After Midnight
In the 1974 film adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, Mia Farrow as Daisy Buchanan tells Jay Gatsby, portrayed by Robert Redford, "Rich girls don't marry poor boys." Yet history has given us a multitude of examples of rich men pursuing poor girls. Even today, it is not uncommon—in fact, it is almost de rigueur—for a wealthy man to have a pretty, young trophy wife.
Despite the fact that women have made great strides toward gaining social, political and legal equality, there are still those of the fairer sex who suffer from what author Colette Dowling refers to as the "Cinderella Complex." They feel the need to have a man take care of them. Thankfully, many females today have advantages over women of the past. They are no longer consigned to a domestic life. They earn advanced degrees, run corporations and hold public office. Before the Nineteenth Amendment was passed and women won the right to vote, however, there were few opportunities open to females, especially those not born into wealthy families.
In the last decade of the twentieth century, when fifteen-year-old Laverne Sutcliff left her home in rural Pennsylvania and moved to New York, domestic service was the only field open to her at the time. However, the pretty young woman had ambitions of becoming something far greater than a scullery maid, and given her great beauty and voluptuous figure, there was little doubt she would attain her lofty goals.
It was on a Tuesday, her regular day off, while Laverne was strolling through the park enjoying the warm sunshine and fresh air that she happened upon an old stone wishing well. Lying on the ground beside it was a penny that someone must have dropped. After seriously considering putting the coin into her purse, she frivolously picked it up and threw it into the water.
I wish I had enough money that I wouldn't have to work as a maid anymore.
Just moments after she heard the faint splash of the coin hitting the water, Laverne noticed a woman draped in widow's attire walking toward her. In the style of the day, the black mourning gown was cinched at the waist and then flared out in a tulip bell skirt. The long sleeves were tight from the elbow to the wrist and had small, ball-shaped puffs at the top of the arms. Laverne could not tell if the mysterious woman was young or old because her face was hidden behind the thick veil that covered her features.
"There you are," the widow said.
"Excuse me. Do I know you?"
"Not exactly, but I know you."
"Who are you?"
"My identity is not important. I have come in answer to your wish."
The widow's covered head turned in the direction of the wishing well, and Laverne followed suit.
"You're here to grant my wish?" she asked skeptically.
"Yes."
"You've brought me money?"
"No. I've come to help guide your steps, to assist you in making the right choices in life. I ...."
Laverne had no time for the widow's foolishness.
"I'm not interested in any guidance from you," she snapped. "All I want is enough money so that I won't have to work as a servant."
"Money isn't everything," the widow said. "It can't buy you happiness."
"It's enough for me."
"Very well then," the black-clad figure said with a heavy sigh. "Your wish will be granted."
As Laverne walked back to the Van Vlear mansion where she was employed, she thought about her encounter with the strange woman.
She was there to grant my wish, indeed! More likely she was an escapee from the lunatic asylum.
Soon the young woman turned the corner and saw the Van Vlear mansion in the middle of the block. A dark cloud covered the sun and a cold wind blew, causing her to shiver, and she quickened her pace.
Suddenly, she collided with a young man who was also en route to her employer's home.
"Oh, excuse me!" the man said. "I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention to ...."
He stopped midsentence and stared at Laverne.
"You ought to watch where you're going," she cried. "You might have knocked me down."
The maid, not taking notice of the gentleman's fine attire, assumed he was either a common tradesman or a lad who had come to see about employment as a footman.
The stranger blocked her path and continued to stare at her face.
"You're in my way. Will you please move?" she asked impatiently.
"Forgive me. I'm an artist. I was wondering if you would be interested in posing for me."
"You're an artist, are you? Well, I'm Lady Astor. Now, will you get out of my way?"
"Do you live here?" the artist asked. "I wasn't aware Colonel Van Vlear had a daughter."
"For an artist," she fired back, heading toward the servants' entrance, "you're not very observant!"
That evening when the Van Vlears and their guests finished dinner, Laverne was hard at work washing the China when Burgess, the butler, demanded to see her.
What does he want? she wondered with annoyance. Did he find a smudge on one of the wineglasses? Has he come to complain and threaten me with dismissal?
"You wanted to see me, Burgess?" she asked.
"One of the colonel's guests would like to speak to you. He's waiting for you in the sitting room."
"Why does he want to see me?"
"I have no idea. I suggest you ask him," the butler replied in his usual stuffy manner.
When Laverne opened the door to the sitting room, she was surprised to find the young man she'd encountered earlier in the afternoon.
"I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Sutcliff. Allow me to formally introduce myself. My name is Garrison Muir. I'm an illustrator for one of Mr. Van Vlear's magazines. For some time I've been looking for a fresh face to grace the cover, and when I saw you this afternoon, I knew I'd found what I was looking for."
"I'm not a model, Mr. Muir."
"All you have to do is sit still while I draw. Surely, you don't want to be a maid all your life."
"Certainly not!"
"Then pose for me. I'll pay you double what the colonel pays you."
The idea of making more money for less work appealed to Laverne, and she readily accepted Garrison's business offer.
* * *
When New Yorkers saw Laverne Sutcliff's face on the cover of the popular fashion magazine, they were enchanted by her youthful beauty and appearance of virginal innocence. One modeling job led to another, and soon she was the most successful and sought after artists' model in America. Her angelic face and upswept auburn hair eventually came to symbolize the style of the Eighteen Nineties.
Like the fabled Pygmalion, Garrison Muir, the Professor Henry Higgins who had taken a scullery maid and turned her into a princess, fell in love with his creation. An honorable gentleman, he proposed marriage. Unfortunately for him, although he was far from poor, he did not have enough money to please his red-haired Eliza Doolittle.
One afternoon, after posing for New York's most prolific photographer, Laverne took a walk in the park to get some fresh air. After strolling aimlessly for nearly an hour, she found herself in front of the wishing well. She was reminded of the wish she had made there more than two years earlier.
My wish came true, she realized. I was able to make enough money being a model that I didn't need to work as a maid anymore.
Wondering if another wish would come true, she reached into her handbag and took out a coin.
I want to meet a rich man, a millionaire, so that I won't have to work at all.
Laverne leaned over and watched the coin fall. When she turned, she was surprised to see the woman in the widow's weeds and thick black veil.
"You again?" she said in disbelief. "Are you always in this park?"
"No. I came to assist you."
"What are you some kind of genie of this well?" the young woman asked sarcastically.
"No, I'm not a genie, but I have come to fulfill the wish you made. Before I do, however, I must urge you to reconsider. You have a good, kind man who loves you."
"You mean Garrison Muir? He's all right, I suppose. But I want someone with lots of money to spend on me."
"Money won't necessarily make you happy."
"I know what I want."
"Very well. I can see you're not going to listen to my advice."
* * *
The following day Dorian Pomfret, a Broadway producer, paid a visit to Laverne at her apartment. He had seen her photograph several times and was anxious to have her appear in his newest production, a musical extravaganza that would feature comedy skits and elaborately clad chorus girls.
"I want you to have a part in my show," he said.
"I'm not an actress," she protested.
"With your face, you don't need any acting talent. You just have to be on the stage and let the audience admire you. Actually, it's not much different than being a model."
"Then why would I agree to work for you?"
"Because I'll pay you three times what you're making now."
Laverne looked at the producer as though sizing him up. He was handsome, she would give him that. And although not yet thirty, he had three hit shows to his credit and was considered the most commercially successful producer on Broadway.
He must be a millionaire several times over.
Having captured Garrison Muir's heart, she had little doubt she could do the same with Dorian Pomfret.
"All right. I'll be in your show," she said, smiling warmly at what she hoped would be her future husband.
As Dorian Pomfret had predicted, his musical was a hit, and Laverne Sutcliff was on her way to being the toast of Broadway. The former model, however, soon learned that the producer was not as rich as she had imagined. In fact, nearly all of his money was tied up in developing several new projects. Also, although he was often seen in the company of beautiful actresses, there were rumors that he was not attracted to women.
What a fool I was to believe in wishing wells and women dressed in black who could make my dreams come true!
Laverne was soon to meet another man, however, one who had nearly as much money as Colonel Van Vlear.
Bertram Thales was a partner in the most successful architectural firm in New York. He personally designed homes for many of the city's wealthiest socialites as well as public buildings that have become iconic symbols of the American Renaissance. He was also a notorious womanizer who had a fondness for a pretty face. When Laverne Sutcliff, as Lady Godiva, appeared on stage riding a white horse, with only a long wig covering her charms, Bertram was instantly smitten.
At the conclusion of the show, he made his way backstage.
"I'm sorry I don't have flowers," he apologized after introducing himself. "I promise I will send them to your dressing room before your next performance tomorrow night."
Laverne looked at the architect and was disappointed with what she saw. He was not nearly as young or as handsome as Garrison Muir or Dorian Pomfret, but he had more money than the two of them put together.
"I was just going to go to Delmonico's for a late supper. Would you care to join me?" the architect asked.
Although he was thirty years her senior, Laverne accepted his invitation, believing she had finally found the man of her dreams.
* * *
Laverne sat on her antique chaise lounge, sipping French champagne out of an expensive crystal glass. Bertram was in Newport overseeing the completion of a forty-room "cottage" on Bellevue Avenue. If she were Mrs. Bertram Thales, she might have been invited to a dinner party on Fifth Avenue, or she could have attended the theater with a respectable female friend. However, Laverne was the architect's mistress, not his spouse. As such, she had to remain in her apartment, alone, until he chose to visit her.
"I'm so bored I could scream!" she shouted and threw the glass against the wall. "If I have to stay cooped up in this apartment all the time, I'll go mad!"
Anxious to temporarily flee her gilded cage, Laverne put on her fur coat—a gift from Bertram when he returned from Paris—and went for a walk. Once again, she found herself standing in front of the old wishing well.
"Twice you have given me what I asked for," she whispered to the moss-covered stones. "Will the third time be the charm?"
She reached into the pocket of her coat, took out a coin and tossed it into the well.
"I wish I could marry a wealthy man, and be a pampered, spoiled wife."
Laverne didn't need to turn around and see the black-clad figure to know the widow was there. She instinctively knew the mysterious woman—whether witch, fairy or guardian angel—had once more come to fulfill her desire.
"I told you money wouldn't make you happy."
"Oh, I was happy with the money," Laverne argued. "I just don't like being ostracized. I still want to have a rich man, but this time I want to be his wife, not his mistress. I don't want to be kept in some out-of-the-way apartment."
"It's still all about money with you," the widow said sadly.
"Yes, it is. Without money, life isn't worth living."
"Bertram Thales has a great deal of money, and he's been most generous."
"He only desires me now because I'm young and pretty. In a few years, he'll find someone to replace me. I won't wait to be cast aside like an old shoe. I want security and a position in society."
"And what about love?"
"Love is for romantic fools or for those who have no hope of reaching for the stars."
"I can see you still won't listen to reason. Very well. I'll grant you this wish, but you may find it won't make you any happier than the previous two wishes did."
* * *
Laverne was at Tiffany's examining a diamond broach when she noticed a young man watching her through the store's window. When their eyes met, the man grinned and entered the jeweler's.
"My dear young woman," the brash stranger said, boldly grabbing her hand, "please don't break my heart and tell me you are married."
She pulled her hand away as though deeply offended, but replied, "Not that it's any of your business, but no. I'm not married."
"Betrothed?"
"No."
The young man's face lit up like a Christmas tree at her answer.
"How can it be that the most beautiful woman in New York is not spoken for? Have all the men in this fair city gone mad or are they just blind?"
The salesman who immediately recognized the man came to offer his assistance.
"Is there something I can help you with, Mr. DeWinter?"
"Yes, my good man. I'd like an engagement ring for this enchanting woman, who is to be my wife."
"B-but, I don't even know you!" Laverne stammered.
"Allow me to introduce myself then. My name is Hadley Alexander DeWinter the third, scion of the Philadelphia DeWinters."
It was a name as well-known as that of Vanderbilt and Astor. It belonged to an old family that made its fortune in coal, steel and railroads. Young Hadley, the heir apparent to the DeWinter millions, was considered the most eligible bachelor in America.
"I do believe I've seen your face before," he said, trying to observe her profile. "I know! It was on the cover of a magazine."
"That's right. I was once an artists' model."
"And now?"
"I'm waiting for the next chapter of my life to begin."
"Well, my dearest one, you have only to turn the page."
After a whirlwind courtship, Laverne Sutcliff and Hadley DeWinter were married. At last, Laverne had everything she had ever wanted.
Hadley claimed to the world that it had been love at first sight. It was not love, however, as much as it was obsession. When he saw Laverne's face, he immediately associated it with the innocent young teenager whose beauty had been captured by an artist's pencil and a photographer's camera.
The day after the wedding, the newlywed couple boarded Cunard's RMS Campania and headed to Europe for an extended honeymoon. While on the ship, Hadley shared yet another surprise with his bride.
"When we get back to New York, we're going to move into our own home. Now that I'm married, I no longer want to live at my mother's house."
"That's wonderful!" exclaimed Laverne, who had a strong aversion to her possessive, overbearing mother-in-law. "Where will we go?"
"I'm having a mansion designed for us by one of the foremost architects in the country: Bertram Thales."
Laverne turned pale at the mention of her former lover's name.
"What's wrong?" her husband asked. "You're as white as a sheet. You're not feeling sick are you?"
"N-no, I'm f-fine."
"You don't look fine. Perhaps sea travel doesn't agree with you. I think you ought to lie down."
"Yes. I think I will."
That night at dinner, seated at the captain's table, surrounded by diamond-bedecked passengers, Hadley again brought up the subject of their new house.
"I'm having a place designed by Bertram Thales," he told his dinner companions. "I hope it will be completed by the time we return from our honeymoon."
"He's a wonderful architect," claimed a well-known oil heiress. "He designed our cottage in Newport."
Her husband, a European with a title but no money of his own, gave Laverne an odd look. From the moment he was introduced to her, he was certain he had seen her face before. Mention of the famed architect's name cleared the cobwebs from his memory.
"What do you think of Bertram Thales, Mrs. DeWinter?" he inquired in a suggestive manner that made Laverne uneasy.
"I'm afraid I've never met the man."
"Oh? I could have sworn I saw you sitting in his box at the theater last year. I must be mistaken."
The man's question and his wife's response were not lost on Hadley, neither was the blush that appeared on Laverne's cheeks.
Conversation changed from architecture to art. Although Laverne was familiar with the names Van Gogh, Vermeer, Renoir and Rembrandt, she didn't know anything about their works, so she remained silent throughout dinner. Hadley, meanwhile, spoke knowledgably about impressionism, romanticism, expressionism and realism.
When the meal was finally over, Laverne bid the group good evening. Her husband declined to join the men for brandy and cigars, preferring to accompany his wife to their stateroom. This was to be expected since the two young people were on their honeymoon. However, romance was far from Hadley's mind.
In the privacy of their suite, he lashed out at his wife.
"What went on between you and this architect?" he demanded to know.
"Nothing."
Hadley's hand shot out, and he slapped her across the face, leaving her cheek red and stinging with pain.
"Don't lie to me! I know what a cad that man is. If you were with him at the theater, there must have been something going on."
When he raised his hand again, threatening to strike, his wife confessed.
"After I stopped modeling, I appeared in a Broadway musical. Bertram Thales came backstage one night after the performance and took me to Delmonico's for a late night supper. One thing led to another, and I became his mistress."
Hadley's image of his wife as a chaste young maiden was shattered. Enraged, he beat her until she pleaded for him to stop. After his temper had cooled, he was apologetic. When they docked in England, he took her to the most expensive stores and spent a small fortune on clothes and jewelry for her. However, his emotional pendulum would swing from anger and jealousy one day to repentance and tenderness the next.
It was nearly a year later when the DeWinters returned to America. Even though she had gotten what she'd wanted most in life, Laverne was miserable. Living with Hadley was like holding a ticking time bomb in her hands and praying it wouldn't go off. They had been back in New York for only a month when the inevitable explosion took place.
As Laverne dressed for dinner, she felt no excitement at the prospect of attending what promised to be the social event of the season. She looked into her vanity mirror and saw the fading bruise just below her right eye. She carefully dabbed powder on her face, concealing the evidence of her abuse.
If only I could blot out the pain in my heart as easily.
Although she had never loved Hadley DeWinter, she had foolishly believed he was in love with her. However, she had never been anything but a possession to him. He owned her just as surely as if he had a deed to her body.
He has bought and paid for me, and now he intends to get his money's worth.
"Not ready yet?" Hadley asked with annoyance. "Hurry up. I don't want to be late."
Laverne quickly secured the loose ends of her hair and went to the closet for her wrap. She then met her husband in the foyer.
They drove to the party in silence. It seemed they had little to say to one another after their tempestuous honeymoon. Although Hadley was still obsessed with his beautiful bride, it was a much darker obsession than before.
The carriage stopped, and the driver opened the door. The DeWinters stepped down and regally made their way into the mansion where the celebration was being held in Alice Vanderbilt's honor. The cream of New York society was in attendance, including—much to Laverne's horror—Bertram Thales.
"I'm not feeling well," she cried when she saw her former lover's face in the crowd. "I want to go home."
"Nonsense!" her husband said. "I'm not leaving and neither are you."
"But ...."
"You think I don't know that he's here tonight?" Hadley whispered angrily.
"You knew he was going to attend?" Laverne asked with disbelief.
"Of course, I did. I was counting on it."
For nearly an hour, Laverne stood by her husband's side, fervently praying he didn't make a scene. As the evening wore on, she began to relax. Apparently, he was too well bred to confront his wife's former lover in public.
Maybe he just wants to gloat, she thought. After all, I did leave Bertram to marry him. Hadley probably wants to parade me in front of Bertie like some kind of sports trophy.
If the architect felt saddened by the loss of his mistress, he gave no sign of it. The truth was he had a penchant for younger women, and his eye had already turned to a girl seven years Laverne's junior. Perhaps the architect's indifference to their breakup infuriated Hadley even more and pushed him over the edge. When everyone was seated for dinner and the staff began serving the first course, the jealous husband stood, reached into his jacket pocket, took out a pistol and fired it at his imagined rival.
Blood spread on Bertram's white shirt, and moments later he fell to the floor. Some women fainted; others screamed. The men shouted instructions, and Hadley was subdued before he could shoot someone else.
The police were summoned. There was nothing that could be done for Bertram Thales, for he had died instantly. Still in possession of the murder weapon, Hadley was arrested and taken into custody. Before the police could question her, Laverne was whisked away from the party by her mother-in-law.
"You're not to say a word to anyone until you've spoken to our lawyer," the older woman insisted.
"But I have nothing to hide. I haven't done anything wrong."
"This is all your fault. You drove my son to murder with your wanton ways. Now you must help get him out of this mess."
"And why would I do that?" Laverne asked defiantly. "Your son is a bully who likes to beat defenseless women. He murdered an unarmed man in cold bold because his pride was injured. I hope he does go to jail. I'll be glad to be rid of him."
"Why you insolent little guttersnipe! What do you think will become of you if Hadley is convicted? I'll see that you are put on the street without a cent. If my son goes to prison, I'll drag your name through the mud. All of New York will know what a little tramp you are."
The family lawyer met them at the DeWinter mansion, accompanied by the best criminal defense attorney in New York. After questioning Laverne, they determined Hadley should claim he had been driven to murder in order to protect the honor of his wife.
"You'll need to testify that Thales took advantage of you, that he robbed you of your innocence against your will," the defense attorney told Laverne.
"But I'd be lying," she protested. "Bertram was always kind to me."
"Unless you play the innocent victim, your husband will be convicted of murder."
"I don't care. I'm not going to lie."
Her mother-in-law proved more convincing than the lawyer.
"You are obviously as unhappy with my son as he is with you. If you agree to do all in your power to help him get acquitted, I'll make it worth your while. My son will divorce you, and I will settle a generous sum on you. You'll be independently wealthy. You can stay here in New York or even better yet go live in Europe."
With Laverne's tearful testimony and the considerable legal skills of Hadley's high-priced lawyers, the defendant was acquitted and walked out of the courtroom a free man. As his mother had promised, he soon divorced his wife.
Eager to be free of her abusive husband, Laverne quickly signed her name to the divorce papers without taking the time to read them first. When she returned to the house she'd shared with her husband, she was surprised to find the door looked. She knocked and the butler answered.
"Yes, madam?"
"Let me in. I want to pack my belongings."
The butler stepped aside, but her mother-in-law stood in the doorway, blocking her entrance.
"There's nothing here that belongs to you," the older woman insisted.
"I've come to collect my clothes and my jewelry."
"All of which were bought and paid for by my son. Legally, they belong to him, not to you."
"Then let him keep them. I'll buy my own things."
"With what? You haven't a cent to your name."
"But you said ...."
"I lied. Just like you lied on the witness stand."
"I'll tell the police what really happened."
"And admit that you're guilty of perjury? Even if they believe you, they won't retry my son. That would be double jeopardy. Now go. Leave this house and never return."
With nowhere to go, Laverne wandered along the streets of New York, passing by the grand homes where until recently she was welcome because of her marriage to Hadley DeWinter. Now those doors would be slammed in her face. Not only had she been a kept woman but she was now a divorcee as well.
Despite the darkness of night, she made her way to the park. The light of the full moon lit the path to the wishing well, and Laverne followed without question.
As she neared the old stone structure, she reached into her pocket. It was empty.
"I don't even have a coin to make a wish on," she said, her voice coming back to her in an echo.
"It wouldn't matter if you did."
Laverne turned at the sound of the voice. She was not surprised to see the black-clad widow emerge from the shadows.
"You've used up your wishes," the mysterious stranger declared.
"And I've nothing to show for them. If only I had it to do all over again. I wouldn't make the same mistakes."
"I know you wouldn't. You've finally learned your lesson, but now it won't do you any good."
The widow stepped closer, raised a frail hand and removed the heavy veil from her head.
Laverne's scream pierced the silence of the night. She knew the woman in the black dress. Although the face was wrinkled with age and years of sorrow and hard living, there was little doubt the features were Laverne's own. Having revealed her identity, the mysterious widow faded into the night, never to be seen again.
The bells of a nearby church rang out the midnight hour. As in the fairy tale Cinderella, the ball was over. The gown had turned back to rags, and the carriage was once again a pumpkin. But for Laverne Sutcliff DeWinter there was no glass slipper to lead the handsome prince to the woman he loved.
Unwilling to face the dismal future ahead of her, knowing there would be no more dreams come true, no more wishes fulfilled, she climbed up onto the moss-covered stones of the wishing well and jumped down into the murky water below.
This story was inspired by events in the life of Evelyn Nesbit and the murder of Stanford White by her husband Harry Thaw.
Salem once made a wish at a wishing well that came true. He opened his own business making--what else?--chocolates.
