by gail maccoll
The pair were married nevertheless, on August 3, with no Vanderbilts present. When his father died shortly afterward, it was revealed that Neily had been cut off with a mere million dollars. Brother Alfred generously chipped in $6 million, and Grace went on to take her place among New York’s leading society matrons, entertaining the crowned heads of Europe regularly and becoming particularly intimate with (some said the mistress of) Kaiser Wilhelm II.
The Cornelius Vanderbilts believed that Grace Wilson wanted more than anything to many a Vanderbilt—any Vanderbilt.
HERE COMES THE BRIDE
The day before the wedding, the estranged Vanderbilts, the affianced pair and their respective lawyers met at Alva’s house on 72nd Street to sign the marriage contracts. It must have afforded Sunny deep satisfaction to think where those dollars would go. At last, a Duke of Marlborough would restore to the estate some of the glory that it deserved.
In fact, the whole wedding day was about glory, and pomp, and power, and wealth. By the 1890s any fashionable wedding—and particularly this one—was an opportunity for the plutocrats to reinforce their position of strength as well as to prove (however subliminally) to the titled son-in-law that he was marrying America’s equivalent to himself. The church would be covered with thousands of flowers, preferably costly ones such as orchids and hothouse roses. The clergy would include at least one bishop. The bridesmaids would be numerous, and elegantly costumed. The wedding breakfast would be formal, lavish, and exquisitely served by multitudes of footmen. All the arrangements would speak more or less discreetly of thousands of dollars spent.
COMMN IL FAUT
The horses hired to bring the bridal carnages to the church are traditionally matched grays, but some families purposely use bays or chestnuts to avoid attracting undue attention from passersby.
Though it was notionally a private event, the publicity leading up to an heiress’s wedding guaranteed that the streets around the church would be thronged with curious onlookers. Thus the preparations included, along with ordering the wedding cake and choosing the music, arranging for enough security so that the bride could get to and from the church unmolested. To prevent a repetition of the disaster in 1893, when the unfortunate Cornelia Martin had been trapped in Grace Church by spectators bursting through the doors, on November 6 the streets between 72nd Street and St. Thomas’ Church on Fifth Avenue would be lined with policemen. Though the Vanderbilts traditionally attended St. Bartholomew’s on Park Avenue, St. Thomas’ was chosen for the wedding since its chancel had more room for the sixty-member choir Alva had enlisted.
The Duke of Marlborough and his new Duchess. The bouquet of orchids from Blenheim that she intended to carry arrived too late.
The bride dressed at 72nd Street, assisted only by her maid. (Her wedding gown, naturally, was a Worth creation, ordered by her mother in Paris the previous spring, even before Sunny had proposed.) Alva had stated that Willie K. should appear at the 72nd Street house, take Consuelo to the church, give her away and then disappear. (The other members of the Vanderbilt family were ignored completely, and Consuelo even had to send back their gifts.)
Alva, stately in Worth’s ice-blue satin trimmed with sable, had gone on to the church. She was thus treated to a heart-stopping twenty minutes when the ever dutiful, ever punctual Consuelo failed to materialize. The bride, whose face was puffy from crying at her nuptial fate, had been delayed by her efforts to sponge her eyes. At last the sexton signaled from the back of the church, and Dr. Walter Damrosch lifted his baton. The symphony orchestra launched into the “Wedding March,” and eight bridesmaids, in white satin with blue sashes, paced down the aisle. Consuelo, in her satin and lace, followed. When the bishop said, “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” Willie K. relinquished her hand, which the bishop put in Sunny’s. The pair said their vows and knelt on the cushions placed before them, Consuelo’s dress billowing and glowing in the subdued light. They bowed their heads for the blessing. The bishop said, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.” They rose from their cushions, hand in slightly trembling hand. It was almost over. The bishop, pitching his voice to carry to the nave, proclaimed, “Forasmuch as Charles and Consuelo have consented together in holy wedlock . . . I pronounce that they be man and wife together.” Another American woman had become a peeress.
THE AMERICAN ARISTOCRAT’S WEDDING
“For richer, for poorer. . .”
When a girl from America’s ruling class married a young man from England’s ruling class, the nuptials had to be carried off with nearly oppressive pomp. As Town Topics said sardonically of Alva Vanderbilt in connection with Consuelo’s wedding plans, she “has recognized that she does not live for herself alone. The very rich are the royal families of America.” And their marriages were banner events. American heiresses were the celebrities of the day, and crowds gathered to watch them become peeresses.
It turned out there was a right and a wrong way to marry a duke. Consuelo’s wedding had garnered so much negative press in 1895 that in 1903, when May Goelet wed the ninth Duke of Roxburghe, a great effort was made to present the match in an appealing way. The Duke was tall, which helped, and May no shy schoolgirl but a polished young lady who’d had plenty of time to make her choice. Most important, the Goelets saw to it that the (inaccurate) story was put about that the Duke had plenty of money of his own. “I am no fortune hunter,” he obligingly told reporters. “I am merely an Englishman who thoroughly believes in American institutions!” The coup was that his mother crossed the Atlantic for the wedding, bringing a sister, Lady Isabel Innes-Ker, to be a bridesmaid and the Roxburghe emeralds to be worn at the wedding. She even gave an affable interview to reporters as she disembarked from the steamer that brought her from London.
THE VANDERBILT-WHITNEY SHOW
Consuelo Vanderbilt was not the only American heiress to wed an English noble at New York’s St. Thomas’ Church in November of 1895. As early as July, Pauline Whitney had announced her engagement to Almeric Paget, grandson of the Marquess of Anglesey and brother-in-law of Minnie Paget. The Whitney wedding, which took place at St. Thomas’ on November 12, invited comparisons to the Vanderbilt wedding of the previous week.
Above: Sherry’s, the social restaurant of the 1890s, bedecked for the Vanderbilt-Marlborough reception.
Middle: Coachmen waiting outside St. Thomas’ while Consuelo became a duchess. The awning was to protect her from the prying eyes of the populace.
Below: Some of Consuelo’s bridesmaids, from left: Marie Winthrop, Miss Morton, Julia Jay, Katharine Duer and Daisy Post.
VANDERBILT
• Three hundred police; thousands of onlookers
• Six ropes of flowers from dome, arches of bride roses across chancel; tall fence of lily of the valley and roses at altar rail; balcony hung with orchids; choir screened with palms, etc.
• Walter Damrosch and 50-piece orchestra; 60-voice choir
• Worth dress, five-yard train
• Mrs. Astor
• Five clergy, including Bishop Potter
• Bride weeping, nervous; half a head taller than groom
• None of Vanderbilt clan present
WHITNEY
• Two hundred fifty police; “matinee audience” of onlookers
• Four triple Gothic arches of orange leaves and mums, open gate of dahlias and mums; chancel banked with palms 35 feet high, columns twined with vines, mums, etc.
• Nathan Franko and smaller orchestra; opera stars Edouard de Reske and Lillian Nordica
• Worth dress, five-yard train
• Mrs. Astor
• Three clergy, including Bishop Potter
• Bride self-possessed; same height as groom
• Among guests: the George Cavendish-Bentincks, the Joseph Chamberlains, the George Curzons, the Michael Herberts, the Earl and Countess of Essex, and former Pres. Grover Cleveland
Above: The crowd on Fifth Avenue the day of Pauline Whitney�
�s wedding, with bowler-hatted policemen in foreground.
Middle: Bishop Henry Potter, specialist in heiress nuptials.
Below: The triple Gothic arches and open gate of flowers decorating St. Thomas’ for the Whitney wedding.
CHAPTER 4
MARRIED HEIRESSES
Happily Ever After
American Wives & English Husbands
The Heir & the Spare
Châtelaine, or Where the Money Went
Survival of the Fastest
At Long Last, Love
HAPPILY EVER AFTER
From the moment she turned at the altar with her heirloom veil draped over the new tiara and swept back down the aisle on the arm of her new husband, the American heiress was starting life all over again. As she stood in the receiving line and heard old family friends archly address her by her new title, she began to feel apprehensive. Exactly what had she got herself into? Only a honeymoon—two weeks in Newport or Long Island, a few weeks more in the south of Europe—stood between her and England and a life she could only guess at.
The convention of the era held that new brides lie low for a while. So when the American heiress was taken back to England, her husband immediately stowed her away on the ancestral estate for a discreet period of adjustment. In other words, she moved in with her in-laws.
* * *
“As a rule, people looked upon her as a disagreeable and even dangerous person, to be very suspicious of, if not to be avoided altogether. Her dollars were her only recommendation, and all were credited with possession of them, otherwise what was her raison d’etre?”
LADY RANDOLPH CHURCHILL, on the American heiress
* * *
IN-LAW TROUBLE
The first sight of her husband’s family, waiting on the great stone steps of the house, told her all was lost. London, the Set and the season were far, far away. She was on their territory now. Her mother-in-law came forward and dutifully kissed her on both cheeks, making sure their bodies did not otherwise touch. The father-in-law and her husband’s sisters followed suit, murmuring “How do you do?” This gruff, polite greeting was so unlike the generous, gushing American one. Immediately, the heiress felt homesick and unhappy.
The newly married heiress might find that her in-laws were nicer to their dogs than they were to people.
There was no fuss and bother, no excited chatter, no smiling interest in her needs. She was introduced to the staff and then handed over to them while the rest of the reception party disappeared down portrait-lined hallways and up carved-oak staircases. The new husband went off to see about his horses. Within minutes, there was silence. All was still. The household had returned to business as usual. When the maid closed the bedroom door behind her, the heiress felt quite alone.
BRINGING HOME THE BRIDE
The American bride’s most striking indoctrination into her new status came when, once the intimacy of the honeymoon was over, she was brought to her husband’s ancestral home. She might have enjoyed the pomp of her wedding, but the welcome extended to her by tenants and citizenry eclipsed any nuptial grandeur. To be sure, the wife of a younger son could simply slip into her new home with a handshake from her mother-in-law and a searching glance from the butler. But for the girl who had married a duke or an earl, the arrival at her new home would be unforgettable.
The train station closest to the house would be draped with flags and bunting and the inevitable close-clustered arches of flowers and leaves—as if for a national holiday. On the platform stood a welcoming committee of local dignitaries headed by the mayor or provost or corporation council, arrayed in the regalia of their rank. The bride, in turn, wore her furs, the regalia of her rank. (The Duke of Marlborough insisted that Consuelo wear her famous sables, even though it was March.) The dignitaries made speeches. A bouquet was presented. The bride smiled and perhaps said a few words of thanks. But it wasn’t over yet. Outside the station, the crowds began: the townspeople and tenants and the merely curious, turned out to cheer and gawk. When Mary Leiter and George Curzon arrived at Derby after their honeymoon, some 35,000 onlookers thronged the streets and all the church bells pealed at once.
On the steps of Blenheim, Sunny thanks the tenants for their welcome. Decorations at Woodstock included a maypole in front of the town hall (inset, left) and numerous triumphal arches (bottom).
A pair of Northumberland newlyweds being hauled home by their loyal tenants.
The town was decked as elaborately as the station. Schoolchildren and laborers had the day off, and tenants put on their best clothes to line the route and wave flags. There might be another stop, at a specially erected platform in town, for more speeches and more gawking and more cheering and more bouquets for the American bride. Inevitably, the horses were unharnessed and the young husband’s own people drew the carriage to his ancestral home, causing a frisson of discomfort in the democratic breast. It was nice that these people were so happy—but must they abase themselves?
By now, the waving and smiling at the crowd might be a bit fatiguing. One might like a cup of tea, or wish to take off one’s enormous hat. As the house drew into sight (always a heart-stopping moment), another crowd appeared: the servants and the family, lined up on the front steps, and more tenants down below. More speeches. The butler and the housekeeper, perhaps, wishing the couple well and avowing their service. Presentation of the wedding gift from the household, probably a massive piece of silver. A photograph, or more likely several, would be taken. More smiles and another speech from the bride, who by now was ready to drop from exhaustion.
Finally, in the privacy of her room, she could savor the grandeur and the glory. All those people, all that fuss! The Duke and Duchess of Roxburghe, arriving at Dunbar after their honeymoon, were preceded by pipers, drawn by coast guardsmen, followed by 100 torchbearers to what was, after all, only a subsidiary Roxburghe castle. There were even fireworks! The bridal pomp of the white dress and the “Wedding March” was nothing to it.
And yet, if she gave it any thought, the bride would discover a hard truth. The fuss was about her—but not about her personally. As she was to learn, her own identity as an American, as a rich man’s daughter, as an individual, was swallowed up in the identity of her husband. “The young lord’s wife”—that was what a girl was. His wife, and the potential mother of his heir. The public glee commemorated continuity above all.
* * *
“We have just been staying. .. with Lord and Lady Mandeville—poor little thing, she is so delicate—so utterly helpless—and most charming. What a contrast to the Duchess. She cannot endure a country life and is quite miserable . . . .”
MRS. ADAIR to Lady Waldegrave (1877)
* * *
Leonie Jerome Leslie might have been forgivably nonplussed by the dour facade of Castle Leslie in Ireland, her husband’s ancestral home.
LOCAL YOKELS
A day or two after their arrival, the newlyweds began the requisite tour of nearby family and friends. The heiress wore her best visiting dress, prepared by Worth for just this occasion: cut and uncut velvet and satin trimmed with silk and glass beads, topped off with a matching ostrich-plumed hat. A sable boa circled her neck, a sable muff warmed her hands. She was fit to meet the Queen.
Unfortunately, she was meeting “the County”—the area’s other long-established, landowning families. These families were not necessarily listed in Burke’s Peerage, nor were they likely to create much of a stir in London (if, indeed, they ever bothered to go up to London). But their high standing in the insular social order of the region gave them the right to expect to be introduced to the new bride.
Here, the heiress had the opportunity to meet the fabled English eccentricity in all its glory. Consuelo Vanderbilt Marlborough, for example, was introduced to an uncle who took one look at her sable-lined coat and rang for the butler to fetch all his own furs so they could compare and see whose were better. Maud Cunard was greeted by a family friend seated in a wheelchair, white beard to h
is knees, top hat on his head, shrieking: “Take her away! Take her away!”
The ones who were not peculiar were haughty. The older women issued instructions on how to behave and the necessity of producing an heir. The younger ones were completely alien creatures—brisk, tweedy, toothy girls with hounds at their heels and keys jingling purposefully at their belted waists. The heiress couldn’t imagine being friends with these girls. Nor could they imagine being friends with her. What sort of girl, after all, married away from home? They didn’t for a moment question her desire to live in England. But they did question her ability to so easily dispose of parents and country. Among themselves, they shook their heads and assumed she was an adventuress with a heart of ice.
Maud Cunard, a woman who always loved sophisticated social life, had trouble adjusting to rural Leicestershire from the very beginning.
* * *
The standard of a great house was that dinner for 100 could be given without hiring outside help or bringing in a single piece of china.
* * *
These were the same girls whom, only months earlier, the American heiress had so effortlessly, so gloatingly bested in the ballrooms of London. Now it was her turn to feel awkward and out of place, the girl standing off to one side, not quite included in the conversation and goings-on. She listened to their flutey tones and rising inflections. She observed their knee-high boots and tweed riding jackets with patches at the elbows. And she knew that everything about her was all wrong. Her dress was too showy. Her glance was too direct, her voice slow, unmodulated. Instead of delighted laughter, her funny American phrases drew raised eyebrows from these girls, or worse, furrowed brows and uncomprehending stares. To them, she was speaking a foreign language.
