The Luxe by Anna Godbersen

now, while their relationship progressed recklessly from one minute to the next. Then she realized it was just one of the Parker Fishes’ coachmen out on an errand, and was thankful for the first time in her life not to catch an unexpected glimpse of the man she loved. Of course she would have to tell him, but not now. Not yet.
    “Mr. Schoonmaker,” she said, as they crossed Twentieth Street. “Do you think we could keep this a secret…until the dinner party I mean? Just so everything doesn’t go topsy-turvy at once?”
    He nodded in agreement, as though he liked the idea, and then they proceeded up the stairs. She tried to let as little of her body touch his as possible, and promised herself she would tell Will soon. Tomorrow.
    “And you can call me Henry,” he said flatly as they paused on the iron porte cochere. “We are engaged.”
    She was unable to smile at this. She was too busy wondering if Will might still love her when she was a Mrs. Schoonmaker.

Ten
    It is well known that a man, when wooing a lady to be his wife, must first win over the females she most confides in—her friends, of course, and her sister, if she has one.
    –– MAEVE DE JONG, LOVE AND OTHER FOLLIES OF THE GREAT FAMILIES OF OLD NEW YORK

T HE HOUSE HAD GROWN SILENT. THERE SEEMED TO be nothing happening—not even in the kitchen, where dinner should certainly have been being prepared. Diana moved through the house on light feet, humming a tune in ragtime to herself, listening for some sign of life. It occurred to her that perhaps Mrs. Faber, having got wind of the disastrous state of the Holland finances, might’ve packed up the staff and run off—to join the circus, maybe, or to open a brothel in San Francisco. It seemed inconceivable that, set free in this way, the housekeeper would still want the company of dull old Mr. Faber. Diana crept through the back servants’ hall without meeting a soul and into the cloakroom, which was at the end of a long foyer. She felt like she was seeing everything anew. She was poor; she had nothing, and thus, she realized with delight, she had nothing to lose.
    She looked at the fur coats and velvet evening wraps hanging along the walls and realized they would have to go. She glanced behind the door for her French lieutenant’scoat— that she would find a way to save—but instead saw a foreign hat. She plucked it from the wall and placed it on her head. It would have been far too large for her except for the fact of her curls, which added enough volume that it fit almost perfectly. Diana turned to the cloakroom mirror and decided that she looked sort of bohemian when she put on the right accessories. Then she peeked out of the cloakroom door and into the long hallway and saw the figure of a man in a black coat, his back turned toward her.
    Diana slipped silently down the hall in his direction. When she was a few feet from him, he must have heard her because he turned. His features were set with a look of exasperation. It took her a moment to fit the man’s name and face together, though she knew them both. The face was aristocratic and stretched with an air of entitlement, the shifting of a pronounced jaw, the roving of worldly dark eyes.
    “Oh…I know you,” she said, and then smiled, because she was surprised at herself for thinking that he was actually delicious-looking even though everyone else thought so, too.
    “You’re Henry Schoonmaker.”
    “Yes,” he said, glancing at her head, and then meeting her eyes again.
    “Do you like my hat?” she asked, touching the brim and watching him. She had heard all about the wild young Schoonmaker while she was in Saratoga. Even Aunt Edithhad gossiped about him. Apparently, he raced those dangerous four-in-hand carriages and drove motorcars and moved restlessly from place to place and girl to girl. It had sounded to Diana like he lived the sort of far-ranging life she would lead if only the world would let her.
    “I do like the hat, although I