The Cameo

By Geri Livelli

The inheritance of an antique cameo brooch, the discovery of her great grandmothers memoirs, and a time-capsule filled with antique furnishings all conspire to change Grace Winthrops life. Haunting secrets and a bittersweet love story were destined to spend eternity inside the memoirs. Grace breathes life back into them with her book, The Cameo.

In 1882, Graces great grandmother Sofia Stewart began chronicling her life and love for Billy Ryan. Love flourished in the beautiful Hudson Valley, but their plans to marry were abruptly interrupted. Circumstance enters to keep their lives entwined.

Hudson Valley was home to the brickmaking industry and the immigrants who labored there. There were contrasts: great wealth, abject poverty, Saratoga horse racing, child labor, the Womens Suffrage Movement, and social mores to cover all that was offensive. World War I took the world by surprise, ushering in a time of sorrow and change. The human spirit survives while the ever present cameo symbolizes the love between Sofia and Billy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532025457

Geri Livelli

Geri Livelli was born in Rahway, NJ. As a mother of two she now resides in Cranford, NJ. She is active in her community, her garden club and a founding member and trustee of Hanson Park Conservancy in Cranford. “You should be a writer!” This encouragement by friends planted the seed for “The Cameo”

Book preview

Part I

THE CAMEO

By Geri Livelli

Times and fashions had changed. Once loved pieces of jewelry had become the tarnished swans of yesteryear, tenants of old curiosity shops. Simply put, the cameo brooch would not be a welcome inheritance.

Grace’s first introduction to the cameo came while she was still a teenager. The year was 1946 and the family had just moved back to New York State. The old brooch surfaced as part of the endless process of unpacking. Grace’s mother, Amanda, proudly announced, This cameo belonged to your great grandmother, Sofia Stewart, and someday you will be the fourth in line to own it.

The sixteen year old, confident her back was to her mother, gave a dramatic eye-roll followed by a silent, ugh, leaving no doubt about how she viewed the cameo. Eyes to heaven, Grace raised a sincere plea, Please Lord, don’t let my mother ever ask me to wear that old thing.

Amanda had foggy recollections and snippets of information from family historians with regard to the brooch. Old memories were generally arranged in a mismatched mosaic, blemished by overlaps and missing pieces.

Grace was always amused by the great value her mother placed on family relics, right down to inexpensive dishes and tattered old Christmas ornaments; but Amanda’s pride in her appointed role as, The Keeper of the Cameo, was the crowning glory of an otherwise modest hobby.

Feeling a twinge of ingratitude, Grace took legal ownership of the cameo in 1953; but, in her own defense, she registered some pretty compelling reasons why a cash inheritance would’ve been far more practical.

Amanda delivered the treasured pass-a-long on her daughter’s wedding day. Grace, at only 23 years old, smiled through her mother’s ceremonial presentation. She was pretty sure she’d just been knighted or at least the feminine counterpart. She thanked her mom, placed it in a blue leather case, put it in the dresser drawer, and then left on her honeymoon. Much relieved, she felt certain that would be the end of it.

Perhaps! But, was the pretty lady on the cameo smiling? Well, maybe just a little.

The next fifteen years fashioned out the inevitable changes in Grace’s busy life. The year was 1968. Married, and now the mother of two children, Grace accidentally uncovered the long-forgotten box while searching for a special pair of earrings. Like a buried treasure, the blue leather jewel case had burrowed itself deep into the dresser drawer.

Once retrieved, Grace briefly considered leaving the box unopened but then decided, Oh, why not? I’ll just have a peek. The hinge on the blue box, having escaped the light of day for many years, now strained against its intruder. In final surrender, it relinquished its lonely occupant, the old cameo.

Grace lifted the brooch from the white satin lining of the case. She began to inspect her long-forgotten inheritance in detail. Her eyes fixed on the ring of tiny seed pearls that framed the classic profile. They moved on to its delicately carved golden rim. Decorative gold work twined above a pearl teardrop that dangled flirtatiously from the bottom. Amazingly, the essence of Lavender lingered after all these years.

Holding it up to the light, and as if awakened from a deep sleep, Grace whispered, This is truly lovely. What was wrong with me? How could I have been so blind?

Yes, a conversion was stirring, but her new-found admiration was not without consequence. The cameo aroused Grace’s suspicion and the inevitable question, Was it a gift from my great grandfather, or was it a more romantic gift from someone else?

Saturday night would be her husband’s Christmas party for his very prestigious medical firm. David was a well-respected doctor, and the person for whom Grace most gave thanks to the Lord. She and David had known one another since childhood, so there were few surprises or mysteries left in a marriage of 15 years.

Peering over her shoulder, her eyes rested on her new party dress. Would the black peau de soie dress deliver all it promised? As she lifted it from its hook, the dangling price tag began to pirouette. Was this a little reminder of her expensive indulgence? In resignation, Grace sighed and said, A gala event demands a dress its equal.

Her attention moved back to the family heirloom. She began to wonder if …. if she should take a chance wearing something so unusual that evening. How would it look on her new dress? Would she be the object of smirks and raised eyebrows with something so unstylish and outdated?

She was quite sure there would be a parade of precious gems at the party that night. Grinning impishly, Grace whispered, So pedestrian. But wearing a one hundred year old piece of jewelry that neither sparkled nor screamed, "Expensive," would take more than a little courage.

Sally would be in attendance at this party. No two women could have been more opposite. The effervescent Sally would probably make a grand and noisy entrance in something very colorful and flashy. Her jewelry would be as big and sparkly as Sally herself. Although completely unorthodox, Sally’s signature cachet was always an overload of inexpensive jewelry. Her adoring husband, also a doctor, wisely remained in the shadows allowing his wife the full stage.

Sally never questioned the equality of any in the family of mankind. If anyone considered themselves in the class of a Mercedes Benz, Sally would quickly and cheerfully remind them they were just Fords and should be proud of it. Parties were never complete without her; everyone would draw near to hear Sally’s latest escapades. Her talent for expanding the most mundane incident into a hysterical romp through her world was always worthy of the telling and retelling. Sally wrapped her arms around life and the people she loved with inexhaustible enthusiasm.

On Saturday evening, Grace’s satin evening coat covered her new dress as she descended the staircase to join David. She was a beautiful woman but always a little shy and insecure.

David, preoccupied with last minute preparations for an introductory speech, barely looked up as he asked, Grace, are you ready? We’ll be late if we don’t get moving.

I’m ready, David. She slipped her arm through his as they walked to the car. She was disappointed; David hadn’t even asked to see her new dress.

Once they reached the coat-check room of the hotel lobby, the time had come for the unveiling. Grace relinquished her coat. Eyes cast down, she walked only a few steps pausing to wait for David. He reached her side and glanced at the old cameo. As he took her hand, his face was a mystery. She saw him swallow hard. Grace was filled with regret for wearing the silly old piece of jewelry. It probably ages me by 40 years, she thought.

You look lovely, my dear, said David, but then with a broad smile, he quickly retracted his simple compliment, No, no you look ravishing!

That was a word she never thought she’d hear from David. Suddenly taller, head held high, she proceeded to the main dining room. While glancing over the place cards of gold lettering, she reflected on the word, Ravishing. It was dizzyingly high praise, especially from David.

Sally arrived loud and lively. Spotting Grace, she moved quickly to her side. Hello, honey. So glad to see you again, and then with a big hug she added, You sure are looking pretty. Where did you get that gorgeous hunk of a cameo?

The genuine warmth that Sally emitted always felt so comforting. Grace quickly explained her inheritance and its original owner. Soon friends and acquaintances were moving in to say hello. Grace watched as their eyes fell to the cameo before they met hers. Ladies moved closer to admire and ask questions about it.

It’s over one hundred years old, Sally helpfully offered, glad of the opportunity to share in its glory. If anyone hadn’t heard, she repeated at least an octave higher, It belonged to her great grandmother, Sofia. Those who dared to pronounce the name as So-fee-a were quickly corrected by Sally. Na, na, na, her name is Sofia; you know, and then pointing to her eye she said, with a long i. It’s very English.

Grace blushed as one of the handsome young doctors observed, Grace, you always look stunning, but tonight even more so.

David’s arm slipped possessively around his wife’s shoulders as he cradled a glass of wine in his free hand. Grace knew she had just entered one of life’s sweet spots, a private place that was making her heart smile. She asked herself, Why can’t time just hold still and freeze right here? Would morning leave a few sweet embers?

Exhilarated by the success of the evening, Grace had no way of knowing she was about to embark on a magic carpet ride. The cameo seemed to have taken on a life of its own, pulsating with an urgency. Grace had felt its tugging, but it was growing stronger. She felt it was pulling her into a search for its history. She wondered if there were some old pictures or relatives who knew about Sofia and the cameo. Her mind quickly turned the pages of her youth, back to old family gatherings and holidays. She strained for even the tiniest recollections of Sofia.

And then suddenly, she recalled, My mother said she remembered seeing a beautiful portrait of Sofia with the cameo pinned to the sash of her gown. Where is that portrait?

What about sweet old Aunt Margaret? Grace could once again hear that frail voice of long ago, Land sakes! Sofia always wore that cameo wherever she went and whatever she wore. Near as I can figure, she never took it off!

This tiny link to the past, so inconsequential, had now become pivotal. It started with only a little suspicion, but now it had grown into a nagging question. She reasoned that since most women have at least a touch of vanity, it defied logic that a beautiful woman would wear the same piece of jewelry day in, day out.

Grace had a new-found respect for her inheritance, but her strange and unsettling feelings were no longer about an old piece of jewelry. She was certain that the face of the cameo was the face of a family secret.

In 1971, her detective work moved slowly, but once her investigations led her to Savannah, Georgia and a roomful of stored treasures, everything exploded. Faithfully following the trail, she opened the door of a dusty attic room one hot summer day. Her Uncle C.W.’s son had been storing all Sofia’s belongings in the southern mansion he inherited from his father. A lifetime of heirloom furniture, valuable paintings, silver, and china sat undisturbed for decades. There they remained since 1923 under the cover of old linens and the webs of spiders; but, the crown jewel of the discovery was Sofia’s hand-written book of memoirs.

Grace knew the task of cataloging everything would be monumental, but she could only focus on the written word. Would the memoirs hold the answer? Was she almost there?

Family members always proudly pointed to the fact that Sofia had been a woman of great wealth and great beauty. Grace thought, Surely these are prescriptions for happiness, but then, why was Grace finding an element of sadness in the writings?

Over the next month she finished the memoirs and then closed the book. She had just visited a time and place she’d never before known. Deeply touched by all she’d read, she knew it was her turn to write. Grace wanted the world to know about Sofia, and so she began to shape the story of a remarkable lady from a remarkable time.

The forbidden love between Sofia Stewart and Billy Ryan needed to be exposed, shared, and celebrated. The majestic beauty of the Hudson Valley in the late nineteenth century becomes the setting for a whirlwind of the unexpected.

This book could only be named, The Cameo.

The following is Grace’s book.

The Cameo

Introduction

It pleases me to believe, this story was written in eternity long before it was penned here on earth. While I raise the specter of the finger of God, I must confess, it came into my possession in a far worldlier way.

The story began to unfold in 1971. A cameo brooch and an old Georgia mansion held much in common on a summer day of that year. Despite sweltering heat, a chill rippled through me as I walked the long path of live oak to begin a strange archaeological expedition. The mansion’s columns, crowned in ionic capitals, pointed the way to a dusty attic archive.

Curiosity and a strange inheritance had placed me on the threshold of an attic room that held the world of Sofia Stewart, my great grandmother. Her last will and testament made it clear, the cameo brooch belonged to me; but now her memoirs and all her earthly possessions were mine too. No amount of imagination could’ve prepared me for all that little room was about to tell.

The first entry to the memoirs was dated 1882. In a genteel script that belied her sharp political observations, Sofia described the discontentment of many in the Old World. Families had been splintered by members who yearned for a life beyond the waters. Sofia, born in New York’s Hudson Valley, knew this country held no promise of instant reward, yet creaking ships and make-shift gangplanks became red carpets of opportunity for so many dreamers. Their ambitions traveled ahead of them, soaring to the sky like the bricks and mortar of New York City.

Unfailingly romantic youth sought success and so much more. They longed for someone with whom to share the promise. Billy, an Irish immigrant, was no exception. He and Sofia were deeply in love, and by any author’s best invention, that is where the story might have ended.

Woven into this country’s history, Sofia’s memoirs revealed the catalysts of a far different story. Timeworn pages of the old journal gave her long-silenced voice occasion to explain the secrets of the cameo and all that had been laid to rest beneath her simple granite headstone.

Pages, with the unmistakable odor of age, only served to whet my appetite for whatever they might hold. All boundaries toppled as the ashes of the dead became living flesh once more. The bold, the shy, the beautiful, and the villainous staged their stories across my mind. Interviews, with still living remnants, tied together the last few strands of a tapestry relegated to the attic of another time. Now, by my hand, this story must be told!

By, Grace Winthrop

First Love, The Summit

Chapter I

As they pulled away from the train station, the driver of the little passenger cart offered his explanation for the sudden appearance of summer. Undeterred by vanity, his smile broke forth warm and full exposing its lack of several important teeth. Tucking the leather reins under his chin, he struggled to tie a brightly patterned scarf around his dripping brow.

Yes sir, I heard tell a starting gate bell jus went off somewhere and here we are! Mus be 85 degrees already.

The young passenger found no need to argue this simple explanation. There was no doubt that summer had leap-frogged over a wet and wily springtime and exploded on the Hudson Valley this very day. Yet even as the day spread out its warm blanket of contentment, the young man could neither take comfort in that warmth nor his new surroundings.

The interminably long ride from the train station to the Applegate estate was accentuated by the clip-clop rhythm of the horse’s hooves. He smiled as he wondered if the trip would have been faster by foot.

Mercifully, the road winding up to the main house and stables moved into sight. He decided that the approach to the mansion had been designed to impress the curious and torment the envious. The drive, past an endless vista of rolling lawns, gave him his first glimpse of the mansion. Eerily, it brought to mind a long forgotten stone castle hidden deep within the old country.

A massive fountain, circled by rose bushes blooming in ruby-colored perfection, gurgled out a greeting. It had been strategically placed in the center of a circular drive at the front of the mansion as yet another reminder of wealth. The long sweep of the drive curved to crest beneath a porte-cochere for the protection of its guests against the chance of inclement weather.

Once the wagon drew to a halt, William Ryan quickly leapt to the ground, relishing the tiny crackling sounds his limbs made while seeking their full length. Everything he brought to this country was wrapped in an old sea-man’s bag. He lifted it with ease from the back of the wagon, setting it firmly on the ground that would soon be his new home.

Good boy, good boy, he whispered as he patted the old horse’s neck.

His keen eyes surveyed the new surroundings, quickly darting across the four corners of the estate. It was clearly impossible to absorb the marvels of wealth all about him.

In stark contrast to the old world style of the mansion, a bright red barn with a dark green roof and soft white trim blared out, American, like a trumpet in a 4th of July parade. The stables, awash in English tradition, were glaringly white. He tugged at the visor of his cap to shade his eyes. The jockey weather vane atop the cupola captured a warm breeze gently spinning the miniature horseman with a soft purring sound.

Looking to the left of the barn and stables, he noticed a vast work area for tending the horses. In pleasant disarray, islands of rock had broken through the underworld proudly proclaiming their New York birthright. Squinting and looking to his right, he strained to see beyond a pristine race track. There in sylvan serenity several employee cottages enjoyed an afternoon rest.

Abruptly curtailing the young man’s curiosity, a man-servant stepped forward to beckon him. Forsaking anything audible, the servant’s impatient frown was clearly understood to mean, Step this way. Straight backed and stoic, in his impeccable uniform, he ushered the newcomer to the front steps of the mansion.

Introduction to the staff members was a tradition that must be satisfied by every new employee. The young man removed his cap, rested his satchel on the nearby velvet of the lawn and then dutifully ascended the steps. While navigating the line of staff members the time worn question could not escape his thoughts, How will I ever remember all their names?

He nodded, smiled, and mumbled obligatory greetings; then suddenly, all faces blurred. William Ryan had just set eyes on the young governess introduced as Sofia Stewart. His back drew up rod straight. Flooded by self-awareness, the usually confident young man nervously ran his fingers through his thick hair. His instant and uneasy question to himself was, Could anyone so lovely ever look my way?

Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Stewart.

Likewise I’m sure, Mr. Ryan.

She soon learned they called him, Billy. Not surprising to Sofia, since the shortened version of William suited his warmth and likability so much more.

A young man of strong ambition and purpose, Billy had been summoned from his homeland for employment as a horse trainer for the newly prosperous Applegate family of New York. Billy’s reputation preceded him; he had special talents with horses. He lacked no confidence for the position he would soon hold, but could anything have prepared him for what else this day would hold?

The United States’ dedication to freedom had whispered to Billy’s heart long ago; he marveled at its constitution and fight for independence. Opportunity had opened its door, and he was about to walk through. Up to this instant, he had been sure nothing could stand in his way, but now what he felt for Sofia Stewart had nothing to do with good sense. His heart was lost to her almost from the moment he’d set boots on the estate. Resistance would be folly; his young heart had no strength for a struggle against itself.

Thinking it unique to their generation, young people in the 1880’s discovered that life is not always fair. Sofia, governess to Neva and Paul, two of the Applegate children, had been helping her parents financially with some small support from her brother. Her aging father, Cecil, head gardener of the Applegate Estate, could no longer endure the long hours and demands of the large gardens. Her mother, Ruth, a seamstress, earned a few extra dollars for the household while her father still gardened several peak hours each morning. The family managed comfortably, but Sofia could not foresee a time when she could marry.

At 21 years old, Sofia Stewart had long considered romance foolish fancy, resigning herself instead to a life of teaching and tending her parents; but now she read in this young man’s eyes designs on a life of which she hadn’t allowed herself to dream.

Silently and incomprehensibly, she knew she’d just surrendered her heart to a complete stranger. No longer bound by denial, she was left to marvel at the feeling that feathers had been loosed to flutter throughout her body. Placed on this unstable precipice, she felt powerless by her need to soar. The workings of nature, and the inevitable longings for flight had taken her completely by surprise, yet nature wisely knew the timing had been perfect in every way.

Billy, at only 22 years old, believed that even that one glance had bound him to the young governess forever. Awake or asleep, she owned his thoughts. At night, behind closed eye lids, he happily raised the vision of her warm honey colored hair, twisted silk worn high on the crown of her head. He recalled her eye color having much in common with the sky that day; she stood delicate of stature, soft and alluring, slim but not angular. He’d seen the rising flush in her cheeks. Dare he hope he had been its inspiration?

Like most young people, Sofia and Billy had been inculcated in the dangers of youthful romance, sometimes deceptive, carrying the promise of ‘forever and always’ while rarely, if ever, delivering. If what the world calls love could be isolated and defined as a form of energy, then could such a moment ignite it, feed it, and set it into perpetual motion? Experience and knowledge of the world would clearly label that unlikely. Could a brief encounter in time, the lightening rod of recognition in the eyes of two young people, set that love in motion until their last day on earth? Even while citing several historic examples, cynics would shake their heads reconciled to negative conclusions

Once settled into the daily routine of tending his horses and their training sessions, Billy knew there would be no peace inside him until he could make his way to Sofia again. When the opportunity presented itself, and as if by accident, he managed to cross her path. Privately, he had considered that perhaps their second meeting wouldn’t be as exhilarating as the first, thereby tempering his intoxication and placing him back on course; but now he looked at her through eyes that could only see the misty pastels of an impressionist painting. She was even more beautiful and poised than he remembered.

Billy knew the simple blue dress of cotton lawn could only try to disguise her inborn elegance. In his mind, Sofia was a rarity, a woman to be treasured. He would never know that behind her poised posture she was hiding the sensation of champagne bubbles giggling up and down her spine. Sofia paused on the wooded path, a short-cut to her parent’s cottage. Her eyes met his for the second time.

. Engaging in small talk disguised what they both knew; the veneer of flirtation was pointless. He took her hand, the numbing fear of rejection knotting him up inside, yet managed to say, Miss Stewart, I hope I’m not being too bold, but I’d like to see you again.

He quickly released her hand, embarrassed by his own presumption but much relieved by her answer.

I would like that too, Mr. Ryan, Sofia said without a moment’s hesitation.

Oh please, just call me Billy.

If you’ll call me Sofia.

Now confidence washed over him. He had taken the first step and received the reward of her promise to see him again.

You know, Billy, the Applegate family discourages any socializing between employees.

Billy answered quickly, I’m always in the stables in the early evening. Perhaps you could take a walk past. I’d love the opportunity to talk to you.

I always take a stroll right after dinner, so perhaps I will walk past the stables, she said with a knowing smile.

Sofia gathered up her skirts, quickly turned, and left. As he walked in the opposite direction, he recalled the lilt of her voice, the same soothing flow as the brook beside his Irish cottage. Billy could hardly believe his good fortune. Surely, he was the happiest man on earth, and one who, at this very moment, was resisting the desire to jump up and click his heels