The matron did not look pleased with Alana’s answer. Like a general redirecting the troops, she took another course. Her face softened, and she grasped Alana’s hands. “The Van Alens have such a grand history.” Impetuously, with genuine feeling, she said, “There aren’t many of us old New Yorkers left. You can’t do anything foolish, Alana. There won’t be any Knickerbockers at all if we don’t preserve ourselves. You know our motto: Nous nous soutenons. ‘We support ourselves.’ Ourselves,” she emphasized.
Alana stared down at their clasped hands, all the emotional turmoil she’d suffered the past few days rising to the surface. Caroline Astor had caused her problems. This very attitude of self-preservation and exclusivity had thrust her into Sheridan’s lion’s den. And though the Irishman was the most ostensibly wicked soul in all of this, there were others.
With as much conviction as she had in her heart, Alana said, “These parvenus are going to get in—it’s an inevitable eventuality. All this trouble—for what? Something that’s going to happen, no matter what you do. Trevor Sheridan just wants to speed things up.”
Mrs. Astor dropped her hands. Her eyes narrowed. “That man is … crude, Alana.”
Alana wanted to nod her head in agreement. Sheridan was certainly that. Peeking out from beneath his stiff formality lurked a hedonistic spirit, born of the streets or born of Erin, she did not know. She only knew that it was there, pacing beneath his veneer like a giant cat in a cage. “What you mean is, that man is Irish, and you cannot accept that.” Alana saw no point in avoiding the obvious.
Mrs. Astor closed her eyes as if praying for strength. “They’re out there. Right now, Alana. Shall I show them to you?” The matron’s eyes flew open, and she stared at her. “There are Irishmen right now working on the Nicholson pavement on Mercer Street. Shall we drive by them? Is that what you want for your husband, a man no better than a common laborer? A man most likely blessed with the manners of an animal, who strays from woman to woman, leaving evidence of his prurient behavior in the city’s orphan asylums?”
The last thing Alana wanted was to defend the man. Sheridan was causing her so much anxiety, she wanted to curse him from the highest summit. But the fabric of her character would not allow her to do that in this instance. If the attack on Sheridan had been personal, she might have applauded it. That arrogant, manipulative devil deserved a good dressing-down. But when criticism of him was stated like this, simply because of his background, she couldn’t abide it. “Trevor Sheridan is not a shantyman. You cannot compare him to the brawling, drunken louts you see paving the streets.”
“He’s not a shantyman now, but he was once,” Mrs. Astor pointed out, annoyance coloring her pugnacious features.
“Even the Astors were poor once.” Alana didn’t want to get into this battle, but now that she had parried, she saw by Mrs. Astor’s face that there was no turning back.
Anger created two cherry-colored spots on her cheeks. “The Irish drink,” the matron snapped.
“Knickerbockers drink—some even too much,” Alana answered, thinking of the night her uncle thrust her into this tangle.
Caroline Astor was not a woman to dally around the point. She looked Alana in the eye and said, “The girl Mara, Sheridan’s sister, was born in New York. When the Sheridans immigrated through Castle Garden, they were listed as a widow and two young sons. There is only one conclusion to be drawn from that.”
Alana didn’t want to show it, but there was no hiding her shock. She could hardly believe it. Mara Sheridan, with her lovely piquant face and her stunning black hair, was nothing like the image of illegitimacy Alana had conjured. She thought back to that beautiful young girl she’d met in Olmsted and Vaux’s Greensward months ago. Bastards didn’t wear blue velvet cloaks that matched their eyes. Bastards were gangs of dirty boys forced to haunt the Lower East Side, picking pockets before supper and making it impossible for even a gentleman to roam the streets at night without a pistol. They certainly weren’t sweet young girls taking buggy rides in Central Park with an army of postilions and grooms.
But one thing was now stunningly clear. She knew why the Irishman had been so insanely protective of his sibling. If Christabel had been born illegitimate, Alana knew she herself would have fought for her acceptance to the death. Strangely, she almost admired Sheridan now. Though he loomed a nearly unconquerable foe, as a brother, he was almost a saint.
“That bothers you, doesn’t it.”
Mrs. Astor’s words snaked into her thoughts. Alana looked up, the shock on her face replaced with anger. “Even a bastard has feelings,” she said quietly. “Even Mara Sheridan, if she was indeed born on the wrong side of the blanket, deserved better treatment than she received from you at her debut.” She had wanted to say those words to this woman for weeks. Now, even with everything going awry in her life, it felt good to say them.
“You could have attended, my dear. But, alas, I know you did not, and I wonder if that didn’t put you in the situation you’re in now.” Caroline Astor’s next words were razor sharp. “Everyone knows the Van Alen fortune is only a million. Why, that’s hardly respectable poverty. Oh yes indeed, I think Mr. Sheridan could do a lot of damage to you. If he took away your funds, I think you could be ‘persuaded’ to marry him.”
Alana bit back a retort. After all, she was never going to convince anyone that she’d meant to go to Mara’s debut, and the matron’s assessment of her wealth, even delivered in that insulting tone, was absurdly generous. She had nowhere near a million to inherit, not now, with Didier’s hands too long in the till. Also, Caroline Astor spoke the truth. Sheridan was doing a lot of damage to her. At wit’s end, she stood and hoped the matron would take her cue.
Mirs. Astor remained seated. “Alana, dear, you must hear me out. I don’t want you to ruin your life. You’ve always attended my annual January ball with the other Four Hundred. Why, I even wanted you to help entertain the Duke of Granville when he arrives. I’ve some regard for your mother, Alana. I feel I must save you.”
“Please—” Alana began angrily.
“No, hear me out. If you’ve found yourself in a pinch, why can’t you marry Anson Vanbrugh-Stevens? He’s mad for you. His family’s got sterling connections—why, he’s even one of the Patriarchs, and he’s filthy rich.”
Alana wanted to laugh. Anson Stevens was the poorest choice for a husband she could imagine. It was true he’d been paying her calls for over a year now and had even escorted her to several soirees when her uncle could not attend. He was handsome and possessed all of the qualities Mrs. Astor spoke of, but he was untrustworthy. He cheated at cards, and there were even rumors that he’d been known to snip tendons in other men’s trotters to win races. The idea of telling him on their wedding night that he had a mad sister-in-law in Brooklyn was ridiculous. The only reason she’d allowed his escort was that he never asked questions about her. In all the time she’d known Anson she couldn’t once remember their conversation ever steering away from his favorite topic—himself. The world revolved around Anson Vanbrugh-Stevens, and while that was fine for a beau, it would never do for a husband. Alana almost smiled. Anson was so wrapped up and coddled by his wealth that if told he must tie his own shoelaces, he would no doubt faint. The shameful news of Christabel would probably kill him.
“I can’t marry Mr. Stevens—” Alana began.
“You must. Why have you always been so cold to him? He loves you dearly.”
Again Alana wanted to laugh. Anson Stevens loved her about as much as he loved the trotters he ran on the Boulevard. As bad as Sheridan’s offer was, she at least had no illusions. She wouldn’t be going into a marriage believing herself to be a wife when in fact she was in a caste somewhere below a set of matched bays.
“Alana, I want you to listen to reason.” Mrs. Astor stood as if it were finally time to leave. “This wedding with this Irisher is ridiculous. You won’t be marrying that man on Saturday, and that is final. If you need someone, I shall summon Mr. Stevens to you
r side this very day.” She placed her ochre moire hat at a discreet angle on her head and jabbed it with her diamond hatpin. “These people don’t know their place. It’s time we told them where it is. Our families have deep roots in Manhattan. We cannot taint them with impurities.”
Alana stared at her, suddenly imagining what this tall, stately woman would do if she ever heard about Christabel. One response she was sure of: The fact of Mrs. Astor’s relation to their mother would be buried so deeply, a well digger wouldn’t find it.
“Now, is this clear, Alana?”
Alana hardly heard her. She was pondering Sheridan’s offer. If he let her keep her secret, it became very simple, really. She would have the wherewithall to take care of her sister without prying questions. He would have entree into this vile society in which even she could find no redeeming value.
“You won’t be marrying that Irishman on Saturday, now will you?”
And it really might not take that long to get Mara well entrenched. She was Irish, and she was young, but she was fetching and uncommonly pretty. And the Knickerbocker men were so much less obsessed about family lines than the women.
“You’re touched, child, if you think any good can come of being such an upstart.”
After a season or two, she and Sheridan would have a quiet annulment. She could move to a country house in Brooklyn just like the one in her dream. She could be near her sister and escape all this unhappiness.
“You aren’t going to marry him. I forbid it!”
Alana looked up, her face as pale and beautiful as alabaster. She paused, hardly able to believe the decision she had finally come to. Slowly she said, “You must know, Mrs. Astor, that I’ve thought this out and I think there may be no other way for me but to marry Mr. Sheridan.”
“This is madness! You will not do this!”
Alana smiled bitterly. “Madness must run in the family, then.”
The reference was lost on Caroline Astor. Astounded, the matron gave her a no-one-uses-that-tone-to-me look and without another word departed. Watching her, Alana was left with only one thought: Now she’d gone and done it. This was most definitely war.
Terms of Surrender
Late suppers … rich wines … low voices … are dangerous.
—Junius Browne, The Great Metropolis:
A Mirror of New York (1869)
8
Pumphrey entered the parlor not ten minutes after Mrs. Astor departed with the news that Sheridan had sent over a few necessities for the wedding. Alana was beginning to fear the Irishman could read thoughts. She hardly had time to take a deep breath before an army of delivery boys trooped through her foyer laden with purchases from Ladies Mile on Broadway. There were yards of creamy white satin from Arnold Constable and Lyons lace from the Lace Room at A. T. Stewart’s, all chosen for her wedding gown. The trouseau “A” was delivered from Lord and Taylor, consisting of fifty-one pieces of undergarments and silk negligées; there was a complete suite of emeralds from Dreicer on Fifth Avenue; and to add insult to injury, her diamond engagement ring from Mr. Tiffany’s store on Union Square was delivered not by her fiancé but armed courier.
Alana stood mutely by as the boys were instructed by Pumphrey where to deposit their goods. But as soon as they were taken care of, the door chimes rang again, and Pumphrey announced the appearance of Madame LaBoeuve, the couturiere from James McCreery who was to make her wedding gown. And right at this lady’s heels was a footman in the Sheridan green and black livery with a note from the Irishman himself.
Alana took the letter from Pumphrey and closed herself off in the parlor. She wanted no one to see her face while she read it. It was bound to be upsetting. Slowly she thumbed open the envelope and read:
Miss Van Alen,
I want you to dine with me at Delmonico’s this evening. Lorenzo Delmonico will show you my table. Be there at 6pm. We have much to discuss.
Trevor Sheridan
PostScript—wear my ring.
She closed her eyes, infuriated. So she’d received her marching orders, she thought bitterly as she crumpled the note in her hand. The postscript was enough to make her rip the thing into tiny bits and crush them beneath her slippers. The cad was referring to the engagement diamond, of course, the one so lovingly delivered by the last messenger. How coldly logical he was to ask that she wear it in public. She would then be branded as Sheridan’s chattel, pure and simple.
Her idea to marry him began to wear away. Caroline Astor was no longer around to get Alana’s back up, and suddenly the thought of tying herself to this man seemed impossibly stupid. The speed and control with which he tried to manipulate her was daunting. Though she had seen some reason in this absurd plan before, when she thought of that postscript, all she could see was red.
“Pumphrey,” she said as she crossed the parcel-laden foyer, “have the coupé brought around at five thirty. I must go out tonight.”
“Very good, madam.” Pumphrey bowed, his face professionally clear of expression.
Alana dismissed him with a nod and ascended the stairs to her bedroom. She wouldn’t be late for this dinner—especially when she was not going to be wearing that vulgar ring.
The Van Alen brown coupé made the short trip up Fifth Avenue in quiet Knickerbocker style. Tucked inside the cab, Alana watched the cast-iron storefronts and marble palaces roll by, awash in the lavenders of a cool spring twilight. The ride was pleasant, this part of Fifth Avenue still unmarred by the relentless web of telegraph lines that plagued Broadway, but Alana hardly noticed as the carriage turned right at Fourteenth Street toward Union Square. Her mind was very much on the Irishman.
The coupé halted at the old Grinnell mansion where the former owner of the famous clipper ship Flying Cloud had once lived. Delmonico’s, with its distinct white-and-scarlet-striped awnings, now operated there as New York’s unrivaled eating establishment. The restaurant had become the ultimate rendezvous of society where the Family Circle and Assembly Balls were held, even Ward McAlister’s brainchild, the Patriarchs’ Ball. A steady stream of celebrities passed through its doors, and Alana had dined there many times, but always in the company of an escort. This time she was alone, and she couldn’t help an uncontrollable shiver as her driver assisted her from the carriage.
Once inside, the owner and maître d’hôtel, Lorenzo, immediately recognized her. He was a pleasant balding man with a fine set of muttonchop whiskers. With a polite bow, he said, “How very good of you to join us this evening, Miss Van Alen. Please allow me to take your cape and show you to your table.”
Alana smiled and nodded. She would have greeted the man more personally, but for some reason, once she’d stepped inside Delmonico’s, anxiety had taken control of her voice.
Lorenzo removed her coffee-colored evening cape without further ceremony and handed it to a nearby servant. “I beg you to allow me to escort you, Miss Van Alen. Mr. Sheridan is waiting in the private saloon.”
“A private saloon?” she asked, her heart stopping in her chest. She hadn’t counted on this. At the very least she’d expected a public table where he could show off that ring that was supposed to be encircling her finger.
Once again he’d pulled the rug from beneath her. Perhaps it was only logical that he take a private room. He was no doubt prepared for a refusal. They had much to discuss, and to do it in the main dining room would be difficult, but her rationalization sounded false even to her ears. There definitely was logic in this plan, but knowing Sheridan, she wouldn’t know what it was until after the fact. The only thing she knew for sure was that the thought of being alone with Sheridan in one of those luxurious, well-couched decadent rooms, rooms she’d heard whispered about behind fans, made her want to retrieve her cloak and flee.
“I know Mr. Sheridan awaits your arrival with great anticipation.” Lorenzo smiled a handsome Continental smile that would have comforted her if she hadn’t noticed his gaze on her hands. He was obviously searching for a ring, some telltale sign that all the
gossips, all the newspaper articles, were correct and that indeed a Knickerbocker was going to lower herself to marry a common Irishman. When he didn’t find one, he seemed disappointed, as if he had an army of relatives in his kitchens just waiting for his exclusive report.
Unnerved, Alana hid her hands in the folds of her dinner dress and stared at him. Lorenzo Delmonico, in the grand tradition of restaurateurs, remembered himself at once and suavely offered his arm. She almost didn’t take it, but knowing she would have to face the Irishman here or in an even more public place, she reluctantly did.
They walked through the main saloon filled with diners, cigar smoke, and laughter. Their footsteps echoed through the enormous empty ballroom, its Saracenic splendor now ghostly without other inhabitants. Lorenzo took her up a flight of stairs carpeted in ruby wool. He opened an ornately carved walnut door, and its occupant, the infamous Trevor Sheridan, stood to greet them.
His gaze met hers, and again she was struck by his eyes, an uncommonly dark hazel. They seemed even more stern than usual, and, panicked, Alana looked behind her, as if Lorenzo might offer her reassurance. But sensing the tension, Lorenzo had already departed, closing the door behind him.
She took a deep breath and turned back to Sheridan. Dressed in a black evening swallowtail coat and trousers, he looked more handsome than any other man she had ever seen. The starched turned-down points of his shirt collar accented the masculine contours of his face to perfection, while the white barrel-knotted bow tie was just enough out of fashion to be tasteful. If this had been any other meeting on any other occasion, Alana could have almost enjoyed being in the company of such a magnificent example of manhood. But she couldn’t escape the fact that he was a terrible force to reckon with, and staring at him now, his face lean and determined, she could see why William Astor had always referred to him by his Wall Street nickname, the Predator.
Lions and Lace Page 9
