Chapter Ten
1895
Metamorphosis
The seasons passed. Without the vegetable dye my mother used to apply to it, the red-gold color of my hair started to show through, especially at the crown of my head. I piled my hair under my cap anyway, so no one much saw it, but I became fond of taking my hair down and looking at how red it was, how quickly I was growing into my new self.
As for what had happened in the garden, it frightened me. Scared of ruining my fantasy, I didn’t go out to the garden again for weeks, though I considered it nearly every day. I ventured no further from the house than the statue of Diana. She helped define my limit. I pictured the boy, his hands gentle, his body tense and strong, and I treasured that picture. But I stayed inside with it and kept it to myself.
In a way, even though there were many of us, the huge estate felt lonely. You could tell that the mansion’s best days were yet to come. You could look at the rooms and imagine them filled with rich people. Rich people reclining on the couches, or standing in the dressing rooms waiting for people like us to dress them, or taking their leisure on the lawn under lovely linen parasols on a summer afternoon. It was clear that this was the house’s destiny. But so far, it was only in our imaginations. We did have occasional guests, but they would generally tease Mr. Vanderbilt that they’d traipsed to the wilderness for his sake, and they thought perhaps once Biltmore was truly finished that it might really be something. Even the servants’ dining room, built to seat thirty of us, in those days was never more than half full. The swimming pool that had so frightened me that first night was finally completed but had yet to be filled with water. The bowling alley had a gleaming, polished floor and an impressive aspect but was still not stocked with balls or pins and remained as quiet as a church.
***
In 1895, we welcomed our first large party, a full score of guests, for Christmas. With great fanfare, the master of the estate declared Biltmore officially open to invited visitors. The preparations kept us hopping for weeks. Every night, I slept the sleep of the dead.
We decorated nearly every surface with spruce, from the fireplaces to the light fixtures, and covered the walls until they looked like living things. Men were sent out to denude whole sections of the forest and brought in heaps and armfuls of branches, and the heavenly smell filled every room of the house.
We bedecked the house in ways large and small, finishing off the spruce garlands with red ribbon bows, changing out the table runners, tying glass ornaments on thin, nearly invisible threads to dangle merrily in each first-floor window. Every guest room needed to be in full and festive readiness, and linens upon linens flooded the laundry room on top of our usual work. It seemed a deliveryman was knocking at the back door every hour. The kitchen and pantry overflowed with the makings for not just the Christmas feast but a Christmas Eve seated supper as well and three days’ worth of enormous breakfasts and lunches. With little time to dance in the mornings, I found myself humming and stretching my limbs out secretly as I went about my other tasks, as if the instinct was threatening to burst out of me whether or not I let it.
The eve of Christmas, we added festive touches to our uniforms—holly in the hair of the women, mint leaves on the men’s lapels—and served as we were meant to serve. We treated all the guests with outwardly identical deference, but some were more famous than others, and we all secretly jostled to have the honor of attending the stunning soprano Madame Nordica and grave but cordial Governor McKinley. Drinks were served in the grand parlor, with dozens of fragile glasses borne on silver trays up and down the back stairs and laden platters of hors d’oeuvres brought up by dumbwaiter.
When the time came, the entire party was ushered down the grand staircase—that sight alone made them gasp in delight—and seated at table for seven courses, using every fish fork and ice cream spoon in the estate’s collection. We brought foods to table that most of us had never even seen before, bearing caviar and truffles as if they were grits and succotash. It was a mad scramble downstairs to achieve a tranquil appearance in the dining room, like a duck seeming to glide upon the water but paddling madly all the while. But all was charm and grace at the dinner itself, soup to nuts. At the end, we cleared away the last of the delicate china and steered the company to yet another parlor where coffee and brandy lay at the ready. Our collective sigh of relief afterward was so deep that it might well have been audible.
After a quarter hour of lovely piping after-dinner music from a trio of French horns, we bundled the whole visiting party into elegant carriages for a late-night turn about the grounds. Even the carriage horses, matched white stallions, were decorated for the occasion, with jingle bells on their reins and red velvet ribbons braided into their manes and tails.
Once the jingle bells faded into the distance, the mischievous Mr. Bullard stepped forward and said, “And until they return, let’s play!”
The more cautious among us, myself included, made some noises of concern, but we were quickly shushed by the more adventurous. The grooms agreed to stand watch at the door so we’d have fair warning of the party’s return. The rented musicians with their French horns were quickly urged into the side room and a bowl of punch produced, and impromptu festivities began.
Some of the group grasped hands and began a partnered dance. I stood aside, thinking I would only watch. But once the first deep trill of the French horns sounded, the dancing itself was like a spell that came over me.
Only the first few motions were mechanical. I raised my arms over my head and began with a pirouette, then swept my whole body forward and extended my fingertips as if to embrace the great far ceiling, and from there, I let the music carry me off. I stretched and bent, leapt and flourished, every movement quick and lovely and joyous, until an unknown time later when the music began to fade.
The sound of applause brought me back to the room almost reluctantly, with a warm haze of delight still lingering in my limbs. Many of the servants were watching me, and their applause was directed toward me, so I bobbed my head in a quick acknowledgment. It gave me a warm feeling, their admiration. Cheeks flushed, I stepped back toward the wall.
Mr. Bullard handed me half a cup of punch. Thirsty, I drank it in a few fast gulps. The horns continued to play, and I must have been swaying along. I felt the music swelling inside my body deep down, nudging me into motion again.
“Let’s see you dance some more!” cried Mr. Bullard, who had never previously shown signs of getting carried away, but I obliged.
To impress him, I brought my arms up in second position, struck a haughty, high-chinned pose, and set myself up to spin clear across twenty feet of open floor in a sharp series of piqué turns. Before the Christmas preparations had started, I’d done it a hundred times. But after the punch, I wasn’t spotting correctly. When you do piqué turns, cha?né turns, or other sharp spins, it’s essential to spot. You focus on a place on the wall and turn your head quickly at the end of each spin, fixing your eyes on that spot again, and it keeps you level. You don’t get dizzy. But I spun out of control, and instead of ending in the corner I aimed for, I ended by thudding into something soft.
I looked into the eyes of the something soft. A man, just about my size, almost too close to make sense of. High cheekbones, a straight thin nose, and small lips. Thick, dark brows with a pointed arch at the far end of each. Blue eyes, clear and infinitely deep. I recognized him then. His was a face in perfect harmony, strong and sharp, and not so different close up than it had been glimpsed from afar.
His eyes were turned upward, so I followed his gaze to the door frame above our heads and saw the mistletoe hanging there, a sprig of green sharp leaves with a cluster of perfect white berries, and then his face was very close by my face, and his eyes closed, and he lowered his lips to mine.
It was a sweet, soft kiss, and it was over in a moment.
We stepped away from each other at once. The music resumed. The world started to move again. My lips felt both numb and aching, as if I’d nibbled horseradish. I felt a hundred eyes on me, but when I peeked back at the rest of the servants, it was as if nothing had happened. The swarm of chattering and murmuring voices continued without break. The music piped on. No one was turned our way.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” he said.
“Roses,” I blurted.
“Beg pardon?”
“You tend the roses,” I said.
He smiled then, and it was like sunshine. “The roses, yes, and the pond lilies, and the tall grass, and the forests around us. Whatever the master wants to grow, or not grow, on the land. How did you know?”
“I saw you once.”
“When?” he asked. “Hasn’t been much growing lately.”
“In the summer.”
“That long ago? And you remember me still? How flattering.”
I blushed from the roots of my hair down to the collar of my uniform and well down underneath the cloth.
“But where are my manners?” He thrust out his hand. “Clyde Garber.”
We shook hands. “Miss Bates.”
“No,” he said. “What’s your first name?”
“Ada.”
“You have beautiful eyes, Ada.”
“Thank you.” I dropped a fast curtsy.
“No, I’m not being polite.” He extended his hand again but with the palm turned up. “Will you dance, this time with me?”
I wanted to reach for that hand, wanted it badly, but I felt myself teetering already. “I’m afraid not. The punch has left me dizzy.”
“You should sit. Come this way.” He beckoned for me to follow him into the next room, the library, and I did.