“Someone is actually farming that land now?”
“Oh yeah, they’ve turned that entire place around! He’s got the orchards back on line, the greenhouses, the fields are producing again—oh, it’s just wonderful.”
“When did all this happen?”
“You haven’t been here in how many years, Roxie? Things haven’t exactly stood still just because you weren’t here.” Her face was neutral, but her voice was a little sharper than normal.
“I realize that,” I said, twirling my coffee cup in its saucer. I felt a small tug. I had been gone a long time. But I tamped it down, keeping my attention on the farmer.
The Maxwell Farm was legend in this part of the country. Hell, the Maxwells were legend, in all parts of the country. Old New York. Old money. Old banking family. Have a mortgage? It was probably held by a Maxwell bank at some point. Lease a car? Probably guaranteed by a Maxwell bank at some point. Invested in mutual funds? If it has to do with the stock market, the Maxwell Banking Family of Greater New York is likely involved.
And like all old wealthy families, they occasionally like to leave their Manhattan apartment, or their Hamptons seaside “cottage,” or their Palm Beach winter house, and head up for some good old-fashioned rustic country life on their “farm.”
Farm in the loosest sense of the word imaginable. What do you think of when you hear the word farm? Ten or twenty acres around an old family farmhouse and a weathered red barn, somewhere in one of those states you fly over? Perhaps a lazy barn cat. Perhaps a chicken or two. Perhaps if you’re very lucky, and also adorable, you might even envision a moo cow.
If you’re slightly less romantic and slightly more aware, you might imagine a different vision entirely. Hundreds and hundreds of acres farming one crop, probably feed corn or soybeans, with no old farmhouse or barn. There’d probably been several on this giant property at one point, but they all sold their land in one huge land consolidation, and the structures have been torn down or left to the elements. There’s maybe one large equipment “barn,” and definitely no moo cow.
But Maxwell Farm? It’s an idyllic, look-how-salt-of-the-earth-and-how-cute-are-we-in-these-overalls “farm.” In the late 1800s, when the Maxwells were already firmly entrenched into New York’s social elite, they purchased a large plot of land in the Hudson Valley. This was not uncommon back then: the Vanderbilts, the Rockefellers, the Carnegies all owned farms. Enormous acreages, beautiful and elaborate stone “farmhouses” complete with equally beautiful stone barns, riding paths, teahouses, fountains, and gazebos. And occasionally, these farms might actually plant a crop or two.
It started out as a place to get away from the daily grind of being wealthy—as one does. The main house and the barns were situated high on a bluff overlooking the Hudson River. The enormous stone barns were mostly used to house cattle, as it was once a working dairy farm. The land was used for some farming—mostly vegetables and fruit orchards—but most of the acreage was set aside as a nature preserve. Some fields were cleared for hunting, as the Maxwells hosted large parties for their city friends, the men scaring up quail and pheasant, while the ladies visited the gardens and the orchards and the orangerie.