Death Came Calling
"Your tea is served, madam," Fulton, the elderly butler, announced in his crisp British accent.
Flora Montague put down her pen and got up from her writing desk. Glad for the break from her daily correspondence, she left the morning room and went to the library where tea and cakes were set out for her on a small table near the fireplace. According to long-standing ritual, the butler poured the tea in her cup and added the sugar and cream. Then, while the mistress of the house sipped her tea, he picked up a silver plate on which several calling cards were placed and put it down beside her saucer.
A common practice among wealthy Americans and Europeans of the day, calling cards were left by people wishing to pay an unsolicited visit to a homeowner. A caller first left his or her card with a servant at the house. Subsequent to leaving the card, he or she might then receive a similar hand-delivered card in reply. This was a signal that a meeting was welcome. If, however, the homeowner sent no card or sent a card inside an envelope, a personal visit was discouraged.
As the society matron went through seven cards, she made a mental note of each sender and decided who would receive favorable responses and who would not. The eighth and final one in the pile took her by surprise. It was a plain white card, made of high quality stock, not much different than those sent by other Gilded Age socialites. What set this one apart was the writing on it. Rather than a name, it bore a single word: Death, written with a capital "D," in handwriting that resembled Gothic script.
"Did you see who left this?" Flora asked Fulton.
"No, madam. The caller must have left it with one of the maids or footmen."
He took the card from her and examined it.
"If I might borrow this, I can inquire among the staff and see if anyone remembers who left it."
"Yes, by all means," Flora replied. "It appears to be a prank, but I'm not amused. I would like to know who left this card so that I can discourage such foolish behavior in the future."
"Yes, madam," the butler said, tucking the calling card into his vest pocket and returning to his duties.
Flora reached for a pastry and imagined likely suspects. One name immediately came to mind: James Gordon Bennett, Jr. The flamboyant polo-playing and yacht-racing son of the founder of The New York Herald was well-known in New York and Newport for his outrageous behavior.
"I wouldn't put anything past him."
Of course, Bennett was not the only person likely to have left the morbid calling card. Flora had to look no further than her husband's family for another likely candidate. Her sister-in-law, Edwina, could just as easily have left the card or convinced someone to drop it off for her. Ever since Flora married into the enormously wealthy Montague family, the two sisters-in-law were bitter rivals, both vying for the enviable position of the grand dame of New York society.
To Flora's consternation, Edwina, who had married the older of the two brothers, was treated with more deference. Although both women had vast sums of money at their disposal, Edwina's New York mansion was larger and her Newport cottage was grander. More people flocked to her parties and issued invitations for her presence at social gatherings.
While her sister-in-law's popularity galled her, Flora knew things were about to change.
As corny as it may sound, she thought with a smug smile on her face, money isn't everything.
Although her marriage had deteriorated over the years to the point where she and her husband rarely spent time together, Flora took great pride in the Montague name as well as the family's considerable fortune. Like the Astors and the Vanderbilts, the Montagues were "old money," the closest thing America had to aristocracy. Unlike the childless Edwina, Flora would pass that name on to her son, Wilfred, and hopefully to many generations after him.
However, it was her daughter, she vowed, who would benefit most from being Rutherford Montague's child. Although as a female custom would dictate that she take her husband's surname upon marriage, it was decided by her father not long after she was born that Henrietta would keep Montague as a middle name.
"The Montagues are not just a family," Rutherford often bragged. "We are a dynasty. As such, all descendents will keep the family name in some form, even girls."
Flora wanted more for her daughter—and for herself, too. She was not willing to settle for having the offspring of a robber baron as a son-in-law. An ambitious woman, she groomed Henrietta for marriage to a man with a title. To that aim, the determined mother took complete control of her daughter's life from an early age, selecting her clothes, supervising her education and overseeing her social engagements. She discouraged all suitors for Henrietta's hand, even those from the richest, most prominent families of New York, Boston and Philadelphia.
"He's not good enough for our daughter," she firmly insisted whenever Rutherford tried to put in a good word on a young man's behalf.
Since Henrietta was only sixteen years old, her father saw no reason to argue over the matter. He was certain the attractive teenager would eventually make an advantageous marriage with someone of good breeding and plenty of money. Besides, he had interests of his own to attend to and was content to let his wife see to the girl's future.
Later that afternoon, as Flora was sitting down with her dressmaker, selecting a new gown for her daughter to wear to the annual New Year's Eve cotillion, the butler entered the room.
"Not now, Fulton," the mistress said, annoyed at the interruption. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
"I'm sorry, madam, but it's a matter of some importance."
"Very well. What is it?"
"A letter from Mrs. Montague has just been delivered."
"Can't it wait?"
"It's marked urgent, madam."
Flora impatiently ripped open the envelope and scanned the contents. Halfway through the first paragraph, her eyes widened in surprise.
"It's my brother-in-law," she announced to no one in particular. "He's dead."
"My condolences, Mrs. Montague," the dressmaker said, attempting to gather up her fabric swatches. "I will come back at a better time."
"Nonsense! Henrietta needs a new dress. She can't very well go to the cotillion in one she's already worn."
As Flora tried to imagine the completed garment by holding fabric samples next to the dressmaker's drawings, she could not help feeling the thrill of victory over Edwina. With her brother-in-law dead, that left Rutherford, the only surviving male of his generation, head of the family.
And I am the matriarch, she thought, fighting the urge to smile.
Secretly reveling in her new position within the family, Flora completely forgot about the bizarre calling card she had received earlier in the day.
* * *
The marriage of Henrietta Montague to the oldest son of the Duke of Amberley was the social event of the year. Two ceremonies were held: one in New York's Trinity Church and the second in York Minster where the duke himself had been married. The wedding day was quite possibly the best day of Flora's life since it represented the culmination of all she had worked and planned for.
Her sister-in-law, now referred to as the dowager Mrs. Montague among New York society, attended. Her husband having been dead for more than a year, she was no longer in mourning. As Flora had hoped, she now eclipsed Edwina as the city's most popular hostess. The fact that she had to share the limelight with her daughter did not bother her in the least since she considered the eighteen-year-old girl a mere extension of herself. Henrietta was so cowed by her overbearing mother that the poor child had no ideas or opinions of her own.
Only days after the couple exchanged vows in New York, the newlyweds, the wedding party, family and friends boarded a Cunard liner and crossed the Atlantic. The second ceremony was much more reserved than the first. The groom's family, one that could be traced back to the Domesday Book, had no need for ostentatious displays. Also, the duke could not afford to entertain on the lavish scale of the Montagues. In fact, the very reason his son had sought an American bride was to replenish the family coffers, which were dangerously low.
Seen from a distance, Fenwyck Castle, the duke's ancestral home, was impressive. Flora was disappointed by the interior, however. Over the years the family had been forced to sell off a good portion of its antique furniture, carpets, silverware and artwork. What was left was of inferior quality. Clearly, her daughter's dowry would be put to good use.
With the second nuptials behind them, the couple set off for a six-month honeymoon on the continent. It was an experience neither one would soon forget. For the first time in her young life, Henrietta was free from the yoke her mother had placed on her. Rupert, only two years older than his wife, was able to enjoy himself without thought to money.
While the newlyweds were cavorting in the capitals of Europe, Flora remained in England. She saw no reason to hurry back to New York, least of all because she missed her husband. As far as she was concerned, the marriage had served its purpose, and now both parties were free to lead their own lives. It mattered not in the least that Rutherford kept a number of mistresses, as long as she was able to maintain her extravagant lifestyle.
"Home, sweet home," Rupert laughingly declared when he crossed the threshold of the townhouse that was to be the couple's London home.
"Don't you dare put me down yet," his wife teased. "I want you to carry me all the way up the stairs to the ...."
Flora stepped into the foyer, immediately silencing her daughter.
"Mother!" Henrietta exclaimed with surprise. "What are you doing here? I thought you went back to New York."
"I wanted to be in London to welcome you two lovebirds home."
"When will you be returning to the States, then?"
"I don't know. I'm not in any rush. I might stay in England a few more months. I'm sure you won't mind. You have plenty of room here."
Both Henrietta and her husband tried to hide their disappointment.
"We're delighted to have you stay with us," Rupert lied, not wanting to offend the source of his newfound wealth. "Aren't we, dear?"
"Of course."
Henrietta's smile was forced. The last thing she wanted was to have her mother curtailing her long-awaited freedom.
It will only be for a few months, she told herself. Then she'll return to America, and I'll finally be rid of her.
* * *
For three months, Henrietta longed to hear that her mother would be leaving. Flora continued to live in their home, however.
There must be some way I can get her to leave, the young woman thought when her mother took a seat beside her during afternoon tea.
Flora immediately began offering "suggestions" concerning her daughter's attire.
"That dress does nothing for you," she declared.
"I like it. It's comfortable," Henrietta argued.
"You're the daughter-in-law of the Duke of Amberley. You're supposed to look refined and aristocratic, not comfortable."
When the butler brought in the calling cards, Henrietta welcomed the interruption.
"Is that all the callers you had today?" Flora asked, seeing there were only a handful of cards on the tray. "Why, I get three times as many as that in New York every day."
"You must miss all the society functions back home. When are you planning on going back?"
"I haven't decided yet."
"How odd!" Henrietta exclaimed, picking up one of the cards. "Why on earth would someone leave this for me?"
"What are you going on about?"
Flora grabbed the card from her daughter's hand. When she saw the single word written on the white card, the color drained from her face.
Death.
"I got one of these once," she confessed. "I never did discover who sent it. I still think James Gordon Bennett, Jr., had something to do with it. He's well-known for his tasteless behavior."
After questioning the servants, who knew nothing of the mysterious card, the two women bandied about the names of likely candidates.
"Why don't we just forget about it?" Henrietta asked, growing bored with the discussion.
"By all means," her mother agreed. "I feel a headache coming on. I think I'll go lie down for a while."
Heading for the main staircase, she passed her son-in-law entering the house through the front door.
"Where's Henrietta?" he asked, his face ashen in color.
"In the parlor. Why? Is something wrong?"
Rupert did not take the time to answer, as he headed toward the parlor in search of his wife. Henrietta smiled, pleasantly surprised to see him.
"You're home early. I didn't expect ...."
"I received a telegram at my club. It's my father."
His emotions got the better of him, and the tears he had valiantly been holding back suddenly fell.
"He was found dead in his bed this morning."
As her daughter comforted her grieving husband, Flora thought about the calling card Henrietta had received. Was it a mere coincidence that after seeing the card, her daughter got word of the duke's death?
It's possible, she concluded. But when you consider the fact that my brother-in-law passed away not long after I received a similar card, it seems highly improbable.
Her suspicions were forgotten when the realization finally struck her that Rupert was now the Duke of Amberley and her daughter was a duchess.
I did it! Flora thought, relishing her triumph. I got the better of Edwina at last.
* * *
A month after the old duke's funeral, Flora returned to New York, much to the delight of her daughter and son-in-law. It was not that she had grown bored with life in London. Far from it! Her sole reason for returning to America was to bask in the light of Henrietta's social coup and lord it over her sister-in-law. As she had anticipated, once she returned to her West 57th Street mansion, people clamored to visit her. Likewise, those same people turned away from the dowager Mrs. Montague.
As the months passed, Edwina came to realize how shallow her former friends were and turned her back on what she saw as an empty pursuit of popularity. She became more interested in worthwhile charitable causes and in women's suffrage. Thus, some of Flora's enjoyment in her daughter's elevated social position was dampened by her sister-in-law's lack of envy.
After Fulton poured the tea in her cup and added the sugar and cream, the butler placed a silver plate brimming with calling cards beside her saucer. As she sipped her tea, she divided the cards into two piles: one was for those cards to be answered with an invitation to visit and the other to be either ignored or returned to the sender. The monotony of the never-ending routine did not seem to annoy Flora. In the absence of a career or close family ties, her life had been reduced to calling cards, daily correspondence and the fulfillment of social obligations.
Near the bottom of the stack of cards was one she had seen before and wished never to see again. Her hand trembled as she read the single word written in gothic print.
"Another one? Who keeps sending these?" she wondered, choosing to believe the cards were nothing more than a joke.
"Fulton!" she shouted angrily.
"Yes, madam?"
She held the offensive card up inches from the butler's face.
"I simply refuse to have another one of these in the house. From now on, you and only you will be allowed to receive cards from callers. You will make sure no one slips one of these nasty little jokes in with the legitimate cards. If one gets through, you will be fired on the spot. Have I made myself clear?"
"Yes, Mrs. Montague."
Fulton was well-trained. His face showed no sign of emotion. Fearful of losing his job, he silently vowed that in the future he would go through the calling cards before delivering them to his employer.
Still, the third card had been delivered, and, as in the previous two instances, it signaled the death of someone close. This time it was Wilfred, Flora's only son, who was killed in a boating accident.
"Where is that card?" she asked after receiving word of his death later in the day.
"What card?" her husband replied.
"The calling card that was left this morning."
"Who gives a damn about visitors at a time like this? Our son and heir to the family name is dead."
While there were other male Montagues, they were distant relatives—poor relations who had neither the vast wealth nor the social standing of Rutherford and his late brother.
"You don't understand," Flora cried hysterically. "It was no joke. It was real. First there was your brother, then Henrietta's father-in-law and now Wilfred. They can't all be coincidences."
"What the hell are you babbling about?"
"The card. It meant death."
Losing patience with his wife, Rutherford called for the butler.
"Send someone for Dr. Slessor. My wife is in need of a sedative."
* * *
Following her son's death, Flora began behaving erratically. Throughout the winter she refused to see any visitors and threatened her servants with instant dismissal if they accepted any calling cards. Furthermore, all personal correspondence and written condolences were to be given to her husband.
"I don't care if they're addressed to me or not. I don't want to see them," she instructed Fulton.
When the spring arrived, she booked passage on a transatlantic liner and sailed to England for an extended stay with her daughter. Once there, Fenwyck Castle became her refuge.
Death won't be able to reach me here, she thought optimistically.
Henrietta found her mother greatly changed.
"I'm worried about her," she confessed to her husband.
"Be patient. The poor woman just lost her son," Rupert said.
"It's more than that, I fear. She seems to be losing her mind. This morning the two of us were having tea and talking quietly together when Stevens brought in the morning's calling cards. My mother began screaming for them to be taken away. She even suggested they be thrown in the fireplace and burned. When I asked her why she was so upset, she told me she didn't want any more contact with death."
"That is odd."
"Do you think it's ... safe ... for her to be here?"
"Surely your mother isn't dangerous?"
"You didn't see her face when the butler brought in the calling cards."
The following day no cards were delivered during tea. Henrietta gave the servants strict instructions to keep them from Flora's sight.
"While my mother is staying here, you can leave them on my desk. I don't want to needlessly upset her."
Over the next several months, Flora seemed to be slowly recovering. There were no further outbursts, and she even showed signs of interest in visiting London.
I don't suppose I can hide away from the world forever, she thought.
While her daughter and son-in-law were attending a church fête on a warm autumn afternoon, Flora decided to escape the gloomy medieval atmosphere of Fenwyck Castle and enjoy a walk through the garden. On her way through the entrance hall, she spied a piece of cardboard on a table near the door.
Her heart raced, and her hand went to her mouth. Determined to ignore the card, she walked to the door, her eyes averted. Although unlocked, the door would not budge, no matter how hard she pulled on the handle. She turned around, intending to leave through a different exit but stopped short when she saw the card at her feet. It was lying face up, its one word, written in gothic script, clearly visible.
"No!" she screamed. "It can't be."
Stepping over the card without touching it, Flora ran across the hall and up the stairs to her room. She bolted the door behind her. The undisputed queen of New York society sat on her bed, cowering, for several hours. Only the sound of her daughter's sobs of grief brought her out.
* * *
With Rupert dead, both the title and Fenwyck Castle passed to the duke's younger brother. At her brother-in-law's invitation, the young widow remained in England until the worst of the winter weather was over, after which time she returned with her mother to America.
Henrietta was bereft. She not only grieved for the loss of her husband but also for the freedom marriage had brought her. Now she was back home, condemned to live under her mother's thumb once again. It was her Aunt Edwina who rescued her from her dire circumstances, giving her a purpose in life, a reason to go on living.
"There's so much more to life than teas and cotillions!" the dowager Mrs. Montague exclaimed. "If we try, we might make a difference in the world, you and I. We can start by helping women secure their right to vote."
"My mother will be furious," Henrietta said.
"Never mind about Flora. You're a grown woman. You must lead your own life."
While the young widow wished she could do just that, she lacked the backbone to stand up to her domineering parent. Fortunately, confrontation was avoided when Flora announced she was leaving New York for her Newport cottage.
"But the summer season won't start for weeks yet. No one will be there."
"I don't care," her mother insisted. "I don't want to stay in this house. I might get another card if I remain here."
"Card? What card?"
"I haven't time to answer your questions now. I've got to get ready to leave."
By the time Fulton called Henrietta to tea, Flora was on her way to Rhode Island.
* * *
With her father rarely home and her mother residing in Newport, Henrietta saw no reason to remain in the West 57th Street mansion. Instead, she decided to take her aunt up on her offer to move in with her. Despite the loss of her husband, she felt exhilarated at the opportunity for total freedom.
"I'm going to be my own boss from now on," she vowed. "I'll no longer answer to anyone, no matter how much I love them."
As Henrietta was heading toward the door, carrying an overnight bag, the butler called to her.
"Yes?" she answered.
"Excuse me, your ladyship," he began.
"Please, Fulton. There's no need to be so formal. I'm no longer the Duchess of Amberley."
"Yes, madam. What would you like me to do with these calling cards?" the butler inquired.
She looked down at the silver plate, not bothering to learn the senders' names.
"Just throw them out."
Her suggestion broke through the butler's usual stoic demeanor.
"I beg your pardon, madam?"
"I said to throw them out. I can't be bothered with such foolish things as calling cards. My aunt and I are going to change the world."
Thus, while taking the first steps of her new, fuller and more independent life, Henrietta never saw the calling card from death. Although unannounced to her daughter, death nonetheless claimed the life of Flora Montague. Alone, with no friends or family by her side, she met her end when a fire engulfed her immense cottage on Bellevue Avenue. When her badly burned body was discovered in the charred ruins of the mansion, no one noticed the ashes of an ominous calling card clutched in the palm of her hand.
A calling card from Death is not nearly as frightening as this one. When Salem came to visit me, he never left.
