the machine."

"No, you're not. You're the one overseeing all the projects."

"I don't have a name."

"Sure you do. Everybody has a name."

"I mean, nobody knows it."

"But—"

They were interrupted at that moment when Elsie burst into the room.

"I've never been so happy to see bad weather in my life. And take a look at this." She pulled a magazine out of her tapestry

bag and placed it on the desk between George and Nora.

" Harper's Bazaar . You can't get much more established than this." She riffled through several pages and read, "?‘Roundly outranking every other woman's club house in the country—even of two continents, the Colony Club of New York....' Et cetera, et cetera..."

She skimmed the page with her forefinger. "Ah! ‘...a stamp of approval by MissElsie de Wolfe, the actress lately turned

professional importer of objet d'arts, has been entrusted with the interior decorating and furnishings.'

"It does mention Stanny, but only once. It goes on to describe everything in detail. For eight whole pages. Eight. People

will be beside themselves to see inside." She looked up at George and Nora through her eyelashes. "But they won't be able

to. It's a private club."

Nora smiled, but she didn't see how an article in a ladies' magazine was going to help stem the antipathy to their club.

"Oh, don't you see?" Elsie said, catching Nora's expression. "It only mentions poor Stanny once. And there are other articles

to follow. We'll turn the tide of public opinion, you see if we don't.

"Bessie and I have arranged the whole thing. The two of us together can convince people of anything. I knew all those years

of acting were for something. And now I know it was to advance my true calling as an interior decorator. The first woman in

America."

"But how?" asked Nora.

"My dear. We're having a Grand Opening, inviting everyone who's anyone. Is Daisy here yet?" She snatched up the magazine and swept out of the room just as she had swept in.

"Heavens," George said. "Is she always like that?"

"Often," Nora said. "But she's usually right, about design, and about how to get things done." She quirked her mouth. "She

sure had you and Mr.Wojcik eating out of her hand."

"She did not."

Nora gave him a look.

"Well, you have to admit, she does know how to get your attention. But what do you think she means about a Grand Opening?"

"I have no idea, but whatever it is, I'm certain it will be grand."

"In that case, how about lunch? Mrs.Tova is making steak-and-kidney pie."