The Woman in the Photo by Mary Hogan Page A

herself.
    â€œHere,” I say, “let me take your jacket.”
    Addie looks at me, and I look at her. We both burst out laughing. Only after being introduced to James Tottinger would we dare change our outfits.
    The loud nicker of a horse causes us to turn our heads toward the entrance road from the dam. But it is a false alarm, only the arrival of Mr. Vanderhoff and his family. Roderick and Albert Vanderhoff hop out of the carriage and head straight for the clubhouse. Oddly, Lily Vanderhoff sits on the open seat like a sack of flour. She stares straight ahead without seeming to see her husband or children at all. She very nearly crumbles to the ground when Mr. Vanderhoff encircles her waist to assist her.
    â€œOh my.” Next to me, Addie notices it, too.
    We both register the impatient embarrassment on Mr. Vanderhoff’s face and overhear him mumble something about motion sickness. Quite curious since I have traveled in carriages with his wife before and endured only her nonstop chatter.
    â€œHere we go, Georgie.” After the Vanderhoffs’ luggage is unloaded, the driver clucks his tongue at the club’s chestnut Haflinger, a faithful workhorse I have ridden many summers. Though broad in the back, she is nonetheless nimble. And quite beautiful. Named after the fair-haired actress Georgiana Drew—married to handsome stage star Maurice Barrymore—Georgie’s mane is long and light. She’s always been my favorite horse at the club. “Back down the hill, girl,” the driver says. Off they trot. And our anticipation resumes.
    Though I wish it were not so, James Tottinger’s reputation has occupied my mind for weeks. It is rumored that he once kept company with the stunning Elizabeth Wharton Drexel, daughter of banker Joseph Drexel, of the New York Drexels. Back in London, Mr. Tottinger supposedly had his knickerbockers tailored to flatter the musculature of his legs. They say the very sight of him on horseback has inspired such intense gasps that proper ladies forget to resume their breathing and faint dead away.
    The Tottingers of Great Britain are probably as close as any of us will come to meeting royalty. With the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Carnegie, perhaps. Our American prince of steel and his bride.
    Quite honestly, however, the more I hear of Mr. Tottinger, the more he sounds insubstantial. What woman could be interested in a man who thought more of himself than her? Personally, I am most intrigued by a fact I recently learned about him: he was born in the same year as my favorite poet, Rudyard Kipling. Eighteen sixty-five. Add the numbers together—one, eight, six, and five—and you get twenty. The age I plan to bewhen I marry. Ever since I was a girl, the deeper meaning of numbers has fascinated me.
    â€œHello, dearests.”
    Behind me, flitting out from the open clubhouse doors, I hear the avian voice of Francine Larkin. Without turning around, I picture her fluttery entrance. Doubtful such a hummingbird of a woman could summon the lung capacity to yelp for assistance if she fell overboard during a regatta. It was a wonder she could even stand on those miniature feet. She was always lamenting the impossibility of finding button boots so petite.
    â€œHave you tried a shoemaker for juveniles ?” I once asked when I could no longer stand it.
    â€œNo sign of the royals yet?” Francine chirps.
    â€œThey’re not royals.” I glance only briefly behind me, wishing Francine Larkin would flap her winglike arms and fly back indoors. “Not genuine royals, anyway.” She’s dressed in silly pink. Taffeta, of course, from head to toe. Her hair is so blond it belongs on a child. Or a Haflinger horse.
    On the wide waterside porch running the length of the clubhouse, my friends and I gaze at the stunning mountain scenery encircling our sparkling lake. This is the most idyllic spot in all of Pennsylvania. With the gently undulating water