Lost Diaries of Barbara Allen

LOST DIARIES OF BARBARA ALLEN

By C.J. LANET and publishes LOST DIARIES OF BARBARA ALLEN. Copyright 2013 as Excerpt from Author's Scrapbook Series Two - C.J. Lanet. Smashwords Edition, License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

Cut away the veneer, and the real actors emerge. A true story presented exclusively from the lost diaries of the notorious Barbara Allen.

EPIGRAPH

It's said only good girls keep diaries. Bad girls don't have time. Well, I made time. Had too 'cause I never wanted to forget. I kept it up for 74 years and now it's time to burn it.

_____

INTRODUCTION

I was right there, in the mix, when the country emerged from innocent and insanity. As the 1890s fades into history, the titans of industry own the United States of America, lock, stock and barrel. Making serious money is a religion; their prayer book recites materialism, self-indulgence and greed. Nothing is beyond reproach for those who have the balls to look the future in the eye and make it blink. Now the scaffolding is set. The Twentieth century peeks around the corner - the spotlight picks-up the action. For the anxious money chasers, Oscar Wilde says it best: I can resist anything, except temptation.

CHAPTER ONE

New York City – March 13, 1898

Since history is merely the actions of scandalous, follies, hard luck and misinformation, one only needs to cut away the veneer for the real actors to appear. As for the record of the winners, truth is reduced to rumors, distilled by time. C. J. Lanet

Barbara Allen laughs has her gnarly, arthritic fingers turn the fade pages of her diary. Her sparkling blue eyes are as vibrant as when she was nineteen, and dance over the words as if being written for the first time.

Get back here, she demanded while pulling up the silk comforter around her neck. When he didn’t respond, her voice conveyed a harder edge. "You tell me to drop everything and now what? Ten minutes is not enough. Stop scribbling! I’m mad, and a lot more!"

She repeatedly kicked her exposed legs against the soft mattress.

Sitting at a wall desk, the harsh lamplight cast an ugly glow across his face.

Stop your complaining, five more minutes is all I ask. Inspiration … when it comes, it comes!

He glanced over his thin, gold-framed spectacles.

"If that’s all that comes, I’m out of here?"

Stop acting like a prima donna. … To control one’s destiny and not be under the shadow of … Catching himself, he turned slightly toward her, and faked a smile.

Don’t mumbling. Anyway, why should I care?

"Don’t you want to be financially independent?"

What! … I’m not now?

You always complain about money!

No! You’re the penny pincher. … What, tell me, it’s the bitch, your ex-wife again? That whore, hah, Belmont must be slipping.

Slapping down the pencil, he barked. Why do you rant? Can you give me a few peaceful minutes? This is something I want! … I want this!

I thought … I am what you want? Slinking off the bed, she faced him.

"Please, we’ll get back to what you want."

A mistake having her here, he thought.

"What I wanted? Sex with you is the last thing on my mind. You’re the one that whined like a wet puppy to get me here. Now that you started, finish it!"

While stamping her feet the silk coverlet dropped to the parquet floor, revealing exactly why she was here.

Don’t you want any of this?

She poked her vagina with her index finger and rubbed the scent under his nose.

Not getting the proper response, she drifted to a high back chair at the far end of the hotel room, facing a Tiffany glass mosaic. Perched on the chair, arms wrapped with her legs covering her breasts, she seemed to be posing for a Toulouse Lautrec poster. Eyeing her surreptitiously he shook his head and mumbled under his breath.

She tolerated him, but was it for the money? Even though a full time paramour, he wasn’t attentive enough, had a peculiar body odor as if too many old bills stuffed his pockets, and he possessed an arrogant beyond obnoxious. Yes, it was the money! Yet, left alone she would console herself with the pleasures her new life had to offer; cherishing open carriage jaunts through the streets of New York City, dressed in her finery with only a parasol between her and the sky. Gazing at newly minted mansions with their esoteric balconies, studying the rich shoppers, delightfully dressed ladies and distinguished gentlemen, were all part of an engaging tapestry she never knew before. Taking a deep breath, she stopped thinking about complaining.

_____

So much had happened in the last ten months. From daybreak until evening, under his supervision with a series of tutors, she was taught the basics – how to walk, to sit, to look, to eat, to breathe, and even how to fart. The supreme effort to rid her of a strong, unmistakable Irish drawl of the streets had succeeded, leaving behind a delightfully lilt to her voice. Her newly acquired highbrow Boston English had a lustful cadence in tune with the nouvelle vague.

So much to learn - important words to remember, how not to use others, when to remain silent, to smile and to gesture without words; the subtleties of communication baffled her. How to play with words, using speech to imply certain meanings – and the joyless, frightening, and tormenting discovery of propriety - was more than a diversion. After all the ugly facts of life she had been taught so early, and now to be introduced to this world seemed to compound her anxiousness.

The enchantment of the newly gained status quo held her to the flame like a mesmerized moth. A softer, gentler texture, more suitable to young ladies without a care beyond the next party dress to wear had unknowingly enslaved her to believe that the fulfillment of the good life was self-indulgence.

Her sense for beauty was intuitive, enhanced with proper manners and presence. Living was a question of style, and she possessed all the right accoutrements to be accepted as a cultured, young lady of means.

To her surprise, the most provocative and unexpected parts of her education were men. She learned too much from men who were in a hurry, quick and precise in their desires. Her latest benefactor, Willy Vanderbilt told her to be less direct, to learn how to show herself more reserved, more naïve. Appearing childlike complemented her appearance, and she practiced with the piety of a virgin.

Life with him was usually amusing, even though her world was lost between fact and fantasy. A cultivated piece of ass, she played as the animated prop of indulgence in the evolution of her survival. At this very moment she was at the pinnacle of her existence, and surpassed the wildest of expectations. Indeed, continuing the ride was priority number one.

_____

Born with a gold fork up his ass, William Kissam Vanderbilt, Willy for short, used money exactly what it was intended for – to shit on people and piss off the world with his wealth. He custom made Barbara Allen to exacting specifications, like his private Pullman car he entertained in, or his vast investments he bragged about.

The second son of William Henry Vanderbilt, from whom he inherited $55 million, Willy was active in the management of the family railroads. He married Alva Erskine Smith in 1875, and fathered three children. Twenty-years later she shocked New York society by divorcing Willy. A rarity among the elite, she received a financial settlement of $12 million, including several prize estates. The grounds for divorce were Willy’s adultery, although the facts later revealed that he hired a woman to pretend to be his mistress. Adding to the deception, Willy manipulated the events during a long voyage in the summer of 1894 aboard Alva, the Vanderbilt yacht, to instigate Oliver Belmont to have an affaire de coeur with her.

Ten months after the divorce was final, Alva married Oliver Hazard Perry Belmont, a junior business associate of Willy’s and five years her junior. For the record, less than twelve years later Oliver Hazard died suddenly -- rumored to have been poisoned with arsenic laced laxative inserted in his rectum. At length, Alva became a lesbian and embraced the women’s suffrage movement with her cash, providing that immigrants, blacks and the working class were excluded.

What am I to Willy, an investment, a hidden agenda, or for what was between my legs?

Why was he so intent to reinvest me; give me the appearance of virtue and wealth? Usually a situation like this, the sex part would be sufficient. The hit and run type – but there was more here -- Living in the lap of luxury made me stay, or was it what I kept running from? Too many questions, not enough answers, and who cares, today is fabulous. Anyway, who needs the answers? Life is now; tomorrow knows what to do, so go, follow the money and enjoy the ride.

What am I afraid of?

Stop thinking and smile, she reasoned while looking at the handsome cricket in the corner chirping with his pencil.

Come on, Willy, fuck me.

_____

The following day his plan was in motion and I finally understood part of the riddle.

What was I to do? I needed the guy and anyway, the game was easy to play.

I met them all, the city’s elite – Morgan, Harriman, Schiff, Bacon, Stillman, Rockefeller – and although he did not fully clarify our relationship, I knew the appointments and many other that followed were simply a means of introducing me as a wealthy protégé into the rarefied stratum of the business nobility. During this phase I never set my eyes on her – his fat, obnoxious, ex-wife. She was in Europe, somewhere lost in Paris with assorted Johnnies more anxious to grab her money than her ass. Or were they Juniatas? I wonder what her new husband, Belmont, was doing while she got her cunt greased? For me, she was far enough away to make her almost invisible. Naturally, her scouts kept track of his antics, for reasons I still was at a loss to explain.

The nose pickers were easy to spot -- spiteful, tactless, and moved about like worms in a shoebox. I didn’t care or give a damn? Maybe I did, just by saying so? Whatever the circumstance, the secular arrangements with her ex-husband was none of my business - just no confrontations.

A new world opened to me. Initially, I was taken with a grain of salt, socially inferior by the dames of the day, and valued only for my physical appearance. With him, however, my status was heightened beyond the contrived fact of being the very rich daughter of a wealth international banker. Just being acknowledged was a heady sensation, which I enjoyed as keenly as oral sex.

He was a thoughtful and erudite mentor. Wherever we went – to the theatre, a charity ball, formal reception – I felt as the elegant princess royal on the arm of a handsome knight. He was the ideal consort. Why then, did I sense being so exposed, threatened?

_____

Willy, as his friends also called him, was respected for his opinions, but my guess it was the money that buzzed and dazzled them. What I found amusing were the many prejudices a man in his forties had accumulated, especially his intolerance to accept losses from errors of judgment. His enemies considered him shameless; his friends saw him as royalty. His peculiarities were notorious and unpredictable to make his business style shocking. But with a massive fortune behind him, he could afford to remain in the game, whatever the distance or risk, until he won. Acceptable behavior was going what he wanted, and damn the consequences. Possibly the traits were inherited from his mother, who decided to pose nude for a celebrated artist as a means to have something to say during those dreadful, ritualized afternoon teas; or as the watercolor depicted, to show off the bushiest genitalia this side of the Hudson River?

Whether a collector of people or just things, Willy relished playing god by buying what he wanted, and bragging about the bargains, even when paying much more than what they were worth. You could say he collected me. At least, I was a bargain. Indeed, his tastes were legendary among the art dealers and museum curators, claiming he saw in art the true achievement of mankind, a confirmation of his own perceived endowment. Against his family’s prejudice to disregard anything older than the Revolutionary War, his collector’s eye recognized potential before others saw its worth. Time and again he was right – and in the process accumulated a remarkable art fortune. I guess, in the end, he got the last laugh? Well, at least in old masters.

To his benefit, an incisive wit made it also impossible for most to understand his intentions. I absolutely believed Willy liked it that way. He would do things that seemed so extreme, and then convince others to do the same, simply to test his belief that people were merely two-legged sheep requiring only a little prodding to get them moving.

The man had it all with his retinue of French cooks, Italian stewards, English tailors, a special train ready to move at instance notice, the Irish racing stables, and more mansions and retreats than any European king. Although somehow detached from it all he believed that being a Vanderbilt gave him the right, more so than another American. Nevertheless, his purported happiness and good fortune were further proof of the indiscriminate absurdity of luck. Being born right, he said, had its privileges.

Almost imperceptibly, I began to mimic his attitudes, mannerisms, and a certain quizzical way to look at the world. It would mark me deeply and forever. He never truly questioned my past, even if his very avoidance was perhaps a sign of repulsion. By no means did I feel embarrassed in his presence. But he would care if my rasping burble slipped out, contaminating his air. At times learning from the master was exceedingly tedious. I felt like a bogus religious exemplar in a bottle of expensive champagne.

CHAPTER TWO

New York City – May 18, 1898

Comfortable in her recently acquired townhouse in Gramercy Park, Barbara waved her wineglass attempting to beckon Willy closer.

Morgan is a strange fellow, she garbled while sipping a bit too much brandy.

JP, he wants to be called JP. Can’t you remember that?

It’s only you and I.

Me, not I. Call him JP, even while talking together, get use to it, okay?

She exhaled noisily.

Controls lots of surplus money from tired people who don’t want to be left behind.

Willy continually eyed the Chippendale wall clock.

Stop fidgeting. You remind me of a dick waiting to get upstairs and get laid.

I told you, never, ever …

She instantly cut him off. "It’s only us!"

"That’s the point! You may do it in public. Your choices of words are dreadful."

Stop your shit. What, do you think, I’m that soft in the fuckin’ head?

"Sometime yes!" He hissed.

I know when to control myself.

That’s your fifth glass.

Fuck you!

I’m counting. How can you drink that stuff before brunch?

To challenge her temper was the last thing he wanted to do, especially today – an early afternoon dejeuner with his ex-wife was a must-be-at-event, especially for his kids. Sensing her wrath and easing out of the house became impossible by the minute.

Come on, sit next to me … He playfully squeezed his crutch for emphasis.

No! I change my mind.

Sex, my frustrated one, usually is enjoyable. Now, just to get a kiss is a major event! What … what’s your problem?

Willy paced the floor, hands behind his back, entwining his fingers with nerve energy. His face was distorted, faked pain.

Sit down or leave. The lines on your face make you look positively ancient. Continually sipped her brandy, she watched him with a tingling sensation, difficult to control.

Okay, if you want to fuck, we’ll fuck.

His words rapped as snapping gunfire. Why do you talk like this? I’m going. I’m leaving! Tomorrow, the carriage will pick you up for church at 8:30.

"We have a full day planned, what’s your fuckin’ problem?"

No, I’m out of here!

Why?

Just no!

She’s back? You fuck, she’s back!

Who?

Fuck who, you’re ex-wife. That tight ass cunt, that’s who.

He thought better of it to challenge her.

Shi-it!

Hastily moving off the davenport, grabbing a priceless Sevres porcelain, Barbara smashed it at his feet. Falling back onto the soft cushions, she continued. "You’re a piece of shit. I bet the cunt was here for at least a week. I noticed the change, but it didn’t register! Why are you fuckin’ her? So that’s why you’re always tired? She’s being served by Willy the Prick … the limp stud!"

Don’t! Please, please lower your voice, the servants can hear.

"Fuck ‘em and you too, asshole! … What’s wrong with the witch? Doesn’t the Jew Belmont know how to keep her good and fucked?"

You’re making a mountain out of a mole hill.

Go ahead! When you stick-it-in, think of me, you bastard!

He laughed. A little jealousy, I see.

Not for her, but of you.

A sudden gust rushed into the room, as if ending the forensics.

Please. … I said please, walk me to my carriage.

"Why not? You bought me this pisshole. Still, you deserve less."

While outside, his dutiful small talk, passionate kiss and further attempts to make her feel guilty had no effect. She slammed the coach door on his buttocks as he entered the compartment.

"Tell her, I said hello!"

Leaning back on the leather seat of the closed coach, he signaled the driver to snap the two stallions into a half-trot. She picked up a rock and threw it at the departing landau, missing it.

The carriage traversed the red bricks to the west corner of Gramercy Park and disappearing beyond rows of high, flowering hedges and street lined trees.

What am I fuckin’ doin’ with this guy? She answered her own question with a thunderous, It’s the fuckin’ money. She didn’t care who heard.

Listening to the distance chatter of children at play and the murmur of elm leaves moving in the lusty breeze, she decided to linger outside. The fluffy white clouds and the rich blue sky enhanced the already perfect scene. Birdies chirped and splashed at the marble fountain while a cottontail rabbit and baby rabbits make a intensive appearance at the edge of the lawn.

Situated on the north side of the park, her five stories townhouse featured a carved porch of Tuscan stone and a tracery of ironwork that framed the entrance and large cut glass windows. Huge Corinthian flowerpots packed with pink and blue tulips completed the ideal composition. She leisurely surveyed the property, occasionally picking wild flowers.

I love this place, she whispered. Whatever it takes, I’ll never give it up.

At the newly constructed gazebo, she reflected on her extreme makeover. From scratching up a slippery garbage heap to all this was a heady exchange, difficult to comprehend, and less likely it would last. But with nothing to lose, except time, the risk was worth the gamble. From were she sat, the view was unclear, if only the rules were better understood. Marking time seemed a fool’s game, although what options were available? She understood her indecision and opportunities were measured with the same yardstick as would risks, but as she focused on the problem, only despair proved to be the false and evil counselor.

Ambling toward the townhouse, she decided to do nothing and allow the gods to decide her fate.

_____

With superbly crafted documents, Barbara Cambrige Allen emerged as the pampered daughter of a moneyed international banker based in Geneva, Switzerland. At the cherry age of 23, she lacked nothing, but honesty.

Barbara looked at herself in the mirror, and instinctively knew that today the world was at her feet. To have it all – a first-rate residence in Gramercy Park, owned and paid for in her name, the finest furnishings, Houdon sculptures, Wilton and Persian carpets and much, much more.

"Oh very yes, I’m smart, very smart!" She told her reflection.

Servants, carriages, exquisite fashions, people adoring her, and the many want-to-be lovers gave her a sense of worth difficult to deny. She laughed at the craziness of it all.

"Life is a hoax; and all things show it. I thought so once; but now I know it! Cinderella, step aside, nothing compared to me."

The first interlude of their relationship proved to be a blessing in disguise. Barbara had an opportunity to assess the new direction in her life with an open mind and a jaundiced eye. She enjoyed the ride, but the prospects appeared limited and exclusively directed to what Willy wanted to do. Even the townhouse was questionable, its ownership dubious. Having the deed held in trust for her by a barrister wasn’t secure enough. Willy had funds transferred from an offshore depository into the attorney’s escrow account. The sole purpose conveyed the impression of a bank-to-bank transaction to purchase the property with proceeds intended to appear from her inheritance. It was Willy’s money, Willy’s lawyer and naturally, Willy’s idea. What would happen if Willy decided to abort the scheme, or me?

She wasn’t in a position to test the questions.

What choices did I have?

Her mind whirled with uncertainty. Until now, she never looked at the issues in a clear, unbiased light. Enjoying the now were fine, yet future prospects imported quite a different twist.

What happens when the body gets old and the face is no longer there?

A woman had limited assets in 1898 to exploit her position. Youth had its rewards, yet youth withered as surely as a cut flower in a crystal vase. Time was needed to gain useful knowledge how to accumulate and forever possess hard assets.

The money game had to be learned without anyone noticing her intent. Usually, a woman in her position would not be concerned with such details, especially with the size of her purported legacy and rich banker father, who would guide his only child’s welfare.

Books, she whispered, is the only means not to raise suspicion.

The four bookshops she visited that afternoon were superficial, their selections lacked depth beyond the classic novels and political samplers. The male proprietors were downright condescending, rude and obnoxious. One character made a pass so repugnant, it bewildered her that men could be so hateful when looking them in the eyes and saying no!

By a fortuitous event as the weather suddenly changed, Barbara waved her carriage to the other side of the boulevard, only to be forced back under a metal awning by the pelting downpour. When finally regaining her bearings, she smiled. Above her head the sign in gold leaf read: WELCOME – NEW YORK CITY LIBRARY.

She smirked. Yes, I believe this is the place!

Entering the limestone building like a whore in a male prison, she danced down the aisles with reckless sensuality. This was her goldmine - information by the word in any flavors your heart desired. It was all here under one roof, in one place -- and all the facts the mind and soul can embrace. Barbara could not contain herself, attempting to read a few phrases from a dozen books, while stacking books on each side of her. A feeding frenzy with her thoughts exploded with each word. Time and time again she would read a verse, eager to absorb it, only to sigh in frustration. Her murmurings were loud enough for a voice behind her to offer, Can I be of any assistance?

She turned, startled as if caught in some sinister act.

Oh no.

Barbara smiled while scanning a pleasant face, a gentleman, perhaps her age.

"The Treaty of Business and Economic Development in the Fourteenth Century is a complicated read even for the best." His remark had an edge of amusement, heightened by curiosity.

I’m trying to learn about business, she said too sternly to be believable.

Indeed?

"This book is … is