This is the memory palace. I'm Nate DeMoeu.

She would have choices. Her parents realized that early on.

She was a gardener, first off. A member of the finest family on Long Island.

The lords of the Manor of Gardener Island, 3,000 wooded acres off the far tip of the land,

close enough for the East Hampton High Hats to envy from the lawns of their mansions,

but far enough to be ever out of reach and green light across the water.

And she was lovely, Julia Gardener. They're all this daughter. A dark eyed beauty with a quick

wit and an easy smile. She would make a fine wife one day for some fine gentleman.

That was always the plan. The only plan for Mr. and Mrs. Gardener. That was the point of daughters.

If you didn't need them to turn butter or a clear brush, if you were a wealthy family in those days,

the 1830s, and for so many years before that or after that, a daughter was to love, certainly,

to propagate the species, to bring joy one would hope these gardeners weren't monsters one

would hope. But daughters were supposed to consolidate and expand prestige and influence in wealth

and power through marriage. Let's just say it planned. So that was the plan.

And so at 15 years old, Julia Gardener was sent away to Madam N.D. Shagare's institute of young

ladies, the finest finishing school in Manhattan, to complete whatever work genetics hadn't taken

care of already. Where she would learn the things she would need to know to fulfill her purpose.

Guitar, singing, French literature, needlework, the proper use of the proper silverware,

how to flirt but not too much, how to speak on respectable topics but not too much.

She made a dazzling debut that positioned her as a debut-tunt to watch, a match worth making for

any respectable family. In soon she had suitors, so many suitors jockeying for position.

But then cracks began appearing in the plan. Julia was spirited, which was fine, to a point,

...