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Which young man was destined to be the restorer of my family’s honor? And if the De Vries were such a terrible family to begin with, then why did I have to marry into them? Why was it that I had been deemed the sacrificial lamb?

    T HE N EW Y ORK J OURNAL —S OCIETY
O CTOBER 27, 1891
    Dr. Willard Carter and his sister, Mrs. Lewis Stuart, will give a tea on Tuesday, November 10, at their residence, 472 Fifth Avenue, in honor of Dr. Carter’s daughter, Miss Clara Carter, who is one of the season’s debutantes. Mrs. Stuart and Miss Carter will receive on Tuesdays during the winter.
    Aunt had hardly finished reading the newspaper to me when a coil of anxiety began to tighten in my stomach. I would be receiving? This winter? I hadn’t even thought of that! “Wouldn’t another day be better?” Like Wednesday or Thursday or Friday? Some day of the week that wasn’t quite so close to its beginning? A day of the week I would have time to prepare for?
    Aunt hardly bothered to look up from the paper before replying. “Tuesdays are best. That allows any interested gentlemen callers to see you directly after a Monday evening event. We shall waste no time that way.”
    “Callers?” In the plural? “But I thought my only interest was the De Vries heir.”
    “It is. But why would he be interested in you if no one else is interested? We must cast a wide net, and in doing so reel Mr. De Vries in unawares.”

    Aunt spoke to Father about that very thing at dinner.
    “We shall give Clara a tea on Tuesday, November tenth. To celebrate her debut into society.”
    “November tenth? Could it be a different date? I’ve an … appointment … that afternoon.”
    “It’s already been announced in the Journal .”
    Father continued eating.
    When he said nothing, Aunt spoke again. “You may announce it to all your patients, those with eligible sons. They might be ignorant of their obligations. Now is the time to remind them.”
    “Aren’t our hopes fixed on the De Vries heir?”
    “They’re old money and they have to be dealt with gently. Discreetly. They might not take kindly to being reminded of their … debt. We will rely on Clara’s ability to captivate”—she cast a stern eye in my direction—“and on your means of persuasion only as a last resort.”
    Father picked up his goblet and took a sip of wine. “Gently and discreetly.” He set the goblet back on the table. “I don’t remember them being gentle or discreet when they lost all of our money during the Panic. I’ll never forget it. All of it gone in a single day. September 18, 1873. It was rather abrupt, Sister, wouldn’t you say? And their bank was completely unrepentant.”
    This was how our family had lost its honor? By losing its money? But hadn’t everyone’s fortunes disappeared in the Panic? That was what Miss Miller had said. Hadn’t Aunt married into the illustrious Stuart family? And hadn’t we lived here on Fifth Avenue, among Vanderbilts and Goulds ever since I could remember?
    My questions were tempered by the steel that appeared in Aunt’s eyes. “This is our opportunity. And it is better for us if our goal can be accomplished without any undue … unpleasantries.”

    Once the tea had been announced, my social education advanced with rapid speed.
    “Because this year’s debutante will be next year’s hostess, that’s why! That’s why it’s important to learn the difference between asparagus tongs and sardine tongs. Especially if you’re to be the bride of a De Vries. Understood?”
    I nodded.
    “So. What is this one for?” Aunt selected a utensil from the dining room table and held it up before me.
    “It’s a fork.” At least that’s what I hoped it was. It was shaped like a spoon, but at the very end, where it ought to have been a solid curve, there were several tines. It was a spoonlike fork.
    “Yes. It’s a fork. Very good. But what is it for?”
    “It’s for . . .” It couldn’t be for salad. And it couldn’t be