There would often be music, a harpist or a pianist, some Cambridge student hired for the day. Other homes, even in Boston during those playful years of the 1920s, early ’30s, might have also served cocktails in silver shakers accompanied by cheese biscuits, but not Gogs. She stuck to tradition: to bone china, English tea, lemon and sugar, clotted cream for the scones.
Betsey Whitney, Minnie Fosburgh, and Babe Paley, then, were more than capable of hosting elaborate spreads in their own homes, and they often did, but why hide themselves away all the time? It was time for a sister summit, so naturally, they went to the Plaza, for their mother had raised them to be seen and admired.
“I don’t believe Mother ever had tea outside her own drawing room, did she?” Betsey, who was not the eldest but acted it, inquired as she removed her gloves. She was a shorter version of Babe, with the same cheekbones, but her coloring was less vivid; her hair a lighter shade, her eyes not quite as dark, her skin not quite as creamy. But Betsey had the more regal air; she could manage to look down her nose at anyone, even if she were the smallest person in the room.
Minnie, the eldest—and kindest, Babe always insisted—sister, shook her head. Minnie was the tallest, the most down-to-earth; she didn’t have Betsey’s imperiousness nor Babe’s uncertainty. She didn’t have their deep-set brown eyes, either, although she was the thinnest. She would have been gawky had she been anyone else’s daughter but Gogs’s.
Babe smiled fondly. “No, Mama never did like to dine in public, did she? She always felt the best hospitality could be found at home.”
A waiter handed Betsey—how did he know she was the leader? He simply did—a beautifully lettered menu, but she waved it away. “Champagne, and Darjeeling. An assortment of sandwiches and pastries, but no sponge cake—I can’t abide sponge cake. No onions on the sandwiches.” Then she turned back to her sisters as the waiter bowed and hurried away.
“I like onions,” Minnie protested. Her cheeks flamed as she resumed an argument that had begun when she was ten and Betsey eight. “Just because you don’t doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t have them.”
“Onions aren’t proper for ladies. Do you want your breath to offend? Didn’t Mama teach you anything?” Betsey shook her head and turned to Babe for backup.
Babe wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like them, personally, but I don’t see why Minnie can’t have onions if she wants them.”
“I didn’t see why Minnie had to divorce Vincent, either, but she did.” Betsey didn’t even look at her elder sister; it was as if she weren’t there.
“Betsey, don’t start. I never wanted to marry Vincent in the first place. I don’t think he wanted to marry me. Gogs wanted it, and so, of course, it came off. I put up with him as long as I could, then I found him Brooke, who needed his money and name more than I did. And then he died, and so what? Who cares? Why did you divorce James, if we’re playing that game? Wasn’t a Roosevelt good enough for you?”
“James didn’t want to be a father to his daughters. I was looking out for my girls, just as Mama always looked out for us. I’m a good mother, Minnie. Not that you’d know anything about that.” Betsey narrowed her eyes at her sister.
“Oh, please!” Babe anxiously looked from sister to sister. “Girls, please! Not here! Mama would be distraught!”
“Babe, we’re not making a scene,” Betsey scolded her little sister. “Our voices are perfectly normal. You worry too much, as usual. But let’s do change the subject. Tomorrow’s Truman’s party. Of course, we all know what we’re going to wear?”
It was another rhetorical question; Betsey was fond of asking them. The sisters had coordinated their wardrobes weeks ago, just as they always did prior to a party. From their childhood friends’ birthday parties to Truman’s fabulous Black and White Ball—the divine Cushing sisters knew how to dress for maximum trio advantage. Babe always got the first pick, which Betsey had always begrudged but had never been able to change; the one thing, perhaps, in her life that she had not been able to bend to her will. After Babe made her selection, the other two had to somehow dress in a complementary yet unique fashion, with certain colors deemed special to one or the other. Babe was an angel in blue; that was a truth universally acknowledged. Actually, all jewel tones were hers. Betsey was often in black. Minnie didn’t care and, in fact, often simply asked Babe to find something for her to wear, which was a task Babe took great pride in, happy to be of help.
When it came to jewelry, however, it was every sister for herself; Betsey had Whitney money, Minnie had Astor heirlooms. Babe had the most modern jewelry, custom-designed by newer artistes: Fulco di Verdura, Jean Schlumberger.
“Well, we’re all in white, this time—so there’s no coordinating to do,” Minnie said with obvious relief. “Designers?”
“I’m in a Castillo,” Babe offered, even though Betsey knew very well who she was wearing.
“Dior,” Betsey replied.
“Balmain,” Minnie offered as all three sisters nodded in approval of their choices.
“Masks? I asked Halston to do mine,” said Betsey.