Editor’s Note: Laurence Leamer is a bestselling author and journalist. His latest book, Madness Under the Royal Palms: Love and Death Behind the Gates of Palm Beach, hit bookstores in January.

The people in my Palm Beach condominium recently hosted a rooftop dinner party to celebrate the publication of my new book, Madness Under the Royal Palms: Love and Death Behind the Gates of Palm Beach.

When I called to ask friends Cynthia Friedman and Vicki Bagley, I obligatorily inquired if they were coming with escorts, but I knew that they would be arriving alone. They are both strong, handsome women of a certain age, and on this strange island of the mega-wealthy, there is a price to be paid for such impudence.

I sat next to them during dinner, and when I listened to Cynthia talk about her role as a Democratic activist and fund-raiser and Vicki reflecting upon her multitude of entrepreneurial activities, I kept thinking how sad it is that the more powerful a woman you are in Palm Beach and the more secure you are within your own being, the more likely you walk alone in a town full of nothing but couples. Of course, the two women could have arrived on the arm of two of the silly, tedious men who serve largely as escorts, measuring out their lives in free meals. But neither wanted that.

When I left that evening, I started thinking about the whole history of women in Palm Beach and the twisted consciousness that has stayed the
same for more than a century. This tale begins in 1891, when 23-year-old Mary Lily Kenan, a southern belle of diminished circumstance, was invited on a cruise on a yacht. One of the other passengers was 61-year-old Henry Flagler, who, along with John D. Rockefeller, founded Standard Oil of New Jersey and was one of the wealthiest men in America. Flagler, the son of an itinerant minister, was married, but he had an eye for the well-turned ankle and he began an affair with the young woman.

Kenan was limited in her career options, and one has to have a certain appreciation for her social daring. Flagler had other mistresses, but when this creator of modern Florida built a railroad down the East Coast and constructed the largest hotel in the world in the jungles of Palm Beach, he needed a queen for his island paradise. His then-wife was mad or half-mad and when, in 1901, he had the Florida legislation put through a bill allowing him to divorce his wife, the 71-year-old mogul married his 34-year-old mistress. Next to the gigantic Royal Poinciana hotel, Flagler built Whitehall, an immense mansion for the new Mrs. Flagler to reign supreme.

This is the archetypal Palm Beach relationship. Twelve years later, Flagler died, leaving Kenan behind as the wealthiest woman in America. She married her youthful beaux, Robert Bingham, who got her to rescind part of their prenuptial agreement deeding him $5 million in case of her death. She died two months later. Some people think Bingham murdered her, but the most authoritative researchers think she died of syphilis, given to her either by Flagler or Bingham. It is not a pretty tale — but it repeats itself over and over again.

First a wealthy old man marries a penniless young woman. The man dies leaving a wealthy widow who takes up often with a younger man. Thus go the seasons of life in the paradise of Palm Beach. For the most part, it is rather sad and sordid, a cynical tradeoff based on the dubious premise that one can buy youth.