I can’t tell you offhand just how many houses I’ve had (could it be eight?), but I’ve only had one decorator: Richard Keith Langham, who I met in 1985. Forty years later, our collaboration persists, much to our mutual frustration. (Like Nancy Lancaster and John Fowler, we are the unhappiest unmarried couple around.) But we’ve managed to concoct some really handsome and comfortable rooms, and, I’ll admit, even had some good times along the way.
Looking back, it seems like my life has gone from pillar to post and back again. Petersburg, Virginia, was my birthplace; the handsome house in which I grew up was a wedding present to my grandparents from my great-grandmother. My mother lived there her entire life. Under her reign, upkeep was not exactly a priority, and renovations were sorely needed; like a weathered beauty, the house looked best in candlelight. At my mother’s funeral in the packed living room, I remember Keith whispered to me, “These walls groan for money.”
Luckily, by that time, my own walls were not groaning. I had a big job in New York and a beautiful jewel box of an apartment overlooking the steps of the Met. It consisted of the top floor (formerly the servants’ quarters) of a Beaux Arts townhouse built by the Straus family of Macy’s. (Tragically, the couple perished on the Titanic in 1912.) The floor had not been inhabited since the 1940s, which made the restoration hell, but well worth it, thanks to Keith.
Still, I found myself yearning for bucolic Virginia. I bought my first farm, Lovell, near the little town of Rapidan. The stately Jeffersonian (c. 1840) was situated on a knoll with huge trees, and I wasted no time in restoring it. A few years later, I decided to give up Wall Street and live there full-time. It turned out that farm life was not all it was cracked up to be, and it became evident that I needed a job. Washington, D.C., and a new business venture were to be my next stop.
That venture was with Jane Stubbs, a most extraordinary woman. We re-created her inimitable New York shop, Stubbs Books & Prints, on bustling Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. She tutored me in books, Madison Cox generously planned the garden, and Keith moved my Lovell library—lock, stock and curtains—to the new shop. I sold out-of-print books and anything else library-related, gave over-the-top book parties, and soon it was a great big hit. After six years I closed the shop, relocated to an office, and have been creating private libraries ever since.
In the middle of all of this, I bought the most wonderful small house on Dumbarton Street. A major reconstruction followed. Keith and I did this one up to the nines. Gerry Bland and his wife, Mita, became friends, and I bought some of my best furniture from him.
I’m afraid a pattern began to develop. It shouldn’t be a surprise that several more houses followed. But then Shadwell became available. In 1757, Thomas Jefferson inherited thousands of acres from his father, with Shadwell Farm among the many parcels. In 1841—the 1840s seem to be my zeitgeist—his great-grand-daughter and her husband built a house there. Handsome, symmetrical, and stately, it was constructed with the most beautiful, now mellowed brick, which was kilned on site. It looks big, but it’s just one room deep, with a long central hall and a later addition of the kitchen and pantry—certainly enough room for me, three black labs, one obnoxious cat, and a lot of stuff.
"Shadwell has a dignified presence but is not fancy or twee."
Kinsey Marable
Fourteen years later, Virginia beckoned again. This time, it was a big Federal clapboard house (also c. 1840) in Somerset, gussied up in 1875 in the “Italianate style,” whatever that is. The crash of 2008 soon ensued, so I decided to just fill the new house up with everything from the prior three places. I loved it, but Keith thought it a mess. He turned to me once and yelled, “How in the hell do you even know which house you’re in?”
Keith and I did and then re-did. The living room became the dining room, the library the living room. The dining table seats 12 uncomfortably, in the Marable way. (Copious glasses of wine quickly ease the pain.) The adjacent sitting room has my favorite Adelphi paper, custom colored by Keith. The rug is Persian, forced on me by the decorator, and I loathe it.
While the dining room is in constant play—I think I’ve painted it at least seven or eight times—the living room has remained true to its Hague Blue walls. Keith had all the sofas and club chairs made in New York for my previous houses; some have since been reupholstered, while others wear slipcovers in the summer months. Above the mantel is an immense portrait of an Arabian horse, painted in 1801 for Lady Byron’s father.
My bedroom is my refuge. The star is the elegant Regency bed. It was a last-minute purchase from the Mario Buatta auction at Sotheby’s. While on the phone waiting for another lot, I had two martinis and went for it.
Shadwell has a dignified presence but is not fancy or twee. All my furniture finally lives so well here, and my prints and paintings— a combination of inheritances, purchases, and generous gifts—have never looked better than they do on these walls. After a peripatetic journey, I think I have found my soul mate. This old, graceful house is full of character and personality, with a pedigree above reproach. If only I could say the same for myself!