A Well-Behaved Woman

by Therese Anne Fowler

  “I know I’ll adore her. All of them.”

  He paced the short distance between desk and doorway. “Oh—she loves opera. She and my father take Florence, Lila, and George to every performance. You might mention some you’ve seen.”

  “Opera,” Alva said. “Good. I—”

  “Actually, don’t mention opera.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s a sore point. The academy refuses to sell my father a box. ‘War profiteering,’ they say, though they took his contributions readily enough and in every way profited from the war themselves.” He turned to her. “I apologize. I shouldn’t get in such a temper.”

  “No, the snub is unmerited, I agree.”

  “It frustrates Father no end, and distresses Mother, of course.”

  “So I won’t bring up the opera.”

  “Unless, that is, you believe you might have some influence there?”

  She had none. “Perhaps I do,” she said. “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “It isn’t only the opera. Florence was terribly disappointed to be left off the list for Miss Astor’s debutante dinner dance.”

  Alva chose not to say that she, too, was left off.

  “And it’s been quite tiresome to be denied membership in the Union Club. I’m grateful to your father for mounting a campaign on behalf of my brothers, Father, and me.”

  “He’s eager to help,” she said, though he’d done nothing more than sign the letters she had written to the membership committee and to key friends who had a regular presence there and were current with dues. Daddy had not a single political bone in his body; Maman had been the one for that.

  Alva finished the note, folded it, and handed it to William. “Give this to your mother and leave all the rest to me.”

  He took the note, then pulled her up from the chair. “You see, this is what I like so much about you. Other ladies would fret and wave their handkerchiefs. ‘Oh, what can I possibly do?’ You are a lady of action. Thank you,” he said. “You’ll make me the family hero.” Then to her dismay, he kissed her.

  This was not the first time she’d been kissed. On her grandfather’s plantation when she was ten, the overseer’s son had found her alone in the orchard and dared her to let him do it—a chaste, childlike kiss. Later she had kissed the young Parisian pianist whose mother was their music teacher. Maman caught them and slapped her and sent her to her room for three days. She fired the teacher and told everyone that the son preyed on young girls. Had Alva been his prey? If so, why had Maman slapped her? The entire matter had left her embarrassed and confused. William’s kiss was having the same effect.

  He let her go, saying, “Forgive me. I took advantage.”

  A noise in the hall suggested Julia hadn’t gone far. Alva stepped away from him. “I hope there’s good weather for your travels.”

  “I rather hope there isn’t,” he said, moving to get his hat from the table. “A man likes a rugged sea!”

  “Be safe,” she said, surprised by the tenderness she felt. Or perhaps fear was what tightened her throat: if William came to a bad end, everything would be ruined.

  * * *

  The morning was warm, so Alva and Consuelo, in Union Square to browse Tiffany’s, found a bench in the shade of the oaks. Pairs of ladies done up in summer muslins with parasols to match strolled past them, petticoats rustling over the bricks as they went.

  Quick study though Alva was, it was taking some time to learn the Vanderbilt family members’ names and keep them straight in her mind. Part of the trouble was that in addition to there being so many people, there were so many repetitions of names.

  “William and his father and one of his nephews are all Williams,” she said to Consuelo, who was helping her review in advance of her tea date the next day. “So many Williams in the world—William Shakespeare, William Blake, William Wordsworth…”

  “General William T. Sherman, too, let’s not forget.”

  Alva said, “Certainly Atlanta recalls him well.”

  She continued, “The Commodore’s name is Cornelius, as is the younger of his two sons, as is his oldest grandson—William’s brother.”

  Consuelo said, “You know, I liked the brooch with the emerald in the center and the enameled leaves. You should get W.K. to buy you the opal you admired, the one flanked with diamonds. Or that black velvet choker with the gemstone swirls.” She made a swirl motion with her hand.

  “And both Cornelius the son and Cornelius the grandson are called Corneil,” Alva went on, ignoring her. Jewelry was the least of her concerns right now. “And although the son is technically the second Cornelius, he’s Cornelius Jeremiah—C.J., and it’s the grandson, William’s older brother, who’s ‘the second.’”

  “C.J. is the one who’s no good, remember. If his name comes up, you pretend ignorance.”

  “I’ll do that. His brother Corneil, however, is a shining example of all that’s right in the world.”

  “Yes. And saying so—as often and as publicly as possible—will get you into his wife Alice’s good graces; she’ll be the Vanderbilt matriarch one day, you know.”

  Alva looked up from her notes. “That should be an earned position, don’t you think?”

  “You only say that because W.K. isn’t first in line. You’ll have to have Corneil poisoned or something if you want to advance.”

  “We don’t have a feudal system here. I could be matriarch.”

  “As easily as that?” Consuelo laughed. “You think Alice will simply stand aside and allow it?”

  “Don’t bother me about details. I’m very, very busy.”

  Alva glanced again at her notes. Alice and Corneil’s oldest son, four years old, was William Henry II; they called him Bill. Their younger boy, a year old, was Cornelius III and was called Neily. Alice and Corneil had named their firstborn (Neily’s big sister) Alice. Alva said, “Does this family have no imagination whatsoever?”

  “Just learn your lines.”

  Tucking the paper into a pocket, Alva said, “Suppose Mrs. Vanderbilt doesn’t like me. William says I’m not the kind of girl she’d choose for him.”

  “She would never say so to your face.”

  “How very helpful you are! I’m worried, though. I really don’t have any influence beyond what I’ve already done.”

  “Perhaps not. But you can still spend the money.”

  “Do you suppose I can elope? Next week would be perfect. The landlord will be around soon for the rent.”

  “Oh, yes, elopement would be excellent for your standing in society. Do that.”

  “If I were a man, I could have resolved my family’s problems ages ago.”

  Consuelo kissed Alva’s cheek. “If you were a man, I would marry you.”

  “No, you’d hold out for a nobleman.”

  “You’re right. But I’d still love you best.”

  * * *

  In the Vanderbilts’ drawing room the next day, Alva had hardly settled into a chair when Mrs. Vanderbilt, whose entire mien conveyed kindness, said, “My son and I had a conversation. If you feel you could agree to a short engagement, it seems to me a December wedding would be ideal.”

  Three of William’s sisters and their sister-in-law Alice observed Alva as if she were that pinned frog. She’d hoped to also meet George, but it seemed he had better things to do than sit in an overwarm room inspecting his brother’s intended. What was there to see, after all? A dark-haired girl of medium stature with prominent nostrils in a squarish face. Not unpleasant to look at; her brown eyes were intelligent, her eyebrows expressive, her skin pale and clear. Nothing to warrant an interruption in what George was doing, however—reading, probably; William had said (with some puzzlement) that he rarely saw George without a book in hand.

  “It’s soon, I know,” continued Mrs. Vanderbilt, “but we’re very eager to have you. And your reputation is so good, I can’t imagine anyone finding cause to speculate.”

  Alva loved her immediately.

 
“December?” said Lila. “Oh, I agree. Imagine, you might even have snow!”

  Fourteen years old and as pretty as a rosebud, Lila was being brought up in quite a different environment than her older siblings had been. Mr. Vanderbilt had outlined the history for Alva. The American Vanderbilt family went back to 1650, Staten Island, when a forebear named Aertson from the Dutch town of De Bilt came as an indentured servant. William and his seven siblings were born on the Staten Island farm the Commodore had given their father to run before bringing him into the railway business. It had been years now since they’d migrated to the city. Lila and George, the youngest, were city children.

  The Commodore had been raised on that farm. His father was both farmer and ferryman, and the Commodore became a ferryman, too. Next steamships, then railroads. But he didn’t build his home in Manhattan until 1846, making him a Johnny-come-lately here—another reason the family was not among the “best” New York Dutch—the Beekmans and Stuyvesants and Schermerhorns and Joneses. And then there was the problem of unmentionable Uncle C.J.

  “Snow? I should hope not,” said Alice, who was settling little Alice, a delicate six-year-old with a winning smile, into a chair beside Alva. “Imagine our wet hems and shoes.”

  Lila said, “I think it would be romantic.”

  “Yes,” lisped little Alice. She wore a dress in the same soft yellow as her aunt Lila’s. “And I shall serve everyone tea.”

  Alva patted her head. “Will you do that? It would be such a help.”

  “She’ll take you at your word,” Alice warned. “Best not to give her false hope.”

  Alva told the child, “Perhaps you can serve tea to the most special guests on the day before. You’ll be far too busy on the day of the wedding.”

  “What shall I be busy with?”

  “Why, carrying flowers, of course.”

  They discussed the details. The reception breakfast would be here in his parents’ home, a four-story corner house with its own stables in the rear. Florence thought Alva should be married in white, as Queen Victoria had done, and adopt, too, Her Majesty’s decision to serve a sublime white cake. “To symbolize the bride’s purity,” Alice said, gazing at Alva with round, apparently guileless eyes. “And of course the ceremony must be held at St. Bart’s.”

  “Oh, but we attend Calvary. I wouldn’t think of offending Reverend and Mrs. Washburn.”

  “But you will attend St. Bart’s after your marriage,” Alice said. It wasn’t a question.

  Alva smiled politely. This was not the time for debate. She said, “Of course, if that’s my husband’s desire.”

  William had told her nothing about Alice beyond her being his oldest brother’s wife of seven years now. Alva had not expected her to be so … lovely. Her heart-shaped face was perfectly appointed: delicate yet full lips, clear blue eyes, enviable lashes and well-behaved eyebrows slightly darker than the burnished blond hair on her head. From the slimness of her figure, one would not imagine she’d borne three children in the space of four years, the youngest being barely a year old. Alva’s waist had not been so narrow since she was twelve years of age, if then.

  “Miss Smith,” little Alice said, “when you marry Uncle William, I should like cousins I can visit at your home.”

  Her mother tapped her arm. “Don’t be rude, Alice.”

  The child looked abashed. “Oh. If you please, I mean.”

  Alva said, “First let’s think about the flower girl’s dress, shall we?”

  “And yours!” Lila said. “You’ve got to outdo my sister Margaret’s. She thinks too much of herself.”

  “Margaret’s the eldest,” Florence explained. “You must use Mrs. Buchanan—she does the Astor girls’ dresses when they’re not buying in Paris, and the Stuyvesants’, too.”

  Mrs. Vanderbilt shook her head. “You girls make it out to be a competition.”

  “Forgive me, Mother,” Florence told her, “but it’s been a long time since you were married, and a lot of things have changed.” To Alva she said, “Mother has Roosevelt relations, which she needs to make more of, for our sake.”

  “Tell me.”

  Emily said, “Her father’s mother was Cornelia Roosevelt. Her father, Isaac Roosevelt, was among our state’s first senators after the Revolution and was a Federalist ally with Alexander Hamilton. They called him the Patriot.”

  “Senator Roosevelt,” Alva said, thinking of snooty Lydia Roosevelt and her superior airs. “That’s quite impressive.”

  Emily said, “You wouldn’t know it from the way we’re received—or not received, as has been the case too often.”

  “Is it possible that society is ignorant on the matter?”

  “It seems so,” Florence said. “Mother feels it’s impolite to boast.”

  “Society’s objection lies with our grandfather, the Commodore,” Emily explained. “The newspapers call him—and I quote—‘the robber baron of our modern feudalism.’”

  Florence added, “They say he’s a ‘railway despot.’ Alice has helped to make some progress, though.”

  Alice shrugged modestly, and Emily went on, “Her father, Mr. Gwynne, though he’s from St. Louis, is regarded very well by his law colleagues, which has made it easier for some of their wives and daughters to accept us. But Alice is so busy now with the children and church,” she added breezily. Too breezily. “We’re counting on you, Miss Smith, to further the cause.”

  Mrs. Vanderbilt again shook her head. “I don’t pretend to understand all of this ‘best society’ nonsense. Who’s allowed in, who’s kept out. It’s as though someone made a new rulebook after the war and only certain women possess a copy.”

  Florence said, “It’s not so difficult, Mother. The things that matter foremost are family history and reputation.”

  “That’s right,” Emily said. “Four generations of gentlemen in a family line, that’s become the standard. Like Miss Smith’s got—your family was here in the early 1700s, isn’t that correct?”

  “We were,” Alva said. “Though not in Manhattan.”

  “Even so,” said Emily.

  Mrs. Vanderbilt shook her head. “Getting one’s daughters into the right circles and properly married is almost like sport! It didn’t used to be this way.”

  “Take heart,” said Florence. “Now we have Miss Smith to lead our charge.”

  Except that Miss Smith had no weapons, no troops. Miss Smith might well be fraudulent goods sold to an unsuspecting sap. Miss Smith, if she were wise, would change the subject.

  “Mrs. Vanderbilt,” she said, “I wonder if you would be able to suggest an agent to help William and me find a suitable house. What I have in mind—”

  “Tell her, Mother!” Lila interrupted.

  “Tell me what?”

  “She has a surprise for you.”

  Little Alice jumped up. “She has a surprise!”

  Mrs. Vanderbilt smiled at her granddaughter. “I can’t very well keep it secret any longer, can I? My husband is acquiring a house on Forty-fourth Street as a wedding gift for you and William. We thought we would help you two get started.”

  “A house and servants,” Emily said. She laid her hand on her rounded middle. “You’ll need help before too long.”

  “One hopes,” said Mrs. Vanderbilt. “Now, for servants, I use an agency—”

  “Good heavens,” Alva said, going over to kiss her. “This is incredibly generous. I can’t begin to thank you enough.”

  Mrs. Vanderbilt blushed. “Please. Do sit. It’s a small gesture—and really, it’s for me as much as the two of you. I feel better when I know everyone has what they need.”

  Regaining her chair, Alva said, “You mentioned an agency, for the servants? That will make things simpler. I’ve got Mary, whom I’ll bring with me—”

  “Mary?” said Mrs. Vanderbilt.

  “Our housekeeper’s daughter. She’s only fifteen, but she’s been helping with our hair and clothes practically since she was born.”

  Ali
ce looked confused. “A child worked for you?”

  “Well, her mother, Lulu, was a slave who stayed on, and it was only natural—”

  “You don’t mean to have a Negro girl as your lady’s maid,” Alice said.

  “I do mean to. It’s an ideal position, and she’s well suited for it.”

  “The best families use only white servants,” Alice said.

  Alva was losing patience with Alice. “I like her and I trust her and she’s going to have to go out to work before long anyway, so I mean to keep her with me.”

  “Can she even read?” Alice said.

  “Lulu sent her to school, yes.” Alva forced herself to keep her tone even.

  Mrs. Vanderbilt said, “I do hope she’s not too dark.”

  “She’s actually very light,” Alva said, “not that it should—”

  “Who’s her father?” Alice asked.

  “I don’t see how that’s any concern.”

  Mrs. Vanderbilt interjected, “Never mind. It’s good of you to want to improve her circumstances.”

  “Thank you,” Alva said, forcing a smile for Alice, who returned an insincere smile of her own.

  “When you’re free,” said Mrs. Vanderbilt, unmindful of the exchange, “I’ll take you to see Mrs. Coleman at the agency and we’ll see about setting you up. What a treat all of this is!” She drew her granddaughter onto her lap. “I do love to play house.”

  IV

  “NINE MORE WEEKS,” Armide said, closing their father’s ledger. It had a balance of seventy-five dollars, against their monthly expenditures of ninety-five, barest minimum. Already they were subsisting mainly on potatoes, cheese, eggs, and bread.

  She continued, “If I put some people off, we should be able to get by. I’ve paid the laundress and the grocer, and I’ll make excuses to the rest.”