Still, she felt like an interloper. She was constantly afraid of using the wrong fork or overreaching for the salt or making some other mistake she wasn’t even aware she was making. Like Scot, on the opposite end of the table, who was failing miserably. Evelyn had assumed that he’d have gone through enough HBS and firm dinners to pick up the rules of this set, but she detected as she watched him that he didn’t know what he didn’t know. He picked up his fork for the appetizer and dug in before anyone else, prompting a loud, “I have picked up my fork,” from Mrs. Hacking several moments later. He buttered his bread in one piece; he passed the saltshaker without the pepper; he didn’t seem to have any idea what to do with the fish knife during the sole course and left it at the side of his plate.
Part of the game, Evelyn thought as she watched the rest of them separating the sole’s flesh from its spine with their fish knives, was to prove that they all knew the same code, that they’d all grown up in the same great country houses using fish knives every night. They hadn’t, of course—no one did anymore—but without any actual aristocracy in America, the best those who wanted to be upper class could do was create systems of exclusivity and codes of conduct. She wondered how well she was passing as she used her fish knife to lift a delicate flake of sole from the spine and turned to Mr. Desrochers to inquire about how iron-ore mining had changed in the last decade.
During dessert, Scot used his spoon to break into a chocolate torte and then dumped milk into his espresso shot, earning a sharp cough from Mr. Van Borgh on Evelyn’s left.
Scot soon made himself welcome to at least Mr. Hacking, though, given the homework he had done.
“Shuh-shuh-gah is one of the great camps?” Scot was saying.
“It was once,” Mrs. Hacking said. “Split up and sold for parts when the Levelings needed money.”
“We’ll see one of the great camps tomorrow,” said Mr. Hacking, an even thinner model of Preston who spent minimal time in the great outdoors but for golfing. He was taking dollhouse-spoon-sized bites of his torte, chewing each bite so mildly and slowly that Evelyn feared they would be at dinner for hours longer. “Camp Sachem. They’re having the dinner for the Fruit Stripe.”
“I read about that camp,” said Scot with excitement. “It was a Rockefeller camp, wasn’t it?”
“Thank you for not tipping your chair,” Mrs. Hacking said to her husband, who righted himself quickly.
“No, you’re thinking of Wonundra,” Mr. Hacking said. “Sachem was owned by, among others, the Stokes family, the merchant line. A daughter inherited everything and then married into the Hennings, who, of course—”
“The Beech-Nut fortune!” Scot said, unable to contain his excitement.
Mr. Hacking looked immensely sad that his punch line had been stolen, and he gave a dour nod.
“The Beech-Nut fortune was a grand fortune,” Mr. Van Borgh opined through what sounded like ounces of phlegm; Evelyn tried to shield her torte from his spray. “Built much of the Erie Canal. And the Henning girls always married well. A Vanderbilt here, a Hunt there. Smart, I think, to limit the breeding. Kept it in the family.”
“What do you mean?” Evelyn asked.
“Primogeniture. The Hennings kept it at one child per generation. One reason why the camp was never carved up between fighting siblings. Direct inheritance. No fuss. Sachem über alles. That’s the ticket.”
“Hold on,” said Charlotte. “They limited the number of kids they had so they could keep the camp in one piece?”
“Yes. Rather clever. Of course, Souse, who owns the camp now, didn’t hew to that, did she? At least she had two girls, not two boys. Less of a fuss. Do you sail, child?” Mr. Van Borgh said.
Charlotte looked taken aback by this turn in conversation. “Not really. I mean, I can, but—”
“The Fruit Stripe, that’s the Hennings’ legacy as well. Souse runs the thing. You ought to race in it Sunday.”
“Fruit Stripe? Like the gum?” Charlotte said.
“It’s a Beech-Nut gum,” Mr. Hacking said. “The company gave a chunk of money for the race years ago, when Souse threatened that either she was going to run for a board seat or the company had to fund this race.”
Something snapped into place, and Evelyn turned to Mr. Van Borgh. “Beech-Nut,” she said quietly. “Are they related to Camilla Rutherford?”
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Van Borgh said, wheezing away. “That’s one of the daughters. Camilla is the elder, Phoebe the younger.”
Evelyn licked her lips, surprised at the whirr of excitement she was feeling. Camilla had been her top target for the weekend, and here, with barely any work, Evelyn already had an in to meet her. If she could land Camilla Rutherford as a member, she could make Arun and Jin-ho certain they’d hired the right person. “So the Fruit Stripe, that’s their thing? The Rutherfords’?” she said.
“Yes, it’s always been Souse’s event, and she chooses what manner of race it will be each year. Participants have to have a boathouse full of all manner of boats; one year she chose Adirondack guide boats and only a handful of the camps had them at all and could participate. Indeed, Souse even changes what weekend it will be held every summer. When it’s a May race, as it is this year, it’s dreadful for the poor racers. So very cold. I prefer an August Fruit Stripe, myself,” Mr. Van Borgh said.
“Understandably,” said Evelyn. Of course the inhabitants of this world, she thought, would constantly change the rules of their race.
CHAPTER FOUR