THE WEDDING VEIL by Kristy Woodson Harvey: Excerpt

New York Times bestselling author Kristy Woodson Harvey is bringing “her signature wit, charm, and heart” (Woman’s World) to her much-anticipated historical fiction release, THE WEDDING VEIL (Hardcover, March 29, Gallery). In the vein of Therese Anne Fowler’s A Well-Behaved Woman and Jennifer Robson’s The Gown, The Wedding Veil brings to life a group of remarkable women forging their own paths and explores the mystery of a national heirloom lost to time — a beautiful wedding veil belonging to the famous Vanderbilt family. 

We are delighted to feature this excerpt!

My mother had been telling me for months that an April wedding in Asheville was risky. Snow isn’t out of the question, Julia, she’d reminded me over and over again.

But as I stood awestruck at the brick pathway that led to the conservatory at Biltmore Estate, admiring a field of tens of thousands of orange and yellow tulips, their faces turned toward the sun, it felt like snow was definitely out of the question. A long table sprawled in front of the brick and glass space, with a massive garland of roses, hydrangeas, and, of course, tulips running its entire length.

“It’s perfect,” Sarah, my best friend and maid of honor, whispered in this holy quiet. I nodded, not wanting to break the silence, not wanting to disrupt the overwhelming peace.

Sarah linked her arm through mine. “Are you ready?”

I nodded automatically, but what did that even mean? Could anyone ever be ready? My wedding wasn’t until tomorrow, but this bridesmaids’ luncheon was the start of the wedding weekend. While my fiancé Hayes and his friends shot skeet and drank bourbon and did whatever else a groom and his groomsmen did before a wedding, I would be here sipping champagne and eating tea sandwiches with my mother, my bridesmaids, my aunt, and the women in Hayes’s family—including his mother. Their difficult relationship made my feelings about this event complicated. What made them simpler was the woman responsible for the splendor of this day: my grandmother, Babs.

Maybe a person couldn’t be responsible for the day—after all, no one could control the weather. But Babs was the kind of woman who seemed like she could. She—along with my aunt Alice, who was mywedding planner—hadn’t just picked the brown Chiavari chairs that went around the table and had umpteen meetings with the florist and agonized over every detail of the menu for this luncheon. She had actually, somehow, made this day a perfect seventy-two degrees filled with beaming sunshine and fields of impeccable tulips because it was my day. Even if she didn’t quite approve of the groom.

Babs never came out and said she didn’t approve. But I felt it.

I knew.

My mother on the other hand . . .

“It’s here! It’s here!” she practically sang from behind me. I turned to see Mom and her twin sister coming up the path.

“So getting here an hour early to have a glass of champagne by ourselves didn’t really pan out, did it?” Sarah said under her breath.

“On the bright side, Mom looks like a glass of champagne,” I said.

She was wearing the most perfect champagne-colored sheath with a tiny belt at the waist and chic tan pumps. Aunt Alice was clad in an eerily similar dress in pale blue, but with a wrap. I hadn’t actually seen either of these outfits on my mom or aunt, but I had heard about them for months.

“They look gorgeous,” Sarah said. “And very well coordinated.” They had perfect matching blowouts, although Mom’s hair was much lighter, verging on blond, while Alice still made the valiant attempt to keep hers dark, even though it meant that covering her grays was a constant battle.

“Did I tell you about the PowerPoint?” I asked.

Sarah furrowed her brow, which I took as a no.

“Babs took an iPad class at the senior center so she could better assist with all the wedding details. She made everyone in the family send photos of their outfits—complete with shoes, accessories, and purses—for each event. Then she made a presentation and distributed it to the entire family to serve as a packing list. “Let’s just say,” I added, as Mom made her way to us, “some of the first outfits we sent to Babs didn’t make the cut.”

Sarah burst out laughing. When it came to important family events, Babs didn’t leave anything to chance.

Mom smiled and leaned over to hug and kiss Sarah and me. “No, no,” she said, picking up on what I’d just said and imitating Babs. “Don’t think of them as cuts. Think of them as edits.”

Alice wrapped her arm around me. “Well, girls, we made it. It’s

here. We’re all wearing the appropriate outfits. It isn’t snowing.”

“What is so wrong with snow?” I asked.

“It’s a logistical nightmare,” Aunt Alice said.

“Where is Babs?” I asked, finally realizing she wasn’t here. We had all gotten ready at the Asheville mountain house that had been in her family for generations, and I had assumed she would ride with Mom and Aunt Alice since Sarah and I had left early.

At that same moment I heard, “Girls, come quickly! You have to see this!” from behind me. One of the conservatory doors flung open and I saw Babs, all five foot two of her, in a navy knit suit,

pillbox hat, and kitten heels, looking as though this estate belonged to her. She waved us over and we hurried in.

I’d been told we were having this event outside in the gardens, another point of panic for my poor mother and her snow. But as I stepped through the door, I realized that wasn’t wholly true. Amid the palms and hydrangeas, orchids, and birds-of-paradise, and— best of all—what must have been hundreds of butterflies, a small table held a chiller bucket with an open bottle of champagne and five flutes. Quick as a wink, Babs began filling the glasses and handed one to each of us. “I thought we’d toast our girl before we went outside for lunch,” she said.

I smiled, looking around at my four favorite women. Sometimes my mom drove me batty, but I loved her dearly. She and my aunt Alice seemed to be in a world-ending spat as often as they were getting along, but they were always there for me. Sarah was my ride or die. She had been since we were five years old, when she had stood up for me after I was wrongly accused of talking in class. Her job as a public defender was no surprise to anyone. And then there was Babs, who inspired me every day with her tenacity, her spunk, and, like any wonderful grandmother, her wisdom. Now she raised her glass and said, “To my bright, beautiful Julia, who has always been poised to take on the world. May you find your eternal happiness, my darling girl.”

Everyone raised their glasses gleefully, but as we all clinked, I felt a familiar panic welling up in my throat. Could I do this? Could I marry Hayes tomorrow? And, maybe more important,

should I?

Follow the rules, I thought. Follow the rules. The other women might have been toasting to my wedding, but Babs was testing me. She was asking me why I had changed course so suddenly, why I hadn’t stepped into the life I always thought I wanted. I stood taller, straighter, convincing myself that I was doing that. Hayes and our family were my future. The rest would work itself out.

My friends began filing inside the butterfly garden as well then, a man in a black-and-white uniform appearing to serve them champagne. Seeing all these women gathering to support me, to support my marriage to the man I loved, reminded me that my uneasy feelings were silly. Every woman felt nervous before her wedding. Right?

I looked up at the dozens of panes of glass—handmade, no doubt—that formed the roof of this historic building. I wondered what it would have been like to draw the plans for the massive

arched windows inset in this beautiful brick. Realizing I was jealous of the architects who lived more than a century ago, I wondered if perhaps I had done the wrong thing, walking away from

my dream career. I looked down to see that a butterfly had landed on the rim of my flute. Sarah snapped a picture with her phone, startling me out of my thoughts, as Babs clinked her glass with a fork. “Ladies, we have a quick surprise before lunch is served.”

I moved over to Babs as the guests murmured excitedly. “Being inside the conservatory isn’t enough of a surprise, Babs?” I whispered, so as not to scare off the butterfly.

“In life, and especially at a party, there can never be enough surprises, Jules.” She raised her eyebrows. “It’s the surprises that direct our path.”

As if she’d heard, the monarch on my glass spread her orange and black wings and flew off into the orchids, back where she belonged.

A woman who looked to be in her midfifties, dressed in a black-and-white Biltmore guide uniform, appeared in the doorway with a stack of books. “I am delighted to introduce one of Biltmore’s finest guides,” Babs said to the group, “who is here to take anyone who would like on a tour of the conservatory and gardens. And, in honor of Julia’s wedding, we have a very special treat. With the help of the Biltmore staff, we have compiled a book of photos from Cornelia Vanderbilt’s wedding day for each of you.”

I put my hand to my heart. “Babs! You didn’t!” I had visited Biltmore Estate with Babs many times while growing up, and over the years, I had developed quite a fascination with the house and maybe even more so with Cornelia Vanderbilt, the little girl—and later, woman—who grew up and lived here. I knew she had been the first bride of Biltmore, but I couldn’t recall ever seeing any photographs from that day. As the guide handed me a book, my heart swelled. Babs was so thoughtful.

“Do you remember the first time I brought you here?” Babs asked. “You were the only six-year old in the world who was as thrilled about the architectural details of Biltmore as you were

about the candy shop.”

I laughed. “And you were the best grandmother for getting me an annual pass every year for my birthday.”

“Some kids like Disney World.”

“I guess this was my Disney World.” I smiled.

Babs put her arm around my waist and squeezed me to her side. “I love that we get to have yet another memory here at Biltmore, that this place we’ve always loved so much gets to be a part

of the most special weekend of your life.”

I opened my photo book to the first page and Babs clapped her hands with excitement at the photo of Cornelia Vanderbilt, standing by the grand staircase at Biltmore, exquisitely dressed in a satin gown and holding a streaming bouquet of orchids and lilies of the valley. The guide, smiling at the group, said, “If you look at the first photo in your book, you can see that Cornelia’s veil included Brussels rose point lace.” I really zeroed in on it. Babs and I leaned

closer, gasping in unison.

“It is a sight to behold, isn’t it, ladies?” the guide asked.

I could feel my heart racing, but that was silly, wasn’t it? I was just so keyed up about the wedding, the excitement of this day. But then again . . .

Sarah glanced over my shoulder. “Whoa. That’s crazy.”

“Isn’t it?” I replied. “Is Cornelia’s wedding outfit on display somewhere?” I asked the guide.

She shook her head ruefully. “The gown has been lost to history, as has the heirloom veil worn by Cornelia Vanderbilt, her mother, Edith, and Edith’s sisters and mother. Their whereabouts

are a mystery. But a team from London re-created Cornelia’s wedding outfit from photographs in painstaking detail and with some difficulty. It is part of the Fashionable Romance exhibit that will be opening here at Biltmore soon.”

“Jules! We should go!” Sarah trilled.

I locked eyes with my grandmother. She had seen it too, hadn’t she? “Babs?”

“What?” Her face was a blank canvas.

Turning away from the guide, I said in a low voice, “It’s just that . . . don’t you think this looks like our veil?”

“I think so,” Sarah chimed in.

Babs smiled. “Oh, Jules, I think your love of Biltmore has gotten the best of you.” She looked down at the picture. “Won’t it be great that you get to wear something that looks kind of like the Vanderbilt veil on your special day?”

I peered at her, but she just smiled.

“All right, ladies!” Aunt Alice said. “It’s time to celebrate our

lovely bride!”

I laughed as my bridesmaids gathered around, champagne flutes in hand, to corral me to the table.

I looked down at the photo again. That veil just looked so similar. Then again, I was at Biltmore—the place where I had spent so many hours dreaming of finding my own happily ever after—the day before my wedding. Babs was probably right: my Vanderbilt obsession had finally gotten the best of me.

 

THE WEDDING VEIL

Present Day: Julia Baxter’s wedding veil has passed through generations of her family as a symbol of a happy marriage. But on the morning of her wedding day, something tells her that even the veil’s good luck isn’t enough to make her marriage last forever. Meanwhile, her grieving grandmother Babs decides to move into a retirement community. Though she hopes for a new beginning, she doesn’t expect to run into an old flame.

1914: Socialite Edith Vanderbilt is struggling to manage the luxurious Biltmore Estate after the untimely death of her cherished husband. With 250 rooms to oversee and an entire village dependent on her family to stay afloat, Edith is determined to uphold the Vanderbilt legacy—and prepare her free-spirited daughter Cornelia to inherit it. But as Cornelia explores more of the rapidly changing world around her, she’s torn between upholding tradition and pursuing the exciting future that lies beyond Biltmore’s gilded gates.

BUY HERE

—

 

Kristy is the winner of the Lucy Bramlette Patterson Award for Excellence in Creative Writing and a finalist for the Southern Book Prize. Her work has been optioned for film and television, and her books have received numerous accolades including Southern Living’s Most Anticipated Beach Reads, Parade’s Big Fiction Reads, and Entertainment Weekly’s Spring Reading Picks. Kristy is the cocreator and cohost of the weekly web show and podcast Friends & Fiction. She blogs with her mom Beth Woodson on Design Chic, and loves connecting with fans on KristyWoodsonHarvey.com. She lives on the North Carolina coast with her husband and son where she is (always!) working on her next novel.

Tags: featured, women writers

Category: On Writing