The Trial of Mrs. Rhinelander

by Denny S. Bryce

Genres: Biographical

Synopsis

Inspired by a real-life scandal that was shocking even for the tumultuous Roaring Twenties, this captivating novel tells the story of a pioneering Black journalist, a secret interracial marriage among the New York elite, and the sensational divorce case that ignited an explosive battle over race and class—and brought together three very different women fighting for justice, legitimacy, and the futures they risked everything to shape.
 
For readers of Dolen Perkins-Valdez, Marie Benedict and Victoria Christopher Murray, a transporting work of fact-based historical fiction from Denny S. Bryce, bestselling author of Wild Women and the Blues, In the Face of the Sun, and Can't We Be Friends: A Novel of Ella Fitzgerald and Marilyn Monroe.

New York, 1924. Born to English immigrants who’ve built a comfortable life, idealistic Alice Jones longs for the kind of true love her mother and father have. She believes she’s found it with Leonard “Kip” Rhinelander, the shy heir to his prominent white family’s real estate fortune. Alice too, is “white”, though she is vaguely aware of rumors that question her ancestry—gossip her parents dismiss. But when the lovers secretly wed, Kip’s parents threaten his inheritance unless he annuls the marriage.
 
Devastated but determined, Alice faces overwhelming odds both legally and in the merciless court of public opinion. But there is one person who can either help her—or shatter her hopes for good: Reporter Marvel Cunningham. The proud daughter of an accomplished Black family, Marvel lives to chronicle social change and the Harlem Renaissance’s fiery creativity.
 
At first, Marvel sees Alice’s case as a tabloid sensation generated by a self-hating woman who failed to “pass.” But the deeper she investigates, the more she will recognize just how much she and Alice have in common. For Rhinelander vs. Rhinelander will bring to light stunning truths that will force both women to confront who they are, and who they can be, in a world that is all too quick to judge.

Release date: July 23, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

1940

Ida B. Wells. Nellie Bly. Marvel Cunningham. Pioneers of investigative journalism. Women who cut a path in the newspaper industry—a path I plan to rip wide open one day.

Who am I?

I’m Roberta Brooks. And I have talent. I don’t mean to boast, but some people (my mother mostly) call it a gift.

I find the truth, the heart, the center, the why and how of a thing. The story behind the story is the only story I want to tell.

I know it’s pretty bold for a twenty-year-old to say such things, but it’s as if truth has set up shop in my bones. I am full of conviction, righteousness, persistence, and a firm hatred of injustice and deceit; my enemies are lies, liars, and deception. And I am proud of my stubborn belief in myself.

It’s 1940, and women shouldn’t turn a timid cheek to oppression, especially us Negro gals. We must stand tall and be even more resilient, which is precisely what I do. Usually.

However, this morning, I was not as courageous as my mother raised me to be.

I’ve been sitting in this office on the third floor of the New York Amsterdam News for thirty minutes, waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop—although it may be an anvil rather than a strappy leather pump.

Holden Richards, the weekly newspaper’s city editor, the golden boy of Negro news (he wrote something courageous a decade or so ago), summoned me to his office late yesterday to set up a nine o’clock meeting for no reason I can think of . . . other than to fire me.

By the way, this would be a tragedy magnified by the fact that I have no idea why he’d do such a thing. Or why he’d make me wait thirty minutes to do it.

So I sit with a gulp in my throat, my hands in my lap, and my knees pressed together like a child waiting for a spanking.

Obediently silent. Obediently still. Obediently invisible.

A sudden change of position on the other side of the desk, and my spine snaps to attention. I’m about to be seen, perhaps even spoken to.

As my thoughts race, I brace myself for disaster: What do I say to “You are fired”? Say thank you and then get up and leave? No. I can’t give up. I’ll fight for my job and give him a piece of my mind, too. He’s losing one of the stars of female journalism (potentially), and he needs to know it.

I am ready to wage war, but anticipation dissolves when nothing happens other than a man reaching for his coffee cup (which must be cold by now) and then turning the pages of another newspaper.

Doesn’t he remember that I am here?

The moment passes. Mr. Richards pushes his glasses up on his nose. He’s not going to speak to me. Not yet, and all I can do is stare at the top of his head.

I’ve seen his face a thousand times before and will recognize him if he ever looks up. The strong nose, flirtatious brow, chiseled jawline, and perfectly trimmed mustache cause some to say Holden Richards is the most handsome man in Harlem. But I don’t care about rumors. I want to find out why I’m in his office before I upchuck on the floor.

I hate being ignored. I want to yell at him to stop riffling through the papers on his desk, lift his head, and look at me. Come on. You can do it. What do you say, Mr. Richards? Are you going to fire me or not?

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, allowing some semblance of logic to enter my thoughts. As I do, a calmness comes over me, and I ask myself: Why would the city editor of the Amsterdam News fire me?

I’m girl Friday to Ann Petry, writer of “The Lighter Side” column, a society gossip rag. A tell-all on the happenings in Sugar Hill among the Negro rich and powerful. I’m not a reporter yet. I’m just another busy assistant racing about, trying her best to keep up with the workload.

Now, if Ms. Petry was to stroll into Mr. Richards’s office, I’d panic. But it’s Tuesday, and she took the day off.

“Ms. Brooks.”

Did someone say something? I think I’m dreaming when I hear my name. That explains why the next time it is spoken it’s so loud I nearly leap out of my chair.

“Ms. Brooks!”

“Yes, sir.” I swallow the squeal in my throat.

“Sorry to make you wait, but I was checking the newspaper reports, making sure there was no conflicting information on a certain subject. As a weekly, we must scour the dailies. Sometimes we get story leads from them, but sometimes they can lead us astray.”

I manage to grimace a smile, but he doesn’t return it.

I am doomed.

He clears his throat. “I was surprised to learn that you’ve been keeping secrets from us.”

“Secrets?” I am confused. “I don’t have any secrets.”

His gaze drills into me. “How about your relationship with Alice Beatrice Jones? She’s your aunt, isn’t she?”

My stomach drops. Why is he asking about her? Perhaps I didn’t hear him correctly. My aunt Alice is not someone I talk about and, surely, not someone who fills my heart with pride. More like I’m ashamed to be related to her and, frankly, would never utter her name unless . . .

Damn. “Yes, she’s my mother’s sister. But that’s not a secret.” The lie slips from my mouth as if slathered in grease. “I just don’t talk about her at work.” I smile, praying for an end to the discussion of my aunt.

The infamous Alice Jones spent years with her name on the front page of newspapers across the country, telling lies about who she was and what she wanted. Lies that hurt my parents and me. Unforgivable lies. Denying her race and her ambitions. A woman I haven’t seen in two years but haven’t spoken to in ten years. Which is as long as I’ve blamed her for every bad day my mother and father have lived through.

I slump in the seat. It’s my fault. Mr. Richards learning about my aunt and me is because I mentioned my secret last Friday while having drinks with my coworkers Gabby and Crystal. They’re the only ones that could’ve told him. Damn them to hell.

That’s what I get for trying to fit in, running my mouth about my infamous aunt. I swore them to silence, but what was I thinking? Newspapers aren’t a place for secrets.

“Your aunt has agreed to see you on Thursday.”

“Excuse me?” Another round of panic I can feel in my scalp and at the back of my eyeballs, and it’s spreading to every bone and muscle in my body. “See me for what?”

“Don’t worry, Ms. Brooks. This is good news. Ann Petry has told me you are a talented young woman who will make a fine reporter one day. So we thought this little project and your connection to Ms. Jones would be the perfect outing for you. Right up your alley.”

How dare he grin as he reaches for his coffee. I hope it’s bitter cold by now, and when he sips and frowns, I feel a small jolt of satisfaction as he places the cup back in the saucer.

“I did have to swear to Ann that the city desk wouldn’t need you for more than a day or so. And I’m sure that’s all you’ll need.”

“You want me to meet with my aunt?” I am still stuck. “Why? I mean, what could I possibly talk to her about?”

“Not so much talk but encourage, Roberta. May I call you Roberta?”

My nod is a reaction more than consent. “Of course, but why? I mean, she hasn’t been in the news in a decade. Has something happened?”

“Smart. Yes. Something has occurred. We want her reaction to the death of Commodore Philip Rhinelander.” He reaches for a pack of Chesterfields and shakes out a smoke. “You know her history with the Rhinelander brood.” He smirks. “Fifteen years ago, the entire family was part of the most riveting news stories in New York history.” He smiles and lights his Chesterfield. “Think of this as a way to test your chops. For one day, I want you to think of yourself as a full-time reporter. And if you are successful, and your aunt agrees to an interview, who knows what might be next for you.” His chuckle is meant to be encouraging, but his eyes are hidden behind cigarette smoke and the only things that stick in my head from his spiel are the ifs, ands, and the silent buts.

“Do you think anyone cares what she has to say after fifteen years?,” I ask, my frustration boiling over. “Other than an article a few years back when she was fined for speeding and supposedly driving drunk. But it wasn’t front-page news, but a half dozen local papers, including the Amsterdam News, carried it.”

“Uh-huh. You are aware of the news stories about your aunt.”

“Not really,” I say, striving to sound indifferent and regretting my outburst. “My mother keeps a scrapbook. I stumbled upon it a while back.”

“I sense reluctance. Do you not wish to help us with this? Is there a problem between you and your aunt?”

Just like a newspaperman. Digging. Digging. Digging. Fishing and threatening all at once. I’m not sure I like Mr. Richards. I don’t have to be a brain surgeon to figure out there will be consequences if I refuse.

“No, sir. There is no problem. Just want to make sure I understand the assignment. That’s all.”

“Excellent. I am thrilled to have you on board.”

I smile weakly. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

“You had me worried there for a few moments. We were up a creek without a paddle without you.” He takes another puff of his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray. “Rhinelander died on Saturday, and the newspaper reached out to Alice, I mean, your aunt, for a comment, but it was a fast and flat no. Frankly, I was surprised.”

He lights another cigarette. “She had refused our request, but then I mentioned that you worked here and perhaps you could convince her to be interviewed—and well, she agreed.”

“Does she know I’m not a reporter?”

He laughs. “Yes, she knows. All I want you to do is talk to her and see if you can convince her to talk to one of the reporters or me. I’ll do the interview. Tell her that.”

My chin twitches. Every ounce of me wants to say no.

“Now, are you sure you’re in?” he asks with a broad smile.

I want to yell, Hell no, but—“Of course, I’m in.”

“Very good.” He leans forward, elbows on the desk, fingers intertwined. “Now, if she feels like talking to you about the commodore’s death—just take notes. If the opportunity to do a preliminary interview presents itself, be ready. We’ll use them as a guide.”

“I don’t know anything about Commodore Rhinelander, Mr. Richards.”

“That’s okay. I’ll give you tomorrow morning off to do some research. Thumb through the Amsterdam News archives. Go to the library and review old dailies. You were a child when this story broke, but you’re a newspaperwoman now. And that means you never go into a situation ignorant of what is common knowledge.” His grin is like a dirty glass covered with dark smudges and fingerprints.

“You mean if I get her talking, I should interview her?” I don’t like what I am about to say, but I say it. “If that’s the case, I should dig into the Rhinelanders before I meet with her.”

He pounds the table triumphantly. “That’s exactly what I mean, Roberta.” Reclining in his chair, he folds his arms across his chest. “I knew you’d help us out.”

I don’t respond. The reality of what is happening has landed on my back, and I need to get out of Mr. Richards’s office, which I think is his thought, too.

He picks up the telephone receiver and pushes a button. A woman answers—his secretary, Mrs. Moore. He presses another button. “Was there anything else?” he says to me.

I shrug.

“Okay, then. We’re done here.”

I rise and backpedal toward the door. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”

I hurry out of the fourth-floor office and do my best to strut through the hallway as if I don’t have a care in the world. But when I reach the stairwell, I’m hopping down steps two at a time as if my pumps are on fire.

How did this happen to me? How did I go from barely thinking about my aunt Alice (without my stomach churning) to being tasked with persuading her to talk about something I don’t want to talk about?

There is only one flight of stairs to go, but I’m moving too quickly—my heel slips. I grab hold of the railing before I tumble headfirst down the last few steps and have the entire newsroom witness my shame.

Thankfully, uninjured, I stand erect, straighten my skirt, and gather my wits. I can’t walk into a newsroom discombobulated.

I fill my lungs with as much air as possible, open the door, and step into the sun-streaked first floor of the Amsterdam News.

I avoid eye contact and don’t greet a single soul. But as I stride across the room, no one gives me as much as a glance, which is strange and disappointing after putting so much effort into not causing a scene.

Damn.

Someone, please explain why I behave this way. Is it the voice in my ear? Constantly repeating the same three commands: Tell them who you are, Roberta. Tell them what you want. Tell them why you matter.

Was it my contrary ego that drove me to tell Crystal and Gabby about my aunt?

I’m a few feet from my desk, but everyone I pass by is overly animated. Some are even shouting. Slowly, awareness settles in.

It’s Tuesday. This week’s edition of the Amsterdam News will hit newsstands on Wednesday, so reporters, stringers, and typesetters are circling editorial desks like wolves on the prowl. The newsroom is a madhouse and will remain so until tomorrow’s issue is put to bed.

I blame Mr. Richards for my forgetfulness and march toward the far corner of the newsroom, where my desk is hidden behind a row of metal file cabinets. Although, I can’t help but glance at Crystal and Gabby. Then I proceed to walk by them without a word.

I finally reach my desk, my thoughts racing. Did I agree to meet with my aunt, the woman whose lies and selfishness destroyed her family’s and my parents’ lives? I swore I’d never see her again, but now, before the end of the week, I will. What should I do? Study the story in the newspaper as Mr. Richards suggested. Or deal with the pain in my heart?

I grab a sheet of carbon and paper and stuff them into the typewriter carriage. My fingers hover over the keyboard as I contemplate beginning my letter of resignation, but quickly I change my mind. Quitting is foolhardy.

I’ve wanted to be a reporter as long as I can remember. Digging for answers is in my blood. I should look at this from another angle a conversation with a woman as notorious as my aunt Alice could speed up the clock on my career.

I snatch the carbon out of the carriage.

Now what? Should I sit here all day and pretend I’m working? I stare at the telephone. I could call my mother and tell her about my new assignment for the newspaper. But that would open a can of worms the size of alligators. I refuse to hurt her any more than she has been by bringing up her sister.

Then I’ll have to lie to my mother. Or perhaps, a white lie of omission. I just won’t mention the planned visit to Aunt Alice. Sounds like a good idea. But what if Aunt Alice contacts her big sister, Emily, after all these years?

The Jones sisters—my mother, Emily; Aunt Alice; and Aunt Gracie—haven’t seen one another or spoken in two years, since my grandmother’s funeral, where they barely looked at one another. I know because I kept eagle eyes on them that day. They would not have a chance to upset my mother with their pettiness and lies.

But it wouldn’t be easy keeping this from my mother. She and I have talked about everything since I was a little girl, as young as six. How can I not tell her?

Truth runs through my veins, and I hate lies and liars, but I may have met my match in my aunt Alice.

Sitting at my desk, I block out the noise surrounding me and bury myself in a memory, but not one about my aunt Alice. It’s about my mother and a redheaded boy.

It happened at the Baylor Castle in Westchester County, where Momma was a lady’s maid and Papa worked as the family’s chauffeur and butler. One day, Momma scolded me in front of the entire household (or that’s how it felt) for hiding in a shed in the backyard.

She reprimanded me often (I was a handful), but never as she did that day. When I got older, I understood better why she had to show white folks that her child wasn’t a troublemaker. My mother might’ve been as light-skinned as a white woman, but I was almost as brown as my father. My mother had to prove she could handle her Negro baby girl—prove she was a disciplinarian and that the Baylor family shouldn’t fear me. Momma would make sure I acted right.

The public talking-to humiliated me, but it didn’t stop me from hiding in that shed again. I had a good reason. The Baylor’s oldest son, Teddy, a year my senior, had the fowl habit of lifting my skirt to see my undergarments.

The following day, my mother found me in that same shed, but my punishment wasn’t a verbal spanking. She asked Papa to break off a tree branch and make a switch, and on that day, Momma gave me my first whupping. It stung awful badly, but I refused to allow one tear to fall from my eyes. Except, I must admit, no one would’ve noticed if it had, for I kept my head down, unable to look at anyone. Shame was a cross on my back, but I had learned a lesson.

I stopped hiding from Teddy. The next time he asked to see my bloomers, I showed them to him and then punched him in the nose. That was the last time I was welcome at the Baylor estate. From then on, I stayed with my father’s mother or her neighbor who lived across the hall. There were even times when Aunt Alice watched over me.

When I told my mother why I’d struck Teddy, her eyes filled with tears; hitting was wrong, she explained, but she added, “I’m proud you stood up for yourself and defended your dignity.” She kissed me on the cheek. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Betty.” (That’s what my family used to call me when I was a child.) “You are the best of us and don’t forget it. But next time, let me know when someone bothers you. If you’re in trouble, I’ll always be there to help.”

Something possessed me at that moment. “And when you’re in trouble, I expect you’ll do the same with me.”

She hugged me to her bosom, and I wrapped my arms around her. We made a pact that day. One we kept for the longest time.

I decided. There is nothing to tell Momma until after I meet with Aunt Alice. My trip to New Rochelle might be uneventful. My mother need not ever know.

Aunt Alice won’t call her to discuss a visit from her estranged niece. Momma won’t telephone Aunt Alice on a whim to catch up.

Now, I’ll do as Mr. Richards suggested and focus on Commodore Rhinelander.

I could visit the archives at the Amsterdam News, which would have a lot of information. But, I’m not interested in having more people at work know about my relationship with Alice Jones.

I pick up the telephone receiver and dial Ethel Ray Campbell, a high school friend who was a senior when I was in my first year. She is a librarian. If anyone can help me beef up on Commodore Philip Rhinelander, she’s the one.

I leave the apartment I share with my mother before the sun can make its mark on the horizon. It is a cold, windy morning as I slog my way to the Lenox Avenue subway station, but I can’t dawdle. I hate cold weather. My body detests it. I am happiest in warm sunshine and sniffing spring flowers but hateful when smothered by icy breezes rolling off the Hudson River.

Walking briskly, I am at least prepared for the cold with layers of wool—a brown tweed Chanel suit, a knitted cardigan with an embroidered blue butterfly on the breast pocket, and a thick wool coat with a fake-fur collar buttoned to the throat. I also slipped on my favorite pair of kid gloves, a cream-colored soft leather in the gauntlet style. Just in case a brutal breeze tries to run up my coat sleeves.

My Dutch beret has ear flaps tied snuggly beneath my chin. It might be the most unattractive outer garment I own. My pin-curled victory rolls hairstyle will suffer, but sacrifices must be made.

Chased by gusts of frozen wind, I reach the subway entrance and race down the long flight of stairs to the platform, arriving as my train to 135th Street pulls in. Miraculously, there is an open seat, and I collapse on the bench and remove my Dutch beret, but only to check my curls. I have to hurry. My destination is the street branch of the New York Public Library, the home of the Division of Negro History, Literature and Prints. A seemingly unlikely branch for what I’m looking for, but my friend works there. She’ll find what I need.

When I exit the subway, I break into a run.

Ethel Ray is meeting me at the employee entrance in the library’s loading dock. As I turn the corner, she is holding the door open with one hand and waving me in with the other.

“Are you all right?”

I’m panting and feel as if I have an icicle dangling from the edge of my beret. I can’t reply until I catch my breath and we’re inside out of the cold.

“Since the day we met, you’ve had trouble with chilly days.” She shuts the door behind me.

I smile stiffly. “I feel as if I walked naked from the subway.”

She laughs. “You’ll warm up soon enough, dear.” She takes my gloved hand and leads me into a hallway.

“Thank you for doing this,” I say.

“You’re welcome, but I’m not sure what I’m doing other than providing you with some information about Philip Rhinelander. I’ve gathered a few artifacts, old newspapers, and academic journals for you to peruse.”

She walks ahead briskly, her long legs outpacing my shorter ones. I skip to keep up.

“You know he died,” I say, trotting behind her.

“I read that. Passed away on Saturday, leaving only one living direct descendant, his daughter, Adelaide.”

“The only one?”

She stops in front of a door with a sign that reads: STAFF LOUNGE. “I set up a room for you. Let’s get settled, have a cup of joe, and then we’ll dive in.”

She removes a set of keys from her suit pocket, jiggles the lock, opens the door, and enters. I linger in the archway. The room is a perfect square with no windows or shelves, but a sparkly chandelier hangs from an obscenely high ceiling. A rolling cart piled with newspapers . . .